by L. A. Meyer
I tell Randall of Joannie’s and my common origins and recount the bravery shown by both Joannie and Daniel in various encounters with pirates, nefarious British officers, and large reptiles on the Nancy B. Daniel blushes modestly at the retelling and Joannie takes his hand.
“All very charming, I’m sure,” says Randall. “And so where did you come from, boy? Another of the Holy London Orphans? I hear we are to meet yet another of that benighted crew this evening. Could it be that the Sanctified Kip Under the Blackfriars Bridge might actually have been a fancy finishing school, rather than the foul pit described by some? Hmmm? Maybe someone should design The Old School Tie? I suggest green and black diagonal stripes—green for the moldy garbage in the streets of your youth and black for the mud and stench. You could all get together annually and have festive reunions—picnics on the banks of the Charles, and such.”
You watch it, Randall, you arrogant . . .
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, but no,” says Daniel, to his credit. I reflect that the boy is coming along just fine. “I was a captive of river pirates at Cave-in-Rock when Missy and her crew on the Belle of the Golden West stormed the place, killed the outlaws, set me free, brought me back to health, and gave me a berth. So here I am.”
“Of course, the Goddess of War happens upon the scene, and all is made right,” says Randall, glowering through lowered brows at me.
I look away. “Things happen, Randall.”
“Right. And is that what I think it is?” he asks, his gaze now on my chest.
“If you think it is the Legion of Honor medal, then you are correct.” Figuring it was a good day for grand uniforms, I had decided to counter Randall’s scarlet Marine rig with my own blue naval lieutenant’s jacket, with gold braid entwined. If we had been in the same service, I would outrank him, which fact I will delight in so informing him later. And, yes, I did pin the medal to my own chest. Sin of Pride, I know, but it is such fun to needle him.
“And just where did you steal that?”
I puff up in mock outrage. “Actually, Sir, Napoleon gave it to me.”
“Napoleon, as in Bonaparte?”
“Yes. It was right after I left you there on the plains of Jena. In his carriage. I rode with him for a while. Then he sent me on to Paris with a letter to his empress, Josephine.”
Amy looks over at me, mouth agape in a very unladylike way. I hadn’t yet related that particular story to her. I have been a spy, after all, and certain things have to be kept under wraps, at least for a while.
Smiling slightly, Randall shakes his head and sinks back into his chair, seemingly abashed. “Then I am in rare company, indeed,” he says. “A young woman who sits in the lap of an emperor, and a boy and a girl who stand up to pirates and alligators. How can I possibly measure up?”
“There are some medals on your own chest, Randall,” I say, to soothe his male pride a bit.
He looks down at them. “Well, Murat thought I was valuable to him.”
“You should be proud, then. Marshal Murat is a great general and a fine man.” Both Randall and I had participated in Murat’s now famous cavalry charge against the Prussian ranks at Jena, me most unwillingly.
We hear the distant ringing of a bell, and Blount leaves the room.
“I do believe your somewhat questionable friends have arrived,” says Randall, as I rise to greet the newcomers.
“Randall, you will be civil,” I hiss at him, eyes narrowed. “You, too, Amy. Now get up, both of you.”
The two young aristocrats heave well-bred sighs and get to their feet to greet our dinner companions—my two fellow actors and one fellow orphan.
Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean come into the dining room and there are bows and curtsies and hearty greetings all around—our Puck, our Titania . . . and you, Miss Amy, the very image of noble Portia . . . And is this gentleman not the personification of the fiery Hotspur, Mr. Bean? Oh, yes, he is, Mr. Fennel, if we could only beg him to take a turn upon the boards! The two rogues certainly know how to work a room, that’s for sure; and Randall and Amy, in spite of themselves, are soon smiling and laughing.
Then, another enters the room, having taken some time in having her cloak hung in the anteroom so that she could enter the hall alone. She, too, knows how to make an entrance. And a radiant entrance it is. Smart . . . and, I perceive, a very cunning girl.
“Randall,” I say, taking his hand and leading him to her. “May I present Miss Polly Von, a dear friend of my youth. Polly, Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne.”
Eyes hooded, Polly drops down in a deep, deep—and, I must say, very well executed—curtsy, and when she rises, a stunned Randall Trevelyne drops my hand and reaches out his own for hers . . . and I have a feeling that it will be henceforth reaching for hers, not mine.
As she comes up, she lifts those baby-blue eyes to his and murmurs in her breathy voice, “So pleased, Mr. Trevelyne, so very pleased to meet you.”
It is said that boys fall in love with their eyes, because they can be initially struck to their very core by a girl’s mere physical beauty, while girls tend to fall in love with their ears. The outward handsomeness of the lad notwithstanding, a girl most of all likes to hear the words of love everlasting, of how he will be kind and gentle with her and protect her from harm and want and always hold her in the highest respect and esteem.
Me, I fall in love both ways. While my eyes do like to look upon a handsome, smiling, well-turned-out young man in tight britches, my ears also like the words of everlasting love poured into them, as well. Yes, a soft, kind word whispered in her shell-like ear can cause the sometimes outwardly formidable Lieutenant Jacky Faber to fall, and fall hard.
