The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  “And speaking of money, that part should be coming soon.”

  Yep.

  The preacher holds out both of his arms and closes his eyes, seemingly deep in silent prayer. The crowd goes quiet. Then he makes the pitch.

  “My friends, our time here together is drawing to a close. It is my fondest hope that you have been spiritually nourished by this gathering of kindred spirits. As you go forth to continue to live your good, Christian lives, I will ask you to file up the center aisle and testify to your reborn faith. And if you can, offer some token of your favor, your wish that Brother Lempel and myself might continue our ministry. Any amount is welcome, and you will be blessed, oh so blessed for it!”

  I notice now that a waist-high board fence cunningly encircles the main congregation, forcing all to go by the collection plate on their way out, or be seen putting a leg over the fence in order to avoid the tithing. Pretty crafty, I think as I chuckle to myself, but it turns out that there are even craftier things to follow.

  “. . . and to receive your most welcome offerings, I give you . . .”

  At this, the curtains open.

  “. . . the Angel Evangeline, the very embodiment and soul of purity and of grace.”

  The congregation gasps and so do I. A girl, an impossibly beautiful girl, floats forward from between the red curtains. She is dressed in a long flowing white dress and has two gossamer wings attached to her back that flutter in the slight breeze. Her golden tresses pour out from under a golden starry crown to which is attached a halo that rides a few inches above her sainted head.

  “Hey, what’s going on here? That’s from my old act with Reverend Clawson back on the Big River,” I say, cutting my eyes to Amy’s. Amy raises her eyebrows and nods. I had only recently told her of that part of our river journey. “But that ain’t Reverend Clawson up there, and for sure that ain’t me in the angel rig.”

  Stunned, I swing the glass around to look more closely at the two preachers. Ha! Of course, they ain’t preachers at all. At least not the ordained kind. I see with a great deal of glee—Oh, Glory—that beneath some wigs and fake facial hair it is none other than my old associates of the stage, Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean, master thespians, entrepreneurs, scam artists, and impossible ham actors. Upon my return from the Mississippi, I had renewed my acquaintance with the two, performed in several small parts in some of their Boston theatricals, and had related to them my experiences on the river over many tankards of ale at the Pig. ’Tis plain they took my account of our Sacred Hour of Prayer act very much to heart, because here it is again, with them in starring roles, but with one very big difference . . .

  I twist the barrel of the long glass to focus it on the girl’s undeniably beautiful face, beatific and radiant. Long golden curls, huge blue eyes—Oh, my God, it cannot be! I look again . . . But it is . . .

  He is calling the congregation down now.

  “Come down, Christian Soldiers, and testify! You must affirm your faith in the Blood of the Lamb, and renew it every blessed day. Cast out sin, oh my brothers and sisters, come on up. Come up and testify, yes, testify before the Lord God to your rock-solid faith! Come up, come up! Can you shout ‘Hallelujah’?”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Again, Brothers and Sisters! Let the host of heaven hear you!”

  “HALLELUJAH!”

  The very valley rocks with the sound.

  “RIDE ON, KING JESUS!”

  “HALLELUJAH!”

  And come up they do—up the center aisle—testifying, waving their arms, and speaking in tongues. They approach the glowing angelic presence to place their offering into the basket she holds out before them. Fathers lift up small children so that they may drop their pennies into the basket. Mothers, tears streaming down their faces, put in their butter-and-egg money. The Angel Evangeline beams her beatific blessing down upon all. The smaller one of the two preachers concludes the service. The larger one, seemingly too overcome with emotion to continue, sits in a chair to one side of the stage, his face buried in his hands.

  “Let us leave this now holy place with the words of that great old hymn ’Down in the Valley to Pray’ on our lips,” says the smaller of the two preachers, whose voice lacks the power and timbre of the bigger man’s basso profundo, but still rings with religious fervor and conviction. “Go with God, and praise be to His name.”

  As I went down in the valley to pray,

  Studyin about that good old way,

  And who should wear the starry crown,

  Good Lord, show me the way.

