“Then when things have settled down here, we will resume our Ireland-to-Boston express. Is it agreed? Good.” I rise and say, “Liam, please have the ship ready to go as quickly as you can. Pack on stores for the return trip but wait till Friday to leave. Today is Monday and the hearing for my kids is on Thursday, and I wouldn’t mind you hanging around till then. Plus, you must give your crew some liberty, but warn them to be careful, as you know how the situation lies. Have them stick with Arthur McBride, here, as he knows the lay of the land.”
“That’s right, Ian,” says the grinning McBride, throwing his arm about his childhood friend. “Leave that old Mairead here and I’ll show you a right fine time in this town. You haven’t met my sweet Molly Malone yet, now, have you? Ah, you’re in for a rare treat, my boy! Come, lad, let’s go!”
Mairead’s green eyes cast Arthur McBride a look of pure, amused disdain, for she knows Ian will not be out of her sight, at least when that Arthur McBride is around.
All rise with me and Ezra says, “I bid you all good day. I have a full day in court ahead of me today, where I will attempt to keep a number of our stalwarts out of jail . . . or worse. There were some serious injuries yesterday, you may believe that. And as for you, Miss, perhaps it would be best if you were to go out of sight for a few days? You know you were spotted holding a knife to Captain Warren’s throat, don’t you?”
“Be that as it may, Ezra, there’s no place for me to go. Besides, Arthur has a squad of his men about the perimeter of the Pig, so I shall be quite safe.”
“Perhaps a visit to Dovecote might be better, Miss,” suggests Higgins.
“Ah, no,” I say with a rueful glance at Ezra Pickering. “That will not work, as I am no longer welcome at Dovecote.” When Higgins appears surprised, I put my hand on his arm and say, “I shall explain at dinner tonight at the Pig and Whistle, to which you are all invited. But, remember, place a watchful guard all around the ship. Pigger O’Toole and his vile crew are right across the wharf there at Skivareen’s, and Pyro Johnny is still free and lurking on the street. Ezra, I’ll go with you to court to see how Judge Thwackham is running things these days, as I must know for the sake of my kids. Don’t worry, I shall wear my shawl, my dark wig, and my veil. No one shall recognize me. And I will be good.”
I put my hand on Ezra’s arm as we go to the door. “Till later, my very good friends. We’ll see you tonight at the Pig.”
Somewhat later, when we get to court, Ezra places me in a pew in the spectator’s gallery and goes off to perform his duties as an officer of the court and I avidly watch the proceedings.
“All rise! The High Court of the State of Massachusetts is now in session, the Honorable Judge Hiram Thwackham, presiding!”
The old warhorse stumps in, all clad in black robe and white wig. He looks around balefully and then drops his bulk into his chair, high above all the rest of us.
“Very well, Bailiff,” he rumbles, shaking his pendulous jowls about and picking up his gavel. “What nonsense have we before us today?”
A severe-looking gent rises and begins to read from the docket.
“A charge of Aggravated Assault against one Seamus McCoy for the splitting of the head of Amos Whiting, Attorney Pickering for the defense.”
“Well, bring the man up here and let’s have a look at him,” orders the Judge, as the unfortunate Mr. McCoy is hauled up before him. “Good, God! Another Irishman from the bog! Is there no end to them and their savage ways?”
“Forty days on the rock pile, you miserable miscreant!”
Hmmm . . . It appears Ezra was right in his appraisal of Judge Thwackham’s view of the Irish nation. Ezra stands and does what he can.
The trials go on and on and I get to see the gist of things. The Judge does not like the immigrants, whether they be white, black, or anything in between . . .
“Thirty dollars or thirty days, you black heathen! Take him away!”
That poor man, a perfectly reasonable Negro person had what seemed to me to be a legitimate complaint against a white foreman on a construction job, the complaint being that the foreman had beat him and then did not pay him.
Hmmm . . . Things don’t look good for Ravi in this place, I’m thinking. And not for Joannie, neither, as women are given short shrift, too.
“Get that hag out of my court!” “Good God, is this a brothel?” “A madhouse?” “An asylum?”
I cast my gaze about as the cases drone on.
Hmmm . . . There is a clock high up on the wall and I notice it is almost noon. I suspect the Judge never misses his lunch after a fine morning of making people miserable. And sure enough, I am right.
I slip out of the gallery and sneak around the hallway, and there I spy a servant going into a chamber behind the high bench. He bears a tray laden with bread, meat, potatoes, and a steaming pot of tea. He places it on a table and withdraws. Presently I hear, All rise . . . and Judge Thwackham sweeps by and into his chambers for lunch.
Hmmmm . . .
PART IV
Chapter 33
Things have quieted down some. Governor Gore has threatened to call out the Massachusetts Militia if Boston doesn’t behave. “By God, Boston was a thorn in the side of the British, and now it is a thorn in my own side. I will not have it, do you hear?” Of course, I’m thinking that our fair city has always been of a rather rambunctious nature, and may it ever be so.
