Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (4 page)

“I sent that unfortunate letter as a gesture of the lingering love that I, after all is said and done, still hold for you,” he says. “Perhaps I should have been more direct in expressing my emotions. I am sorry I am not as direct as other of your male . . . friends.”

“
Love?
If you love me, Jaimy, you certainly have a strange way of showing it.” I snort. “First, you go and leave me all alone in America after I was kicked off the
Dolphin;
then you aim the
Wolverine
's cannons and sink my lovely
Emerald;
then you run off and abandon me in the American wilderness at the mercy of Mike Fink, savage Indians, and slave hunters; then you almost break my jaw with your fist on Blackheath Road, while you're charging crazily about being the fine Black Highwayman; and, finally, you lay your stick upon my back and bottom here in Boston, causing me great pain and mortification. Strange way of showing your love, indeed. I do not know if I can survive much more of that so-called
love.
”

“You know, when you are thinking straight, Jacky,” he says, his face growing more and more red above his tight collar, “which I know is damned seldom the case with you, you'd realize that all those instances were occasioned by the force of circumstance.”

“Circumstances that seem to occur with alarming regularity,” I say, my gaze unyielding in the face of his logic. Both our voices are increasing in volume.

“Come on, Jacky, what am I supposed to think? Nude paintings, lurid stories, your dalliances with various males laid out in penny-dreadful novels for all to see?”

“
My
dalliances?” I say, incredulous. That does it. I round the table and poke my finger in his chest and say, “Clementine Jukes.”

He jerks a bit, then pokes his own stiff finger on my breastbone
.
“Lord Richard Allen.”

“Bess, the landlord's daughter.”

“Robin Raeburne.” Another poke. “Randall Trevelyne.”

“Sidrah.”

“Joseph Jared.”

I'm running out of young girls to fling at him, but he sure ain't runnin' out of young men.

“Arthur McBride. Jean-Paul de Valdon.”

“Mai Ling!” I counter, grasping at straws. “Mai Jing!”

“Come on, Jacky, you can do better than that! Amadeo Romero!”

I am out of retorts and can only stand fuming. Seeing me bested, he reaches out and takes me by my shaking shoulders. Yes, I am beginning to cry.

“Take your hands off me, Jaimy!” I warn, my eyes streaming and my voice shaking. “I mean it!”

“You said that I should have put you up against a wall,” he says, pushing me back against the wall next to my bed. “You mean like this?”

With that, he reaches around and grabs the hair on the back of my neck and holds it fast, putting his lips on my now open mouth.

He pulls back and says, “Is that how you like it, Jacky? Rough? Fine. Here's another. Is it rough enough for you?”

And again he brings his face to mine and
Oh, Jaimy . . . how I waited . . . No . . . No . . . Control yourself, girl, you can't fall into this again . . .

I lift my hands and place my palms on his chest and push him away, my own breast heaving.

“No, Jaimy,” I whisper. “I like it gentle . . . sweet and gentle like you have always been . . . but I need time . . . time to think . . . about things . . . about us . . . Can you imagine the shock I felt when I pulled into port and found you suddenly here, after all that has happened? Can you imagine that? I have put you out of my mind and out of my heart . . . No . . . I need some time . . .”

“Time?” he says, reaching out and lifting my chin. “Time is what we have plenty of, right now.” He comes in for a much gentler kiss. I . . . I let it come, but alas, he is wrong . . . Time is exactly what we do not have—not now, not ever, for I hear the cry of
“Jacky! Jacky! There's trouble!”
coming from the street.

I look at Jaimy, shocked.
Christ! What now?
We both go to the window and see Chloe Cantrell come running up the street, her long legs pumping for all she is worth. We catch but a glimpse of her as she disappears below and into the Pig. Her feet are instantly heard pounding up the stairs to my room.

She bursts into my room without knocking, her hair flying about her face.

“Jacky! Ezra says you've got to run!” She gasps, breathless. “That diplomatic pouch was a trap! There are incriminating papers in it! You're gonna be arrested for treason by the federal authorities! They've got warrants! Run!”

Jaimy rushes to the window and looks out.

