Under the Jolly Roger: Being an Account of the Further Nautical Adventures of Jacky Faber (4 page)

What?

"... and then went off to glorious adventure on the high seas! Hurry, they won't last!"

In a not-very-ladylike fashion, I elbow my way to the front of the shop, where pinned to the wall is the cover of...

Bloody Jack,
Being an Account of the Curious Adventures
of Mary "Jacky" Faber, Ship's Boy,
as told to her dear friend and companion
Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne

Oh, Lord.

In shock, I get in line to buy one. After all, I do have to know what is being said of me.
Hmmm ...
so this is what Mother Fletcher was talking about when she said the "latest outrage." What she must have thought when she read about this. What did Jaimy think when he read it?

Oh, Amy. What have you done to me?

On the cover of the book, the printer has added a woodcut of a woman standing on the deck of a ship with crossed belts on her ample chest, firing a pistol out of each hand. The woodcut is crude and doesn't look at all like me—much too buxom, for one thing, and for another, I never smoked a pipe. Oh, well...

As I stand and wait my turn, I put it all together: Amy, who had been scribbling on this thing all winter, asking me questions about my life and all, gets it done after we have our falling-out. She then takes it to a printer in Boston, partly, I guess, because she's resentful and wants to pay me back and partly because she wanted people to read her words. It is sold in the bookstores and then some passenger bound for England must have seen it, found it interesting, and took a copy back to a friend who's a printer in London, and here it is.

When I give the man a shilling for the book, he looks concerned and says, "Now, Miss, there's some rough stuff in this book. Maybe you'd best let your father read it first to see if it's all right for you, it being plain that you are a person of breeding and all."

"I thank you, Sir, for your consideration of my tender sensibilities," I say, trying not to snort out loud. "I will take your advice to heart and I shall give it to my pastor for his review to see if it is appropriate for one such as I." I lower my eyes demurely and clasp the book to my chest and retreat.

I'll think about this later, I decide, as I continue on my way up to Bride Street.

I ask on Bride Street for a serving girl named Judy Miller, but all I get is
Sorry, Miss,
and
Never 'eard of 'er,
till an old woman working at a churn in her doorway gives a loud
tsk!
and says, "Ye will find the poor soul four houses down thataway."

I look in the doorway and see that it is a wash house, and there, bent over a tub, is Judy Miller, my good and true mate from the Rooster Charlie Gang. Steam fills the place as does wood smoke from the fires to heat the tubs, and there are piles of dirty laundry everywhere. Judy is dressed in a formless gray dress, not much more than a shift, really, and her arms, what I can see of 'em, are red and raw and chafed from the harsh soap. And though I am overjoyed to see her again, this doesn't look much like being a maid to a fine lady to me.

I step into the laundry and she looks up, and I see that she does not recognize me. She has become a rawboned, large girl, a good foot and more taller than me. In the gang she was not among the most clever, but she was solid and fiercely loyal to the pack. She was generally cheerful and quick to laugh in spite of our troubles. No more, though. Her eyes are listless and dead, and her shoulders slump in fatigue and defeat. Her arms are in the water up to her elbows, and when she brings them out, I can see that they are red and sore and split from the work.

"Yes, Milady" is all she says upon seeing me standing there in my fancy rig. She waits there as if expecting someone to hit her.

"Judy. It's me. Little Mary from Charlie's Gang. Remember?"

Her eyes go over me without interest. "Little Mary?" she says in confusion. "But you're a fine lady, Miss, not the Little Mary that I knew."

"Nay, I ain't a fine lady," I say, and laugh to put her more at ease. "I'm just dressed like one." Which is the truth, but she doesn't know that yet. "But I
am
the girl you knew as Little Mary."

She doesn't know what to say, just stands there stunned, but finally she hangs her head and says, hardly above a whisper, "So you done good, Mary, and I done bad."

"The kids down at the kip told me you had gone into service. Is that right?" I ask, not feeling good about this at all.

