by L. A. Meyer
No, it is not Elspeth herself playing that role. It is well that her parents have moved out of state and taken their beloved daughter with them. When last I spoke with her, she seemed recovered from her ordeal, but we certainly wouldn’t want our reenactment to force her to relive it. It had been a tough time for all, but some suffered their time in that hellhole of a ship more than others.
“She may have forgiven you, Elspeth, but Ah have not!” hisses Clarissa, grabbing the girl by the hair and pulling her head back.
“Please don’t hurt me, please,” whimpers the young actress, shrinking back under the intensity of Clarissa’s gaze. She is very convincing and very much into the role, and I suspect Clarissa’s grip on the girl’s hair is a little tighter than it needs to be so it probably really does hurt.
“You shall wear this mark of shame until the day you die!” snarls Clarissa, straddling the girl and tying the despised rag of blue ribbon around her hair, pulling it cruelly tight. “And Ah hope that day is soon!”
Booooommmmm . . .
All heads jerk up and out of character at the sound.
Booooommmmmm . . .
“What’s that?” asks Clarissa, letting go of the gasping actress’s hair and rising to her feet above her.
Booooommmmm . . .
“Sounds like a Navy ship entering the port and saluting the Governor,” I say, recalling many such salutes in the past.
“Could it be?” asks Polly Von, getting to her feet and looking in the direction of the sound.
“Well, let’s go see, Sister,” I say, and we are up and out the door.
Yes, it is the mighty Chesapeake, all flags flying, guns booming, and looking absolutely glorious!
Polly Von flies down the street, easily outdistancing me, but then I am not the beloved mistress of Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, United States Marine Corps.
As Polly anxiously awaits the warping in of the warship to the south side of Long Wharf, I let my eyes roam about and see that there is yet another vessel entering the port of Boston.
Hmmm . . . It’s a good-sized brig, sitting pretty low in the water, which shows she’s got a full cargo . . . but of what, I wonder. It flies a Portuguese flag at the stern, but from the masthead, a long pennant is whipping around, all gold and green and somewhat familiar.
The ship is heading for a berth very close to the offices of HOC Shipping. It is quickly warped in and tied up, and then I notice the black-clad Hunchback leaning on his staff, lurching toward the lowered gangway. Just then, an errant breeze whips up and straightens out the pennant.
It shows a golden dragon on a field of green, snorting fire. Beneath its belly, in red characters, is Cheng Shih’s calligraphic chop. It is her safe-passage banner, and it suddenly comes to me . . .
H. O. C.?
Of course, you idiot! HOC. How could you be so stupid? It stands for House of Chen!
I stand there and fume. Then I pound over to the ship, newly arrived, I now know, from Rangoon.
Charlie, you double-dealing, slant-eyed, inscrutable Oriental son of a bitch! I’ll get you for this! And you’d better have news of Jaimy!
Chapter 34
J. E. Fletcher
Representative, House of Chen
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Journal Entry, July 27, 1809
It was with great satisfaction that I greeted the arrival of Charlie Chen’s vessel, La Ciudad de Lisbon, with its cargo of rich spices, silks, et cetera, for it meant that I would soon be able to leave this place and all of its sorrow behind me.
As I came aboard to introduce myself to the Captain, I saw J. F. come running down the wharf and up the gangway, her skirts held at half-mast before her. I stepped to the side as the furious Miss J. stormed up to the Captain, demanding that he explain what the hell he was doing here on “her turf,” as she put it, and “furthermore, what news do you have of a certain Mr. James Emerson Fletcher?”
The Captain, whose name turned out to be Boaz, said nothing, but merely bowed and handed her a letter and then had her escorted off, rather forcefully, by a man who appeared to be a Gurkha. She fumed, but she went, clutching the letter.
I then met with Captain Boaz, who also handed me a letter from Charlie Chen and invited me down into his cabin for refreshments so I would be able to read it in comfort.
Over a glass of excellent Portuguese Madeira I opened the letter and read . . .