And I know, looking at those two standing there, their eyes only for each other, that Randall Tristan Trevelyne, Second Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps, has fallen, and fallen hard, on this particular field of battle.
Chapter 5
We have returned to Boston. Joannie has been stuffed back into the Lawson Peabody—“Promise me I’ll go on the next cruise, Jacky!” “Yes, dear, I swear by my tattoo. Now, you be good and study hard”—and Amy Trevelyne spent last night with me in my beautiful cabin onboard the Lorelei Lee. We know I will be gone soon, as all the refitting and preparations for departure are done, and we want to spend my time remaining in port in each other’s company. Plus, she wishes to take more notes on my travels. We have risen, washed and dressed, and eaten breakfast.
As we sit sipping our tea, I look about my new cabin. It is huge compared to my tiny but cozy cabin on my little schooner Nancy B. Alsop. We sit in the warm glow of polished wood as sunlight pours through the semi-circle of windows set into the curve of the stern of the ship. Mementos and trophies from my previous voyages surround us—my Jolly Roger, with its grinning skull and crossed bones, is draped in one corner, and my guitar leans against the opposite bulkhead. The Lady Gay, my very fine fiddle, lies in her case on a shelf made just for her. In a special rack rests my sword and harness—Bardot’s sword, given to me as he lay upon his deathbed following that terrible battle. I’ve had the blade shortened to fit my size and strength, and made some alterations to the grip, as well, and named the sword Esprit. Every time I put it on, or even just glance at it, I think of my bonny light horseman, who in battle was slain, and heave a great sigh for the loss of such a good friend.
We sit at the table that runs fore-and-aft down the middle of the cabin. It is a long table that will seat eight and was designed and built by Ephraim Fyffe, newly married to my dear friend Betsey. Like all my tables, both here and on the Nancy B., there have been depressions routed out to hold my fine Delft china plates and crystal glasses in place in the event of a heavy blow. Down below, the other tables are similarly routed out, to hold securely the more common pewter plates and cups, which I think all using them will appreciate. Tucked under this fine polished table lurks a black-painted nine-pound Long Tom pointed aft and ready in a moment to be run out through its gun port to trouble any pirate or other
brigand who would seek to chase us. A similar gun rests up forward, its muzzle just below the tail of the figurehead. This gun in here has been named (by Davy, of course) Kiss My Royal Ass and the one up forward has the name Stinger painted in red on its butt. I have seen a good bit of the oceangoing life and I believe in being well armed. Out on the deck are six twelve-pound cannons on each side, with cannonballs stacked neatly beside them, and a full powder magazine below. Since I will henceforth be involved in only honest commerce, I shall expect others to be honest as well, by God.
There is a light knock on the door, and Higgins says, “Excuse me, Miss, but Mr. Pickering is here. Are you decent?”
Amy folds her hands and puts them in her lap, hooding her eyes and looking down demurely. I know she will be glad to see the young lawyer, but she will not show it outwardly. If pressed on expressing her feelings for him, she will invariably say, “I am not ready for that sort of thing as yet.”
I look at her and reflect that it may be possible that her reserved way with males might be a better way than my usual manner of working the brutes—which seems to be to hop immediately into the lap of the nearest likely looking gent in a grand uniform or a fine cut of clothes and who looks like he might provide a bit of fun. She certainly has Ezra Pickering well in hand.
“As decent as I ever get, Higgins,” I call. “Send him in.”
The door opens and my very good friend, lawyer, and Clerk of the Faber Shipping Worldwide Corporation enters the cabin, wearing his habitual half smile, which widens upon seeing Miss Amy Trevelyne seated there.
“How good to see you, Ezra,” I say. “Will you take tea with us?”
“Alas, no, Miss Faber,” he says, turning to Amy. “Will you join me for a promenade about the deck, Miss Trevelyne?” he asks, bowing to her and reaching out his hand. “It is a fine day, and I believe Jacky will be wanting some privacy.”
I lift my eyebrows in question as he reaches into his vest and pulls out a letter, which he hands to me.
Reading the address on the envelope, I let out a squeal of delight as I see it is from Jaimy. Amy rises and takes Ezra’s hand, and they both go out, leaving me to tear open the letter and throw myself across my bed.
Lt. James Emerson
Onboard HMS Dolphin
Bournemouth, England
March 17,1807
Miss Jacky Faber
c/o Pickering Law Office
Union Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Dearest Jacky,
I have wonderful news!
It appears that the petition for pardon on all the charges against you is virtually certain of passage. Hoorah! Only a few more signatures and formalities and the deed will be done and you will be free—free to sail back to England and to all of us here who hold you so dear.
I was delighted to hear of your purchase of the brigantine Lorelei Lee—a very colorful name, to be sure, but totally befitting your nature. How you managed to afford such a purchase, I shall not ask. That notwithstanding, I am somewhat comforted in my worry for your safety in crossing, yet again, the broad Atlantic, by the fact that you will be traversing it in a much larger, sturdier craft than the Nancy B. Still, I will continue to worry until such time as I see you again running toward me, arms upraised, illuminating some dismal dock in London with your shining presence.
