by L. A. Meyer
“That’s right, Soldier Boy,” says Pigger, rising. “You lay a hand on me and you’ll be here in Boston, awaiting trial, while your fancy ship leaves without you. Come on, Glory, let’s go inside where the company is a damn sight better.”
He turns to spit in the dirt, close by Randall’s boots.
“Enjoy your whore, Soldier Boy. Hope you don’t catch nothin’. Heard she gave a bunch of fellers the clap back in Cheapside, so be careful.”
Pigger’s foul crew files into Skivareen’s, and I notice that a smirking Wiggins has appeared and is the last to enter, no doubt to collect his graft.
I still cling to Randall, who is beside himself with fury.
“Let me go,” he snarls. “I’m going in there.”
“No, you are not. You see that fat bastard that just went in? That is the Law around here, and it would be you going to jail, not Pigger. Please, Randall, give me two days and I will handle this. If I don’t succeed, we’ll both go in there with blades drawn, I swear it! Me and you, comrades-in-arms, on the battlefield of Jena–Auerstadt again! We will get him! I promise!”
His breathing slows down and he is calmer.
“Two days. That’s it,” he vows, and I believe him.
“Good, Randall. Now let’s get back to the Pig. Polly, we’ve got a show to put on.”
When we get back, we go into full production mode, getting the Playhouse, In the Belly of the Bloodhound, and its cast of characters ready to go.
Chapter 36
THE BOSTON PATRIOT
July 29, 1809, City Edition
GOINGS ON ABOUT TOWN
by David Lawrence, Jr.
NEW PLAY OPENS AT EMERALD PLAYHOUSE
In the Belly of the Bloodhound, a play in three acts by Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne, had its premiere performance last night at the Emerald Playhouse on State Street and your humble correspondent was in attendance and I must say I enjoyed myself hugely.
The production was well staged and professionally directed and performed. Very inventive lighting, using the natural light from judiciously draped overhead windows, facilitated the smooth changing of scenes, and ingenious stagecraft gave the impression that one was actually on a ship rolling on the high seas.
Without giving away too much of the plot, suffice it to say it concerns the actual abduction of some thirty young women from one of our most prestigious local schools by dastardly White Slavers with the intent of selling them to the fleshpots of Arabia, and their heroic efforts to save themselves from that awful fate. There are thrills, narrow escapes, thrilling swordplay, and yes, a good deal of humor and wit. It is further worthy of note that many of the girls who were actually on that fateful voyage play the part of themselves in this production.
I must point out for special mention, the three principal actresses, Miss Polly Von as Dolley, and Misses Jacky Faber and Clarissa Worthington Howe, who played themselves. Also worthy of note is Mr. Solomon Freeman, a Negro, who gave a magnificent performance as the villainous black slaver Sin-Kay.
Equally satisfying were the choral numbers the girls performed as a group. Especially moving was Mozart’s “Sanctus,” sung when the girls’ spirits were at their lowest point. It certainly raised your correspondent’s spirits.
At the conclusion, as bows were taken, the audience rose as one in a standing ovation and demanded, “Author! Author!” and Miss Trevelyne did stand and modestly accept the plaudits.
Performances are daily, except Sunday, at Six O’clock. A full bar is provided at Intermission. Tickets are reasonably priced and available at the box office. The theme of the play is adult in nature, so best leave the children at home. Furthermore, it is rumored that various religious groups plan to picket the theater, due to the content of the play and the somewhat skimpy costumes worn by the young ladies for reasons of verisimilitude and faithfulness to the conditions of the actual voyage, but trouble is not expected.
All in all, a most enjoyable evening. Highly Recommended.
DL
Chapter 37
“Ha!” I exult, passing the paper over to Clarissa. “We are a hit!”
We are at breakfast—a rather late breakfast, considering all the celebrating we did last night after the last curtain fell—and I lean back in satisfaction. If that line about “rather skimpy costumes” doesn’t pack ’em in, then I don’t know the nature of the populace; but I think I do.
She quickly scans the article, then drawls, “I’ll have to get a copy of that off to Daddy, forthwith. Ah hope it will improve his digestion. Ah am sure it will increase his consumption of our local bourbon.”
She lanquidly tosses the newspaper back on the table, drinks down the last of her tea, rises, and leaves me to my thoughts.
How did we handle Clarissa’s final slaver-distracting striptease on the deck of the Bloodhound in the last act, here in still very Puritan Boston? Oh, with very clever lighting and a skin-colored body sheath. I must say that scene went over very well. There was a common sucking-in of male breath heard throughout the theater on that one.
But, oh, how I loved it all, every bit! The songs, the dialogue, the back-and-forth between Clarissa and me, even the whipping scene. But what I especially loved was the end, when I lay face-down upon the set’s balcony, the last scene on the Juno after our rescue, a beam of light upon me, speaking directly to the audience . . .
“I know there will be many accounts of our adventure—tales of fortitude, of suffering, of privation, and of bravery—but I also know that there will be other stories, tales left untold, that will be better left in the dark, dank, and now forever silent belly of the Bloodhound . . .”
