Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (16 page)

He blanches and gulps. “So you mean to hold me for ransom, then?”

That sends me into gales of laughter. “
Ransom?
You?
Who's gonna pay for you? You're the meanest kid alive! Nobody wants you back! Don't you know that? Oh, your poor mother will shed a few tears over you, but that's what mothers do. She'll get over it in a while. And your dad? Oh, Mr. Upright Polk will puff up and maintain that he will
not
pay tribute to filthy pirates, no matter what. Nay, Master Edgar, you have made your bed and you must lie in it! Or not lie in it, as I doubt you'll ever see that particular bed again.”

I stick the pistol back in my vest. I know that whileEdgar did notice that I had reloaded the guns, he did not notice that I did not load them completely. I had no wish to accidentally shoot the lad, nor did I want to lose the skin on my ribs due to a misfire. I also know that Edgar is thinking of his own dear bed with a renewed fondness.

Whatever the state of Edgar's mind, I need to change clothes. I open my seabag and pull out my sailor togs as well as my long glass. Standing and bracing myself against the mast, I unfasten the waistband of my skirt and take it off, revealing my long drawers with flounces. Well, we can't have that, can we?

“Close your eyes, Eddie, if you want to. I don't care.” With that, I step out of the drawers and then into my canvas sailor pants. I leave my vest and shirt on, for it is likely to get a mite chilly out here on the bounding main, plus the vest is very handy for the stowage of pistols. I cram my
Dolphin
cap back on my head, and say, “Ta-da! Back to being Jack the Sailor Boy again, off at sea with his little brother, fishing for the family dinner!”

We are hitting some heavy rollers, but Eddie has not yet shown signs of seasickness, which is good.
Prolly too scared to be sick.

If he did not close his eyes as I was changing, he has recovered enough from the sight of my bare nether regions to ask, without much hope in his voice, “So I shall walk the plank, then?” He looks over the side at the dark water surging by.

“Hmmm.” I pretend to think on that for a bit, then say, “Nay. That's a common misapprehension about us pirates, that we do that sort of thing. Generally we don't. Y'see, if a captive is breathing, then he is worth some money, and that is what we really like—money. The hostage can be sold, if only as a slave. That's what I intend to do with you, as much as I'd enjoy seeing your face sinking in the old briney.”

As he considers that, I pick up my long glass and train it on the horizon.

“What are you looking for?” asks Edgar.

“Some friends of mine in Boston have written me saying that an old piratical friend, Chopstick Charlie, is sailing back to the Orient, probably today or tomorrow, and he's got to go right by here. He's sailing on a huge Chinese junk with at least four hundred Chinamen aboard. Bunch of Gurkhas, too. He'd be hard to miss. Hmm . . . nothing yet.”

“But why do you want to find him?”

“Why? 'Tis plain. I'd trade him
you
for my passage back to Rangoon, and there I could lay low till the heat's off.”

“But what would they do with me?”

I consider the question. “Hmmm . . . If you were bigger, they'd make you a galley slave and you'd spend the rest of your life chained to an oar. But you're much too small for that.”

“So what would they do, then?”

“Prolly make you into a eunuch.”

“What's that?”

“That's when they cut off your boy parts.”

Although he is very young, he is old enough to react to that. Both his knees come quickly together.

“But why?” he asks, incredulous.

“So you won't grow up to be a man,” I reply, the voice of reason. “That way you can guard their harems and the sultans won't worry about your messin' with them very pretty ladies, 'cause you won't be able to do anything with 'em, not havin' the proper equipment, like. The only thing you'll be able to do is to serve 'em their pommy-granites and figs and such, and to dry 'em off after their baths.”

While he is digesting that rather ghastly bit of information, I take another scan of the horizon. “Damn! Nothing! Chops, where the hell are you?”

I know full well that Chopstick Charlie is back inRangoon with his heathen horde, but I say, “Ah, well, we shall search again tomorrow. Have to find a proper berth for our hostage, don't we? Can't have him wondering about his future. But for now, we must find a place to spend the night, as evening is upon us.”

