My Bonny Light Horseman: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, in Love and War

by L. A. Meyer

  "Ten minutes, Miss," says Carr, pulling out his pocket watch and gazing at it. "Curfew." He nods to Mr. Boyd and they both turn their backs and face the wall.

  Jaimy's father comes and takes his wife by the arm. "Come, Adelaide, we must give them ten minutes alone."

  "I will never! I will—" protests Mrs. Fletcher.

  "Oh, yes, you will," says Mr. Fletcher. "George, escort your mother out, if you please." And he does, and Mr. Fletcher follows them out of the room with a slight bow to me.

  I return a nod of thanks and turn back to Jaimy.

  It looks like he might pass out again, but he does not. He struggles to speak once more, but I say, "Jaimy, please be still. All I want to do is sit here by your side while I can." I put a kiss upon his cheek. "No, no, lie quiet, it is what you must do now. You have to get well."

  He lies back on the pillow and looks at me.

  "Do you remember that time on the Dolphin after I was beaten and you took care of me? Do you recall that, Jaimy?"

  "Yes," he says, recollecting that day. "I hated what happened to you."

  I pat his hand and say, "It's all right. I got over it, and so will you."

  "Jacky, I..."

  "Hush now. Don't say anything more, Jaimy," I beg, tears pouring out of my eyes and onto his sheet. "Just know that I will love you forever, no matter what happens."

  And with that I place a kiss upon his lips and Mr. Carr says, "Time, Miss."

  PART III

  Chapter 21

  They brought me ashore by rowboat with muffled oars at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and, after a quick run up some dark, desolate, and lonely beach, they loaded me into a coach with drawn curtains and I'm taken down to Calais, and then on to Amiens.

  There my escort left me, with my baggage, a letter of introduction to a Madame Pelletier, and some rather forlorn hopes as to my future. Another man gets in the coach, and we push on for Paris. I feel certain that he is another agent, assigned to keep an eye on their prize pigeon.

  Upon my arrival in Paris, I have been ordered to establish myself in my apartment at 127, rue de Londres, to take a day to acquaint myself with my surroundings, and the next day to present myself to Madame Pelletier at her place on rue de Clichy, which is supposedly right around the corner. How very convenient for the gentlemen admirers who might want to escort a girl home, I'm thinking. Her troupe is called Les Petites Gamines de Paris, and I am to become part of that company. My contact, or my control, as the Intelligence Service likes to put it, will make himself known to me some time shortly. I don't like the word, but I guess I'll have to put up with it.

  As we rattle on and on through the night and the next day, I have plenty of time to think back to my last night on British soil.

  After I had been dragged from Jaimy's side and returned to the Admiralty, I was told to pack my things. I was given a trunk, so I folded up my fancy new clothes and put them in neatly. During the previous week or so I had made some small demand for additional articles of clothing—black stockings and gloves, black corset, and a white bustier, as well as other garments that appeal to men who like such frilly things. Mr. Peel, when informed of these purchases, was happy to pay, pleased that I was seemingly getting into the spirit of the thing, as it were. We shall see.

  In the middle of the frilly things I stowed the two tightly corked and wrapped bottles of my old friend, Jacky's Little Helper, also known as paregoric or camphorated tincture of opium, that I had requested from Dr. Sebastian, with the proviso that he tell no one, and which he promptly supplied, asking no questions. Probably thought I was going to use it on myself to ease my coming troubles—he's part of this gang and he knows where I'm going and exactly what I'm expected to do.

  When he delivered the bottles, he had something else with him, wrapped in a bundle of leather, and he handed it to me. I opened it up and was delighted to see my old shiv in my leather forearm sheath.

  "Doctor!" I gasped. "This is something very dear to me, and I thought it lost forever!"

  "Bit of a strange thing for a young girl to hold dear, but there it is. I took it off you when you were first brought to me for examination back on the Dauntless. I told the French it was one of my surgical instruments, even though a rather colorful one. I thought it might hold you in good stead now."

