“So, Ezra,” I manage to say, dabbing my lips with my cloth between bites. “A report on the state of Faber Shipping, if you would?”
Ezra smiles and says, “After your dinner, dear. You look rather in need of some decent food and I would not want to upset your digestion.”
True, I have been on lean rations lately—a big fat frog was very nearly on my menu not too long ago, when I was starving on the scrubby, dry plains of Spain, but Big Daddy Bullfrog did manage to ultimately avoid the Faber fangs.However, Ezra’s words do sound rather ominous, so I figure I’ll enjoy this dinner and this company and get the bad news when it comes.
Finally, I dab the mouth, suppress an insistent burp, and say, “Let’s have it, Ezra. Hold nothing back. There are no secrets from those here at this table.”
Ezra Pickering puts his own napkin to lips and says, “Very well, Jacky, here is the state of Faber Shipping Worldwide.” And with that, he reaches into his waistcoast, pulls out a paper, and passes it over to me. On it is:
The Condition of Faber Shipping Worldwide, Incorporated
As of June 6, 1809
HOLDINGS:
The Brigantine Lorelei Lee
The Schooner Nancy B. Alsop
Two Small Cutters, the Morning Star and Evening Star
Faber Shipping Headquarters, State Street, Boston, Mass.
Much Equipment—Traps, Rope, Tackle, etc.
OFFICERS:
Jacky Mary Faber, President
John Higgins, Vice President
Ezra Pickering, Esq., Treasurer and Clerk of Corporation
EMPLOYEES:
Onboard the Lorelei Lee
Liam Delaney, Captain
Ian McConnaughey, First Mate
Padraic Delaney, Second Mate
David Jones, Third Mate
Seamen rated Able: 24
Seamen rated Ordinary: 12
Ship’s Boys: 3
Onboard the Nancy B. Alsop
James Tanner, Captain
Crew: Daniel Prescott, Finnbar McGee, John Thomas,
all seamen, rated Able
Jemimah Moses, Cook
OTHER STAFF:
Solomon Freeman, Fisherman in Charge of Harbor Operation
Clementine Tanner, Headquarters Housekeeper
Annetje Wemple and Rosie Moses, Chambermaids
Chloe Cantrell, Secretary to Ezra Pickering, Esq.
CASH ON HAND:
$2,704.67
ACCOUNTS PAYABLE:
Payroll this month—$1,304.77
ACCOUNTS RECEIVABLE:
$6,822.12
MISC. EXPENSES:
Fire Prevention and Insurance—$300.00
Domingo Marin, Delivery Charge—$50.00
“Hmmm . . .” I say, scanning the paper. I lift an eyebrow. “Treasurer Pickering, eh?”
“Someone has to manage the money when you and Mr. Higgins are off saving Britannia from ruin,” he says dryly.
“Quite a payroll, I must say,” I murmur, continuing to read. “I trust we continue to prosper . . .” Ezra does not reply to that, but only gives a discreet cough. “And Jemimah Moses is still listed as Cook? I thought she was well fixed with her share of the Santa Magdalena haul.”
“Yes, she is, but she still searches the southern East Coast towns for news of her children who were sold off just before you bought her. She has reclaimed some but still searches for others. We make sure the Nancy B. puts into Charlestown on each trip so that she can check around. She figures they must be in the area and, actually, she did manage to find and to buy out her eldest daughter, Rosie, and Rosie’s two young children. You see her listed there under Housekeeping Staff, and her two boys are listed as ship’s boys on the Lee,” says Ezra. “Plus, I think Jemimah grew bored in Boston and likes the short cruises of the Nancy B. Though she enjoys her freedom in Boston, she also likes the southern sun.”
“As do I,” I say, recalling some particularly harsh winters in New England. “Ummm . . . And what’s this accounts-receivable amount being so much bigger than the cash on hand?” I ask, with a glance to Ezra.
“Ah,” he says softly, “therein lies the problem.”
“Which is?” I ain’t liking the sound of this one bit.
Ezra folds his soft hands and says, “You, of course, recall your scheme of bringing penniless Irish men over here onboard the Lorelei Lee to work on the many municipal projects this town has undertaken—the filling in of the Mill Pond and the Fenway works—and taking their indenture for the passage until such time as they could pay?”
“Yes?”
“Some of them are not paying,” says Ezra, settling back and waiting for the explosion, which is not long in coming.
I shoot to my feet in a state of high indignation.
“What? The dogs! What have John Thomas and Smasher McGee done about that?”
“I believe those two stalwarts have done what they could in the way of gentle persuasion, but it has not proved to be enough.”
“Where are they?” I say through clenched teeth, with a hint of menace in my voice.
“They are down on Hallowell’s Wharf, on the Nancy B.,” he says, “newly arrived from a Caribbean run. But there is something else you should know . . .”
“And that is . . .?” I ask with some trepidation. Geez, I step away for a year or two and everything falls apart, I swear . . .
“Not everyone in this town shares your vision of a brave new American world for Irish immigrants. There are many who think the Irish should stay where they are, starving or not, and here you are bringing in boatloads of them on the Lorelei Lee.”
