The Mark of the Golden Dragon (19 page)

Liam, Davy, and Tink have to stay aboard to watch the ship, with Ravi and Lee Chi as steward and cook. McGee and John Thomas, too, would be aboard, except when they were accompanying Joannie on her errands. All would have some liberty soon, but not now. I put my finger on Joannie's nose and warned her that after her mission to the orphanage, she was to return promptly to the ship and remain aboard till I got back, or her bottom will pay for it. She reluctantly agreed, though I knew she's as anxious as I to visit our old turf.

Higgins, impeccably dressed in soft gray suit and cloak, put on his matching hat and got ready to go off, as he put it,
to check his sources,
as it were.

I'm pounding up Earl Street and heading for Fleet, pigtail flying behind me, my small leather kit bag over my shoulder. I recall that the publishers of the
Shipping News
on Fleet Street generally post a registry of the ships arriving and departing in nearby ports, and I mean to check it out, first thing, before I do anything else this day. Gotta find out what's what and who's where ... in particular,
where's Jaimy?

Free!
I exult as I tear up Bouverie and onto Fleet Street. It feels awfully good to be out and free, dressed in my sailor gear with my
Dolphin
cap crammed down on my head, my pigtail braid hanging behind it, my bald forehead covered. I love my ships, I love my men and all my mates, but sometimes it's just grand to be out and free of entanglements, at least for the moment.

I pass the newspaper print shop where, as an orphaned child, I used to sit on Hughie's broad shoulders and read out loud the broadsides pinned to the wall for the edification of the illiterate crowd in the hopes of earning a penny for my service, and where, thankfully, no one is peddling the latest installment in the Bloody Jack series of penny dreadfuls. That's a relief, anyway. I don't need anyone peerin' too close at me, or rather,
my
face.
Hmmm
...It seems when I get back into my old neighborhood, I tend to slip back into my old ways.

Ah, here it is.
The
Shipping News
office. I pop in bold as brass and look at the ships arrival postings on the wall. I certainly don't stick out here—the place is full of sailors, officers and seamen, Royal Navy and merchantmen, all looking for news of shipmates or possible postings. The
Shipping News
also lists promotions and honors, and, in time of war, the Butcher's Bill—the listing of the dead and wounded in battle.

I have on my old
Dolphin
gear, the dress uniform I had made for myself—and for the Dread Brotherhood of Ship's Boys, to their great annoyance—four years ago when we were on that ship. The boys' uniforms no longer fit them, but mine does me. My braided pigtail sits on the blue flap in back and the loose fabric in front hides what I got in the way of female equipment—'course I've got my tight-fitting bathing suit top under it to flatten me out some, and so with the loose-fitting pants down below, I'm well rigged out as a saucy sailor boy and not worth a second glance from anybody in the room.

I work my way to the front and look up and scan the lists.

Hmmm ... Nothing here at the London docks. Try Plymouth ... no.
I recognize a lot of the ships, but not the ones I want.
What's at Spithead, then ... no ... yes!
There's the
Dolphin
! That's something, for sure. Says here she got in three days ago. No word on when she's leaving—typical Naval secrecy—but I'll bet she'll be in for a while. Although I'd love to run down there and see Captain Hudson and my old shipmates again, there's one particular former
Dolphin
I must see, but I know he will not be there.

There is a long counter at the other side of the room, behind which sit several clerks holding pens and scribbling things. I go up to a pleasant-looking chap and say, "'Scuse me, Guv'nor," all respectful. "But can you tell me if there's any news of HMS
Dart
or the merchant ship
Cerberus
?"

He pulls a ledger over and opens it up. He has spectacles perched on his nose and he peers through them at the entries therein.

"Hmmm ... Let's see. Ah, yes ... The sloop of war
Dart
was in at Margate two weeks ago ... shipped out on the sixteenth of May."

Damn!
I could have used Joseph Jared's help in this. Plus, I wouldn't have minded seeing the rogue again, no I wouldn't. But enough of that...
Press on
...

