Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (27 page)

I was not yet in the town of Plymouth, but I heard later that Jacky's captors had paraded her through the intervening towns in an open wagon so that the populace could jeer at her on the way. Cries of “Traitor!” and “Murderer!” and “Hang her!” were heard from the crowds. She was placed on a high seat with her hands bound behind her, and even though the agents who apprehended her were in possession of her seabag, she was not permitted to change into more modest clothing than what she was wearing at the time of her arrest. Thus, she was displayed, bare-shouldered and bare-limbed, in her scanty circus costume. There were reports that objects as well as insults were thrown. Such needless cruelty, I say. I have nothing but the deepest disgust for the majority of my fellow human beings.

It was also reported that she sat with what is described as a look of haughty arrogance upon her face while maintaining a composed silence throughout the disgraceful journey. Her composure was broken but one time, when a rock thrown by a boy caught her on the cheek. Then she did cry out in pain and despair and let her head fall forward for a time before she recovered her composure.

I came down to Plymouth by coach, while an enraged Randall rode on ahead. Since learning of her arrest, he has been sinking deeper into drink, and by the start of her trial had already torn up several local taverns. His engagement to his beloved Polly Von does not seem to have tempered his rage. She has pleaded with him, most eloquently, for calm, but to no avail; he seems a man possessed. I worry for her, as well as for him, and I long for our once calm and ordered world.

Upon arriving in the town, I went immediately to the jail where she was confined and met Mr. Pickering on his way out. He doffed his hat and greeted me most warmly.

“How is she?” I asked.

“She is bearing up quite well, considering, MissTrevelyne, and we are both supremely confident that we will beat this false charge.” Ezra's voice said those words, but his worried eyes told a far different story. He did not wear his usual merry smile.

“We must pray that it will be so, Mr. Pickering,” I said. “I will go to see her now.”

“And I will go to prepare our case. Good day to you, Miss Amy.”

“Thank you, Ezra. Godspeed your efforts. Good day.”

I was led into the prison by a Deputy Cole and introduced to Sheriff O. T. Williams, who then led me through a heavy outer door that he unlocked, then into a narrow corridor that held six cells, three to either side. Jacky Faber was in the second cage to the left. The Sheriff chose yet another key from the ring he wore at his waist and unlocked the door.

She was seated on a bed, her head down, obviously deep in thought. There is a tiny window near the ceiling, letting in just enough light so that she might read the Bible that lies beside her. She was wearing a drab gray prison dress, a smock really, and to see her so reduced and so confined nearly tore out my heart.

Upon looking up and seeing me, she gave out a cry of joy. “Oh, Sister, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, and held out her arms and tried to stand to embrace me. Alas, she was thwarted by her ankle shackle, which was anchored by a heavy chain running to an iron ring set in the stone floor. I made as if to go to her, but was stopped by Sheriff Williams, who told me I must confine myself to the bench on the other side of the cell and not get near the prisoner. The Deputy would keep watch to make sure that all was kept proper.

I went to the bench and sat down, my heart in my throat.

 

Entry dated November 6, 1809—signed by Amy Trevelyne

“So how are you, Amy?” I ask, sitting up and giving her my best open-mouthed foxy smile, which I know she has despaired over so much in the past for its lack of lady­like demureness. I hope it will cheer her now, for I purely hate to see her like this.

“I am f-f-fine, Jacky. I—I—I . . . Oh, this is all just so horrible! I . . .”

She buries her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs.

“Now, now, Sister, I have been in worse scrapes before and gotten out of them. Did Ezra not tell you how sure he was of winning the case?” I say brightly. “And with Jaimy Fletcher on his way over, with the evidence that will prove my innocence, why, there is nothing but good reason for hope. No more tears, now. Good. That's better.” Amy folds her hands in her lap, twisting her fine embroidered handkerchief, I am sure, to shreds.

After a bit, she puts that abused piece of cloth to her eyes, and we fall into a brief silence.

“Does anyone know who betrayed me?” I ask after a bit.

