Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (15 page)

“And they would be there, you may be sure, Jacky,” she says. “But I do not want that. What I want is what you've got.”

“And what is that, Sister?”

“Freedom. Pure and simple.”

Well . . . What can I say to that?

“Mmmm . . . These are right good,” I say, bringing the Faber grinders down on yet another mouthful of salted roasted peanuts. Clarissa, who sits next to me at the mess table, grunts her agreement. We are both back in our sailor garb, after a fine three-day stay in Savannah, dressed in our best . . . or rather
my
best, Clarissa not having brought anything with
her when she embarked on this cruise. There were some excellent inns, Peter Tondee's Tavern being one, and we had a fine time, all our crew managing, for once, to avoid arrest.

Jemimah had fixed up a batch of the peanuts, first soaking the lumpy pods in brine, and then roasting them in her stove.

“Yes, m'am. And they will put some meat on your bones, girl, 'cause them goobers is full of oil,” she says. “Sister Clarissa could use some more flesh, too, as I see's it.” Jemimah shakes her head. “Skinny white girls, I swear, how do they get on in this world? That's why you two ain't married up yet. You know that to be true.”

Clarissa and I exchange a glance and both of us forgo a second helping of the admittedly delicious beans. After all, I have to stay trim to climb the rigging, and she has to fit into ball gowns without the aid of corsets.

“But won't it be kinda tedious, shelling all these peanuts just for a free handout at the Pig?” I ask.

“Don't do it, girl. Your customers got hands. Let'm shell their own goobers, otherwise they'll eat'm up too fast. Back in our quarters, we'd t'row the shells on the floor. They smell good when you walk on 'em, and easy to sweep up after.”

“And that's what the Pig will do, Jemimah, and we'll see how it goes.”

Joannie and Daniel have been loading up on hot peanuts at the stove, and Joannie paused long enough to say, “Auntie. We ain't heard what happened to Brother Rabbit after he got himself caught by the Sheriff and tossed in jail.”

“Well, children, you 'member how Sheriff John Coon done caught Brother Rabbit stealin' the Massa's cabbage and throwed his pink butt behind bars . . .”

Three
—
no
—four
heads nod avidly.

“And Brother Rabbit he pleads, his head stuck through the bars, ‘Sheriff Raccoon, why you doin' dis to me? You know I gots to feed my chillun?'

“‘I know dat,' says Brother Raccoon, makin' sure the door to the cage is locked tight, ‘but it don't make no difference to The Man. I got my orders. They gone hang your sorry ass in the mornin'. Sorry, Brother, but that's the way it is. Now, you want yore last meal now, or in the mornin' jus' before they strings you up?'

“Brother Rabbit thinks hard on this, then he say, ‘I'll take it now, Brother, so's I can enjoy it better, digestion-wise.'

“‘All right, then. Whatchu want to eat?'

“‘All I wants, Brother Coon,' says Rabbit, ‘is a whole pile of God's good goobers, roasted up nice and hot. I always liked 'em and I'll be able to tell the Lord when I see's him tomorrow just how thankful I was for Him providin' 'em to me and mine.'

“‘Well, that won't be too hard to do, Brother,' says Brother Coon. ‘I'll see that yore poor self has a whole mess of 'em right quick,' and Brother Coon goes out to get 'em.”

“But, Auntie,” pipes up Daniel. “Wouldn't Brother Rabbit ask for something a little more fancy for his last meal? I know I would.”

“That's 'cause you ain't as bright as Brother Rabbit, Brother Boy.” Jemimah sniffs. “Anyway, Sheriff Coon comes back in the jail and places a hot bushel of goobers outside Brother Rabbit's cell. Then he goes out the door and strolls home to have dinner with Missus Coon, leavin' Brother Rabbit alone.”

“And so this rabbit eats himself sick on the peanuts and then gets hanged in the mornin', which he got coming?” snorts Clarissa. “Some story. Any rabbit steals the cabbages on
our
plantation would find his tail full of buckshot, and him on the dinner table, never mind the hangin'.”

“Well, that ain't how the story goes, Cook's Helper Clarissa, and you ain't on your fine plantation now, so hush.”

Clarissa hushes, and Jemimah goes on.

