“Of course, Jacky,” says Ezra, folding his hands over his belly. “Any news of Miss Amy is always welcome to my heart.”
I stand, clear my throat, and recite:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying.
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry,
For having lost but once your prime
You may forever tarry.
Ezra lightly brings his palms together in mild applause. “Excellent rendition, Jacky, I must say. And how did our Miss Amy react?”
“Well, at the time, I was resting my head in her lap, and had a sprig of hayseed between my teeth, which I removed to tap upon her nose at the words marry, and tarry.”
“And her reply?”
“She said, waving away the tickling twig, ‘I of course take your meaning on marry, Jacky, but on tarry you must mean spinsterhood?’
“‘I do, indeed, Sister,’ I replied.
“‘Well, then,’ she said, all modest, ‘if that comes to pass, then I shall have my poetry, my various other writings, and my virtue.’
“‘That’s just great, Amy,’ I said, bouncing up and placing a finger on that particular Trevelyne nose. ‘And I hope all that will keep you warm on a cold winter’s night, Miss! And here’s another verse from another poet, one not quite so cuddly and kind . . .’”
The Grave is a Fine and Private Place,
But None Therein I think Embrace.
“Very strong stuff, Miss,” says Ezra with a quiet chuckle. “And a touch macabre. What did she say?”
“She said nothing on that,” I reply. “She merely sniffed and looked away. However, we shall together, you and I, continue the Assault on Fortress Trevelyne, and we will eventually bring her down, and now . . .”
“And now,” says Ezra, picking up yet another sheet of paper, “we must speak of other things. There has arrived in the city a mysterious gentleman, a hunchback, who has— Oh, look! There he is now.”
Ezra rises and goes to his front window and I follow him to look out. I see a man bent over, bearing a staff and walking with a limp. He has a red beard, long lank hair, and wears a slouch hat and a black cloak. He is, indeed, a hunchback afflicted with a crooked spine.
“Oh, the poor man, to have to bear such a burden!” I say. “Shall we give him alms?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Jacky,” replies Ezra dryly. “He seems well fixed. As a matter of fact, he has taken rooms at Faber Shipping and has engaged the services of Attorney Malcolm Mudgeon. Furthermore, he has rented a storefront there across State Street, very close to our own premises. You’ll see that a brass plaque has been affixed above the entrance, to wit: HOC Shipping, Purveyors of Fine Spices and Other Rare Goods from the Orient. Handbills have been passed out proclaiming that a ship is due in shortly, laden with a rich cargo from the East. Other than that I do not know much because he is very secretive.”
“Damn. Competition. Just what I need,” I say, seething. “Using my connections to Charlie Chen, I had hoped to sew up the Oriental trade. I guess I was too slow.”
“Well, we shall see, Jacky,” says Ezra, turning at a knock on his office door. “Ah, here is Mr. McBride, to report, I am sure, on our fire insurance branch.”
Indeed, it is he, I realize with delight.
“Jacky, my love!” says the rogue upon seeing me. “Welcome back!”
I give him my hand and present my cheek for his kiss.
“Thank you, Arthur,” I say. “But I thought Molly Malone was your love. Hmmm?”
“She is, m’dear, but you were my first love and there will always be a place in the McBride heart for your own fine self.”
“Enough of your lying tongue, you rascal,” I say with an affectionate laugh. “What have you to report, Fire Captain McBride?”
He places some papers in front of Ezra and says, “Five fine new green shamrocks now adorn the sides of select houses. The Shamrock Hose, Ladder, and Pump Company has sold five new insurance policies this week alone, and here is the cash paid for the premiums,” he says, handing the bills to Ezra. “The rash of fires in the town has not hurt business at all.”
“There have been many fires?” I ask.
“More than usual, my love. It is summer and the heating fires are cold in the fireplaces, so you’d expect the number of blazes to go down, but it has not. We suspect that Pyro Johnny has been about drumming up business for Pigger O’Toole. Oh, how that brute does shame the name of O’Toole! I am sure there is not a drop of true Irish blood in his filthy veins.”
“I am sure you are right, Arthur,” I say. “Has there been trouble?”
“Ah, yes, there have been a few skirmishes between our lads and his scum, but we were able to send ’em packing,” replies Arthur. “And if it comes to a full-scale war, well, we’ve all got our faithful shillelaghs hangin’ by our sides, ready to be put to good use on the heads of O’Toole’s thugs or on the skulls of Warren’s Sons of Boston bunch o’ Nativists, too.”
I see that Arthur’s well-polished club hangs from a thong on his own belt.
“I hope it will not come to that. I only seek to do honest business and to do no harm to others,” I say, primly.
That gets a short bark of a laugh from Arthur. “The word honest in the same sentence with the name Jacky Faber, now? The former privateer, buccaneer, and self-proclaimed Queen of the Ocean Sea? Why, it fair boggles my poor mind . . .”