“Damn! She's right! Here they come!” he shouts, clenching his fists in anger and frustration. “Go, Jacky, out the back! Meet me in the wardroom of the
Shannon.
I don't care who they are, they would not dare to force their way onto a British warship!”

Saying that, he whips out his sword and goes to the door. “I'll hold the blackguards off, by God! I'll make 'em eat every goddamned word of their warrant before they lay a hand on you! Go!” And he is gone down the stairs.

I think upon the wisdom of Jacky Faber climbing back aboard a British man-of-war for only a split second, then head out the back with my seabag on my shoulder, and I am gone into the back alleys of Boston.

So I'm pounding down the alley behind the Pig—luckily the federals didn't know that Jacky Faber
always
has a back way out, by God—and head for Codman's Wharf as fast as I can.
Damn! The U.S. authorities are after me now! What next? Zulu warriors? Russian Cossacks?

It doesn't take me long to realize I ain't makin' very good time in this rig I'm wearing—the skirt is too long. The Lawson Peabody dress, which I have always been proud to have on my back, is more suited for gentle tea parties and concert recitals than runnin' down side streets, evading ardent pursuers. I've hiked up the black skirt to my waist, to free my pumping legs, but it still won't serve. It's all much too conspicuous—a young girl running through the streets of blue-nosed Boston with her skirts hiked up, showing off her white petticoats and knickers. Nay, it will not serve.

Ha!
There's a barn up ahead, with its door swinging open. I run to it and look inside.
Good, it's empty.
The cowherd must have taken his beasts up to the Common to graze. No tellin' when he'll be back, though, so I must hurry.

I toss my seabag on a bench and tear it open. Reaching in, I pull out the old sailor togs I had made for myself back on the
Dolphin—
loose white duck trousers and middy top with back flap. So, off with the black dress, long drawers, petticoats, white blouse, and chemise, and on with my simple seaman gear. One good thing about not growing much is that my old clothes still fit—sort of. These pants are a bit tight. I fold the school dress and tuck it into the bag. My shoes, too, as I run better when I am barefoot.

Spying the floppy cap I had long ago made with HMS
Dolphin
stitched on the headband, I pull it out and cram it on my head, stuffing my hair up inside.

Seabag back on shoulder, I head back out, confront a herd of puzzled cows returning from pasture, then dart off to the side and continue running down to Codman's Wharf, where lies my little fleet of ships.

Arriving there, I see that the
Morning Star
is still out on the bay, fishing and pulling traps, so I pound down the pier and toss my bag onto the
Evening Star,
then follow it on myself. I'd rather have the
Morning Star
if I have to make yet another run for my life—because of the comfy little cabin—but the lesser
Star
will serve. Though a scant fourteen feet long, constructed by Jim Tanner, she has a watertight little cowling up forward, big enough to hold my seabag and my curled-up self if it ever comes to a real downpour . . . and it does, indeed, look like rain.

I pull up the gaff-rigged sail, tighten the downhaul, toss off the lines, put hand on tiller, and pull away from the dock.

As I go, I pass the
Nancy B. Alsop
, tied up, with Finn McGee onboard as petty officer of the watch.

“You ain't seen me, Smasher!” I call out as I pass the
Nancy
's port side. “Got it?”

He raises his knuckle to his brow, smiling and shaking his head ruefully, as he has been with me a long time and knows me and my ways very well. “Got it, Skipper. You take care, now.”

Rounding the end of the pier, I spy the mighty HMS
Shannon,
lying starboard side to Long Wharf. To my old military self, she is a glorious sight—a three-masted, thirty-eight-gun frigate, very similar to my dear old
Dolphin,
all neat and shipshape, sails furled and ready, flags flying
—
but I am done with all that now, being only an honest, peaceful, merchant seaman who wants nothing to do with war or warships, having seen enough awful carnage in that regard.

I see that the
Shannon
's gangway seems to have rather more men clustered about it than usual—probably waiting for me to come prancing aboard. Well, if that's what they're waiting for, it ain't gonna happen. No way I'm placing myself in the not-too-gentle custody of the Royal British Navy yet again.

