Curse of the Blue Tattoo: Being an Account of the Misadventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Fine Lady (11 page)

Dear Jaimy!

A ship! At long last a British warship! It's now the 27th of September and my month-long letter shall now go out to you! It is the
Shannon
and I must gather up all these papers and make a packet and I must make my plans to get out and go down to the docks!

Blot blot kiss kiss and Godspeed this letter to you!

All my love forever and ever and ever,

Jacky

I think about telling Amy about my plan to go to town today, but then I think better of it—better she should just think I am off with my dear Gretchen again, and that makes me think that maybe I should take Gretchen down cause it would be faster but, no, best not to attract notice. I bind up the packet of letters and the miniature of me, which I know ain't good enough but I'm sending it along, anyway, and I bind them up in oiled paper that I got from Art class to keep them safe and I get some sealing wax from Penmanship and drops a great gob of melted wax on the edge of the folder
and then presses me thumb into it to hold it together and make it personal-like and then, after Penmanship, I tucks it in my bodice and shoves me whistle up one sleeve and me shiv up the other cause who knows what I might need it, and then I am off and out through the kitchen and out into the world. I've got a couple of hours and I am sure to be back before tea.

I cut by the side of the school so no one sees me go and cross Beacon Street and I plunge right into the Common amongst the black-faced sheep who go
baa
and I push their woolly fat rumps out of my way and I joyously run down the swale, by the cows and goats. I come out on Common Street and go up that to Tremont and then down Tremont till I hit Court Street. I don't know these streets except for their signs as I'm just heading pell-mell downhill to the docks where I see the
Shannon
sitting all pretty at the wharf.

Now I'm goin' on Court Street and I know it's that 'cause there's a courthouse there and behind it a jail and next to that, oh, Lord, there is a pillory with its head hole and hand holes. I'd seen poor blokes in these stocks in London, with their heads and hands stickin' out about to die from tiredness and shame and people throwin' stuff at 'em, and there's a stake there, too, prolly for the whippings. I hurry past all that.

Court Street turns into State Street and that leads down to Long Wharf, where the
Shannon
is moored alongside.

It is a glorious day with the sun shining and the wind whipping the
Shannon
's flags about, and she looks in wonderful trim all polished and painted, and I trips it up the gangway and the Officer of the Watch, who is a very well-turned-out young man, comes up before me and says, "I'm sorry, Miss, but no females are allowed on board without—"

"Begging your pardon, Sir"—and here I does my best and lowest curtsy and brings the eyes up under the eyelashes—"I come not to visit but merely to ask that you carry this letter to my very dear friend Midshipman James Fletcher of 9 Brattle Lane in London," and I hand him the letter.

He bows and takes it and says, "I am acquainted with Brattle Lane and will consider it an honor to convey it to a fellow sailor who is lucky enough to be in the favor of one such as you."

I blush the blush and bat the eyelashes and say, "
Vous êtes très galant, mon capitaine,
" proudly using some of my new lady talk.

"
Et tu es tres belle, Mademoiselle,
" he says. I do not miss the familiar
tu
but I let it pass.

"Thank you, Sir," says I. "And the mail you carried with you here?"

"Already delivered to the post office, Miss. Sorry." Ah, well. It's too early for a letter from Jaimy. It's only been a month or so.

I'm looking about me at the ship with its lace and shiny brass and things so familiar to me. I look up at their foretop and my throat tightens and my eyes mist up. It is very close to the
Dolphin
in all things, and I thinks I'd better leave now before I make a fool of myself, something I find I'm very good at.

The young man notices my distress and says, "Depend upon it, Miss. Your Mr. Fletcher shall receive this letter."

"Thank you, Sir. Good-bye." And I turn and go back down the gangway and try to walk with my head up away
from the ship. The old sights, the old sounds, the creaking, the ... No, I will be strong.

When I am a safe distance from the ship I let myself slip over into a few tears and then I look out over the harbor. There is a wonderland of wharves down here. There are at least fifty wharves with ships at em just within my sight. If I was higher, I'm sure I should see at least twice as many. It is a seafaring town, no mistake about that, what with all the chandlers and shipfitters and victuallers and the taverns and the ropewalks, the huge long buildings built solely for the making and twisting of long lengths of rope.

