I had the darling couple over for dinner on the Lorelei Lee several evenings after we all got back from Dovecote. Amy was not there, being back at school, so it was just the three of us. They were both gracious and exclaimed over the intricacies of the ship and the richness of my cabin and the bounty of my table—a long way from gnawing on cheese rinds pulled from the garbage, eh, Polly? 'Tis a pity that Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne must sail soon, but that is the way of things, ain't it? Same as it ever was, you find what might be the love of your life on one day, then you have to ship out the next— anchors aweigh, me boys, and all that. Boys go; girls stay and are left crying.
But Polly will be looked after in Boston. I have seen to it.
As the land gets ever closer, I swing back down and remount my quarterdeck.
"We should be at Sheerness by tomorrow, Miss Faber, and London the next day," says Captain Browning, smiling at the thought. It has been a very pleasant crossing, but all anticipate the joys of the land. The captain turned out to be a thoroughgoing seaman, and good company as well. He made some excellent suggestions for changes in the Lorelei's sail set, which increased her speed and stability significantly, and which pleased me greatly. We had discussed changing the rigging of the sails on the mainmast from fore-and-aft to square sails, but I felt it best to leave her a brigantine. If we were to change her to a brig, she would be less maneuverable than in her current condition, and there have been times in my life that I have felt a pressing need to get away very quickly.
Higgins comes up from below and joins us in gazing upon Merrie Olde England. Back in Boston, I had told him that he did not have to accompany me on this trip—his being a rich man now, and all, and my being in safe and capable hands—but he replied that there was his dear old dad in Colchester, whom he'd like to see. I can understand that ... and ... some friends up in Brideshead whom he wished to revisit. Hmmm ... don't know about that, but it ain't my business. "Besides, Miss, you might insist on being married, and I must be there for that. Remember, I am expected to be Best Man at that blessed event."
Back in the present, I say, "Captain Browning expects we will dock tomorrow, Higgins. Is it not exciting?"
"Indeed, Miss. Well, we'd best start getting you cleaned up and back in proper attire."
As I follow my very dear Higgins down into my cabin, anticipating a good hot bath and some serious pampering, I see a boat being put into the water. It will carry Captain Browning's purser, a Mr. Blake, into Bournemouth, where he will disembark and make his way to London overland, to ensure that we have a fine berth waiting for us when we get there, and to announce our arrival, so that all who wish to greet us shall be able to do so.
Oh, Jaimy, please be there!
Chapter 9
We are warped into our berth on Whitten's Dock, and there are many there to meet the Lorelei Lee— yes, very many, but, no, not the one I so desperately want. No, there is the Purser, there are wives and sweethearts of some of the men aboard, there is Captain Browning's wife and family, but there is nothing ... and no one ... for me.
Hearing me sigh, Higgins, who stands beside me, says gently, "Perhaps the Dolphin was called out to some light duty and will be back shortly."
I put my hand on his arm and nod. Thank you, Higgins, for trying to make me feel better.
Captain Browning's wife is welcomed aboard for a joyful reunion with her husband, introductions are made, refreshments are served, and then heartfelt goodbyes are said. Finally the entire crew, which had been paid off yesterday, disappears into the streets of London—some in coaches, most on foot. When all is said and done, it is only Higgins and I who stand in the quiet on my deck.
This morning I had donned my white Empire dress, which I had bought in Paris last year—high in the waist, puffy in the sleeves, and low in the bodice—thinking it might please Jaimy. Now it just makes me feel foolish ... and exposed. The very wise Higgins has my cloak over his arm, ready to ease my mind.
"I sure hope Ian McConnaughey succeeded in putting together a good crew, and that crew is nearby," I say, a mite uneasy in the silence after all the hurly-burly. I don't like having my ship completely unmanned and unguarded. Where, then, are my bully boys?
"I am sure he has, Miss, and..."
It is then that we both see the one coach still left on the wharf.
What...?
It is soon made plain.
The doors of the coach open and Messrs. Carr and Boyd, black-suited agents of British Naval Intelligence with whom I am very well acquainted, appear and stride up the gangway.
