Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (6 page)

He yields up the tray with a bow, and I head topside.

 

Ah, yes, the grand dining room of Dovecote Manor, with its long polished table and glittering chandelier, where I had enjoyed one of my greatest triumphs, as well as one of my most inglorious downfalls. The triumph was in being seated, as a mere schoolgirl, at this same table with the high and mighty of New England and holding my own over Clarissa Worthington Howe's attempt to demean me because of my low origins. My downfall involved Clarissa's later, and very successful, attempt to get me stinking drunk by plying me with sweet bourbon whiskey, such that I was carried out of the ballroom in total and complete disgrace.

The three of them are seated midtable: Amy Trevelyne across from her brother, Randall, and by his side, my old friend and fellow member of the Rooster Charlie Gang of Cheapside Urchins, the beautiful Polly Von. All are startled by my sudden appearance in wet oilskins.

“Jacky!” exclaims Amy, rising in delight as I pull back my hood. Randall and Polly also get to their feet with similar exclamations of surprise at my entrance. “I did not know you were back!”

“I just brought the
Nancy B.
into Boston this morning, and believe me, Sister, my life has changed dramatically since then—some to the good, and some to the bad, too. But here, let me first pour the wine. Everybody sit.”

I uncork the decanter and fill the four glasses. Then I raise mine and say, “Cheers!” and toss the sweet, musky wine down my throat.
Ah, that does warm the Faber belly!
Afterward I apologize, “Sorry for my rudeness, mates, but it was cold and wet out there.”

Saying that, I strip off my oilskins, revealing myself in my mercifully dry sailor togs. Since everybody present has, at one time or another, seen me in my Natural State, as it were, I do not think I'm breaking any new, scandalous ground here, and, indeed, no expressions of shock are heard as I sit myself next to Amy and refill my glass. There is a tray of small dessert cakes on the table, and I dispatch a few of them down my throat.
Mmmm . . .

“Perhaps now that you have refreshed yourself, Jacky,” says Randall, in his usual languid fashion, taking another pull at his own wineglass, “you will tell us just why you were out on the sea in this maelstrom?” He is looking absolutely splendid in his blue–with–red–facings United States Marine Corps uniform.

I must admit, the very handsome but somewhat dissolute Randall Trevelyne and I have a bit of a past. Upon meeting me here at Dovecote several years ago, his main objective appeared to be getting my knickers down to my ankles—and the randy hound almost succeeded in that, me being so young and foolish at the time. My plan, on the other hand, was to play the flirtatious tease so as to break up his marriage engagement to Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe, of which union both Amy and I did not approve. I did succeed in that endeavor, to my delight at the time, but ultimately to my great chagrin, for she certainly paid me back in full for that ill-conceived little gambit. Oh yes, when Clarissa was quite through with me, the good ship
J. M. Faber
was indeed burned to the waterline.

“Well,” I reply, after swallowing a mouthful of cake, “I am once again being pursued by the civil authorities, and this time I am completely innocent of any of the charges against me.”

“That's what you say every time,” says Amy with a bit of reproof in her voice. “What is the charge, and who is after you?'

“On the advice of my attorney,” I say primly, “I am unable to say. However, Ezra will be here tomorrow, and all will be made plain to you then.”

Amy visibly brightens on that news. Although she constantly protests “I am not ready for that sort of thing” whenever I bring up the subject of love and marriage in general—and Ezra Pickering, Esquire, in particular—I know she is pleased at the prospect of his arrival tomorrow.

“Probably involves some sort of larceny, if I know our Miss Faber,” suggests Randall. He taps a fingernail on his wineglass, signaling that it needs refilling, and Polly reaches for the bottle to top it off. While Randall was at one time in hot pursuit of my somewhat puny self, he now has eyes only for his beautiful Polly Von.

“And what, may I ask, Lieutenant Trevelyne, are you doing here rather than performing your duty on your ship? I see her nowhere around. Where is she?” I ask, to change the subject. “Could you have already deserted your post?”

