Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (36 page)

Oh, and Maudie and her man Bob from the Pig and Whistle, can't forget them, and Jemimah Moses, too, as well as many, many others. I know that Jacky will be overjoyed to see each and every one of them. In fact, I don't expect her eyes to be dry for days, as she is famous for crying most copiously during times of great happiness.

Bridesmaids? Mairead McConnaughey, of course. And Joanie and Rebecca and Annie and Betsey, and yes, Molly Malone; and it is to her that I wager Jacky will throw the bridal bouquet.

Ringbearer? That will be little Ravi, for sure. Turban and all.

And that other master plotter, Mistress Pimm—she with her Underground Network of Pimm's Girls and the Cordelia dress switch they accomplished—shall be Matron of Honor, and well she should be, having taken on Jacky Faber, who was, without doubt, the Lawson Peabody's most difficult student, and having succeeded in both her education and her refinement.

Best Man? I am sure that James Fletcher will choose John Higgins, and I am equally sure that Liam Delaney, Jacky's old sea dad on the
Dolphin,
will be glad to act as father of the bride and will joyously give her away, in probably vain hopes that she will finally settle down.

And as for the groomsmen, well, there are Davy and Tink, the present members of the Dread Brotherhood of Ship's Boys of HMS
Dolphin,
plus Jim Tanner, IanMcConnaughey, James Fletcher's First Mate on the
Cereberus
 . . . and let's be a little evil here, shall we? How about Arthur McBride, Mr. Fletcher's constant thorn-­in-side?
Hmm . . . ?
Or Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen? I'm sure he will be good for a few ribald jabs in regard to his PrincessPrettybottom . . . There will be enough from those two to keep Mr. Fletcher very red-faced in his effort to keep his emotions under control. Maybe some of Jacky's wickedness is rubbing off on me.

My wedding present to her, and to Jaimy, will be that little piece of land that adjoins Dovecote to the west. It is on the river, and she will appreciate that, I think, always having a connection to the sea. The land was left to me by a great-aunt, and I have little use for it. They will have a cottage built there, with green fields and red roses all about. Whether Mr. Fletcher will be able to keep her in it is quite another thing, but at least it will be a place for her to rest between voyages.

The Reader will have noted that I did not mention either Brother Randall or myself, in any capacity, as we might well be otherwise occupied during the coming festivities. Who knows, Dovecote may have more than one wedding this week. And maybe more than two.

Ah, Dear Reader, I know my mind rambles and my pen wanders aimlessly over the page, but I hope you will forgive me, as I am in a state of complete and utter joy.

Well, there goes Edward off to Boston in a rattle of hoofbeats and a cloud of dust to spread the great good news. Tucked in his vest is a special letter that I had quickly penned and given him to deliver. It is addressed to my dear Mr. Pickering, and in it I inform him that Miss Amy Trevelyne will be most glad to wait on him upon his arrival, as I am now ready for that sort of thing.

 

All is in train—the riders dispatched, the preparations begun. The
Nancy B.
lies out on the bay, waiting to take the two lovers off to wherever in this world they wish to go, no longer star-crossed. Of course, I do not know for sure that this is what is going to happen, but I do not think I will be proven so very far from wrong.

However, Dear Reader, if you are a person of a doubting nature, fear not, for you shall know the truth of it in the following way: If you find no further entries in this journal by my hand, then you will know that my predictions were found to be perfectly and absolutely correct.

 

Researcher's Note:

 

The above is the last page in a recently found journal “AnAccount of the Life and Times of the Adventurer Miss Jacky Faber, Otherwise Known as Bloody Jack,” which is stored in the archives of Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts, and was used extensively in the doctoral thesis of Rebecca Byrnes Adams, PhD, “Early Eighteenth-Century Women Poets and Their Times,” published by University Press in 2004. The journal was found, carefully bound in black ribbon, in a chest in the attic of Trevelyne House in Quincy, Massachusetts, now a National Historical Site, and bequeathed by the Adams family to Radcliffe College, along with many other invaluable notes and papers. Dr. Adams is a direct descendant of the author. The manuscript is signed, “Mrs. Amy Trevelyne Pickering, in Her Own Hand, November 10, Eighteen Hundred and Nine.”

I run up the path to Daisy Hill, then slow to a walk next to the fresh grave there at the top. I put my hand on the simple board that someone had put at the head of the grave and that bears the words . . . 
SHE WILL PLAY THE WILD ROVER NO MORE
.