  The crowd’s common voice is raised in the song and I join in, too, for I do know who wears that particular starry crown. Plus, I like the tune. And yes I, too, am a sinner.

  Come on sinners and let’s go down,

  Let’s go down, oh, come on down,

  Come on sinners and let’s go down,

  Down in the valley to pray.

  “Can we go now, Sister?”

  “Go, yes, but not back to Dovecote just yet. Follow me, Amy, and you’ll get an interesting surprise. You might even write about it someday.” Wondering, she spurs after me, and I head down toward the stage as the crowd disburses all around us, they all going in the other direction, while I head through the throng, around to the back, where sits the tent, which has, as I suspected, a back flap, now shut.

  I leap off my horse and tie the reins to a wagon wheel.

  “What are we doing?” asks Amy, remaining in her saddle.

  “You’ll see.”

  At that moment, both Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean come around the corner, giving instructions to a stagehand for taking down the stage and breaking down the benches and stowing all in the waiting wagons. Upon seeing us, Mr. Bean says, “I’m sorry, ladies, but the service is over . . .” and then, “Uh, oh,” as he recognizes me.

  “Why, it’s our own dear Puck!” cries Mr. Fennel, full of false bluster. “How good to see you again, Jacky.”

  “Mutual, Reverends,” I say, enjoying their discomfiture. “May I present Miss Amy Trevelyne, owner of this property upon which you have been . . . performing.” I give them a big smile.

  They look at each other, fearing trouble.

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “Do not worry, she will not peach on you, will you, Amy? Good.” Amy slowly shakes her head but gives a profound sniff. Her moral sense is plainly offended by the discovery of this little scam. She, of course, has now recognized the pair, having been with me to watch them on the stage many times. She still has not seen fit to dismount, preferring to look down upon them with some disdain. Amy may be a poet, a freethinker, an Abolitionist, and a republican, but she is still an aristocrat.

  “As a matter of fact, you are invited down to the big house for dinner, libations, and conversation,” I say, overreaching myself, thinking that I’ll apologize to Amy later for this breach of manners. “We must catch up on things, mustn’t we? Oh, yes, and please bring the Archangel Evangeline with you. I will go invite her now.”

  With that, I turn and dive through the tent flap.

  The girl has shed the angel costume and stands there in her simple shift. Even without the stage prop she is an absolute vision of loveliness—golden curls, ample chest, nipped-in waist, and slim but well-turned bottom. Startled, her amazingly blue eyes open wide, and her full, red lips form a perfect little O of surprise.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” I say, extending my hand. “You see, I know you, Polly Von.”

  Chapter 4

  Polly Von had wandered into our kip one day, about eight years ago, thumb firmly stuck in her mouth, and we took her in. Where she came from, we did not know, but she turned out to be a real asset to our gang as she became our very best beggar, looking like the dirty but perfect little angel that she was. I figure now she was actually quite close to me in age, but I had grown up fast in those days—in my mind, at least—while she remained charmingly childlike. She had fashioned a doll from some scraps of rags and would sit cooing to it in the even
ing, when all were back in the kip under Blackfriars Bridge and snugged up in the straw. Right now, she stands before me dressed only in her linen, regarding me with hooded eyes. I hear Amy enter the tent behind me, and Polly’s eyes narrow with even more suspicion.

  “It’s me, Polly. Mary Faber, your old mate from the Rooster Charlie Gang. Do you remember?”

  “Mary? Little Mary?” she asks, incredulous and confused, looking me up and down. I know it will take some time for this to sink in, since when last she saw me, I was barely dressed in a torn shift, and now I stand before her in my fine riding habit, looking every inch the nob.

  The suspicion falls from her face and she laughs, then says, “I kin no believe it!” and she holds out her arms. We embrace and then put each other at arm’s length again to look each other over.

  “Coo. Look at ye now, Mary, a proper toff!”

  “Ow, not s’bad yourself, dearie,” I says, myself slippin’ easy back inta the old way o’ talkin’. “A rum bint, f’sure, and lookin’ t’ be workin’ a jolly scam.”

