“I know, Ezra, but that can wait a few minutes! Bring Chloe, too! I won’t be long! Cheers!” and I am out and pounding down the street.
“So that’s the way of it, Jacky,” says Maudie, all disconsolate. “What with me getting on in years and poor Bob with his rheumatism, well, we just couldn’t handle it. And we couldn’t hire help, business bein’ so bad and all.” Her man, Bob, sitting in a rocking chair with a throw over his legs, nods grimly in agreement.
“So now it looks like the bank is gonna take the place,” he says. “And there’s naught we can do about it.”
Their rooms are, indeed, mean, there being only a kitchen and bedroom, with a single window facing out on the brick wall of the building next door. The interior walls are peeling and in need of paint. We sit at the kitchen table, sipping the tea Maudie has managed to serve.
“Why is business so bad?” I ask. The Pig always did have a bit of a problem being not right on the docks. Thirsty sailors had to walk a mite to get to it, something they were loath to do, their having great thirsts that needed immediate quenching, but I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Yes, there were those great days when Gully MacFarland and I packed the place with our musical act—MacFarland and Faber, the Toast of Two Continents, Singing and Playing for You Songs both Sad and Gay! On Fiddle and Squeezebox and Flageolet! But now Gully is far away at sea and I myself have gone missing for a while. Most recently I was a convict on the way to and from Botany Bay, and then I was involved in Lord Wellesley’s Peninsular Campaign against Napoleon’s forces in Portugal and Spain. Still, even with Gully and me out of the picture, the Pig used to do enough business to scrape by.
“Times have changed in Boston, dearie,” says Maudie with a sigh. “Used to be different sorts of people got along with each other, but now it ain’t like that at all.”
I’m a bit mystified by that, but I don’t pursue it as I rise to go.
“I’ve got to meet some people, Maudie,” I say, standing. “But I’ll be back. Let me leave you with this promise: The Pig shall dance again, and I mean that.”
As I let myself out the door, I hear Maudie call after me, “It’s the gangs, they’re the ones what done it. Beware, Jacky.”
The gangs?
Ten minutes later, I slip into a booth at the Union Oyster House, sliding in next to Chloe and across from Amy and Ezra. A plate of fat oysters on a bed of ice is brought as I settle in, along with glasses of chilled white wine all around. Amy still beams unreservedly at me, and I am gratified to see that she holds hands with Ezra. I give Chloe Cantrell a squeeze of her own hand and then pile into the oysters. I am told that some excellent lobsters are being prepared, and for that I am glad—the fare on the Margaret Todd was not all that fine.
The questions from Amy fly at me quick and fast. “Where . . . ? What . . . ? How did you get here? How . . . ?”
I squeeze a slice of lemon over one particularly plump fellow, lift him up, and drop him down the Faber neck. A few more follow, and some bites of good crunchy bread, and then I answer, “Later, Sister, at Dovecote, in our beloved hayloft, for there is much to tell. But right now, I need a report on the state of Faber Shipping Worldwide from its esteemed Clerk of the Corporation.”
Ezra chuckles and pulls a packet of letters from his vest and passes them over to me, saying, “The Nancy B. Alsop is in port at Hallowell’s Wharf, having just returned from another Caribbean run. The Lorelei Lee is due in shortly with another load of Irish immigrants. More about that later . . . Meanwhile, I think it best that you read the letters.”
I look at the pile. One is from my grandfather, the Reverend Alsop, and sure to contain news of my orphanage, the London Home for Little Wanderers. Another is from my dear friend John Higgins, posted in London. And the third is from the House of Chen—Chopstick Charlie! Joy! Maybe news of Jaimy!
I rip that one open first . . .
Charles Chen
The House of Chen
Rangoon, Burma
March 19, 1809
Jacky Faber
Faber Shipping Worldwide
State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Dear Ju kau-jing yi,
It gives me great pleasure, Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, to report that your Mr. James Fletcher has made a full recovery of his senses and has taken passage to the United States.
He has been given money and instructions to conduct some business for me when he is in that country. He devoutly hopes you, yourself, will actually be in that locale and I assured him it was as good a place as any for him to start the search for you. I have advised him to stay in some disguise, as the authorities in London might not have completely forgiven him for his past transgressions in spite of your efforts upon his behalf.
I hope you are well, Number Two Daughter. Number One Daughter Sidrah sends her regards.
Your Humble Servant,
Chops
“What good news!” I exult, passing the letter to Amy and reaching for Higgins’s envelope. “Jaimy’s coming here! I had thought to take passage to Rangoon at the first opportunity, but now I won’t have to! Joy!”
Amy can scarcely contain herself as she reads and mutters . . . “Rangoon . . . Burma . . . barbarians . . . Mr. Fletcher . . . ?”
“Later, Sister, please,” I plead. I know she wants to pull out her pencil and portable writing desk right now, to start in, but it will have to wait. Then I rip open the letter from my grandfather . . .
Reverend Henry Alsop
London Home for Little Wanderers
Brideshead Street, London, England
April 26, 1809
Miss Mary Alsop Faber
Faber Shipping Worldwide
State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
My dear granddaughter,
It is my fondest hope and prayer that this letter finds you well and happy, wherever you might be in this world.
