Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  “Oh, believe me, I shall,” I say, reaching over to place a piece of straw between my teeth. “So rehearsals are going well?”

  “Yes, I am most gratified. We have ironed out some of the problems with the script and should be ready to open on time.”

  While that is pleasing to hear, what is most gratifying to me is to see my good friend smile. I know that while she loves seeing her words in print, she also loves hearing them spoken aloud, and her usually reserved countenance fairly glows with satisfaction.

  “And it is oh so good to see many of the girls together again. Lissette, Caroline, Christina, Julie Winslow . . . and Dorothea Baxter, too. Dorothea is happy to be back among her sisters of the Lawson Peabody after being expelled from their midst for the sin of marriage to Mr. Sackett.”

  I laugh. “Well, Mistress Pimm lost both a good student and an excellent teacher with that move. But I assure you, the Sacketts are very happy together.”

  “That is good . . .” says Amy with a smile, brushing my hair back from my forehead. I am putting forth a good crop of new mop with hopes that it be allowed to stay for a while. “A true meeting of the minds.”

  “And a true meeting of the bodies, too, Amy,” I say. “You must remember that is part of it, dear one. A big part.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” she says with a sigh. “We must have babies after all.”

  “Yes, we must,” I say, looking up at her and grinning my open-mouthed wolfish grin. “And while we are on this subject, how are things betwixt you and our dear Mr. Ezra Pickering? Hmmm?”

  She blushes. “Relations between Mr. Pickering and me are most cordial.”

  “So, have you set the date?”

  “Now, you be good,” she says, looking off and not meeting my gaze. “You know I am not yet ready for that sort of thing.”

  “Aw, come on, Amy,” I say, sitting up and doing my best to glower at her. “You’ve got to get on with it. Suppose some other New England blue-nosed Puritan beauty from a good family snaps up our Ezra. Eh? You know that would break your heart, dear Sister, so don’t deny it.”

  “If that happened, I would wish him and his wife all the best,” she says with a sniff.

  “Yeah, right,” I snort, flopping my head back down in her lap, giving up the fight for now. “But at least you’ve got your sort-of-intended in the same city. I’ve got no idea where Jaimy is.”

  When the Nancy B. docked at Codman’s Wharf two days ago, I was saddened to hear that the Lorelei Lee had not yet returned from her last voyage to Ireland, but was crushed to find that Jaimy was nowhere to be seen.

  Where are you, Jaimy? Charlie Chen said you were on your way. You should have been here by now. What happened?

  “Now, now, Sister,” says Amy, patting my shoulder, “you know how wayward the winds are. I am sure he had a slow crossing and will be here shortly. After all, we have not heard of any major maritime disasters lately, now, have we?”

  I place my hand on hers. “Nay, Sister, we have not. Thank you for your comforting words.” I heave a heavy sigh. “So it’s back to Boston for us tomorrow?”

  “Yes, the COWS, our Committee On Women’s Suffrage, will march on Thursday, and I must join them.”

  I sit up aghast. “The COWS? Just who the hell are the COWS?”

  “The COWS is the militant wing of the Boston Army for Women’s Suffrage. The BAWS prefers to work politically, through elections and legislation, while the COWS is more militant, favoring direct confrontation with marches and demonstrations.”

  “The COWS? What genius thought up that name? Your opponents will be all over that! I can hear the mooing now.”

  Amy looks rueful. “Well, I did mention to Mrs. Shinn the possible use by the lower types of that unfortunate acronym, but she did not think it important. I am a very junior member of the Committee and Mother Shinn can be something of an overpowering presence.”

  “Good luck on that, Amy.” I laugh. “You go march for women’s rights and I’ll go see my lawyer and take care of business. Votes for Women and Sisterhood Forever! As for now, when’s dinner?”

  Chapter 21

  “So what is the present financial condition of Faber Shipping, Ezra, now that the last of the Santa Magdalena’s treasure trove has been brought up and delivered to you?” I ask, leaning back in my chair in front of Ezra Pickering’s desk. “I assume you were able to dispose of it in a discreet fashion? I’m sure that the gold was no problem, but were you able to fence the jewels to our benefit?”