“Yes, Jacky,” says Amy, with a certain amount of primness in her voice. “You must know that some of the Irish men can be quite rowdy, especially when they are drinking, and there are those people who feel they should be more carefully controlled. There have been more than a few . . . disturbances.”
“And who might those people be, Sister?” I say, sitting down again but getting well steamed.
“Various churches, civic groups . . . and the Boston Army for the Women’s Suffrage, too. You saw our parade today, Jacky, the one in which I was marching.”
“Well, they should mind their own business, and not mine,” I pronounce.
“That may be true, Sister,” says Amy, “but you should know the situation if you are to continue in your venture.”
“But who else will do the work? The Mill Pond, the Fenway . . . who?” I ask, full of righteous indignation.
“There are some of the local men who feel that jobs are being taken from them by the Irish who will work for lower wages,” says Ezra.
“They didn’t want the dirty jobs then, but they want them now?” I hiss.
“I think it best that you talk to Thomas and McGee, Miss Faber,” replies Ezra, “as they are much closer to the street life than am I.”
I stand and say, “I will now go and do that. Please believe me when I say that it is so good to see you again, my dearest friends, but I must be off to tend to business. I will be moving into my cabin on the Nancy B. It would give me great joy, Amy, if you could come join me there later, that is, if you can free yourself from the Lawson Peabody. Till later, then, as I must fly. Adieu.”
“Uh-oh . . . Skipper’s back and she don’t look happy . . .”
I hear that spoken as I stride resolutely up the gangway of the Nancy B. Alsop, and, indeed, I am not pleased at all. Things that would seem to be ever so simple always seem to turn out to be not simple at all—complicated, even. I mean, what could be simpler than my old credo of, All I want is a little ship, and with that little ship I would take stuff from a place that’s got a lot of that stuff and take it to a place that ain’t got a lot of that same stuff, and so prosper. In this case, the “stuff” being Irish laborers. But it doesn’t seem to be working out all that simple, no it doesn’t. Complications, always bloody complications.
When I gain my quarterdeck, my anger fades as I gaze about at my elegant little schooner lying there all gleaming and polished, all trim and shipshape. Oh, you are so beautiful, my dear, dear Nancy. How my heart leaps to be once again upon thee! And there’s Jim Tanner, saluting in his captain’s rig, and I hug him to me. And there’s Daniel Prescott, too—my, haven’t you grown! A good foot at least! And Jemimah, dear Jemimah! Oh, please, come give me a hug!
Then I see John Thomas and Finn McGee, hanging back, and to them I give no kisses, no hugs, no, I merely say, “You two! To my cabin, NOW!”
I am seated at my desk, reveling in the familiar surroundings of my tiny but very well appointed cabin—my fine desk designed by Ephraim Fyffe, now prominent furniture maker and husband to my good friend Betsey, formerly Byrnes, now Fyffe; my lovely bed worked in against the far wall under the speaking tube, warm maple and mahogany all around. Yes, it’s good to be home, I think with a sigh as I settle into my chair. It is, indeed.
My two so-called enforcers shamble shamefaced into the cabin, caps in hand and eyes cast down.
“So,” I say, my gaze level and stern, “you could not handle the simple job of making indentured laborers pay for their passage?”
“It’s not like that at all, Skipper,” says John Thomas, twisting his cap in his big hands and looking as miserable as any schoolboy caught by Teacher, doing something wrong. “Any micks what won’t pay that we can get our hands on is convinced to pay up real quick. It’s gettin’ our hands on ’em is the problem.”
“Go on,” I say, warily tapping a pencil on the edge of my desk and waiting for him to get on with it.
“Y’see, most of ’em pays up right cheerful, glad to be here and all and makin’ an honest wage, and thinkin’ to be sendin’ for their wives and kids back in Ireland, but some lowlifes don’t and they fall under the spell of this Captain Tooley what has set hisself up at Skivareen’s.”
“Right,” says McGee, tossing in his two cents. “He kicked out the old landlord and set hisself up as boss. There’s tons of rooms in that dirty hole and he takes the scofflaws in and tells ’em they don’t have to pay back no Jacky Faber who deceived and cheated ’em, as long as they sticks with him and buys drinks at his bar.”
“Right, and fights for him against the other gangs,” echoes John Thomas. “So we can’t even get in at the buggers.”
“Right, and the place is usually a riot every night, too. He’s got a mix of both low-life bogtrotters and native scum. And some right tough henchmen always at his side.”
“All right, pull up a chair, lads, and sit down.” Apparently this is a tale that will be long in telling, and I have made them squirm enough.
The two gratefully grab chairs and sit down in them, happy to be at least partly forgiven for their failure to jerk the money out of the deadbeats.
“Y’see, Miss, they ain’t like regular gangs of thugs, decent criminals like, no. They puts on airs like they be noble firefighting crews, like Tooley’s bunch is called The Free Men’s Fire Company Number One, but the word is, mum, that they set more fires than they puts out.”
“The police?” I ask, already suspecting the answer.
“You can find Constable Wiggins at Skivareen’s bar every night, drinkin’ for free . . . His fat old lady, too,” says McGee. “And they say the Mayor is in Tooley’s pocket, also.”