Curse of the Blue Tattoo

by L. A. Meyer

  There's the call of a trumpet outside. Hurry!

  I take the white silk scarf I had seen last night when I visited Petey and I wrap it around my lower face. "Tie it in back, Amy! It can't fall off or all is lost!"

  "But why...?"

  "'Cause the other jocks won't race against a girl, is why! Male bleedin' pride, is why! Now, tie it! Tight!"

  She does it. I take the green cap and cram it way down on my head and head for the door, Amy, terrified, in my wake.

  At the door, a red-faced Randall stands and says, "I..."

  "Later, Randall," I say. "Let us out and let no one else in. When we come back we'll give three raps and then two. Got that?"

  He nods and opens the door and we rush out.

  There is a roar from the crowd as I head for the track and the Sheik. I stop halfway there and make a great fakery of dou-blin' over and coughin' loudly, as if seized by a spasm. I steal a glance up at the Colonel, who is back in his box lookin' at me and standing a little straighten I give it a few more coughs, as deep and disgustin' as I can make 'em, makes a show of bein' a bit weak and wobbly on me pins, and then I go to the Sheik and put my foot in George's intertwined hands and I'm up in the saddle, and Oh, he knows me, he does. The Sheik gives me his big rollin' eye and whickers a greeting as I get my feet in the stirrups and settle in and take the riding crop from George and stick it in my right armpit. I don't want this small whip 'cause I wouldn't want to use it on the Sheik, but I take it anyway 'cause it'll look wrong if I don't. I pat his neck and he dances around a bit—he is ready to go, no mistake.

  "Glad you could get up there, Petey," says George. "I had my doubts, for sure." He adjusts the cinch on the saddle. "Now watch out for the big bay horse—that jock Muir from Tenbrooks Farms don't mean us no good. At the start you'll have him on your right, and that bastard Thayer over there on that hammerheaded roan'll be on your left at the start, so you know what that means."

  What? What what means? I thought we just started running and the fastest horse wins and that's the Sheik, who'll run away from all the others and we'll win. All of a sudden I'm thinking that there might be more to this and maybe I don't know what I'm doin'. I want to blurt out to George just who I am sitting up here and what the hell is he talkin' about, but the fewer people what know about this the better, or the secret will be out and the race will be forfeit and all will be in vain, so I just give a low grunt and another cough.

  "I'd go wide on the first turn if I was you. You'll lose some ground but the horse'll make it up on the straightaways. Good luck to you, Pete. There's a lot ridin' on this."

  I nod and grunt and throw in a racking cough and there's the trumpet call for the horses to parade by the grandstand and I take the reins and somehow get him in line and it's all I can do to keep him there. What with all the other stallions and mares around, he's in a fine lather and in no mood to be good. Fine. It's his job to win the race, not to be good.

  We come off the line and head for the starting positions. The crowd noise is nothing like anything I've ever heard—there must be a thousand people here, counting the grandstand and those circling the track. Grooms take hold of the bridles and pull the horses to their spots, and it is a very brave groom who puts his hand on the Sheik's bridle. We are third in from the rail, it having all been decided by the drawing of lots, and George was right about the two to either side of me—they look like the meanest of blokes and they're both glaring at me. I can't let 'em look too close, so I coughs and leans forward and hisses in the Sheik's ear, "Scream, Sheik, scream!" and he rears back on his hind legs and does just that, he screams out his defiance to all those who would dare to come here to his own kingdom and challenge him, to shame him, and to take his mares. It is a fine show.

  "Mind yer mount, jock!" shouts Muir.

  "Sod off," growls I, as deep as I can. "Mind yer own nag!"

  A tall man with a red sash across his belly goes to the end of our line and then takes ten paces forward. He has a pistol by his side. All eyes are on him now, so I don't got to worry about Muir or Thayer peerin' at me.

  The man holds up his hand and the crowd falls silent. He takes a deep breath and bellows, "Ladies and Gentlemen! The race is to be twelve furlongs, once around the track and up to the finish line in front of the grandstand." I look forward and see the white line drawn with lime on the track! He raises the gun, "Ready." There is a hush. All us jocks point our tails skyward and lean forward.

