Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (32 page)

With that, he lifted his sword over Flashby's head. Flashby calmly transferred his tumbler of whiskey from his right hand to his left, and with that same right hand pulled a pistol from out of his jacket, quickly aimed, and shot Gully MacFarland in the middle of his chest.

A small bloom of red blossomed on the front of Gully's shirt, right above his ragged tartan sash. Gully looked down at the wound. He tried to take a breath, but could not. He could only gasp, blood streaming from his torn chest and bubbling out of his open mouth. His arm, which still held the sword aloft, fell to his side and the sword clattered to the ground. And then Gulliver MacFarland, Master Fiddler, fell backward out of the saddle, taking his fiddle with him. The case popped open with the shock of the fall, and the violin inside bounced over to land near Flashby's feet. He looked down at the delicate, reddish brown instrument lying in the dirt, lifted his boot, and crushed the fiddle beneath his heel, its wood splintering, its ruptured strings giving out one last mournful sound. One of Gully's feet was still caught in the stirrup, and the mule, terrified by all the noise and blood, ran off screaming, dragging Gully's lifeless body through the dust and away from the crowd. Incredibly, many people laughed.

“Oh, Gully, no . . . no . . .” I heard Jacky sob from up on high.

“I have over a hundred witnesses to the fact that that was an act of self-defense,” said Flashby, having a sip of his drink and bowing to the crowd. “Do I not?” Many in the crowd shouted their approval. “This day is turning out even better than I expected,” he crowed, exultant, turning his attention once more to the condemned.

“Well, my dear,” said Flashby, sending a puff of smoke up in her direction. “I imagine you have no further hope of rescue now, do you? So we might as well get on with it, hmmm?”

Jacky did not give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead she faced forward again and put on the Look, her eyes fixed on the sky.

The Marshall went to her side and asked, “Are you ready?”

She gave a short nod.

The Marshall, in turn, nodded to the Hangman, who again whipped out the hood and, this time, pulled it over her head. The crowd went silent.

Oh, no, I shall see her face no more. Oh, God, this is all happening too fast, too fast. Stop, please stop, please, God!

The Hangman took some time fastening the drawstring at the bottom of the hood, adjusted the noose again, and then took a thick black belt from a hook on the gallows brace and wrapped it around her at the knees. It is put there to prevent her dress from flying up when she is dropped, for modesty's sake, and to prevent her from kicking too violently in the throes of her suffering.
Oh, the awful banality of death, of evil! Everything is just so precise, just so ritualized, just so awful, and the end of it all is death!

I could see the fabric of the hood draw in toward her face as she breathed, I could see the rise and fall of her chest, and then I saw the Hangman walk away from her and go to a long lever that I knew would spring the trap and send her off.
No! No! Not yet! Stop this thing! Stop!
The Hangman looked to the Marshall, and Randall grabbed my arm.
Sister, do not watch!
But I must, I must . . . and the Marshall nodded and the Hangman pulled the lever and there was a creaking sound and the trap fell out from under her . . .

And she fell. She fell as far as the cruel rope about her neck would let her fall and then . . . 
Twang!
She was jerked to a halt.

I believe I screamed, but I don't know . . . The sound of any scream I might have made would have been drowned out in the roar from the crowd.

The fall was not sufficient to break her neck. No, of course, she must be made to suffer. Her head snapped to the side, but still she twisted and turned, her bound legs kicking and kicking in the air, her hands trying in vain to reach up for the awful choking rope. I watched as the shoe on her right foot fell off, to land in the dust below. On and on it went
and on and on and
kicking and twisting,
kicking and twisting. Oh, please . 
.
 .

“Put her out of her misery, for the love of God!” roared Randall, standing beside me and brandishing a pistol. “She's too light to hang! Put her out of it or I will!”

The Hangman looked down through the open trap at her struggling form, and roared, “Be still, Sir! It will be over in a minute!”

And sure enough, it was. There was one final spasm as her knees drew up, and then suddenly, her legs fell straight and her hands fell to her sides. She hung limp, no longer struggling, her head to the side, with a slight tremor in her unshod right foot the only evidence she had ever been alive. And then even that ceased.