Charles Chen
House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma
Mr. James Emerson Fletcher
Envoy, House of Chen
State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
June 3, 1809
Dear Cheung Tong,
As you read this, you are undoubtedly seated in the main cabin of my fine ship Ciudad de Lisbon, a well-found craft I picked up last year when it made an ill-considered smuggling run into the waters off Burma. Tsk, tsk, foolish mariners.
I hope you will find the cargo intact. Captain Boaz has a detailed manifest and I expect that a careful inventory will be taken. After that, have the goods taken ashore and sell them for the best price you can get.
Now, to another matter, Long Boy:
Captain Boaz was shipwrecked last year in the Straits of Malacca and he is most desirous of being reunited with his family in Portugal. He requests that he be relieved of his command of the Ciudad de Lisbon and be allowed to go on his way. I have acceded to his request as he has paid off, through good service to me, both his debt and the ransom of his wife and daughters.
I am sure you have noticed Ganju Thapa and six of his fine Gurkhas are aboard. I sent them on this voyage to insure that Captain Boaz did not make off with my ship and its very rich cargo, thinking to hell with his wife and daughters. Both Captain Boaz and Ganju Thapa have been instructed to follow your orders to the letter. I am sure they will do so.
I assume you have by now met with Number Two Daughter, Ju kau-jing yi, and she has calmed down a bit and you both are locked in some sort of amorous embrace—ah the follies of youth. Better to be old, like me.
But whatever the case, I offer you the following: Take over the command of the Ciudad de Lisbon and sail her back to me after she is off-loaded and the business concluded. I am sure you have set up my Boston offices with people competent to run my United States operation. You may bring the Little Round-Eyed Barbarian with you if you wish. It will be a pleasure to see her. After you return to Rangoon, you may go on your merry way, or ways, with my blessing.
And the blessing of my Number One Daughter, Sidrah, as well. She looks forward to your return.
May All the Pertinent Gods Smile Upon You,
C. Chen
Chapter 35
The dinner at the Pig last night was a joyous, riotous affair. How could it not be with the entire cast and crew of In the Belly of the Bloodhound being in attendance: Messrs. Fennell and Bean, booming out poetical verses; our great baritones, Solomon Freeman and Enoch Lightner, the incomparable Shantyman, booming out their songs; and me, adding my noise to the raucous mix with voice, fiddle, and feet. Bottles of claret were cracked, barrels of ale were set on their sides with spigots pounded into their bungholes, and their contents freely passed out to the guests. Great platters of roast beef and potatoes and tureens of thick gravy were served. Several roast geese were presented to great acclaim, and bowls of our trademark Pig’s Peanuts were everywhere, their empty shells crackling under the feet of the revelers. Yes, that set Faber Shipping back more than a few dimes, you may be sure, but we should make up the cost from ticket sales. We are sold out for at least the first three performances.
For whatever else will be said of the Pig and Whistle in the future, it will be well known that we knew how to throw a party.
Randall Trevelyne is seated at the head table with his Polly Von on his right and me on his left. To my left side is John Higgins and beyond him is Ezra Pickering. It saddens me to see that Amy Trevelyne is not by his side . . .
“Miss Amy will atten
d the premiere tomorrow, but she will seek lodging elsewhere,” said Ezra, with some regret in his voice. I know he is truly distressed by this rift between Amy and me. Will you never forgive me, Sister?
Higgins, too, notices my unhappiness at this state of affairs and places a comforting hand on my arm.
“Do not take this too hard, Miss,” he says. “All good friends have quarrels and when the falling out is between such friends as you and Miss Trevelyne, well, the pain is the more intense. Please have patience. I am sure you and she will reconcile.”
I pat his hand and say, “Good Higgins, you always lend me comfort. I hope things work out as you say.”
The Hunchback is also in attendance, keeping to himself in a dark corner. He does not, however, escape the attention of Randall Trevelyne.
“What’s that?” asks Randall of me, hooking his thumb toward the man.
