Curse of the Blue Tattoo: Being an Account of the Misadventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Fine Lady (43 page)

Besides the Royal Navy crew, there's bunches of other swells and nobs about, but nobody introduces me to none of 'em. Guess it's 'cause of the excitement of the moment. That midshipman looks like he'd like to be introduced, though, but of course he can't move from his spot. These boys weren't brought here to have fun—they was brought to serve the Captain and the Lieutenant. The Captain is a loud, garrulous fellow, but he seems a decent sort, for a captain, while the Lieutenant is a tall, thin, dark cove who's got a pair of mustachios that he continually twirls as his eyes go over the nearby girls. I know what's on his mind, and it ain't horse racin'.

Randall is standing at the rail with Clarissa on his arm. She must have forgiven him, or maybe she just considered it his right as a lord of the manor to cover whatever lower-class girls he wanted. Or maybe Randall came up with a real good explanation, which I wouldn't put past him—he's a clever one, he is, as I know right well. Whatever, she sends a glare in my direction, which I return with a smile and slight, ever so slight, curtsy.

I go to the rail myself, but not close to the young lovers, as I don't want to get into a down-on-the-ground-hair-pullin'-face-scratchin' fight with Clarissa just now, what with everything goin' on, and if I know anything about proud Clarissa by now, it's that she wouldn't be afraid to do it anyplace, anytime.

So I look out over the track, and the jockeys are starting to get on their mounts, the little men all in their colorful silks, each one different depending on the farm they're racin' for. I look around for the green-and-white stripes of House Trevelyne, but I don't see none—I don't see Pete, neither.

Uh-oh.

There's the Sheik, dancin' and prancin', but it's a groom what's leadin' him about, not Petey. I look at the Colonel and he's lookin' down at the track, too, and his mouth is set in a grim line around a cigar that is clenched tight in his jaws.

I spy the groom George working his way through the crowd toward us and I know what that means: Petey ain't
gonna make it. I hope he ain't dead, 'cause I've grown fond of the little man. George leans in and says something in Colonel Trevelyne's ear and the Colonel nods curtly and bows to his party and leaves the grandstand, but before he does, he motions for Randall to follow him.

I grab Amy's arm and pull her along. "Let's go, Sister. Things are going wrong and we must do what we can."

"But what...?"

"Petey ain't gonna make the race." I turn and look at her, and her face is now empty of all hope. "Please, just go along with whatever I say, no matter what. No matter how crazy. Will you do it?"

She nods and follows me out of the box, her face ashen.

We hit the ground and race toward the jockey rooms and we meet the Colonel and Randall as they are coming out of Petey's room.

I give Amy an elbow and hiss at her, "Ask them what's the matter." as it ain't my place and I don't want to spook 'em.

"Father. What is the matter?" she says.

"Jarvis can't race. He's barely conscious," growls the Colonel. He takes his cigar and throws it to the ground. "Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"

"Can't you forfeit? Call off the bets?" asks Amy without much hope in her voice.

"I can forfeit, but I cannot call off the bets, and what, Daughter, gave you the idea that you can talk to me in this way?" His face is bright red and his tone is dangerous.

"I shall ride him, Father," says Randall, and he begins to unbutton his jacket.

"Aw, you're too damned heavy, boy, you'd surely..."

It is time, Jacky,
I says to myself, and I pulls out my asafoetida bag and clutches it in me hand and I steps forward.

"Beggin' your pardon, Colonel Trevelyne, but I have here in my hand an answer to your problem." I ain't used to talking up to large powerful men, so my voice shakes a bit.

"
What?
" shouts the Colonel, shock and outrage on his face as he stares down at me.

I pushes on. "I have this here powerful voodoo potion that I picked up when I was sailin' on the Caribbean Sea," I says, and waves the bag decorated with its strange symbols in front of him. "It's powerful strong magic, Sir, as it was put together by Mama Boudreau, herself, a most famous hoodoo conjure woman."

"Let me see that," orders the Colonel. He reaches out a meaty paw for my bag, but I shrinks back and holds the bag tighter to my chest.

"Oh no, Sir! Don't mess with the
gris-gris,
Sir, it's very dangerous in unschooled hands. It's very powerful stuff and no tellin' what would happen." I shivers and looks all scared at the very thought.