Jacky Faber was dead.

The Journal of Amy Trevelyne, continued . . .

Plymouth, Massachusetts

 

But the grim spectacle at the gallows was not yet over.

I saw the Marshall look at his watch and then walk down the stairs, to stand next to the body. He put his hands behind him, to wait. I knew they would let her hang there for twenty minutes, because that's the way these things are done. To make sure she was dead and all. I looked up on the hill and saw that the black flag had been raised, telling the reporters in their swift cutters that the execution had been carried out and they could hurry off to Boston and report to their newspapers. Several men, trusting horses more than boats, galloped off as soon as they saw the deed done. Either way, the papers were sure to be on the streets before noon.

Very well, that's all done. The time for tears is over. Time to tidy up now. There are things to do.

Dimly, I heard the sound of families being loaded back into buckboards and the wagons going off, silent and subdued now, the ghastly show being over. But not all the people left, oh, no, for there was a rush to the rope barrier, a throng of souvenir sellers and necromancers and would-be witches, shouting out offers. “Sir, ten dollars for the rope!” “To hell with that, I'll give fifteen; no, twenty!” “Two dollars for her shoes. She don't need 'em now. Come on, Sir!” “Fifty cents for a good thick lock of her hair! Come now, Sir . . .”

Randall lurched to the side of the cart and pulled the whip from its holder and began to swing it at the mob that was pressing ever harder at the restraining rope.

“Back, damn you to hell!” he shouted. “Back to the holes from which you crawled!” He cracked the whip and one man shrieked and fell back, his cheek laid open by the tip of the lash. “Miserable swine, get back!” Randall raised the whip again, and the rest of them retreated out of range. All, that is, except for the three Royal Navy officers.

Lieutenant Flashby leaned an arm on a barrier post and affected a posture of pure gloating insolence. I do not believe I have ever hated a human being more than I hated that man at that moment.

“Why, do not despair, my entrepreneurial friends,” said he, gesturing grandly at the hanging body, which a breeze had started swinging ever so slightly. “After they cut that piece of dead meat down, they'll dump it in some ditch and you'll be able to take what you want off of it. Although she was small when she lived, I'm sure there'll be enough of her corpse to go around.” He blew a puff of smoke in Randall's direction.

Randall, his eyes wild, faced Flashby and was about to speak, when Sheriff Williams spoke up in warning, “Be careful, Sir. He is a Trevelyne . . .”

“Trevelynes be damned,” said Flashby, looking into Randall's unfocused eyes and sneering. “I've been to their house and seen what they are. Bunch of filthy rebel pig farmers, is what. Heard they can't tell their daughters or wives from their sows, and make no distinction between them when it's time for bed. Here's what I think of the Trevelynes,” he said, and he spat in the dirt in front of Randall.

“Sir!” protested the Sheriff, but it was too late.

Randall rose in righteous, drunken anger, and though he swayed, his words were firm: “The honor of my family and the honor of the one who hangs there in the gallows have been stained. I demand satisfaction. James Tanner, you will second me.”

“Gladly, Sir,” said Jim, standing up in the wagon. It was the first time he had had to look at the poor, pathetic thing on the gallows swinging slightly in the breeze, and he blanched but managed to stand upright behind Randall. I, for one, could not take my eyes off that tiny white-­stockinged foot. Why that more than anything else right then should strike me to the quick, I did not know . . . but let us be done with all this!

“Please, Lieutenant, the man is obviously drunk,” pleaded the Sheriff. “It will hardly be a contest.”

“Honor must be served. Mine has been impugned by this insolent puppy. We go back a long way, she and I and he and I, and it's time that old scores were settled. The score has been settled with her, and now it's his turn.” Flashby smiled and drew his sword. “Mr. Winfield, you will be my second?”

“Of course, Sir. It will be a pleasure.” The toady smirked behind him, with a slight bow.

“As I must be off to serve his Britannic Majesty, I cannot wait for a dawn meeting. This thing will have to be settled now, and as I have been the one challenged, I have the choice of weapons. Since I have already discharged my weapon into the gut of that meddling fiddler, I choose swords. I see you have one hanging by your side. Agreed?”