  "Bless you, Doctor," I cry, clapping my arm around the dear little man and planting a good one square on his lips. "You have been so good to me."

  "Ahem ... well, none of that, please," says the Doctor. "I just wish we could have worked together a bit longer."

  I take him by the shoulders and hold him out at arm's length. "Maybe we will labor together again someday. A trip to the South Seas? Would that not be splendid? I do have a small ship, you know, perfect for a scientific expedition."

  His eyes light up at that. "The South Seas, oh, my, yes ... if it weren't for this wretched war."

  That night we have a last dinner together, the First Lord, Mr. Peel, and I, and we are joined by Dr. Sebastian. I have collected myself, stifled any tears that might want to pop out, and I tell myself that I will make an effort to be gay—never let it be said that Jacky Faber ever ruined a party. I wear one of the Empire dresses, and I think my fellow diners are quite taken with it.

  Before the dinner is served, we take some sherry while the Doctor displays his De Rerum Natura Americana to great acclaim. When I am complimented on my skill, I blush and say it is really nothing, anyone could do it, but I know that is not true. Sir Grenville pronounces the work a great success and is sure that it will be the talk of the upcoming session of the Royal Society.

  "I have so many more specimens for her to render," says Dr. Sebastian. "Are you quite sure we can't send someone else on this mission?"

  "No, Doctor, if we keep her, we'll have to hang her. I'm afraid the King would insist." This gets a round of laughter in which I force myself to join.

  "I still cannot believe that she sits in front of me, with her head still on her shoulders," remarks Dr. Sebastian, observing me in wonder that the very good wine is sliding down my throat and that same throat is not on some French dissection table. The French have the same rules about the disposal of the bodies of executed murderers as do the English.

  "Yes, our man there, he is one of the best. He has worked wonders," says Sir Grenville, turning to me. "You will recognize him when he contacts you. He will be your control."

  I will? Who...?

  I guess the question is plain upon my face, for the First Lord looks to Mr. Peel, who looks to me and says, "You knew him as Monsieur Jardineaux."

  Jardineaux! The man who had me dragged out into the prison courtyard and tied to that hateful bascule!

  "You must be joking, Sir," I gasp when I recover the power of speech. "That man—"

  Mr. Peel holds up his hand to silence me, and after I've snapped my mouth shut, he says, "I have grown fond of you—you do bring out the protective nature that is a part of many men and the lustful nature of many others. It is one of your unique talents, I know, and one of the reasons we value you so highly. But I'd rather lose a hundred of you than one of him, so you must be very, very careful. I don't want to lecture you at this late date, but information you provide for us through him may save many thousands of British lives. You do want that, don't you?"

  I lower my head in submission. "I do, Sir," I say. "Now let us be merry. Shall we have a song? Ah, here's our dinner."

  When the food is eaten, and all the wine drunk, and the songs sung, Mr. Peel gets to his feet and says, "Come, Miss, you must retire. Morning comes early."

  I rise and Sir Grenville asks, "Will you give us a last toast, dear?"

  I look at the dregs in my glass and then lift it up. "Rule, Britannia," I say and then drink it down, as do the others. No more is said, and it comes to me that those might well be some of the last words I will say in my native tongue for a long, long time. Maybe my last English words ever.

  That night, on what could be my last night ever on British soil, and
after I had donned my nightshirt and got up from my knees after praying for Jaimy's recovery, I strapped on my arm sheath so it would be ready for the morning. I pulled out my shiv and looked again at the cock's head I had carved into the handle several years ago.

  Don't you wink at me again, Charlie, I don't know as if I could take it right now.

  I am shaken back into the present as the coach begins its journey into the center of Paris. I see that there are dozens of cafés, taverns, and bistros that at one time I would have been delighted to be playing in, but no, now I must go to one place and consort with men who must be pumped for information while they pump me in other ways.

  Heavy sigh. I'll hold out as long as I can.

