by L. A. Meyer
It was a wonderful, wonderful time, that holiday at Dovecote. And, of course, I never missed a chance to get up on the Sheik when I was there.
During this winter, too, I went and looked up Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean, the actors who had given me their card back in the Pig that day. I got put in some small parts like Puck in A Midsummer Nights Dream, and other such elf parts. Being that I can play the pennywhistle sort of fits right into that, and I've got a real smart outfit, all green stockings and a little short kilt and a top that looks like it's made out of green leaves and a pointed green cap. I'm billed as "Jack Tar" so as not to be discovered as a girl 'cause that would be a scandal. 'Cause of the costume and all.
I only do these parts on weekends when I know I won't be caught, as I don't want to be busted again. I do love to take the bows and hear the applause, though. And, it makes me a little money, money that I keep in a little money belt that I have made for myself, which fits flat around my waist. When I get enough copper and silver coins from the acting jobs and from doing my solo act at the Pig on some Saturday afternoons, I change them into the tiny ten-dollar gold pieces, which fit more compact on my belly. I have several now. I take the belt off only to wash.
I do not completely escape the sting of the lash this winter, though. We were all in Household Management class one dreary gray day and I was bored beyond all sense and began making faces and crossing my eyes to make Rebecca Adams, sitting next to me, laugh and giggle, which, of course, she did. But then Mistress rose up and said, "Miss Adams, would you like to stand up and tell us just what you find so humorous about providing a clear and complete accounting of household expenses to your husband? What mirth is to be found therein that we dullards have overlooked?"
Little Rebecca went white as a sheet and got to her feet with great difficulty, as if rising to mount the scaffold and face Eternity itself. She was unable to speak, but only stood there, shaking in mortal terror.
"Come up here," said Mistress, picking up her rod and tapping it on her desk. The poor child looked like she would go off in a dead faint, and didn't move.
I rose to my feet 'cause it was my own stupid fault that this happened, and I pushed Rebecca back down in her seat and said, "Begging your pardon, Mistress, but it was not her fault as I was playing the fool with her." Not waiting for an invite, I marched up the aisle, went around Mistress's desk, and flopped down upon it, my skirts up and my face looking out to the class. It occurs to me that this is what the crowd must look like to those poor sods strapped to the guillotine.
Mistress raised her rod and gave me four and then I returned to my seat. Strange thing, though—Mistress did not hit me hard. It was as if she pulled back on each blow just before it landed. Although it made me wince and I had to snuffle back tears of humiliation as I went back to my seat, the beating did not hurt at all. Strange, that.
Rebecca looked at me with absolute worship in her eyes, and at supper that evening she left her table and came and sat with Amy and me. Then we were joined by Dolley and Martha, who gave my shoulder a squeeze as she sat down.
The winter does wane and the Sisterhood does increase.
I've even been doing some decent needlework. I've worked for some days on the edges of a silk pillow slip, embroidering it with intertwined roses and briars, and a few blue anchors thrown in for good measure. I wonder, as I do the stitching, whether Jaimy's head will ever lie next to mine upon this pillowcase.
Nothing, nothing from Jaimy.
Chapter 37
James Emerson Fletcher, Midshipman
On Board HMS Essex
January 25, 1804
Jacky Faber
The Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls
Beacon Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Dear Jacky,
At least I know that you are not dead, and that is some comfort to me. There was a new group of sailors brought on board the Essex yesterday and one of them was lately come from the Excalibur. I later overheard him regaling his fellows on the fo'c'sle with an account of a girl in Boston racing seasoned seamen through the Excalibur's top rigging. I knew it could be none other than you, my wild and foolish girl. I have chosen not to believe their tale of the girl taking off her dress and diving into the water, and attribute that to the sailors' love of tall tales.
That is the only news of you that I have gotten since we parted. I exchange letters quite often with my mother and she informs me with each letter that I have received nothing from you and I am cast down into darkness each time she so informs me.