The light that was trained on me dimmed to darkness and I jumped up to join the others backstage. The light came up again and illuminated the empty hold of the Bloodhound, the girls’ small white washrags hung from the overhead, gently waving back and forth. Then, with a crash of cymbals, the chorus roars out “The Hallelujah Chorus,” and the girls pour out of the under-stage doors to take their bows, all of them radiant with joy. The audience explodes as the rest of the cast come out: Solomon Freeman and Enoch Lightner and all the rest. Then, at the end, Polly, Clarissa, and I burst out hand in hand, with me in the middle, to curtsy and take our own bows.
Oh, Glory, how I loved it, the applause washing over me in waves, the shouts of “Hurrah! Hurrah!” I wanted the moment to last forever!
As I have a second cup of tea and yet another of Jemimah’s fine cakes, I pore over the glowing review once again. Ah, yes, I do love basking in praise! My only regret is that poor Joannie is still in that awful place and unable to perform her part as her dear friend Rebecca Adams. Oh, well, Joannie, your time will come. The hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow and Attorney Pickering pronounces himself both ready and optimistic. I, too, am ready . . .
Presently a young man enters the room, bearing a box under his arm. I recognize him as one of the apprentices employed at Fyffe’s Furniture and Carpentry down on Milk Street. “Pardon, Miss,” he says, “but this is from Mr. Fyffe with his compliments.”
I had seen Ephraim Fyffe, Master Furniture Maker and Woodworker, at the play last night and asked him to provide me with such a box. “Plain, simple wood, Ephraim, unfinished, about twelve by sixteen, eight inches deep.” He replied that he had just the box in his shop and would send it over first thing in the morning. He was there with his wife, my very good friend and one-time fellow serving girl, Betsey, on his arm. Her sister, Annie, another dear friend and fellow Bloodhound survivor, was a member of the play’s cast, and her husband, my Dolphin brother, Davy Jones, was also present, fair bursting with pride at seeing his beloved Annie bravely portraying her equally brave Bloodhound self on the stage.
“Thank you, lad,” I say. “Put it on the table here and go refresh yourself at the bar. You will find the cakes quite good. Give my thanks to Mr. Fyffe when you get back to the shop.”
The boy goes gratefully to the spread on top of the bar, thankful for an unloo
ked-for treat, while I examine the box.
It is simple, yes. Crude, no. It is made of fine-grained pumpkin pine, dovetailed at each joint, very light for its size but sturdy, and sanded to a light sheen. The top fits snug, but lifts off easily, and the interior is filled with aromatic cedar shavings. I stick my nose in and breathe deeply—Ahhhh, yes . . . Won’t this be a dainty thing to set before a King! Or in this case, a Governor . . . and it will not contain four-and-twenty blackbirds, oh, no . . . It will be just one simple gift . . .
Rising, I call out, “Molly! Be so good as to run down to the Nancy B. and have Jim Tanner hitch up Old Dobbin to our buckboard and bring it up here. Oh, and have it loaded with some shipping crates from our storeroom—it doesn’t matter what, just make sure Faber Shipping is stenciled plain on the outside of them. Thanks!”
As she leaves on her errand, I head upstairs to my rooms. Once there, I take out watercolors and white paper and make a simple label:
To Governor Christopher Gore
State House, Boston, Massachusetts
with compliments from
Faber Shipping Worldwide
State Street, Boston
That accomplished, I take my glue pot and affix the label to the top of the box and begin work on another label. This one, vertical in nature, with a border of grape leaves all around:
Lavender Blue
An Ambrosial Mixture of
Fine Herbs and Liquors
__________________
Bottled on the Estate of
Carnegie Bros. LTD,
Glasgow, Scotland
Exclusive Purveyors to
His Majesty, King George III
I don’t think Georgie would mind awfully much my using his name in this way, having met him once and having found him a most agreeable sort of fellow, in spite of his being King of England, and all.
That done and blotted dry, I cut it out and put glue to the back and slap it on the front of one of my Extra Special bottles. It looks good there, I decide, and then I take a red candle, light it, and drip the wax all about the neck of the bottle till it forms a right colorful and elegant cap. Then I place the bottle into the box, cradled in its nest of fragrant cedar curls.
The top is brought down and tapped into place with the small nails so well provided by Ephraim Fyffe. All is in readiness.
I go back downstairs with box under arm and find that Molly has returned with Jim Tanner, Old Dobbin, and the loaded buckboard.
“Here, Jimmy, tuck this box back there between those two crates. That’s it. Molly, go get a broom.” Mystified, the girl ducks back in the Pig to get one. “All right, now back up on the seat with you both.”
When they are again seated, I place the business end of the broom next to Molly’s hip with the stick placed through the crates such that its end rests against the back of my special box.
“Now, Molly, take the wagon back to the Nancy B., which will cause you to go by Skivareen’s. When you go past their door, push back on the broom, which will cause the box to tumble out. There’s plenty of bumps in the road there, so it won’t look suspicious. Maybe it would be best if you were singing a lusty song to show your attention was elsewhere. Got it? Good. Now go.”
The buckboard, with Faber Shipping Worldwide proudly painted on its side, rattles on off and I go back into the Pig to await their report.
