I do not have to dramatically rise, for I have not yet been invited to even sit down. Bleedin' nobs, after all I've done! I sweep toward the door, a bit steamed. But what sort of love did I expect from them? Did I not steal many cases of fine wine from this family, when I sailed and raided on the open sea with both the Wolverine and the Emerald? As well as gaining the devotion of their youngest son? Hey, I'd throw me out, too.
"No! Wait! Stop! Nonsense! Who told you you were not welcome here?" says Father Fletcher. "Please, sit down and tell us more of what you know of James."
A chair is brought and I place the oft-despised Faber bottom in it. Mr. Carr looks at his watch and says, "Curfew in fifteen," and then leans his back against the wall and waits, a look of extreme boredom upon his face.
I tell the story.
"You know your son, and brother, took ship from London in the spring of this year, following a certain person to Boston with thoughts of matrimony. When he got there, he did not find this person, she being abducted by a vile slaver, whereupon he initiated efforts to gain her release. When this person was, indeed, restored to freedom, she was promptly arrested on board HMS Juno for supposed crimes against the Crown. Managing to escape that confinement, she headed off into the frontier of America, not knowing she was being closely followed by James Emerson Fletcher, her former shipmate and own true love. He did never catch up with that person ... oh, yes he did, but I ain't gonna tell 'em about that little encounter, me bein' starkers with Lord Richard Allen at the time and ... well, never mind ... but he did have many adventures with Red Indians, bandits, and various other scalawags ... him being in a Pittsburgh jail, breakin rocks for two weeks with Mike Fink, comes to mind ... on his way down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. Upon reaching New Orleans, he booked passage for Kingston, having given up, for various reasons, any more thought of an amorous alliance with the person he formerly had been seeking. There, at the British Station, he managed to outfit himself once again in Naval uniform and to regain his commission and was taken on as Third Mate of HMS Mercury. While aboard this ship, the person he once had been seeking did arrange to meet him, their differences were resolved, and they once more plighted their troths to each other, each promising to meet here in London upon his return. Whereupon that person did take leave of Mr. Fletcher ... Aye, she did, diving over the side of the Mercury in simple shirt and Indian buckskin skirt ... he and his ship being bound for the Orient as escort to a merchant convoy, and she saw him no more until he was brought into the same French prison that she was held in."
I take a breath and continue. "I was ... removed ... from that prison and brought back to England. Negotiations with a certain branch of our government resulted in the imminent release of your son. And here we are. End of story."
There is a bit of silence and then George says, smiling at me, "Father, I think you did me a disservice, sending James off to sea instead of me."
I put some heat into my eyes, the only part of my face visible above the veil, and say to him, "A life of adventure is ofttimes better in the telling of, rather than in the living through. Your brother James has seen some very hard times, I can tell you."
"Curfew," says Carr with a pronounced finality, and I rise.
"I must hurry to my wife with this news," says Mr. Fletcher, somewhat breathless. "I assure you, Miss, that you will be afforded the utmost courtesy from both Mrs. Fletcher and the rest of my household when James arrives. Good day to you, and thank you."
I am hurried back into the coach and returned to the Admiralty. When we get there, all my packages, as well as my own self, are put back in my room. I am informed that the First Lord has some more books for me and, surprise of all surprises, he will take his dinner with me this evening, his wife being away at their country estate.
I doff my riding habit to get ready for dinner. I get into one of my new Empire dresses. The drawers I have on are all right, but I'll wear no undershirt under this thing, that's for sure. I tuck myself into the gown and tug it down into place. Do I miss Higgins's helping hands at times like this? Oh, yes, I do, but I soldier on and manage to get everything right.
The top rounded curves of my chest peek perkily out. I do not want to encourage anything, but I have felt Sir Grenville to be a gentle soul, plus the fact that Mr. Peel will also be there makes me feel more at ease. Powder all around, some here, some there, some perfume, and off to dinner.
There is a hummm of appreciation as I enter the room, and I like that, but the talk is all about books and that is all right with me. The dinner is excellent and the conversation is bright. Sir Grenville is most knowledgeable in the way of Literature and I sparkle as best I can. It is, all in all, an excellent evening.
Later, back in my room and clad in my nightshirt, I begin to mull over my day and thinking of Jaimy and all, as I wonder, Why do nations bother to trade prisoners? Then I recall that I had once asked that of my sea dad Liam Delaney, a seaman wise beyond both his years and his rank, when we were both on the Dolphin. "It's because, Jacky, they don't want to feed 'em is why. Better to trade a prisoner who just lies around all day complainin' of his lot for one of your own captured seamen who can be brought back and made to work and fight. Plus you don't want to waste your soldiers as guards for the irritable and often dangerous gang o' louts. Nay, trade 'em, and get rid of 'em quickly." Liam's logic was clear and indisputable.
Thinking of Liam brings a tear to my eye, but I brush it away. Dear Liam, the last I saw of you was when you were led off the Wolverine to be pressed onto another warship, and your young son Padraic with you as well. I know you are still in this fight and I pray for the health and safety of both of you.
