Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (19 page)

Ezra rises and goes to his front window and I follow him to look out. I see a man bent over, bearing a staff and walking with a limp. He has a red beard, long lank hair, and wears a slouch hat and a black cloak. He is, indeed, a hunchback afflicted with a crooked spine.

“Oh, the poor man, to have to bear such a burden!” I say. “Shall we give him alms?”

“I don't think that will be necessary, Jacky,” replies Ezra dryly. “He seems well fixed. As a matter of fact, he has taken rooms at Faber Shipping and has engaged the services of Attorney Malcolm Mudgeon. Furthermore, he has rented a storefront there across State Street, very close to our own premises. You'll see that a brass plaque has been affixed above the entrance, to wit:
HOC Shipping, Purveyors of Fine Spices and Other Rare Goods from the Orient.
Handbills have been passed out proclaiming that a ship is due in shortly, laden with a rich cargo from the East. Other than that I do not know much because he is very secretive.”

“Damn. Competition. Just what I need,” I say, seething. “Using my connections to Charlie Chen, I had hoped to sew up the Oriental trade. I guess I was too slow.”

“Well, we shall see, Jacky,” says Ezra, turning at a knock on his office door. “Ah, here is Mr. McBride, to report, I am sure, on our fire insurance branch.”

Indeed, it is he, I realize with delight.

“Jacky, my love!” says the rogue upon seeing me. “Welcome back!”

I give him my hand and present my cheek for his kiss.

“Thank you, Arthur,” I say. “But I thought Molly Malone was your love. Hmmm?”

“She is, m'dear, but you were my first love and there will always be a place in the McBride heart for your own fine self.”

“Enough of your lying tongue, you rascal,” I say with an affectionate laugh. “What have you to report, Fire Captain McBride?”

He places some papers in front of Ezra and says, “Five fine new green shamrocks now adorn the sides of select houses. The Shamrock Hose, Ladder, and Pump Company has sold five new insurance policies this week alone, and here is the cash paid for the premiums,” he says, handing the bills to Ezra. “The rash of fires in the town has not hurt business at all.”

“There have been many fires?” I ask.

“More than usual, my love. It is summer and the heating fires are cold in the fireplaces, so you'd expect the number of blazes to go down, but it has not. We suspect that Pyro Johnny has been about drumming up business for Pigger O'Toole. Oh, how that brute does shame the name of O'Toole! I am sure there is not a drop of true Irish blood in his filthy veins.”

“I am sure you are right, Arthur,” I say. “Has there been trouble?”

“Ah, yes, there have been a few skirmishes between our lads and his scum, but we were able to send 'em packing,” replies Arthur. “And if it comes to a full-scale war, well, we've all got our faithful shillelaghs hangin' by our sides, ready to be put to good use on the heads of O'Toole's thugs or on the skulls of Warren's Sons of Boston bunch o' Nativists, too.”

I see that Arthur's well-polished club hangs from a thong on his own belt.

“I hope it will not come to that. I only seek to do honest business and to do no harm to others,” I say, primly.

That gets a short bark of a laugh from Arthur. “The word
honest
in the same sentence with the name Jacky Faber, now? The former privateer, buccaneer, and self-proclaimed Queen of the Ocean Sea? Why, it fair boggles my poor mind . . .”

“All right,” says Ezra Pickering, peering at one of the papers, “let's get back to business. Now, what is this extra expenditure, for guard duty, of twenty dollars?”

“Ah,” says Arthur. “Well, in view of the spate of fires, I thought it best to post a guard at the Pig and Whistle and the Emerald Playhouse during the nighttime hours to prevent our little Pyro Johnny from setting loose his much-loved flames on those two structures. As you know, these places were built before the Great Fire of 1804, after which all buildings in Boston were required to be made of brick, not wood.”

I know what's coming, and I wait for it, and sure enough, Ezra delivers . . .

“The Great Fire that occurred at the end of your first visit to our fair city, Jacky, and—”

“And that wasn't all my fault and you know it!” I snarl, a bit steamed.
Geez . . . I get blamed for everything.
“Now let's get off this subject. If we are done here, I should like to go back to the Pig. If you would escort me, Arthur? Your arm, please . . .”

