Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber

by L. A. Meyer

  Well, at least they are being professional, and I trust they will not botch the job. I do not want to suffer. I certainly hope that I will be able to make a good show of it and not shame my friends. But I have never been very brave, not really, and I fear I will quail at the end. I hope I will not . . .

  After I watch a few of those tests, I can’t look anymore, so I turn away to gaze over the harbor and out to the sea. I think of the many things I have seen and done, and the many wonderful people I have met upon my way . . . Then I think on Jemimah Moses. I know she has heard of my troubles and taken them to her great heart, and I also know what she would say . . . “Now, you know, child, that Brother Rabbit never give up, even when he hangin’ over a pot of boilin’ oil; no, he didn’t. So he don’t expect you to give up, neither, girl, not till you’re singin’ in that Heavenly Choir. That rabbit had lots of tricks up his sleeve, he did, but so do you, Sister Girl. Don’t forget that you be the trickiest one of the bunch.”

  I shake my head and smile ruefully at that. Sister Girl done run out of tricks, Jemimah. No more cheating at cards, no more purple potions, no more Jacky’s Little Helper, no more deceptions. No more anything, ’cept that gallows looming above. That’s gonna put a stop to all my tricks, for sure.

  As I am looking out to sea, there is a sudden commotion behind me! I turn and look. Someone has breached the rope! Is it Ganju Thapa and his Gurkhas? Is it Randall Trevelyne and the U.S. Marines? Is it Cavalry Captain Lord RichardAllen and his lads?

  No, it is not. It is merely one very small boy, standing there before me.

  “Edgar! You are not allowed, you—”

  “I hate what is going to happen to you. It is not right.” His big dark eyes smolder as he looks up at the gallows.

  “Hey, Captain Polk, how else is a pirate supposed to end up?” I ask, trying to keep things light.

  “I want you to know that I did not tell on you.”

  “You don’t have to say that, Edgar. We both know that pirates don’t peach on each other.” I spy a frantic Mrs. Polk ducking under the rope and heading our way.

  “I have a knife up my sleeve. I will pass it—”

  I force a laugh at that. “Spoken like a comrade in arms, Captain Blood!” I say. “But you see my hands are bound, so I couldn’t grab it. The two of us would get caught, and then we’d be in deep trouble.”

  Mrs. Polk is almost upon us.

  “Nay, Edgar Allen Polk, the best thing you can do for me is to go on and live your life. Be the best you can be. I was so proud to see you in your school’s football team uniform, I—”

  Mrs. Polk takes her son by the shoulders and turns him away.

  “I—I’m . . . sorry, Miss,” she whispers.

  “Don’t be, Madam. You have a fine young son there,” I say, then I bid farewell to the lad. “Goodbye, Captain Blood.”

  He turns for a last look. “Goodbye, Annabelle Leigh.”

  A tear comes to my eye as they walk off . . . And please, Missus, don’t let him watch . . .

  Matron takes me back to my cell. This will be my last exercise period, as things need to be put in train.

  All my appeals have been exhausted; all my hope of pardon is gone. Ezra Pickering is back in Boston, trying with all his very considerable abilities for a last-minute stay of execution, but there is little or no hope of that. The war fever between England and the United States has grown so intense that no politician would risk his political life by trying to save a mere girl who was caught with damning evidence of high treason.

  There has been no sign of Jaimy.

  Oh, well . . . I have lived more adventures and seen more things than I could have ever thought possible back when I was Little Mary Faber running the streets of London with Charlie and the gang. All that time at sea when many about me died and I didn’t—“a girl what’s meant for hangin’ ain’t likely to be drowned” . . . or hit by a cannonball or run through with a sword. No, I always sort of knew I would wind up on the end of a rope, ’cause it was what I feared most. And now here it is. Tomorrow morning, I will . . . Enough of that, you. They have given me quill and paper and I shall write my last letter to Jaimy, and thus calm my raging mind.

