Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (34 page)

“We did then, Your Honor,” said Mr. Brown, with grim satisfaction. “And the sentence still stands. I suggest that it be carried out. Today.”

Judge Tragg considered this. “Hmmm. I do hate suspended sentences—unless the suspension is at the end of a rope—as they tend to clutter up the books. Hmmm. Whip her now and hang her later. I rather like the neatness of that. Has a certain judicial finality.”

He thought further on this, then pronounced, “Very well, take her out and administer the strokes, and—”

Someone opened the side door and yelled out, “They are going
to
whip Jacky Faber!” The crowd out there greets that news with a roar of dismay.

“Sergeant at Arms, do your job and close that damned door!” shouted Judge Tragg. “Is there no security in this place? Has Boston descended into complete anarchy? Has it gone completely mad?”

The Sergeant at Arms manfully tried to get the door shut, but the crowd outside pushed back against him. Finally, with two of his cohorts, he got the job done.

The Judge, seeing what has just happened and hearing the cries of the crowd outside, changed his order.

“The execution of the order to administer twelve lashes to the back of this female shall be performed today at two o'clock this afternoon. Take her away and put her in a cell until such time. Make her ready for her punishment. Bailiff, go to the State House and have Governor Gore send down a contingent of militia to maintain order during the proceedings.”

He brought down his gavel hard on his Bench. “Court is adjourned till two o'clock!”

 

James Emerson Fletcher

About to Abandon Boston

and Jacky Faber Forever

 

Journal Entry, August 3, 1809, continued

Having received the crushing blow of J. F. refusing to meet with me or to even acknowledge my presence, and having been informed of her impending whipping at the courthouse this afternoon, I have shaved my face, cut my hair, cleaned out my rooms and caused all my personal belongings to be carried down to the
Ciudad de Lisbon
for my possible imminent departure.

I say “possible” for I will most probably be under arrest for Obstruction of Justice, and I do not care if I am, for, no matter what she is, I will not see her beaten in public. Putting the remains of my costume on—cloak, hump, eye patch, and slouch hat—I take my Bo stick, call for Ganju Thapa and his Gurkhas, and go out into the street and turn, with grim determination, up the hill to the courthouse, with my Gurkhas behind me. I look up at the tower clock and see that it says one fifteen. Must hurry to see this done.

However, I do not complete the turn, for I stop when I hear the sound of men marching, the sound of a drum, and the sound of a deep male voice singing . . .

 

There once was a troop of U.S. Marines,

Went marching up to Boston, O!

For our Captain resolved to see

Our little Jacky all set free,

When we went marching up to Boston, O!

 

I am shocked to see a squadron of U.S. Marines, resplendent in their deep blue uniforms with white cross-belts, black shakos on heads, rifles on shoulders, all marching in close-order quick-step and, at their head, is the officer who sang. He is dressed similarly, except that he has a single white cross-belt with a gold swab upon the shoulder, and wears a front-to-back cocked, with similar decoration; a sword hangs by his left side and he carries no rifle, merely the riding crop favored by Marine officers for the enforcement of discipline cradled in his right arm. He is, of course, as my ill-willed gods have directed, First Lieutenant Randall Tristan Trevelyne, United States Marine Corps.

It is plain that they have marched up from the USS
Chesapeake
, which has just warped itself out into the harbor, presenting its starboard side to Boston. I notice that, curiously, its guns are run out.

“Squadron, Halt!” he calls.

The entire unit comes to a perfect stop: perfect dress-front; perfect dress-right, perfect. Even in my turmoil of mind, I am impressed. I am about to push on when he says, “You there! Hunchback! Come over here!”

I grit my teeth and decide to stay in character for one last time. I limp toward the arrogant bastard, him standing in full command role, whilst I limp, bent over to stand before him.

“Where are you going?” he demands.

“I am going to the courthouse to prevent a miscarriage of justice.”

“I suspect we are going to the same place with similar purpose.”

“Perhaps.”

He laughs. “You, one man with only seven rag-heads at your back?”

“I will see it done.”

“You might, but you will also find yourself in jail for a long time if you succeed. Is she worth it? You, poor fool, have obviously already decided that she is.”