We bid good day to Ezra as he bows us out to the street. “Try to exercise some caution, Miss, as things are getting dangerously hot in this city.”

“Am I not always the soul of careful consideration in all my words and actions, Ezra? Till later then, cheers.”

He says nothing, but merely shakes his head and smiles.

 

“Is it not a fine day, Arthur?” I exult, putting my head to his shoulder as we cross the street. “Isn't it just the—wait. Look there!”

The mysterious Hunchback has re-emerged from the doorway of HOC Shipping. He begins to limp up the street when he spots us. He seems startled and fixes me with his eye. I can see that his other eye is covered with a black patch and he does have a thick red beard. Long lank black hair droops below his slouch hat and hangs before his face. Seeing that he must pass us on his way, he whips his cloak up to cover his lower face.

“Good day to you, sir,” I say as he hobbles past.
Might as well get to know the competition, I always say.
“Welcome to—”

“Good day,” he replies in a low rasp and continues on his way.

“Well,” says Arthur as we watch the apparition toil on his way down State Street, “certainly an ill-mannered bloke.”

“The poor man has reason to be bitter. He's not only a hunchback, a cripple, and half-blind, but also there's something wrong with his throat.”

“I'll wager he won't answer to the name ‘Lucky.'”

“Very funny, Arthur, but let us be on our way. We must hurry to the Pig for the COWS are marching today and we must be there to cheer them on!”

James Fletcher

House of Chen Shipping

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

To Ye Gods Who Mock Me,

I saw her today for the first time since I came to this wretched town. I knew that I would eventually gaze upon her, but I did not realize how much the sight of it would wound me. And, of course, for ye Gods of Discord to place her gaily smiling on the arm of that wretched Arthur McBride, well, that was admittedly a nice touch, I must say. How they must have cackled in glee in viewing their work.

I was on my way to our office to see Lawyer Mudgeon when I was surprised by the pair, and believe me, I shall not be so startled again. Know, too, when I say it took every ounce of the self-control taught to me by Master Kwai Chang to resist slamming my Bo stick against the side of that grinning Irish bastard's face.

I shall continue doing my assigned task, and then as soon as HOC's first ship arrives here, I shall be gone. I cannot wait.

But, oh, to see her shining face again . . . shining, yes, I know, but . . .

You do your job well, ye Gods of Jealousy and Pain . . . I am,

 

Your helpless pawn,

J. Fletcher

 

“Here they come!” shouts Joannie, leaning out over the balcony above the Pig's doorway and looking up the street. And sure enough, there they are, about fifty of them. They're all in neat ranks and holding up signs and banners proclaiming their cause, with drums booming out and the suffragettes chanting:

 

Votes for women, NOW!

Votes for women, NOW!

Peace, Justice, Temperance!

Votes for women, NOW!

 

“Come look, Clarissa!” I say, and stand to the rail. “There are some of our classmates! There's Amy . . . Dorothea . . . and over there's Caroline . . . and Rose, too! Hooray for all of you! Hooray!” I jump up and down and wave to all of them—I
do
love a parade.

Clarissa languidly strolls out onto the porch and surveys the scene. “Boy,” she says to Ravi, who has just returned from a visit to the docks, handing out Pig and Whistle wooden nickels. “Do go down and see about having a tray of refreshments sent up. My throat is rather dry and seeks relief.”

“Good idea, Ravi,” I say. “Glasses of sherry all around, sweet tea for you and Joannie, and have Molly come up here to join Arthur and bring up a pint of ale for him.”

The lad scoots out as the parade draws near. I notice that spectators, mostly men, are beginning to line the street . . . and the Hunchback is one of them.
Hmmm . . . interesting, that
. . .

Well, never mind him. At the head of the mob is stout Mrs. Shinn herself, head up and resolute, and beside her is . . .
oh, my . . .
Constance Howell, the
Bloodhound
's
Chief Scolder of Jacky Faber for Her Wanton Ways.