Oh, Lord, what now?
Higgins and I exchange glances but say nothing as the two approach us.
"Good day, Miss Faber," says Boyd, his fingers to the brim of his hat. "If you would come with us, please. The First Lord sends his compliments and requests your presence."
I was not able to don my forearm sheath for my shiv, but I know that Higgins does have his two small pistols tucked into the waistcoat he wears under his outer jacket, so that does gives me some comfort.
"Your cloak, Miss," says Higgins, holding up the garment. "And we shall be off with these two fine fellows."
"Ahem ... Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Higgins," says Mr. Boyd, "but just Miss Faber will come with us for now. The First Lord will call for you later."
Higgins's face darkens. "I do not like this," he whispers into my ear.
"They probably just want to thank me for all my fine service in dropping several million pounds sterling in gold into His Majesty's coffers," I say, with a bit of a shaky laugh. "After all, Jaimy did say everything was well now twixt the Crown and me. And I now count the First Lord, Sir Grenville, to be my faithful friend, and even the stern Mr. Peel, as well. So all should be fine."
"We shall see, Miss," says Higgins. He places my cloak around my shoulders and pulls the hood up over my head.
"Thank you, Higgins," I say. As he fastens the clasp under my chin, I lean into him and whisper, "If I don't come back by nightfall, contact my lawyer. Immediately." With a mutual squeeze of hands, we part.
Down the gangway, across the wharf, and then I am handed up into the black coach. Carr and Boyd climb in beside me and we are off.
I decide to not worry about the future and to fully enjoy the ride back here on my home turf, so I chatter merrily as we ride along, pointing out this and that. "Oh, it's so good to be back, lads!" I babble. "There's good old Admiral Benbow's Tavern, and there's the dome o' Saint Paul's, and ... wait a minute..."
Alarmed, I stick my head out the open window.
"Hey, we're crossin' Paternoster Street ... This ain't the way to the Admiralty, mates! It's on Whitehall, next to the Horse Guards, you know that! Wait ... What's going on here?"
They say nothing.
Sensing a trap, I pull the latch on the door next to me, ready to leap out, but the latch doesn't work; it just hangs there, limp and useless, connected to nothing. The coach lurches to a stop at the corner. A hopeless feeling is flooding over me.
"Lads, what are you gonna do to me?" I cry, trembling, my helpless hands clasped in my lap. "What will it be, a knife thrust to my belly, a bullet in my head, a...?"
Mr. Carr looks me in the eye for the first time since I have known him and says, "We are sorry, Miss." Mr. Boyd nods. Uh-oh ... I do not like the looks o' this, no, I don't.
Then the doors are pulled open. Carr and Boyd get out, and four men get in and array themselves about me. Two of them—big hard-faced blokes—sit to either side of me, and them I do not know. But the other two I do know and they sit opposite me, grinning. One is that damned Bliffil, who I could have expected to be here, but the other ... I sit rigid, astonished.
Flashby?
How is it possible?
"You are surprised to see me, you conniving little thief," he says, with a broad smile. "I thought you might be, since you undoubtedly considered me as good as dead, didn't you? Devoured by alligators on Key West—was that part of your plan, your very nicely placed little
trap? Oh, it was an excellent ruse, I must say. Yes, it was—and yes, those brutes got most of the pirates, but they didn't get me, because as you can plainly see, I am not dead. But you, Jacky Faber, will very shortly be as cold and dead as a stone."
Flashby leans forward and grasps me by the neck with his left hand and brings the back of his right hand hard across my face.
Oh!
"I managed to get up into a tree with those monsters snapping at my very heels. Over the treetops I saw your ship sailing away with what I knew to be your ill-gotten gains." Flashby is not smiling now. "I imagined you laughing as you did so. Laughing at me, yet again. It merely hardened my resolve to survive such that I might bring you down some day, you insufferable piece of gutter trash. And now I have you well in hand."
I throw my chin into the air. "You may rest assured that Lord Grenville will hear of this outrage, you miserable traitorous cur. And Mr. Peel. And the rest of my friends at the Admiralty, too. I shall tell them of your perfidy in joining with the pirate El Feo to cheat His Majesty of his rightful treasure!"