  “’Ere, sit yerself down and we’ll ’ave a bit o’ a gam. D’ ye ken wot become o’ our other kipmates? I dinna know.”

  “Ahem,” says Amy, from beside me, the Lawson Peabody Look full upon her face. “If you two were to speak English, I might feel more welcome here in your company.”

  Abashed for my rudeness, I say, “I am sorry, Sister. May I now present Miss Polly Von, my very dear mate from my Cheapside days. Polly, Miss Amy Trevelyne. She is our hostess here on her family’s farm.”

  Polly jerks a bit at that information, but guarded nods are exchanged and we sit in the several chairs that are there. Polly places herself at a crude dressing table, which has a mirror mounted on it, and begins wiping the stage makeup from her face.

  “So, Mary, tell me, about . . . them, and how you come to be here,” she says, facing the mirror. I know that this will not be easy for either of us.

  “Well, you know that on the night that Charlie was killed I went to see Toby Oyster and his gang who lived under the grating on West Street and convinced him to join his crew with what was left of ours.”

  She nods.

  “And then . . . then I took off, dressed as a boy, joined the navy, and had a great deal of luck,” I say, feeling the pang of guilt I always feel in recalling that.

  “I remember your leaving,” she says, looking over at me. “You must know that was a hard night for us, Mary . . . to lose the both of you.”

  I look down, unable to hold her gaze. “Right. I know. I am sorry. I have tried to make it up . . . to atone for that. But you . . . you must call me Jacky now, as I am no longer Mary.”

  “All right . . . Jacky. So tell it.”

  She nods gravely when I tell her what had become of Judy Miller and expresses surprise to find that she will be dining with Joannie Nichols this evening. Joannie was part of Toby’s crew and so would have known Polly quite well.

  When I tell of Muck’s demise on the deck of the Wolverine, she smiles, showing rows of perfect, white teeth—serves the bastard right—but when I tell of Hughie’s death upon the Bloodhound, a tear courses down her cheek. I do not know if it is a stage tear or a real one, but it is a tear all the same.

  “Poor Hughie,” she whispers. “He was always a good boy, and he always looked after me.”

  “Yes, he was just the best boy,” I say. “But now tell us about you.”

  She collects her thoughts and begins. I’ve noticed that Polly, as a young woman, has developed a very breathy way of speaking. I suspect that men like to hear her talk.

  “The gang was run in the same way as before, with Toby in charge and Hughie as the muscle. At least it was till a press gang took him. Coo, Mary, you should have seen it. It was a true battle royal it was—Hughie roarin’ and swingin’ his fists, and all of us throwin’ rocks and the press gang goin’ down, one after the other. But a few of the bleedin’ coves finally got up behind him with their clubs and brought him down.”

  She takes a breath, then goes on.

  “After that, we had to be really careful in dealin’ with the other gangs, not having Hughie to back us up, but we got along, and . . . after we grew up a bit . . . Toby and me came . . . together, like. He took me as his miss.” She cuts her eyes to us at this, as if daring us to make comment. When we don’t, she continues.

  “And we were like that till one day we were out in the town, arm in arm, and far, too far, from the kip, and yet another press gang come down upon us and took Toby away, and I ain’t seen him since.” She sighs. “But I was done with that, anyway. On my way back to the kip, I walked by a brothel and stood outside it for a while. From inside there was the sound of laughing and singing and the smell of good food. I stood there a while, considering. Then I went on down the street and I come upon a theater, where Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean was putting on a theatrical, and I went in and asked them for a job and they took me on. They was good to me and didn’t . . . bother me . . . in that way, and here I am.” She stands and bows to an invisible audience. “An actress,” she says with a certain amount of pride.

  I clap my hands and say, “Bravo, Polly, I am so glad!”

  And I am glad, considering how she could have ended up . . .

  “She is indeed very beautiful, Jacky, but she seems to have all the morals of an alley cat.”

  “Meeeoooow, Sister,” I purr back at her, holding up my curled hands as if there were claws at the ends of my fingers. “I am shocked at what you say, Amy. Christian charity and forgiveness and all.”