Why, if you were on the Excalibur for your sport, why did you not send me a letter by her? I know you to be many things, Jacky, but cruel and hard-hearted and indifferent are not among them. You must tell me why you are treating me so.
I throw myself into my studies to try and get you out of my mind, but I am never completely successful. I shall be testing for lieutenant within the year, but it will be a hollow honor if I succeed.
We keep the French fleet bottled up here, with endless patrols back and forth, back and forth across the mouth of the bay, but they've got to come out eventually, and when they do, well, maybe a cannonball will cure my black despair.
Please write, Jacky, if only to tell me I am no longer in your heart. I am desolate.
Your most humble,
Jaimy
Chapter 38
Spring!
By God it's finally spring! Spring, when a poor girl can poke her head out of her cloak without fear of it bein' frozen off at the neck! Spring so long in comin', oh, cruel winter would just not let go, oh no, he wouldn't! Then suddenly one day the clouds of winter broke and the heat was on the land and the snow patches melted and shrunk and slunk away and then were gone and incredibly there's a green blush on the grass and by God, it's spring! Hooray!
I dance up the path to the stables and say to Henry, "My horse, Henry, my horse! For it is spring and it is Saturday and no one is lookin' and I have my fine riding habit on and I will ride wild and free and I will go downtown and I will—"
"Please calm down, Miss Faber," says Henry. He goes and gets Gretchen and puts the sidesaddle on her and will not hear of any other. "You're a lady again and you will ride sidesaddle or you will not ride at all."
I think I catch a glimpse of Sylvie's skirt disappearing around a corner of the stable. Ah, 'tis spring and everyone's thoughts turn to those of love.
"And I shan't ride till you call me Jacky again, Henry, I won't."
"All right, Jacky. Up you go."
And I'm up and off!
Gretchen and I thunder across the Common and I can feel her beneath me and I know that she is just as glad to get out as me and she fairly kicks up her heels and we go crazily rollicking across the land, hallooing as we go and making general fools of ourselves until we pull up at the dear old Pig and I slide off.
"What's the good word, Maudie?" says I, as I enter and pull back my cloak. I revel in the feel and the look of the maroon riding jacket and I know I am committing the sin of pride, but right now I don't care. It is spring and I think I can be forgiven.
"Death and taxes, dear," says Maudie, full of cheer as usual. I survey the half-empty house and reflect that it ain't as good for Maudie and Bob as when Gully and I played the house, but it ain't as bad as it was before. They'll get by.
"It is our own dear Puck, Mr. Fennel, and looking especially fine!"
"She is indeed, Mr. Bean! A glass of wine with you, dear Puck!"
I spy the two rogues sitting at a table by the fire. Though 'tis spring, there's still a nip in the air. I go over to them and Mr. Fennel pulls out a chair and I sit down.
"A cup of tea will be fine, Maudie, thanks," says I. "What's the news?" It's plain that they are quite pleased with themselves about something.
"We have rented a bigger and better hall, the very Fen-wick, itself, for the season, have we not, Mr. Fennel?"
"We have, indeed, Mr. Bean, and therein our gallant troupe shall reach even greater heights of the
atrical glory. We plan to do the complete Lear, not just the ending! How fine will that be! We shall be the toast of Boston!"
"Yes, and come summer, we shall take the whole thing on the road and then become the toast of the entire coast, from Boston to Richmond, shall we not, Mr. Fennel?"
"Yes, Mr. Bean, we shall. Now, dear, once again we beg you to take the role of Cordelia. What say? You would be perfect for the role. Hmm.?"
I shake my head. They had wanted me to do Cordelia in the bit of Lear they have been doing, but I just couldn't do it. The part where Cordelia is hanged at the end, well, I can't even watch it, let alone play her. As written, that part of the play takes place offstage, but Fennel and Bean have staged it in full view of the audience for the shock value. And shock value it has, for sure—they have devised a dress, a black one, that has a bunch of straps inside it that go around various parts of the actress and then up her back to a loop, and the noose hooks on to that, not to her neck. But it sure looks real. When the Executioner kicks the chair from beneath her feet and Cordelia falls, the shriek from the audience can be heard clear out on the street, which is where I'm at during this part, covering my ears with my hands and trying to keep old memories from wellin' up.