  Jacky Mary Faber

  Plymouth, Massachusetts

  November 9, 1809

  Dearest Jaimy,

  Tomorrow, as you will find when you reach this place, I will be at my final rest. Please, Beloved, think of me not as the cold clay that will be lying in the ground but as the young girl you knew on the dear old Dolphin. Think of you and me swinging in our hammock, our wonderful secret known only to us two. I have known true bliss in my day, and I assure you, Jaimy, that was one of the best of times for me.

  I set out on a life of adventure and I got it—but this is the other side of that coin. Sometimes you do adventure, and sometimes the adventure does you. So I ain’t complaining about how it all ended.

  It is time for you to be getting on with the rest of your life, and I mean that, Jaimy. I want you to have a fine life out on the ocean, and I want you to join with a good young woman and have a fine family with her. Perhaps, if your wife doesn’t mind too much, you could name one of the kids after me . . . it doesn’t matter, boy or girl, as “Jacky” works both ways. Ha, ha. It gives me comfort to think there might yet be a Jacky Fletcher abroad in the land, even though it didn’t turn out to be me.

  Please excuse the shaky handwriting and the tears that have fallen on the page. Know, Jaimy, that my last thoughts were of you.

  Yours through eternity,

  Jacky

  Chapter 41

  It is the night before . . .

  I sit on my bed and await Amy’s arrival. It is six o’clock in the evening, and she will be my last visitor. I shall give the letter to her, and she will see that Jaimy gets it.

  Earlier in the day, I had received another visit from Reverend Milton, he who will be carrying out his clerical duties tomorrow on the scaffold. He is a kind man and we have spent many hours in the past two days readingScripture and discussing theology. We prayed for a while, and then he patted my hand and left.

  Next, in trooped the members of the local Ladies Aid Society. They, too, have been kind, reading me passages of the gospel and rendering what solace they can.

  Presently, they leave, and Amy is let in. The door is left open behind her, but little good that will do me, shackled as I am.

  “Hullo, Sister, it is good to see you,” I greet her as she enters and sits down upon the visitors’ bench. “You’ve met the ladies of the Aid Society?” I ask, trying desperately for a note of cheer to what is sure to be our final visit.

  “Yes,” she says. “I hope they have been a comfort to you.”

  “Oh, yes, they have,” I answer as brightly as I can. “They have sat with me for great amounts of time, brought me good things to eat, have read me even more Scripture, and prayed with me for hours on end—or so it seems. And they have sewn for me a dress to wear on . . . well, you know when . . . It’s all prim and proper—black, of course—and covers me all the way to my . . . neck. But, ahem! Can you believe that two of the younger women are both Lawson Peabody girls? Yes, it’s true, and we have shared humorous stories of the dear old school and Mistress Pimm. But the lady who brings me the most cheer is old Missus Milford, who is convinced, in her dotage, that I am to be married tomorrow and not . . . the other. She gaily prattles on, oblivious to the others’ protestations, giving me the most outrageous advice on how to conduct myself on the wedding bed! You would . . .”

  But Amy will not be cheered. I want to say something like, “Don’t worry, Sister, the reprieve will come through, and soon we’ll be back in your room at dear old Dovecote,” or something like that, but I can’t, for we both know it would be a lie.

  Instead I say, “Will you take my nightdress out of my seabag, Amy? I will dress for bed.”

  She nods and goes to my bag to pull out the nightdress, which I knew to be right on top. She hands it to me, and I pull off
the Lawson Peabody dress I had been wearing and give it to her. Deputy Cole has the good grace to look away. She folds it and places it in the bag.

  “Deputy Cole, will you see that my seabag goes with Miss Trevelyne when she leaves, as I want her to have it? Thanks so much.”

  It is warm, so I don’t get into the nightdress right away, but instead sit back down on the edge of the cot in my underclothes.

  Another sad silence falls upon us, but finally I suck in a breath and say, “Have you got a place to put me?”

  “Yes,” she says quietly. “Up on Daisy Hill.”

  “Has it been dug?”

  “Yes.”

  There is silence for a while. Then . . .