“Ezra believes it was Gulliver MacFarland. He has fallen back into drunkenness again and is seen wandering about the city, with bottle in hand, mumbling constantly about making something or other ‘right.' It is a pitiful sight, I am told.”

“Hmmm . . . Ah, yes, it must have been Gully,” I say, nodding. “One time, down near the Rhode Island border, I spotted him working the crowd outside the circus. I was in disguise 
. . . 
black wig and all—and he did not come into the tent, so I didn't think that he had seen me.” I stop to think on this. “But I guess I was wrong. He must have, indeed, seen his ‘Little Miss Moneymaker' and figured there was a bit more coin to be made from her.”

Ah, yes, poor Gully, the finest of fiddlers but the worst of men, always prey to his worst instincts. But I am truly glad to think that it was not anyone at the Montessori and Mattucci Circus who had peached on me . . . or Edgar . . .

“But wh-why would he betray you? I thought you were friends again?”

I smile, shaking my head, thinking more in pity than in anger of the one who had brought me to this low state. “It is not too hard to figure: the American intelligence agents who were after me knew that Gully and I had been partners and friends at one time, so all they had to do was get him into a tavern, flatter him, appeal to his vanity, then get some drinks down his throat. That's all it would have taken for poor Gulliver MacFarland to tell all he knows—both truth and lies. Poor Gully.”

More silence, then I say, “You know, I actually liked being in that circus. It really suited my nature, and I am sad to have left it.”

Heavy sigh 
. . . That and a lot of other things . . .

“Did you know that Mr. Pickering and I attended the circus that day and watched your performance?” Amy manages to softly ask. “I was amazed and almost fainted when it looked as if you were going to fall. I so wanted to go see you after the show . . .”

“Yes, I saw you. Three rows up on the left side. You made a lovely couple.”

She blushed at that. “No. Here we are talking about me. How are they treating you?”

“Quite well. The Sheriff is a decent man, and theMatron is a good soul. I believe they are quite nervous, the both of them. I don't think they have had to preside over an affair such as this before. The food is excellent, too. I think Mrs. Tibbetts is sending it over from the White Rose.”

Again we fall silent for a few moments, and I know she is going to be asked to leave soon. Her comforting presence will be gone, and I shall be left alone, shackled in this bleak cell. Weakness of spirit overwhelms me and I whisper, “After all those fake falls I took up on the high wire . . . looks like I might die from a fall, after all,” I say, putting my hand to my throat.

“Do not say that, Sister. I cannot bear the thought.”

“I know,” I say, bucking up. “I know. I'm sorry. No, no self-pity here. For am I not a Pimm's girl?” I force a brave smile. “So, how is bold, dashing Randall these days? He is well, I hope, and full of his usual rakehell bravado?”

“No, he's—”

“I'm sorry, Miss Trevelyne,” says Sheriff Williams in a dolorous voice. He had just come back into the corridor. “Visiting time is over. The prisoner is due at court for arraignment and the choosing of the jury. The trial will start tomorrow.”

I rise to my feet and face my dearest friend, extending my shackled arms . . .

I can only move so far and I can only say . . . nothing, nothing at all.

The next morning, at nine o'clock, I am led intoPlymouth County Courtroom by Sheriff Williams, my hands shackled before me. I should be used to shackles, ropes, chains, and other bindings by now, but I find I am not. I look about in the dim light of the interior to find the high-windowed room packed with spectators, many of whom I take to be reporters, for they have pads and pencils well in hand. And why not, for is this not the story of the year, the dread pirate and accused foul traitor, Jacky Faber, at last brought to justice? Should sell lots of papers.
Hope all enjoy.
Yeah, right . . .

All eyes are on me, of course, as I am brought in, and I so wish I could present a better appearance. Alas, I am refused permission to don one of my better dresses and made to wear the gray prison dress, to emphasize my current status as the alleged criminal. My only adornment is a white mobcap I am given to cover my head.

Ezra Pickering is seated at a desk in front of the Judge's high bench, with a pile of documents in front of him. He rises in greeting me, and we both sit down. He is about to say something, but we are interrupted by a man in black, with short white wig, who is sure to be the Clerk of Court. He stands and intones, “This Circuit Court, in the County of Plymouth, State of Massachusetts, United States ofAmerica, is now in session, Judge Hiram Thwackham presiding. All will be upstanding.”