I did see it done once, when they first rigged up the actress, and when they did it, I had to run outside and throw up. I hear they have several faintings at each show. "No, Sirs, I cannot do that," I say firmly. "Best let me keep doing the small parts as I have been doing with great joy, for who knows where I'll be come summer." Maudie brings me my tea, and I thank her and sip at it.
I joke with the merry pair for a while, but the pull of the new spring sun is too much and I bid them and Maudie a good day and I'm out the door. I take Gretchen's reins from the hitching rail and walk dreamily along beside her, my face held up to the sun.
We walk past the alley next to the Pig and a clawlike hand reaches out of the shadows and hauls me in. Gretchen whinnies and shies away and I drop the reins and try to get at me shiv, but ... A familiar smell hits my nose like a hammer.
"Gully?" I say. "Gully, what?..."
If it's possible, Gully MacFarland is even dirtier than last I saw him. There's a wild, crazy gleam in his eye, and I waste no time in stickin' my finger in that eye and snarlin', "Gully, you miserable son of a bitch, where's my money? I'll have it right now or I'll call the constable and have you hanged for a common thief!"
He bats my hand away from his face and something like a grin splits his grimy face as he says in a cracked and ravished voice, "We got us a job, Moneymaker." He has even less teeth than before, and what teeth are left are green and rotten. His rancid breath would put our cesspool to shame.
"I ain't playin' anywhere with the likes of you, Gully, not now, not ever. You stole my money, you lyin' bastard!"
"Back up on the top of the world again, ain't-cha, Moneymaker? A fine lady again, you are, I can tell by how ye're dressed—and fine dress it is, Little Miss Tidymouse."
He is unsteady on his legs, but still he reaches inside his coat and pulls out a bottle with a vile-lookin' greenish milky juice in it, and he puts it to his lips and swallows long. It is disgustin' to see his gristly Adam's apple bob up and down.
"How long you think you'll be in that fine gear when I tells your schoolmistress what you been doin'...playin' in low taverns, showin' of your legs, spendin' nights at Bodeen's ... entertaining gentlemen..."
"That ain't true and you know it! I'm gonna tell Maudie and Bob you're back, and they'll fix you good."
"You tell them that and I'll go straight to your school-marm."
"How could you be so mean, Gully?" I says. My mind spins around but all it comes up with is I'm trapped.
He shrugs and says, "I'll meet you here on Thursday night, Moneymaker. There's some ships in. We'll make some money."
"Right, which you'll steal, you drunken sot..."
He puts the vile bottle to his lips again. That stuff is a new one on me—it ain't rum nor whiskey, that's for sure—and it don't seem to be doing Gully much good. I ain't never seen him this bad, and I've seen him pretty bad.
"So, meet me in front of the Plow and Anchor at ten Thursday night and just bring your whistle—it's mainly the dancin' you'll be doin', anyway. We'll be playin at Skivareen's."
"Skivareen's!" I shouts. "Gully, that's the lowest dive in town. Even Mrs. Bodeen won't allow her girls in there!"
"Ten o'clock. Here. Don't be late. We go on at half past ten. Remember, Moneymaker, you show up or I'm on the steps to your school first thing in the morning with many a fine tale to tell."
He lurches off down the street, clutching his bottle. The Lady Lenore is strapped to his back and it looks all forlorn hanging there amid his rags.
Damn! And everything was goin so good!
Chapter 39
I've got my serving gear on, cause I can hide my shiv in my weskit, and my whistle in there, too, and 'cause I certainly don't want to be in Skivareen's in my school dress, as I sure don't want to be before Judge Thwackham on my knees in that dress again. This evening, after supper, I went up to my old room and took out my serving clothes and laid them out on the bed. Then, after prayers and lights-out, at nine, I lay there in the dormitory for a while, and when all the breathing about me is slow and regular, I pull back the covers and creeps out of the room and up the stairs.
