Oh, Lord...
He walks up to the stage as if he had expected to find me here in this place. I can feel the ill will of the crowd toward these unwelcome puppies and I hope I can cut the fuse of this situation and calm things down. Randall hooks his thumbs in his sword belt and says, "Your reputation has extended across the river, Jacky, even unto the ivy-covered halls of academe. When I heard rumors of a girl in a sailor suit who sang and danced and played a tin whistle in one of the sailor bars, I knew it could be none other than yourself." It's plain that his friends find him a rare man-about-town in speaking to me as if he knows me well. Well, he don't.
"You are welcome here, Lieutenant Trevelyne," I say, and again I see the chest swell a few inches when I say it. "Please be seated and we will attend to your needs."
I turn to Gully and say under my breath, "College boys. Half drunk. Trouble. Do you know any college tunes?"
Randall strolls back to his table to the admiring looks of his chums and the black looks of the usual Pig patrons while Gully thinks and says, "I know some ... mostly obscene, though ... Ah, I know. 'Glorious!' A real rouser! All will enjoy. Concertina, key of G. Chord along. Introduce it, Jacky, and tell 'em to sing along with the chorus."
I pick up my squeeze box and take a breath and announce to the crowd, "We have with us some fine lads from the college across the river and to give them a proper Pig and Whistle welcome, Mr. MacFarland and I will do 'Glorious' and we invite all to join in the chorus in the spirit of brotherhood and good fellowship!"
With that, Gully puts fiddle and bow to his sides and booms out the chorus.
"Glorious! Glorious!
One keg of beer for the four of us!
Glory be to God that there ain't no more of us,
The four of us can drink it all alone!"
I start droning out the chords on the concertina, but it's Gully's deep voice that's carrying the tune.
"The first thing we drank to
We drank to the Queen
Glorious, glorious, glorious Queen!
If she have one son, may she also have ten!
Have a whole bleedin army cry the sophomores,
Amen!"
Gully does the chorus again, and the crowd, getting the form of it now, joins in with gusto, and then Gully sings the next verse, which is about the Prince and his horses, 'cept the crowd don't sing "sophomores" and other college words, they put in sailors or soldiers or whatnot, dependin' on their trade. The ladies in attendance pretend to blush like they ain't never heard words like these before. Then it's the chorus again and on to the last verse.
"The next thing we drank to
We drank to the King
Glorious, glorious, glorious King!
If he have one mistress, may he also have ten!
Have a whole bloomin brothel cry the seniors,
Amen!"
I guess I should have seen that coming, but what's the harm in it, I thinks, the place is jumping and they all roar into the last chorus thumping the tables, stamping their feet, and making the rafters ring with their roaring, and they are as brothers.
More coins are tossed to us as we leave the stage, and just then Amy comes up to the table where the college boys are seated and says, "Gentlemen, another?"
"By God, yes!" says one of the boys, and Amy leans in to pick up the empty glasses. I see out of the corner of my eye that Randall is still looking at me, leaning back in his chair, his legs in their white breeches crossed, his knee-high black boots gleaming in the lamplight. He has lit a cheroot and draws on it and sends a puff of smoke in my direction.
"Watch your hands, Sir," warns Amy, and Randall, distracted from his examination of me, looks languidly over in the direction of her voice. That's the last languid thing he does this day.
He shoots to his feet. "Get your hands off her, Chadwick!"
"Wot? Trevelyne has dibs on all the dollies? It ain't fair!" protests the baffled Chadwick, as Randall grabs Amy's arm and hustles her off to the alcove at the end of the bar, where they will not be seen by his cohorts, and he puts her up against the wall.
"Just what in hell do you think you are doing?" he says, furious.
John Thomas notices all this, however, and makes a move toward them, but I put my hand on his chest and hold him back with "Don't, John. It's a family matter." John Thomas has become the self-appointed guardian-at-the-Pig of me, during his time ashore, and now of Amy, too, 'cause he feels responsible for getting me thrown in jail that time, and I can't say I'm sorry to have his rough protection.
I go to the bar to get a tray to take up Amy's slack and I catch a bit of what is said between the warring Trevelynes.
Amy squinches up her nose and comes back at him with, "I am learning a trade, Randall. What do you think you will be doing when Father loses everything? Join a grand regiment? Somehow I do not think that the finer units are hiring very junior officers from country militias just now!"
"You watch your mouth, Sister!"
"You let go of me, Randall! I am not afraid of you anymore."
"Here, here!" says Bob, coming up with his club. "Get away, barkeep," Randall snarls. "Back to your slops."
"Tsk, tsk, you must think I'm one of those barkeeps what don't like pounding the nobs of spoiled little rich boys," says Bob with a grin. "You are sadly mistaken in that notion, lad." He hauls back his club and starts his swing at Randall's head.
"She is my sister!" says Randall, hunching up his shoulder to take the threatened blow. "Now leave off!" he says with what little dignity he has left.
Bob looks dubious but Amy nods and Bob lowers his club and says, "Well, hurry it up. She's needed out front."
I go by them to the bar and I see that both sets of Treve-lyne teeth are bared.
"'Tis by keeping company with that low-life vagabond that has made you this way," he hisses.
