Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (3 page)

"His name is James, you
dirty
thing, you! Pah!" spits Mrs. Fletcher. "Hattie, put her out!"

The girl rushes to the door and opens it.

Shattered, I stumble through the door and it slams behind me. I grab the railing and stand there stunned and disbelieving.
My worst fears ...
My chest is heaving and my heart is pounding and I think I'm going to be sick. I think I'm going to throw up. I think...

I hear the sound of a window opening behind me, and in a daze I turn to see that it is Hattie, the serving girl, who has opened it. She leans out and whispers loudly to me, "Don't you believe everything the old dragon says, Miss. Mr. James is home on leave and is out in the country with friends today, but he'll be at the races at Epsom Downs tomorrow. And, Miss, he always speaks most highly ... Ow! Oh! Mistress, please!"

The girl disappears back into the house and there are more cries of pain.

I stand there and bite my knuckles, thinking ...
I am sorry, girl, that you got a beating because of me, but I bless you for it, I do, for you have given me back some hope. I will see Jaimy and I will hear it from him.

I climb back into the carriage and take several deep, very deep, breaths to calm myself down.
Well, that couldn't have gone any worse,
I reflect, after I've collected my mind somewhat, and settle back in the seat.

"Cheapside, Coachman," I say to the driver. "The Admiral Benbow Inn, near Blackfriars Bridge."

We rattle off.

The coachman gets me to the Benbow, but he doesn't want to leave me off.

"It's a dangerous place, Miss, are you sure..."

"I am sure, and I thank you for your concern," I say as I pay him his fare. "Don't wait for me as I will be taking lodgings here." He drives off, shaking his head.

I pick up my seabag and look at the Admiral Benbow, sitting there on the corner of Water Street and Union. Was it only a little over two years ago that I stood right here on this spot, a beggar in rags, listening to sailors singing of Bombay Rats and Cathay Cats and Kangaroos? Then, ragged Little Mary Faber couldn't even go in the back door of this place. Now, with the Look—eyes hooded, head up, lips together, teeth apart—she sails right in through the front door.

"Ah yes, my good woman," I say to the astounded landlady behind the bar, frosting her with my Look, "I am Lady Faber and I have business hereabouts and I will have a room." With that, I snap one of my silver coins down on the counter. Then I brush off my fingers as if I am not used to handling money directly, because of my high station, don'cha know?

She eyes the coin greedily, with nary a thought in her mind to deny me entry.

"Yes, Milady," she says, scooping up the coin. "Jim, take up the Lady's bag, for Chris'sakes; don'cha know quality when you sees it?" Jim shambles out of the shadows and picks up my seabag. "The good room, Jim. I'm sure it will be to milady's likin'," she says, grinning a gap-toothed smile.

"I am sure it will be ... adequate," says I, growing not the least bit less haughty. "I will go up and refresh myself and when I come down in an hour, will you see that I have a basket of food prepared—breads, meats, cheeses, puddings? Some cider, perhaps? A large basket, if you would? Thank you so very much."

I follow this Jim up to my room, give him a penny for his troubles, and, after the door closes behind him, Lady Faber flops back on the bed and reflects that all the world's a fake.

A tousled head pops up from under the pile of rags and straw that is the old Blackfriars Bridge kip. It belongs to a boy of about eight years of age, and it is plain that he is the sentry posted to stay behind and watch and make sure that no one tries to take over the kip while the rest of the gang was out and up to the day's mischief. His eyes go wide at seeing me ducking my head under the edge of the bridge and entering the hideout. Scurrying outside, he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out three piercing whistles.

Three blasts—that was our old signal, too—
trouble at the kip! Everybody get back!
Guess it got handed down from gang to gang. Ah, tradition...

It all comes rushing back at me—the memories of this place. ... The kip itself, the place where we slept all in a pile of urchin, rag, and hay, sits up on a sort of stone ledge. I dust off a spot on it and sit myself down, placing the basket next to me. I don't remember the kip smelling quite this bad, but back then I was part of the smell and so wouldn't notice. The rest of it is the same, too—the river slipping by below, the heavy stones looming overhead, interlocking together to form the underside of the bridge, arching away in the distance. Those stones always scared me a bit, thinkin' that some day or night they would let loose and come down and crush us all like bugs. But they never did, and I guess they never will.

