Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (7 page)

When I finally get out, leaving the water a lot grayer than I usually do, I dry myself and get into my nightdress, and then Jemimah and I sit at the long mess table and share a companionable meal—cold chicken, hot rice, and biscuits with gravy.
Mmmmm
. . .

I tell Jemimah of some of my travels and, in particular, my encounter with Brother Bullfrog when I was starving back in Spain, as I think she would enjoy the telling of it . . .

Hello, Brother Bullfrog. How you been?
I said to the frog. The bullfrog brought his big googly eyes to look upon me.

Well, hello, Sister Girl. I been jus' fine. Whatcha got on yo' mind?

My mind is set on eatin' you, Brother Bullfrog—legs, belly, croaker, and all, that's what.

Hmmm . . . I might be havin' a bit of a problem wi' dat, Sister Jacky. What makes you think you can 'complish dat t'ing?

It's 'cause I'm low and cunning and powerful hungry, and I'll get it done. You'll see, Brother. You be restin' in my belly soon.

Y'know, Sister, I recalls that Brother Fox and Brother Bear tried alla time to eat Brother Rabbit, but it never happened, no. Brother Black Snake give it a try or two, as well, but it ain't happened yet, no ma'am. Don't 'spect it's gonna happen here, neither.

And he was right in thinkin' that, Jemimah. It didn't happen, no. Last I saw of Big Daddy he was still happily croakin' on his lily pad.

When I wind up the tale, Jemimah slaps her knee in delight, and says, “That one's goin' in my Brother Rabbit story bag, Sister Girl, that's for damn sure!”

I lift my glass and say, “Here's to Brother Bullfrog. Long may he croak! I sure did appreciate those fine,
fine
crawdaddies he provided for me! Without 'em, I don't think I'da made it to Madrid!”

Then we sit and talk, and I tell her of my plans for the Pig and the barn next to it, and how she might fit in and make some more money for herself, and she is all for that. But then my head begins to droop, so she damps down the fire and sends me off to bed.

 

Ah, my lovely, lovely little cabin. How I missed you,
Nancy
, I missed you so very, very much . . .

. . . and I miss you, too, Jaimy, and I hope to see you soon. But I dunno . . . things turn this way and then they turn that way and what happens is never anything I expect, y'know? Chopstick Charlie says you're all settled in your mind now and are headed to Boston. Who'da thought any of that. I just don't know, I . . . I just fall over the edge of all thought and . . . slip down and . . . sleep.

James Fletcher

Envoy, House of Chen

New Bedford, Massachusetts, USA

 

June 10, 1809

Jacky Faber

Somewhere on this continent, it is to be hoped

 

Dear Jacky,

I landed today in the New England town of New Bedford and again I step onto the soil of the United States of America.

It is a charming town, well laid out, with many fine houses and a forest of high masts at the docks. It is a whaling town, as I believe you know, since you once took ship from here, according to what I have read in one of Amy Trevelyne's rather vivid accounts of your journeys . . . and your equally vivid . . . doings.

My way over here on the
Mary Bissell
was most pleasant, after we had rid ourselves of the company of the loathsome Mr. Skelton. I spent many happy hours in the presence of the Reverend Lowe and his lovely wife and daughters. His son, Jeremiah, attached himself to me early on, viewing me as some sort of exotic warrior, I suppose, and I did teach him some of the basic moves of the Bo stick, as well as some of the more rough-and-tumble tactics common to Royal Navy ship's boys. I fear for the health of any schoolyard bully who attempts to cross our young Mister Jeremiah Lowe in the future. Upon docking, he pleaded to come with me on my travels, but I convinced him that a proper education was a prerequisite for a young man before entering a life of adventure as an officer and a gentleman, and he reluctantly agreed and left the ship still secure in the bosom of his loving family. I wish him well for he is a fine lad.

On the very wise advice of our mutual friend Charlie Chen, I intend to stay in disguise for the time being, considering my past actions in England. Rather rash actions, I will admit, but what is done, is done.