"Tell them all you want, since they are no longer at the Admiralty. That tedious bookworm Grenville has gone back to his dusty library. Peel is off on other duties. Dr. Sebastian is on a voyage to the South Seas. Baron Mulgrave is now the First Lord, and all he knows of you is what I, and Mr. Bliffil here, have told him. You have no friends. Do you understand?"
I do not have to reply. I am lost and I know it.
"Here, dear, let us have another," says Flashby, and he brings his hand across my face again.
Oh, God, it hurts, it hurts!
I begin to sob in pain and desperation.
"That's it, bitch, cry," he hisses. "Think of it, a week in that tree with all those monsters below, roaring, snapping their jaws, never leaving, day or night." He hits me again, and I try to hide my face, but the two men who sit beside me grab my shoulders and hold me up such that my face can receive the blows.
Flashby is not yet done talking. "Think of it. A whole week of living on bugs and slugs, licking the dew off the leaves in the morning for water. Think of that, brat!"
He hits me again. I flinch and taste blood in my mouth.
He continues. "How did I get out of that? A good fifty of the alligators waiting below to taste the Flashby tenderloins? Well, I shall tell you. Not all the pirates were immediately ingested by the reptiles. No, there was one in my tree with me, and in a nearby tree were three more, all of us in a similar fix. Mr. Bliffil, would you like a stroke?"
"Indeed I would, Mr. Flashby," says the vile Bliffil, reaching out and lifting my chin such that he might deliver a crushing, closed-fist punch to my cheek.
No, no, not again, not Bliffil...
"That's for shaming me on the Dolphin, snot. And here's another."
His fist slams into my face again and my head begins to loll upon my shoulders. I'm losing...
"We slept in the crooks of the tree, my sole companion and me. His name was Javier, I believe. A youngish man and not a bad sort. One morning I woke up, licked the leaves, and looked down upon the monsters slumbering below. Next to me, Javier was also asleep. I looked out across the trees and saw that our small boat was still anchored there in shallow water. I thought, I considered, and then I lifted my foot and shoved Javier out of his perch. He screamed as he fell and hit the ground. When I saw that the reptiles were upon him, I dropped out of the tree and ran for the boat. I gained the shore and found that the pirates in the other tree had seen what I had done. They'd taken it to heart and had thrown out the smallest of their number, shrieking, into the jaws of the beasts, and then had pounded down to the beach in all the confusion. We got in the boat, made it back to Cuba, and here I am. Are you not glad?"
Another fist slams into my face.
They take turns beating me till we reach our destination, and by the time we are there, I am bleeding from my nose and mouth and there is a cut above my left eye, put there by Bliffil's ring.
Dazed, I realize that we have clattered through a very familiar courtyard. We pass what I know to be the gallows and stop in front of a barred gate.
"I do hope you will enjoy your stay in this fine establishment." Flashby grabs my hair and lifts my hanging head so that I might hear his words. "But take heart, as I am sure your time here will be short—about as short as a hangman's rope. Take her."
The two thugs on either side lift me up and haul me out of the coach, then stand me up, weaving on my pins, before Flashby.
"Mr. William Brunskill is the hangman here, and he favors the short drop—only twelve inches or so. Thus, you won't die right off. You will gasp for breath and struggle in vain, yet no breath will get past the rope, and I shall watch you twist and turn until the life finally goes out of your wretched body. I'll be there and I shall watch your worthless form being taken down and thrown into the lime pit. And I will spit upon it, you may count on that!"
I am spun around.
"Take her!" yells Flashby. "Take her and throw her in the Condemned Cells, for that is surely where she will spend her last miserable days. Do it now!"
The two guards slam me hard against the outside wall for good measure, and then I am dragged through clanging gate after gate into the very bowels of the place, until...
I am thrown into a dark, dirty cavern. My face meets the grimy floor and the blood oozing from my face mixes with the dirt. I rise up on my forearms to look about me. I see smoked-stained curved vaults overhead and stone ledges below, and over all, the stench of an uncovered privy pervades the dankness. Haunted eyes from the forms huddled in rags upon the ledges stare down upon me. I hang my head in deep despair.
