That small problem solved to his satisfaction, Judge Thwackham turns once again to the astounded Mrs. Shinn.
“Mrs. Shinn, while other gentlemen of my status prefer a small, shy, and lithe little female wriggling beneath them when betwixt the sheets, I demand a good, solid workbench, I do, and you Madame, fill the bill most admirably. Bailiff, you will now escort the lady to my chambers, where we will have a bit of a frolic!”
With that, he slams down his gavel and bellows, “The court is adjourned!” He gets up and exits through the door at the back.
The place erupts in total chaos.
In the midst of all this, Constable Wiggins comes toward me with great purpose writ on his red face, meaty hand outstretched in the direction of my neck, intending to take me outside and carry out the Judge’s order, if not for a beheading, at least for a sound thrashing.
Ezra grabs my arm and says, “I don’t know just what you did to cause what went on in there, but you must count your gains as regards Joannie Nichols, and know that your loss of Ravi will be dealt with. He will be all right till then. But for now, Jacky, let’s get the hell out of here!”
Strong words from my usually very calm and unrattled Mr. Ezra Pickering.
Chapter 41
It is the day after the hearing and I am in the offices of House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company, facing Chopstick Charlie’s factotum, Mr. Cheung Tong.
“Mr. Tong,” I say. “You know I am acquainted with Mr. Charles Chen of Rangoon, Burma, and that he holds me in some regard.”
While I face Mr. Tong, he does not face me, choosing, as he usually does, to look away and to the wall. I suspect that his lack of manners is because of his infirmity, and I forgive him for it.
“I know that, Miss Faber,” he rasps. “Honorable Chen has ordered me to honor any reasonable request from Beloved Daughter Ju kau-jing yi.”
“Well, that is good,” is what I say, “and what I want is the Gurkhas.”
“Pardon, Miss?”
“The Gurkhas. I spotted their leader Ganju Thapa and some of his cohorts when last I was here. He knows me and I know him.”
He knows me all right, as a thorn in his side, but he is a loyal servant to his master, Chopstick Charlie, and will follow his orders, even if he despises me, which he most certainly does.
“And what do you want them for?”
“I have a young adopted son, an East Indian boy named Ravi, who is unjustly imprisoned in the Reformatory for Stubborn Boys. I want him out and safe.”
“But how can my company be of assistance?”
“The Gurkhas will go into the prison and bring the boy out. They will recognize him by the color of his skin and the fact that he speaks Urdu. They will call out for him in that language and he will come to them.”
“And how will the Gurkhas get into this place?”
“Don’t worry. I will take care of that. There will be a wagon outside this door tonight at midnight, with hangers for eight men to cling to its side as it goes on its way. Are you agreed?” I ask, leveling my gaze at the black-cloaked figure. “Are you?”
He turns and looks at me through his one good eye.
“Aye,” he says. “But I must go along with the Gurkhas. Mr. Chen would insist.”
“Very well, Mr. Tong, I will see you tonight. Adieu.”
Yesterday, after the hearing, as we had all piled back into the Pig and were taking refreshment, Joannie Nichols walked in the front door in all her filth, stared forward, and said but one word:
Bath.
We gathered her to us and provided that bath. As Molly and I scrubbed her down, she filled us in on the details . . .
“Mistress will allow me to act in the play until such time as school starts back up. A coach will be sent to the Pig each night to collect me and any of the other Lawson Peabody girls who are either in the play or who are there as spectators. When school begins again, all that will be over.”
“Still, dear,” I said, wringing out her hair, “it’s better than the place you were just in.”
“Aye,” she said, “anything is better than that. What about Ravi?”
“We are going to attend to that tomorrow night.”
She looked up at me with question in her eyes. “Can I help?”
“Yes. One last adventure this year, and then back to class again. Agreed?”
She considered and then said, “Aye.”
“Then tomorrow night, Joannie, after the performance. Mistress will not miss you in that gaggle of girls piling into the coach. Be ready in your burglar gear.”
Her face was down and I could not see it, but I knew her eyes were narrowed and she was smiling.
The horse-drawn wagon of the Shamrock Hose, Ladder & Pump Company pulls up in front of the House of Chen Oriental Shipping Company. Arthur McBride is on the forward seat, holding the reins of the four mighty Clydesdales that are now harnessed, snorting, to the pump. I am seated beside him in my nighttime gear—tight black pants, black jersey, black gloves, and woven watch cap pulled low over my forehead. Joannie Nichols is similarly dressed and rides next to me, her face blackened with soot, just like mine.
As we come to a halt, the mighty draft horses huffing and pawing the ground beneath their massive forms, Ganju Thapa and his six Gurkhas come out the door. As always, they are turbaned and wearing their khukuris—wicked inwardly curving, insanely sharp knives—in their belts, and they climb aboard the pump. The Hunchback then comes out and climbs into place beside them, and we rattle off into the night, toward the Boston Reformatory for Stubborn Boys.
