Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (26 page)

. . . And I swear I hear, above all the tumult, AmyTrevelyne's voice crying out, “Oh, Jacky, no!” as she has so many times before.

I know they're back there somewhere, probably only a half hour behind—that's how long I figure it would've taken them to recover their horses after Balthazar had spooked them. I hope they didn't hurt the poor old thing in getting him back into his cage. I didn't hear any gunshots, so maybe they didn't. I know I am so very hard on my friends, and I wish I were otherwise, but seldom am.

Luckily, I have not yet encountered anyone on this road, anyone who might think it strange that a young girl would be galloping along a country road wearing only a very small corset, white stockings, and ballet shoes.
So far, so good.

Furio is a game horse and he pounds bravely on, but he is beginning to froth and sweat, so I must slow down to a walk for a bit, to give him a breather. Trouble is, the land around here is mostly open farmland and I have scant places to hide. My only hope is to outpace them till I can get to the sea, where I can buy or steal a small boat and so get away. The sea has always been my salvation, and I know it is only about twenty miles to the south of me.

It's so close, I can smell it.

I reach the top of a high hill and dismount, to let Furio graze and rest for a bit while I go into my seabag and pull out my long glass. There is a large boulder by the side of the road, and I climb up on it and put the glass to my eyes to look down on the road behind me. I am cheered when I see nothing . . . 
But, wait
 . . . Is that a cloud of dust behind that far hill? I squint and hope that it is not, but no, it is them.

Damn!

I jam the spyglass back in my bag and take up the reins again.

“C'mon, Furio, let's go!” I swing up on him and away we gallop.
If I can just make it to the sea!

But we do not gallop for long. In a few minutes, I notice the horse's gait change. In another moment, I realize he is favoring his left rear leg. In yet another minute, he whinnies and pulls up lame.

I leap off him, then pull up his hoof, and see disaster written there. He has thrown a shoe. The nails have worked loose and the horseshoe barely clings to his bloody foot. It must be paining him awfully.

I look about me and see a small farm down the side of the hill to the left. I dive back into my bag to dig out my shiv, which I use to pry the shoe all the way off his foot. I fling the now useless piece of iron into the high grass next to the road, then strip the saddle and my seabag from the poor horse's back. I carry the saddle a few yards into the bushes and hide it. Going back to Furio, I tie the reins behind his neck and point his head at the barn down below.

“Go, Furio! Down there! They'll take care of you! Go!”

Then I give him the biggest hand swat on his hindquarters that I can, and he grunts and starts limping down toward the farm, where I am sure he smells oats and warm hay and others of his kind. And won't that farmer be delighted to find a prime, ownerless horse in his barnyard?

Enough of happy farmers, you. They're right behind you and you've got to move on!

I pick up my seabag, throw it over my shoulder, and head across a field to the right. I see there is a fringe of forest up there and it may be the beginning of yet a bigger growth of trees. If I can make that, and there proves to be deeper woods beyond, then I should be all right, for they will not be able to follow me on horseback through dense forest.

To think I'm prolly only about thirty miles from dear old Dovecote right now, forty-five from Boston and the Pig and the Lawson Peabody, and from Amy and Ezra andClementine and Jim and Rebecca and Randall and all the people I love in this world and those who love me and . . .
Stop that, you! Stop your crying—it won't do you any good! Push on, push on!

As I hurry across the field, I am careful to close the grass behind me, so as to leave no evidence of my passage. I walk on rocky soil when I can, and when I can't, I make sure to take a branch from a tree and rub out any footprints I might leave.

The little stand of trees does prove to lead to a larger forest, and for this I am profoundly grateful.
Thank you, God, for this very great favor.

When I am deep in the woods, I get my compass from my seabag and set my course due south. I think about changing clothes, but, no, I can run much better in this rig. I do throw my ballet slippers into the bag, though, as they are already ragged. I have always run better on my bare feet, and I cannot risk a blister from shoes.

I'm off again, going south, ever south, except when I have to detour around brambles and deep ravines. My seabag grows heavy.