Oh, no!

“Thwackham?” is all I can silently mouth to EzraPickering as I get to my feet and stand, astounded, to watch my old enemy mount the Bench, all clad in black robes, jowls waggling, eyes fixed on me.

“Be seated,” orders the Clerk, and all do, except for the many standing at the back of the room.

“Yes, Jacky, he's back, The Mad Thwacker.” Ezra sighs, sliding into his chair beside me and not at all pleased. “I found out only yesterday he's been assigned to this case. I was hoping for Judge Norquist, a more moderate jurist. Yes, you may read that ‘moderate' to mean neither insane nor bloodthirsty, but there was a last-minute change. Politics, I am sure, and Boston politics to boot. But no matter, truth and justice are on our side.”

Uh-huh . . . right, again, Ezra . . . But this is not a good omen.

The last I saw of Judge Hiram Thwackham, he was being escorted out of the Municipal Court in Boston, mumbling about purple baboons and his preference for wide female bottoms. I had heard he was banished from the Bench and sent to his country home to spend the rest of his days. Apparently, he did not agree to stay there.

“But how . . . ?”

“Well, it seems that the Honorable Judge Thwackham recovered quite quickly after the Infamous Purple Incident, attributing it to a momentary aphasia, and he applied for his old spot on the Bench. However, while he was recovering from this brief lapse in acuity, the learned Judge Lemuel Tragg had moved into his place and was in no mind to give it up. I believe you are acquainted with this Judge Tragg?”

“You know darn well I am, Ezra.” I sniff. “You were there when he ordered the original sentence of twelve lashes to be carried out. And I, for one, will never forget being tied to the stake in the open courtyard, my back bared to the entire populace, and given the twelve. My humiliation was total and complete.”

“Umm. That is true,” agrees Ezra, “but you must realize that it could have been much worse. Anyway, whileThwackham had friends and influence in Boston, Tragg did, too, so he was able to keep his post as Head Magistrate. And since Judge Thwackham exhibited no further signs of dementia, he was appointed to the Circuit Court. While it doesn't improve his disposition in any way, because the assignment requires the old buzzard to travel a bit, it does keep him in the game. Unfortunately . . .” Ezra pauses, and then continues, “although he acts normally, or what might be construed as normal for him, he does exhibit a curious aversion to the color purple and requires that any person wearing that color be removed from his court. Says it hurts his eyes.” Ezra cuts a knowing glance at me.

I look down at my hands. I did have something to do with that . . . and I sure wish I had some of my Purple Passion Potion here right now, and the means to distribute it liberally.
But forget your tricks, girl, since you do not. It's all up to Ezra now.

“Does he remember me?” I ask.

“I am afraid so. In spite of his annoyance at being relegated to the traveling Bench, I believe he rather relishes this particular case.”

Needless to say, this is not a good development . . .

Again the Clerk of Court speaks. “This High Court is convened to sit in judgment of Mary Faber, aka Jacky Mary Faber, on a charge of high treason and various other crimes against the government and the people of the United States of America.”

“Court is now in session,” growls the Judge, bringing down his gavel loudly on his high podium. “Miss Faber. Stand up.”

I do.

“How do you plead to these charges?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Please be seated so we may proceed. United States Attorney Anthony Belcher will lead the prosecution.” Here he gestures to a very severe-looking man in wig and judicial robes standing to the right side of the Bench, next to the witness chair. “The accused will be represented by . . .”

Ezra gets to his feet and says, “Ezra Pickering, Attorney at Law, Your Honor.”

Thwackham looks out over the half spectacles he habitually wears, and mutters, “Oh, yes, you again. Very well, let us get started. If you gentlemen have affidavits, dispositions, and other such papers, bring them up to me now. Clerk, impanel the jury.”

Ezra gathers up his documents and whispers to me as he goes to approach the Bench, “This will take a bit of time, so please try to relax.”