Through all this, the military part of my mind hears the low throb of a drumbeat. Wot?
At last, all is secure and ready . . .
Judge Tragg stands to pronounce sentence . . . “Twelve strokes of the rod as ordered by the High Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts! Let it be done!”
There is a low moan from the crowd—the Irish part of it, anyway—as Constable Wiggins stands back and eyes my bare back. He grins his piggy grin and draws back the arm that holds his whippy stick . . .
At that moment, hearing the drumbeat louder and marching cadence being called, I peer around the whipping post and see . . .
Wot? The Hunchback is running toward me with great purpose and determination, and behind him is Ganju Thapa with his Gurkhas, their curved swords at their sides, and behind them is a contingent of United States Marines led by a grinning Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne . . . and yet, behind all that, is the USS Chesapeake, lying out in Boston Harbor, with its starboard side guns run out and pointing right at us!
What the hell is going on?
Chapter 46
“This is an absolute outrage!” shouts Judge Tragg, but he can scarcely be heard over the roar of the astounded crowd as the Hunchback charges forward and, with his stick, catches Wiggins’s rod on its way down to my back.
“You dare, Sir, to stop a diwect owder of the Municipal Court of Massachusetts?” demands Wiggins, his eyes popping, his jowls wiggling in surprise.
“I do, Sir,” growls the Hunchback, and with that he whips his staff around and, in one fluid motion, both disarms the Constable of his rod and hits him hard across his fat buttocks. Wiggins screams and flees, disappearing into the nearest opening in the massed crowd, which, unfortunately for him, turns out to be a convenient gap in the line of Gurkhas. His shouts of pain are suddenly muffled.
It occurs to me at that moment that, tied and bound as I am, I will survive this day. Humiliated, yes, shamed, yes, already been that . . . and even if lashed and grievously hurt and bloodied and scarred, I will survive . . . and that clears my mind of its terrors and I am able to think clearly on just what is going on around me. And it is all turning out to be very interesting. For instance, while the crowd’s notice is focused on the confusion in the court, I am able to notice that two of Ganju Thapa’s Gurkhas have something big and squirming in a black bag on their shoulders and are carrying it down in the direction of Chopstick Charlie’s ship. Thanks, Chops, that almost makes up for your big double-cross, and I hope Constable Wiggins performs well as one of your galley slaves, I really do. Oh, and do not spare the whip.
My attention then turns back to the tumult at center court, as it were.
Judge Tragg is on his feet, pointing furiously at the Hunchback. “This is a court of law, damn you! Who are you and what right have you to lay hands on members of my court? And who the hell are the rest of these people?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turns to the leader of the militia and orders, “Arrest that man. Take him away! Now!”
“Chesapeake Company . . . Order arms!” barks Randall, and rifles come off the troop’s shoulders, butts hitting the ground at the exact same instant, with one distinct thud.
The rather dubious Captain of Militia, perhaps gauging the mood of the surly crowd and seeing also the squadron of perfectly turned-out United States Marines that are pulled up before his somewhat shabby unit, wisely hesitates.
It is then that Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, after giving me a sly grin and a snappy salute with his crop, speaks up.
“Your Honor! May I enter your courtroom and present myself? And perhaps explain things?”
“I demand that you do,” says Tragg, in a state of high dudgeon. “And tell me what you are doing here.”
Randall takes three steps forward, bows to the Judge, and says, “I am, if it please you, First Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne, U.S. Marine Corps, assigned to USS Chesapeake, which you see laying out in the harbor.”
Randall sweeps his arm expansively toward the ship. Tragg lifts his gaze and registers some concern.
“It does not please me. Furthermore, it does not answer my question as to your presence here.”
“Why, Sir, it is simple. I have come to take custody of the female known as Jacky Faber, whom I believe is rather conveniently tied up right here.” Randall places a patronizing hand on my head. I cut him a look, which he returns with a wink.
“What? Listen, you arrogant young pup . . .”
At that, Randall nonchalantly raises his riding crop above his head and a deep booooom is heard coming from the harbor. All heads turn to see a puff of white powder smoke drifting away from one of the Chesapeake’s gun ports.
“You would presume to fire upon the city of Boston, Sir?” shouts Tragg. “This is an act of civil war!”
Randall makes a placating gesture toward the Judge and his court and says, “Please, Your Honor, forbear. The Chesapeake is merely blowing out old powder. The guns are not loaded. Not now, anyway. Think of this demonstration as a salute to dear old Beantown. Here, let’s have another. To Boston, the First to Stand for American Liberty! Huzzah!”
Again he raises his swagger stick, and again a boooom comes rolling up to the court. If there is one thing Randall Trevelyne can do, I think, ruefully, it is swagger.
The Judge’s face is white with anger. “Rest assured, the Governor, the Congress, and the President shall hear of this!”
“No need to bother those fine gentlemen, Sir,” says Randall calmly. “For, you see, this is a matter of law, not war, and we can settle this right here, most amicably.”