"And the
Cerberus,
Sir?"

The clerk continues to peruse the columns of entries, running his finger down the page and muttering, "No ... no...
Calliope
...no...
Constellation...
no ... Ha! Here it is...
Cerberus!
"

Hope rises in my breast...
Jaimy!

"
Cerberus.
Crew disbanded. Re-manned with a Captain Peterson in command. Set sail twelve days ago for India."

Hope dies...
Oh, Jaimy, where are you?

The man sees my distress. "Did you hope to ship on her, lad? Too bad. The
Hiram Walker
is taking on crew down at Hungerford Pier. You might try her."

"Thank you, Sir, I will do that." I lift my shirt and stick my finger in my money belt and fish out a coin, which I place on the counter. "'Ere, mate, have a pint on me, for your 'elp."

He didn't ask for a bribe, but I gave him a treat, anyway, for his kindness. Not enough of that quality in this world, I figure, and it should be rewarded when found.

I bounce out of the
Shipping News
with a destination in mind. I head down Fleet till it becomes Ludgate and then turn left up Old Bailey, pressing north. I go by the Admiral Benbow and think about stopping in for a bite and a mug, but no.
Later. Push on, girl, there's business to do.
Jaimy's gotta be somewhere.

And there's Saint Paul's, where I almost got married once...
sniff
...and here's Paternoster Lane, which used to be Shanky Boys turf, back in the day, and...

...it still is...

As I pass the entrance to a side alley, three boys step out in front of me. They seem to range in age from twelve to sixteen. The biggest of the three grins a grotty grin at me and slaps a billy club in his palm.

"Well, well, what we got 'ere? A fancy little sailor boy come 'ome from sea, is it?" says the cove. "Ain't that sweet, now, lads?"

The other two sods nod their agreement.

"Just so, Grimbo." They chortle.

"And just who the 'ell are you," I spit out, angry at being stopped by this crummy trio.

"Us fine lads is members in good standin' of the Shanky Boys Gentlemen's Club," says this Grimbo. "And now that in-tro-duck-shuns is done wit', give over that bag and ye can run home to mum and tell her how you was buggered all over the fleet from Drisco to Tim-buck-tu, whinin'
me bum is all sore, mummy, please to put some butter on it, please, mummy.
"

This bit of hilarity is met with gales of laughter from his cronies...
Good one, Grimbo!
...and the middle-sized one makes so bold as to come up to me and knock off me cap, exposing my head.

Cor! Look at that! Blimey!

After they recover from the sight, the little one puts his fingers to either side of his eyes and pulls them into slits and starts singsonging...

Ching Chong Chinaman, sittin on a fence
Ching Chong Chinaman—

That's as far as he gets with that little number, as I bring up the toe of my right foot and sink it deep in his crotch. He goes "
Ooof!
" and doubles over, puking out whatever foulness is in his gut.

I whip out my shiv from my sleeve and get into a crouch, holding the blade up in front of me face.

"Shankies!" I say, and spit on the cobblestones. "Shankies? In-tro-duck-shuns ain't over yet, oh, no, you miserable scum wads! My name was Mary Faber when I ran these streets with the Rooster Charlie Gang and I was killin' Shankies for sport whilst you was still suckin' on yer mama's filthy teats. See the dried blood on the hilt of me shiv? Aye, that was prolly yer dead daddy's poxy blood that's there, and now yours'll run there, too, you poor excuses for honest footpads! Come on, I'll cut off yer cods and stuff 'em in yer mouths! Come on and git it, you lousy pieces o'—"

They back off a bit, startled by the display and the rant. They no longer look quite so confident of an easy mark.

Thanks, Mike Fink, King of the River—I learned the value of a good brag from you.

"All right, what's this, then?" asks a voice to my right.

I twist around, my knife still at the ready, with one eye on the Shankies and the other one on a tall bloke who has appeared with two girls by him, one on either side. He wears a top hat in the current style, and coat and vest, once fine but now a bit threadbare. One girl looks to be thirteen or so, the other a mite older.