She turns back to her tub. "No, it ain't right, Miss. A man come to see me one time when I was beggin' up on Ludgate and 'e asks would I like to be maid to 'is mum and 'e seems such a decent sort so I says yes, I would, and so I goes to the gang and tells 'em I'm leavin'. And they give me a little party with cakes and all; and I don't know where Toby come up with them, but 'e did and we was all right merry. I said I wouldn't forget 'em as soon as I got set up, and they cheered me off. But it didn't happen that way at all. Not at all."

She reaches in the steaming tub and pulls up a shirt and begins scrubbing it against the washboard that she hauls out and leans against her chest.

"What happened, then?" I ask.

She waits for a while, as if it's hard for her to speak, but then she does. "There weren't no 'Mum.' There was only him, and he used me most cruel, he did. He used me in shameful ways that I ain't gonna tell you about and I don't want to even think about ever again, and then when he was tired of using me that way, he put me out here. I couldn't go back to the gang as I'm grown up now and shamed. It was either here or the whorehouse, so here I am."

I try to keep my voice level and calm. "Did you sign any paper when you came here? Did you put your
X
on anything?"

She shakes her head.

"Does he pay you anything? Give you anything?"

Again she shakes her head. "Only thing he ever give me was this dress, which somebody left here and didn't bother to pick up." There are tears in her eyes now and she has stopped scrubbing.

"Would you like to be maid to me, Judy?" I say, looking at her all steady, so she'll know I ain't foolin'.

She looks at me, her mouth open in amazement.

"Good," I say. "Let's go. I don't have much money, but I have enough to keep us both for a while."

We got out of there quick, though I was ready if the sod should appear. Judy had nothing to take—just a little rag doll that she had got somewhere and which probably gave her a little comfort at night when she slept on a pile of rags in the corner of the wash house.

"Come on," I say. "We've got to get you into some proper clothes. Then we will get something to eat." I ain't hungry, but I know she is and has been for a long, long time.

We find a dressmaker's shop and are able to fit Judy off a rack of maid's clothing all ready made. It's a blessing that she's clean, having worked at the laundry, so she ain't shamed by that, at least.

There's a different style of maid's clothing here in England from the ones in the States. Softer and more looselike, so fitting Judy out ain't a problem. There's a pink dress with pleats that gather below the chest and then a white collar thing and puffy sleeves, then a white apron. And a cap. Judy is in a daze and can only run her hands down the soft new cloth in wonder. A nightshirt, some new drawers, stockings, and petticoats, and we're done at the dressmaker's shop.

To the shoemaker's for a pair of slippers and then back to my digs at the Admiral Benbow.

I think about taking our dinner in the main room, but I know that will be too much for Judy right yet, so when I sweep back through the Benbow with Judy in tow, I say to the landlady, "We'll take our dinner in our room. Send it up. Tea, and some wine, too, if you please."

A table is set up and the food and drink is placed upon it. The food is good and the wine even better. Judy eats carefully, watching me to see what I do with the tools. She still casts her eyes about, as if not believing any of this.

"Well, that was good," I say, dabbing my lips with the napkin. "What do you think, Judy?"

She bends her face forward and starts crying into her hands. "I'm sorry, Mistress, I'm sorry, I..."

I put my hand on her shoulder and draw her to me. "I know, I know, it's a shock. There, there. I know you've had a rough time, but things will be different now, I promise, I do."

She will not call me Mary or Jacky or anything but Mistress and I let her do it. I certainly understand the comfort of knowing one's place.

I pat her back and say, "You settle in, now. I've got one more thing I've got to do this day."

I go back to Bride Street with Judy's old dress in my hand and my riding crop under my arm. When I get to the house where Judy was so cruelly deceived, I rap on the door.

The door opens and a man stands there, his pants not buttoned, his vest hanging open, his face unshaved, his hair uncombed. A musty smell comes off of him.

"Wot?" he says, his eyes blinking at the light. "Wot the devil do you want?" He is not pleased at the intrusion. He idly scratches his belly and looks out over my head.

I fling the shift in his face and say, "Here. I've taken poor Judy Miller off your dirty hands. May you roast in Hell for what you did to her, you piece of filth!"

I'm about to leave it at that and I turn to go, leaving the scum with the rag of a dress wrapped around his face.

Then I see her.