“So as soon as Sheriff Coon is out the door, Brother Rabbit takes big bunches of the hot, oily goobers and, oh no, he don't eat, no. He tosses 'em on the floor of his cell and commences to stomp on 'em with his big hind feet till he git a big, greasy mess. Then he pick up a handful of the slop with his little front paws and spreads it all over his body, startin' with his head, then his shoulders, and finally to his narrow hips. He grease himself real good and then goes to the bars. He puts his head in between two of 'em and begins to push hard and
pop!
it slides right on through and Brother Rabbit knows he's got it made now, 'cause his head is his widest part. He wriggles a bit and the rest of him comes slidin' through.”

Jemimah pauses in her work and then concludes . . .

“Brother Rabbit slips out the front door of the jailhouse and then hops happily down the bunny trail, back to his wife and family, hummin' a little tune . . .

 

If you get to heaven, 'fore I do,

Just cut a hole and pull me through.

If I won't slide, then rub my hide,

With a whole mess of goober goo.

Take it easy, Brothers and Sisters . . .

. . . Go greasy.

 

Just then, Jim Tanner pokes his head in the door and says, “Ship, Missy, to the south, and comin' on fast. She's flyin' the red colors.”

A pirate!

I am topside in a second, followed closely by the others. Jim hands me my long glass and I head up into the rigging. When I gain the crow's nest, I put the glass to my eye and train it on our visitor. It looks like . . . But I can't be sure. “Joannie! Go down and get our Jolly Roger, and fly him from the masthead. Quick, now!”

There are a number of the passengers on deck enjoying the fine day and I order them below. “There might be trouble, ladies, and you're better off down there. Keep calm, now.”

Joannie rushes back into my cabin and returns with the flag, and soon the grinning-skull-and-crossbones is snapping from the mainmast above me.

Joannie appears at my side.

“What do you think?”

“Dunno. He might not be chasing us . . . but still . . . On deck there! Clear for action! Man the guns!”

I see the lads rushing to their battle stations below. Joannie does not have to be told; she, too, flies down to her duty as powder monkey.

Closer . . . closer . . . just who the hell are you . . .?

The ship, which appears to be a medium-sized brig, grows ever nearer . . . and then I can make out the flag . . .
Ha!

“Don't worry!” I shout down. “It's just Flaco! But stay at your guns just in case.”

It is well that I said that, for, when I put glass back to eye, I see that Flaco Jimenez's
El Diablo Rojo
is being chased by another, larger vessel. I have no doubt that Flaco has been up to no good, but still, I must go to the aid of my fellow member of the Piratical Brotherhood.

Damn!

I head back down.

“There's another ship behind Flaco's!” I say to Jim at the helm as my feet hit the deck. “Bring her about and we'll see what we can do for him.”

Jim throws the wheel over and the
Nancy B.
heels to the left and comes about. The lads leave their guns to climb aloft to trim the sails for the new course, and then drop back down to resume their stations.

We are slowed by our turn and drift back on a southerly course, as the two ships draw abreast of us. I put the glass back to my eye, and sure enough, there's Flaco Jimenez astride his quarterdeck, grinning at me and waving. Then there is a
craaack!
from the other ship and he ducks and is not grinning anymore.

“What's going on?” asks Clarissa, who has appeared by my side.

“Oh,” I say. “It's an old friend from my younger days. We spent a summer buccaneering in the Caribbean. He appears to be in a bit of trouble.”

She gives me a look. “What will you do?”

“As soon as I see what colors the other ship is flying, I will decide,” I say, my glass still to my eye. “Ha! She's flying the Tricolor!
Prolly one of Lafitte's fleet! Jim, hard left! Come up behind Flaco as he passes.”

“What's going to happen?” asks Clarissa.

I cut her a look as I slap my long glass shut and say, “We are going to have what is called an ‘action.' You'd best get below.”

Damn! I am short-handed! I wish I had John Tinker here! Damn!

Just then the pursuing vessel's bow-chaser lets go again . . .
crraack!
and
smash!
the ball crashes into our rail as we cross
El Diablo
's
wake and splinters rain across our deck.

Flaco, seeing what we have done, brings his ship about to aid us in this fight.