I feel better now, knowing that my packet will get to Jaimy's house.

I don't want to leave the familiar sights and sounds of the port just yet and I figure I've got some time before High Tea and prolly wouldn't be missed, anyway, so I climbs up on a piling at the end of the pier and look about at the scene spread out before me, all flags and rope and pitch and tar and wooden ships and iron men, and I pull out my whistle and start to play.

I start out with "The Mountains of Morn," and then keepin' in the slow and sad mode, I does the "Londonderry Air," that sad, sad song of a father sending his son off to war to the sound of the calling pipes.
Oh, Danny boy...

"Luffly, Miss, just luffly," I hears a voice say. "But could it be that you'll play sumthin' a bit more merry for poor John Thomas and 'is mates what had had enough of sadness and woe and hard times?"

I pops open my eyes and sees a group of sailors standin'
in front of me. They look like they're just off the ship and heading for a bit of fun. A huge red-bearded brute seems to be the one what spoke, him grinnin' from ear to ear and flippin' a coin in an arc toward me.

The beggar in me reaches out and snatches the coin from the air without thinkin' and drops it down my front to free up my fingers and I hops off the piling and rips right into "New York Girls," a real rousin' tune that's sure to please this crowd.

It does. They whistle and stamp and some of 'em roar into the chorus of "
Oh, you New York girls, can't you dance the polka
" and John Thomas crosses his arms and starts in to dance, which causes his mates to cheer and shout, and so I starts into dancin', too, and that gets 'em cheerin' louder, and so I goes faster and faster and I had forgotten how much I love this singin' and dancin' and showin' off that I completely loses myself in it all, I love it so, and then John Thomas crows out with, "You can't match this step, girl!" and I taunts back, "Can, too!" and, though a part of me thinks that maybe I shouldn't be doin' this, I lifts up my skirts to show the steps and I does the step he did and then I tops it with one of my own and then...

And then I notice that they've all stopped dancin' and singin' and foolin' around and are slinkin' back and lookin' at somethin' over my shoulder. Then I feels a heavy hand on me shoulder and I hears a squeaky male voice that says, "Come with me."

I turns around and looks up into the sweaty face of a man with round, fat, pink jowls.

"Who are you?" I ask, all fearful and stupid and not likin' this turn of events at all.

His eyes are almost buried in the folds of his cheeks and they peer down at me with a feverish glint. He wears a black hat and a coat with a high collar that bites deep into the flesh of his neck. He carries a stout stick.

"I? Who am
I,
it asks? Well, I'll have it known that
I
am Constable John Wiggins, the High Sherwiff of Boston." He smugly chuckles. "And
you,
my girl, are a dirty little twollop what's under awest for Lewd and Lacsiwious Conduct!"

He's got me in the jail now next to the courthouse that I saw on my way down to mail my letter, back when I was happy and didn't know it, and he prodded and poked me with his stick the whole way here with me wailin' and beggin' for mercy but not gettin' any and once I tried to run away down an alley but he caught me and clamped his hand on me neck and I'm cryin', "
Let me go let me go let me go...
" And he says, "
Let you go? I'll let you go when your back is stwipped and stwiped!
" And I wails, "
Stripped and striped, oh no!
" and he keeps his hand on me neck the whole way back and again I see the stocks and the horrid whipping post,
oh, please...

Now we're standin' in an open space in front of some cages and he goes over me top part and finds me shiv tucked up me sleeve and looks at it and gives a low whistle. "Well, you are a rum little tiger, ain't-cha? And with a sharp tooth, yet." And he grins and says, "We'll have to find out if you've got any more teeth on you, won't we now?"

"Oh no, Sir, please," I pleads.

He kneels down in front of me with a grunt and says for me to hold me damn tongue or he'll fetch me a whack alongside me head and so I shuts me mouth on the tears of
shame that are rolling out of me eyes and down me cheeks as he sticks his hand under me dress and runs his hand up the inside of me legs and I gots to stand there and take it and take it till I thinks I'm gonna lose me mind and me chest is racked with sobs and I starts a high keening sound and my spinnin' mind thinks over and over
Dirty and shameful yes, shame on you Jacky Faber the finest of ladies, oh yes just the finest of the ladies, and oh Jaimy I'm so sorry, this is so dirty and shameful, I'm so sorry, I can't help it I can't help it I—

"So. Up the skirts again, eh, you old dog?"