  “Yes, Miss, I was . . . though your use of ‘fence’ is not one with which I am familiar. Perhaps it is one of your colorful Cockney terms?”

  “Right you are, Ezra. I heard it from Fagin, himself, back in Cheapside. If you wanted something chancy sold, he was your man.”

  “Ah well, yes, there are several jewel merchants, all of a Hebraic persuasion here in Boston, and they were most avid in examining the collection, a loupe to every eye. I perceived them to be honest brokers, and since their business was global in nature, very few questions were asked.”

  “And that is good, Ezra, as the rather fierce eye of the British Lion seems to be forever trained upon my poor and innocent self.”

  That gets a short bark of a laugh from my dear Mr. Pickering as he leans down to pull open a drawer. He withdraws from it an object wrapped in black velvet cloth. He opens the folds in the cloth and a ring lies gleaming upon the tabletop.

  “Thank you for this gift from the Santa Magdalena,” he says.

  “You are welcome, Ezra. I like to reward my friends when Fortune comes my way.”

  “My diamond merchant associates assure me that the stone is very valuable—‘at least three carats and cut in an exquisite Florentine fashion and mounted in a band of pure gold. Most fine, Sir, may I offer’—but I fear this will fit none of my fingers,” he says, holding up the ring that encircles only the first digit of his pinky.

  “It is not for you that I intended that ring, Ezra, as you well know,” I reply. “It is to be hoped that someday soon you shall place that ring on the dainty finger of Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne.”

  “Ah, yes,” says Mr. Pickering, smiling his secret little smile, “but Miss Amy has exhibited some very modest maidenly concerns in that regard. Commendable concerns, I must say, but certainly not encouraging to me.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, with an exasperated sigh. “In regard to that, I recited a few verses to her of a well-known poem by Mr. Herrick when we were last in the hayloft at Dovecote. Would you like to hear them? They are not long.”

  “Of course, Jacky,” says Ezra, folding his hands over his belly. “Any news of Miss Amy is always welcome to my heart.”

  I stand, clear my throat, and recite:

  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

  Old Time is still a-flying.

  And this same flower that smiles to-day

  To-morrow will be dying.

  Then be not coy, but use your time,

  And while ye may, go marry,

  For having lost but once your prime

  You may forever tarry.

  Ezra lightly brings his palms together in mild applause. “Excellent rendition, Jacky, I must say. And how did our Miss Amy react?”

  “Well, at the time, I was resting my head in her lap, and had a sprig of hayseed between my teeth, which I removed to tap upon her nose at the words marry, and tarry.”

  “And her reply?”

  “She said, waving away the tickling twig, ‘I of course take your meaning on marry, Jacky, but on tarry you must mean spinsterhood?’

  “‘I do, indeed, Sister,’ I replied.

  “‘Well, then,’ she said, all modest, ‘if that comes to pass, then I shall have my poetry, my various other writings, and my virtue.’

  “‘That’s just great, Amy,’ I said, bouncing up and placing a finger on that particular Trevelyne nose. ‘And I hope all that will keep you warm on a cold winter’s night, Miss! And here’s another verse from another poet, one not qu
ite so cuddly and kind . . .’”

  The Grave is a Fine and Private Place,

  But None Therein I think Embrace.

  “Very strong stuff, Miss,” says Ezra with a quiet chuckle. “And a touch macabre. What did she say?”

  “She said nothing on that,” I reply. “She merely sniffed and looked away. However, we shall together, you and I, continue the Assault on Fortress Trevelyne, and we will eventually bring her down, and now . . .”

  “And now,” says Ezra, picking up yet another sheet of paper, “we must speak of other things. There has arrived in the city a mysterious gentleman, a hunchback, who has— Oh, look! There he is now.”

  Ezra rises and goes to his front window and I follow him to look out. I see a man bent over, bearing a staff and walking with a limp. He has a red beard, long lank hair, and wears a slouch hat and a black cloak. He is, indeed, a hunchback afflicted with a crooked spine.

