by L. A. Meyer
The third woman down the gangway is me, and I have picked up my own belaying pin and am flailing around in a state of blind rage. Through my anger, I have sense enough to call out to Arthur McBride, “Arthur! Gather the lads! All of them!”
But I needn’t have said that as I see Molly Malone astride the Shamrock Pump clanging the bell for all she is worth—clang, clang, clang, clang! There are sets of four rings, repeated over and over, the signal for the Irish to gather.
And gather they do.
From every millpond, from every gravel pit, from every ropewalk, from every workplace and common yard they come, swarming over Beacon Hill, over the Common, and down to the docks, some still carrying their pickaxes and hammers, some with their shillelaghs. And when they get to the wharf and hear the cries of their women, they wade right into the fight with grim determination.
It is plain that Captain Warren and the Sons of Boston have their own signals, and soon masses of men come from other sections of the city and the battle rages for real. Heads are cracked, blood is spilled, and men lie motionless on the ground.
I pull out my shiv and look about for a target worthy of its steel, as I am beyond all rational thought and only seek to destroy my enemies and grind them beneath my heel. The blood lust is up in me and what I want is blood, and the blood I want is that of Pigger O’Toole, and I want it so bad I can taste it.
Of course, that cowardly bastard is nowhere to be seen, leaving the fight to his minions, and so I go to look for lesser prey. I spy Captain Warren standing on his pump, calling encouragement to his troops through his speaking trumpet, and I crawl up behind him.
“For the purity of our race! For future generations of true Americans!” he is shouting. “For those yet unborn—”
That’s as far as he gets as I leap upon him and place my forefinger in his right nostril and my middle finger in his left nostril, pull back his head, wrap my legs around his middle, put my shiv across his throat and hiss, “Call off your dogs, man, or you’ll be whistling ‘Yankee Doodle’ through the stump of your neck.”
He stiffens, considers his position, then calls out, “That’s enough for now, Sons of Boston. We’ll fight again another day!”
As the battle subsides, I whisper in his ear, “Stay out of my turf, Warren, or you will regret it!”
With that, I draw my shiv across his throat—he gasps—but I do not go deep, merely a thin line of blood is what appears. Then I release him and jump down off the wagon.
I note when I hit the ground that the danger of the day is not yet over. The breeze is still kicking up and embers from the fire are blowing over the Lorelei Lee.
Alarmed I call out, “Liam! Man the pumps. Watch out for fires!”
But I do not have to order that, for it has already been done. Arthur McBride, too, has taken his fire pump to the side of the Lee and is dousing any glowing sparks that might appear.
In spite of Warren’s call for the withdrawal of his forces, fights still rage on the wharf, mainly between the outraged Irish and Pigger’s minions . . . and one minion in particular is still out for mischief . . .
It is Pyro Johnny. Not satisfied with the spectacle of the burning warehouse, he has picked up a torch from the mass of glowing embers that were once a building and is advancing on the Lee, his face glowing with a demonic light and his intention being to throw that burning log into the now slack, and very dry, after sail. If he succeeds, it could get down to the powder magazine. Oh, Lord, no!
But I needn’t have worried. As Pyro Johnny pulls back his arm and prepares to throw the torch, the Hunchback steps out of the shadows and brings his staff across the back of Johnny’s head. The little man pitches to the ground, dropping his clutch of burning sticks. He groans and attempts to get up, but the Hunchback puts his heel on Johnny’s neck and holds him face-down on the ground.
He then reaches over and pulls down Pyro Johnny’s pants and then picks up the torch and shoves it down the back of his pants. Then, very deliberately, he pulls the trousers back up and removes his foot from Johnny’s neck.
Johnny screams and lurches up. He swats at the awful load in his pants and then takes the best way out. He runs to the side of the pier and launches himself over into the cooling waters. I believe I hear a faint hisssssing.
Before he can be thanked for his action, the Hunchback has disappeared.
Seeing a path open to the gangway, I once again climb onto the deck of the Lorelei Lee and who do I see standing there but . . .
Higgins!