They are back inside a half hour with smiles on their faces.
“It went off without a hitch, Skipper,” says Jim Tanner. “Molly here give it the old heave-ho when we passed the doorway and over it went. There were a few of the scum hangin’ about outside when we went by . . .”
“But there weren’t none standin’ about when we came back after unloadin’ the other crates,” crowed Molly Malone. “And the box was nowhere to be seen. Nay, Jacky, the box is surely inside Skivareen’s.”
I allow myself a deep chuckle of low, evil, and vindictive satisfaction.
Heh, heh, heh . . . Call me a Cheapside whore, will you, Pigger?
Chapter 38
J. E. Fletcher
Representative, House of Chen
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Journal Entry, July 29, 1809
Against all good sense, of which I admit I have very little, I have decided to give her one more chance.
I know I am setting myself up for another fall, but I cannot help it, for I saw the play In the Belly of the Bloodhound last night and it fairly tore my heart out. Oh, yes, the privations suffered by those poor girls were enough to bring a tear to the most hardened eye, but that was not what struck me to the core.
It was the scene in which she was recounting her past adventures on the Wolverine to help her classmates pass the long nighttime hours in that foul hold, and she spoke to the audience, but she seemed to speak directly to me.
“I reached out an arm and pulled him in by his collar and closed the door and threw the latch and we both fell toward the bed, and I said, ‘Fill your eyes with me, Jaimy, and then kiss me. And kiss me hard and long for it may be for the last time!’
“And he does, oh yes, he does.”
That scene elicited many a gasp and sigh from the female members of the audience, but it almost unmanned me. It was then that I resolved to give it one more try. After the performance, I went back to my rooms and penned the following letter:
James Emerson Fletcher
Boston, Massachusetts
Jacky Faber
The Pig and Whistle Inn
Boston, Massachusetts
Dear Miss Faber,
Yes, Jacky, I have been in Boston for quite some time now, incognito as it were, for reasons that will become apparent to you. The following letter, which I penned to you upon my arrival, and which I intended to convey to you upon the day of my departure, will explain all.
Dear Jacky,
This will be the last letter I shall send to you. I shall conduct the business I must accomplish here in Boston, and then I shall be out of your life forever.
The reason for my change of heart will soon become clear to you. It goes like this:
Having taken lodging at the headquarters building of Faber Shipping, I went out into the town to secure a place of business for my patron, and, having found a suitable space on State Street, I put down money, signed the necessary lease papers, and went to the Pig and Whistle for what promised to be an excellent lunch.
Feeling in high spirits on a very fine day, I hobbled back to my lodging, soaking up the old familiar sights and looking out over the harbor in hopes of spying the returning Nancy B., but, alas, that was not to be, and more is the pity—for if I had spotted you down at the docks, all this would not have happened.
As it were, I climbed the stairs to my rooms and was about to enter when I noticed that the door to your studio was ajar, probably left that way by a cleaning woman. Thinking you would not mind, since we soon would be sharing all things in our lives, I went in to look about.
It was a very pleasing, light-filled space, and I can see why you chose it for your workspace. Wandering about, I spied a very nice portrait in progress of a ship’s captain, a large sign laid out proclaiming Wilson Bros. Ships’ Chandlers, and some drawings, which I took to be student work arranged about on wooden easels. Then I spied a leather tube, which looked a lot like a nautical map case.
Thinking that it might be a chart of your recent travels, which I would find most interesting, I took off the cap.
Indeed, I did find the contents most interesting . . .
It was neither a chart nor a map. No, it was nothing more than the end of all my hopes that you and I might share a life together. How much, just how much, Jacky, can one man take, even a man such as I, who in the past has overlooked and forgiven some of your more outrageous transgressions?
I spread the canvas out on the workbench and it lay there, glowing in the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows. Beneath the reclining nude figure of the girl are these words, La Maja Virginal. Con todo mi amor.
Amadeo Romero, 1808.
I do not have much fluency in the Spanish language, but it does not take much to figure out that Con todo mi amor means “With all my love.”
I stood there and steamed in inchoate rage. Yes, I can well imagine what “all my love” meant in this case—all of you, from top to bottom, given up to this damned Amadeo Romero and, yes, to Joseph Jared and Richard Allen and all the rest of your mob of male “friends” whom you have successfully explained away in the past. Oh, yes, you have a glib tongue, Jacky, but I don’t believe it will be able to explain away this one—and no telling where that lying tongue has been.
I slammed my rod down hard on the bench top, the green-eyed Monster of Jealousy in full possession of me. No, Master Kwai Chang, I cannot follow your teachings, I cannot let go of this thing that tears at my mind. I cannot. I am not a worthy student, I know that now. I know that I am merely a beast, driven by my passions, by my rage, and I shall remain forever so. I am sorry, Master, but that is the way of it.
I compliment this Señor Romero on his skill—the resemblance is striking, for it is definitely you lying there, Jacky, mocking me with your smile, no doubt about it. If I had ever once thought that I would rejoice in once again seeing you in your natural state with your Brotherhood tattoo proudly on your hipbone, I was dead wrong.