  He fires! The crowd roars as twelve thousand pounds of muscle, hide, and bone surges out of the gates, and the first thing that happens is that Muir brings his horse a sharp left, right into us and forces the Sheik to miss his footing and stumble, and Thayer on the other side does the same thing and the Sheik almost goes to his knees, and Muir and Thayer pull ahead of us. The Sheik screams in anger and I can hear his teeth snapping at the other horses, but I urge him forward—run now, fight later—and he gains his footing and his muscles gather under me and he charges down the track after the rest of them. A sob chokes me—I messed up, I messed up bad—we are dead last!

  But the Sheik don't sob and cry—all he wants to do is run and beat the others back to wherever the hell they come from and he don't care about nothin' else and he flies down the track with his ears laid back, and by the time we are approaching the first turn, we have passed one, two, now three, four! We are catching up! We are flying!

  We lean into the first turn and I see that Muir and Thayer are running first and second, with a big chestnut running third. There's a short straightaway before the next turn and we pass two more horses, leaving only the front three. As we get close to the middle of the turn, Thayer, who's on the inside, lets his mount drift a little to the right, leaving an opening at the rail.

  An opening! If we can get through there we'll save distance being on the inside 'cause there's less ground to cover and we'll be in the lead and we won't never let go of it! I urge the Sheik forward toward the opening and he goes for it. Poor trusting horse to have such a poor stupid rider. As soon as we get close, Thayer pulls back to the rail and Muir comes alongside to the right, and I realize to my horror that we're trapped! Boxed in!

  That's what Petey was tryin to say—"Don't let 'em box you in,"you incredibly stupid girl! And George said, "Stay outside on the first turn!" Oh, why didn't I, why do I always think I know everything about everything and all I ever really do is make a hash of things!

  As we come out of the turn, Thayer slows his horse, just a little, not so the people in the stands could notice and cry foul, but just a little bit slower so a horse can come up behind us to keep us from escaping that way and the chestnut can come up on the outside to take the lead. It's a setup! A scam. I've been scammed again! Muir and Thayer never had no thought of winnin' the race! All they wanted to do was keep the Colonel's horse from winnin'! Stupid, stupid, stupid...

  The chestnut is now four lengths ahead, now five, and if he gets too far ahead, there'll be no catchin' him even if I do get out of this. In desperation I veer the Sheik to the right to try and force Muir away enough to break free, but Muir don't move. Instead he brings up his crop and crack! he brings it down on my leg, and it's like a hot poker was laid there. The pain shoots up me side and into me head and I lets out a howl of pain and sorrow and desperation right into the Sheik's ear and he hears it and the muscles of his neck swell up and he darts his head forward and bares his teeth and clamps down on the arse of Thayer's horse up there in front of his nose. The roan screams and breaks stride and there's an opening, and this time we make it through. We are free!

  But the chestnut is now at least twelve lengths ahead and we're in the backstretch.

  "Catch him, Sheik!" I shrieks. "Catch him!" The leader is so far ahead I despair of closing the distance, but I urge the Sheik on anyway, bouncing up and down in the saddle, tears of pain and desolation runnin' out the sides of my eyes—how could I have been so stupid—and the Sheik pounds on ever faster and I can feel his hatred for the horse ahead of him and I s
tart to babble, "Oh come on Sheik come on boy he's gonna beat you he's gonna shame you he's gonna take your mares he's gonna beat you boy," and the horse pumps faster and we've gained a length or two but that horse up there ain't no scrub, neither. He's fast and he's strong and he's at the end of the far stretch and he leans into the last turn and clods of dirt are flying up at us from his hooves what are diggin' out to the side as he leans. But we don't care, we just pound on and the white rail posts and the screaming people standing and waving their arms flicker by in the corner of my eye like they ain't even real, just pieces of a crazy dream—come on boy come on boy—and we're in the last turn, too, and we go right up to the rail 'cause there ain't nobody to box us in now and we gain another length in the turn, and when we come out of it, we're only four lengths behind!

