by L. A. Meyer
Paraiso looks over at Second Mate Fletcher for confirmation of this order, coming, as it is, from a commonly dressed unknown female who has already made bold inroads into the Shannon’s precious stores. Jaimy nods, and Paraiso produces the goods.
“You there, Rees,” growls Jaimy, “get yourself gone.”
“Aye, Sir,” quavers Midshipman Peter Rees, but he does not immediately go. Instead, he risks punishment by reaching over and boldly grasping my glass, in which a half inch of red wine is left. He lifts it. There is a smear on the rim where my greedy lips have been, and he places his own lips on that spot and tosses back the remaining dram. “There,” he announces to all within. “I can now state with full conviction that I have indeed shared a glass with Puss in Boots herself.”
“Out!” roars Lieutenant Fletcher. “And keep your goddamn mouth shut about this!” And Midshipman Rees does indeed flee, barely evading Jaimy’s booted foot on his way through the door. If it turns out that he is stretched over a gun and given a number of strokes of the Bo’sun’s rod for his cheek, so be it. He will bear them gladly, for he will have a story to tell.
“Little blighter,” grumbles Jaimy.
“Ah, Jaimy,” I say, bouncing up and standing before him. I finger the hem of my blouse and look up at him from under the brim of my cap. “Forgive the lad. Remember when all the Brotherhood was dressed this way and our station in life was very similar to his?”
His face softens and he smiles. “Yes, when you made us all wear that thing. We hated you for it then, but I rejoice to see you in it now.”
As he smiles, all my former resolve melts, and it is now quite plain that I have already taken him back into my heart and have forgiven him whatever has gone before. I place my hands upon his chest and look into his lovely gray-blue eyes and . . .
“Ahem. As pleased as I am to see the two of you reconciled, we still have a problem. A big problem,” says Ezra Pickering. He does not wear his habitual secret smile.
Jaimy and I seat ourselves and are attentive.
“Very well,” says Ezra. “Here is the situation. A pouch, brought to this city by you on the Nancy B. Alsop and addressed to the British embassy, was intercepted by U.S. authorities and found to contain highly incriminating material, to wit: detailed plans of Fort McHenry.”
“Wot?” I exclaim. “That fort is high up in theChesapeake Bay! I’ve never even been there! And besides, that was a diplomatic pouch—I am required by maritime law to convey such things!”
“That is true, if it were indeed a diplomatic pouch, which it was not.”
“But it was sealed . . .”
“It was sealed all right, but not with the imprimatur of any legitimate government. The pouch was closed with the corporate seal of a small sugar plantation in Havana.”
Damn! I thought those soldiers who delivered the pouch to me in Cuba looked damned seedy for Royal Marines. I should have checked!
“Furthermore,” Ezra goes on relentlessly, “the packet containing the plans was addressed ‘Agent J. M. Faber, State Street, Boston.’”
“But they can’t be serious! The plans of an obscure fort—”
“Serious enough,” murmurs Higgins, who has been musing on all this. “The same plan of the very same fort was what got the esteemed revolutionary General BenedictArnold branded as a traitor and his confederate Major John André hanged as a spy.”
As always, when the possibility of my being hanged is brought up, my hand goes to my throat.
“And,” continues Mr. Pickering, “the packet is initialed ‘Hon. H. F., British Intelligence.’”
That gets me to my feet.
“‘H. F.’! It can be none other than Harry Goddamned Flashby!”
“Indeed,” says Higgins. “He could have used any initials, but he chose to use his own. He plainly wanted you to know just who was doing this to you.”
“I should have killed him when I had the chance!”
“A disagreeable solution, true, but one that might have been wise, in hindsight,” agrees Higgins. “However, that is idle speculation.”
“Yes,” says Ezra. “But what is certainly true at this moment is that you must flee until this thing is cleared up.”
“But why? This is obviously just a clumsy frame-up.”
“True, but I’d rather try to rescue your reputation in absentia than from the foot of the gallows.”
“Good point, Ezra,” I agree, my hand once again to my throat. I reflect momentarily on its softness and vulnerability.
