Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (28 page)

She quickly scans the article, then drawls, “I'll have to get a copy of that off to Daddy, forthwith. Ah hope it will improve his digestion. Ah am sure it will increase his consumption of our local bourbon.”

She lanquidly tosses the newspaper back on the table, drinks down the last of her tea, rises, and leaves me to my thoughts.

How did we handle Clarissa's final slaver-distracting striptease on the deck of the
Bloodhound
in the last act, here in still very Puritan Boston? Oh, with very clever lighting and a skin-colored body sheath. I must say that scene went over
very
well. There was a common sucking-in of male breath heard throughout the theater on
that
one.

But, oh, how I loved it all, every bit! The songs, the dialogue, the back-and-forth between Clarissa and me, even the whipping scene. But what I especially loved was the end, when I lay face-down upon the set's balcony, the last scene on the
Juno
after our rescue, a beam of light upon me, speaking directly to the audience . . .

“I know there will be many accounts of our adventure—tales of fortitude, of suffering, of privation, and of bravery—but I also know that there will be other stories, tales left untold, that will be better left in the dark, dank, and now forever silent belly of the
Bloodhound
. . .”

The light that was trained on me dimmed to darkness and I jumped up to join the others backstage. The light came up again and illuminated the empty hold of the
Bloodhound
, the girls' small white washrags hung from the overhead, gently waving back and forth. Then, with a crash of cymbals, the chorus roars out “The Hallelujah Chorus,” and the girls pour out of the under-stage doors to take their bows, all of them radiant with joy. The audience explodes as the rest of the cast come out: Solomon Freeman and Enoch Lightner and all the rest. Then, at the end, Polly, Clarissa, and I burst out hand in hand, with me in the middle, to curtsy and take our own bows.

Oh, Glory, how I loved it,
the applause washing over me in waves, the shouts of “Hurrah! Hurrah!” I wanted the moment to last forever!

 

As I have a second cup of tea and yet another of Jemimah's fine cakes, I pore over the glowing review once again.
Ah, yes, I do love basking in praise!
My only regret is that poor Joannie is still in that awful place and unable to perform her part as her dear friend Rebecca Adams.
Oh, well, Joannie, your time will come. The hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow and Attorney Pickering pronounces himself both ready and optimistic. I, too, am ready . . .

Presently a young man enters the room, bearing a box under his arm. I recognize him as one of the apprentices employed at Fyffe's Furniture and Carpentry down on Milk Street. “Pardon, Miss,” he says, “but this is from Mr. Fyffe with his compliments.”

I had seen Ephraim Fyffe, Master Furniture Maker and Woodworker, at the play last night and asked him to provide me with such a box. “Plain, simple wood, Ephraim, unfinished, about twelve by sixteen, eight inches deep.”
He replied that he had just the box in his shop and would send it over first thing in the morning. He was there with his wife, my very good friend and one-time fellow serving girl, Betsey, on his arm. Her sister, Annie, another dear friend and fellow
Bloodhound
survivor, was a member of the play's cast, and her husband, my
Dolphin
brother, Davy Jones, was also present, fair bursting with pride at seeing his beloved Annie bravely portraying her equally brave
Bloodhound
self on the stage.

“Thank you, lad,” I say. “Put it on the table here and go refresh yourself at the bar. You will find the cakes quite good. Give my thanks to Mr. Fyffe when you get back to the shop.”

The boy goes gratefully to the spread on top of the bar, thankful for an unlooked-for treat, while I examine the box.

It is simple, yes. Crude, no. It is made of fine-grained pumpkin pine, dovetailed at each joint, very light for its size but sturdy, and sanded to a light sheen. The top fits snug, but lifts off easily, and the interior is filled with aromatic cedar shavings. I stick my nose in and breathe deeply—
Ahhhh, yes . . . Won't this be a dainty thing to set before a King! Or in this case, a Governor . . . and it will not contain four-and-twenty blackbirds, oh, no . . . It will be just one simple gift . . .

Rising, I call out, “Molly! Be so good as to run down to the
Nancy B.
and have Jim Tanner hitch up Old Dobbin to our buckboard and bring it up here. Oh, and have it loaded with some shipping crates from our storeroom—it doesn't matter what, just make sure Faber Shipping is stenciled plain on the outside of them. Thanks!”

As she leaves on her errand, I head upstairs to my rooms. Once there, I take out watercolors and white paper and make a simple label:

 

To Governor Christopher Gore

State House, Boston, Massachusetts

with compliments from

Faber Shipping Worldwide

State Street, Boston

 

That accomplished, I take my glue pot and affix the label to the top of the box and begin work on another label. This one, vertical in nature, with a border of grape leaves all around:

 

Lavender Blue

An Ambrosial Mixture of

Fine Herbs and Liquors

__________________

Bottled on the Estate of

Carnegie Bros. LTD,

Glasgow, Scotland

Exclusive Purveyors to

His Majesty, King George III

 

I don't think Georgie would mind awfully much my using his name in this way, having met him once and having found him a most agreeable sort of fellow, in spite of his being King of England, and all.

That done and blotted dry, I cut it out and put glue to the back and slap it on the front of one of my Extra Special bottles. It looks good there, I decide, and then I take a red candle, light it, and drip the wax all about the neck of the bottle till it forms a right colorful and elegant cap. Then I place the bottle into the box, cradled in its nest of fragrant cedar curls.

The top is brought down and tapped into place with the small nails so well provided by Ephraim Fyffe. All is in readiness.

I go back downstairs with box under arm and find that Molly has returned with Jim Tanner, Old Dobbin, and the loaded buckboard.

“Here, Jimmy, tuck this box back there between those two crates. That's it. Molly, go get a broom.” Mystified, the girl ducks back in the Pig to get one. “All right, now back up on the seat with you both.”