Poor Gully
.
I know you meant well and I do hope there really is a place called Fiddler's Green and you are there now and happy. And I'll wager there's some fiddle repairman there who can put the Lady Lenore back together—maybe the same old Italian who made her in the first place will do her up again. Wouldn't that be something? Shall I sing you a verse or two before my Jaimy comes up here to join me?

And I sing in a soft voice . . .

 

I've traveled this wide world over

And now to another I go.

And I know that good quarters are waiting

To welcome Old Rosin the Beau . . .

 

Here's the verse you always liked to bellow out, Gully . . .

 

My race on this world is now over.

And up to Heaven I'll go.

Send up a hogshead of whiskey,

To welcome Old Rosin the Beau!

 

And I hope you are, indeed, welcome, wherever you are, Gully, and . . . 
Uh-oh! He's coming!

I dive into the bushes that grow at the crest of the hill, to hide and to wait.

I do not have to wait long, for soon my dear JamesEmerson Fletcher comes along, his shoulders slumped, his face a mask of sorrow and pain. I part the high grass to watch what he does.
Oh, Jaimy, it's been so long, and I'm sorry, but I just want to savor this moment so that I can remember it forever. I'm sorry, but it's my nature, and I do want to do it this way. It's wrong of me, but just a little longer, a little bit longer, Jaimy. You'll see, you'll see.

Jaimy walks up to the crest of the hill and goes to the grave. I see him read the simple epitaph on the rough board that was put up at the head of it.

He shakes his head and then bends down and kneels on the grass next to the freshly turned earth and begins to talk to me.

“I'm sorry, Jacky, I . . . I . . . was too late,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “I was always just a little too late for you, always a step behind, never able to catch and hold you and protect you and . . .” He stops talking and simply stares down at the head of the grave for many moments and then finally says, “I hope and pray you are in a better place and looking down upon me now.”

Oh, I am looking down upon you, Jaimy, with all the love I have in me. And as for that better place, well, the hayloft will have to do, my dear, and I think we will find it just the finest of bowers.

Then he reaches his hand into his jacket . . .

Uh-oh! I have already seen this day someone willing to follow me into the next world. No, Jaimy, not you, too . . .

But it is not a pistol that he brings out, it is a ring—a match to the one I wear on a chain about my neck. They are the rings we placed on each other's fingers that wonderful day in Kingston, all those years ago.

I part the bushes and step out into the light and stand next to the marker at the head of the grave. Startled, he turns his head at the sound of my footfall on the grass. MyKingston dress blows about my knees and I put my hands behind my back and I say to him what I said on that same day in Jamaica. “Hullo, Jaimy . . . So what do you think of your saucy sailor girl now?”

His eyes widen and his mouth drops open. I
do
love astounding this dear boy.

“Jacky . . . No, it can't be you . . . It can't be . . . They killed you . . . I must be seeing a . . .

“No, Jaimy, I'm not a ghost from our past. My good friends came in the nick of time to save my poor self, as they have done so many times before. Stand up, Jaimy, and hold me. You're gonna see that I'm quite real.”

And I'm trying not to cry, Jaimy, at this, my happiest of moments, but I feel the tears coming anyway. Unbidden as they are, they are tears of joy, pure joy.

“Please, Jaimy, come hold me . . .”

For I am alive and the blood still flows in my veins and the love of my life has come to join me 
. . .

“There's nobody here to keep us apart anymore, love, no, and there won't be, not ever again. So come put your ring on my finger, and we will be wed.”

He rises to his feet and he opens his arms.

Oh, Jaimy, you are so splendid, so beautiful . . .

“Come kiss me, Jaimy, if you love me . . .”

And he does! Oh, yes, he does . . .

And so little Jacky Faber sails off into the sunset, her fondest wishes now come true—well, most of them, anyway—but is our wild girl finally done roving? Is this the last of our impetuous little lass? If it is, I will miss her, for I assure you I enjoyed every minute I spent recording her wild adventures. Gone for good? Well, she does have a way of popping back up, you know . . .

She did get her Bombay Rat and her Cathay Cat, and yes, she saw her Kangaroo, and all that,
but wait
 . . . 
what's that up there? Can't you see it? Just around the curve of the winding road, the bend of the river, just over the edge of the horizon, there
 . . .

 

Sail on, sailor girl.

 

Visit
www.hmhco.com
to find all of the books in the Bloody Jack series.

 

L. A. M
EYER
(1942–2014) was the acclaimed writer of the Bloody Jack Adventure series, which follows the exploits of an impetuous heroine who has fought her way up from the squalid streets of London to become an adventurer of the highest order. He and his wife, Annetje, operated an art gallery near their home in a small fishing village on the coast of Maine until 2013. Visit his website at
www.jackyfaber.com
.