Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (3 page)

Sure enough, throughout the entire meal, his mother sits there stiff as a ramrod, barely eating a bite or speaking a word. Which is good, for what she wants to say is that I lack breeding and am not a fit match for her son. That I have driven a wedge between him and her, and that he has forsaken her house for mine—the
Nancy B.,
such as she is.

The devilment, though, wells up in me as I include her silent self in my hopefully bright and charming conversation, pretending that she is graciously joining in.

"...and Mrs. Fletcher, if you could have but seen Jaimy's heroic rescue of my poor self as I was hanging there, choking in LeFievre's noose. Ah, yes, he was every inch the hero while he disregarded the bullets that were flying all about him as he swung his gleaming sword at that horrid rope..."

Cheers all around, but nothing cracks her reserve; and I know what she is thinking, for I can see it in her eyes:
Another minute at the end ofthat rope would have served you very well and done us all a world of good, you insolent little guttersnipe...

Well, to hell with her, then. I think it will always be thus. However, I believe I have won over the hearts of Jaimy's father and brother George, as well as the rest of the company, as they listen raptly to my stories and join me in joyous song.

'Course the fact that Amy's fourth book is a sensation out on the London streets doesn't help much with Mother Fletcher, either...

Earlier on, sitting in my cabin after I had fully recovered from my bout with that fever, Higgins looked at my head, sighed, and set to work getting my hair into some sort of reasonable condition. What there is of my hair, anyway—it was cut to a length of scarce half an inch last August due to an unfortunate encounter with bad men, much tar, and many feathers; and here it is November and still it is only about five scruffy inches long. He takes his scissors and trims up the mop to even things out a bit. He casts his eye upon the result and pronounces himself satisfied.

"There. That makes it look like it was intentionally cut short, you see," says Higgins, fluffing my hair with his fingers. "The latest style on the Continent, as it were. Better than wearing one of your ghastly wigs."

"But Higgins, surely women wear wigs as well as men," I counter. "I could wear a wig to the wedding. The powdered white one."

Higgins shudders. "They were in fashion ten years ago. They are
not
in fashion now," he says, firmly. "The look now is au naturel, and you certainly
do
look natural."

"You mean like a natural savage, don't you, Higgins?" I pout, while still enjoying the feeling of his brush in my hair.

"Do not worry, Miss. The bridal veil will cover your shorn locks at the wedding, and till then, when you go out in public, you can wear your mantilla, so as not to cause a scandal," he advises, reaching behind me to pick up a book, which he lays in my lap. "Or more of a scandal than you already are."

I gasp and pick up the book, fearing that I already know exactly what it is, and sure enough, there on the lurid cover is the title,
In the Belly of the Bloodhound, Being an Account of a Particularly Peculiar Adventure in the Life of Jacky Faber,
by Miss Amy Trevelyne. I notice that she did not add the "as told to" bit, since she would have gotten most of the information for this book from the girls of the Lawson Peabody, and not from me, since I was nowhere around. Amy is nothing if not precise in naming her sources.

A lot of the revenues that support the Home, now that I am not out buccaneering, come from the books that she has written concerning my exploits. Amy Trevelyne, well-fixed herself, has directed that all profits from the books go to the Home, so I can't really complain. And after all, I really did do most of that stuff.

I see that the cover is decorated with a pretty good wood engraving, showing a girl who, I reckon, is supposed to be me, stripped to the waist and lashed to the mast, about to be flogged insensible—which I had been. But ... let's see what else...

I open the book and begin quickly thumbing through it, looking with dread for certain things that I fear might be in there. Surely she could not have put
that
part in it, that bit with me dropping my drawers in front of Mick and Keefe ... Oh, no, surely she did. For a self-described bluenosed New England Puritan, she sure ain't shy about layin' out all of Jacky Faber's crimes against proper behavior for all to see, and,
Hey wait, I didn't go that far!
And hold on, what about that kiss with Clarissa? Flip, flip, flip ... Of course, there it is. In detail.
Geez, Amy, couldn't you have lied a bit and reported I had at least
some
of my clothes on?
And, oh, Clarissa's dad is gonna love the hell out of this if he ever sees it. Heavy sigh. And Mother Fletcher, don't even think about it...