  “I am not being catty.” She sniffs. “I am merely stating my impressions.”

  We are back in Amy’s room, combing up and dressing for dinner.

  “And what do you imagine would have become of me, my dear Sister who says she loves me no matter what, had I not been very, very lucky? Hand me the powder puff, please. Thank you. Remember, both Polly and I, and Joannie, too, came out of that very same stew, there under Blackfriars Bridge. And believe me, Sister Amy, had it come right down to it, I would not have chosen death over dishonor.”

  “I don’t want to imagine that happening to you, Jacky. I don’t.” She looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap, and is silent for a bit. Finally she says, “Oh, I know so very little of the world, Jacky. You must forgive me.”

  “Aw, g’wan wit’ ye, Amy,” I tease, knowing how irritated she gets when I slip into the Cockney way of talking. But this time it gets a slight smile out of her. “Now ’tis time for us to go down and receive our guests, poltroons and rascals though they may be.

  Around the perimeter of Dovecote’s great banquet hall lie easy chairs and couches covered in soft leather and fine cloth. Between them are delicate end tables, placed there for the holding of teacups and wineglasses. Above all hang large paintings in fancy carved gilt frames, depicting fox hunts and bucolic landscapes and champion horses. On a previous visit to this room, I recognized the Sheik of Araby pictured there, with a tiny jockey in green and white silks on his back, winning the Great Invitational Race at Dovecote Downs, an event famous in legend and song. Ahem . . . Oh, well. Nothing is more fleeting than fame, and I should remember that.

  When Amy and I come in, we find Joannie and Daniel already seated side by side on one of the couches, being, as far as I can see, good and well behaved. I also see that the long dining table has been set for eight, and the great chandelier has been lit.

  Amy and I take chairs near the kids, and the butler, Blount, comes in carrying a tray that bears glasses of sarsaparilla, the root beer made from the sassafras plant that grows abundantly wild around this region, and which I dearly love. He gives each of us a glass, and we murmur our thanks.

  Each of us, ’cept for Amy, says, “Ummmmm” as we taste the brown, gently fizzing brew. Putting down my glass, I look upon the youngsters.

  Joannie, a student at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, my own dear Alma Mater, is decked out in the school’s uniform—black dress, black stockings, and
white shoulder shawl—and looking quite presentable. Hands in lap, ankles crossed. I approve.

  Daniel fidgets a bit, but he is being as good as he can manage. I know he wishes nothing more than to be back on the Nancy B. and up in her rigging, with Joannie by his side, and well I know the feeling. Instead, he is being sent, entirely against his will, to the public grammar school on School Street. He doesn’t want to do it, but if he is to keep up with somebody like Joannie, he’s just got to. “Right, Daniel Prescott,” I had said, sticking my finger in his face. “You stay here as a deck hand while she goes off to that fancy school? All right. Then one fine day, she will go off with her hand on the arm of some nob and where will you be? On your knees, scrubbing some deck and feelin real resentful, is where. Feelin’ real sorry for yourself, is what.” He takes my advice to heart. Since he has been good in school, mostly—keeping up on his assigned studies and only one or two fights in the schoolyard—we have bought him a respectable suit of clothes in which he is a bit uncomfortable, with its high, tight collar and all, but he’ll get used to it. And I think he looks right good in his rig.

  After having given us our glasses of root beer, Blount retreats to stand by the sideboy to wait for his next call to duty . . . which comes very quickly.

  The young master of the house, Randall Trevelyne, looking splendid in his uniform, enters the room and throws himself down in the armchair next to me, then puts his booted feet up on a hassock. He seems to be in a surly mood. Without a word of greeting to any of us, he holds up a cheroot for Blount to light. That accomplished, he accepts a glass of wine from the butler and then deigns to survey the scene.

  “Who are the brats?” he asks, sounding bored and not really very interested in the answer.

  “Good day to you, too, Mr. Trevelyne,” I toss back at him, miffed at his rudeness. I then introduce the young ones. They rise, and Joannie does a very presentable curtsy and Daniel manages an acceptable bow. Randall nods curtly in return but does not get up.