The fires have abated as well. I figure the reason is that Pyro Johnny is probably still nursing his scorched bum, though we continue to have a guard set around Faber Shipping’s holdings, just in case. Pigger O’Toole is still around but is lying low for the time being, his troops nursing their own wounds gained in the big battle. I did approach the Hunchback in the street, giving him a low curtsy and thanking him for preventing the torching of my ship. But he merely grunted and went on his weary way. Ah, well, I tried.
Joannie and Ravi have been in the slammer for five days now. It tears me apart that I have been unable to get in to see them again, but I did manage to smuggle in some more bribe money to their oppressors, so I hope the kids are getting a little bit better treatment. The case comes up on Thursday, so all should be resolved then, one way or another.
The town being quiet for the time being, we get back to the business of the Pig and the Playhouse . . .
We are in dress rehearsal and are ready to open tomorrow. The sets are made, the costumes sewn, and the whole place is a-twitter with feverish excitement.
The lights go up on Act 3, scene 2. It is the scene where the captive girls are all gathered about me, lying on the balcony shelf of the Bloodhound. I have just been brought down from the deck, bare-backed and sobbing after I had been betrayed by Elspeth Goodwin, tied to the mast, and whipped into semi-consciousness by the vile Captain Blodgett and his cat-o’-nine-tails, and wasn’t that a well-staged scene. My back was bared,well, just down to the middle of it, and then, just as Blodgett swung the cat, the house-lights were killed and all that was heard was the swish of the cat and my anguished screams in the dark. Great theater, that; you can’t say it isn’t.
It is then we pledge our loyalty to each other.
I lift my head and speak up first.
“I, Jacky Faber, swear on my very life that I will never betray you, my Sisters, and I will bend every fiber of my being to gaining our release from this prison, even if I do not live to see it.”
Vainglorious, I know; yes, and corny, too, but it makes for good theater. I look to Clarissa, who is playing herself . . .
“Ah, Clarissa Worthington Howe, do swear on mah life that Ah will not betray you, mah Sisters, and that Ah will bend every fiber of mah being to gaining owah release from this hellhole, even if Ah do not live to see it.”
Polly Von, playing the role of Dolley Frazier, is the next one up to take the pledge . . .
“I, Dolley Frazier, do so swear on my life that I will never betray you, my Sisters, in any way and will strive with every fiber of my being to gain our freedom from this hell, even if I do not live to see it.” Polly possesses the true gift of the actress to softly voice her lines, yet somehow manage to project her speech to the rear of the building. Some of the girls, those heretofore untrained in the theater, resort to shouting their lines, which doesn’t work, but Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean have managed to coax them along to an acceptable level of competence. That pair may be the worst of ham actors, but they do know their business.
And so on down the line, till all the girls pledge their loyalty unto death to their Sisters in bondage . . . all the girls except for one . . .
Elspeth Goodwin, the girl who had betrayed me in hopes of gaining her own freedom by doing so and had been rewarded with only a dismal piece of blue ribbon for her treachery, kneels next to me, sobbing out her shame and dismay. I put my hand on her head and forgive her.
No, it is not Elspeth herself playing that role. It is well that her parents have moved out of state and taken their beloved daughter with them. When last I spoke with her, she seemed recovered from her ordeal, but we certainly wouldn’t want our reenactment to force her to relive it. It had been a tough time for all, but some suffered their time in that hellhole of a ship more than others.
“She may have forgiven you, Elspeth, but Ah have not!” hisses Clarissa, grabbing the girl by the hair and pulling her head back.
“Please don’t hurt me, please,” whimpers the young actress, shrinking back under the intensity of Clarissa’s gaze. She is very convincing and very much into the role, and I suspect Clarissa’s grip on the girl’s hair is a little tighter than it needs to be so it probably really does hurt.
“You shall wear this mark of shame until the day you die!” snarls Clarissa, straddling the girl and tying the despised rag of blue ribbon around her hair, pulling it cruelly tight. “And Ah hope that day is soon!”
Booooommmmm . . .
All heads jerk up and out of character at the sound.
Booooommmmmm . . .
“What’s that?” asks Clarissa, letting go of the gasping actress’s hair and rising to her feet above her.
Booooommmmm . . .
“Sounds like a Navy ship entering the port and saluting the Governor,” I say, recalling many such salutes in the past.
“Could it be?” asks Polly Von, getting to her feet and looking in the direction of the sound.
“Well, let’s go see, Sister,” I say, and we are up and out the door.
Yes, it is the mighty Chesapeake, all flags flying, guns booming, and looking absolutely glorious!
Polly Von flies down the street, easily outdistancing me, but then I am not the beloved mistress of Second Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, United States Marine Corps.
As Polly anxiously awaits the warping in of the warship to the south side of Long Wharf, I let my eyes roam about and see that there is yet another vessel entering the port of Boston.
Hmmm . . . It’s a good-sized brig, sitting pretty low in the water, which shows she’s got a full cargo . . . but of what, I wonder. It flies a Portuguese flag at the stern, but from the masthead, a long pennant is whipping around, all gold and green and somewhat familiar.