by L. A. Meyer
“Is that agreeable to you, Sir?”
Randall smiles and bows. “Perfectly agreeable, Your Honor. I believe that justice will be done in this case.”
Great. I get beaten, but that’s fine as long as everyone’s happy, right? Grrrr . . .
“So ruled,” says the Judge, bringing his gavel down on the arm of his chair. “Carry out the punishment. Constable, do your duty.”
It is then that Judge Tragg discovers that his Constable has gone permanently missing.
“Where the hell is he?” he asks of Prosecutor Hamilton. “Let’s get this done.”
I believe he’s on his way to a new career on an oar. I hope he prospers.
“He’s nowhere to be seen, Sir,” says Hamilton, looking about.
“Well, who shall administer the strokes?”
Ezra speaks up. “As a member of the court, I volunteer to do it.”
Captain Warren leaps to his feet and puts his speaking trumpet to his mouth and thunders, “He’s her goddamn lawyer! He won’t hurt the wench! I demand that I be assigned to that task!” There is a roar of approval from the local populace.
“Blow it out your ass, Warren!” shouts Arthur McBride through his own trumpet. “I will do it!”
“You?” sneers Warren. “The girl owns you and your wagon and all you possess. You’re going to whip your boss, mick? I think not! I believe you’ll bend down and kiss her ass, rather than beat it!”
“You’ll eat those words, you blue-nosed yankee bastard!” Arthur is on his feet now. “And you’re gonna eat ’em now!” The Irish roar and raise their clubs and the natives return the challenge by shaking fists and brandishing weapons of their own.
Uh-oh . . . There’s beginning to be serious shoving between the opposing ranks, and I see that gleaming fire axes are hanging along the sides of both pump wagons. This could get bloody.
However, before it does, the voice of reason speaks up.
Ezra Pickering goes to the center of the makeshift court and raises his arms and calls for silence. “You citizens of Boston! Please, listen to me!”
When the crowd noise abates a bit, he goes on.
“There are many here who have a vested interest in this case, far too many for justice to be done! Therefore, I propose that the strokes be carried out by one who does not have such an interest.”
Here, he points dramatically at the Hunchback.
“Mr. Tong! He has a stick and he has shown he knows how to use it! Furthermore, he comes from a part of the world where public canings are not all that uncommon! Let it be him!”
Judge Tragg puts hand to chin and considers, while the crowd mulls it over, as well. Finally, he says, “Do you agree to administer the punishment, Mr. Tong?”
The Hunchback solemnly nods.
Sneaking a peek at him, I’m thinking . . . This could be good for me—he has helped me out on at least two different occasions—he certainly was crucial to the Ravi rescue mission. Hmmm . . . But we shall see . . . That rod of his looks wicked strong and could render a poor girl sore. Strange . . . I notice that in addition to his usual garb, he now wears a black scarf wrapped around his lower face. But let us wait, and we shall see.
“Very well,” intones Judge Tragg. “It is the order of this court that twelve strokes of the rod be struck on the back of the female Jacky Faber for the crime of . . . what? Oh, yes, Lewd and Lascivious Behavior.” He raps his gavel yet again. “Proceed, Mr. Tong. Mr. Pickering, as an officer of the court, you will count off the strokes?”
“I will, Your Honor,” says Ezra, stepping forward. The Hunchback throws his cloak over his shoulder and lifts his stick, taking aim.
Grit your teeth, girl, for here it comes . . .
I hear the rod whistling through the air and stiffen as it lands squarely on my back, and I lurch back as if shocked by the sudden pain.
“One!” says Ezra, and the crowd roars, apparently satisfied.
But, strangely, it did not hurt much at all. It was as if he had swung hard, but pulled back at the last instant.
He winds up again, and again the rod comes against my back without doing much in the way of damage. I lean my head against the pole as if in great pain.
“Two!” announces Ezra.
Again the staff is brought around to land on my shoulders, and this time I cry out in anguish and slump against the post. The mob seems to appreciate the spectacle.
“Three!”
Something is going on here that I can’t quite understand, but I know enough to play along.
“Four!”
“Five!”