  “Oh, the poor man, to have to bear such a burden!” I say. “Shall we give him alms?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Jacky,” replies Ezra dryly. “He seems well fixed. As a matter of fact, he has taken rooms at Faber Shipping and has engaged the services of Attorney Malcolm Mudgeon. Furthermore, he has rented a storefront there across State Street, very close to our own premises. You’ll see that a brass plaque has been affixed above the entrance, to wit: HOC Shipping, Purveyors of Fine Spices and Other Rare Goods from the Orient. Handbills have been passed out proclaiming that a ship is due in shortly, laden with a rich cargo from the East. Other than that I do not know much because he is very secretive.”

  “Damn. Competition. Just what I need,” I say, seething. “Using my connections to Charlie Chen, I had hoped to sew up the Oriental trade. I guess I was too slow.”

  “Well, we shall see, Jacky,” says Ezra, turning at a knock on his office door. “Ah, here is Mr. McBride, to report, I am sure, on our fire insurance branch.”

  Indeed, it is he, I realize with delight.

  “Jacky, my love!” says the rogue upon seeing me. “Welcome back!”

  I give him my hand and present my cheek for his kiss.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” I say. “But I thought Molly Malone was your love. Hmmm?”

  “She is, m’dear, but you were my first love and there will always be a place in the McBride heart for your own fine self.”

  “Enough of your lying tongue, you rascal,” I say with an affectionate laugh. “What have you to report, Fire Captain McBride?”

  He places some papers in front of Ezra and says, “Five fine new green shamrocks now adorn the sides of select houses. The Shamrock Hose, Ladder, and Pump Company has sold five new insurance policies this week alone, and here is the cash paid for the premiums,” he says, handing the bills to Ezra. “The rash of fires in the town has not hurt business at all.”

  “There have been many fires?” I ask.

  “More than usual, my love. It is summer and the heating fires are cold in the fireplaces, so you’d expect the number of blazes to go down, but it has not. We suspect that Pyro Johnny has been about drumming up business for Pigger O’Toole. Oh, how that brute does shame the name of O’Toole! I am sure there is not a drop of true Irish blood in his filthy veins.”

  “I am sure you are right, Arthur,” I say. “Has there been trouble?”

  “Ah, yes, there have been a few skirmishes between our lads and his scum, but we were able to send ’em packing,” replies Arthur. “And if it comes to a full-scale war, well, we’ve all got our faithful shillelaghs hangin’ by our sides, ready to be put to good use on the heads of O’Toole’s thugs or on the skulls of Warren’s Sons of Boston bunch o’ Nativists, too.”

  I see that Arthur’s well-polished club hangs from a thong on his own belt.

  “I hope it will not come to that. I only seek to do honest business and to do no harm to others,” I say, primly.

  That gets a short bark of a laugh from Arthur. “The word honest in the same sentence with the name Jacky Faber, now? The former privateer, buccaneer, and self-proclaimed Queen of the Ocean Sea? Why, it fair boggles my poor mind . . .”

  “All right,” says Ezra Pickering, peering at one of the papers, “let’s get back to business. Now, what is this extra expenditure, for guard duty, of twenty dollars?”

  “Ah,” says Arthur. “Well, in view of the spate of fires, I thought it best to post a guard at the Pig and Whistle and the Emerald Playhouse during the nighttime hours to prevent our little Pyro Johnny from setting loose his much-loved flames on those two structures. As you know, these places were built before the Great Fire of 1804, after which all buildings in Boston were required to be made of brick, not wood.”

  I know what’s coming, and I wait for it, and sure enough, Ezra delivers . . .

  “The Great Fire that occurred at the end of your first visit to our fair city, Jacky, and—”

  “And that wasn’t all my fault and you know it!” I snarl, a bit steamed. Geez . . . I get blamed for everything. “Now let’s get off this subject. If we are done here, I should like to go back to the Pig. If you would escort me, Arthur? Your arm, please . . .”

  We bid good day to Ezra as he bows us out to the street. “Try to exercise some caution, Miss, as things are getting dangerously hot in this city.”