“Tell me, Mr. Fletcher, where is your captain?” asks Higgins.
“He and the First Officer are at the State House at the Governor’s reception. I was invited but begged off.”
“Would he offer our Miss Faber a ride back to England so that she might clear up this mess with the real Admiralty people?”
Jaimy shakes his head sadly. “I believe Captain Broke would extend the invitation to the renowned Lieutenant Jacky Faber, but not to a fugitive from American justice.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and then says, “No, I shall return with my ship and then meet with your friends Dr.Sebastian and Mr. Peel to secure evidence of your innocence. I will return with it as fast as I can.”
I put my hand on his arm. Poor Jaimy, poor me, poor us.
My eyes are beginning to leak, but I do not let them. Sniffing back the tears, I put my attention on the chart that Midshipman Rees has left on the table.
“So I must run and hide. The question is where.”
“Dovecote?” ventures Higgins.
Ezra shakes his head. “First place they would look.”
“New Orleans? Havana?”
“I couldn’t get the Nancy B. manned and ready fast enough—the federals are probably out at the Shannon’s gangway right now. And in New Orleans, I would be arrested for the murder of Clarissa Howe.”
New York would be good, but too far, I’m thinking. New Bedford, yes, but, I’ve got no desire to round Cape Cod in this weather. Plus, I want to remain a bit closer, so as to stay on top of things. Hmmm . . . I know . . .
I look around the room, then up at the small, opened windows, and announce, loud enough for any eavesdroppers to hear, “I will go to Provincetown. It is a large enough city so that I can easily hide there. Write to me, Ezra, under the name of Sarah Perkins, General Delivery.”
Saying this, I put my finger to my lips and point to the windows. My companions sagely nod—we all remember how the good but naive Captain Hudson of HMS Dolphin blew our cover as simple sponge divers during the Santa Magdalena expedition by careless talk in his cabin. There are no secrets on a ship.
Having announced a fraudulent destination, I pick up Midshipman Rees’s slate and chalk and write: I’ll go toPlymouth, under the name of A. H. Leigh.
They nod and I take up my napkin and rub out the message—after all, Paraiso is still in the room, and who knows . . .
“How will you get there?” asks Higgins.
“Same way I got here—my small tender is tied up to the port rail.”
“But the storm?” asks Ezra. It is, indeed, working up into a real gale out there.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be all right. But I will need a set of oilskins.” My own set hangs in the closet back at the Pig. I did not have a chance to grab them.
“Paraiso,” barks Jaimy. “Go to the midshipmen’s berth and get Mr. Rees’s oilskins. She is of a similar size and I’m sure he will be delighted to give them up.”
Paraiso leaves and I pick up the slate again and on it write: Thanks, Peter Rees, for your kind company and the use of your ’skins. Lt. Jacky Faber. Under my name I draw Faber Shipping’s fouled anchor emblem.
Jaimy, upon seeing it, says, “I, of course, am going to erase it in front of him, for his impertinence.”
“You will do nothing of the sort, Mr. James Emerson Fletcher, as I know you for a good and kind man,” I say, stretching up to place a kiss upon his cheek. “Ah, here’sParaiso with the gear.”
“There a
re men at the gangway, Sir, arguing loudly with the officer of the watch,” says the steward, looking concerned.
“We’d best be out there to try to delay them,” says Ezra. “Goodbye, Miss. Try to remain safe, and know we will be doing our best to clear your name.”
“My sentiments exactly,” echoes Higgins. “I regret I cannot accompany you.”
“You will render me and Faber Shipping better service here, John, rather than out on the wild sea or some twisting highway or whatever road I will find myself upon. Farewell, both of you. Know that you are my dearest friends.”
With bows, Ezra Pickering and John Higgins take their leave, and I cram myself into Mr. Rees’s oilskins, which do, indeed, fit—first the trousers tied at the waist with drawstring, then the top, and finally the sou’wester hat with its under-the-chin tie. I am ready to go.
“You look like some child’s toy,” says Jaimy, taking me by the shoulders and gazing fondly down into my face. Then he looks out to the weather working up outside. “But I don’t like this one bit.”
