Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (29 page)

“Very well, so entered. Please read it and then hand it up to me.”

Belcher clears his throat, then reads:

 

Office of the Admiralty

Naval Intelligence

British Royal Navy

Admiralty Court

London, England

 

To:

Agent J. M. Faber

Faber Shipping Worldwide

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

 

Miss Faber:

You will see that the enclosed documents are delivered without fail to our operatives in the United States, as they are of the utmost importance.

 

H. F.

 

There is a rumble in the courtroom as Belcher passes the letter up to the Judge, saying, “It is believed that the letter is from a Lieutenant Harry Flashby, a known BritishIntelligence agent.”

“Damn, Flashby!” I hiss to Ezra, grasping his arm in helpless fury. “I should have killed him when I had the chance!”

“Perhaps,” says Ezra Pickering. “But calmness, now. Let it be, Jacky. We will have our turn.”

After reading the note, Judge Thwackham asks, “And what else might be in that pouch?”

“Entered now as evidence, Prosecution Exhibit C.”

“Which is . . .”

“A complete and accurate plan of the fortifications at Fort McHenry on Chesapeake Bay, the fort that guards our nation's capital in Washington, D.C.,” announces Attorney Belcher in triumph, tossing the bundle on the table.

There is a common gasp from the courtroom. They recall, all too well, that it was British Major André's carrying very similar plans for the fort at West Point that got General Benedict Arnold branded a traitor. So now, I'm branded a traitor, too.

The Judge brings down his gavel hard on his bench. “Order! Order in my court! Or I'll throw out the lot of you!”

The crowd settles down and waits, the scratching of the reporters' pencils being the only sound in the room.

“That's better,” grumbles the Mad Thwacker. “Mr. Belcher, do you have anything else to offer in evidence?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Any more witnesses?”

“No, Your Honor. The Prosecution rests.”

“Counsel for the Defense, do you wish to examine the evidence?”

“No, Sir,” says Ezra, rising to his feet. “I call to the stand Miss Jacky Mary Faber.”

As I get to my feet and advance to the stand, Ezra whispers, “Keep it simple, Jacky. Let me ask the questions.”

The clerk directs me to put my hand on the Bible and swears me in.

“Do you, Jacky Mary Faber, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“Please be seated.”

I settle in for the fight of my life, as Ezra comes up before me.

“Miss Faber, have you seen the evidence against you?”

“Yes, Sir, I have.”

“And your answer as to the veracity thereof?”

“Lies, all lies,” I reply. “I am but an honest merchant seaman, caught up in a web of lies woven by my enemies, and—”

I catch Ezra's warning glance and shut up.

“Have you, at any time, raised your hand or caused harm to the United States of America?”

“No, Sir, I have not.”

Ezra nods approvingly.

“Or have had anything at all to do with the evidence presented?”

“No. I have nothing but love and respect for the United States of America. My own company, Faber Shipping Worldwide, is based in Boston and my ships are home-ported there. I—”

“Thank you, Miss,” says Ezra. It is plain he does not want me to go on about my holdings, they being much greater than those of many in this room. I can see glances between several members of the jury.
Just who does this twit of a girl think she is?

“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” says Ezra, going back to his chair. “You may cross-examine, Mr. Belcher.”

I am shocked by this turn of events, but I did know that if Ezra put me on the stand, then the Prosecution could have a shot at me, too. I get ready for it, and it comes on fast.

“Miss Faber,” asks Mr. Belcher with a certain amount of relish, “have you ever been a member of British Intelligence?”

“Yes, but it was against my—”

“Please answer
yes
or
no,
Miss Faber.”

“Yes,” I say, through clenched teeth.

“Are you a member of British Intelligence at this time?”

“No, Sir. I am not.”

“Oh? The letter from Agent H. F. seems to contradict that statement.”

“I don't care. Harry Flashby is a bounder and a liar. I was given my discharge from that service last year. By a Mr. Peel, an
honest
member of British Intelligence.”

“You have proof of that?”

“Yes, Sir, I do . . . or will. My fiancé, Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher, has gone to England to procure proof of that.”

Attorney Belcher gives out a short snort. “I hope for your sake, Miss Faber, he gets back here in time.” He does not sound like he really means it. “Mr. Pickering, do you wish to redirect?”

He does, and stands before me and asks, very plainly, “Miss Faber, do you deny all the charges laid against you in the matter of high treason?”

“Yes, Sir, I do,” I reply as firmly as I am able.

“Very well,” says Judge Thwackham. “Closing arguments, then. Attorney Belcher, you may proceed.”

And proceed he does, mainly just lining up all the evidence against me, for really, that's all he has to do. I see the men in the jury hanging on his every word.

“Mr. Pickering, your summation, if you please,” requests the Judge, glancing at the clock high up on the wall.

 

Yes, Ezra was most eloquent . . . “This poor young girl, cast about by the winds of Fate, forced to obey the orders of men much more powerful than she . . . From the war-torn fields of France, to the dangers of the undersea world, to those of Spain, too . . .”

 

But all to no avail. Judge Hiram Thwackham charges the jury, then leaves the Bench while they deliberate in an anteroom. In an indecently short time, both Judge and jury are back.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdicts?”

“Yes, Your Honor, we have,” says the foreman of the twelve good men, holding a slip of paper.

“Then read them, please.”

“First count of resisting arrest, not guilty,” he announces. “Second count of resisting arrest, guilty. Charge of the kidnapping of Master Edgar Polk, not guilty.”

Here he pauses, then says, “On the charge of high treason, we find the Defendant guilty as charged.”