  “Am I not always the soul of careful consideration in all my words and actions, Ezra? Till later then, cheers.”

  He says nothing, but merely shakes his head and smiles.

  “Is it not a fine day, Arthur?” I exult, putting my head to his shoulder as we cross the street. “Isn’t it just the—wait. Look there!”

  The mysterious Hunchback has re-emerged from the doorway of HOC Shipping. He begins to limp up the street when he spots us. He seems startled and fixes me with his eye. I can see that his other eye is covered with a black patch and he does have a thick red beard. Long lank black hair droops below his slouch hat and hangs before his face. Seeing that he must pass us on his way, he whips his cloak up to cover his lower face.

  “Good day to you, sir,” I say as he hobbles past. Might as well get to know the competition, I always say. “Welcome to—”

  “Good day,” he replies in a low rasp and continues on his way.

  “Well,” says Arthur as we watch the apparition toil on his way down State Street, “certainly an ill-mannered bloke.”

  “The poor man has reason to be bitter. He’s not only a hunchback, a cripple, and half-blind, but also there’s something wrong with his throat.”

  “I’ll wager he won’t answer to the name ‘Lucky.’”

  “Very funny, Arthur, but let us be on our way. We must hurry to the Pig for the COWS are marching today and we must be there to cheer them on!”

  Chapter 22

  James Fletcher

  House of Chen Shipping

  Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  To Ye Gods Who Mock Me,

  I saw her today for the first time since I came to this wretched town. I knew that I would eventually gaze upon her, but I did not realize how much the sight of it would wound me. And, of course, for ye Gods of Discord to place her gaily smiling on the arm of that wretched Arthur McBride, well, that was admittedly a nice touch, I must say. How they must have cackled in glee in viewing their work.

  I was on my way to our office to see Lawyer Mudgeon when I was surprised by the pair, and believe me, I shall not be so startled again. Know, too, when I say it took every ounce of the self-control taught to me by Master Kwai Chang to resist slamming my Bo stick against the side of that grinning Irish bastard’s face.

  I shall continue doing my assigned task, and then as soon as HOC’s first ship arrives here, I shall be gone. I cannot wait.

  But, oh, to see her shining face again . . . shining, yes, I know, but . . .

  You do your job well, ye Gods of Jealousy and Pain . . . I am,

  Your helpless pawn,

  J. Fletcher

  Chapter 23

  “Here they come!” shouts J
oannie, leaning out over the balcony above the Pig’s doorway and looking up the street. And sure enough, there they are, about fifty of them. They’re all in neat ranks and holding up signs and banners proclaiming their cause, with drums booming out and the suffragettes chanting:

  Votes for women, NOW!

  Votes for women, NOW!

  Peace, Justice, Temperance!

  Votes for women, NOW!

  “Come look, Clarissa!” I say, and stand to the rail. “There are some of our classmates! There’s Amy . . . Dorothea . . . and over there’s Caroline . . . and Rose, too! Hooray for all of you! Hooray!” I jump up and down and wave to all of them—I do love a parade.

  Clarissa languidly strolls out onto the porch and surveys the scene. “Boy,” she says to Ravi, who has just returned from a visit to the docks, handing out Pig and Whistle wooden nickels. “Do go down and see about having a tray of refreshments sent up. My throat is rather dry and seeks relief.”

  “Good idea, Ravi,” I say. “Glasses of sherry all around, sweet tea for you and Joannie, and have Molly come up here to join Arthur and bring up a pint of ale for him.”

  The lad scoots out as the parade draws near. I notice that spectators, mostly men, are beginning to line the street . . . and the Hunchback is one of them. Hmmm . . . interesting, that . . .

  Well, never mind him. At the head of the mob is stout Mrs. Shinn herself, head up and resolute, and beside her is . . . oh, my . . . Constance Howell, the Bloodhound’s Chief Scolder of Jacky Faber for Her Wanton Ways.

  “Hello, Connie!” I shout. “March on, Sister! Votes for women, you bet!”