“Don’t worry, Jaimy,” I say brightly. “It’s just a little rain. Am I not rated Able? And what else can we do? Hide me in the Shannon’s chain locker till we get to England? Might be fun for a bit, me and you down there, but nay, it’d be damned uncomfortable after a while, and I’d be found out and you’d be in trouble. So no, I must flee. Be quiet and kiss me, Jaimy, if you truly love me, ’cause I gotta go.”
And he does, long and long . . . and then I’m out the door and off and gone.
Chapter 5
For all my brave show in front of Jaimy on theShannon, I really am just a cowardly fair-weather sailor, especially when a raging tempest can be avoided. I had hardly cleared Boston Harbor when the downpour increased twofold. The water in the hull of the Star was up around my ankles—my feet were turning blue—and I began looking around for some sort of shelter. The wind was beginning to slacken, but the rain showed no sign of abating as darkness descended.
When I finally left Massachusetts Bay behind me and crossed the mouth of the Neponset River only to see lights coming on in the great house of Dovecote, I lost all my former resolve. I had thought merely to pull up on a beach, tie to a rock, and cram myself into the tiny cowling and hope that the rising water didn’t come up high enough to soak me down, but, nay. The sight of those lights meant one thing to me: shelter from the storm . . . that and the warm companionship of friends, food, and maybe a drink. It was enough for me to put the tiller over and head toward Dovecote’s boathouse, and to hell with the risk . . . I would take precautions.
After tying the Star to the boathouse dock, I trudged up to the house and went in through the servants’ entrance in back and renewed my acquaintance with the staff, all of whom knew me well—well enough not to wonder at me appearing unannounced and in dripping oilskins.
Before heading upstairs, I pulled a five-dollar gold piece from my money belt and singled out Edward Hoskins, former stable boy and now footman and hostler. “Eddie. Will you do this for me? Take a blanket and go up to the gatehouse and spend the night there. Take your horn and blow it loud and shrill if anyone you don’t know approaches the gate. Here’s five dollars for your trouble.”
“You don’t have to pay me for that, Miss,” says Edward with a grin directed at the maid sitting next to him at the long dining table. “And I won’t take a blanket. I’ll just take Susie. She’ll keep me warm enough.”
There’s laughter all around.
“I shall not go to the gatehouse with you, Edward Hoskins,” says the girl named Susie, tossing her curls about and putting her nose in the air, “as I would fear for my maidenly virtue.”
More laughter, leading me to suspect that she will, indeed, go to the gatehouse with the young hound. Ah well, I’m all for young love . . . and she’s just seen him get the princely sum of five dollars, and maybe he might buy something nice for his little Susie, now, mightn’t he?
“Who’s upstairs for dinner?” I ask. “I shan’t go up if there are too many people to offend with my presence.”
“Only Miss Amy, and Master Randall and his mistress, Miss Polly Von,” says Susie, with a bit of a prim sniff. “I don’t think you’ll offend any one of them.” Count on the chambermaids in any household to know exactly who is sleeping with whom. “Dinner has already been served and cleared away.”
Good, I’m thinking. Randall being a First Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps is a bit of a complication, as he would be honor bound to arrest me if he knew I was wanted by federal authorities, but I shall handle that by keeping the Faber mouth mostly shut on that matter.
“Mind your manners, Susan,” warns Blount, the butler. As befits his station, he is Head of Household, and when dinner is served, he sits at the head of the downstairs table. Susie buttons her lip and says no more.
He is about to carry up a silver tray, upon which sits a bottle of Portofino and three glasses, when I take it from him and add another glass from the overhead rack, saying, “Pray seat yourself, Mr. Blount, and enjoy your dinner. I shall take this up.”
He yields up the tray with a bow, and I head topside.
Ah, yes, the grand dining room of Dovecote Manor, with its long polished table and glittering chandelier, where I had enjoyed one of my greatest triumphs, as well as one of my most inglorious downfalls. The triumph was in being seated, as a mere schoolgirl, at this same table with the high and mighty of New England and holding my own over Clarissa Worthington Howe’s attempt to demean me because of my low origins. My downfall involved Clarissa’s later, and very successful, attempt to get me stinking drunk by plying me with sweet bourbon whiskey, such that I was carried out of the ballroom in total and complete disgrace.