  The roar of the crowd in the grandstand hits us like a wall when we turn onto the homestretch and the race for the line. We're only four lengths behind but that'll be enough to doom us if the chestnut don't weaken, and he ain't showin' no signs of that, no he ain't, so I keep babblin'. "Beating you Sheik he's beating you," and the sun is in our eyes now and "He's gonna beat you boy he's gonna beat you to the bright shinin' sun he's gonna beat you," and I know I ain't makin' no sense but it don't matter. What matters is that the Sheik would rather die than lose and he finds the strength somewhere down in him and now we're up to two lengths and now one. The other jock is flailing away with his whip but it ain't doin' him no good 'cause we're gainin', and now the Sheik's nose is up level with the chestnut's flank and now up to the jockey's knee and now the horse's shoulder and the crowd is howling. There's the white line up ahead and now we're neck and neck and now we push forward by a nose and then by a head and then are goin' away, and then the line flashes by underfoot and...

  We win!

  I pull the Sheik back and slow him down and turn him so I can get back to the clubhouse, but he don't want to quit just yet, no he don't—he rears up and screams out all the rage and defiance that's in his bloody, glorious heart. No, he ain't done yet at all—he wants to get at the other horse and fight him and beat him into a bloody mess. He squeals in anger as if to say, "I didn't catch him just to let him go. Let me go!" and it's all I can do to hold him till George and his grooms come runnin' up to take his reins and calm him down.

  Uh-oh.

  The grandstand is emptying and people are pouring onto the track. I slide off the dear Sheik's back, give a few coughs, and wipe the tears from my eyes with an end of the scarf and wave off the grinnin' George's "Well done," and head for the clubhouse. I take three steps and then fall down in the dust, and this time I ain't faking. It's the pain in me leg, but I get right up and start a runnin', limpin' lope for Petey's room 'cause I see the Colonel bearing down on us but I can't let him catch me and fold me in his manly embrace, which is what the big, burly, grinnin' fool seems intent on doin'.

  There's Amy and she throws her arm around me and helps me the last several yards. She gives the signal rap on the door and we fall into the room. Randall puts his back to the door again and looks at us with a big question in his eyes—and I don't think he really wants to hear the answer 'cause he's lookin' at me with the tears runnin' down through the dust on my face and he fears the worst.

  "We won," says Amy, and Randall lets out a huge breath and sinks down a ways on the door. I whip off the scarf and go to the washstand and splash water on my face. Stop crying, I tell myself, don't mess it up now. It's just the excitement. Stop it. And I do, and I dry my face and straighten up and go to Petey's bedside.

  "Pull back his covers," I orders. Amy furrows her brow in question. "Just do it!" I say, and she does it.

  Poor Petey's skinny legs lie there helpless, the black hair on them standin' out sharp against the dead white of his skin. I swing the riding crop back over my shoulder and bring it down as hard as I can on Pete's right thigh. Amy gasps at the sound of the whip hitting flesh.

  Petey's eyes pop open—I didn't think he'd wake, but he does. I kneel down by him. "Sorry, Petey, but you got that on the near turn. Muir give it to you. You won, Pete, you got that? You won and Muir give you that welt on the near turn."

  "That son of a bitch, I'll get him for that," says he, all weak. A small smile comes to his lips. "Nice tattoo, Jack-o."

  "You rogue," says I, putting my hand to his forehead. He is covered in sweat now, but his head is cooler. The fever has broken. "Worse luck. You'll prolly get better." His eyes close again.

  The pounding on the door is loud and insistent.

  "We can't keep them out forever," says Randall, his back to the shaking door. "You'd better hurry and change." His arrogant smile is back.

  I cuts him a narrow-eyed glare. Right, Randall. I reflects that the I-know-Jacky's-got-a-tattoo-and-I-know-where's-she's-got-it club has just added two new members. Only one show for you today, Mr. Trevelyne.

  I turn away so that my bare back is all that's for him to look at as I take off the silk top and flip it to Amy. "See if you can slip that over Mr. Jarvis, if you would, Amy."

  She goes to do it, and since there's a little more time for a bit more modesty now, I take my dress and pull it on over me and then reach up under and pull off the pants and stockings. Carefully pull off the pants—the welt looks all purple and wicked, but there ain't no blood and that's good. I fling the silks to the floor as if Petey had just thrown them there on his way back to bed. I bundle up the rest of my clothes and tuck 'em under my arm. The cap goes on the bedpost and, "Button me up, Amy!"

  "All right, done! Let 'em in, Randall!"