“Law? A matter of law? I see no law here. What I see are thinly veiled threats from the Federal Government upon the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the City of Boston!” thunders Judge Tragg.
“But it is a matter of law, Your Honor,” persists Randall. “Constitutional law.”
“What?” asks the Judge, incredulous. “Explain yourself!”
“Surely His Honor knows that in matters of Interstate Commerce, Federal Law holds sway over State Law,” says Randall, with a small deferential bow, his demeanor staying just this side of insolence.
“Commerce! What does that insignificant female have to do with commerce?” demands Tragg, pointing a stiff finger at me.
“Uh, a little matter of smuggling on the high seas and violation of the Embargo Act,” says Randall. “I’ve been ordered to take her in for questioning by the federal authorities.”
At this moment, Ezra Pickering steps forward and says, “Your Honor, what he says is true. I do not have to remind the learned Judge of Article 1, Section 8, Clause 3 of the U.S. Constitution giving Congress the power to regulate commerce between the States . . .”
Although my bonds are chafing, I have to smile on that. Oh, Ezra, you fox, to have that chapter and verse so convenient to your smooth tongue, right here, right now. I know you had a hand in this. I also know that what Randall knows about law, constitutional or otherwise, could be stuffed in his snuff box with room to spare, but you know all about it, don’t you? And I wouldn’t be surprised if John Higgins hadn’t spent some time recently with his nose buried in some law book. Such good friends, and me so unworthy of their friendship.
“But . . . but . . . but . . . this girl is under sentence of a dozen lashes imposed by our municipal court. It must be carried out or our justice system is a mockery! Furthermore, she is under indictment on a charge of witchcraft and bound over for trial!”
Prosecutor Hamilton speaks up in support of his magistrate. “That is true! This cannot be! There is such a thing as States’ Rights!”
Randall crosses his arms and says, “Federal trumps State. Simple as that.”
“Be quiet, all of you!” orders the Judge, sitting down heavily. “Counselors, approach the bench!”
Hamilton, Ezra, and the Court Reporter crowd around Judge Tragg and animated conversation ensues. While I cannot hear exactly what is said, I catch snatches and can guess what’s going on.
This Judge is no fool. I know he is weighing his options: “If I hand over the wretched girl, both I and the Commonwealth lose face. If I keep her, then that silly witchcraft thing will come up and it might be proved that Judge Thwackham was, indeed, drugged and is not insane, and could therefore be restored to his bench and I would be back languishing in some lower court again handing out five-dollar fines and I certainly don’t want that. Hmmm . . .”
The conference goes on and on. I wish they’d hurry; my knees are getting sore.
Ah. They seem to have come to some sort of conclusion, for the Judge has risen to his feet and the lawyers have retreated to their former spots.
“It is the decision of this court that the original sentence of twelve lashes upon the female Jacky Faber will be carried out”— I sag a bit in my bonds on that —“and upon execution of that sentence, she will be cut down and released into the custody of the Federal authorities, as represented by that officer there. The charge of witchcraft will be dismissed.”
Pretty crafty, Judge Tragg. Honor is served all around, and a crisis is averted.
“Is that agreeable to you, Sir?”
Randall smiles and bows. “Perfectly agreeable, Your Honor. I believe that justice will be done in this case.”
Great. I get beaten, but that’s fine as long as everyone’s happy, right? Grrrr . . .
“So ruled,” says the Judge, bringing his gavel down on the arm of his chair. “Carry out the punishment. Constable, do your duty.”
It is then that Judge Tragg discovers that his Constable has gone permanently missing.
“Where the hell is he?” he asks of Prosecutor Hamilton. “Let’s get this done.”
I believe he’s on his way to a new career on an oar. I hope he prospers.
“He’s nowhere to be seen, Sir,” says Hamilton, looking about.
“Well, who shall administer the strokes?”
Ezra speaks up. “As a member of the court, I volunteer to do it.”
Captain Warren leaps to his feet and puts his speaking trumpet to his mouth and thunders, “He’s her goddamn lawyer! He won’t hurt the wench! I demand that I be assigned to that task!” There is a roar of approval from the local populace.
“Blow it out your ass, Warren!” shouts Arthur McBride through his own trumpet. “I will do it!”
“You?” sneers Warren. “The girl owns you and your wagon and all you possess. You’re going to whip your boss, mick? I think not! I believe you’ll bend down and kiss her ass, rather than beat it!”
“You’ll eat those words, you blue-nosed yankee bastard!” Arthur is on his feet now. “And you’re gonna eat ’em now!” The Irish roar and raise their clubs and the natives return the challenge by shaking fists and brandishing weapons of their own.
Uh-oh . . . There’s beginning to be serious shoving between the opposing ranks, and I see that gleaming fire axes are hanging along the sides of both pump wagons. This could get bloody.
However, before it does, the voice of reason speaks up.
Ezra Pickering goes to the center of the makeshift court and raises his arms and calls for silence. “You citizens of Boston! Please, listen to me!”