When they are again seated, I place the business end of the broom next to Molly's hip with the stick placed through the crates such that its end rests against the back of my special box.

“Now, Molly, take the wagon back to the
Nancy B.
, which will cause you to go by Skivareen's. When you go past their door, push back on the broom, which will cause the box to tumble out. There's plenty of bumps in the road there, so it won't look suspicious. Maybe it would be best if you were singing a lusty song to show your attention was elsewhere. Got it? Good. Now go.”

The buckboard, with Faber Shipping Worldwide proudly painted on its side, rattles on off and I go back into the Pig to await their report.

They are back inside a half hour with smiles on their faces.

“It went off without a hitch, Skipper,” says Jim Tanner. “Molly here give it the old heave-ho when we passed the doorway and over it went. There were a few of the scum hangin' about outside when we went by . . .”

“But there weren't none standin' about when we came back after unloadin' the other crates,” crowed Molly Malone. “And the box was nowhere to be seen. Nay, Jacky, the box is surely inside Skivareen's.”

I allow myself a deep chuckle of low, evil, and vindictive satisfaction.

Heh, heh, heh . . . Call me a Cheapside whore, will you, Pigger?

J. E. Fletcher

Representative, House of Chen

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

Journal Entry, July 29, 1809

Against all good sense, of which I admit I have very little, I have decided to give her one more chance.

I know I am setting myself up for another fall, but I cannot help it, for I saw the play
In the
Belly of the
Bloodhound
last night and it fairly tore my heart out. Oh, yes, the privations suffered by those poor girls were enough to bring a tear to the most hardened eye, but that was not what struck me to the core.

It was the scene in which she was recounting her past adventures on the
Wolverine
to help her classmates pass the long nighttime hours in that foul hold, and she spoke to the audience, but she seemed to speak directly to me.

“I reached out an arm and pulled him in by his collar and closed the door and threw the latch and we both fell toward the bed, and I said, ‘Fill your eyes with me, Jaimy, and then kiss me. And kiss me hard and long for it may be for the last time!'

“And he does, oh yes, he does.”

That scene elicited many a gasp and sigh from the female members of the audience, but it almost unmanned me. It was then that I resolved to give it one more try. After the performance, I went back to my rooms and penned the following letter:

 

James Emerson Fletcher

Boston, Massachusetts

 

Jacky Faber

The Pig and Whistle Inn

Boston, Massachusetts

 

Dear Miss Faber,

Yes, Jacky, I have been in Boston for quite some time now, incognito as it were, for reasons that will become apparent to you. The following letter, which I penned to you upon my arrival, and which I intended to convey to you upon the day of my departure, will explain all.

 

Dear Jacky,

This will be the last letter I shall send to you. I shall conduct the business I must accomplish here in Boston, and then I shall be out of your life forever.

The reason for my change of heart will soon become clear to you. It goes like this:

Having taken lodging at the headquarters building of Faber Shipping, I went out into the town to secure a place of business for my patron, and, having found a suitable space on State Street, I put down money, signed the necessary lease papers, and went to the Pig and Whistle for what promised to be an excellent lunch.

Feeling in high spirits on a very fine day, I hobbled back to my lodging, soaking up the old familiar sights and looking out over the harbor in hopes of spying the returning
Nancy B
., but, alas, that was not to be, and more is the pity—for if I had spotted you down at the docks, all this would not have happened.

As it were, I climbed the stairs to my rooms and was about to enter when I noticed that the door to your studio was ajar, probably left that way by a cleaning woman. Thinking you would not mind, since we soon would be sharing all things in our lives, I went in to look about.

It was a very pleasing, light-filled space, and I can see why you chose it for your workspace. Wandering about, I spied a very nice portrait in progress of a ship's captain, a large sign laid out proclaiming
Wilson Bros. Ships' Chandlers,
and some drawings, which I took to be student work arranged about on wooden easels. Then I spied a leather tube, which looked a lot like a nautical map case.

Thinking that it might be a chart of your recent travels, which I would find most interesting, I took off the cap.

Indeed, I did find the contents most interesting . . .

It was neither a chart nor a map. No, it was nothing more than the end of all my hopes that you and I might share a life together.
How much, just how much, Jacky, can one man take, even a man such as I, who in the past has overlooked and forgiven some of your more outrageous transgressions?

I spread the canvas out on the workbench and it lay there, glowing in the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows. Beneath the reclining nude figure of the girl are these words,
La
Maja Virginal
.
Con todo mi amor.
Amadeo Romero, 1808
.

I do not have much fluency in the Spanish language, but it does not take much to figure out that
Con todo mi amor
means “With all my love.”

I stood there and steamed in inchoate rage. Yes, I can well imagine what “all my love” meant in this case—all of you, from top to bottom, given up to this damned Amadeo Romero and, yes, to Joseph Jared and Richard Allen and all the rest of your mob of male “friends” whom you have successfully explained away in the past. Oh, yes, you have a glib tongue, Jacky, but I don't believe it will be able to explain away
this
one—and no telling where that lying tongue has been.

I slammed my rod down hard on the bench top, the green-eyed Monster of Jealousy in full possession of me.
No, Master Kwai Chang, I cannot follow your teachings, I cannot let go of this thing that tears at my mind. I cannot.
I am not a worthy student, I know that now. I know that I am merely a beast, driven by my passions, by my rage, and I shall remain forever so.
I am sorry, Master, but that is the way of it.

I compliment this Señor Romero on his skill—the resemblance is striking, for it is definitely you lying there, Jacky, mocking me with your smile, no doubt about it. If I had ever once thought that I would rejoice in once again seeing you in your natural state with your Brotherhood tattoo proudly on your hipbone, I was dead wrong.