He laughs. “No, the noble
Chesapeake
is laid up in the yards in New York, undergoing repairs. There is scant use for a Marine sharpshooter there, so Captain StephenDecatur has graciously granted me leave.” He looks over at his consort and continues, “I begged my coy mistress here to join me in New York, but she refused. The willful thing would not agree to come. Can you imagine that?”

Polly speaks up. “We are mounting a production of the
Merchant of Venice
at your Emerald Playhouse, and I get to play Portia,” she says, looking over at me. “Couldn't pass that up, now could I?”

Nay, Polly, you could not, and I am so proud of you for that—for is it not true that Shakespeare is forever, while it is equally possible that handsome young men are not?

“And, Randy,” she continues, putting those radiant blue eyes on Randall and patting his hand, “the production closes in a month, and then I will join you there and we shall sample the joys of that grand city. All right, love?”

He nods reluctant assent, his hand gently on hers.

Then she brings those baby blues back to me.

“If what you have told us was the bad news, Jacky,” says Polly in her whispery, breathy way, “then, what was the good?”

“Yes, please, Sister,” echoes Amy.

“Ah,” I say, with the happiness plain in my voice. “I am pleased to announce that Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher and I have worked out our differences and have reconciled, and we intend to be married upon his return from England and certain . . . political problems have been resolved.”

“Why, that is wonderful!” gushes Polly, and Amy chimes in with, “I am so glad for you, Sister! I know that has always been your fondest wish.”

“I agree to the match,” says Randall, nodding, as if his agreement were called for. “His steady composure should complement your impulsive nature quite nicely. Maybe he can keep a lid on your impetuosity when others have failed.”

“How did this come about, dear?” asks Amy.

“I saw him today, upon my return from the Caribbean. He is Second Mate on HMS
Shannon,
which is moored at Long Wharf. With Ezra's connivance, a meeting was arranged and we . . . worked out our differences, and all is well between us.”

“I imagine that little discussion was quite heated,”murmurs Randall. “Considering . . .” Randall had witnessedJaimy's caning of me at the courthouse.

“Yes, it was, but all was resolved to mutual satisfaction.”

“The
Shannon,
eh?” says Randall, leaning back and musing. “Hmmm . . . Me on USS
Chesapeake
as Commander of Marines, and James Fletcher as Second Mate on HMS
Shannon.
It is my profound hope that our two ships never meet in battle. Things are heating up between our two countries . . .”

“I pray that never happens,” I manage to say, horrified at the very thought of my dearest friends being forced to kill each other in a senseless war.

“Yes, but it could . . .”

“Well, it isn't happening now,” I reply. “The
Shannon
sets sail for England tomorrow, with Lieutenant Fletcher aboard with intentions to clear up my latest mess from that end. My good Higgins and Ezra will work on it here. I, of course, will be on the lam.”

“But where will you go?” asks Polly.

“I'm thinking Rhode Island. They're pretty broad-minded there and might be a little more forgiving of my ways.”

“But why not stay here? With me?” asks Amy.

I put my hand on hers and look into her sweet face. “Dear Amy, that would be my fondest wish, but it would be the first place they would look. Have you not heard of a certain series of books written about me and my wanton ways? Even police can read, you know.”

“Oh,” she says meekly, being the authoress of said potboilers.

“And in regard to that, if anyone comes looking for me here, please tell the truth: I came here today, stayed overnight, and then pushed off in my boat. You cannot afford to be caught in a lie, because I'm sure you realize that you could get in big trouble, all of you. Yes, the truth is best . . . You could even say that I had mentioned Providence, RhodeIsland. It's a big town, and I could easily hide there till this ridiculous thing blows over.”

“This ‘ridiculous thing' you mention, Jacky,” saysRandall, “could the end of it result in a certain person being hanged by her delicate little neck? Hmmm?”

“Well, yes, Randall, it usually does, doesn't it?”

Both Amy and Polly gasp. Randall does not. He only looks into his empty glass. “Hmm . . . Then you must be very careful.”

“I am always careful, Randall. You know that.”

That
gets me a good snort all around.

“Well, I am,” I retort, slightly miffed. “But for now, let us forget idle troubles, and repair to the music room for some merriment and song! Let us banish all care!”