Dimly, I see through me shame and misery that a stout woman has come into the room.

The constable removes his hand from messin' with me lower parts and stands up to face the woman.

"Now, Wife, I was doing my duty checking the mis-cweant for contwaband," he says, all red in the face. "Just look at this wicked blade, Goody. We should stwip the female down, we should, as she might wewy well have another."

Missus Constable casts him a shrewd eye and says that we'll see about that. She pats me all around and sticks her hand in all me private places, then spins me around and does it again and says, "There's nothin' there, 'cept this toy." She holds up my pennywhistle for her husband to see and then flings it into the nearest cage, where it clatters across the stone floor. Then she puts her hand in the middle of me back and shoves me into the cage after me poor whistle.

"Get in there, you little hoor," she says. "And you can stop with yer caterwaulin', as your tears will buy you scant pity here." She takes a large key from a string around her waist and jams it in the lock to my cage and turns it home
with a large clack. "This will be your new home, sweetie, at least till we take you out in the morning to Judge Thwack-ham's court. Then it'll be out to the whipping post with you, for sure!"

She gives me a big gap-toothed smile. "You sleep tight, now."

The constable and his wife have left the cell block and I am left alone to take stock of my surroundings and to contemplate my doom. Mistress is gonna kill me, of that there is no doubt. But will I be publicly whipped, too?

There is a narrow wooden bench along the back wall. Next to it is a slop jar. At the other end is a water bucket with a ladle in it. There is a tiny window up high and through it I can see nothing except that night has fallen. That is all.
The shame the shame, why couldn't I just have mailed the letter to Jaimy and gone hack home, why cant I he good, why cant I ever he good, why cant...

I go over and sit on the bench and I reach down and pick up the whistle and put my fingers over the familiar holes, and it gives me some comfort as I sit there and wait for whatever's gonna happen to me.

I notice that there is another cage that butts up to mine and has the same bench and same slop jar in it. Other than that, there's a pile of dirty rags in the corner.

I don't want to think about what they're going to do to me or what Mistress is going to do to me, so I lift my whistle and play, as I have done so many times before when I'm down and feelin' low, my "Ship's Boy's Lament."

I'm about halfway through it and I'm hittin' the high notes as long and as mournful as I feel and—

"That's lovely, Miss, but maybe some other time as my poor head is throbbin' somethin' awful and a high tune ain't quite the thing for it right now and poor Gully MacFarland is more in need of a drink from your bucket than for a tune from your pipe."

The pile of rags in the next cell has risen up and become a man. Sort of a man. What once was a man. A very dirty and tousled man. A man who reaches out a grimy paw through the bars toward me.

I shrink back against the wall.

"Now, now, Miss. It's just a drink from that bucket of water that you have there and I have not and that I am wantin' right now. just a little drink of water to soothe the poor throat of Gulliver MacFarland, the Hero of Culloden Moor, who has fallen on hard times through no fault of his own, the good Lord only knows."

I look at the water bucket and its dipper and then I put my whistle back up my sleeve and go to it. The water don't look none too clean—there's a couple of dead spiders floating in the scum that sits on top of it. I pull up the dipper so that the spiders and the scum slide off the water left in it and I take the full dipper and walk across the cell. Being very careful not to have any part of me or my clothing within reach of his outstretched hand, I stretch out my arm and pass him the dipper.

He brings the ladle shakily to his lips, losing a lot of its contents on the way up. He sucks avidly at the water, some of which goes in his mouth and the rest of which runs down through the grizzled stubble on his chin, down his neck and into the filthy lace collar of his shirt. Then he stops suddenly and his ashen face turns a paler shade of white
and his eyelids droop and he lets the dipper slip through his fingers and clatter to the floor. He staggers back to his bench and flops down and sticks his head in the chamber pot and throws up, long and loud with much cursing and horrible and disgusting retching sounds.