  Randall steps back from the door and people pour into the little room, showering the half-conscious Pete with praise and congratulations. The Colonel was first in and he rushes over to Petey and shakes his senseless hand, and Amy speaks up with, "He will need salve for his leg, Father," and the Colonel nods and says that all saw the blow and that damned Muir shall never ride a horse at Dovecote again. A groom hustles over with a jar and the covers are pulled back and all around the room there are gasps at the soreness of the slash. Well, maybe I didn't have to hit him that hard...

  A man who has to be Mr. Thayer bursts in and shouts, "Your horse bit mine! That's a foul!"

  "Your nag had his fat, slow ass in my horse's face, and that's even more of a foul!" retorts the Colonel, puffing up. "And if you'd like to continue this discussion with pistols on the field of honor, then say one more word, Sir! One more word!" But Mr. Thayer don't say that word but instead turns red and storms out. Needless to say, he and his lady will not be joining us this evening. And how much sure money did you lose today, Mr. Thayer, hmmm?

  Colonel Trevelyne looks over and sees me standing there. "Get these girls out of here. This is no place for females!"

  I put the back of my hand to my forehead and close my eyes like I'm a poor, weak female about to swoon from tossin' around heavy spells and stuff, and Amy leads me out saying, "The poor thing needs rest," which, of course, I do.

  The sheets feel so cool and nice, and I feel I could lie here forever in this delicious doze, their light weight resting smooth and easy on my skin. A great wave of tiredness sweeps over me like it always does after the wildness that comes on in me slowly ebbs away.

  "Yeow!" I say, without meaning to. Amy has turned back the sheet and is putting some salve on my welt.

  "I am sorry," she says. "I should be saying it serves you right, you could have been killed and all that. But I did not say that before you took the ride, so I have no right to say anything at all. Except thank you."

  "Aw, g'wan. All I did was go out and ride a horse."

  "That, and extract that promise from Father."

  "Do you think he'll be as good as his word?"

  "He will. Male honor and all that." Amy looks about her room and I know she is seeing it in a far different light than she did this morning, or anytime in the near past. Go ahead, Amy. There's no sin in loving your own littie room.

  There's a tap on the door and then it opens and Randall walk
s in.

  "Randall! She's not dressed!" says Amy, and she brings the sheet back over my leg. I bend my other leg at the knee to make a tent so that the salve don't stick to it.

  "Oh, it's all right," I say, all sleepy and drowsy, running my tongue quickly over my lips and parting them slightly in my best Dying Juliet's last-gasp pose. "The sheets are to my chin, so what's the harm?"

  Randall comes over to the bedside but he don't say nothing, he just looks at me. He reaches down and, with one finger, gently pulls a lock of hair from my face. I smile all weak and frail.

  "What can we do for you?" he finally asks.

  "What?"

  "How can we repay you? What will you have?"

  I goes to say I don't want nothing, but then I changes my mind and says, "The silks. I want to keep the silks."

  I don't know what he says to that, 'cause I slip off to sleep.

  Later, when I wake up, the silks have been cleaned and are folded on my seabag, and by them is a pair of supple black riding boots. And they fit, too.

  "We shall dance and we shall be gay. That tall midshipman is rather cute, don't you think?" I'm all rested up and ready to go to my first ball. Little Mary Faber, late of London's better gutters, is dressing for a ball with Captains, Colonels, Lieutenants, swells of all kinds, and the finest of Ladies, what a thing.

  "Ah yes," smiles Amy, "Miss I-Am-Promised-to-Another Faber." Amy's been smiling a lot since the race and that is good.

  I feel a wave of sadness slip over my gaiety, and I am quiet. Yes, and no word from the one I am promised to for over nine months. Not one word. Amy says mail comes to Dovecote on Monday, but I dare not hope.

  "I shall be good," I say. But I shall also be gay.

  We had crimped up our side curls with the curling iron warmed on the cooking fire in the kitchen, being careful to stay out of the way 'cause mighty preparations are being made for tonight's dinner and Mrs. Grubbs ain't puttin' up with no silly girls, not even if one of 'em is the daughter of the house. There's steamin' pots and great joints of meat, but thankfully, no little suckling piggy. Her serving girls are being run ragged and well I know the drill, so we get done and get out. But not before I lifts us a couple hot cherry tarts from a tray. Ain't lost me Cheapside touch.