"She is giving me instructions in how to make my way in the world while poor and destitute, Brother," Amy hisses right back at him. "And I assure you, she is an excellent teacher!"
Low-life vagabond? Well, I've been called much worse since first I set foot in Yankeeland, and actually, it sums me up pretty well, so I shan't take offense.
I don't hear more, as I take the tray of glasses meant for the college boys and go to their table. One grins and goes to grab my bottom and I scoots sideways. Boys! I swear, why can't they be good?
"You must behave yourselves in here, young gentlemen," I says. "There are some in here who would cheerfully rough you up and throw you out all bloody into the street."
The lad follows my glance over to John Thomas who has resumed his place by the wall and is glowering at the young man with very little love in his eye. "And here, in these close quarters, your fine swords would be of very little use, for this is the world of the bludgeon, the fist, and the sting of the hidden and wicked knife." The young man withdraws his hand and puts it on his glass.
"Thank you, gentlemen," says I, as I gather in the coins. "Please enjoy yourselves." I smile on all and say, "All are welcome at the Pig and Whistle."
Presently, Amy comes back into the room with her tray and goes to serve a table of British seamen in the corner. Randall stalks back to his table and says, "Come on, we're going."
"Wot?" says his comrades. "We just got here!" but they down their glasses and stand.
I'm stepping back up onto the stage and I feel his eyes on me. I turn and meet his angry gaze.
"Come," he says to his friends, "there's better music down the street."
I hold his gaze and put the whistle to my lips and play a bit of "Yankee Doodle" and then I sing out the fragment, "And with the girls he handy..." and I let the final note hang in the air and then go flat and sour.
With that as a farewell, Lieutenant Randall Trevelyne turns on his spurred heel and retreats from the Pig and Whistle.
"He won't peach on you," I promises Amy, as we wind our way through the night-darkened alleys and backstreets on our way back to the school. I've worked out a route that takes me back and forth to the Pig with the least danger. I know what yards don't have barking dogs and are safe to cross. I don't cross the Common at night anymore, 'cause I've tripped over too many drunks sleeping it off in the grass and too many amorous couples who ain't exactly happy to hear my "'scuse me's," neither.
"Why not?" While she ain't really happy to be out in the city in the dark, she ain't as jumpy as she used to be.
"For one thing, what has he to gain? He just has the quick pleasure of seeing you in trouble and then what? Nothing. Except that you could then peach on him for being in a low dive. Do your parents know that he goes to places like the Pig? Or know who Mrs. Bodeen is? Nay, I'll wager Randall's been telling your mum and dad he's been taking tea with his divinity teacher Reverend Bluenose of a Saturday evening or somesuch. Smoking? Does he smoke at Dovecote? Aha. I thought not. Ah, here we are, back home."
We get the ladder the vile Dobbs keeps by his shed and lean it up against the wall such that Amy can climb up it and get on the rungs and so into my room—Amy is coming along, but I know she is not quite ready yet to climb the rope.
I put the ladder back, go up the rope, pull it in, and soon we are in bed and asleep, as it has been a long day.
Chapter 27
Preacher Mather ain't quite up to his usual fire and brimstone this Sunday morning. He don't look like he's been sleeping well. I can't look at him much, though, knowin' what he done. But he gets through it and damns us all to hell for being base sinners and then it's over and I'm thinking I'll be changing churches, me being Church of England and all, who's to keep me here, me not being a lady no more? I can't even sit with Amy, no, I got to sit in the back. Lookin' at the boys ain't no fun anymore, neither, since the Preacher's eyes are on me all the time. Who could object? Mistress would hit the roof if I went to church with Annie and Betsey and Sylvie, them being Catholic and all. I think Abby and Rachel go to another church nearby. I'll have to check it out. It would be fun to go with them.
I help Abby and Rachel serve the midday meal to the few ladies who are at school today, and then go get Gretchen and I'm off on the town. Maybe I'll go see Annie and Betsey. It being Sunday in Boston, ain't nothin' open, so I can't possibly get in trouble. Just a leisurely ride on a really warm fall afternoon, just going out to enjoy the weather, just going out to visit dear friends.
Amy stays back, needing the rest, she says, after yesterday's work at the Pig. She plans to spend the afternoon scribbling in her book. She seems all excited about it, but I don't see why—it seems it's all about my own poor adventures, and who could be interested in that? She's always asking me questions about what I told her back in the hayloft at Dovecote that day—things like, "Jacky, how did you and the others survive the really cold days in winter? You couldn't have lived through that wrapped in rags and shivering under a bridge. It's not possible," and I'd think back and say, "Well, you know Cheapside was the market part of London, just like Haymarket is here in Boston, and so there was a lot of horses and 'cause of that, there was a lot of blacksmiths, and on deadly cold nights the smiths would let us curl up next to their forges for the night and the waning warmth of the forges was enough to keep us alive till the next day. We were always careful not to take anything or throw any more coal on the banked fires, though, 'cause then they wouldn't let us do it anymore. I watched the smithies fire up their forges in the morning and learned how to do it myself so that after a while they let me do it for them and so me and the gang would be allowed to stick around the heat for a little bit longer before we were put back in the streets. So, you see, not everybody was mean to us."