My Bonny Light Horseman (19 page)

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!"

Mildred gets up and runs off while Bessie pats Mr. Burrows's brow and says, "Now, now, sweetie, you go back to sleep now. No more trouble, you'll see..."

In a minute, John Tinker, my fellow ship's boy from my days on the
Dolphin,
hobbles on a crutch into the main room, his left leg dragging slightly behind his right one.

"What? Who?" he asks, wondering at me standing there in all my finery.

I go to him and say, "Tink. It's me, Jacky. Davy told me you were here."

"Jacky? Jack Faber? No, it cannot be. How...," he says, bewildered.

"Later, Tink, let's get out of here," I reply, and with my arm around his waist, we leave the Bell and Boar to go out into the street where we lean against a wall.

"Jacky. I can't believe this...," he says, gazing wonderingly at me. "Last time I saw Davy he said that you was all growed up. I didn't believe him then, but he sure was right. You're some fine lady."

"You ain't so bad yourself, Tink. Still the same thick black curls and ruddy complexion. 'Course you've grown some. But never mind that now. We'll lift a pint together in the future and catch up on things." I look to the right and left to make sure that Carr and Boyd have not come upon us unawares. They have not. "Right now you've got to take this letter and deliver it to my grandfather, the Reverend Alsop, at the London Home for Little Wanderers on Brideshead Street. Can you do that?"

"Aye. It is not that far from here. I'll go there now." He stuffs the letter into his shirtfront.

"Good. They'll give you some money and employment if you want it. Do you want to go back to sea, John Tinker?"

"It is my fondest wish, Jacky," he answers sadly, looking down at his leg, "but..."

"But nothing. There's always room for an able seaman at Faber Shipping, Worldwide, one-legged or two-. You'll see. Just deliver the letter. Now I must go, as they are after me. Remember, if anyone asks, you haven't seen me."

"Faber Shipping?" He laughs. "You always did go on about that."

"Yeah, it ain't so big right now, just one schooner and two fishing boats, but it does exist, so there."

"Well, I'll be damned. What of the others?"

"Willy's still on the
Temeraire,
last I heard. Davy's newly married to a friend of mine back in Boston, but now he's in a French prison. Jaimy's wounded but still alive, and you are there, and I am here. Benjy's still up in Heaven watchin' over all of us, and laughing at all our trials. The Brotherhood forever!"

With that we each put our fists on our Brotherhood tattoos and I grasp his hand and give him a kiss on his forehead and then run off down the street and he heads, not as swiftly but just as determinedly, in the other direction.

I spot a familiar drainpipe and shinny up it to a low rooftop, then climb onto a higher one, and then an even higher one. I spent a good deal of my youth clambering over these roofs so I know them quite well. When I reach a height that gives me a good view of what is going on down below, sure enough, I spot Carr and Boyd feverishly searching Broad Street, so I cross over a few more rooftops and then drop down onto Paternoster Street. Then I cut down Creed and hop back into our carriage, none the worse for wear. Up above, the driver is deep in slumber, his whip across his knees. The job is done.

I sink against the cushions, chuckling over Messrs. Carr and Boyd, who by this time must be planning new careers for themselves, knowing that surely they will be sacked from the Intelligence Branch, if not taken out and shot, for the misplacement of one small female.

I draw the veil back over my face and I manage to drift off into some sweet slumber, only to be awakened when Mr. Carr jumps into the coach and plops down on my left side with Mr. Boyd on my right.

"Gentlemen," I ask, yawning and rubbing at my eyes, "wherever did you get off to? I was fearing for your safety, as this is a very rough neighborhood."

They say absolutely nothing, just stare stonily forward. The driver clucks at the horses and we are off, returning to the Admiralty, and, hopefully, to a good dinner with Sir Grenville.

"Don't worry, lads," I say as I snuggle down between them, "I shan't peach on you to Mr. Peel." I lift the veil for a moment to plant a kiss on each of their impassive cheeks as we ride back in silence.

The letter I gave to Tink? Oh, yes, here it is:

Unknown Person in Some Degree of Peril
London, September 1806

To Whom It May Concern:

I will keep this letter short and anonymous for reasons that should be obvious. Suffice to say that a Certain Person Who I Hope Is Dear To You did not die under the guillotine recently,
no matter what the reports from France of her demise might indicate.

Please send word to certain Persons in the United States, especially to Mr. Ezra Pickering and to John Higgins, that I am not yet dead, even though I may well deserve to be so. However, it would be best if this information is kept secret for a while.

Please give the bearer of this letter money for passage to America and provide him with a Letter of Reference from me to Mr. James Tanner that begs him to employ this same messenger in some sort of seagoing fashion, as he is a thoroughgoing seaman in spite of his infirmity.

Please give my love and regards to the children and to Mairead and Ian as well.

I will not be able to correspond for a while, but do not worry about me.

All my love,

J.

Chapter 19

The next morning I am again off in the carriage, this time to Madame Petrova's dance studio. Carr's and Boyd's unusually flinty gaze adds little joy to the ride. This time they make certain that both entrances to the carriage are firmly latched.

Madame's studio consists of a number of large rooms with polished wooden floors and absolutely no furniture or decoration. A metal barre runs around three sides of the room, the other side being a bank of windows. I know she has classes, too, with other girls, as I hear them out there going through their routines, but I am not allowed to mingle with them. No, I take my instruction alone, just me and the Witch Petrova.

On that first day, I am given a sort of body stocking to wear along with a pair of blunt-toed shoes that lace with ribbon about my ankles and then the instruction begins.

"Place your left hand upon the barre. We will now learn the Positions of the Feet, and how to move between them. Then the Positions of the Arms. Now First Position is..."

I'm given lessons in just how the poor feet should be twisted and the soon-exhausted arms lifted and held out just so, and then told to practice these things till noon, whereupon she sweeps out of the room to attend to her real students.
Three hours of this! I shall die!

But I don't die, I just do it.

After a lunch of hard bread, cheese, and cold tea, we go back at it again. Madame is
not
pleased with my progress and is quite free with her cane.

At five o'clock I'm brought back to my room, aching in every muscle and bone. I flop facedown on my bed and do not move until I am called to dinner. I'm afraid I'm not very good company.

I suffer days and days of this treatment, progressing from the security of the barre to dancing in the center of the room. Beginning with the
bourrée,
a simple series of gliding steps on my tiptoes, I advance to
grands jetés,
big leaps in the air, then she pronounces me ready to learn the
rond de jambe en l'air et l'arabesque.
When she gives that command, I must lift my arms into the air and then slowly lower them in a sweeping circular motion until my turned-in fingers touch the tops of my thighs, at the same time letting my knees bend slightly, turning my legs into coiled springs. I hold that a split second and then, throwing my arms back up again, I leap to my toes in Second Position, my legs stiff as any mainmast backstay. Then I come off
pointe,
allowing my knees to lower my body slightly. Then I leap out of the crouch, smoothly landing
en pointe
on my left foot, my right leg in the air. I hold this, steady as any rock, feeling the instep of my left foot bulge with the strain.