I am startled, to say the least, when the massive Gurkha steps into the room, turban on head, inward-curved sword at his wide leather belt, big blooming white linen pants below. I gulp in fear, for I have caused, in the past, several lumps to be put on his head. He, however, does not seem to hold any grudges, and merely bows his head to me and grunts. I put the palms of my hands together and bow and then continue to speak to the Hunchback . . .
“But what I really want to know is if you have any word whatsoever as to what has become of one James Emerson Fletcher, who was sent by me to Rangoon to be cured of madness and of whom I have not seen nor heard from since. What do you know? Speak up, man!”
“I am sorry, Miss,” croaks the Hunchback, “but I was taken into Mr. Chen’s employ only recently. I had heard of a Mr. Fletcher, who was dispatched to New York on Mr. Chen’s business. More than that I do not know. If it was this Mr. Fletcher’s intent to meet with you, I can only wonder why he has not yet done so.”
I put my hand to my mouth and stifle a sob. “Intent, indeed . . . I have no idea just what Jaimy Fletcher intends.”
“I am sorry, Miss, but I must attend to my duties.”
“Of course, Mr. Tong,” I say in parting. “Thank you for your time. And if you hear anything of Mr. Fletcher . . .”
“Of course, Miss. Good day to you.”
Well, that did nothing for my spirits, weighed down as they were with thoughts of Ravi and Joannie languishing in durance vile, I can tell you, but when I got back to the Pig, they were somewhat restored, as I found Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, USMC, ready to take me and Miss Polly Von on a tour of USS Chesapeake, sister ship to the mighty USS Constitution, and very close in design to my beloved HMS Dolphin, so it is sure to cheer me, and it does. Though all the old familiar sights do bring a nostalgic tear to my former ship’s boy eye, it is grand to see all the rigging, running gear, sails, and guns, the brass polished and shining, all the lads dressed in their best. And it did not hurt Randall’s reputation in the least to be seen parading about his ship to the wonder of all, with a laughing dolly-mop on each arm, no it did not.
But, eventually, the tour was over so we descended the gangplank to wend our way back to the Pig. We did, after all, have a premiere performance this early evening.
As we stroll along, we are forced to walk by Skivareen’s, and a number of Pigger O’Toole’s minions are slouching outside on benches, taking in the noonday sun. Pigger is in the center of them, with a tankard in his right hand and his left on Glory’s thigh. Pyro Johnny is there, too, sitting crosslegged in the dirt, giggling and frying helpless ants with a magnifying glass.
I intend to pass by and say nothing, but Pigger doesn’t allow it . . .
“Now, look at this, will you,” he says grandly. “Soldier boy here’s got himself not one, but two Cheapside whores. I knows ’em both, Glory, from back in London. Little Mary Faber and, hello, Polly Von! You remember our days back in my kip on Paternoster, don’t you now? Fine times we had, oh, yes we did. Now, that one on the left, that’s Mary Faber—strip ’er down and she was naught but skin and bones, but still a bit of fun in her scrawny way—but that Polly Von without her knickers . . . yes, yes . . . how that little girl could dance . . . It was a sight to see. Knew both of ’em before, during, and after they went into the Miss Bessie’s whorehouse, I sure did.”
I leap on Randall, pinning his arms to his side, trying to prevent him from pulling his sword and running it through Pigger. He’s got it halfway out and his face is a mask of cold fury.
“Don’t do it, Randall!” I shout in his ear. “If you kill him, they’ll have you up on charges! You’ll lose your commission over a fat pig! Polly! Help me hold him!”
She wraps her own arms around him as the swine on the benches roar with laughter. “Randall! Dearest! I have told you all about my life in London and it was the truth! What he is saying is all lies! I swear on my life!”
“That’s right, Soldier Boy,” says Pigger, rising. “You lay a hand on me and you’ll be here in Boston, awaiting trial, while your fancy ship leaves without you. Come on, Glory, let’s go inside where the company is a damn sight better.”
He turns to spit in the dirt, close by Randall’s boots.
“Enjoy your whore, Soldier Boy. Hope you don’t catch nothin’. Heard she gave a bunch of fellers the clap back in Cheapside, so be careful.”
Pigger’s foul crew files into Skivareen’s, and I notice that a smirking Wiggins has appeared and is the last to enter, no doubt to collect his graft.
I still cling to Randall, who is beside himself with fury.
“Let me go,” he snarls. “I’m going in there.”
“No, you are not. You see that fat bastard that just went in? That is the Law around here, and it would be you going to jail, not Pigger. Please, Randall, give me two days and I will handle this. If I don’t succeed, we’ll both go in there with blades drawn, I swear it! Me and you, comrades-in-arms, on the battlefield of Jena–Auerstadt again! We will get him! I promise!”
His breathing slows down and he is calmer.
“Two days. That’s it,” he vows, and I believe him.
“Good, Randall. Now let’s get back to the Pig. Polly, we’ve got a show to put on.”
When we get back, we go into full production mode, getting the Playhouse, In the Belly of the Bloodhound, and its cast of characters ready to go.
Chapter 36
THE BOSTON PATRIOT
July 29, 1809, City Edition
GOINGS ON ABOUT TOWN
by David Lawrence, Jr.
NEW PLAY OPENS AT EMERALD PLAYHOUSE
In the Belly of the Bloodhound, a play in three acts by Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne, had its premiere performance last night at the Emerald Playhouse on State Street and your humble correspondent was in attendance and I must say I enjoyed myself hugely.