We pull to a stop a good half block down the street and peer up at the prison.
“Damn,” I say. “They post a guard outside at night. I didn’t think they would.”
“You could send one of these heathen cutthroats,” ventures Arthur McBride.
“No, I want as little bloodshed as possible in this. I’ll—”
“I’ll take care of him,” growls the Hunchback, hopping down from his perch. “Wait here till you see my signal.” With that, he limps off down the street, leaning on his staff. McBride and I look at each other and shrug.
“Lookin’ good tonight, Jacky,” says Arthur, with a bit of a leer in his voice. “I especially like your pants.”
I give him a poke in the side with my elbow and say, “Keep your mind on the task at hand, you dog, and not on my— Look! There’s the signal!”
Up ahead we see the silhouette of Mr. Tong waving us onward with his stick.
“Let’s go!” I order, and we roll toward the prison entrance. “When we get there, swing around and back up to the gate. Joannie, get ready.”
Joannie hops on top of the pump, hook and chain in her hand.
Arthur guides the wagon around in a wide arc and then pulls back on the reins, bringing the mighty fire wagon to a stop. Then urging the beasts to move backward, he brings the rear of the water pump up against the grating.
I jump down and go to the side of the Hunchback, who is peering at a form lying on the cobblestones.
“Is he . . .?”
“No. He is just sleeping. He will recover in an hour or so. I found no key on him, however.”
I notice that Mr. Tong has pulled the man’s jacket up over his head so that if he should wake up, he will be blind and fairly immobile. My respect for the Hunchback’s abilities grows.
“I did not expect you would find one. Not likely the warden would trust the safety of his prison to a weak link like him.”
“There is an alarm bell, attached to that cord there.”
“Aye, and we shall use it. But not yet. Joannie! Up with you! Put it there on the right, next to the hinge! I’ll put mine on the left.”
Joannie Nichols bounds off the wagon and begins to climb the massive iron gate, the grappling hook over her shoulder. When she gets to the top, she attaches the heavy hook in the proper place and then leaps off, to land on the ground. She stands aside.
My turn now. I take my own hook over my shoulder and climb to the top, attach it, and bounce back down. We stand aside and hope for the best. The Gurkhas are already positioned at either side of the entrance, their great mustaches bristling, their black eyes gleaming, knives in hand.
“All right, Arthur.” I shout, “Now!”
And Arthur McBride cries, “Yeehaw!” and brings the slack reins down on the flanks of the horses, urging them on. The strong draft horses respond by throwing their huge bulk against their harnesses and lurching forward.
The slack in the chains is instantly taken up and the gate rattles but does not fall.
“Go, Bob! On, Bryan! Come on, lads, give it all you’ve got!” urges Arthur, and there is a low, creaking sound from the gate, but still it holds.
“On, Charley and Denny! Put your backs into it!”
The mighty Clydesdales, the same type of horse that carried legions of heavily armored knights into tournament and battle in Europe, now strain against an iron fence in Boston, the huge muscles in their haunches standing out like steel bands as they put their all into it.
“A little bit more, boys,” implores Arthur, using only his voice, and not the whip, to urge them on. “Just a bit . . .”
And then there is a snapping sound as the top right hinge lets go, then a long, metallic screech as the pins in the lock on the left are twisted out of their sockets and, with a great roar, the gate comes crashing down.
“Quick, Joannie, unhook!” I shout, as I go to release my own grappler, but I needn’t have said anything as she has already done it and has thrown her hook and chain on the back of the tank.
Leaping aboard the wagon, I lean over and plant a warm kiss on the cheek of Arthur McBride. “Thank you, Arthur, thank you!” I exult. “But now you’ve got to fly away! Soon there will be alarms ringing all over the city. Drop Joannie at the Lawson Peabody School, she knows how to get in! Now, fly, Arthur, fly!”
And he does. With a final “I loves thee, Jacky Faber!” he plants one on me and then chucks his noble steeds and disappears with them into the night. And, sure enough, there is now the sound of a distant alarm from across the sleeping city.
I turn back to the action at hand and peer through the entrance no longer protected by an iron grate. Across the courtyard, I see that same strong oaken door I had seen before, which guards the entrance to the actual prison. It remains closed and there is no sign of activity in spite of the noise made by the falling of that gate.
“Are you ready, Ganju Thapa?” I ask.
He nods, not looking at me.
I grab the alarm rope that the Hunchback had pointed out to me and give it several hard yanks. The peals of the bell ring out across the yard and, presently, lights are seen in windows, and the front door is cracked open.
“Then, go.”
With a blood-curdling screech and shouts of their traditional battle cry of “Jai Mahakali, ayo Gorkhali!”—which means “Glory be to Kali, Goddess of War, here come the Gurkhas!”—Ganju Thapa and his cohorts storm the door and enter the fortress.
I make ready to follow them down, but a stout staff comes to rest across my chest, preventing me from doing so. I stop midstride and look up at the Hunchback.