As for this masquerade, before I left Rangoon, the crown of my head was gently shaved and the remaining hair gathered into a bun at the nape of my neck, giving me a definite Eurasian appearance. I will continue to use the name Master Kwai Chang gave me—Cheung Tong. It is Chinese for “Long Boy.” After my farewells to Captain Van Pelt and the Lowes, I stepped off the
Mary Bissell
and repaired to an alley. I had a long black hooded cloak, and dark silk clothing beneath it, which certainly enhanced my Asian appearance, and in that alley, I stuffed my simple seabag high up under the cloak to rest on my right shoulder, giving me the look of an unfortunate hunchback. I fashioned an eye patch from a bit of black cloth, and thus attired, I sallied forth, affecting a pronounced limp.

It is not far to Boston. Consequently, I shall go by land, sometimes by coach, but, I believe, mostly by foot, so as once more to acclimate myself to these environs and to further rest my recently very turbulent mind. I thought I had seen the last of you, dear girl, when you were swept overboard on the
Lee
in the midst of that horrendous typhoon, but others have convinced me that I was wrong in that assumption, and dim recollections have returned to my mind. Were you really there on that black heath the night when my poor Bess was murdered? Did I really strike you, mistaking you for a demon from hell come to torment me? Did I really ball up my fist and slam it into your loving and trusting face? I hope I did not, but I fear that I did, and I further hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for anything I might have done to you.

And did I hear that you were sent off to Portugal with Lord Allen? Did I actually hear that, or was that just my jealousy raging? I do not know . . .

So the walk to Boston will be good for me, maybe clearing out the remaining cobwebs from my mind.

A poor mendicant hunchback limping my way to Boston, I now put my foot on the Post Road in the hope of finding you there, and I am . . .

 

Yr. faithful & etc.,

Jaimy

I crack an eyelid as the morning light pours through the eastern window of Amy Trevelyne's lovely bedroom at Dovecote. Amy sleeps next to me, her face in sweet repose.
Heh-heh,
I chuckle to myself, the wickedness rising up in me once again.
We'll fix
that
!

Getting out of bed, I briefly visit
le pot de chambre
,
wash hands and
splash some water on my face, then go to Amy's top bureau drawer, where I know she keeps sundry notions—pins and stuff. Sure enough, there is a paper of good sturdy hairpins. I take two and go to my seabag and take out a long leather tube, remove the cap on the end, and slip the rolled-up canvas it contains into my hand.

On the wall facing the foot of Amy's bed, there is a charming painting of a fluffy white feline looking smug on a pink pillow. I take the painting down and place it on the floor, and where it once hung, I pin up the painting, a cat of a very different sort.

It is, of course, the painting that Amadeo Romero did of me when I was a student and sometime model at Estudio Goya in Madrid—
The Naked Maja.
It was Amadeo's version, not Goya's, which did not look like me at all. Amadeo felt that Goya, that dog, had a former mistress in mind when he painted his, but Amadeo's was spot on in the way of resemblance. At the bottom of the painting, Amadeo had lettered, in faint but very clear lettering,
La Maja Virginal. Con todo mi amor. Amadeo Romero, 1808.

Mission accomplished, I slip back into bed next to Amy with a certain amount of anticipatory glee.

Again snugged in, I peer up over the edge of the covers and look at the painting in all its golden glory. The warm morning sun plays over the picture, illuminating the nude figure of the girl lying serene on a couch, rich draperies all around.
Oh, Amadeo, you did such a fine job.
Fine job, indeed, as the girl looks
exactly
like me. No mistake, and no wonder, since I did pose for it, and for many other paintings of a like nature when I was at Estudio Goya.

I give Amy a gentle nudge. She had been lying on her side, facing me, and we had spent the night so entwined.

“Good morning, Sister. It looks to be a very fine day.”

She moans and turns on her back. I bury my face in the warmth of her neck and wait till she comes fully awake.

“So what do you think, Sister?” I say.

“About what?” she says, confused and blinking.

“About that.” I cut my eyes to the painting. “Is it not a good likeness?”

She follows my glance and her eyes finally focus. Then she lets out a long shriek and flies from our bed, as I stay there curled up and convulsed in laughter. There are few things in this life that I find more enjoyable than shocking Miss Amy Trevelyne's Puritan soul to its very core.

Amy rushes to her desk and withdraws her chair from under it and jams it under the doorknob so as to deny anyone entry into her room.

“You'll find that simple wedges are more effective for that sort of thing.” I chortle.

