Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (31 page)

“Ha! Look at that!” cries the Judge, pointing at Ravi. “The little wog is a cannibal, as well as a litterbug! See, he was trying to eat the Bailiff! Capitol stuff! Well, turnabout is fair play as I see it. Bailiff, take him out and tie him to the stake and fetch firewood. We'll roast the little bugger and have him for supper! He looks quite tender in many of his parts. Set aside a joint or two for me, well-done. Ha! The cannibal cannibalized, as it were, perfect justice by God!” Judge Thwackham fidgets about, peering underneath his bench. “And then bring a shotgun over here and kill these damned purple snakes that are crawling over my feet. Get back, damn you! Back!”

Ezra remains on his feet.

“Your Honor!” he shouts over the din. “The suspended sentence you imposed on this girl was not that she be beheaded, for God's sake.”

“What's a poor Judge to do these days?” Judge Thwackham sighs. “Very well, take her out and hang her, then. I suppose we can still manage that simple task.”

“I would further respectfully remind his Honor that this proceeding is a hearing, not a trial. Miss Faber has not been charged with any crime.”

“I'm afraid that's true, Your Honor,” says a very worried Prosecutor Hamilton Brown, looking about at the shambles his precious court is becoming. “I regret we cannot hang the girl right now.”

“Pure anarchy is what it is when a decent Judge cannot string up whom he wants and when he wants. Pure anarchy and a sad state of affairs is what I call it,” says Thwackham with a serious shaking of the jowls. “Very well. Constable, leave off. We'll settle with her later.”

Wiggins, glowering in frustration, turns around and resumes his station next to the Bench.

The courtroom by now is completely abuzz with wonderment.
Has the Mad Bull gone actually mad?

A group of five well-dressed men now approach the Bench, hats in hand.

“Yes, what is it?” asks the Judge testily.

“We . . . we think the learned Judge might benefit from a rest in his chambers. It appears you are having a bit of a . . . trying time?”

“‘Trying time'? Nonsense. I am in top form. In the pink . . . or the purple, as it were. Who are you?”

“Aldus Throckmorton, Your Honor, Alderman of the Third Ward, and your ardent supporter, Sir.”

“Good,” says the Judge. “Thank you for your opinion, Alderman, and for your support. I find you Guilty of Contempt of Court and sentence you to six months at hard labor.” He brings down his gavel. “Bailiff, take him away. Next?”

The mouth of the prominent citizen, Alderman Throckmorton, falls open, his chin very nearly landing on his chest. He is led away, sputtering, by a bailiff, of which the Judge seems to have an inexhaustible supply.

The next man steps up and says nervously, “J . . . J . . . Jeremy Beacham, Your Honor, Publisher of the
Boston Patriot
, and I think . . . perhaps . . . a slight recess might be in order?”

“Capitol idea!” shouts Judge Thwackham, again bringing down his hammer. “For you, that is! Contempt of Court! Six months! Bailiff, take him away!”

The rest of the delegation fades swiftly away.

Stifling my giggles behind my hand, I notice the prominent journalist Mr. David Lawrence, of the
Boston Patriot
, gleefully scribbling, no doubt detailing the incarceration of his boss.
Sometimes, Mr. Lawrence, life is definitely worth living.

I reflect that my old cell is now holding a better batch of citizens than when I was resident therein, as two more protesters of the Judge's behavior are led away. I further reflect that a Judge in his courtroom is much like the Captain of a ship—disobey either at your peril.

Judge Thwackham now thoughtfully regards his right-hand man, Attorney Brown, with his hand to his chin. “Did you know, Counselor,” he says with distaste, “that your nose has begun to grow in a rather alarming way? Yes, now it has definitely become a muzzle, a rather long white snout with purple whiskers out the sides. It's remarkably like that of a baboon, Sir. What do you think of that?”

“I . . . I hope that is not true, Your Honor,” stammers Mr. Brown.

“Well, it is,” says the Judge. “Turn around and pull down your trousers. We must see if you really are some sort of monkey.”

The Bailiff has several assistants with clubs and they go about the chamber trying to keep some order in the court, but they are not being very successful. I myself cannot stifle a grin spreading across my face, a sight that is not missed by Constable Wiggins.