With that, he pulls out his riding crop, whips it around, and knocks my hat off my head and it falls to the ground.

“Maybe you'll do a bit better without the silly disguise, Fletcher. It is time for you to lose it.”

My Bo stick flies almost of its own volition from my shoulder into The Buzz of Angry Bee and knocks Trevelyne's own hat forcefully to the dusty ground, and then returns to The Crouch of the Wary Leopard, the ready position.

“Pick up my hat, Randall, and give it back to me,” I say through clenched teeth.

Randall flushes with anger and goes to the hilt of his sword, but my stick whirls again into The Strike of the Angry Mongoose and it lands, rather painfully I hope, on the back of Lieutenant Trevelyne's hand, pinning it down.

“My hat, Randall,” I repeat, “and then I will return yours.”

Trevelyne glowers at me for a moment and then smiles and says, “Well played, Fletcher. We shall have to duel sometime—stick against sword—and see how that plays out. However, we have business to attend to and time marches on.”

He glances up at the clock on the tower. “It is one forty-five. We'd best be about it. They've probably got her well trussed-up by now.”

“Sergeant Munster!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Aye, Sir?” says a Marine, breaking ranks and coming up next to his commanding officer.

“Pick up the gentleman's hat and hand it back to him with my compliments.”

The sergeant dutifully bends down and does it, and I relax from Angry Mongoose and place it back on my head. Then I dip the end of my Bo stick and slip it under the crown of Randall's hat and lift it to hand it back to him.

“Your hat, Sir . . . with my own compliments.”

Randall considers, chooses to laugh, and says, “Good sport, Fletcher, you have a rare wit, for an Englishman. Now, it does not do for us to scrap like little schoolboys, does it? No, it does not, for we must haste to the whipping post and see what we can do for our wayward little school girl who is about to have her skirts lifted and given a well-deserved switching.” He dusts off his hat and places it on his head, sticks swagger stick under arm, and says, “Shall we go to accomplish what we can on her behalf? Good. Munster. Take charge of the column, count cadence and all that, and follow me, on my command.”

“Aye, Sir.”

He then comes up to me as I adjust my disguise.

“So, you will stay incognito? Well, I am sure you have your reasons, and perhaps it will play out well here. We shall see.”

He falls in beside me as we continue up the hill. “Tell me, why did you hide yourself from her in that getup? I, of course, spotted you right off—the way you walk, the silly story of Chopstick Charlie and Lieutenant Fletcher being sent off to Rangoon or some other god-awful place to have his addled brains unscrambled. I am surprised that she did not, quick as she is. Perhaps, as I have heard her say before, ‘People see what they expect to see,' and she did not hark to her own observation.”

In answer to his question, I merely say, “Something very important came up . . . or down . . . between us. I will say no more on that.”

“Very well, Fletcher, and I shall ask no more,” he says, “except to say that I surmise that you think too much . . . But, hark! We are here! And there she is, tied to the whipping post! Ha!”

I see her face peering in wonder around the rough post at us coming toward her. I, in turn, gaze at the tremendous crowd that has gathered for this pitiful spectacle. But I pay no attention to that, for I see, beyond her bound and kneeling form, the hated figure of Constable Wiggins, his rod upraised and ready to strike.

“Go, Fletcher!” says Trevelyne. “Make your play and we will back you!”

I need no further encouragement as I charge forward, full of grim determination.

 

And so it happens that I am eventually brought out and tied to that hated stake at exactly two o'clock August third, in the Year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and nine.

I am surprised at the size of the crowd. It looks like the entire population of the city is on hand for the festivities, and while I generally do like being the center of attention, I could well have taken a pass on this. There are mobs of the Irish I helped bring over here, as well as the old guard represented by Captain Warren and his Sons of Boston. At least Pigger's crew was disbanded and not here to witness my pain and public humiliation.

When I am first brought out, my hands bound and my ankles hobbled, there is a great roar as the crowd surges forward. I see Arthur McBride at the head of the Irish contingent, sitting atop the Shamrock Hose, Ladder & Pump Company wagon with Molly Malone by his side, her arms wrapped around his waist. He wears his gleaming copper helmet and balances his speaking trumpet on his knee. Captain Warren is similarly decked out on the seat of his own fire wagon. The two glare at each other with undisguised loathing.

