Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (22 page)

“You miserable old sow!” she screeches. “I'll rip your ugly face off!”

Clarissa has her fingers crooked into claws, and they are searching for her tormentor's face, and I know from personal experience, they can do some serious damage. But, alas, they do not reach their target. No. Instead, Constable Wiggins appears by Shinn's side, grabs Clarissa around the waist, and then hands her off to one of his deputies.

“Here. Take this one. Put her in the wagon,” he says. Clarissa is hauled out, squealing. He then points at me. “That one next!”

“What's the charge, pig?” I ask, incredulous. “Why are you taking that girl? And why are you shutting me down?”

“That girl, on a charge of assault against poor Mrs. Shinn here, and you for causing a public disturbance.”

“
What? Public disturbance?
Shinn and her COWS threw the garbage at us!
They
should be the ones arrested!”

“I didn't see anything like that,” answers Wiggins complacently. “I just saw a bunch of very questionable stuff going on on that stage.”

“Just look at this mess!” I cry, pointing at Shinn. “
She
did it!”

Mother Shinn grins at me and pulls out something from her shawl. It is a small ax. “You haven't seen a real mess yet, harlot, but now you will.”

She marches toward the bar, where the stunned Molly and Joannie are standing.

“Step aside, sluts,” roars Mrs. Shinn, and with her first swing of her ax, she shatters a good five bottles of my finest Barbados rum. Her next blow takes out the gin, and then the champagne bottles explode, spraying all over.

“No!” I shout. “You cannot! That is mine! Stop!”

But she does not stop. She continues till each bottle is smashed, its contents leaking to the floor.

“There. Try to sell that. Perhaps you'd like to lick it up,” she says, her eyes dark little marbles of self-righteous indignation.

That's too much for my bully boys. Constitutional Right to Lawful Assembly is one thing, but spilled and wasted whiskey is another thing altogether.

“Let's get 'em, boyos,” says Arthur McBride, taking his shillelagh from his side. Behind him stand John Thomas, Finn McGee, Jim Tanner, and even Mr. Bean, still clad in toga and holding a golden scepter from some play or another. Arthur knows he cannot attack the COWS, being women, but that leaves Wiggins's men on which to vent his anger, and the anger of Faber Shipping.

“Stop!” says Wiggins, his hand outstretched, palm forward. “You must remember that these men are duly sworn deputies, and if you touch them, you will be guilty of a serious offense!”

Arthur McBride considers this for a moment, slapping his club into his palm thoughtfully, then he says, “All right. We hear you, copper. Get 'em boys!”

And the riot is on. Clubs and fists and even scepters rain down upon Wiggins and his men. Heads are cracked and howls of pain are heard.

The melee continues as the COWS empty their bags of offal and fling it about. I stand in impotent fury.

No. I will fight back. I will strangle that old bitch, I will—

But I will do nothing, for standing before me is Constance Howell, a large red tomato in her hand, ready to fling it in my face, and all the fight goes out of me.

“
Et tu
, Connie?” I whisper, my shoulders slumping and tears coming to my eyes. “Then fall, Jacky.”

Connie looks at me, then shakes her head and drops her tomato to the floor, where it lands with a quiet
plop.
She turns to leave, following her sisters out my door.

I stand and stare at the wreckage of my beautiful Emerald Playhouse, and the tears run down my face. I am devastated, but then I find that Wiggins is not yet done with me.

“I ordered you to take that one!” he shouts to his men. “Oh, to hell with it, I'll grab her myself!” He lunges toward me and I no longer have the strength to resist.

Take me, beat me, do what you want with me . . .

Wiggins, however, does not make it to me. On his way, his feet somehow become entangled in, of all things, the Hunchback's staff. He falls down, cursing, and I hear the Hunchback's raspy voice apologizing for the mishap. Then the surprisingly strong hand of Ezra Pickering is wrapped about my neck, and he hauls me off into a side storeroom, one that has a back door.

“You must not be taken!” hisses Ezra in my ear. “If you are, the old sentence will be carried out and you will be beaten! Quiet, now! Out the back! I will get your friends released tomorrow morning. Now, hush!”