I snap the long glass shut and say, “They'd expect me to go south, so I shall go north. Captain Blood, put your tiller to starboard . . . yes, to the right . . . watch out . . . duck now, the boom will be coming over your head. That's it. Done.”

Actually, I set the
Star
on a westerly course, heading back in to shore, and it is not long till we see the loom of the land. And not long after that, I am able to pick out individual features on the beach . . . 
and, yes! There it is!

It is a small river—a wide brook, really—that cuts through a salt marsh that I had spotted on my way down from Boston. If I pull in there, we shall be well out of sight of any search party.

“Switch places, Cap'n. I'll take over the tiller now.”

We scramble about and get it done, and I guide the
Star
into the mouth of the river and beach her on its southern bank. “There. That should do it. Crewman Polk, now take that small anchor, hop out, and put it up at the edge of the grass. That's it . . . push the flukes down into the mud so we don't drag anchor and float away in the night. Now come on back in and we'll see about some supper.”

He does not have to be told twice about getting back to the safety of the boat. If this place looked creepy last time I saw it in broad daylight, it is doubly so now as a low fog descends upon us and dark night falls.

As I rummage about my seabag for the food, Edgar asks with some trepidation, “Where are we?”

Well, I happen to know, because of my knowledge of New England charts, that we are at the mouth of the South River that runs through a salt marsh just below the town of Scituate, but that sounds too tame, so I improvise . . .

“I believe it is the River Ulaluma,” I say, whipping out my shiv and cutting off a few inches of the sausage and a good chunk of cheese, and handing it all to Edgar, along with some of the crackers. “Eat up, Eddie. I can't deliver you to Gul Thampa half starved. He's the Gurkha in charge of Chopstick Charlie's captives, and he wouldn't like it. Best not to get on the wrong side of him.”

Edgar eyes the gleaming blade of my shiv as he takes the food. I uncork a bottle of the wine, take a good slug, and continue . . .

“Anyway, the locals call that land off to the right the Region of Weir. They are a superstitious people and believe it to be haunted by ghouls.”

“What are ghouls?” asks Edgar, dreading the answer.

“Demons that like to dig up graves and eat dead people,” I answer, all matter-of-fact. “But it is said that they'll settle for live ones if their usual fare is unavailable . . .”

Edgar pauses midbite.

“And over there,” I say, pointing to the banks on the south, “is the tarn-marked Land of Auber.”

“And tarns are . . . ?”

“Pools of quicksand. If you got up and ran away through there, you wouldn't get five yards before you fell into one. I'd hear your cries, but I wouldn't be able to help you. One of my crew, a Snag Thompson, once saw a mate of his, Cut-Throttle Johnny, fall into one, and try as they might, they couldn't get him out. No, the last they saw of poor old Cut-Throttle was the thick, black mud pouring into his mouth, then over his nose, then over his dead eyes.”

Edgar casts a look about at our environs. We are surrounded by low banks with high marsh grass growing upon them, and the mud between the hummocks is thick and black. I do not think Master Edgar will be making a run for it.

“Well, time to go to sleep,” I say, wiping off the blade of my shiv on my pant leg. “Tomorrow's bound to be a busy day. I'll be sleeping in the little cuddy. It's a bit cramped, but at least it's dry. G'night, Captain.”

If I thought Edgar's big dark eyes could not get any larger, I was wrong. “You'll leave me alone out here?”

“Where else? You could go sleep up on the beach, but I don't advise it, considering where we are.”

“But the—”

“The ghouls?” I ask, all impatient. “Look, if any come around here, just take this oar and whack it over what you think might be his head. That generally scares 'em off. Generally
 
. . .”

Looo, looo, looo, looo, looooooooooooooo . . .

The mournful call comes drifting over the marsh.

“What's that?” whispers Edgar.

“Prolly one of 'em,” I say. “Sounds hungry, poor devil. Anyway, till morning. G'night.”