“Oh, God, help me!” I cry, straining against my bond, but, again, I am not hurt all that much. Could the man be sparing me agony out of respect for Chopstick Charlie? He certainly doesn’t owe me anything.
It turns out he does . . .
“Six!”
“Seven!”
And on that one I swear I hear the Hunchback say softly to me, “That one was for Robin Raeburne.”
“Eight!”
“. . . and that one was for Lord Richard Allen . . .”
Wot?
“Nine!”
Ouch! That one was a little harder. Just what is going on here? I am not imagining things; I did hear him say that.
“. . . and that was for Flaco Jimenez . . .”
How does he know those names, how . . .? The books? Amy?
“Ten!”
“. . . that for Arthur Goddamned McBride . . .”
I cry out on that one for real! The strokes are getting harder and harder . . . and his voice is no longer raspy . . . It is instead somehow familiar . . .
“Eleven!”
“. . . and one for Amadeo Romero . . .”
The hardest one yet falls on my back. Yeeouch! I’m not faking now, no, I ain’t . . . But what the hell?
Before he strikes the final blow, he brings his face into my view, whips off his hat, tears off the eye patch and scarf, and says . . .
“. . . this last one, Jacky, is for me!”
Wot? Jaimy? Can it be? Oh, Jaimy. I—
That’s as far as I get as he whips his staff back and, with all his might, brings it down on my bottom.
Screeeech!
With that he whips off his cloak and throws it to the ground, taking the Hunchback’s hump with it.
“Goodbye, Jacky,” is all he says as he turns and heads off down the hill toward the harbor.
“Jaimy! Wait! Oh, please wait!” I cry out after him. “I can—”
But I can do nothing but wail as Ezra and Amy rush up to free me from my bonds.
“Oh, Amy! That was Jaimy Fletcher!” I cry, tears streaming from my eyes.
“I know, dear,” she says, throwing a shawl about my shoulders. “Here, you have suffered enough, Sister. Calmness, now.” Ezra fumbles with the bindings on my wrists, but not being a sailor, he is clumsy and slow at it.
“Oh, please hurry, Ezra,” I cry, tears running down my face. “I must catch him! I know he’s going to his ship and I fear he means to leave me!”
It is Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne who steps forward, whips out the dagger from his belt, and quickly cuts the ropes away and lifts me to my feet, saying, “There, Jacky, you’re free. Now go get him, if he’s what you want.”
I run off down the hill crying . . .
Jaimy! Don’t go! Please wait!
I arrive, panting, down at the docks, just in time to see the Ciudad de Lisbon pulling away from the wharf, her sails filling with a following wind.
“Jaimy! Wait!” I shout, but I know he cannot hear me. I can see him, though, standing on the deck, facing away.
Then I see something that strikes me to my very core. A figure comes up next to Jaimy and puts her arm around his waist.
It is Clarissa Worthington Howe and she sees me standing desperate on the dock. She gives me a little finger wave and very clearly mouths, We are even now.
I fall to my knees, unable to cry out anymore . . . or even to cry.
Epilogue
Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe
The House of the Rising Sun
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
Miss Jacky Faber
The Pig and Whistle Inn
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
August 28, 1809
My dearest Jacky,
It is my fondest hope that this letter finds you in the highest of spirits and in the very pink of condition, you sweet little thing, you.
You are surprised at my return address up there above? Well, dear, I felt it was a perfect place for me to go—my daddy will never find me here. Thank you for introducing me to Mademoiselle Claudelle de Bourbon on my previous visit here, for through her I find I have entry to a very sporting class of people. Mam’selle is well and great fun, of course, and sends her love and affection. And do not worry, I shall not again fall into dependence on those substances she is so eager to provide—no, I am older and far wiser now.
Is your Mr. Fletcher here by my side? Oh, you silly thing, don’t you know that was an elaborate little joke? It was just a game. You do realize I had to pay you back for my loss of Randall, don’t you? So now we’re all even—Polly Von can have both Randall and my part in your little play. That was amusing, but time for me to move on.
