"That's right. And now you shall tell me what happened to my mates," says I, pulling my shiv out of my sleeve and opening my hamper of food. "But first, let's eat."
I open the hamper and their eyes grow wide and they all put down their rocks. First I take out a loaf of bread and slice it in eight pieces and put each portion in front of me and then I do the same with the cheese and the meat. When all is set out, I ask the boy to do the honors, to see if it's still done in the old way. It is.
He turns away and faces outward. I point at a portion and say, "Now," and he says, "Jennie," and one of the girls comes up and takes that portion.
"Again," I say, pointing at another portion. "Billy," and Billy comes up and takes his.
"Again."
"Mary." Ah. Yet another Mary.
"Again."
"Me." That portion is put aside for the head boy.
"Again."
"Susanna."
"Again."
"Joannie." The older girl, the leader, takes hers.
"Again."
"Ben."
And that's the last of it and all fall to in the eating of it, me included. When we are done, I pass around small cakes and the jug of cider, which we all take slugs out of.
"Well, then," I say, wiping off my mouth with my handkerchief, which I have stored up my sleeve. Putting them at their ease is one thing, but nothing is gonna make me wipe my greasy mouth on the sleeve of my riding habit. "What can you tell me of my mates? Polly Von? Judy Miller? Hugh the Grand? Nan Baxter?"
Joannie takes a mighty swig of the cider. "A press-gang got our Hughie one day," she says, chuckling at the memory. "It were a true Battle Royal. You should have seen it, Miss. It took twenty of the bastards to haul him down, with all of us about throwin' rocks and curses, him bellowin' and layin' about with his fists, but it didn't do no good at the end. They bound him up good and proper and hauled him off, and that's the last we seen of him."
Poor Hughie. I hope you found good quarters, wherever you are.
"And Polly and Toby both disappeared one other day. They went off together and never come back. We think Toby was got by a press-gang, too, them gangs bein' right numerous and fierce around here. Polly, we don't know, she bein' so pretty and all ..." Joannie lets this trail off.
Our pretty, pretty Polly, the one that looked like an angel even under all the dirt. I so hope you're all right. But I do fear the worst.
"Nan went off with a country bloke, what come in for the big fair, who said he was gonna set her up as a barmaid in his tavern out in the country. I guess he did, 'cause she never come back," Joannie continues. It's plain she does the talking for this bunch.
"Now Judy, she was taken into service a while back by a man who hired her to take care of his old mum. We had a little party for her when she left. She must be awful busy with the old lady, 'cause she ain't been back to see us, she hain't."
I catch the slight edge of hurt in her voice. You're supposed to come back and take care of your mates if you had a bit of good fortune. What happened, Judy, that you didn't?
"Is she near here?" I ask.
"Up on Bride Street, she said it was," says Joannie. "We don't go there as that's the Shanky Boys turf."
"I see. And what about Muck? Is he still around?"
"Aye, he is, the miserable bugger," growls Joannie, "but we ain't seen him in some months now. The constables is after him on charges of grave robbin' and he's layin' low. The word is out that sometimes he don't wait for people to die natural-like, but speeds things up a bit on his own." She sighs and goes on. "But he'll be back, and what's the difference, anyway—there's plenty more of his kind about, ready to sell our bodies should we die."
"Well, you must be careful and I must be off," I say, getting up. I pull my small purse from my jacket. "So what did you say your name is?" I ask the head boy.
"Zeke," says he.
"Do you share equal, Zeke?" I ask.
"We do," says the head boy, and heads nod all around.
"Good. Here's half a crown." Eyes widen at the sight of the coin. I put it in the boy's fist—I want to put it in Joannie's hand but that would shame him and cause discord in the gang, him being the oldest boy and all.
"Make it last, Zeke. See if you can get them some warm clothes for the winter, and here ..." I count out seven pennies. "Here's a penny for each of you to buy a treat tomorrow all for yourself that you don't have to share."
I put a penny in each outstretched hand.
"Good-bye, then. I'll try to get back to visit, but I don't know what my situation will be."
"Good-bye, Jacky," says Joannie. "We're glad you came," is all she says in way of thanks 'cause you don't thank a fellow gang member for sharing what they got.
I'm heading up toward Bride Street, thinking about how Judy always said she wanted to go into service for a fine lady, so maybe it worked out for her. We shall see.
As I cross Fleet Street, I see again the printer's shop where I used to sit on Hugh the Grand's shoulders and read the broadsides out loud, hopin' to get a penny or two from the crowd that would gather to listen, me being the only street kid that I knew of who could read, having been taught that by me mum and dad before they died. There's a crowd here now, too, but they ain't here to hear some half-naked urchin spout off, no, they're lined up to buy something, and I'm curious enough to go look to see what it is.
The owner, whom I recall as a decent sort, in that he didn't shoo away my filthy, ragged young self from in front of his business back then, is outside the shop hawking copies of something. A book, it looks like. I get closer.
"Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have it again!" he crows, holding up and waving a book above the heads of the crowd. "Sold out on its first printing and the sensation of London and all the English-speaking world, it is back in its second printing and available right here. Only one shilling a copy and guaranteed to please—I know you will not be able to put it down! And to think the plucky her**ne of this grand story is a local girl, our own Mary Faber, whom..."
What?
"... I well remember standing right here where you stand today, the plucky little tyke who read the broadsides to the illiterate masses..."
What?
"... and then went off to glorious adventure on the high seas! Hurry, they won't last!"
In a not-very-ladylike fashion, I elbow my way to the front of the shop, where pinned to the wall is the cover of...
Bloody Jack,
Being an Account of the Curious Adventures
of Mary "Jacky" Faber, Ship's Boy,
as told to her dear friend and companion
Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne
Oh, Lord.
In shock, I get in line to buy one. After all, I do have to know what is being said of me. Hmmm ... so this is what Mother Fletcher was talking about when she said the "latest outrage." What she must have thought when she read about this. What did Jaimy think when he read it?
Oh, Amy. What have you done to me?
On the cover of the book, the printer has added a woodcut of a woman standing on the deck of a ship with crossed belts on her ample chest, firing a pistol out of each hand. The woodcut is crude and doesn't look at all like me—much too buxom, for one thing, and for another, I never smoked a pipe. Oh, well...
As I stand and wait my turn, I put it all together: Amy, who had been scribbling on this thing all winter, asking me questions about my life and all, gets it done after we have our falling-out. She then takes it to a printer in Boston, partly, I guess, because she's resentful and wants to pay me back and partly because she wanted people to read her words. It is sold in the bookstores and then some passenger bound for England must have seen it, found it interesting, and took a copy back to a friend who's a printer in London, and here it is.
When I give the man a shilling for the book, he looks concerned and says, "Now, Miss, there's some rough stuff in this book. Maybe you'd best let your father read it first to see if it's all right for you, it being plain that you are a person of breeding and all."
"I thank you, Sir, for your consideration of my tender sensibilities," I say, trying not to snort out loud. "I will take your advice to heart and I shall give it to my pastor for his review to see if it is appropriate for one such as I." I lower my eyes demurely and clasp the book to my chest and retreat.
I'll think about this later, I decide, as I continue on my way up to Bride Street.
I ask on Bride Street for a serving girl named Judy Miller, but all I get is Sorry, Miss, and Never 'eard of 'er, till an old woman working at a churn in her doorway gives a loud tsk! and says, "Ye will find the poor soul four houses down thataway."
I look in the doorway and see that it is a wash house, and there, bent over a tub, is Judy Miller, my good and true mate from the Rooster Charlie Gang. Steam fills the place as does wood smoke from the fires to heat the tubs, and there are piles of dirty laundry everywhere. Judy is dressed in a formless gray dress, not much more than a shift, really, and her arms, what I can see of 'em, are red and raw and chafed from the harsh soap. And though I am overjoyed to see her again, this doesn't look much like being a maid to a fine lady to me.
I step into the laundry and she looks up, and I see that she does not recognize me. She has become a rawboned, large girl, a good foot and more taller than me. In the gang she was not among the most clever, but she was solid and fiercely loyal to the pack. She was generally cheerful and quick to laugh in spite of our troubles. No more, though. Her eyes are listless and dead, and her shoulders slump in fatigue and defeat. Her arms are in the water up to her elbows, and when she brings them out, I can see that they are red and sore and split from the work.
"Yes, Milady" is all she says upon seeing me standing there in my fancy rig. She waits there as if expecting someone to hit her.
"Judy. It's me. Little Mary from Charlie's Gang. Remember?"
Her eyes go over me without interest. "Little Mary?" she says in confusion. "But you're a fine lady, Miss, not the Little Mary that I knew."
"Nay, I ain't a fine lady," I say, and laugh to put her more at ease. "I'm just dressed like one." Which is the truth, but she doesn't know that yet. "But I am the girl you knew as Little Mary."
She doesn't know what to say, just stands there stunned, but finally she hangs her head and says, hardly above a whisper, "So you done good, Mary, and I done bad."
"The kids down at the kip told me you had gone into service. Is that right?" I ask, not feeling good about this at all.
She turns back to her tub. "No, it ain't right, Miss. A man come to see me one time when I was beggin' up on Ludgate and 'e asks would I like to be maid to 'is mum and 'e seems such a decent sort so I says yes, I would, and so I goes to the gang and tells 'em I'm leavin'. And they give me a little party with cakes and all; and I don't know where Toby come up with them, but 'e did and we was all right merry. I said I wouldn't forget 'em as soon as I got set up, and they cheered me off. But it didn't happen that way at all. Not at all."
She reaches in the steaming tub and pulls up a shirt and begins scrubbing it against the washboard that she hauls out and leans against her chest.