Higgins casts an amused eye on me.

"I'm sorry, Higgins. I do try to be good."

"I know you do, Miss, and sometimes you succeed."

There is to be a reception at the dining hall of the London Home for Little Wanderers, and afterwards Jaimy and I shall take ourselves off to a place where no one can find us—I have in mind a cozy seaside cottage at Bournemouth—and we will be gone for a long time. A very good long time. When we get back, we shall get started on things.

I had taken Higgins's advice and had a long talk with Jaimy. Two days after we got back to London, I had him pick me up and take me to the Admiral Benbow Inn for lunch. The Benbow isn't an elegant place, but I wanted us to meet there for it is not on Jaimy's turf, but rather on mine, 'cause we've got to get some things worked out.

We go in, take a table, and order. He looks about at the humble interior, then looks at me and raises his eyebrows in question.

"We gotta talk, Jaimy," I say, "about what's gonna happen to me after we get married."

"Well," he says, "I do have my eye on a nice set of rooms for you to stay in, over on Aldersgate, and I am sure you'll be quite comfortable."

I say nothing to that for a moment. Then I say, "Listen to me. All I want, Jaimy—all I ever want—is to stand by your side, wherever and whenever the world allows us to do so..."

He reaches over to put his hand on mine, and I put my other hand on his and continue.

"...but I just can't sit around and knit when you're far off at sea. You are still in the Royal Navy, you might remember, and no telling when you might be sent off for months, maybe years ... No,Jaimy,hear me out, please."

He nods and waits, and I go on.

"Here's what I propose. I will continue to run the
Nancy B.
back across the ocean, except this time not carrying cargo but men—Irish men."

"Why? Whatever for?"

"To work in Boston. They're filling in the Back Bay and they're desperate for workers. The Irish are going through another famine, so they are desperate for work. It's to everyone's advantage. The
Nancy B.
could be fitted out to carry a hundred men."

"But if there's a famine, how could these men pay their fares?"

"They wouldn't have to. Faber Shipping would take their indenture, and they could pay us back after they find work."

"How do you know they would pay what they owed?"

"Ha. Woe be to any man who failed to pay his debt. I've got John Thomas and Smasher McGee, remember. They would be quite formidable enforcers."

"You seem to have it all worked out," he says, doubtfully.

"Yes, I have. I've talked to Ian McConnaughey, and he says he could handle the Irish end of things while my Mr. Ezra Pickering would do what was necessary in Boston—making sure there was work for the men the instant they stepped off my ship."

"But the danger, Jacky. Your ship is so small."

"She is a very sound craft, Jaimy, as you well know. And if we make a year's worth of successful trips, we would be in a position to buy a bigger ship—maybe a bark or a brigantine—and then we could haul four hundred men at once and make some serious money. And as for danger, a person can die as easily from a fever caught in the streets of London as from a storm at sea. What do you say, Jaimy?"

"But ... I don't want a wife of mine ... working."

I look at him severely. "That's your class talking, Jaimy, not you. I used to stand right outside this place, with my hand out, begging, Jaimy. I ain't too proud to be in trade. I ain't too proud to work."

"I know that, Jacky, and I never want you to—"

"You don't want me to wither and die, do you, Jaimy? 'Cause that's what'll happen to me if I'm put down in some stuffy rooms to be a good, dutiful wife. You know that ain't me, Jaimy. I'm a member of the seagoing brotherhood, too, Jaimy. Don't you remember?"

"I remember, but—"

"Know this, Jaimy," I say, withdrawing my hands from his, "I'll not give up Faber Shipping."

Our eyes lock, and we gaze at each other for a long while.

Finally he smiles and puts his hands back on mine. "So that is the way of it, then? Very well, it is the way it shall be."

"Oh Jaimy! I'm so glad we agree!" I cry, and rise to wrap my arms around his neck. "So glad!"

When I sit back down and calm myself, he reaches over and rumples my hair. "Perhaps I am too much the pessimist, Jacky, while you are forever the bubbly optimist," he says. "But that childhood fable about the belling of the cat comes to mind. Do you recall the moral of that little story? Well, it's that the well-made plans of mice and men oft go awry."