My head falls to my chest as Judge Thwackham smiles and passes sentence upon me.

“Jacky Mary Faber, you have been charged with the crime of treasonous acts against the United States ofAmerica and found guilty by a jury of your peers,” rumbles the Judge from his podium high above me. “Do you have anything to say before I pronounce sentence upon you?”

I shake my head. “I am innocent of all the charges, and God knows that. Do what you will to me.”

“Very well,” intones Judge Thwackham. “It is the judgment of this court that you, Jacky Mary Faber, be taken out three days from now, on the morning of November the tenth, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy upon your soul.”

I certainly hope he does . . .

Carpenters have started building my scaffold.

Conveniently, they are constructing it in the courtyard so that I might enjoy its progress when I take my daily exercise walks. The carpenters have set the sturdy eight-by-eight piers in the ground in a rectangle roughly ten feet by twelve. The posts are about twelve feet high and will support the gallows platform that will equal the same area. Midway on the short side, two additional eight-by-eight piers thrust upward for another eight feet. These, I know, will support the crossbeam that, in turn, will support the Executioner's rope. I am sure it will support my weight. I believe they will attach the joints and begin laying the platform boards soon.

Yes, I am given an hour a day to walk about the little yard that lies between the jail and the courthouse, such that I might take the air, for we must keep the condemned healthy, mustn't we? We surely wouldn't want her to die of some wasting disease before the Big Show. I am shackled with my hands tied behind me, and I'm under the watchful eye of the Matron, so there is no hope of my making a run for it. Plus, Deputy Cole and his cohorts stand fully armed inside the rope they have stretched to mark off my area and keep all others out, including any of my military friends who might want to spring me.

A crowd does generally gather to watch me at my exercise. Morbid curiosity, I suppose.
Hey, let's watch the Dead Girl Walking.

“Miss Faber, it is time to go in now,” announces Matron, and she leads me back to my cell. “I believe your lawyer is here.”

 

“Jacky, you must not give up hope,” urges Ezra from his place on the bench opposite me. “I know that it is only two more days, but much can still happen. I have appeals pending in both the state and federal courts. You have friends in the city and they are doing their utmost to stay the . . . date of the . . . event. My cousin Senator Timothy Pickering is a member of Congress and is using all of his considerable influence in Washington. A delay could be in the offing. And your Mr. Fletcher is expected at any moment with the exonerating evidence from the British Admiralty, and—”

“Thank you, Ezra,” I say, looking up at the tiny window above me, through which comes the sound of more sawing and hammering. “Your words do bring me comfort, and I know you are doing your very best for me.” He follows my eyes up to the little window and grimaces. “But you do not have to mince words. The date is the tenth and the ‘event' is my execution by hanging.”

“Well, yes,” says Ezra, looking down at his hands and not at me. “And there is some further information on that . . . topic.” He clears his throat and continues. “I have been informed that the state and federal officials have sent a state marshall to oversee the . . . procedure. And they have sent a professional executioner, as well.”

My hand goes to my throat. I cannot help it. In a moment, I am able to respond, “That is good. I don't want an amateur, and I do not want to suffer any more than necessary. I have never really been very brave.”

“Please, Jacky, we must believe it won't come to that.”

“Your news is good, too, Ezra, because it will relieve Sheriff Williams of a sad duty, one that I know he did not want to perform. He is a good man, and this will ease his mind.”

Ezra gets to his feet. “I must leave you now, Jacky. I have to get back to the city to keep pushing on the appeals.” He glances over at Deputy Cole to see if he is listening. Actually, he seems to be dozing. Ezra again speaks to me. “But know this, Jacky: You have friends in places you would not expect them to be. Higgins sends his regards and regrets that he cannot visit with you. That's all I can say. Adieu, Jacky.”

“Goodbye, Ezra. You have always been the best of friends.”

 

After another doleful visit from Amy, I am greeted this day by the Plymouth Ladies Aid Society, come to bring me some comfort. There are three older women and two younger. They also bring fabric—black, of course—with which to sew me a proper dress. Must be a lady, of course, even if one is being hanged. They give me a prayer book, too, and offer spiritual advice, but I have already made my peace . . .

I also received a letter from Mistress Pimm of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. The Sheriff gave me the opened letter, satisfied that there was no knife or saw concealed within, and I pulled it out and read it.

 

Miss Miranda Pimm

Mistress of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls

Beacon Street, Boston, Massachusetts

November 8, 1809

 

Miss Jacky Faber

The Plymouth County Jail

Plymouth, Massachusetts

 

Dear Miss Faber,

I hope this letter finds you as well as you can be, given the circumstances.

I make no judgment as to your guilt or innocence of the charges against you. I write only to remind you that a Pimm's girl is a Pimm's girl to the last. While you are the first of my girls to be executed, you are not the first to die. It is expected of you that you will conduct yourself in such a manner as to be a credit to the school. You have before you the example of Lady Jane Grey and Anne Boleyn and Marie Antoinette, ladies all, who faced their brutal ends with grace and dignity. I expect nothing less of you.

I know you to be a young lady of spirit and solid character, and I am confident that you will bear up under this ultimate tribulation.

Pray to God, child. He will either spare you or He will take you to Him and, either way, it will be His will, and for the best.

 

Yrs. Respectfully, and etc.,

Miranda Pimm

 

Great. Thanks, Mistress.
Stiff upper lip and all that, and keep the Lawson Peabody Look upon your face till they put the hood over your head.

And yes, Mistress, I will try to comply.