Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (10 page)

Again I get a dubious nod from the girl. She is a rather pretty little thing, all blue eyes and blond curls, but no kind of cheer rests upon her lovely face. She has not released her hold upon her doll, and her free thumb has gone into her mouth.

I turn to handyman Olnutt. “It does not have to be fancy, just some paneling below, and simple lath or lattice above. Doesn't have to go all the way to the ceiling, six feet high will do it. And we don't need an actual door, for I will rig a curtain across. Will you do it?”

He smiles and bows. “I'll get right to it, Miss, with pleasure.” We both notice that the dread Pirate Edgar has fallen a bit silent, and we both know the reason. Someone else is getting all the attention he so desperately craves. Mr. Olnutt winks and leaves, and I believe I have found a worthy ally in this fight.

The young master recovers himself enough to sulkily say, “Don't bother with
her.
She's dumb and stupid.”

Cathy doesn't say a word to that, but I know she is not too dumb and stupid to understand what he said, for her thumb is jammed farther into her mouth.

“Well, Your Majesty, we shall see about that. But as for this mess, we must see about cleaning—”

Just then a bell is rung from below.

“Ah. I believe we are being called to lunch. Shall we go?”

“About time,” mutters Edgar, dropping sword or scepter to the floor and rushing out. I extend my hand to Cathy. She takes it, and I lead her downstairs.

The midday meal is served in the kitchen, at a table seating four. There are three steaming bowls at three places, with bread and milk at the side of two, a cup of tea at what I take to be mine. Midge is bustling about at her sink, but Mrs. Polk is nowhere to be seen—probably still sick and grateful for the rest my arrival has brought.

“Manners, everyone,” I say as I sit and grab a spoon to dig in. It is very good, and I compliment the cook on her efforts. “Umm . . . This is quite good, Midge. Thanks.”

“No, it isn't,” sneers Edgar, tossing down his spoon and making a mess on the tablecloth. “It tastes like slop. And milk? Milk for a pirate king? Never! I should be served only the finest rum, so bring it over!”

“Drink your milk, Cathy, it is good for you,” I say, and she does as she is told, leaving a milk mustache on her upper lip. Her spoon returns to her bowl of stew, and she finishes it up, as do I mine, sopping up the gravy at the bottom with my bread.
Yum!

Master Edgar, however, does not attend to his portion, merely shoving it around with his spoon in a deep sulk. I know he is doing this to hold the rest of us up.

Well, we shall see . . .

I rise and ask, “You are not pleased with your repast, Sir?”

“Dammit, no, I'm not!” he shouts. “I'm—”

With that, I reach over and grab his bowl and go to the sink and dump it down the slop hole. “There! It's gone and shall no longer offend thee, my lord!”

“What? What did you do that for?” he sputters.

“A king should not have to eat what he does not want to eat. The food plainly displeased His Lordship, so I, as his loyal servant, got rid of it. Now, let us return to our duties upstairs. Cathy, your hand, please.”

As we ascend the stairs, I hear Edgar mutter behind us as he follows, “My father shall hear of this, you may be sure.”

I pause on the stair to look back down on him standing below. “Did I strike you, Edgar? Did I speak harshly to you?”

He does not reply, but merely glares at me with great dislike.

If you want to play this game, young man, you'd best sharpen up . . .

 

Once again in the classroom, I am pleased to see that Mr. Olnutt has already laid out the wall in chalk upon the floor, just where I wanted it. Good man.

“Now then, Cathy, let us set you up first, then Edgar and I will see about the mess in this place.” That elicits a profound snort from the young master, who takes up sword again and says he has
absolutely
no intention of helping with anything I might have in mind.

I plunk Cathy back onto her stool, then rummage through the top desk drawer, where I find paper and crayons and place them in front of her. “Do you know how to spell your name, Cathy?”

She shakes her head.

“How about your ABCs?”

Again she shakes her head and looks about to cry.

“Told you she was stupid,” comes from Edgar.