I meekly follow him out into the cool night air. I breathe deeply, collect myself, and begin to plan.

The Journal of J. E. Fletcher

Currently at the Offices of the House of Chen

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

Journal Entry, July 22, 1809

Yes, I have decided to keep a journal. Instead of railing against unseen, uncaring, and probably nonexistent gods, I shall put my thoughts and doings down on paper. Possibly they could prove of interest to someone in the future, though I cannot imagine why. However, this pointless scribbling does seem to soothe my still-turbulent mind to a small degree and so I shall continue to take up pen to record events as they happen.

Last night I took in her musical revue at the Emerald Playhouse and, were I not so bereft of joy in all things, I would have found it most enjoyable. My appreciation of her Spanish songs was tempered, however, by the suspicion that she learned them from one Amadeo Romero. Probably he sang them to her as he lifted his brush while she lay naked on—

No. I shall not pursue that line of thought as it only stokes the hot coals smoldering in my mind.

During intermissions, I have taken to chatting up this Molly Malone, a barmaid at the Pig and at the Playhouse. Molly is the only one of her cohorts whom I have not met on my previous visit to this town. She is a spirited Irish girl who does not shy from speaking to a raspy voiced, grotesquely deformed hunchback. Rather, she converses freely with me as I stand at the bar. “Aye, Sir, poor Miss Faber, she pines away for her lover who is far away at sea.” Which lover is that, I wonder? Number Two, Five, or Seven . . . One can only surmise.

This Molly is a merry sort and she gives me cheer. I have learned she is Arthur Goddamn McBride's miss. That lout never seems to lack female companionship. Though I question her judgment in the way of men, still I enjoy her company. At least when she is present, McBride keeps his hands off J. Should he do so in my presence, I fear I would lose control and wrap my staff around his head, and to hell with the consequences. But it has not come to that . . . not yet, anyway.

Strange that I find it easy to talk to bar girls, and they to me. There were those in London who led me to Bliffil . . . and to Bess. Yes, dear sweet loyal and loving Bess . . .

At the end of the first part of the show, the aforementioned Miss F. performed a pantomime as the Lady in Red, and she did, indeed, end up “sleeping under the bar,” her face in mock sweet repose, mere inches from my foot. I could have lifted said foot and placed it on her countenance and given it a bit of a grind, but I did not. No, I did not, but it took a bit of effort not to. “Peace,” yes, I know, Master Kwai Chang, “Peace and the Calm of Buddha . . .”

After the intermission, the audience members, by now well oiled by their trips to the bar, returned to the main stage for the raucous remainder of the show. And raucous it was—the Shantyman, Enoch Lightner, bellowing out his fine sailor ballads in his deep baritone, with herself pumping her concertina and singing along, and a supposed humorous bit by Fennell and Bean, all of which culminated in an unexpected drama.

At the height of the evening's hilarity, when the silly
Villain Pursues
playlet was being performed, and the dress was torn from the actress playing Prudence Goodheart, a man stood up in the audience and shouted out that she was no longer his daughter, publicly disowning the poor girl, who did seem stricken to her very core. It was then that full mayhem ensued, with articles being thrown by members of a local suffragette society—the COWS, I believe they are called. The place dissolved into chaos, with the actress, a Miss Clarissa Howe, being hauled off to jail on a charge of assault.

The proprietress of the Playhouse was fully ready to engage in the melee, having received an overripe vegetable to the side of her own face, and was in full fury over the destruction of her premises—the rum, whiskey, and wine were flowing quite briskly underfoot. And while I was somewhat gratified at the sight of the tomato sliding down her cheek, I did feel her distress. So in spite of all, when the contemptible Constable Wiggins attempted to apprehend her, I could not let him put his foul hands upon her. I just could not let it happen. I took my Bo stick, and feigning clumsiness due to my supposed infirmity, I contrived to insinuate it between his fat legs such that he pitched squalling to the floor. Thus, Ezra Pickering was able to get her out the back door to safety, at least for the time being.

Back now in my rooms, I think back on Molly's words . . . “Her lover, far away at sea . . .” Indeed . . . food for torture . . .

 

J. E. F.

 

The coach pulls up outside the Pig, so I hurry out to stand beside it. Ezra climbs out and hands me up.