"Aw, g'wan wi' ye, Jaimy," says I, gleefully lapsing back into the Cockney of my youth. "It'll be just prime, you'll see."

After we leave the Admiral Benbow, I link my arm in Jaimy's and put my head on his shoulder, and we walk slowly back to my
Nancy B.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

I am standing in the middle of the room in my ever-so-white and oh-so-lacy bridal gown, while Mairead and Judy and Joannie are on their knees fussing with it, sewing a tighter seam here, taking a tuck there, making everything just perfect.

I let out a long, happy sigh.
At last!

"Ah, Judy, will you look at her up there now, all smilin' and dimplin' up, she is." Mairead laughs, winking at Judy.

We are in the rooms of Ian and Mairead Delaney McConnaughey at the London Home for Little Wanderers, making our final preparations. In under an hour, we leave for Saint Paul's Cathedral, where I am to be married this day to Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher. My ring is back in my ear, and I reach up and touch it. I will be taking it out to put it on Jaimy's finger at the proper time. Yes, my old ring from the time back in that goldsmith's shop in Kingston, when Jaimy and I first plighted our troths.

Something old...

"Well, 'tis not every day a young girl gets married, Mrs. McConnaughey. Let Mistress Mary have her time," replies Judy Miller, her mouth set primly. She is my old comrade from the Rooster Charlie Gang of Cheapside Orphans and new employee of the London Home. "Let her enjoy her last few moments as a tender maiden."

Mairead gives out a snort on that one. "Maiden, maybe, but tender? I think not. Remember, I've sailed with this one before."

Yes, you have, Mairead.
I think back fondly to our days on my
Emerald,
freebooting about the Atlantic, waving swords about and taking prize after prize. "We were wild then, weren't we, Mairead?"

"That we were, Jacky. Suck in your gut a bit ... Good ... That's got it. All done," she says, making the stitch and then getting to her feet. "And now we're going to be just a couple of old married ladies, sittin' by the fire and noddin' off, the days of our youth past and gone."

I give my own snort at that. Mairead is scarce seventeen years old, married to Ian McConnaughey for only a year now, and no less feisty than when first I laid eyes on her.

"Nay," she continues, shaking her head sadly. "The only rough sailing the renowned sailor Jacky Faber will do this night, and for many nights after this, will be in the good ship
Bedstead,
and won't the springs and stays of that noble craft be mightily squeakin' and squawkin' like any ship's riggin' in a lusty storm?"

I say nothing, but only smile serenely and let them prattle on, the bridesmaids teasing the bride-to-be in that time-honored fashion. I imagine Jaimy is getting the same from his groomsmen ... and a good deal coarser, if I know my men—and I think I do.

"Tsk!" says Joannie, lifting up the front of my gown. "She hasn't put on her shoes yet."

Joannie—Joannie Nichols, that is—is about the last of the Blackfriars Bridge orphans. She is the third of my bridesmaids and has been a resident at the Home for Little Wanderers for the last year or so. She is turning into a fine young woman—twelve, maybe thirteen years old now, I suspect. I sigh to think of those old days in the kip 'neath the old bridge. I visited there with Judy and Joannie a few days ago, but we found no orphan gang under there now, just a few pathetic old drunkards. We tossed them some coins and left, saddened.

I look at Joannie now, well spoken and dressed all neat, and I allow myself a bit of the sin of pride for having a part in getting her off the streets and setting her on a better path through this life.

"Just like her"—here Mairead chuckles—"to get married barefoot."

That snaps me back into the present, and I slip my feet into the delicate white pumps we had purchased only yesterday.

Something new...

This accomplished, Mairead twirls a bit of frilly cloth about her finger and says, "Keep your dress up and stick out your leg."

I do it, and she slips the pale pink garter up my right leg to snap it in place on my upper thigh. "There. That is the garter I wore to my own wedding, and I lend it to you in hopes that your man turns out to be as good as mine," she says, with a leer, "in
all
ways."

Something borrowed...

A little while ago Higgins had stopped by, bearing a small floral box, to give me a bit of a final fluff-up.

"So how is Jaimy?" I asked as he applied his brush. As by custom, I have not seen the bridegroom for several days—it being considered bad luck and all.