Aghast, she whispers, “What if anyone should see that! Randall is due home soon, what if—”

“I did think of showing it to Randall, as a matter of fact, but I thought Polly Von might object. She is of an easy-going nature, just like me, but maybe when her Randall is involved, well . . . maybe not . . .”

“That . . . that is so . . . wicked!”

“No, it isn't. It's just me. A hank of hair, a piece of bone, and some skin. That's all. What's the problem?”

She squeals and buries her face deeper in her pillow.

“Actually, I was thinking of displaying it over the bar at the Pig. To improve business, like. Add a touch of class. I think it would look rather grand. What say you on that?”

She peeks out from under the pillow, her eyes glaring up at me. “They will surely shut you down for that! In a minute!”

“Who are ‘they'?” I ask, all mystified.

“The Boston Army for Women's Suffrage, that's who!”

“The women I saw you marching with the other day? I thought the lot of you were for suffrage—votes for women and all. I was even thinking of joining.”

“It's not only that. It is also a
temperance
union—and against the selling of alcohol in any form. If women succeed in getting the vote, they will use it to shut down the taverns. That's why the men are so dead set against it!”

“Wot? And I thought the men were just being mean in denying women the vote. They can be petty and mean, you know, especially when they're gathered in groups, like clubs and fraternities and such.”

“No, Jacky, that is the way of it,” she says. “Please,
please,
keep that picture hidden out of sight!”

“And I have just bought a tavern,” I say, wondering. I give her a poke in the side. “Have I been sleeping with the enemy, then?”

“No, I shall now resign from the BAWS, due to conflict of interest, in that I love you—for all your transgressions against propriety, morality, and common sense—more than any political organization.”

I think on that, then say, “Aw, that's sweet, Amy, that is. But, no, you shall not. You believe, as I do, that women have the right to vote, to own property in their own names, and to enjoy all the rights and privileges that men have. So continue to march with the BAWS . . . and keep me informed as to what they are up to.”

“What? I am to be a spy?”

“Just a fly on the wall, Sister, that's all.”

Her eyes peek up over the edge of her pillow and gaze again upon the painting. “How could you do such a thing? I just . . . cannot imagine it.” She pulls the pillow back over her face.

“You mean pose like that?”

“Yes, Jacky, that is definitely what I mean!”

“Well, later you can get out your pen and paper and I shall tell you. Then maybe you will understand why I did it and, perhaps, find it in your heart to forgive me,” I retort. “But just a bit of the story, for we've got to get back to Boston. Me, to check on the workers' progress at the
Pig, and you, my dear,” I say, planting a kiss on her cheek, “to graduate from the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls!”

The Pig has risen! Like unto the Phoenix Bird, he has risen from his own ashes! Hallelujah!

True, the sounds of saw and hammer are still heard upstairs, but down here below in the tavern's great room, we are open for business. Barrels of ale are rolled in, the tables are varnished and gleaming, and Maudie once again happily stands at the bar, ready to fill tankards of beer and glasses of wine. Her man, Bob, sits in a chair in the corner, his gray hair about his shoulders, his cudgel on his lap, perfectly willing to bash the head of any bloke who would disturb the peace of the place, but, like many old men, he is unable to stand and must be content with his pint in front of him, and with telling stories of his youth to anyone who will listen.

The door is open and welcoming and thirsty sailors are coming in. We already have three tables of four seatings working, and we expect more.
Why do we have this sudden business, when the Pig did not have it before?
It is because I had some small round wooden disks cut down at Fyffe's Furniture and Carpentry and then had Mr. Yates at his print shop press a crude image of our whistling piggy upon each, with the words
Good for 1 Free Beer at the Pig and Whistle
inscribed about our merry hog. If there's one thing I know that will get a thirsty sailor to march the additional hundred yards up to our place, past the Union Oyster House, the Bell & Bull, and, especially, Skivareen's, it is the prospect of free booze, such that his tiny stash of money might go a bit further during his short stay on the shore. I, of course, carved the woodcut, crude as it was, and it did put me in mind of the story of the Spanish artist Francisco Goya's little pig that he had scrawled on a wall, as well as the one I drew for him . . .
and thank you again, Maestro, for sheltering this poor wayward girl for a while in your fine studio . . .