She is cowering back in the shadows behind him, and she is clad in rags, and she can't be more than twelve. I see how things are and I lose control of myself and I rear back with my crop and whip him across the face as hard as I can.

"You miserable bastard!" I yell, and I hit him again and he screams and stumbles out into the street. The girl behind him puts her hands to her mouth in terror.

"Get back to your gang, girl! This man means you no good!" I yell to the girl. She jumps out and runs past me and off down the street like a startled rabbit, the soles of her bare feet flashing in the dimming light of the day.

I'm little but I'm strong, and I'm quick and I'm mad, and he's fat and slow and he stumbles to the ground crying out,
Stop, please, for the love of God, stop!
But I don't stop. I bring the crop down and down again and he squeals like the pig he is when he feels it bite into his legs and his fat buttocks, down and down and down again with all the strength and rage I've got in me. And while I'm doing that, I'm cursin' him straight to Hell and back again, and I get him across the shoulders and then twice across the face, back and forth, and he howls and curls up in a ball. Then I stop and stand over him, my chest heaving, and I tell all the people standin' around watchin' just what he's been up to, and then I work up a wad of spit and I spit it on him and then I get out of there before the peelers come.

I slip around the corner of Trumbull Lane, tryin' to get back to the Benbow without being seen. I don't know what kind of friends that slime bag has with the local constables, and my experience with constables, both here and in the States, not bein' all that cordial, I lay low.

I peek around the corner and find myself lookin' square into the eyes of Joannie, the girl from the Blackfriars Bridge Gang. We both start back.

"Wot? Miss? Jacky? You?" she says. "What's going on?"

I see that she's got the younger ones spread out around the square, hands out in begging, with eyes out for any chance for something better. Zeke leans against the Benbow, keepin' an eye out for any trouble.

Joannie seems to have trouble speaking. She flushes and stammers, "I ... I'm sorry, Jacky, it ain't easy for me to talk like this wi' someone lookin' like you."

I see, and I put my hand on her bare arm. "It's all a game, Joannie," I says, "and it would be good for you to remember that. Now listen," and I tell her what happened to Judy and about the girl I saw there and what's likely to happen to anyone who that man gets behind his door.

She sags against the wall and lets her face become a mask of cold indifference like she's seen all this before, time and again. Then she says, "We'll tell all the other gangs. We'll work up a truce concerning Bride Street. We'll get there." Then her face gets hard as stone and she turns to me face on and hisses, "Depend upon it, Jacky. That dirty bugger'll never pass a peaceful day or night again. We'll take care of that!"

I pop back into our room to Judy's great relief. "Mistress, I was so worried."

"Just takin' care of some business" is all I'll say. "Now, let's get ready for bed. I plan a big day for tomorrow." With that I start undressing and she comes over and helps me get my clothes off and hung up proper.

Later, when we've both got our nightdresses on and are under the covers, I say, "Now, Judy, would you like to hear a story?"

"Coo, yes, Mistress, I would." She is easier with me now, now that I'm not in the lady clothes anymore.

"Very well, get over here next to me and I will read you a story," and, as I feel her head on my shoulder, I pick up Amy's book and begin.

"
My name is Jacky Faber and in London I was born...
"

When I'm done with the first part, I ask her what she thinks and she says that this Amy's got it just about right, but didn't we do as much stealin' and scammin' as we done beggin'? And warn't there a whole lot of drunkards who regretted passin' out on our turf, with us swarmin' over 'em as soon as they hit the cobblestones? And I have to say aye, but Miss Amy, bein' a Puritan, felt she had to clean us up a bit—and I didn't tell her all of it.

Judy giggles. "Remember the time you stole the famous Darby Ram right from under the noses of his keepers at the Great Fair and brought 'im back to the kip and..."

Yes, I say, but that's another story.

I read on far into the night, till she falls asleep, and then I read on silently till I am done. When I finish, I turn back to the cover and read once again
as told to her dear friend and companion Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne.
Hmmm. Strange, that. I thought she hated me, betraying me to the kidnappers and all.

Well, maybe someday we'll see. I snuff out the candle, draw Judy to me, and I go to sleep.