"Rubbish," says he. "Has this girl ever been to the Caribbean?" he asks Amy. It looks like he is ready to grasp at straws.

"Yes," says Amy, and then, incredibly, she says, "she has often spoken of her knowledge of the mysterious arts of that region."

The Colonel squints at me. "It's powerful enough to cure someone as sick as him?"

"Sir, it was made to raise the dead. It may not cure Mr. jarvis, but it will get him up."

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "All right. Go get him up. And hurry."

Ah. And now for the hook.

"I have terms, Colonel Trevelyne, and you may not like them." I'm puttin' up a brave front, but I'm shakin' inside. To talk to a colonel like this...

"What! What terms, girl?"

"If I rouse up Peter Jarvis enough so he can get on the Sheik and win the race, you must swear, on your honor as an officer and gentleman, to
never
again bet on
anything.
Not a penny, not a pound, not a dollar, not a dime.
Nothing
wagered ever again."

He balls his fist and lifts it high above me. "Why, you insolent piece of baggage...!"

I cringe and hunch my shoulders, and wait for the blow, but the blow does not come.

"Father, please!" say both Amy and Randall together.

I open my eyes. The Colonel is standing there, and he is a bit shrunken, like the air has gone out of him.

I have no mercy. "Do you so swear?"

"Yes," he says, quietly. "I swear."

"All right," I say, all brisk. "Amy and Randall, I'll need your help. Randall, get everybody out of Petey's room." I cross my arms at the wrists over my chest like I'm a voodoo princess and I put my head back and slit my eyes and start into a low chant, "
Hey-ya, hey-ya, hey-ya, hey!
" over and over and follow them in.

We surge into Petey's tiny room and there are people in there standing around him lying there in the bed. Petey's mouth is open and his face is gray and he looks half dead. "Everybody please leave," says Randall, curtly. They look
confused. "Out!" he roars this time. "Now!" And out they go, falling over each other in their haste. Randall's blood is up.

As soon as the door is shut, I say, "Randall, put your back to the door and let no one in! Amy, help me!" and I flip my hat to the floor and start to struggle out of my dress. "Randall. Turn around!"

Petey's silks are hanging on the wall with his boots beneath them. Amy has undone the buttons on the back of my dress and I flip it over my head. Off with the shoes and stockings and I pull off my slip and—"Randall, turn around!"
Oh, to hell with it, there's no time!
I put my thumbs in the waistband of my flouncy drawers and pull them down and step out of them. I reach for the silk pants...

"Don't ... don't let 'em..."

Petey's talking! His eyes flutter open. I dash to his side. "Don't let 'em what, Petey? Don't let 'em..."

But he passes out again and there's no time to try to bring him back.

I go to the wall and get the silks. I sit on the edge of the bed to pull on the white stockings and then stand and tug on the tight pants and buckle 'em below the knees, then the loose, blousy green-striped top, which'll hide what I got up there. On with the boots—they're a little big, but they'll serve.

There's the call of a trumpet outside.
Hurry!

I take the white silk scarf I had seen last night when I visited Petey and I wrap it around my lower face. "Tie it in back, Amy! It can't fall off or all is lost!"

"But why...?"

"'Cause the other jocks won't race against a girl, is why! Male bleedin'
pride,
is why! Now, tie it! Tight!"

She does it. I take the green cap and cram it way down on my head and head for the door, Amy, terrified, in my wake.

At the door, a red-faced Randall stands and says, "I..."

"Later, Randall," I say. "Let us out and let
no one
else in. When we come back we'll give three raps and then two. Got that?"

He nods and opens the door and we rush out.

There is a roar from the crowd as I head for the track and the Sheik. I stop halfway there and make a great fakery of dou-blin' over and coughin' loudly, as if seized by a spasm. I steal a glance up at the Colonel, who is back in his box lookin' at me and standing a little straighten I give it a few more coughs, as deep and disgustin' as I can make 'em, makes a show of bein' a bit weak and wobbly on me pins, and then I go to the Sheik and put my foot in George's intertwined hands and I'm up in the saddle, and
Oh, he knows me, he does.
The Sheik gives me his big rollin' eye and whickers a greeting as I get my feet in the stirrups and settle in and take the riding crop from George and stick it in my right armpit. I don't want this small whip 'cause I wouldn't want to use it on the Sheik, but I take it anyway 'cause it'll look wrong if I don't. I pat his neck and he dances around a bit—he is ready to go, no mistake.