Of course not pistols,
said what was left of my mind.
Even a drunk can get off a lucky shot
 . . .

Randall reached down and took another long drink out of the bottle, and then said, “Agreed.”

And with great deliberation, he corked the bottle and tossed it aside. He drew his sword and jumped to the ground, and though he landed on his feet, he lost his balance. Lurching to the side, he fell down in the dust, his sword falling from his hand.

Oh, God, no!
To watch my dearest friend die and now my brother . . . How much horror can I stand today before I go stark raving mad? Randall managed to crawl over to his sword, pick it up, and get back on his feet. He stood there weaving, waiting . . .

“You there,” said Flashby to the Marshall. “Will you act as duel master?”

“I suppose,” said the Marshall, shaking his head as he came down from the gallows. “A sad day, a sad, sad day,” he lamented, going to take his place between Randall and Flashby. “I assume honor will be satisfied at first blood?”

“No, Sir, not at all. This fight will be to the death,” said Flashby, barely able to suppress a grin.

Randall nodded with all the gravity of a drunkard and lifted his sword. “To the . . . 
hic
 . . . death.”

“I cannot persuade you gentlemen otherwise? Surely you can reconcile your differences?” Both of the so-called gentlemen shook their heads. “No?” The Marshall stepped back. “Then, en garde.”

The two sword points crossed and the opponents assumed the stance, Flashby much more steadily than poor doomed Randall. Today I watched my friend die, and now I will see my brother needlessly butchered. But, really, it doesn't matter now . . . nothing matters . . . anymore.

“Engage!” cried the Marshall, and the blades clashed.

Flashby, supremely confident, tried a casual thrust at Randall's chest, but Randall just managed to turn the blade aside and stagger back.

“Running away, are we, boy? You can run and hide, you know. Go ahead, I shan't stop you,” sneered Flashby, advancing, point forward. He tried a feint at Randall's sword arm, and then reversed and slashed at his head. Randall clumsily lifted his blade to ward off the blow, but not quite quick enough. A cut showed on Randall's forehead, and then a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. There was a shout from what was left of the spectators.

“Surely, Sirs, that's enough!” said the Marshall, stepping between the swordsmen.

“No,” said Flashby.

“No,” said Randall, wiping the blood from his eye with the back of his hand.

“Very well,” replied the Marshall, stepping back out of the way. “Such a waste . . . but proceed.”

Flashby, breathing a bit harder now, had obviously planned to end this thing quickly, but that was not to be. He came at Randall hard, charging and slashing with his blade, but somehow Randall was able to parry each thrust and evade, however clumsily, each slash of Flashby's sword.

Now fear was beginning to show in Flashby's eyes. Sweat appeared on his brow. The drunken boy had managed to somehow fend off his attack, and he discovered that his easy opponent now stood much straighter, his eyes focused and unblinking, his blade beginning to get under Flashby's guard, to snick in close to his now heaving chest.

Flashby redoubled his attack, swinging his sword cavalry style, in an arc, at Randall's neck. Randall stepped aside, slipped his sword under Flashby's, and enveloped it, sending it harmlessly off to the side. Then he put the point of his own sword on Flashby's belly, just below his breastbone, and drove it home, all the way to the hilt.

“It seems you will be the one saving that place by the hellfire, Mr. Flashby, and not her,” said Randall, giving the blade a hard, sharp twist.

Flashby looked down, wide-eyed, unable to comprehend either the sight of the sword that had pierced his body or the flow of his life's blood pouring down the blood gutter of Randall's sword. Randall twisted the blade again, then pulled it out. Flashby stood for a moment, staring at his blood puddling on the ground, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell backward into the dirt.

The Marshall knelt down by him and put his ear to Flashby's chest. Then he took up his hand and felt for a pulse. Shaking his head and getting to his feet, he said, “This man is dead. You may take your fellow officer away, gentlemen. You may tell your comrades that honor was, indeed, served.” The two stunned subalterns managed to pick up their suddenly deceased senior officer and drape his body across the saddle of his horse. After tying it down, they rode slowly off and were seen no more.