  “Will you see me put right? Straighten out my legs and cross my hands upon my breast?” I know my voice is beginning to tremble, but I can’t help it. “I don’t want anyone touching me but you,” I manage to whisper.

  She nods. “I will do that.”

  “Daisy Hill,” I say, collecting myself and taking a deep breath. “That very same hill where we first rode together at Dovecote, with Millie the dog bounding about . . . chasing butterflies and geese. Yes, that is a fine and wonderful place, with the sea close at hand. Thank you, Sister. I shall rest easy there, and I hope you will bring your children up to visit me some . . . times and tell them about me and how we were friends and maybe tell them I . . . I wasn’t really so bad . . .” I begin to choke on my words.

  “There will be no children. None of mine, anyway,” she says, all calm and collected.

  “What . . . what do you mean by that? That you intend to live single all—”

  “No. I do not mean that at all. I mean that I intend to cross over with you.”

  I shoot to my feet, all thoughts of tomorrow swept from my mind. “You cannot mean that, Sister! It will be a double tragedy! It’s against God’s laws!”

  “I cannot live in such a cruel world,” she says, quietly folding her hands on her lap, “nor worship a god who would allow this to happen . . .”

  “Promise me you will not do that, Sister! Please promise me that!”

  “I hear you, Sister.”

  “That is not an answer! Swear to me that you—”

  There is a sudden commotion near the cell door . . .

  “Sir! You cannot go in there! Stop!” shouts Deputy Cole.

  “Like hell I can’t! Get your hands off me!”

  Wot? Who? Randall?

  “Get him out of here!” roars the Sheriff.

  “He’s Colonel Trevelyne’s son! You get him out!”

  I look to the door of the cell and there stands Randall Trevelyne, coatless, in a shirt that is stained with whiskey and vomit. He is unsteady on his feet and has to lean against the bars of the cell to prevent his falling to the floor.

  Wonderful. The final joke. I pray to God for deliverance and he sends me a drunk.

  “Randall,” I cry out to him. “You must talk to Amy! I’m afraid she is going to—”

  “To hell with . . . hic! Amy, to hell with ever’thin’,” he says, slurring his words. “Here. Put this on.”

  I see that what he holds in his hand is an article of clothing.

  “The Ladies Aid Society sent this. Finished it thish afternoon. Thought you should be . . . hanged . . . in something modest. Ha. You. Modest.” He probably took it from the Ladies Aid Society as they were bringing it to the jail. They must have been quite shocked.

  He flings the dress across the cell and it lands on the floor, out of my reach.

  “Here! Out with you now,” shouts Sheriff Williams. “Let the girl have some peace and dignity in her last hours!” Deputies Cole and Asquith manage to get Randall by the arms and are dragging him out when a sudden hush falls upon the jail.

  A small, stooped man has entered the corridor. He is a hunchback, and he wears a leather hood over his upper face, into which two eyeholes have been cut. The hood comes down to cover his nose, and beneath it there is a bristly brown beard.

  It is the Hangman.

  Randall stops struggling and Amy stands up in horror. My own legs turn to jelly, and I start trembling. Oh, God, help me!

  “Get everybody out,” rasps the Hangman in a whispery voice. “I must take my final measurements.” He sees the dress and bends over to pick it up. He runs the garment through his hands, as if feeling for knives or anything else that might be concealed therein. He has yet to look upon me directly.

  Sheriff Williams takes Amy by the arm and leads her out of the cell, saying, “Come, Miss, it is time to go. Quiet, now.” He nods to the pair of deputies, and they drag Randall down the corridor and Amy follows them out.

  I am left alone in the cell with the Hangman.

  Apparently satisfied that the dress contains no weapons, he turns and hands it to me.

  “Put it on, girl. Cover yourself.”

  It is then that I look through the slits in the mask and into the cold, dead eyes of the man who will take me out in the morning and hang me from the gallows tree . . .

  Chapter 42

  The Journal of Amy Trevelyne, continued . . .

  The day of November 10, 1809

  The day Jacky Faber was hanged

  This will be the last of my chronicles concerning the life and death of my dearest friend, Jacky Faber. There will be no more of her, nor of me, either.