From behind me, I hear the sound of Molly Malone directing the cleanup crew in the repair of the damage to the Playhouse. There is the crackle of broken glass being gathered up, along with the swish of mops sopping up the spilled rum and whiskey and ale from the floor.

And where the hell is Joannie? Count on that girl to disappear when there's hard work to be done! And Ravi? Where is he? Down to the docks with his peanut cart?
Jemimah is spreading sawdust on the floor to soak up the rest . . .
The waste, oh, the foolish waste . . .

“So report, friend Ezra,” I say as I settle in beside him. “How fares our sister Clarissa?”

She had spent the past night in the courthouse jail, a place with which I am very familiar and know its amenities to be few. I, however, slept in my own soft bed in my rooms over the Pig, having been tossed in there by my good Mr. Pickering. I triple-barred the door, knowing that Wiggins could not get in at me without a court order, which I suspect he did not have.

“I am glad to say that she will be released upon our arrival at the courthouse. She was arraigned this morning, but neither Mrs. Shinn nor Constable Wiggins was on hand to press charges of assault. Caroline Thwackham, the Judge's own granddaughter, had managed to slip into the jail to spend the night with Miss Howe and provide her with a decent dress for her appearance in court.”

Thank you, Caroline . . .

“
With none to stand against her as she stood in the dock, the judge asked her where her parents were and she lifted her chin and declared that she had none. I stood and announced that I was representing Miss Howe in this matter, which elicited some heartfelt groans from the court, my being sometimes perceived as a thorn in the side of that particular august institution, and I am well used to that sort of reception from my esteemed colleagues. I then proclaimed that I was witness to the altercation and at no time did Miss Howe ever lay a finger on Mrs. Shinn in the way of assault. When Thwackham then asked who her accusers were, and none appeared, both Mrs. Shinn and Constable Wiggins being unaccountably absent, he brought his hammer down and declared it a simple case of ‘Disturbing the peace, by God, fifty dollars fine. Next case and I can only hope it's a decent horse thief rather than some other wayward female!'

“Her fine, and the fines of the others, have been paid and we can expect that we shall find Miss Howe in some sort of reasonably sound condition,” reports Ezra, with some satisfaction. “However, I do wonder, with some trepidation, at the absence of Mrs. Shinn. I hope she is not aiming for bigger fish than our little Miss Howe.”

“Hmmm,” I say to that. “We shall see . . .”

We note Clarissa and Caroline coming out the side door of the courthouse jail, and Ezra pops out to hand Clarissa up into the carriage.

Clarissa gives Caroline a hug of thanks in parting and then drills me with her eyes. “Where the hell were you?”

I note that having been disowned, pelted with rotten vegetables, arrested, and subsequently jailed has not done wonders for Clarissa's disposition. Her face is dirty, and I think I see tear streaks on her cheeks.

“Sorry, Clarissa, but Ezra here felt it best that I stay out of sight, my being under a sentence of the court on my own.”

“Umm,” she says. “That's fine for you. But what I need is a bath. Now.”

“You shall have it, Sister. Now calmness, please.”

As she settles, seething, back into the seat next to me, I say, “Perhaps I gave you bad advice, Clarissa—joining our company and all. And if that is true, I am sorry. Things tend to get rough around us. Maybe you should go back home to Virginia.”

“No. I like what I have been doing,” she says, her voice firm. “They can all go to hell, including you. Now, let's go back to the Pig. I could use a drink.”

 

When our coach pulls up in front of the Pig, I am concerned to see that Constable Wiggins and four of his pug-uglies are lined up in front of the door, two on either side of his fat self.

Uh-oh . . .

“Stay in here, Jacky. You, too, Miss Howe,” orders Ezra, climbing out of the coach. “I will see what is going on.”

“Gweetings, all,” says Wiggins, beaming his good will all around. “I have here an Affy-Davy from the High Court of Massy-chusetts,” he claims as he hands an envelope to Ezra and then rocks back on his heels and grins in anticipation.

Ezra tears open the packet and then looks back at me. “It is not an affidavit. It is a subpoena, ordering you to appear in court on Monday the thirty-first.”