"I'm about to gut me a coupla worthless thugs," I say, panting—the blood is up in me now, for sure. "If'n yer sickened by the sight o' blood, ye'd best step off, as it's about to flow!"

The bloke smiles and says, "Did I just hear you call yourself Mary Faber of the Rooster Charlie Gang?"

"I did. What's it to you, bunghole?"

"Welcome back, Mary."

What?

"It's Toby ... Toby Oyster, Mary," he says, the smile broadening. "Come on back to the clubhouse and let's talk."

Toby Oyster, the bloke I left in charge of the remnants of my gang when I lit out for the open sea all those years ago. What a thing...

With a careful eye on Grimbo and his pals, I shove my shiv back in my sheath and slap my hat back on my head and follow Toby and his crew up Paternoster to their kip, the same hole of a condemned building that I last saw when our gang fought Pigger O'Toole and his boys outside this very place.

We go in and seat ourselves about a long table. When no food or drink seems to be coming, I dig down into my money belt again and come up with a half crown, then signal to one of the girls who stand about Toby.

"Here. What's your name?"

"Gwen, Sir ... or Miss..."

"It's Miss, Gwendolyn," I say, putting the coin into her paw. "Now, run up to that tavern on the corner and bring back all the bread, cheese, sausage, and wine that will buy." Her hand eagerly clasps the coin.

"And, girl, if you had any thought about runnin' off, take a look at this." With that I remove my cap and whip my pigtail from off my neck. "See that? Yes ... That is the Mark of the Golden Dragon, and it is the sign of an organization much larger and much more cruel than any Brotherhood of Urchins. If you want to end your days screaming your life out in a tub of boiling oil, you will ignore my warning." I say that for her benefit, and for all the others gathered about.

She heeds it, and I think they do, too. In no time at all, she is back with the goods.

"So, Toby," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Tell me just how I come to be sitting here, talkin' pleasant to a bunch of lousy Shankies." I can hardly believe it myself. Back in the day, the Shankies were our mortal enemies, and here I sit in their kip. I knock back a hit of not-too-bad wine from a not-too-dirty cup and ask, "I heard from Joannie Nichols that you were taken by a press gang. True?"

Toby nods grimly. I notice that he has actually become a good-looking young man—tall, straight, dark-haired, with only a scar across his left eye to mar his face.

"Too true, too true," he responds, ruefully. "Right after Hugh the Grand was taken, so was I. Damn stupid of me to let it happen, but it did. Prolly had me senses too full of Polly to watch out proper. Anyway, I was taken aboard the
Temeraire
and spent three miserable years in that hellhole and was almost killed at Trafalgar. But I made it through and jumped ship as soon as we were in sight of England. I came back here and convinced the lad in charge o' the Shankies that he should move on—the goddamn Royal Navy didn't do much for me, but it did teach me some fightin' skills which 'ave come in real handy."

"The
Temeraire,
eh? I got a mate on that ship," I say. "William Simpson ... Ever hear of him?"

Toby laughs. "Hear o' him? He's the bloody Bo'sun's Mate what put this mark upon me brow!" Toby takes another drink and goes on. "But he weren't such a bad sort after all—we had a big roaring fight and he kicked the pure crap outta me, but he didn't write me up afterwards, so I didn't get tied to the grating and flogged. No, ol' Willy was all right, he was..."

A bit of silence, then...

"So you heard from Joannie ... She's all right?"

I nod.

"Good. She was a good kid ... And my Polly? Did you hear anything o' her? I fear that she ended up in some whorehouse, without me being 'round to protect her. I checked 'round when I got back, but found nothin' o' her."

I know this hurts him to talk of her, but it would hurt him even more to know that she's right now snugged up with Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, USMC, a rich young man back in Boston, so I don't tell him that. Instead I say, "Joannie heard that she went north with a company of actors and was doing quite well as an actress."

His face lights up.