“All right,” says Ezra Pickering, peering at one of the papers, “let’s get back to business. Now, what is this extra expenditure, for guard duty, of twenty dollars?”
“Ah,” says Arthur. “Well, in view of the spate of fires, I thought it best to post a guard at the Pig and Whistle and the Emerald Playhouse during the nighttime hours to prevent our little Pyro Johnny from setting loose his much-loved flames on those two structures. As you know, these places were built before the Great Fire of 1804, after which all buildings in Boston were required to be made of brick, not wood.”
I know what’s coming, and I wait for it, and sure enough, Ezra delivers . . .
“The Great Fire that occurred at the end of your first visit to our fair city, Jacky, and—”
“And that wasn’t all my fault and you know it!” I snarl, a bit steamed. Geez . . . I get blamed for everything. “Now let’s get off this subject. If we are done here, I should like to go back to the Pig. If you would escort me, Arthur? Your arm, please . . .”
We bid good day to Ezra as he bows us out to the street. “Try to exercise some caution, Miss, as things are getting dangerously hot in this city.”
“Am I not always the soul of careful consideration in all my words and actions, Ezra? Till later then, cheers.”
He says nothing, but merely shakes his head and smiles.
“Is it not a fine day, Arthur?” I exult, putting my head to his shoulder as we cross the street. “Isn’t it just the—wait. Look there!”
The mysterious Hunchback has re-emerged from the doorway of HOC Shipping. He begins to limp up the street when he spots us. He seems startled and fixes me with his eye. I can see that his other eye is covered with a black patch and he does have a thick red beard. Long lank black hair droops below his slouch hat and hangs before his face. Seeing that he must pass us on his way, he whips his cloak up to cover his lower face.
“Good day to you, sir,” I say as he hobbles past. Might as well get to know the competition, I always say. “Welcome to—”
“Good day,” he replies in a low rasp and continues on his way.
“Well,” says Arthur as we watch the apparition toil on his way down State Street, “certainly an ill-mannered bloke.”
“The poor man has reason to be bitter. He’s not only a hunchback, a cripple, and half-blind, but also there’s something wrong with his throat.”
“I’ll wager he won’t answer to the name ‘Lucky.’”
“Very funny, Arthur, but let us be on our way. We must hurry to the Pig for the COWS are marching today and we must be there to cheer them on!”
Chapter 22
James Fletcher
House of Chen Shipping
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
To Ye Gods Who Mock Me,
I saw her today for the first time since I came to this wretched town. I knew that I would eventually gaze upon her, but I did not realize how much the sight of it would wound me. And, of course, for ye Gods of Discord to place her gaily smiling on the arm of that wretched Arthur McBride, well, that was admittedly a nice touch, I must say. How they must have cackled in glee in viewing their work.
I was on my way to our office to see Lawyer Mudgeon when I was surprised by the pair, and believe me, I shall not be so startled again. Know, too, when I say it took every ounce of the self-control taught to me by Master Kwai Chang to resist slamming my Bo stick against the side of that grinning Irish bastard’s face.
I shall continue doing my assigned task, and then as soon as HOC’s first ship arrives here, I shall be gone. I cannot wait.
But, oh, to see her shining face again . . . shining, yes, I know, but . . .
You do your job well, ye Gods of Jealousy and Pain . . . I am,
Your helpless pawn,
J. Fletcher
Chapter 23
“Here they come!” shouts Joannie, leaning out over the balcony above the Pig’s doorway and looking up the street. And sure enough, there they are, about fifty of them. They’re all in neat ranks and holding up signs and banners proclaiming their cause, with drums booming out and the suffragettes chanting:
Votes for women, NOW!
Votes for women, NOW!
Peace, Justice, Temperance!
Votes for women, NOW!
“Come look, Clarissa!” I say, and stand to the rail. “There are some of our classmates! There’s Amy . . . Dorothea . . . and over there’s Caroline . . . and Rose, too! Hooray for all of you! Hooray!” I jump up and down and wave to all of them—I do love a parade.
Clarissa languidly strolls out onto the porch and surveys the scene. “Boy,” she says to Ravi, who has just returned from a visit to the docks, handing out Pig and Whistle wooden nickels. “Do go down and see about having a tray of refreshments sent up. My throat is rather dry and seeks relief.”
“Good idea, Ravi,” I say. “Glasses of sherry all around, sweet tea for you and Joannie, and have Molly come up here to join Arthur and bring up a pint of ale for him.”
The lad scoots out as the parade draws near. I notice that spectators, mostly men, are beginning to line the street . . . and the Hunchback is one of them. Hmmm . . . interesting, that . . .
Well, never mind him. At the head of the mob is stout Mrs. Shinn herself, head up and resolute, and beside her is . . . oh, my . . . Constance Howell, the Bloodhound’s Chief Scolder of Jacky Faber for Her Wanton Ways.
“Hello, Connie!” I shout. “March on, Sister! Votes for women, you bet!”