"Glad you could get up there, Petey," says George. "I had my doubts, for sure." He adjusts the cinch on the saddle. "Now watch out for the big bay horse—that jock Muir from Tenbrooks Farms don't mean us no good. At the start you'll have him on your right, and that bastard Thayer over there on that hammerheaded roan'll be on your left at the start, so you know what that means."

What? What what means?
I thought we just started running and the fastest horse wins and that's the Sheik, who'll run away from all the others and we'll win. All of a sudden I'm thinking that there might be more to this and maybe I don't know what I'm doin'. I want to blurt out to George just who I am sitting up here and what the hell is he talkin' about, but the fewer people what know about this the better, or the secret will be out and the race will be forfeit and all will be in vain, so I just give a low grunt and another cough.

"I'd go wide on the first turn if I was you. You'll lose some ground but the horse'll make it up on the straightaways. Good luck to you, Pete. There's a lot ridin' on this."

I nod and grunt and throw in a racking cough and there's the trumpet call for the horses to parade by the grandstand and I take the reins and somehow get him in line and it's all I can do to keep him there. What with all the other stallions and mares around, he's in a fine lather and in no mood to be good. Fine. It's his job to win the race, not to be good.

We come off the line and head for the starting positions. The crowd noise is nothing like anything I've ever heard—there must be a thousand people here, counting the grandstand and those circling the track. Grooms take hold of the bridles and pull the horses to their spots, and it is a very brave groom who puts his hand on the Sheik's bridle. We are third in from the rail, it having all been decided by the drawing of lots, and George was right about the two to either side of me—they look like the meanest of blokes and they're both glaring at me. I can't let 'em look too close, so I coughs and leans forward and hisses in the Sheik's ear, "Scream, Sheik, scream!" and he rears back on his hind legs and does just that, he screams out his defiance to all those who would
dare to come here to his own kingdom and challenge him, to shame him, and to take his mares. It is a fine show.

"Mind yer mount, jock!" shouts Muir.

"Sod off," growls I, as deep as I can. "Mind yer own nag!"

A tall man with a red sash across his belly goes to the end of our line and then takes ten paces forward. He has a pistol by his side. All eyes are on him now, so I don't got to worry about Muir or Thayer peerin' at me.

The man holds up his hand and the crowd falls silent. He takes a deep breath and bellows, "Ladies and Gentlemen! The race is to be twelve furlongs, once around the track and up to the finish line in front of the grandstand." I look forward and see the white line drawn with lime on the track! He raises the gun, "Ready." There is a hush. All us jocks point our tails skyward and lean forward.

He fires! The crowd roars as twelve thousand pounds of muscle, hide, and bone surges out of the gates, and the first thing that happens is that Muir brings his horse a sharp left, right into us and forces the Sheik to miss his footing and stumble, and Thayer on the other side does the same thing and the Sheik almost goes to his knees, and Muir and Thayer pull ahead of us. The Sheik screams in anger and I can hear his teeth snapping at the other horses, but I urge him forward—
run now, fight later
—and he gains his footing and his muscles gather under me and he charges down the track after the rest of them. A sob chokes me—I messed up, I messed up bad—we are dead last!

But the Sheik don't sob and cry—all he wants to do is run and beat the others back to wherever the hell they come from and he don't care about nothin' else and he flies down the track with his ears laid back, and by the time we are approaching the first turn, we have passed one, two, now three, four! We are catching up! We are flying!

We lean into the first turn and I see that Muir and Thayer are running first and second, with a big chestnut running third. There's a short straightaway before the next turn and we pass two more horses, leaving only the front three. As we get close to the middle of the turn, Thayer, who's on the inside, lets his mount drift a little to the right, leaving an opening at the rail.

An opening! If we can get through there we'll save distance being on the inside 'cause there's less ground to cover and we'll be in the lead and we won't never let go of it! I urge the Sheik forward toward the opening and he goes for it. Poor trusting horse to have such a poor
stupid
rider. As soon as we get close, Thayer pulls back to the rail and Muir comes alongside to the right, and I realize to my horror that we're trapped! Boxed in!