The three of them are seated midtable: Amy Trevelyne across from her brother, Randall, and by his side, my old friend and fellow member of the Rooster Charlie Gang of Cheapside Urchins, the beautiful Polly Von. All are startled by my sudden appearance in wet oilskins.
“Jacky!” exclaims Amy, rising in delight as I pull back my hood. Randall and Polly also get to their feet with similar exclamations of surprise at my entrance. “I did not know you were back!”
“I just brought the Nancy B. into Boston this morning, and believe me, Sister, my life has changed dramatically since then—some to the good, and some to the bad, too. But here, let me first pour the wine. Everybody sit.”
I uncork the decanter and fill the four glasses. Then I raise mine and say, “Cheers!” and toss the sweet, musky wine down my throat. Ah, that does warm the Faber belly! Afterward I apologize, “Sorry for my rudeness, mates, but it was cold and wet out there.”
Saying that, I strip off my oilskins, revealing myself in my mercifully dry sailor togs. Since everybody present has, at one time or another, seen me in my Natural State, as it were, I do not think I’m breaking any new, scandalous ground here, and, indeed, no expressions of shock are heard as I sit myself next to Amy and refill my glass. There is a tray of small dessert cakes on the table, and I dispatch a few of them down my throat. Mmmm . . .
“Perhaps now that you have refreshed yourself, Jacky,” says Randall, in his usual languid fashion, taking another pull at his own wineglass, “you will tell us just why you were out on the sea in this maelstrom?” He is looking absolutely splendid in his blue–with–red–facings United States Marine Corps uniform.
I must admit, the very handsome but somewhat dissolute Randall Trevelyne and I have a bit of a past. Upon meeting me here at Dovecote several years ago, his main objective appeared to be getting my knickers down to my ankles—and the randy hound almost succeeded in that, me being so young and foolish at the time. My plan, on the other hand, was to play the flirtatious tease so as to break up his marriage engagement to Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, of which union both Amy and I did not approve. I did succeed in that endeavor, to my delight at the time, but ultimately to my great chagrin, for she certainly paid me back in full for that ill-conceived little gambit. Oh yes, when Cla
rissa was quite through with me, the good ship J. M. Faber was indeed burned to the waterline.
“Well,” I reply, after swallowing a mouthful of cake, “I am once again being pursued by the civil authorities, and this time I am completely innocent of any of the charges against me.”
“That’s what you say every time,” says Amy with a bit of reproof in her voice. “What is the charge, and who is after you?’
“On the advice of my attorney,” I say primly, “I am unable to say. However, Ezra will be here tomorrow, and all will be made plain to you then.”
Amy visibly brightens on that news. Although she constantly protests “I am not ready for that sort of thing” whenever I bring up the subject of love and marriage in general—and Ezra Pickering, Esquire, in particular—I know she is pleased at the prospect of his arrival tomorrow.
“Probably involves some sort of larceny, if I know our Miss Faber,” suggests Randall. He taps a fingernail on his wineglass, signaling that it needs refilling, and Polly reaches for the bottle to top it off. While Randall was at one time in hot pursuit of my somewhat puny self, he now has eyes only for his beautiful Polly Von.
“And what, may I ask, Lieutenant Trevelyne, are you doing here rather than performing your duty on your ship? I see her nowhere around. Where is she?” I ask, to change the subject. “Could you have already deserted your post?”
He laughs. “No, the noble Chesapeake is laid up in the yards in New York, undergoing repairs. There is scant use for a Marine sharpshooter there, so Captain StephenDecatur has graciously granted me leave.” He looks over at his consort and continues, “I begged my coy mistress here to join me in New York, but she refused. The willful thing would not agree to come. Can you imagine that?”
Polly speaks up. “We are mounting a production of the Merchant of Venice at your Emerald Playhouse, and I get to play Portia,” she says, looking over at me. “Couldn’t pass that up, now could I?”