“Ready the broadside! Fire!” Davy, Thomas, and McGee jerk their lanyards and . . .

Craaack! Craaack! Craaack!

All our starboard guns pour forth their murderous fire. One of the balls plows into the water just short of the enemy ship but two slam into his side.

“That hurt him! Portside now!” The three gunners leap to the guns on the other side. “Joannie, Danny! Reload! Powder! Shot! Jim, bring her about! Hard alee!”

I see that Clarissa is standing there still. She did not go below. Very well . . .

“You, too!” I shout at her. “Follow Joannie! Get powder! She'll show you!” I give her a push in the direction of the hatchway, and she dashes off after the kids.

As the
Nancy B.
turns her head into the wind and comes about on the other tack, there is a long
boooooommmm
as Flaco brings his heavier guns to bear and fires them off. The French ship is hurt, but still he comes doggedly on.

Hmmmm . . . He shows more fight than one of Lafitte's captains would usually do . . .

The
Nancy B.
has completed her turn and the port guns now bear.

“Lads! Aim and fire when ready! Try for the waterline!”

Davy leans over his swivel gun, aims, locks it down, judges the roll of the ship, and then jerks the lanyard.

Crraaack!

Then the other two guns fire together . . .

Craaack! Craaack!

. . . and we watch . . . and yes!

Two of the balls hit the hull of the Frenchy, one of them right at his waterline, and I can see the water pouring in.

“Good shooting, lads! Reload!”

Joannie, Danny, and Clarissa have finished loading the starboard guns and rush to the port side. As they go, I see . . .
Hooray! He has had enough!

I grab Clarissa's arm as she goes by me. She turns to look and, indeed, the enemy is turning away, intent now on saving his ship from sinking. He, however, is not quite done. A puff of smoke appears at his stern and a low
boooommmm
sounds across the water. He has fired his stern chaser in a final act of defiance.

We wait for it and sure enough . . . the ball comes whistling toward us and I squeeze Clarissa's arm and . . .

WHOOOOSH!

The ball passes right between our faces. We stand such that our heads are a mere two feet apart—if that shot had veered one foot either way, the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls would have lost, in a rather grisly fashion, one of their very recent graduates.

Clarissa shudders, and I shake a bit, too, but then say, “Aye, that was close, Sister, but as the saying goes, a miss is as good as a mile. And you acquitted yourself well, Seaman Apprentice Howe, you should be proud. You can now truthfully say that you are a combat veteran in the fight against the French.”

“But I am not mad at the French,” she says, leaning down to pluck a small splinter from her ankle. “I am mad at you.”

“Ah, and a severely wounded veteran, and grateful to her commander, as well. If Faber Shipping ever has a medal struck commemorating this battle, you shall have one, for sure. And oh, look. Flaco is coming alongside.”

“Can you trust him?” asks a very dubious Clarissa.

“As much as I trust any pirate,” I reply. “But no, Flaco is all right.”

El Diablo Rojo
pulls up next to us, starboard side to, and Clarissa and I go to stand on my quarterdeck. I see faces I recognize and I wave and call out, “Coyote! Serpiente! And young Perrito, too!
Hola!
All of you! And could that be the mighty Chucho, mi amigo, come back to the Red Brotherhood? Yes, it is! I knew you could not stay away for long! The life of a simple farmer not for you,
como no
? I thought so! The Brotherhood forever!”

And there, of course, is Captain Flaco Jimenez. As soon as our gunwales touch, he is over the rail and bounding onto my quarterdeck, his smile bright, his eyes gleaming, his arms outstretched, beads and jangles dangling from his long braided black hair.

“Cara mia!”
he exults. “My little Inglese cactus flower has come back to her Flaco, as I knew she someday would, the good God be praised!”

He puts one arm around my waist and with his other hand grabs a hank of my hair and pulls me over backward. Flaco and other males of my acquaintance have discovered that, when they pull back the Faber head in this manner, the Faber mouth conveniently opens.

Flaco brings his mouth on mine and I am kissed with the purest of Hispanic ardor. It seems I often find myself in this posture when meeting up again with gentlemen friends—not that Flaco is in any way a gentleman, but he does have his charms.