“Hear, hear!”
is the answer from my companions as we all rise to go. I notice that Randall grabs the bottle on his way.

 

We belted out every song we each knew. Randall introduced us to some raunchy barracks ballads he had picked up from his time in the service of the U.S. Marine Corps. Polly blushed prettily at those tunes—in a very charming way—but I am sure she could produce those rosy cheeks on cue, as she is an excellent actress. I, too, did work up a blush, but it was difficult, my knowing that I knew a lot worse in the way of the vile and obscene.

But after all was sung and danced, it was time for bed, and Polly and Randall headed off for theirs, while Amy and I off to hers.

 

As we wash up before sleep, Amy offers me a nightshirt, but I demur, saying, “Nay, Sister, I'd best stay in these. There is not much of a chance, but we might have unfriendly visitors. Move over . . .” and soon we are wrapped around each other and falling into peaceful sleep—peaceful for her, any­way . . .

I dream I am on the back of my dear Mathilde, galloping across a large green meadow on a glorious, sunlit day without a cloud in the sky, and I am riding beside my beloved Jaimy Fletcher, dimly aware that we are on a fox hunt. He looks glorious in his lieutenant's jacket of blue, and I am supremely happy. Seeking to embrace him, I forget about the bloody fox hunt and urge Mathilde to the side of his mount and lean toward him . . .

But suddenly another rider comes up between us, forcing us apart . . . Wot . . . ?

I turn to my left and see that it is none other than Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen, looking equally gorgeous in his deep scarlet regimentals, all red and gold and fine.

“Come, Princess!” he calls, his white teeth gleaming around a long black cheroot. “Can you not hear the huntsman's call?”

Indeed, I do . . . Arrrroooo! Loud and clear in the distance.

“They must have spied the fox! I'll race you to that hedgerow, Prettybottom! Away!”

Arrrooooo!

But then yet another comes up and slides between Lord Allen and me. It is Clarissa Worthington Howe, riding sidesaddle on her mighty horse Jupiter. She smiles upon the both of us.

“No, Richard,” she says. “It is I whom you shall race to that row of trees. I am sure we will be the first upon the fox!”

Arrrrooooo!

“Tally-ho, then!” says Allen, spurring his horse forward and leaping ahead, not to be denied his place at the kill.

Arrrooooo!

Clarissa comes up beside me and leans over, holding up her left hand to me. On it is a large ring.

“Say it, Jacky, say it,” she says, her cold blue eyes shining with a devilish light. “Say it.”

“Never!” I cry. “Never shall I say that!”

“Oh, but someday you shall, darling Jacky,” she says with a laugh as she spurs off to overtake Richard Allen. “Someday you most certainly shall!”

“Let them go,” I say to my faithful Jaimy, who still rides by my side. “I'd rather be with you than anyone in the world. Come kiss me, love.”

The day continues, lovely and quiet and warm, and Mathilde is changed in that way that dreams will into my dear gentle Gretchen from back at the Lawson Peabody. I lean over and nuzzle my nose into Jaimy's thick dark hair and prepare for his sweet kiss and . . .

Arrrooooo!

Then my eyes fly open and I suddenly realize that I have been nuzzling my nose into the hair behind the ear of Amy Trevelyne and not that of Jaimy Fletcher, and that sound of the hunter's horn is real! It is Edward's warning trumpet and I must fly!

I leap out of bed, gather up my oilskins—thanking God that I had slept in my sailor togs—plant a kiss on Amy's drowsy cheek, and say, “Goodbye, Sister,” and I am through the door, down the stairs, and out the back, racing down the path to my waiting
Evening Star.

There is the sound of galloping horses and shouting back at the great house, and I see torches being lit. Then someone yells, “There she goes!” and rifles are fired—
pok! pok! pok!
The dust behind me is pelted with angry bullets, but they don't hit me, for I am too far ahead. I manage to reach the boathouse unharmed and leap, breathless, into my
Star.
I throw off the lines, raise the sail, and grab the tiller.

A puff of welcome breeze and I am off to sea . . .
 Let them shout and let them shoot; they can't catch me here . . .