The boy comes back and sits down on the pile of old rags and smelly hay and stares at me, saying nothing. I don't say anything, either—I'll wait for the others to get here.

While I wait, I look about and think back to that first terrible night I spent in this place—the gang had picked me up in some dark alley where I had run to in grief and horror after my family had died and I had been put out in the streets in order to conveniently follow them in death—put out and placed in the streets by Muck, the Corpse Seller himself, may he rot in everlasting Hell for his crimes. But I didn't die, and Charlie and the bunch picked me up and brought me here, and the next day I was set to the begging and, after a while, this dank and forbidding place began to look like home. I shiver a bit, thinking of all that.

Soon there's the sound of pounding feet outside coming from several directions, and then a boy and a girl, both about twelve, come in. Then from the other side, two girls about nine and then another boy of the same age. The boys are all dressed in ragged shirts and trousers, most barely reaching their knees before turning into tatters, and the girls in formless shifts that come down to midthigh in some, midcalf in others. The shifts, once white, are now gray. One of the younger girls has tied up her hair with a piece of old blue ribbon that she undoubtedly had picked out of the trash. Her face is dirty, her hair is a tangled mess, and the ribbon itself is wrinkled and stained. Still, the sight of it touches me.

The oldest girl looks at me with deep suspicion plain on her face. I do not blame her—what's somebody like me, dressed as I am, doing in their kip? I look at her with special interest 'cause I know she's the me of a couple of years ago, and it is she who says, "Ain't nobody here wants to be 'dopted, Mum, so you best be on your way."

My, my. It's a great day for putting Jacky Faber out, I'll own.

"That's right, Mum. Now...," begins the older boy. I notice that all of them are carrying rocks.

"Now, now, mates," I say, turnin' back to the old talk to put them at their ease, "I ain't here to adopt none of yiz. I'm just here to visit me old kip and maybe find out what happened to me old mates what used to live 'ere with me."

There are snorts of disbelief all around.

"Nay, it's true, and I'll prove it to you," says I, and I point to a place between two of the overhead stones. "There's a leak there, and there, and there, but the biggest one is right there, which we called Old Guzzler, from the sound it made when it was really rippin'."

"That's what we call it, too," says one of the younger girls, shyly.

"There. You see? I lived here when I was with Rooster Charlie's gang, two years back. I was called Little Mary then, but you can call me Jacky now."

"I remembers you," says the older girl, coming closer to me now and looking in my face. "I was with Toby's bunch when you came that night to where we was livin' under the gratin' on West Street and said we should all come here 'cause Rooster Charlie was killed and we should put the two gangs together."

"That's right. And now you shall tell me what happened to my mates," says I, pulling my shiv out of my sleeve and opening my hamper of food. "But first, let's eat."

I open the hamper and their eyes grow wide and they all put down their rocks. First I take out a loaf of bread and slice it in eight pieces and put each portion in front of me and then I do the same with the cheese and the meat. When all is set out, I ask the boy to do the honors, to see if it's still done in the old way. It is.

He turns away and faces outward. I point at a portion and say, "Now," and he says, "Jennie," and one of the girls comes up and takes that portion.

"Again," I say, pointing at another portion. "Billy," and Billy comes up and takes his.

"Again."

"Mary."
Ah. Yet another Mary.

"Again."

"Me." That portion is put aside for the head boy.

"Again."

"Susanna."

"Again."

"Joannie." The older girl, the leader, takes hers.

"Again."

"Ben."

And that's the last of it and all fall to in the eating of it, me included. When we are done, I pass around small cakes and the jug of cider, which we all take slugs out of.

"Well, then," I say, wiping off my mouth with my handkerchief, which I have stored up my sleeve. Putting them at their ease is one thing, but nothing is gonna make me wipe my greasy mouth on the sleeve of my riding habit. "What can you tell me of my mates? Polly Von? Judy Miller? Hugh the Grand? Nan Baxter?"

