"Aw, g'wan wit' ye, Amy," I tease, knowing how irritated she gets when I slip into the Cockney way of talking. But this time it gets a slight smile out of her. "Now 'tis time for us to go down and receive our guests, poltroons and rascals though they may be.
Around the perimeter of Dovecote's great banquet hall lie easy chairs and couches covered in soft leather and fine cloth. Between them are delicate end tables, placed there for the holding of teacups and wineglasses. Above all hang large paintings in fancy carved gilt frames, depicting fox hunts and bucolic landscapes and champion horses. On a previous visit to this room, I recognized the Sheik of Araby pictured there, with a tiny jockey in green and white silks on his back, winning the Great Invitational Race at Dovecote Downs, an event famous in legend and song. Ahem ... Oh, well. Nothing is more fleeting than fame, and I should remember that.
When Amy and I come in, we find Joannie and Daniel already seated side by side on one of the couches, being, as far as I can see, good and well behaved. I also see that the long dining table has been set for eight, and the great chandelier has been lit.
Amy and I take chairs near the kids, and the butler, Blount, comes in carrying a tray that bears glasses of sarsaparilla, the root beer made from the sassafras plant that grows abundantly wild around this region, and which I dearly love. He gives each of us a glass, and we murmur our thanks.
Each of us, 'cept for Amy, says, "Ummmmm" as we taste the brown, gently fizzing brew. Putting down my glass, I look upon the youngsters.
Joannie, a student at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, my own dear Alma Mater, is decked out in the school's uniform—black dress, black stockings, and white shoulder shawl—and looking quite presentable. Hands in lap, ankles crossed. I approve.
Daniel fidgets a bit, but he is being as good as he can manage. I know he wishes nothing more than to be back on the Nancy B. and up in her rigging, with Joannie by his side, and well I know the feeling. Instead, he is being sent, entirely against his will, to the public grammar school on School Street. He doesn't want to do it, but if he is to keep up with somebody like Joannie, he's just got to. "Right, Daniel Prescott," I had said, sticking my finger in his face. "You stay here as a deck hand while she goes off to that fancy school? All right. Then one fine day, she will go off with her hand on the arm of some nob and where will you be? On your knees, scrubbing some deck and feelin real resentful, is where. Feelin' real sorry for yourself, is what." He takes my advice to heart. Since he has been good in school, mostly—keeping up on his assigned studies and only one or two fights in the schoolyard—we have bought him a respectable suit of clothes in which he is a bit uncomfortable, with its high, tight collar and all, but he'll get used to it. And I think he looks right good in his rig.
After having given us our glasses of root beer, Blount retreats to stand by the sideboy to wait for his next call to duty ... which comes very quickly.
The young master of the house, Randall Trevelyne, looking splendid in his uniform, enters the room and throws himself down in the armchair next to me, then puts his booted feet up on a hassock. He seems to be in a surly mood. Without a word of greeting to any of us, he holds up a cheroot for Blount to light. That accomplished, he accepts a glass of wine from the butler and then deigns to survey the scene.
"Who are the brats?" he asks, sounding bored and not really very interested in the answer.
"Good day to you, too, Mr. Trevelyne," I toss back at him, miffed at his rudeness. I then introduce the young ones. They rise, and Joannie does a very presentable curtsy and Daniel manages an acceptable bow. Randall nods curtly in return but does not get up.
I tell Randall of Joannie's and my common origins and recount the bravery shown by both Joannie and Daniel in various encounters with pirates, nefarious British officers, and large reptiles on the Nancy B. Daniel blushes modestly at the retelling and Joannie takes his hand.
"All very charming, I'm sure," says Randall. "And so where did you come from, boy? Another of the Holy London Orphans? I hear we are to meet yet another of that benighted crew this evening. Could it be that the Sanctified Kip Under the Blackfriars Bridge might actually have been a fancy finishing school, rather than the foul pit described by some? Hmmm? Maybe someone should design The Old School Tie? I suggest green and black diagonal stripes—green for the moldy garbage in the streets of your youth and black for the mud and stench. You could all get together annually and have festive reunions—picnics on the banks of the Charles, and such."
You watch it, Randall, you arrogant...
"Beggin' your pardon, Sir, but no," says Daniel, to his credit. I reflect that the boy is coming along just fine. "I was a captive of river pirates at Cave-in-Rock when Missy and her crew on the Belle of the Golden West stormed the place, killed the outlaws, set me free, brought me back to health, and gave me a berth. So here I am."
"Of course, the Goddess of War happens upon the scene, and all is made right," says Randall, glowering through lowered brows at me.
I look away. "Things happen, Randall."
"Right. And is that what I think it is?" he asks, his gaze now on my chest.
"If you think it is the Legion of Honor medal, then you are correct." Figuring it was a good day for grand uniforms, I had decided to counter Randall's scarlet Marine rig with my own blue naval lieutenant's jacket, with gold braid entwined. If we had been in the same service, I would outrank him, which fact I will delight in so informing him later. And, yes, I did pin the medal to my own chest. Sin of Pride, I know, but it is such fun to needle him.
"And just where did you steal that?"
I puff up in mock outrage. "Actually, Sir, Napoleon gave it to me."
"Napoleon, as in Bonaparte?"
"Yes. It was right after I left you there on the plains of Jena. In his carriage. I rode with him for a while. Then he sent me on to Paris with a letter to his empress, Josephine."
Amy looks over at me, mouth agape in a very unladylike way. I hadn't yet related that particular story to her. I have been a spy, after all, and certain things have to be kept under wraps, at least for a while.