I go up and leap upon him, crying, “Oh, Higgins, I have missed you so much! I am in such trouble and everything is going wrong! Joannie and Ravi are in the chokey, and I’ve messed everything up. Amy hates me and I’ve blown all my money and, and . . . Jaimy’s supposed to meet me here, but he hasn’t shown up. No, he hasn’t! And I’ve been called an unfit mother and worse! And, and oh, just hold me, Higgins, and make everything better!”
“There, there, Miss,” he says, patting my shaking shoulders. “We shall see what can be done . . .”
Chapter 32
The day after the big riot, we hold a council of war in the main cabin of the Lorelei Lee. Seven of us are there: Captain Liam Delaney, Mairead and Ian McConnaughey, Arthur McBride, John Higgins, Ezra Pickering, and myself. It being a breakfast meeting, coffee and cakes are served all around.
The passengers, a great many of them women and children, had been debarked after the great battle, and the reunion of families, when finally accomplished, was a joy to witness. McBride’s Irish warriors formed a gauntlet leading off the ship and into the town to protect the girls, women, and boys from any of the mob that might still have some meanness and fight left in them. Eventually, all made it to the lodgings that were waiting for them. Many a poor workman’s lonely bed was made much warmer last night.
“As Clerk and Chief Counsel of Faber Shipping, I must advise that, for their own safety, we cease the further importation of Irish immigrants,” Mr. Pickering says. “This town is on the verge of major anarchy, as you plainly saw yesterday.”
I see heads nodding in agreement, John Higgins’s being one of them, but First Mate Ian McConnaughey demurs. “We’ve already signed up another four hundred for the next trip. Most have paid and will be very disappointed, not to say angry, if we do not hold up our end of the bargain.” His wife, Mairead, dear friend to me and daughter to Liam Delaney, nods at that. She is the Matron of Women on the Lorelei and knows well the anguish of wives, sweethearts, and families torn apart by poverty and desperation.
“I’ve got two hundred brave Irish lads, each with his own cudgel,” announces the hotheaded Arthur McBride, arms crossed and looking resolute. “We can protect our own.”
“You can protect them from low-born thugs and scoundrels as you amply demonstrated yesterday,” says Ezra. “But you cannot protect them from the Law, which is currently in the corrupt hands of Constable Wiggins and the unfriendly court of Judge Hiram Thwackham, who is definitely not known to be a lover of the Irish.”
I heave a great sigh and say, “’Tis true. You saw yesterday how that lunatic Pyro Johnny tried to set afire the Lee with over four hundred people aboard, and that pig Wiggins just stood by and let it happen. And is Pyro now in jail, waiting to be hanged? No, he is not.”
“Aye,” says Liam. “I shudder to think what could have happened if a fire had started up on the fo’c’s’le.”
“If I might make a suggestion,” ventures Faber Shipping’s First Vice President John Higgins, my great friend and protector, and all eyes turn to him. “Perhaps the Lorelei Lee could carry the next load of passengers to New York instead of Boston? They might be more welcome there.”
Ezra puts his hand to his chin and considers. “A good thought, John. I have read recently that the city is draining a swamp at a place called Five Points and that workers are needed. Our people might be received more warmly there.”
“But what of the wives and sweethearts who have come over to join their lo
ved ones in Boston?” asks Mairead. “What will happen when those poor souls land all alone in New York?”
I think on this and say, “To those wanting to come on to Boston, we’ll issue them enough money for coach and lodging, the cost of which will be borne by Faber Shipping. Nothing shall be added to the terms of their indenture. That way they will come into Boston gradually and not be noticed.”
Nods all around on that.
“So it’s decided,” I announce. “The Lee will go back to Waterford to pick up the passengers for which she is contracted. She will proceed to New York City, debark them, and then she will set sail for Burma and load a cargo of spices, silks, and whatever else the Orient has to offer. I will give you a letter to the House of Chen and I am sure Chopstick Charlie will provide us with everything we need in the way of commerce.”
And, maybe I will find out just where in hell you are, James Fletcher!