Instead, I point the
Star
's nose to the north and sail across the
Shannon
's bow, coming up on her outboard, starboard side, where no one seems to be watching, and . . .
yes
 . . . there is a line dangling over the side—probably left over from a work party painting the hull.
All shipshape, two-blocked, and Bristol fashion, lads? I think not, but thanks, anyway.

I steer for the line, tie up, then climb the very handy rope. When I reach the rail, I peek over the side and see that, indeed, all on the quarterdeck are looking over the starboard side, no doubt waiting for the arrival of one Lieutenant J. M. Faber. I wonder if she would be piped aboard with all honors . . . Somehow, I doubt it.

Seeing their inattention, I put a leg over the rail, pull myself over, and pad toward the open hatchway that I know will lead down to the gun deck. I get here unobserved and head below.

Sure enough, the officers' mess deck contains one long table with chairs pulled up, and officers' staterooms arrayed to either side. Very much like the
Dolphin,
the
Dauntless,
and, yes, even my doomed
Emerald
and my lovely
Lorelei Lee.
I go to make myself comfortable, when I notice I am not alone in this room—at the end of the table, under an open window to let in light and air, sits a small midshipman. In front of him are arrayed a book, a set of dividers, a chalk slate, and a chart.

He looks up, slightly perplexed at the interruption. I am dressed as a common seaman, after all.

“I say, my good fellow, if you are not here on a work detail, I must point out that this is an officers-only space,” he says, not unkindly.

I ignore his words and go over and plunk down beside him.

“Don't worry yourself, lad,” I say, “for I, too, am an officer in His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy, sometimes willingly, most times not. I am Lieutenant Jacky Faber, and you are . . . ?”

His mouth drops open.

“M-Midshipman Peter Rees, Mum, at your service,” he says, swallowing hard. It is plain my fame has once again preceded me.

“Well, good, Mr. Rees. I am glad to know you. Do you think you could order us up some food? I believe I am going to shortly be in need of some sustenance.”

Unable to speak, he reaches behind him and pulls on a cord that hangs by the bulkhead. Presently, a white-coated steward appears. No, it is not the despicable Weasel—­although nothing would surprise me anymore—but rather a pleasant-looking man of possibly Spanish origin . . . perhaps a Filipino.

“Ah . . . yes . . . Paraiso. Please bring a plate of food for our . . . guest here,” the lad manages to say. I would place his age at about fourteen. Good cheekbones and jaw, fine brow. Some lord's son, I'll wager.

“And two glasses of wine. I believe Mr. Rees will take a drink with me.” The lad nods eagerly as Paraiso bows and exits.

I look over at his work. “Studying your navigation, lad? Well, good. It will hold you in good stead, and maybe you won't run aground in the future. But look here . . .”

The chart turns out to be of New England waters, with an insert detailing Boston Harbor.

I point a stiff forefinger down on a line of symbols in a narrow part of the channel. “See that? These are my home waters, and I know them quite well, and that damned nun buoy right there has come adrift at least fifty times to my knowledge, so watch for it when the ship leaves. Some say it is patriotic American mermaids who pull up its anchor, hoping to lure British ships to the rocks on the other side of the channel, but I dunno . . . Ah, here's Paraiso with a lovely tray.”

The steward places a plate in front of me, then a glass of red wine before each of us, and though the food looks wondrous good, I do not stick the Faber nose in it right away but instead raise my glass to my companion.

“Rule, Britannia! May she ever rule the waves.”

“In-indeed.” He gulps, downing about half his glass.

Then I tuck into the food—meat, cheese, sticky rice, and fresh bread, and all very good—while at the same time pointing out nautical points of interest on the chart. Presently, I hear a commotion at the door.

Ah, that must be Jaimy and Ezra.
I have an evil urge to hop into Midshipman Rees's lap and give him a bit of a nuzzle as they enter—that'd settle Mr. Fletcher's jealousy issues right quick—but I don't. Instead I once again lift my glass to the bemused middy . . .

“To all pretty young midshipmen in the world,” I say, putting my glass to his. “May their numbers increase.”