  On the morning of that awful day, I awoke from a fitful slumber, and for a moment, my mind was confused. Where am I? What is happening? Why am I here, wrapped in my cloak, lying on these rough boards?

  But then the awful realization of the horror that was to come this day swept over me. I did not think I would have fallen asleep last night, but I did. I awoke in this wagon with the sun in my eyes, in the shadow of that horrid gallows and next to the coffin that was soon to receive the dead body of Jacky Faber. I sat up, looked about, and realized it was a shout from the huge crowd that had gathered to witness the execution that had awakened me. I looked around me in amazement. People were all about, held back from the foot of the gallows by a rope strung on makeshift poles around it and guarded every few yards by the Sheriff’s men. Aside from them, we in our wagon—our hearse, rather—were the only ones allowed in the enclosure.

  People had come in from far around, families even, on horseback and by buckboard and even some in coaches, vying for the best viewing spots. They spread blankets and set up picnics. Boys and girls frolicked about, playing tag as if this were a country fair and not the horror that it was. Peddlers were selling miniature nooses as souvenirs of the event. I gagged and lurched to the side and threw up what little I had in my stomach.

  How could I have even slept? My only memory of last evening was the drunken Randall forcing me to drink something to calm my hysteria after both of us had been forcefully ejected from the cell in which she was held. I shook the cobwebs from my brain and looked wildly about me. I saw Randall next to me, sitting on the coffin, his head down and his hair hanging in his face. Plainly, he was still filthy drunk, his shirt stained brown with whiskey and vomit. He swayed back and forth, a bottle clutched in his hand. I twisted around and saw George Swindow, our head stable man, sitting up forward on the driver’s seat, the reins of two horses in his hands. Jim Tanner sat beside him, slumped over, his shoulders shaking.

  “We have done all we can, Sister. I had hoped you would have slept through it, but it will all be over soon,” saidRandall softly, his eyes bleary with the drink. “All over.”

  Aghast, I looked up at the gallows, and there stood the masked Hangman, the end of the rope in his hands, the noose dangling over the trap upon which she will soon stand. Sickened again, I realized what was going to be done. They will bring her out, kill her, and then when the Marshall pronounces her dead, George will back the wagon under the gallows, the coffin will be opened, the rope slacked, and her body lowered into it. Then we will go back to Dovecote and bury her and that will be that. Efficient, so damned, damned efficient.

  Then, with another sickeni
ng lurch to both my reeling mind and my belly, I realized what the shout from the crowd that awakened me had meant. They were bringing her out.

  Twisting about again, I looked to the jailhouse door. Coming forward was a party of six: two guards, the Sheriff, the Marshall, the Matron, and in the midst of them, my dearest friend, Jacky, looking pitifully thin and small, dressed in black, with her hair pinned up under a white mobcap. Ah, yes, so as not to interfere with the work of the noose, my oh-so-orderly-and-analytical mind surmised, even at that dreadful moment.

  She walked steadily enough, her head up, yes, steady enough, till she looked up at the gallows, and then a look of complete horror came over her features and she stumbled and had to be supported by the Sheriff.

  “There, now, Miss. Steady on,” I heard the Sheriff say, not unkindly.

  She nodded and composed herself as best she could. I could see that she was weeping but could not lift her hands to wipe the tears from her eyes, for her hands were bound before her and fastened to a rope around her waist. After a moment, she continued on her journey to the gallows.

  The Sheriff allowed her to pause as she came up next to Randall and me, and looking upon each of us, she simply said, “You’ll visit me sometimes up on Daisy Hill, won’t you? I will be there in spirit, if not in life.”

  I was unable to speak and could only look into her eyes one last time. Randall could only nod and hang his head.

  She looked at the coffin, and at a nudge from theMarshall, she turned her gaze away and walked to the gallows stairs, hesitated, took a deep breath, and started to climb. Only Jacky and the Marshall joined the Hangman on the platform, while the rest remained below, with the Preacher at the foot of the stairs, giving her his final blessing.