The Home continues to do its good work for the orphan children of London, thanks to the donations from your company and the proceeds from the penny-dreadful accounts of your adventures so graciously donated by Miss Amy Trevelyne, the author of those little epics. I can barely make myself read them, but I do, and console myself in the hope that most of the rather risqué parts are figments of Miss Trevelyne’s vivid imagination. I have a full shelf of them in my study, the latest one being The Wake of the Lorelei Lee, but I don’t let the children read them, oh, no. I do, however, allow the staff to borrow the books, and I am afraid that some of them have found their way into general circulation among some of the older children. Oh, well, best they know something of their benefactors, I suppose . . .
I myself am well, or as well as could be expected, considering my age, but I do grow a bit infirm. Oh, how I miss having Mrs. Mairead McConnaughey as Mistress of Girls, but I hear she is afraid to come back to the school in light of her last maltreatment by the British authorities.
However, I do now have an excellent Assistant Schoolmaster in the person of a Mr. Thomas Arnold, a very well-educated young man, who, as Master, seldom wields the rod on his students, preferring to believe in the essential goodness of the children in his care. Who knows, perhaps some day I may leave the Home in his capable hands and come to see you in America? Yes, maybe there is yet one more adventure in me.
I would dearly love to see you again, child, as it has been a long time.
Your Loving Grandfather,
Henry Alsop
I do not pass that letter to Amy, but instead lay it aside, snorting back a bit of a tear. Amy Trevelyne, poet, writer, and would-be academic, does not need to see the term penny-dreadful put next to her name. No. Now for Higgins’s letter, which has been opened, as it is not addressed to me . . .
John Higgins
London, England
May 2, 1809
Ezra Pickering, Esq.
Faber Shipping Worldwide, Inc.
State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
My dear Mr. Pickering,
I am writing this letter in hopes that you have been in contact with our peripatetic Miss Jacky Faber, who was last reported as having been seen in Madrid, sending dispatches concerning the French occupation of that city back to the English lines via a partisan guerilla band.
As I informed you in my last letter, both she and I were assigned by British Intelligence to Sir Arthur Wellesley’s staff in Portugal, she as translator of French, Spanish, and Portuguese, and myself as aide to Mr. Scovell, the General’s spymaster and cryptographer.
After our victory at the battle of Vimeiro, in which she performed as a dispatcher and from which she emerged bloodied but not seriously hurt, she was sent by Wellesley to Madrid in the care of the aforementioned guerrilla band—a very motley crew, I will tell you, and I did worry about her safety. By all reports, she did manage to make it to Madrid, where she joined a prominent artist’s household. In what capacity she was employed there, I cannot begin to guess, but we do know that, as a member of Francisco Goya’s staff, she accompanied him to the national palace to paint the usurper King Joseph’s portrait. While there, she gained much valuable information on the occupying French forces, information she was able to convey back to British Intelligence. I know General Wellesley found her dispatches most interesting.
After his great victory at Vimeiro, Wellesley was replaced as Commander in Chief by an act of monumental stupidity on the part of the Royal Army and returned to England. He is currently working to clear up the political mess his removal occasioned, and it is widely expected that he will be returned to command and will continue the Peninsular War in Spain. He has asked that Miss Faber again be added to his staff at that time.
I strongly feel that, given any latitude of freedom, she will head back to Boston, as she has great affection for that city and her many friends therein. And, of course, she will want to check on the status of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Plus, she is sure to be wary of any return to England, given her past experience with the government here.
I, myself, have been given indefinite leave from Scovell’s staff, there not being much to do now that our operatives in the field, Miss Faber for one, have fallen silent. That being the case, I will now proceed to Waterford, in Ireland, to take passage back to America on the brigantine Lorelei Lee, Flagship of Faber Shipping, which is sure to be taking on passengers of a Celtic persuasion.
Looking forward to renewing acquaintance with all my friends in Boston, I am your humble servant,
John Higgins
Vice President
Faber Shipping Worldwide
“Hooray!” I exult, handing the letter to Amy. “Nothing but good news today! All is well at the London Home for Little Wanderers, and our dear Higgins is returning to us on the Lorelei Lee! And here’s our fine lunch, to boot,” I say, as the steaming platter of cracked lobster is put in front of us, with saucers of melted butter placed all around, and fried potato slices, too, and it all looks just great.
Amy ignores the food and instead scans Higgins’s letter.
“Guerrillas . . . ? General Wellesley . . . ? An artist’s studio . . . ? Whatever did you do there, Jacky? What . . . ?”
“Later, Sister, and all will be plain . . . At Dovecote, when we have the time.”
With my fingers, I’m dragging a big piece of claw meat through the hot butter and bringing it dripping to the waiting Faber mouth, and, Oh, Lord, that’s good! I give out a moan of absolute pleasure while Amy mutters, “Disgusting bug,” and contents herself with nibbles of the potatoes and bread, while the rest of us lay to with great sloppy gusto.