I'm pullin' my nightdress over my head when I hears a footfall. As I pokes up my face, I sees that it's Amy standin' there, wringin' her hands.
"Please, Jacky, tell me you're not going out," she whispers. "Please tell me that."
"I got to, Sister. Gully MacFarland is back in town and he wants me to play with him."
"But you can't! You're upstairs again!"
"He has threatened to go to Mistress and tell lies on me. Damned lies, to be sure, but lies he can make stick. All he has to do is accuse me and I'm expelled. He is a changed man, Amy. A very sick one, too."
"Oh," she wails. "This is going to turn out badly, I just know it."
"Hush, you'll wake the others." I've finished dressing, and after I put in my shiv and my whistle, I pull up my skirts around my waist and say, "Wrap those lengths of rope around my waist and hips now. Tight, so they don't slip down. Now, don't ask, just do it."
Whimpering, she does it and I fix the ends so they won't fall out.
I put my regular escape rope around my shoulder and go to the window.
"I will wait here for you, Jacky. Please be careful."
"This will be the last time with Gully, I swear. I'm gonna take care of that," I says, and then I am gone.
Gully is sitting at the appointed spot, his back against a wall, mouth hangin' open and legs sprawled out on the cobblestones. I nudge him with my foot and says, "This is it, Gully. I ain't doin' this no more."
"Yeah, yeah," he says without listenin' to me. "Le's go." He struggles to his feet and we head down to the lowest part of town.
The fleet is definitely in, 'cause I can see their mastheads and rigging hangin' out there in the gloom on Long Wharf. Looks to be four of them, one a First Rater with two decks of gun ports, one over the other. Eighty-eight guns, what a thing. Plenty of sailors, too, on the wharf and thronging the streets. Maudie should do good tonight. I don't bother asking Gully why we ain't playing in no decent tavern—it's plain none of them would let him anywhere near their places, the condition he's in now. If Maudie found out he was back, she'd have her Bob beat him half to death for running out on his room and board.
I see a lit doorway at the end of Market Street by Sprague's Wharf, where some dirty little tubs are tied up. Skivareen's don't even got a sign. Gully goes in first and then I go in, and already I don't like this crowd. There's a cheer upon seein' me, but I look around and don't see none of my regulars. I see some men smirk and point at me and some wink at Gully and he winks back. What's going on here?
Gully takes his fiddle out and tunes up. He steps to the low platform that serves as a stage in this hell. The place stinks o
f piss and sweat and some other things I don't wanna know about. I step up also and pull out my whistle—the sooner we get this over with, the better.
Gully says "Saddle the Pony" and we tears into it and then we do "The Pet o' the Pipers" and things seem to be going all right, and though my heart ain't in it, I does my best, 'cause I hates to give a bad performance, no matter what. But then Gully turns from the fiddle tunes and the funny ones like "New York Girls" and calls for a whole string of the dirty songs, which he know I don't like to play. Things like "The Cuckoo's Nest," and all the men are lookin' at me funny, like they're expectin' somethin'.
I'm glarin' at Gully after the last number and he says, "Put away the whistle. Just dance from now on."
Then he plays a long, long jig and I'm bouncin' up and down and clatterin' me feet as fast as I can. Then he brings that one to an end and plays another jig and I look at him all curious.
Then it happens and all comes clear.
There's a disagreeable-lookin' cove, who looks like he ain't washed in a month, at the table next to the stage and he gets up and comes over to me and holds a fiver up in front of my nose.
"Ain't you just the prettiest little thing, bouncin' around up there so gay." Before I can do anything, he stuffs the bill down my shirtfront. "Now let's see how you bounces without yer shirt!" The rest of the house roars its approval.
I turn to Gully with my mouth open and say, "What?" and he just shrugs and says, "Why not?"
I look back at the crowd and another bloke has pulled out another crumpled bill. He throws it at my feet. It's a twenty, and we ain't never been tipped a twenty before.
Really scared now, I looks to Gully for help, but he just looks at me real hard and says, "Do it."