Joannie takes a mighty swig of the cider. "A press-gang got our Hughie one day," she says, chuckling at the memory. "It were a true Battle Royal. You should have seen it, Miss. It took twenty of the bastards to haul him down, with all of us about throwin' rocks and curses, him bellowin' and layin' about with his fists, but it didn't do no good at the end. They bound him up good and proper and hauled him off, and that's the last we seen of him."

Poor Hughie. I hope you found good quarters, wherever you are.

"And Polly and Toby both disappeared one other day. They went off together and never come back. We think Toby was got by a press-gang, too, them gangs bein' right numerous and fierce around here. Polly, we don't know, she bein' so pretty and all ..." Joannie lets this trail off.

Our pretty, pretty Polly, the one that looked like an angel even under all the dirt. I so hope you're all right. But I do fear the worst.

"Nan went off with a country bloke, what come in for the big fair, who said he was gonna set her up as a barmaid in his tavern out in the country. I guess he did, 'cause she never come back," Joannie continues. It's plain she does the talking for this bunch.

"Now Judy, she was taken into service a while back by a man who hired her to take care of his old mum. We had a little party for her when she left. She must be awful busy with the old lady, 'cause she ain't been back to see us, she hain't."

I catch the slight edge of hurt in her voice. You're supposed to come back and take care of your mates if you had a bit of good fortune.
What happened, Judy, that you didn't?

"Is she near here?" I ask.

"Up on Bride Street, she said it was," says Joannie. "We don't go there as that's the Shanky Boys turf."

"I see. And what about Muck? Is he still around?"

"Aye, he is, the miserable bugger," growls Joannie, "but we ain't seen him in some months now. The constables is after him on charges of grave robbin' and he's layin' low. The word is out that sometimes he don't wait for people to die natural-like, but speeds things up a bit on his own." She sighs and goes on. "But he'll be back, and what's the difference, anyway—there's plenty more of his kind about, ready to sell our bodies should we die."

"Well, you must be careful and I must be off," I say, getting up. I pull my small purse from my jacket. "So what did you say your name is?" I ask the head boy.

"Zeke," says he.

"Do you share equal, Zeke?" I ask.

"We do," says the head boy, and heads nod all around.

"Good. Here's half a crown." Eyes widen at the sight of the coin. I put it in the boy's fist—I want to put it in Joannie's hand but that would shame him and cause discord in the gang, him being the oldest boy and all.

"Make it last, Zeke. See if you can get them some warm clothes for the winter, and here ..." I count out seven pennies. "Here's a penny for each of you to buy a treat tomorrow all for yourself that you don't have to share."

I put a penny in each outstretched hand.

"Good-bye, then. I'll try to get back to visit, but I don't know what my situation will be."

"Good-bye, Jacky," says Joannie. "We're glad you came," is all she says in way of thanks 'cause you don't thank a fellow gang member for sharing what they got.

I'm heading up toward Bride Street, thinking about how Judy always said she wanted to go into service for a fine lady, so maybe it worked out for her. We shall see.

As I cross Fleet Street, I see again the printer's shop where I used to sit on Hugh the Grand's shoulders and read the broadsides out loud, hopin' to get a penny or two from the crowd that would gather to listen, me being the only street kid that I knew of who could read, having been taught that by me mum and dad before they died. There's a crowd here now, too, but they ain't here to hear some half-naked urchin spout off, no, they're lined up to buy something, and I'm curious enough to go look to see what it is.

The owner, whom I recall as a decent sort, in that he didn't shoo away my filthy, ragged young self from in front of his business back then, is outside the shop hawking copies of something. A book, it looks like. I get closer.

"Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have it again!" he crows, holding up and waving a book above the heads of the crowd. "Sold out on its first printing and the sensation of London and all the English-speaking world, it is back in its second printing and available right here. Only one shilling a copy and guaranteed to please—I know you will not be able to put it down! And to think the plucky heroine of this grand story is a local girl, our own Mary Faber, whom..."

What?

"... I well remember standing right here where you stand today, the plucky little tyke who read the broadsides to the illiterate masses..."