My Bonny Light Horseman (18 page)

"Well," I shrug, all innocent, "we all ride our little hobbyhorses, don't we, Mr. Peel?"

When at last in bed, curled up, knees to chest, in my usual ball of anxiety, fear, and doubt, I reflect that at least this bed is more comfortable than that coffin in which I spent last night, and for that I am glad. I am also glad to still be alive. I do miss having Joseph Jared at my side to calm me when I start screaming at the phantoms that come to visit me in the night, though. Oh, I know they will come tonight, too, but only the guard outside my door will hear as I thrash about and shriek out my terrors.

Before I fall asleep and surrender to the night dreads, I think of my mates still back in that prison, and I fear for them. I cannot imagine what they must have felt when that executioner, next to the guillotine, held up a head for them to behold ... a head they had to believe was mine.

Davy ... Joseph ... I hope you didn't do anything rash, I hope ... Oh, God, I am so very hard on my friends...

Chapter 17

The next day, which is Saturday, I am taken out, wrapped in Mr. Peel's cloak, and put in a coach. We rattle off to Regent Street in the fashionable part of London and I am bought new clothes, clothing appropriate to wear in Paris. I am fitted in the new Empire style, long pleated dresses gathered up under the low bodice, with short, puffy sleeves. I am given several of those, in white and pink and mauve. Dressy hats are bought, along with a number of fine scarves and shawls. New hairpieces, neat shoes, and silk stockings, too, in addition to delicate underclothing and frilly garters. And cosmetics—oh yes, cosmetics and perfumes, definitely. The tailors and shop mistresses are plainly overjoyed with my visits, and I wish them all the joy of their unexpected windfall.

I must confess that I do not find this at all unpleasant, being fussed over and measured and fitted with the finest of attire.

Oh, and a riding habit, of course, I must have one of those—the jacket deep blue this time, with matching bonnet and skirt. I must confess I have a certain affection for this style of rig—I like the tight clutch of the jacket about my ribs and the feel of the soft white lace about my throat and wrists. I wanted to get a jacket made of red cloth, but I am going to France, after all, and they tend to view wearers of that color with some suspicion just as the Americans do when they see the scarlet coats of the British.
It's funny, ain't it,
I muse, as I pick out half a dozen fancy embroidered handkerchiefs to the extreme delight of the shop owner,
that these three countries, Britain, France, and America—sometimes friends but most often enemies—all use red, white, and blue for their colors? Funny, that. Ironic, even.

The skirt of the riding habit is cut in such as way as to give the legs of the wearer some freedom to move—I mean sometimes you have to get on a horse and all—and that is good, because tomorrow I intend to do some moving ... some quick moving ... as in running.

I wear my spanking new riding habit out of the last shop, my veil now attached to my bonnet, only my eyes showing above it, making me look, I think, quite the lady of the manor. I grandly say to Carr and Boyd, "Brattle Lane, please. The offices of H. M. Fletcher & Sons, Wine Merchants. It is close to Saint Paul's Wharf."

"We know where it is, Miss," says a weary Carr, uttering a rare complete sentence as he pushes aside the mountain of packages that now occupy the carriage in order to sit across from me. Boyd issues instructions to the coachman, and then he, too, crams himself inside. I know that both clearly wish they had other duties—like maybe picking lice off nasty monkeys at the London Zoological Institute. Some men just do not like to shop.

I have been guarded in the past, generally against my will, by any number of soldiers and Marines, and I've always been able to use whatever charms I may have to gain at least their sympathy if not their affection. But not these two, oh, no. All my little ventures into their histories, or accounts of their wives or sweethearts, have been met with stony silence. Never a glimmer of humor, nor even a response except for a terse "yes" or "no" or a grunt.
Well, we shall see, lads...

As we rattle along, I reflect on how close Jaimy might have been to me during that time I was growing up and running with the Rooster Charlie Gang and living under Black-friars Bridge. I mean, the warehouses of H. M. Fletcher & Sons were not half a mile from our kip, in fact, there they are right over there, and I'm sure he must have been there sometimes. Oh, I know he'd have been in school most of the time, while I was in the streets, but then, we might have met. Who knows?

I jerk myself back into the present.
Back to business, girl.
The carriage pulls up in front of the offices of H. M. Fletcher & Sons, Brattle Lane, London. I get out and walk in, followed very closely by Carr and Boyd.

There is a young man sitting behind a desk who looks up as I enter.

"Yes, Miss?"

"I wish to see Mr. H. M. Fletcher," I say, from behind my veil, as I glance about the room. The young man looks so much like Jaimy that I must assume that he is his brother George.

"In what regard?" the young man asks, rising.
So much like Jaimy! Calm, now, you!

"I ... I have information concerning a certain James Emerson Fletcher, with whom I believe you are acquainted. I have seen him recently."

The young man's eyes go wide. "James? You have seen him. What...?"

"Please get your father, Sir, and I will go on."

He leaves the room and I hear
Dad! Dad! Come here! News of Jimmy!
In an outer office.

An older man comes into the front office. He is the same man I saw four years ago standing on the dock as the
Dolphin
prepared to get under way and he sent Jaimy off to be a ship's boy with the likes of me. He and his family have certainly paid for
that
move. He has aged a bit, but not by much, and he looks at me with expectation and not a little suspicion upon seeing me behind my veil.

"You have seen my son, James?" he demands. "We have not heard anything of him since he stepped off the dock last spring. Who are you? What...?"

"Father," says young George, "I think we both know who this is."

"Oh. Oh, yes, of course. That's Ja—"

"If you do think you know my name, Sirs," says I, looking back at Carr and Boyd, "please do not speak it, as it will not go well for any of us." I put as much warning into my eyes as I can. "Before I begin, let me say that I saw Jaimy a week ago, and though he was severely wounded, he was alive, and I have arranged that he will be delivered to your house within a fortnight."

"Thank God he yet lives!" cries Mr. Fletcher, grabbing the back of a chair for support. "How badly is he wounded? Where is he? How do you know about it?"

"He received a head wound during a fight at sea that left him with a severe concussion. He goes in and out of his senses, but is otherwise healthy, although right now he
is
in a French prison. That is where I left him, under the care of an excellent doctor. Both Jaimy and Dr. Sebastian will be exchanged next week, and he will be brought here to recover, which is, of course, my fondest hope."

"We should send for your mother, George, she will want to hear this!" says Mr. Fletcher. "Go get her..."

George shakes his head and looks at me. "I don't think it would be wise right now, Dad..."

Ah, so the old witch still hates me ... Good to know.

"Let's hear the story and we'll tell it to Mother later," suggests the very wise George.

I give a sniff and put on the Lawson Peabody Look, even though they can't see enough of it to fully appreciate its grandeur, and say, "I am glad to tell you that the head wound was not disfiguring, not that I would allow that to in any way diminish my great affection for your son. I have been given permission..." Here I dart my eyes to Carr and Boyd, "...by my, ah ...
associates
... to visit with Jaimy when he arrives, if you could see it in your heart to allow me into your house, Sir. I would greatly appreciate it. I know I am not welcome here, so I will now bid you
adieu.
Rest assured I will be praying both night and day for Jaimy's full recovery. Good-bye."

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.