I am in Newgate Prison.
Chapter 10
It's been three whole days and nights since I was first thrown into this vile hole, and because I have seen no one except my cellmates, I know that I am to be allowed no visitors. Oh, I'm sure that Higgins is out there doing his best, and I do have other friends, so there is a small glimmer of hope—a very small one, to be sure. But it is there and I nurture it, trying to stave off the Black Cloud and not fall into an abyss of self-pity. But it is hard, so hard ... However, if I am to be hanged, I shall want to go to my end with some dignity, if only a shred, so I try to keep up the spirits.
Remembering how we had cared for our clothing back on the Bloodhound, I soon doffed my white dress and rolled it up, inside out, to keep it as clean as possible. I do have my cloak to wear over my undergarments. If I am to be hauled before some court, I will not want to look like a low beggar. There were already some stains on the front, blood that had spilled from my split lip, but I couldn't help that—and maybe those stains will gain me some sympathy. We'll see.
I look up at the narrow slits of light high above and reflect how me and the gang used to be able to get into Newgate Prison to deliver messages and small parcels of food from friends and family of the confined. But that was only into the other parts of the place, where they kept debtors and suchlike. We were never able to get right into the Condemned Cells, nay. They were locked up tighter than a churchman's purse. Oh, we could pass a note through the bars sometimes, but that's about it.
In spite of my present condition, I smile as I think back to those days when I, for a shilling a week for milk money for my baby Jesse, would slip in and out of Newgate on errands for the prison reform crusader Elizabeth Fry and her Quaker do-gooder cohorts. I knew her then as Miss Gurney, before she married Preacher Fry, and a fierce one was she. It is rumored that because she had some influence, she being from a banking family and all, she connived one day to arrange for certain ladies of the court—handmaidens to royalty and wives of judges and such—to be gathered in their carriages for a gay Monday outing, and while enroute they were driven to the gallows at Newgate at just the right time so that the shocked ladies within could witness, up close, the last twists and struggles of a sixteen-year-old girl. The poor condemned one, hanged for stealing a hairbrush, had been counseled and comforted by Mrs. Fry durin
g her final terrified days. Most of the fine ladies lost their fine breakfasts on the floor of their carriages that fine day, and many an influential courtier and many a stern, bewigged judge was denied access to his lady's bed that evening and many more... until something is done, Sir! And I mean it!
But, alas, I can't slip in and out of Newgate now, not like I once could, oh, no.
There are three girls in here with me, all condemned to hang the Monday after next.
The youngest of them is Mary Wade, a small scrap of a thing and all of ten years old, condemned to death for the stealing of a shawl. "This rich girl come down to the market and I was so cold and she had this purty thing 'round her shoulders and I didn't think. I just grabbed it and ripped it off her and ran ... There was another girl in my gang wi' me and when we was caught, she peached on me to get herself off. Now I gots to choke for it. 'Tain't fair..."
Then there's Molly Reibey, age fourteen, convicted for stealing a horse. "It was a joke, a lark, but then my uncle who put me up to it said he didn't have anything to do wi' it and there I was on this horse ... and ... people said I was there in town tryin' to sell it ... and I was taken and tried ... and here I am. Didn't do nothin wrong ... just a joke, just a prank ... and now I'm gonna die for it..."
And there's Esther Abrahams, a very beautiful girl of sixteen who was apprenticed to a milliner who accused her of stealing a piece of black lace. She protests her innocence— "I didn't do it, I didn't"—for all the good it's gonna do her. She is cultured, and has some social graces ... and she's a Jewish girl, too, which probably helped her get condemned.
Sometimes I think certain house mistresses accuse the young help of petty crimes just so they can be rid of them. Why? Perhaps a husband's wayward glance at a comely servant, or for mere convenience, I don't know. Sort of like drowning unwanted kittens, 'cept you don't have to watch their struggles as they die—unless you want to. It sickens me.
The Wake of the Lorelei Lee: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, On Her Way to Botany Bay Page 5