  It is early evening and I would be able to see the wonders of the French capital, the City of Light, as it is called, if I weren't so dead tired, my sleeping head bouncing against the side of the coach. I come back to my senses only when the coach stops and I find we are parked on a quiet side street in what seems to be a pretty respectable-looking neighborhood.

  "Get out," growls my latest escort. "Go to that door and see the concierge. She will show you to your room. You will be contacted. And you will be watched."

  "Thank you for your company, Sir," I reply, as I climb out of the coach. The sod has not said a single word during the entire journey from Amiens to here. He grunts and goes to get my trunk, which is shoved in the doorway of 127, rue de Londres. Along with me.

  A surly man presents himself to take up the chest, and a woman of considerable girth appears on the stairs.

  "Je m'appelle Mademoiselle Jacqueline Ophelia Bouvier," I announce as I put on the Look. "I am an American and I will be joining Madame Pelletier's Les Petites Gamines."

  "I know who you are," she says, her eyes cold as two bits of black ice buried in the pasty white flesh of her face. "And I know what you are. I am Madame Gris, the concierge, and I am in charge of this house. Here are the rules: You will get your key from me anytime you enter, and leave it with me anytime you leave. No one enters after midnight or before seven in the morning. There will be no riotous behavior in the halls or foyer. For each man who comes to your room, you will give me two francs when next you leave off your key. Do you understand all that?"

  "Yes, Madame."

  "I trust that you do. Your room is at the top of the stairs. Number seven. Third door to the right. Behave yourself and you will get along. If not, beware."

  She roughly thrusts a key in my hand and sits herself down in a chair behind a desk. Behind her, rows of keys hang on hooks. It appears most of the inhabitants of this house are out.

  I turn away from Madame Gris and climb the stairs, pass two doors, and enter the third. My trunk is shoved in behind me, and as soon as the churlish porter leaves, I lock the door.

  While the room is very plain, it does have a window, a washstand, a dressing screen, and a chamber pot slid under a straight-backed chair. The most prominent thing in the room is the bed, and I certainly can guess why. I turn back the sheets and see that they are not stained, or not much, anyway. I sit down on the edge of that bed and feel very alone, and very, very afraid.

  I think back to that little girl in Cheapside, standing in her rags, listening to the sailors sing at the Admiral Benbow Inn, and wishing for a life of adventure. Well, you sure got it now, girl, so stop your complainin.

  Now there is the sound of female laughter out in the hall as well as some raucous revelry coming from the street. I go to the window and see that lamps are being lit across the city and below me are men and women, some arm in arm, some single, and some walking toward the entrance of 127, rue de Londres, my new home. I nip into my trunk to take out the wooden wedges I had made last week and jam them under the door as I do not trust the lock. Thank God the door opens inward. Then I go behind the screen to undress, pull on my nightdress, and crawl into bed.

  Good night, Jaimy, I hope you are feeling better and take joy in being back in the bedroom of your youth. It gives me comfort to think of you there.

  I ... I may not come back in any fit condition for you to marry, Jaimy, and once again I release you from your vow of marriage. Be well.

  Chapter 22

  The next day I'm feeling a bit more cheery. We all feel better in the morning, don't we? The dreads that come in the night are generally chased away by the rising sun, and, by and large, we get on with things the next day, come what may.

  I get up, stretch, and look out the window at the new and strange city laid out before me, just now emerging from the mists of the morning. Imagine that, little orphan Mary of Cheapside, Boston, the Caribbean Sea, and late of the American frontier, now in Paris, the City of Light. I reflect that God does work in some mysterious ways, and also start to think that this job might have some side benefits, as it looks to be a wondrous city.

  I raise the window and am pleased to see that it does, indeed, open. I stick my head out and look up and down the street. It is not a bad neighborhood, really—it doesn't stink too much, there is no open sewage running in the gutters, and there appear to be several interesting shops lining the curbs.