Attorney Hamilton Brown stands flummoxed, stuttering, and unable to speak.

“Well, do it man! We must examine your buttocks to be sure!” bellows Judge Thwackham. “Constable, do your duty and pull down his pants!”

Wiggins, never one to question an order given by a superior, strides over to the quivering Mr. Brown, bends the small man over his large knee, inserts thumb in the waistband of the pants in question, and pulls them down.

There is a common gasp in the courtroom, but no gasp is as loud as the one from the Judge. “There is the proof!” he shouts, puffed up and pointing a stiff finger at the poor Prosecutor's bottom. “Bright blue, as blue as the very sky! You, Sir, are a Blue-assed Baboon and you have no place in a court of Law! Bailiff! Take this monkey down and put him in a cell and arrange for his immediate transfer to the zoo!”

The Bailiff, another sod not used to disobeying orders, takes the unfortunate officer of the court by the arm and drags him from the room, Mr. Brown trying vainly to pull his pants back up.

Funny, I noticed that his rump was a rather gray shade of white, and not blue at all. Oh, well . . .

But the Judge was not done this day yet, oh no, he was not . . .

“Imagine that,” he says, leaning back on his throne, “a dirty baboon posing as a court Prosecutor all these years, tsk, tsk.”

I think back on all the Prosecutors and King's Counsels, and other such who have hounded me all my days, and reflect that honest baboons and other monkeys are possibly getting a bad name.

“Never mind,” he says, brightening. “Now, Constable, if you will call Mrs. Shinn up to the Bench, please. And I believe we may conclude this day in a most pleasant fashion.”

“Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn. To the Stand, please!”

Mrs. Shinn, looking somewhat perplexed by both the tumult in the courtroom and her recall to the Bench, goes to stand once again in front of Judge Thwackham. She catches my eye and I cannot resist giving her what I know is one of my infuriating little finger waves. I should be careful, I know, but sometimes I just can't help it.

The Judge beams down upon her, and I know her hopes for a ruling resulting in the destruction of me are once again rising in her breast, when Thwackham says . . .

“Mrs. Shinn, I am sure you know you possess a wide bottom. Yes, it is quite wide and admirable, and you should be most proud of your lower appendage.”

The mouth of Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn falls open in shock.

“However, what you perhaps do not know, dear lady, is that I, Judge Hiram Thwackham of the Superior Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, have a great affection for female bottoms, wide and ample ones in particular.”

The open mouth of Mrs. Shinn is mimicked by those of the now almost-quiet onlookers in the Gallery.
This cannot be happening . . .
is the unspoken thought in the minds of all.

A thin, weedy gent stands up quivering. “I . . . I . . . must protest most vigorously. I am Amos Shinn and Mrs. Shinn is my wife!”

“The poor man” is heard whispered in all the galleries.

“This cannot be allowed to happen! This court is a . . . a . . . travesty!”

Thwackham turns to Wiggins. “Do you have a firearm on your person?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” says Wiggins, reaching in his vest and pulling out a pistol.

“Good,” the Judge says, nodding gravely. “Then shoot that man and dispose of him. We can't have angry husbands hanging about, now, can we?”

Mr. Shinn, upon seeing his apparent doom, faints dead away, slumping to the floor behind a bench, thereby saving Wiggins the trouble of dispatching him.

That small problem solved to his satisfaction, Judge Thwackham turns once again to the astounded Mrs. Shinn.

“Mrs. Shinn, while other gentlemen of my status prefer a small, shy, and lithe little female wriggling beneath them when betwixt the sheets, I demand a good, solid workbench, I do, and you Madame, fill the bill most admirably. Bailiff, you will now escort the lady to my chambers, where we will have a bit of a frolic!”

With that, he slams down his gavel and bellows, “The court is adjourned!” He gets up and exits through the door at the back.

The place erupts in total chaos.

In the midst of all this, Constable Wiggins comes toward me with great purpose writ on his red face, meaty hand outstretched in the direction of my neck, intending to take me outside and carry out the Judge's order, if not for a beheading, at least for a sound thrashing.