“Don't worry, Cathy,” I say in my most soothing voice. “You'll get it real quick, I just know it. I will teach you, you'll see. Here, I'll write out a few letters and you try to copy them.
A, B, C, D, E, F,
and I'll be back in a bit to help. All right?”

With that, I place a kiss on her cheek, and turn to her brother. At least she did look at the letters and pick up a crayon.

“Now, Edgar, let us clean up a bit, shall we, so that we might begin some serious study. How about we start by picking up around here?”

He goes to the blackboard and commences to draw a bloodshot eyeball with a stiletto run through it. “You do it. I am busy and not in the least bit interested in doing that.”

“Very well, Majesty, I will do that,” I say, bending down to scoop up a sheaf of carelessly tossed papers—more ghastly drawings. “But first you must answer me something.”

“What?”

“Though you seem to be lacking any social graces, you are very well-spoken. How do you account for that?”

“I read books. I do not need any lousy teacher to teach me how to do that. I teach myself.”

I look around at the books strewn on the floor. I see a science book and pick it up, placing it on the bookshelf. Another book appears to be on music theory; another is on mathematics. All look like they've never been opened. These I also put away. He says nothing to that.

Then I notice other kinds of books, down by my feet—books that look like they have been much more read, with folded-over pages and broken spines—and I look at thetitles:
Dreadful Pirates of the South Seas . . . Cutthroats of the Caribbean . . . 
and, good Lord, there's
Bloody Jack . . . 
and
Under the Jolly Roger
!
So that's where he's getting all that pirate stuff!

I reach down and get a stack of those in my arms and go to one of the open back windows and toss them out.

“Hey!” he shouts. “What are you doing? Those are mine!” He drops the chalk, rushes to the window, and looks down at his pirate stash in horror.

“You treated those books as rubbish by throwing them on the floor, so I threw them out in the trash. I assumed, Captain Blood, that you would approve of my action. What needs a bold pirate of such silly books?”

“But . . . but . . . but . . .”

“If you value them, Cap'n,” I say, folding arms over chest, “then you'd best go down to get them, as it looks like it might rain.”

One last glare of pure hatred, and then he rushes out the door and down the stairs, returning with the books cradled in his arms, his face red with anger.

“Put them on the bookshelves, or they will go out again; count on it, Blood.”

“My father will hear of this,” he warns. “
You
can count on that.”

“I will be conferring with your parents tonight, after which you may discuss it with him,” I say. “You will notice that I did not hit you, neither did I speak harshly to you. What will you report? That you nicely cleaned up the classroom, hmmm? I'm sure he will be delighted to hear it.”

The books go on the shelf while my good Captain steams, and I beam in some satisfaction.

I will not say my first afternoon with the Polk children was an absolute success, but it did have its bright spots. Cathy toiled away at her ABCs and even managed to draw an acceptable
C,
so we were able to get a start on her name.
See, Cathy, how your name starts out with a
C
and then goes to an
A
and then to a
T
? All by itself, it spells
CAT,
just like that cat right there, but when we add an
H
and a
Y
we get
CATHY,
and what a fine name it is! A fine name for a fine girl!

And our skilled handyman, Mr. Olnutt, true to his word, managed to get Cathy's private space up in no time by bringing up the partitions in sections through the back door and fixing them in place with wood screws, such that they could be removed later. Smart man, for Mr. Polk might not like his new governess changing the floor plan of his fine house. At my request, Olnutt even threw together a simple easel out of scraps of wood he had in his tool shed. Yes, a very valuable man, indeed, is our Mr. Olnutt.

I did notice that, upon completion of the alcove, the aforementioned black cat did not waste any time in quitting the greater classroom and planting herself on Cathy's desk, a perch from which she does not move. When Master Edgar appeared at the doorway to pronounce that all this was silly stuff, she lifted an unsheathed claw-clustered paw and bared her teeth and hissed loudly in his direction. Thus, I realized that Cathy was not the only victim . . . and that maybe the cat would be a possible ally in this battle as well.