  And there is a drainpipe right next to me, coming down from the roof and going all the way down to the street. I reach out and shake it and it seems strong and well fixed. I might find it useful someday. Hmmmm. Could it be that they trust me, or is it that they don't know me as well as they think they do, to give me such a room? I'm sure Carr and Boyd did not report that they had lost track of me that day back in London for fear of losing their jobs, or worse. I'd certainly never heard any mention of it. So maybe the ever-so-efficient Intelligence Service overlooked something and is not yet aware of my willingness to work in, well, high places—as in leaping about on rooftops. Hmmm, we shall see.

  Certain that I am being watched, I give my hair a bit of a ruffle, then with a great big smile I greet the City of Paris and anyone who might be watching. Then I turn away to get ready. There are some things I need to do today.

  First, I remove the wedges, then I unlock the door to look out into the hallway. Sure enough, there is a pitcher of water next to each door, as even girls of low morals do wash themselves. This is a high-class house, I now realize. And for all Madame Gris's cold greediness and the goings-on around my room last night, I also know that this is not a true brothel into which I have been put. Rather it is a place where no questions are asked if one of the local girls happens to entertain a gent for the night, and if a man shows up asking to call on a particular girl, he is not refused admittance. I am grateful for this, as it gives me some room to work my plots and plans.

  I grab my own pitcher, pull it in, and relock the door. My door had been tried several times last night, but no one managed to get by my wedges. Still, I slept with my shiv in my hand.

  I do the necessaries, then I wash up and empty the dirty water into the chamber pot, which I place along with the empty pitcher outside the door. I note that others have done the same. Ah, it is good to know that I'm right in figuring out how things are done around here.

  I put on one of my everyday dresses—not everything I bought in London was high fashion—then throw my cloak around my shoulders, clap my hat on my head, grab my purse, and go out, the Lawson Peabody Look firmly in place. I have my shiv up my sleeve in case someone in this house would be of a mind to have me for nothing. One thing for sure, I will not go cheap. But it is much too early for the inhabitants of this place to be stirring, so I am undisturbed.

  Madame Gris is seated next to the door and I fear for the health of the chair. It creaks as she shifts her bulk to stretch out her palm. She says nothing in the way of greeting and neither do I.

  I slap the key in her fat fist, sweep out the door, and hurry down to the street. I look right and left. Which way to go? Ah, there is a café—the Café des Deux Chats—first some food and then it's down to business.

  Following an excellent breakfast of coffee, omelet, and some cunning little rolls, and while reflecting yet again that the French sure
can cook, I stroll up the street, looking all about me at the bustle of the city and feeling its quickening pulse—the shouts of vendors, the clatter of carriages, the snorting of horses, and the stink of their manure—yes, I am a city girl at heart, that is for sure.

  At least I'm shed of Carr and Boyd, and it is good to be free—sort of free, anyway. I had asked my waiter at the café if there was a clothing store close by and was told by him that there was, indeed, one right up the street. Now it's time to see if I can spot who's been assigned to tail me.

  I stop to look in the window of a boulangerie. All of the different loaves of bread and pastries look so very good, but I must watch myself. I have been given enough money to buy whatever I want, and the former urchin in me, the greedy little thing, wants much, but I must stay trim and so I must suppress her urges as well as my own.

  As I peer in the window, I cut my eyes to the left, not moving my head, and notice a young man who has taken a similar interest in another shop window—one I know to be a women's hat shop. I move on.

  Again, I pretend interest in a store, cut the eyes, and, ah yes, there he is, doing the same. I am sure he is the one. He is young and quite good-looking, but he is plainly not very good at this. And I thought Jardineaux's organization was supposed to be a crack outfit. Hmmm. Maybe they don't care if I know I am being followed. Maybe they want it that way. Well, let's see how they feel about that when I go missing.

  Shall we make a game of it then, young man? Very well. You shall be the cat and I will be the mouse.

  I spot a clothing shop across the street so I saunter over, and as I enter the shop, I see that he, too, has crossed over. I buy several yards of black cloth, some soft leather, a buckle, black thread, and a card of needles. Oh yes, and a tight black sweater. The packet of my purchases under my arm, I head back out. It is all I can do not to wave merrily at him and give out with a big yoo-hoo!