“Then when things have settled down here, we will resume our Ireland-to-Boston express. Is it agreed? Good.” I rise and say, “Liam, please have the ship ready to go as quickly as you can. Pack on stores for the return trip but wait till Friday to leave. Today is Monday and the hearing for my kids is on Thursday, and I wouldn’t mind you hanging around till then. Plus, you must give your crew some liberty, but warn them to be careful, as you know how the situation lies. Have them stick with Arthur McBride, here, as he knows the lay of the land.”
“That’s right, Ian,” says the grinning McBride, throwing his arm about his childhood friend. “Leave that old Mairead here and I’ll show you a right fine time in this town. You haven’t met my sweet Molly Malone yet, now, have you? Ah, you’re in for a rare treat, my boy! Come, lad, let’s go!”
Mairead’s green eyes cast Arthur McBride a look of pure, amused disdain, for she knows Ian will not be out of her sight, at least when that Arthur McBride is around.
All rise with me and Ezra says, “I bid you all good day. I have a full day in court ahead of me today, where I will attempt to keep a number of our stalwarts out of jail . . . or worse. There were some serious injuries yesterday, you may believe that. And as for you, Miss, perhaps it would be best if you were to go out of sight for a few days? You know you were spotted holding a knife to Captain Warren’s throat, don’t you?”
“Be that as it may, Ezra, there’s no place for me to go. Besides, Arthur has a squad of his men about the perimeter of the Pig, so I shall be quite safe.”
“Perhaps a visit to Dovecote might be better, Miss,” suggests Higgins.
“Ah, no,” I say with a rueful glance at Ezra Pickering. “That will not work, as I am no longer welcome at Dovecote.” When Higgins appears surprised, I put my hand on his arm and say, “I shall explain at dinner tonight at the Pig and Whistle, to which you are all invited. But, remember, place a watchful guard all around the ship. Pigger O’Toole and his vile crew are right across the wharf there at Skivareen’s, and Pyro Johnny is still free and lurking on the street. Ezra, I’ll go with you to court to see how Judge Thwackham is running things these days, as I must know for the sake of my kids. Don’t worry, I shall wear my shawl, my dark wig, and my veil. No one shall recognize me. And I will be good.”
I put my hand on Ezra’s arm as we go to the door. “Till later, my very good friends. We’ll see you tonight at the Pig.”
Somewhat later, when we get to court, Ezra places me in a pew in the spectator’s gallery and goes off to perform his duties as an officer of the court and I avidly watch the proceedings.
“All rise! The High Court of the State of Massachusetts is now in session, the Honorable Judge Hiram Thwackham, presiding!”
The old warhorse stumps in, all clad in black robe and white wig. He looks around balefully and then drops his bulk into his chair, high above all the rest of us.
“Very well, Bailiff,” he rumbles, shaking his pendulous jowls about and picking up his gavel. “What nonsense have we before us today?”
A severe-looking gent rises and begins to read from the docket.
“A charge of Aggravated Assault against one Seamus McCoy for the splitting of the head of Amos Whiting, Attorney Pickering for the defense.”
“Well, bring the man up here and let’s have a look at him,” orders the Judge, as the unfortunate Mr. McCoy is hauled up before him. “Good, God! Another Irishman from the bog! Is there no end to them and their savage ways?”
“Forty days on the rock pile, you miserable miscreant!”
Hmmm . . . It appears Ezra was right in his appraisal of Judge Thwackham’s view of the Irish nation. Ezra stands and does what he can.
The trials go on and on and I get to see the gist of things. The Judge does not like the immigrants, whether they be white, black, or anything in between . . .
“Thirty dollars or thirty days, you black heathen! Take him away!”
That poor man, a perfectly reasonable Negro person had what seemed to me to be a legitimate complaint against a white foreman on a construction job, the complaint being that the foreman had beat him and then did not pay him.
Hmmm . . . Things don’t look good for Ravi in this place, I’m thinking. And not for Joannie, neither, as women are given short shrift, too.
“Get that hag out of my court!” “Good God, is this a brothel?” “A madhouse?” “An asylum?”