One thing that has been troubling me is that all my friends, both in England and in America, will think me dead and I can't have that. The French newspapers will carry accounts of the girl pirate Jacky Faber's final journey to the guillotine and copies will make their way over the Channel and then to America. And in the case of my dearest friend, Amy Trevelyne, that bit of news might be deadly. She loves me as I do her, and if she falls into a deep melancholy, she could waste away and die. A pistol is quicker, but deep, aching, and abiding sadness can do the job just as well, and that is exactly what could afflict Miss Amy.
I had been counting on Davy's spreading the word when he got out, but he ain't gonna be sprung right away. What to do? But then I recall something Davy had told me back on the Dauntless, so now I have a plan on how to go about it.
I had asked for paper and pen and they had given it to me—they probably think I'm writing out my Last Will and Testament, as I certainly wouldn't be allowed to send mail to anybody, but I am not—no, my actual will rests in Lawyer Ezra Pickering's safe in Boston. This will be something different.
I take up the pen and begin to write.
Chapter 18
The service at Saint Paul's Cathedral was lovely, and I thoroughly enjoyed singing the hymns. Even the sermon was not too boring, for it taught a good lesson on the Sin of Pride, which I took to heart and resolved to be better in that regard. I'm dressed in my riding habit and look splendid, I think, drawing more than a few interested stares from some gentlemen along with some glares from their wives.
I take much pleasure in gazing about the magnificent interior of this pile of stone upon stone—the rows of great high windows and the massive vaulted dome high above. It brings a smile to my veiled face to think that the last time I was in here, I was dressed as an altar boy and had baby Jesus with me. At least today I got to come in the front door of the place for the first time ever.
But that's all over now and I am back outside with Carr and Boyd on either side of me as we walk up Ludgate Street on our way to our coach, me girlishly chattering away, and those two mugs as silent as tombs. We are parked on Creed Street, just off Ludgate, the crush of carriages about the entrances to the cathedral being too much to put up with, as I knew it would be.
I am very familiar with this part of the city, for as soon as I set foot on Ludgate, I am back in Cheapside, and on the turf of the old Rooster Charlie Gang, of which I was once a proud and, I think, useful member. We are not more than a five-minute run to our old kip under Blackfriars Bridge.
"...And then, lads, at this one shop I saw this perfectly divine little baby blue frock with tiny pink bows that ran all along the bodice, just like that, don't you know..." The eyes of both Carr and Boyd roll back in their heads. I'm sure that they're asking whatever gods of espionage there be just why they were assigned to guard this silly little twit.
Cheer up, lads, things are about to get very exciting.
When we reach our carriage, Boyd hands me up and I charge through and straight out the other door, having made sure, when we drove here, that the inner latch was not engaged. I hit the ground running.
"Stop!" I hear shouted behind me, but I don't even pause. Oh, no, I pound on for all I'm worth, right down Creed and take a sharp right at Shoemaker. I hear them behind me, but I know there's an alley up ahead so I duck into it and run to the end, where there used to be a low shed. Yes! It's still there! I clamber up on it, then over the fence behind it, and find myself, as I knew I would, on Water Street. I hear no more sounds of pursuit, and farther up, at the corner of Water and Broad, squats the Bell and Boar Tavern, certainly not the finest establishment in the city, not even close actually, but it is my destination. I yank the veil aside so I can take some deep breaths and charge on.
I burst through the front door and look around the dim interior—it smells of spilled beer and lost hopes, like all these places, and there are a few working girls over in the corner giggling over a pickled old gent and undoubtedly picking his pocket. But I don't see what I'm looking for.
"'Ere, 'ere, you!" shouts the landlord at his bar. "You can't come bustin' in 'ere loike that. This 'ere's a respectable inn!"
"I can see that, Sir," says I, frosting him with the Look and glancing at the old bawds working over the drunk. "I came here looking for someone. John Tinker. Where is he?"
"And who wants t'know?" smirks this landlord. "Ye look like a foine lady, but I gots a suspicion in me 'ead that yer just a high-class hoor, bein' that yer down 'ere in Cheapside wi' no gent wi' ye. What do you girls think ... Bessie? Mildred?"
I ain't got time for this. I march to the bar where several unwashed tankards rest, left over from the last customers. I pick up one and slam it into the side of the landlord's head. It is a good, heavy tankard, with lots of weight at the bottom to fool the customers into thinking they're getting honest measure, and he goes down behind his bar like a poleaxed steer, squalling out his anguish.
"Know this, ladies," I warn, "I was raised up in this gutter, just like you, so don't let the clothes fool you. I can fight as dirty as any of yiz. Get me John Tinker!"
I pick up another tankard and fling it at the two slatterns. It hits the wall above their heads and drools a bit of leftover foam down the wall, which brings their mark back to his senses.
"Wot?" he asks, gazing blearily about.
"Blimey, Bessie, she means to do us all! Go git the boy, 'fore we lose us Mr. Burrows 'ere!"