After about an hour of this, I discover a narrow road, just large enough for a single wagon, if that, cutting through the woods and heading south. Maybe it's an old Indian trail leading to the sea? Sure, they would often leave their inland encampments to fish and to gather clams, wouldn't they? I'm hoping it is just that.

I decide to follow it, at least for a while, 'cause I'll make better time on its smooth surface than I would back in the thick woods. I can hop back in the woods should I hear anyone coming, but all I hear now is the birds, which is very, very good.

 

The sun is beginning to set, so I must make plans for the night. I could try walking in the dark on the path, but I am dog-tired. It is spring and the day has been very long. Must be about nine o'clock, maybe later.

I decide to leave the road and strike out again into the woods. The path may be narrow, but men on horseback could easily travel on it, and travel fast—a lot faster than I.

It is much darker in the depths of the woods, and I stumble over branches several times. I've got to stop soon but . . .

Push on, girl, just a little farther!

Making myself trudge onward, I soon come upon a babbling little brook, and a delightful sight it is. Giving thanks, I drop to my knees and drink deeply of the wondrously cool water. When my thirst is slaked, I look out across the brook. It is about twenty feet across, and shallow, which is good, there being nice, flat stones poking up through the surface all the way across. Picking up my bag, I easily cross to the other side.

There is a slight clearing here, and here I will stay the night. Opening my seabag, I put my compass back in it and pull out my cloak. I also get out my leather sheath that has my shiv in it and strap it around my forearm. Then, digging deeper, my hand finds the package of dried meat and pemmican I always keep there, a practice I picked up from my Indian friends.

I squat down cross-legged, the cloak over my shoulders, and eat, grateful for the food and thinking of Crow Jane, she who taught me how to salt and dry the meat so it would not spoil, and how to preserve the berries, rice, and other bits in thick tallow to make the pemmican.

Yes, dear, rough Crow Jane . . . are you still working the big river? Chee-a-quat, are you now a powerful chief? You should be. And Lightfoot and Katy Deere, where are you now? Have you gone across the mighty mountains and gazed upon the Pacific Ocean?

And where are you now, Tepeki, you who welcomed me into your tribe and named me Wah-chinga. Well, I, for one, Sister, am running like the crazy rabbit you named me after. I hope you have found a good man and that the rice harvest is plentiful and the hunting is good, and that you have peace and are happy . . .

Having eaten, I curl up in my cloak, using my seabag as a pillow yet again. It seems that the Jacky Faber luck is holding, at least for now. Tomorrow, the sea, and, it is to be hoped, salvation.

Good night, Jaimy. I pray you are safe. Please hurry back, as I am in much need of rescue.

Ahhhwhoooooo! Ahhhhhwhooooooo! Ahhhhwhoooooooo!

My eyelids fly open and I am on my feet.
Dogs! They've got dogs on me now!

I shake the cobwebs from my mind.
Think, girl, think! If they catch you, they will kill you! Think!

I'm guessing they're about a mile or two behind me now, and I gotta do something to throw them off my trail. Maybe the creek will save me.

Leaving my seabag on the bank, I run maybe a hundred yards away from the creek, deep into the woods. Then I stop at an open, rocky stretch and then retrace my steps, back to the stream, knowing the hounds will blindly follow my scent to that dead end, and be at a loss.
Where did she go, where did she go?
That's what they'll be thinking in their little doggie brains, snuffling about in the brush. The men with them know the dogs have lost the scent and will look up into the trees and point their guns there, thinking I might have taken that route, but no, I have not.

After getting back to the brook, turning over a few rocks and breaking a few twigs in the upstream direction, I pick up my bag, turn, and wade downstream, careful not to dislodge any pebbles, touch any branches, or do anything that might leave my scent behind.

Downstream is the direction to the sea, and it is to the sea that I must go.

Wahwah-Whoooooo! Wahwah-Whooooooo! Ohhhh­whoooooooo!

They must be at the woodland road now, ready to plunge back into the woods, to the stream and, it is to be hoped, confusion.

I keep wading on down the center of the stream. Were it deeper, I could lie back and float with the current, but it never gets deeper than my knees.
Push on, push on!