Ian and Mairead McConnaughey were delighted to receive your last letter and have left for Waterford to recruit the Irish crew you requested and begin booking passengers for your venture in transatlantic passenger service. Things are hard in Ireland right now, and I am sure you will not lack for a full manifest of human cargo.
All is well at your little orphanage and your grandfather looks forward to your return to the ancestral soil.
Captain Hudson, Lieutenant Bennett, and all aboard send their regards and best wishes. Dr. Sebastian is off on a scientific voyage to the Greek Isles and reports that he regrets he will miss both the spirited company and the artistic skills of his lovely fellow naturalist.
Again, I apologize for the brevity of this letter, but, as you well know, I am a perfect scrub with a pen and there is much to do to prepare for your greatly anticipated arrival.
Till we again meet, I am
Yr Most Humble & Obedient Servant
Jaimy
I tuck the letter under my pillow, wipe the tears of joy from my eyes, and go back out on deck.
“Send for the Captain ashore,” I crow. “We leave on the morning tide!”
Chapter 6
Miss J. M. Faber
Faber Shipping Worldwide
15 Battery Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
April 22,1807
Lt. James Emerson Fletcher
Onboard HMS Dolphin
London, England
Dear Jaimy,
Oh, Jaimy, I got your wonderful letter and there is so much exciting news to tell!
You’ll remember, dear one, in my last letter to you, how I managed to buy the beautiful ship Lorelei Lee—yes, Faber Shipping has made some very good investments, plus the rum and molasses runs have been very profitable. And Solomon Freeman’s fishing and clamming operation has been turning a tidy profit as well. He has added two more fishing smacks to our little fleet and crewed them with responsible men—Jemimah Moses’s grandson Caleb, a strapping lad of seventeen and newly bought out of slavery, being one of them.
So now that I have my lovely Lorelei all fitted out, we’re ready to embark on my Irish emigration scheme to ferry men from Ireland to work in Boston on the landfill project. The town has decided to fill in the Millpond and the Back Bay so as to give the town some growing room, and the workers will pay the price of their passage by having it deducted from their wages, gradually, over several months. Yes, it is rather like indentured servitude, but not nearly so harsh. If a man is industrious, sensible, and sober, he should be able to repay Faber Shipping within several months. If not, he will face the wrath of John Thomas and Smasher McGee, our Enforcers, who can be quite persuasive, believe me.
I have written to Ian and Mairead McConnaughey to request that they go find Liam and ask him to put together my Irish crew and begin signing up passengers. We shall sail out of the Emerald’s old home port of Waterford on the southeast coast of Ireland, and make that our European base of operations. As I’ve often said, Faber Shipping WORLDWIDE.
As things have gotten so much more complicated, we have taken offices on Battery Street, at the end of Long Wharf so that we will be close to the commerce of the harbor. Chloe Cantrell runs the office and handles all the paperwork, as dear Ezra Pickering is prospering in his law practice and so cannot be expected to give all his time to my poor enterprise.
Oh, what a thrill it gave me to see the sign, Faber Shipping Worldwide, go up over the entrance, all gold and gilt, outlined in black on a deep red background. I painted it myself, and it gave me great pleasure in doing it. Sin of Pride, I know, but I can’t help it; it looks so grand.
Amy Trevelyne is well. She has just completed an account of my journey down some big rivers in America, which she calls Mississippi Jack, Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and the Lily of the West. A bit wordy in her titles, I feel, but let it go . . . I must say, Jaimy, that you come out well in that one . . . mostly, you dog. I hope you’ll be glad to hear that Clementine Amaryllis Jukes Tanner is with child . . .
I put up my pen for a moment, imagining Jaimy mentally counting back the months upon reading this. Don’t worry, you bad boy, it’s been well more than nine months since you last . . . saw her.
Ahem! Enough said about that. Best keep that book from your mother, though, as she might not be as forgiving as I.
If you hope to see our brothers Davy and Tink upon my arrival, I’m afraid you will be disappointed—as former British sailors, it would be best that they not venture out onto the high seas, where they would be in danger of impressment. Nay, they shall remain
in Boston and crew the Nancy B. Alsop on the Caribbean molasses and granite runs. Plus, Davy and Jim want to stay close to their wives, and Tink wishes to see a certain Concepcion down in Havana. Of all our friends, only Higgins shall accompany me on this voyage, for I have hired a full crew from a disabled merchant ship stranded in Boston. They were desirous of passage back to London and so I got them for a song—and you know how I dearly love a bargain. When we return, I hope that Ian McConnaughey will have assembled that Irish crew in Waterford with as many of my old Emeralds as he can find—and wouldn’t it be prime if he found our old sea-dad Liam Delaney free to be master of the Lorelei?
My, this is turning out to be quite a long letter. My hand is growing quite cramped. But the thought that you will hold this paper in your hand and read it gives me the will to push on.
All here are well and send their love. I’ll tell you more of that later, when I see you in person (oh, blessed day!). We leave right after I post this letter on the Fast Mail Packet.
Yours forever and ever,
Jacky
The lines are off and the Lorelei Lee is free of the land. Oh, Jaimy, I am so very hopeful of happiness!