Ezra grabs my arm and says, “I don't know just what you did to cause what went on in there, but you must count your gains as regards Joannie Nichols, and know that your loss of Ravi will be dealt with. He will be all right till then. But for now, Jacky, let's get the hell out of here!”

Strong words from my usually very calm and unrattled Mr. Ezra Pickering.

It is the day after the hearing and I am in the offices of House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company, facing Chopstick Charlie's factotum, Mr. Cheung Tong.

“Mr. Tong,” I say. “You know I am acquainted with Mr. Charles Chen of Rangoon, Burma, and that he holds me in some regard.”

While I face Mr. Tong, he does not face me, choosing, as he usually does, to look away and to the wall. I suspect that his lack of manners is because of his infirmity, and I forgive him for it.

“I know that, Miss Faber,” he rasps. “Honorable Chen has ordered me to honor any reasonable request from Beloved Daughter Ju kau-jing yi.”

“Well, that is good,” is what I say, “and what I want is the Gurkhas.”

“Pardon, Miss?”

“The Gurkhas. I spotted their leader Ganju Thapa and some of his cohorts when last I was here. He knows me and I know him.”

He knows me all right, as a thorn in his side, but he is a loyal servant to his master, Chopstick Charlie, and will follow his orders, even if he despises me, which he most certainly does.

“And what do you want them for?”

“I have a young adopted son, an East Indian boy named Ravi, who is unjustly imprisoned in the Reformatory for Stubborn Boys. I want him out and safe.”

“But how can my company be of assistance?”

“The Gurkhas will go into the prison and bring the boy out. They will recognize him by the color of his skin and the fact that he speaks Urdu. They will call out for him in that language and he will come to them.”

“And how will the Gurkhas get into this place?”

“Don't worry. I will take care of that. There will be a wagon outside this door tonight at midnight, with hangers for eight men to cling to its side as it goes on its way. Are you agreed?” I ask, leveling my gaze at the black-cloaked figure. “Are you?”

He turns and looks at me through his one good eye.

“Aye,” he says. “But I must go along with the Gurkhas. Mr. Chen would insist.”

“Very well, Mr. Tong, I will see you tonight. Adieu.”

 

Yesterday, after the hearing, as we had all piled back into the Pig and were taking refreshment, Joannie Nichols walked in the front door in all her filth, stared forward, and said but one word:

Bath.

We gathered her to us and provided that bath. As Molly and I scrubbed her down, she filled us in on the details . . .

“Mistress will allow me to act in the play until such time as school starts back up. A coach will be sent to the Pig each night to collect me and any of the other Lawson Peabody girls who are either in the play or who are there as spectators. When school begins again, all that will be over.”

“Still, dear,” I said, wringing out her hair, “it's better than the place you were just in.”

“Aye,” she said, “anything is better than that. What about Ravi?”

“We are going to attend to that tomorrow night.”

She looked up at me with question in her eyes. “Can I help?”

“Yes. One last adventure this year, and then back to class again. Agreed?”

She considered and then said, “Aye.”

“Then tomorrow night, Joannie, after the performance. Mistress will not miss you in that gaggle of girls piling into the coach. Be ready in your burglar gear.”

Her face was down and I could not see it, but I knew her eyes were narrowed and she was smiling.

 

The horse-drawn wagon of the Shamrock Hose, Ladder & Pump Company pulls up in front of the House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company. Arthur McBride is on the forward seat, holding the reins of the four mighty Clydesdales that are now harnessed, snorting, to the pump. I am seated beside him in my nighttime gear—tight black pants, black jersey, black gloves, and woven watch cap pulled low over my forehead. Joannie Nichols is similarly dressed and rides next to me, her face blackened with soot, just like mine.

As we come to a halt, the mighty draft horses huffing and pawing the ground beneath their massive forms, Ganju Thapa and his six Gurkhas come out the door. As always, they are turbaned and wearing their
khukuris—
wicked inwardly curving, insanely sharp knives—in their belts, and they climb aboard the pump. The Hunchback then comes out and climbs into place beside them, and we rattle off into the night, toward the Boston Reformatory for Stubborn Boys.

 

We pull to a stop a good half block down the street and peer up at the prison.

“Damn,” I say. “They post a guard outside at night. I didn't think they would.”