And the very idea of me, Clarissa Worthington Howe, being married to a very junior British naval officer, oh my dear, it just could not be. Oh, I mean he was most pleasant company on our way down to New York. We did enjoy many fine promenades on the deck as night fell, but I did find him a bit gloomy. I suspect he is still mooning over the loss of his pwetty widdle Jacky Faber. Oh well, he’ll get over that. But Oh! Oh! Oh! If you could have just seen the look on your face when our ship pulled away from the dock and you came running down to find Jaimy looking out to sea and me with my arm around his waist. Joy! I must say my timing was perfect! It was as perfect as that scene you staged back at Dovecote when I pulled up in my coach to find you and Randall rolling around on the grass, Randall above and you below, with your skirts up around your waist. And turnabout is fair play, right, Jacky?
Anyway, dear, thank you for introducing me to New Orleans, as the place suits me. I have taken rooms here at the Rising Sun, as it seems to be the center of all activity in this city, and I have found employment as a singer. I did have to post a bond with Madame Babineau, considering my past behavior here at the Rising Sun, silly stuff that I can scarcely recall. Anyway, I gave her a check in the amount of $500 written on the account of Faber Shipping Worldwide, and she seemed pleased. You have probably noticed that one of your cunning little checkbooks is missing. Is it not the most wondrous thing, Jacky—I write out the amount and sign your name and they give me money? I will try to be careful with it.
Thank you also for teaching me to play upon the guitar. With my good soprano voice and my beauty, of course, I am quite the hit. Could I be becoming you? Heaven forbid . . . but, possibly . . . a well-bred, cultured, and beautiful version of you, maybe. You have shown me the way, Jacky, and I thank you for it . . . and for the loan of your guitar. I’m sure you’ll find another one soon.
As for my beauty, my fame is spreading. I am performing in several theatrical productions and do not lack for money nor notice. As a matter of fact, I am to be escorted to a grand ball tonight by a General Jackson—do you know him? He is friends with the Lafitte brothers, both of whom send their regards in hopes of seeing you again very soon. They were most emphatic on that.
And on the subject of beauty, if I were you, I would not go looking for the painting that Spanish boy did of you, as I have borrowed it, also. It has been beautifully framed and now hangs over the bar at the Rising Sun and is admired by all. The Lafitte Brothers and I, together with Andrew, were just minutes ago standing in front of it, and all toasted you most warmly—the resemblance is simply amazing. I swear Mam’selle kneels in prayer before it every day. I cannot imagine why it upset your Mr. Fletcher so. After all, we have always known of your . . . exhibitionist tendencies.
Mr. Fletcher . . . Oh, yes, you will probably want to know about him. We parted at New York and he took ship for England, while I continued on to New Orleans. I believe he will try to regain his commission in the Royal Navy, and I say good luck to him. Actually, I think he still loves you, poor man. I did, of course, intercept that letter to you that he placed at the Pig, wherein he suggested a meeting of reconciliation between the two of you—and betrayed the location of that charming painting. Silly boy. I just could not allow that to happen. I enclose that letter with this one so that you might enjoy.
Your piratical friend Flaco Jimenez was in New Orleans last week. I believe he came because he had heard I was here, and he showed me an excellent time. The Lafittes do not know all of the low dives in this town, but Flaco is familiar with all of them. He asks after you, of course, but has invited me to go a-roving with him. He might even give me my own ship. I must say the offer is most enticing and I might do it someday . . . The dread Pirate Howe—it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
The night is very pleasantly warm and the air is heavily laden with the perfume of tropical flowers, and, oh, I do believe Andrew is here to escort me to the ball.
Till later, Jacky. Keep well. I do love you, you know, in my own way. I used to think you were something nasty stuck to the bottom of my shoe, but I have changed my mind on that. Since you have come into my life, you have been ever so much fun.
Sincerely,
Clarissa Worthington Howe
Visit www.hmhbooks.com to find all of the books in the Bloody Jack Adventures.
About the Author
L. A. MEYER is the acclaimed writer of the Bloody Jack Adventures, praised for engaging characters and vivid historical detail. This rollicking series follows the exploits of a spirited heroine who climbs from the squalid streets of London to become an adventurer of the highest order. L. A. Meyer lives on the coast of Maine. Visit his website at www.jackyfaber.com.