I follow his gaze and say, a bit testily, “Oh. That’s Mr. Tong. He’s a representative of the House of Chen, a trading company owned by my former friend and benefactor Chopstick Charlie of Rangoon.”
Randall nods, but he continues to look upon the Hunchback for a while, his demeanor thoughtful.
Beyond Ezra is Clarissa Worthington Howe, and seated next to her is young Lieutenant Gale, a friend of Randall’s who cannot believe his good luck in being put next to this rare beauty. She is in fine form tonight, spreading her charm all about, but she does not talk to Randall and she spares very few words for her co-star, Polly Von. Clarissa is back in my bed at night now that Joannie’s out of it for now, and I do not mind—neither she nor I like sleeping alone—and we do talk as people will as we drop off to sleep, and I find that she still harbors a resentment of some sort. Against Randall . . .? Against Polly . . .? Against me . . .? I don’t know, but I don’t let it bother me. She will have to sort that out for herself.
I shake those thoughts from my mind and put it back on the festivities. I am called upon for a song and I get up on the table and deliver it with voice, fiddle, and feet. And the gaiety roars on into the night, but eventually we have to call a halt and say goodnight to all, for I want my cast to be fresh for tomorrow’s show . . . reasonably fresh, at least.
“Goodnight, my friends,” I say with outspread arms while still on the table top. “God rest ye merry and we shall have a glorious day tomorrow!”
Goodbyes are said, with final hoots and huzzahs, and all eventually make it back to their beds wherever they be in this town. Molly is off with Arthur McBride, and Polly Von takes Randall Trevelyne’s hand and leads him up to her own room above the Pig. I notice that particular departure does not escape Clarissa Worthington Howe’s narrowed eyes as she and I head off to my room. Come on, Clarissa, let it go! I am thinking, as I give her a poke and a shove in the direction of my bed.
But that was last night and this is now.
I rise in the morning and shove Clarissa out of bed. She is a hard one to awaken come morn, that’s for sure. That’s what comes from wanting to stay up for half the night, and then in the morning she’s a sodden, snoring lump. I get on to the business of the day, and the first order of business is to get down to House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company and beard that Hunchback in his den.
I have the letter from Chopstick Charlie clasped in my hand as I enter. It was short and to the point:
Charles Chen
House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma
June 3, 1809
Miss Jacky Faber
Faber Shipping Worldwide
State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
My dear Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, Greetings,
You were surprised to see my ship coming into your harbor unannounced? I hope you were—it has given Old Chops a great deal of pleasure imagining the look on your face when you saw the Golden Dragon pennant flying over my ship. I only wish I could have been there.
Surely, Ju kau-jing yi, you could not really expect that I should hand my entire East–West operation over to you, beloved as you are. No, there is too much money and future trade involved for that. I have had inquiries made into the nature of Faber Shipping Worldwide (and I do have to chuckle at the word “Worldwide” . . . oh, you are such a proud little thing!). But do not worry, Number Two Daughter, I shall make sure that you will have a few crumbs thrown your way such that your little company might survive.
I have not yet been informed that you have made contact with your Mr. James Fletcher. A pity, that . . . He did leave here quite some time ago. However, as my envoy, he did have some business to conduct on my behalf in New York. Perhaps he was held up there. For your sake, I hope not. But also remember, dear one, “There are many fish in the sea,” and some of those fishes are handsome young men.
Sidrah sends her love, as do I.
Cheers,
Chops,
“I demand to see Mr. Tong!” I say, well steamed as I storm through the front door of what I now know to be the House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company.
There are boxes and boxes of goods being offloaded from the ship and opened, their contents placed on shelves for sale to the public, and that public is streaming in. The word has certainly gotten around and, yes, I, too, have seen the circulars posted on walls and poles, advertising the exotic goods. Damn! That commerce should have been mine!
A young man nods and goes through a door, and presently the Hunchback shuffles out, his head down, hair hanging in face, the eye with the black patch over it pointed in my direction. He stands behind a table laden with goods.