The production was well staged and professionally directed and performed. Very inventive lighting, using the natural light from judiciously draped overhead windows, facilitated the smooth changing of scenes, and ingenious stagecraft gave the impression that one was actually on a ship rolling on the high seas.
Without giving away too much of the plot, suffice it to say it concerns the actual abduction of some thirty young women from one of our most prestigious local schools by dastardly White Slavers with the intent of selling them to the fleshpots of Arabia, and their heroic efforts to save themselves from that awful fate. There are thrills, narrow escapes, thrilling swordplay, and yes, a good deal of humor and wit. It is further worthy of note that many of the girls who were actually on that fateful voyage play the part of themselves in this production.
I must point out for special mention, the three principal actresses, Miss Polly Von as Dolley, and Misses Jacky Faber and Clarissa Worthington Howe, who played themselves. Also worthy of note is Mr. Solomon Freeman, a Negro, who gave a magnificent performance as the villainous black slaver Sin-Kay.
Equally satisfying were the choral numbers the girls performed as a group. Especially moving was Mozart’s “Sanctus,” sung when the girls’ spirits were at their lowest point. It certainly raised your correspondent’s spirits.
At the conclusion, as bows were taken, the audience rose as one in a standing ovation and demanded, “Author! Author!” and Miss Trevelyne did stand and modestly accept the plaudits.
Performances are daily, except Sunday, at Six O’clock. A full bar is provided at Intermission. Tickets are reasonably priced and available at the box office. The theme of the play is adult in nature, so best leave the children at home. Furthermore, it is rumored that various religious groups plan to picket the theater, due to the content of the play and the somewhat skimpy costumes worn by the young ladies for reasons of verisimilitude and faithfulness to the conditions of the actual voyage, but trouble is not expected.
All in all, a most enjoyable evening. Highly Recommended.
DL
Chapter 37
“Ha!” I exult, passing the paper over to Clarissa. “We are a hit!”
We are at breakfast—a rather late breakfast, considering all the celebrating we did last night after the last curtain fell—and I lean back in satisfaction. If that line about “rather skimpy costumes” doesn’t pack ’em in, then I don’t know the nature of the populace; but I think I do.
She quickly scans the article, then drawls, “I’ll have to get a copy of that off to Daddy, forthwith. Ah hope it will improve his digestion. Ah am sure it will increase his consumption of our local bourbon.”
She lanquidly tosses the newspaper back on the table, drinks down the last of her tea, rises, and leaves me to my thoughts.
How did we handle Clarissa’s final slaver-distracting striptease on the deck of the Bloodhound in the last act, here in still very Puritan Boston? Oh, with very clever lighting and a skin-colored body sheath. I must say that scene went over very well. There was a common sucking-in of male breath heard throughout the theater on that one.
But, oh, how I loved it all, every bit! The songs, the dialogue, the back-and-forth between Clarissa and me, even the whipping scene. But what I especially loved was the end, when I lay face-down upon the set’s balcony, the last scene on the Juno after our rescue, a beam of light upon me, speaking directly to the audience . . .
“I know there will be many accounts of our adventure—tales of fortitude, of suffering, of privation, and of bravery—but I also know that there will be other stories, tales left untold, that will be better left in the dark, dank, and now forever silent belly of the Bloodhound . . .”
The light that was trained on me dimmed to darkness and I jumped up to join the others backstage. The light came up again and illuminated the empty hold of the Bloodhound, the girls’ small white washrags hung from the overhead, gently waving back and forth. Then, with a crash of cymbals, the chorus roars out “The Hallelujah Chorus,” and the girls pour out of the under-stage doors to take their bows, all of them radiant with joy. The audience explodes as the rest of the cast come out: Solomon Freeman and Enoch Lightner and all the rest. Then, at the end, Polly, Clarissa, and I burst out hand in hand, with me in the middle, to curtsy and take our own bows.
Oh, Glory, how I loved it, the applause washing over me in waves, the shouts of “Hurrah! Hurrah!” I wanted the moment to last forever!
As I have a second cup of tea and yet another of Jemimah’s fine cakes, I pore over the glowing review once again. Ah, yes, I do love basking in praise! My only regret is that poor Joannie is still in that awful place and unable to perform her part as her dear friend Rebecca Adams. Oh, well, Joannie, your time will come. The hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow and Attorney Pickering pronounces himself both ready and optimistic. I, too, am ready . . .
Presently a young man enters the room, bearing a box under his arm. I recognize him as one of the apprentices employed at Fyffe’s Furniture and Carpentry down on Milk Street. “Pardon, Miss,” he says, “but this is from Mr. Fyffe with his compliments.”
I had seen Ephraim Fyffe, Master Furniture Maker and Woodworker, at the play last night and asked him to provide me with such a box. “Plain, simple wood, Ephraim, unfinished, about twelve by sixteen, eight inches deep.” He replied that he had just the box in his shop and would send it over first thing in the morning. He was there with his wife, my very good friend and one-time fellow serving girl, Betsey, on his arm. Her sister, Annie, another dear friend and fellow Bloodhound survivor, was a member of the play’s cast, and her husband, my Dolphin brother, Davy Jones, was also present, fair bursting with pride at seeing his beloved Annie bravely portraying her equally brave Bloodhound self on the stage.