Smiling slightly, Randall shakes his head and sinks back into his chair, seemingly abashed. "Then I am in rare company, indeed," he says. "A young woman who sits in the lap of an emperor, and a boy and a girl who stand up to pirates and alligators. How can I possibly measure up?"
"There are some medals on your own chest, Randall," I say, to soothe his male pride a bit.
He looks down at them. "Well, Murat thought I was valuable to him."
"You should be proud, then. Marshal Murat is a great general and a fine man." Both Randall and I had participated in Murat's now famous cavalry charge against the Prussian ranks at Jena, me most unwillingly.
We hear the distant ringing of a bell, and Blount leaves the room.
"I do believe your somewhat questionable friends have arrived," says Randall, as I rise to greet the newcomers.
"Randall, you will be civil," I hiss at him, eyes narrowed. "You, too, Amy. Now get up, both of you."
The two young aristocrats heave well-bred sighs and get to their feet to greet our dinner companions—my two fellow actors and one fellow orphan.
Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean come into the dining room and there are bows and curtsies and hearty greetings all around—our Puck, our Titania ... and you, Miss Amy, the very image of noble Portia ... And is this gentleman not the personification of the fiery Hotspur, Mr. Bean? Oh, yes, he is, Mr. Fennel, if we could only beg him to take a turn upon the boards! The two rogues certainly know how to work a room, that's for sure; and Randall and Amy, in spite of themselves, are soon smiling and laughing.
Then, another enters the room, having taken some time in having her cloak hung in the anteroom so that she could enter the hall alone. She, too, knows how to make an entrance. And a radiant entrance it is. Smart ... and, I perceive, a very cunning girl.
"Randall," I say, taking his hand and leading him to her. "May I present Miss Polly Von, a dear friend of my youth. Polly, Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne."
Eyes hooded, Polly drops down in a deep, deep—and, I must say, very well executed—curtsy, and when she rises, a stunned Randall Trevelyne drops my hand and reaches out his own for hers ... and I have a feeling that it will be henceforth reaching for hers, not mine.
As she comes up, she lifts those baby-blue eyes to his and murmurs in her breathy voice, "So pleased, Mr. Trevelyne, so very pleased to meet you."
It is said that boys fall in love with their eyes, because they can be initially struck to their very core by a girl's mere physical beauty, while girls tend to fall in love with their ears. The outward handsomeness of the lad notwithstanding, a girl most of all likes to hear the words of love everlasting, of how he will be kind and gentle with her and protect her from harm and want and always hold her in the highest respect and esteem.
Me, I fall in love both ways. While my eyes do like to look upon a handsome, smiling, well-turned-out young man in tight britches, my ears also like the words of everlasting love poured into them, as well. Yes, a soft, kind word whispered in her shell-like ear can cause the sometimes outwardly formidable Lieutenant Jacky Faber to fall, and fall hard.
And I know, looking at those two standing there, their eyes only for each other, that Randall Tristan Trevelyne, Second Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps, has fallen, and fallen hard, on this particular field of battle.
Chapter 5
We have returned to Boston. Joannie has been stuffed back into the Lawson Peabody—"Promise me I'll go on the next cruise, Jacky!" "Yes, dear, I swear by my tattoo. Now, you be good and study hard"—and Amy Trevelyne spent last night with me in my beautiful cabin onboard the Lorelei Lee. We know I will be gone soon, as all the refitting and preparations for departure are done, and we want to spend my time remaining in port in each other's company. Plus, she wishes to take more notes on my travels. We have risen, washed and dressed, and eaten breakfast.
As we sit sipping our tea, I look about my new cabin. It is huge compared to my tiny but cozy cabin on my little schooner Nancy B. Alsop. We sit in the warm glow of polished wood as sunlight pours through the semi-circle of windows set into the curve of the stern of the ship. Mementos and trophies from my previous voyages surround us—my Jolly Roger, with its grinning skull and crossed bones, is draped in one corner, and my guitar leans against the opposite bulkhead. The Lady Gay, my very fine fiddle, lies in her case on a shelf made just for her. In a special rack rests my sword and harness—Bardot's sword, given to me as he lay upon his deathbed following that terrible battle. I've had the blade shortened to fit my size and strength, and made some alterations to the grip, as well, and named the sword Esprit. Every time I put it on, or even just glance at it, I think of my bonny light horseman, who in battle was slain, and heave a great sigh for the loss of such a good friend.
We sit at the table that runs fore-and-aft down the middle of the cabin. It is a long table that will seat eight and was designed and built by Ephraim Fyffe, newly married to my dear friend Betsey. Like all my tables, both here and on the Nancy B., there have been depressions routed out to hold my fine Delft china plates and crystal glasses in place in the event of a heavy blow. Down below, the other tables are similarly routed out, to hold securely the more common pewter plates and cups, which I think all using them will appreciate. Tucked under this fine polished table lurks a black-painted nine-pound Long Tom pointed aft and ready in a moment to be run out through its gun port to trouble any pirate or other brigand who would seek to chase us. A similar gun rests up forward, its muzzle just below the tail of the figurehead. This gun in here has been named (by Davy, of course) Kiss My Royal Ass and the one up forward has the name Stinger painted in red on its butt. I have seen a good bit of the oceangoing life and I believe in being well armed. Out on the deck are six twelve-pound cannons on each side, with cannonballs stacked neatly beside them, and a full powder magazine below. Since I will henceforth be involved in only honest commerce, I shall expect others to be honest as well, by God.