I cast my gaze about as the cases drone on.
Hmmm . . . There is a clock high up on the wall and I notice it is almost noon. I suspect the Judge never misses his lunch after a fine morning of making people miserable. And sure enough, I am right.
I slip out of the gallery and sneak around the hallway, and there I spy a servant going into a chamber behind the high bench. He bears a tray laden with bread, meat, potatoes, and a steaming pot of tea. He places it on a table and withdraws. Presently I hear, All rise . . . and Judge Thwackham sweeps by and into his chambers for lunch.
Hmmmm . . .
PART IV
Chapter 33
Things have quieted down some. Governor Gore has threatened to call out the Massachusetts Militia if Boston doesn’t behave. “By God, Boston was a thorn in the side of the British, and now it is a thorn in my own side. I will not have it, do you hear?” Of course, I’m thinking that our fair city has always been of a rather rambunctious nature, and may it ever be so.
The fires have abated as well. I figure the reason is that Pyro Johnny is probably still nursing his scorched bum, though we continue to have a guard set around Faber Shipping’s holdings, just in case. Pigger O’Toole is still around but is lying low for the time being, his troops nursing their own wounds gained in the big battle. I did approach the Hunchback in the street, giving him a low curtsy and thanking him for preventing the torching of my ship. But he merely grunted and went on his weary way. Ah, well, I tried.
Joannie and Ravi have been in the slammer for five days now. It tears me apart that I have been unable to get in to see them again, but I did manage to smuggle in some more bribe money to their oppressors, so I hope the kids are getting a little bit better treatment. The case comes up on Thursday, so all should be resolved then, one way or another.
The town being quiet for the time being, we get back to the business of the Pig and the Playhouse . . .
We are in dress rehearsal and are ready to open tomorrow. The sets are made, the costumes sewn, and the whole place is a-twitter with feverish excitement.
The lights go up on Act 3, scene 2. It is the scene where the captive girls are all gathered about me, lying on the balcony shelf of the Bloodhound. I have just been brought down from the deck, bare-backed and sobbing after I had been betrayed by Elspeth Goodwin, tied to the mast, and whipped into semi-consciousness by the vile Captain Blodgett and his cat-o’-nine-tails, and wasn’t that a well-staged scene. My back was bared,well, just down to the middle of it, and then, just as Blodgett swung the cat, the house-lights were killed and all that was heard was the swish of the cat and my anguished screams in the dark. Great theater, that; you can’t say it isn’t
.
It is then we pledge our loyalty to each other.
I lift my head and speak up first.
“I, Jacky Faber, swear on my very life that I will never betray you, my Sisters, and I will bend every fiber of my being to gaining our release from this prison, even if I do not live to see it.”
Vainglorious, I know; yes, and corny, too, but it makes for good theater. I look to Clarissa, who is playing herself . . .
“Ah, Clarissa Worthington Howe, do swear on mah life that Ah will not betray you, mah Sisters, and that Ah will bend every fiber of mah being to gaining owah release from this hellhole, even if Ah do not live to see it.”
Polly Von, playing the role of Dolley Frazier, is the next one up to take the pledge . . .
“I, Dolley Frazier, do so swear on my life that I will never betray you, my Sisters, in any way and will strive with every fiber of my being to gain our freedom from this hell, even if I do not live to see it.” Polly possesses the true gift of the actress to softly voice her lines, yet somehow manage to project her speech to the rear of the building. Some of the girls, those heretofore untrained in the theater, resort to shouting their lines, which doesn’t work, but Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean have managed to coax them along to an acceptable level of competence. That pair may be the worst of ham actors, but they do know their business.
And so on down the line, till all the girls pledge their loyalty unto death to their Sisters in bondage . . . all the girls except for one . . .
Elspeth Goodwin, the girl who had betrayed me in hopes of gaining her own freedom by doing so and had been rewarded with only a dismal piece of blue ribbon for her treachery, kneels next to me, sobbing out her shame and dismay. I put my hand on her head and forgive her.