Yes, there is Mrs. Shinn, at the head of a gaggle of her COWS, all of them looking
very
smug and satisfied.

Arrayed at the side of the Shamrock wagon are Davy, Jim, and the rest of my
Nancy
crew, holding belaying pins and looking properly murderous.

And there is Ezra, of course, now with Amy at his side and Higgins, too, bless him, standing off to the side.
Well, Amy, I hope you enjoy seeing me get my comeuppance, sister, I really do.
I refuse to meet her eye, but I have the feeling she seeks mine.
Who cares . . .

Judge Tragg has seen to it that an armchair be brought out for him so that he might view the proceedings, his Court Reporter by his side so that this charade might be put down all legal like. The Judge has brought his gavel with him and he pounds it on the arm of his chair, bringing the outdoor court to some sort of order. Prosecutor Hamilton stands at his other side, looking properly stern, while Constable Wiggins has his hand on the rod, looking positively beamish.

I note there is also a squad of uniformed militia standing in a line in front of the crowd. They look rather worried and I reflect, even in my state of current distress, that the Governor might have sent a few more.

I am taken—shoved, rather—to the stake by Goody Wiggins, our Worthy Matron, and forced to my knees. My hands are unbound and then retied on the other side of the post. A strap is then put around my waist and tightened, binding me to the pole.

Then I feel Goody's fingers work at the buttons on the back of my dress, and it falls to the side and my back is bared to my waist. There is a great
hissss
from the mob, but neither of the two Wiggins pays it any mind. A strap is put around my middle and pulled tight, to hold me securely to the stake so I will not be able to wriggle out of the way of the lash.

Through all this, the military part of my mind hears the low throb of a drumbeat. Wot?

At last, all is secure and ready . . .

Judge Tragg stands to pronounce sentence . . . “Twelve strokes of the rod as ordered by the High Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts! Let it be done!”

There is a low moan from the crowd—the Irish part of it, anyway—as Constable Wiggins stands back and eyes my bare back. He grins his piggy grin and draws back the arm that holds his whippy stick . . .

At that moment, hearing the drumbeat louder and marching cadence being called, I peer around the whipping post and see . . .

Wot? The Hunchback is running toward me with great purpose and determination, and behind him is Ganju Thapa with his Gurkhas, their curved swords at their sides, and behind them is a contingent of United States Marines led by a grinning Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne . . . and yet, behind all that, is the USS
Chesapeake
, lying out in Boston Harbor, with its starboard side guns run out and pointing right at us!

What the hell is going on?

“This is an absolute outrage!” shouts Judge Tragg, but he can scarcely be heard over the roar of the astounded crowd as the Hunchback charges forward and, with his stick, catches Wiggins's rod on its way down to my back.

“You dare, Sir, to stop a diwect owder of the Municipal Court of Massachusetts?” demands Wiggins, his eyes popping, his jowls wiggling in surprise.

“I do, Sir,” growls the Hunchback, and with that he whips his staff around and, in one fluid motion, both disarms the Constable of his rod and hits him hard across his fat buttocks. Wiggins screams and flees, disappearing into the nearest opening in the massed crowd, which, unfortunately for him, turns out to be a convenient gap in the line of Gurkhas. His shouts of pain are suddenly muffled.

It occurs to me at that moment that, tied and bound as I am, I will survive this day. Humiliated, yes, shamed, yes, already been that . . . and even if lashed and grievously hurt and bloodied and scarred, I will survive . . . and that clears my mind of its terrors and I am able to think clearly on just what is going on around me. And it is all turning out to be very interesting. For instance, while the crowd's notice is focused on the confusion in the court, I am able to notice that two of Ganju Thapa's Gurkhas have something big and squirming in a black bag on their shoulders and are carrying it down in the direction of Chopstick Charlie's ship.
Thanks, Chops, that almost makes up for your big double-cross, and I hope Constable Wiggins performs well as one of your galley slaves, I really do. Oh, and do not spare the whip.