For battle it certainly is. Young Mr. Polk, having realized, correctly, that he had lost the morning's fight, redoubled his nastiness, thrashing about outside the alcove in true piratical fury.
“Die, dog! Here's one in your filthy guts! Mercy? Never! Bow down, you scurvy knaves, bow down to Captain Blood!”

Well, us knaves will see about
that
,
won't we?

“Now, Cathy, I must go out to set your brother to some more productive work than what he is now doing, but first, tell me the name of your kitty. Blackie? Of course . . . And your dolly? Amy? What a nice name. Did you know that's the name of my very best friend? It's true. Now, why don't we sit Amy up here on your desk so that you might work a little more easily? There. See? She's watching you do your letters, and she's very proud of you. Later on, we'll play some music and I'll tell you a story, and maybe we'll do some drawing. All right? Good.”

“Now, Captain,” I say, confronting the little rotter. “Why don't you put down your mighty swift sword and sit at your desk, such that we might work on your math and science?”

“Won't do it. Can't make me, neither,
Governess,
” he pronounces firmly, point of sword on floor, hands on hilt, eyes daring me to say otherwise.

I put my hands out in gentle supplication and say, “It is true that I am but a poor, pitiable governess, but yet sweet reason says that a bold sea captain must know his math and science. For when his scalawags bring in helpless hostages for ransom, he must know what price to place on each head and how to count that ransom when it is paid. And when his men bring chests of treasure before him to divide up the spoils according to the Laws of the Pirate Brotherhood, he will have to know how to do it. Right?”

He looks dubious at that, but he does seem to brighten at the thought of helpless captives cringing before him. I go on.

“And that is math, of course. And as for science, surely that same bold sea pirate captain must know celestial navigation—the sun and the stars and the use of the sextant, so he will know where his ship is on that wild and trackless ocean. Otherwise, your fine ship might be cast away and lost on some cruel rocks.”

He thinks on that while I press on.

“What is the name of your ship, by the way, Captain?” I just know he's picked one out.

“It is named
The Raven,
” he replies. “And I can't wait till I have you tied to the mast, pleading for mercy. You shall receive none.”

Hmmm. Not bad.
I had expected something gory, but that has a bit of the poetic in it as well. The lad does have an imagination, that's for sure
.

“So what do you say, Captain? Will you turn to your studies for the good of your ship and your loyal comrades, as a True Son of the Sea?”

He thinks, then shakes his head. “No. I already know enough of that stuff already.”

Hmmm 
. . .
 But will you take a bribe, then, Captain Blood?

While he stands there, obstinate, I drag out a chair and climb up on it to intone, in my best theatrical manner . . .

“I am Señor Hernando de Castro, governor of this fine port of Santa Maria de Josa. When I arose this morning, I was happy and my people were happy. But then I looked out over my ramparts and saw, lying below in the harbor,
The Raven,
the ship of the dread Pirate Polk. His mighty guns were trained upon us while his bloodthirsty crew were hanging over her sides, screaming bloody murder!”

From my perch, I put hand to brow and feign looking out over a rampart, great distress upon my face.

“Oh, we are lost! They will land and burn our poor town and take all our riches! Whatever shall we do?”

Then I pretend a great thought has just occurred to me.

“I know! We'll offer him a bribe to go away!”

I lean over my imaginary battlement, cup my hands, and call down to him . . .

“Hullo, Captain Blood! Can you hear me?”

Edgar looks up and replies, “Hullo, yourself, and yes, I can hear you.”

“Will you accept an honorable bribe as a token of our esteem and then take yourself and your ship to some other port?”

“Huh! What have you got to bribe me with?”

“If you consent to leave my harbor, and agree to attend to your nautical studies both this afternoon and tomorrow morning, I will take you and Cathy on an excursion tomorrow afternoon.”

“An excursion?” he asks, a bit confused. “To where?”

“To Mr. Filibuster's Fine Emporium, where we shall sit at the counter and enjoy some of his fine and flavorful fizzy water. What say you, Captain?”