“Yes?” he rasps.
“Look, I know now you come from Chopstick Charlie out of Rangoon. He and I know each other. He sent you here to compete with me. That is his idea of a joke. That is fine. All’s fair in love and war and business, and all that, but—good God, Ganju Thapa!”
I am startled, to say the least, when the massive Gurkha steps into the room, turban on head, inward-curved sword at his wide leather belt, big blooming white linen pants below. I gulp in fear, for I have caused, in the past, several lumps to be put on his head. He, however, does not seem to hold any grudges, and merely bows his head to me and grunts. I put the palms of my hands together and bow and then continue to speak to the Hunchback . . .
“But what I really want to know is if you have any word whatsoever as to what has become of one James Emerson Fletcher, who was sent by me to Rangoon to be cured of madness and of whom I have not seen nor heard from since. What do you know? Speak up, man!”
“I am sorry, Miss,” croaks the Hunchback, “but I was taken into Mr. Chen’s employ only recently. I had heard of a Mr. Fletcher, who was dispatched to New York on Mr. Chen’s business. More than that I do not know. If it was this Mr. Fletcher’s intent to meet with you, I can only wonder why he has not yet done so.”
I put my hand to my mouth and stifle a sob. “Intent, indeed . . . I have no idea just what Jaimy Fletcher intends.”
“I am sorry, Miss, but I must attend to my duties.”
“Of course, Mr. Tong,” I say in parting. “Thank you for your time. And if you hear anything of Mr. Fletcher . . .”
“Of course, Miss. Good day to you.”
Well, that did nothing for my spirits, weighed down as they were with thoughts of Ravi and Joannie languishing in durance vile, I can tell you, but when I got back to the Pig, they were somewhat restored, as I found Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, USMC, ready to take me and Miss Polly Von on a tour of USS Chesapeake, sister ship to the mighty USS Constitution, and very close in design to my beloved HMS Dolphin, so it is sure to cheer me, and it does. Though all the old familiar sights do bring a nostalgic tear to my former ship’s boy eye, it is grand to see all the rigging, running gear, sails, and guns, the brass polished and shining, all the lads dressed in their best. And it did not hurt Randall’s reputation in the least to be seen parading about his ship to the wonder of all, with a laughing dolly-mop on each arm, no it did not.
But, eventually, the tour was over so we descended the gangplank to we
nd our way back to the Pig. We did, after all, have a premiere performance this early evening.
As we stroll along, we are forced to walk by Skivareen’s, and a number of Pigger O’Toole’s minions are slouching outside on benches, taking in the noonday sun. Pigger is in the center of them, with a tankard in his right hand and his left on Glory’s thigh. Pyro Johnny is there, too, sitting crosslegged in the dirt, giggling and frying helpless ants with a magnifying glass.
I intend to pass by and say nothing, but Pigger doesn’t allow it . . .
“Now, look at this, will you,” he says grandly. “Soldier boy here’s got himself not one, but two Cheapside whores. I knows ’em both, Glory, from back in London. Little Mary Faber and, hello, Polly Von! You remember our days back in my kip on Paternoster, don’t you now? Fine times we had, oh, yes we did. Now, that one on the left, that’s Mary Faber—strip ’er down and she was naught but skin and bones, but still a bit of fun in her scrawny way—but that Polly Von without her knickers . . . yes, yes . . . how that little girl could dance . . . It was a sight to see. Knew both of ’em before, during, and after they went into the Miss Bessie’s whorehouse, I sure did.”
I leap on Randall, pinning his arms to his side, trying to prevent him from pulling his sword and running it through Pigger. He’s got it halfway out and his face is a mask of cold fury.
“Don’t do it, Randall!” I shout in his ear. “If you kill him, they’ll have you up on charges! You’ll lose your commission over a fat pig! Polly! Help me hold him!”
She wraps her own arms around him as the swine on the benches roar with laughter. “Randall! Dearest! I have told you all about my life in London and it was the truth! What he is saying is all lies! I swear on my life!”