Wahwah-whooo! Wah-oooo! Wah . . . yap . . . yap . . . yap . . .

Aha! They have followed the false trail! I can hear the doubt in the dogs' voices.
Stay there, doggies! Be good and stay there! Push on, girl, push on!

I wade as fast as I can, but the footing is not easy. Many times I go down, painfully, to hit my knees on the hard bottom, but still I press on. Suddenly, the stream widens, and then, just as quickly, the woods end and the brook pours out into an open field. I am startled by the bright light, so I stand blinking for a few moments, and then,
Oh, God, there is the sea! The beautiful sea!

The sandy beach, the sparkling surface of the water, the gentle waves breaking on the shore lie not more than two miles away at the base of sloping fields of corn and wheat and rye. It's an easy run. I gallop joyfully down through the rows of corn toward the glorious ocean.

I am a good third of the way there when I hear a sound that chills me to the bone.

Bay-ooooooooo. Bay-oooooooo-oooooooooo!

Damn! Sounds like one is still after me, still on my trail! How could he be back on me so fast?

I increase my speed, thinkin' that damned hound's got a different sound than the others. I stumble, fall, and get up again, to keep on running, and I—

Wooo-woooo-wha-hooooooooo! Yew got 'er now, boy! Git 'er ass!

He's gotta be clear of the woods, too, 'cause I can hear the dog's handler clear as day. I'm halfway to the sea now, and the air is ripping through my chest and it hurts,
but
I can smell the salt! I gotta get there! I'll jump in and swim! I don't care if I drown, but I just gotta get there.
Then I do somethin' I ain't ever done before. I drop my seabag and run.
Just run, run for the shore! If I get there, I'll just swim out. I don't care anymore. I'll just swim out till I sink. I don't care! I'll take the swallow of salt 'cause I really don't care. Just leave me alone! Please leave me alone. Let me die if I have to, but, please, just leave me alone! Leave . . .

Now I can hear hoofbeats behind me, and the sound of dog paws hitting the dirt. Then there is the panting of his breath, and he ain't howling no more 'cause he's got me in sight. Closer and closer, and now my ankle twists and I am down. I'm on hands and knees in the dirt, crawling for the shore. The dirt changes to sand 'neath my hands but the hot breath of the dog is upon me and I am down, down in the sand, not thirty yards from the water.

A heavy foot is clamped on my neck.

“Yew think that fake trail could fool ol' Jimbo, here? Shee-it! He's chased down a whole passel of badasses a lot more cunnin' than you. Should've dipped down in that crick, girl, scrubbed the sweat offa yew, when yew had the chance. That's what ol' Jim Bob picked up on. He could smell your sweat and your fear. He caught it on the wind, not on the ground. Didn't know old Jim Bob could do that, did you, girlie? But you did it, didn't you, boy? Tha's right, you a good boy, Jimmy. You're the best, fer sure. Hee, hee . . . You 'member that next time, girl . . . 'Cept, from what I heard, there ain't gonna be no next time fer yew. Too bad 'cause yew run us a good'un, yew did.”

Old Jimbo doesn't bite me. No, he licks the tears from my face and smiles his bloodhound smile, the game being over for him. But he has killed me all the same, sure as if I were a fox, a raccoon, or a possum up a tree.

There is a rattle of hoofbeats and rough hands are once again put upon me and I am pulled to my feet to be taken away.

And I know, with a cold, dread certainty deep in my soul, that this will be the last time I will ever be thus taken.

 

 

 

 

Journal of Amy Trevelyne

Plymouth, Massachusetts

 

They brought up my friend Jacky Faber from New Bedford, where she had been captured, to put her in jail next to the courthouse. It's in the town of Plymouth, which also functions as the seat of Plymouth County. This location had been decided by the state and federal authorities, who, Ezra Pickering believes, wanted to avoid riots in Boston instigated by firebrands in that city who take to the streets over any sensational trial—especially this one, for the news­papers have whipped the populace into a fine froth. The war fever runs high, and it is a frightening thing to witness—English and American blood will be spilled, to slake the thirst of the warmongers, and it will be spilled soon, I just know it, and I despair.