With that, I toss my bag in the cuddy and go in after it. I latch the door shut, rutch around a bit, push some rope and tools aside, and, using my seabag as a pillow, settle in for sleep.

Looo, looo, looo, looo, looooooooooooooo . . .

Again the weird, lonesome call floats across the marsh. If Edgar were not a city boy, he would know that it was the plaintive call of the common loon, and not some fiend from hell. But, of course, he doesn't know that. I smile as I hear a light tapping at the hatch.

“Please, pleeeeeeese, Miss, please let me in with you, pleeeeeeze,” whispers Captain Blood, his voice shaking with fear.
“Pleeeeeze . . .”

“Go away, Edgar; you'll let in the ghouls.”

“Pleeeeeze . . .”

I figure he has suffered enough. “All right, Eddie,” I say, throwing the latch. “Get in here, but make it quick.”

I do not have to say that, for he is in like a flash, clutching at me desperately. I make fast the door and say, “No, no, Edgar. Face away from me. That's it. We'll make like spoons, and that way we'll have more room. See? Calm down, now.”

I can feel him trembling as I put my arm around him while I sing into his ear . . .

 

Go to sleep my fine young pirate,

May your dreams be drenched in red.

When you rise up in the morning,

You'll find that all the ghosts

Have turned and fled.

 

With that, both my bold pirate and I drift off to sleep.

Morning comes, as it always does, quite early. Groaning with stiffness, I kick open the hatch, and then I kick out Edgar.

“Let's go, lad,” I say, squinting into the sun. “Lots to do today. Chopstick Charlie's sure to be by. Let's have a bit of breakfast, and then we'll shove off.”

He says nothing to that, but merely gets out of the boat and goes behind a hummock to relieve himself. I do the same, warning, “Watch out for those tarns.”

Apparently he does, for he soon returns.

“I'm afraid that breakfast is the same as yesterday's supper,” I say, pulling out the sausage and cheese and handing him some. “But it will have to do. Let's sit on those rocks there . . . They look more comfortable than the boat.”

Yes, I hand out the food, but I do not bring out the wine, declaring it much too early for that. Instead, I uncork the bottle of paregoric and pretend to drink from it. Then I hand it to him.

He takes it and drinks.

“Ummm. Like candy,” he says.

“Yeah, right,” I say, taking it back from him.

Again I pretend to drink from it, then I pass it back. “One more slug, and we must be off.”

He does it, and I repack my bag, and watch him. Sure enough, his head begins to droop, and he settles back against a hummock. Smiling, I pull out my writing paper, pen, and ink, and write the lad a letter . . .

 

Dear Edgar,

Yes, Eddie, your head shall clear in a few moments, and while it does, I have some thoughts for you.

1. If you walk about five miles to the south, you will find yourself back in Plymouth. Stick to the beach. No tarns there.
   
2. When you get there, be nice to your mother and father. Cathy, too. Tell them I appreciated their kindness toward me while I was in their home.
   
3. I recommend that you petition your father to allow you to attend Plymouth Public School. It will do you a world of good and you will learn much—much more than any governess can teach you. You can be sure the students there will hang on your every word of your adventure with the dread Pirate Faber. Feel free to embellish your part in it.
   
4. You are very good with words, so why don't you write up your own account of our days together? Maybe in poetry form, even.
   
5. When, in the future, you play at pirates, make sure you don't run into a real one.
   

That's it. Yo, ho, ho, and all that . . .

Cheers,

 

Your own . . .

Annabelle Leigh

 

I tuck the letter into his shirt front, plant a kiss on his forehead, and climb back into the
Star.

I pull up the sail, fasten the downhaul, grab the tiller, and head out to sea, setting my course for Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

Farewell, Captain Blood. In spite of it all, I hope you have a good life.

 

 

 

 

The Journal of Amy Trevelyne

Dovecote Farm

Quincy, Massachusetts

 

Dear Reader,