“Hello, Connie!” I shout. “March on, Sister! Votes for women, you bet!”

She hears my call and nods, a trifle shamefaced, I notice. Perhaps conversing with a saloonkeeper isn't on her list of proper things to do. Oh, well, we never will see eye to eye on some things, but I do recall that she was one of those girls in the
Bloodhound
's
dank hold who did hold fast to the end.

As the front rank draws abreast of my balcony, Mrs. Shinn raises her hand and bellows, “Ladies . . . Halt!”

And they stumble to a stop, in a reasonably military fashion.

“Greetings, Mother Shinn!” I crow out. “Sisterhood Forever!”

She does not reply, but only fixes a gimlet eye on me from below and cries, “Ladies . . . the Union Song . . . One . . . Two . . . Three!”

The drummer next to Mrs. Shinn starts up a steady beat and the song is begun . . .

 

Here we come marching, the Temperance Un-ion

Here we come singing, the Temperance Un-ion

Here we come praying, the Temperance Un-ion

Put a nickel on the drum and you'll be saved!

Put a nickel on our drum, and save another drunken bum.

Put a nickel on the drum and you'll be saved.

 

Hmmm
. . . I am
not
liking the way this is going
.

Ravi and Molly have appeared bearing trays, and I place the Faber rump on the railing and accept a glass of wine from Molly. Other glasses are passed around and the golden Madeira glows in the sunlight.

“Surely, Mother Shinn,” I call down, “you are on the righteous march for women's votes and not here to interfere with my honest business.”

“Your honest business?” She snorts. “Purveying spirits to weak men, destroying families, taking food out of the mouths of babes so that their fathers may get drunk and lie down in a stupor of filth and disgrace! And there you stand, like any common strumpet with your rum glass in your hand and mock me? Honest? I should say not!”

What? A strumpet? Why, you old . . .

“A pity that,” I spit back, getting well steamed. “I was considering a donation to your worthy cause.”

“Don't bother. We do not accept whore's gold as it has been tarnished by sin. We have heard what goes on in that place.”

“In the Pig and Whistle? The Emerald Playhouse? Why, Missus, it is just innocent fun. Bring the children—all will enjoy, I assure you.”

“That's not what I hear. Beware, girl, do not get above yourself. If you do, we will close you down.”

“Close me down? Close me down? What makes you think you can do that? I run a respectable house here, Mother Shinn, and I am a respected member of the business community.”

She bends her head to spit on the ground before me.

At that, I stand and say, “Friends, a toast to Mother Shinn. Lift your glasses . . .” and the glasses are, indeed, hoisted by all on my balcony—no, they do not contain rum but merely Madeira and sweet tea—but let Mother Shinn believe what she will, the mean old biddy. “A toast to the Committees on Women's Suffrage! May they prevail in their mission!”

“Hear, hear,” say my compatriots on my balcony. I do not hear that from the men who have gathered about on the street. What I hear from them is . . .
Silly women . . . to hell wi' them . . . Let 'em stay in their place, I says, keepin' house and sucklin' babies . . . that's what they're good for, nothin' but . . . Votes? Hell, yes, votes for us men, and the kitchen and scrubbin' up for them . . .

“And as for ‘nickels on your drum,' Mother Shinn, why, here's a whole bunch of them!”

With that, I scoop up a fistful of Pig and Whistle wooden nickels from Ravi's basket and fling them down upon her. Many hit the drum that sits next to her and make a light tapping sound before bouncing off to land in the street.

“Gather them up, ladies, for they are each worth a free pint at the Pig and Whistle! Come join us here at the end of your march to redeem them and we will all come together in good fellowship! I think it would do you a world of good!”

Mother Shinn raises her arm and cries, “Ladies of the Committee for Women's Suffrage . . . forward, MARCH!”

But it does not happen. The men on the sidelines have gone scampering for the tokens that lie in the street and there are many squeals from the ladies, who stand stunned as their skirts are brushed aside while the men seek out the wooden nickels, which promise a free, but brief, slaking of their constant thirst.