Boston Jacky Read online

  Ezra chuckles and pulls a packet of letters from his vest and passes them over to me, saying, “The Nancy B. Alsop is in port at Hallowell’s Wharf, having just returned from another Caribbean run. The Lorelei Lee is due in shortly with another load of Irish immigrants. More about that later . . . Meanwhile, I think it best that you read the letters.”

  I look at the pile. One is from my grandfather, the Reverend Alsop, and sure to contain news of my orphanage, the London Home for Little Wanderers. Another is from my dear friend John Higgins, posted in London. And the third is from the House of Chen—Chopstick Charlie! Joy! Maybe news of Jaimy!

  I rip that one open first . . .

  Charles Chen

  The House of Chen

  Rangoon, Burma

  March 19, 1809

  Jacky Faber

  Faber Shipping Worldwide

  State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  Dear Ju kau-jing yi,

  It gives me great pleasure, Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, to report that your Mr. James Fletcher has made a full recovery of his senses and has taken passage to the United States.

  He has been given money and instructions to conduct some business for me when he is in that country. He devoutly hopes you, yourself, will actually be in that locale and I assured him it was as good a place as any for him to start the search for you. I have advised him to stay in some disguise, as the authorities in London might not have completely forgiven him for his past transgressions in spite of your efforts upon his behalf.

  I hope you are well, Number Two Daughter. Number One Daughter Sidrah sends her regards.

  Your Humble Servant,

  Chops

  “What good news!” I exult, passing the letter to Amy and reaching for Higgins’s envelope. “Jaimy’s coming here! I had thought to take passage to Rangoon at the first opportunity, but now I won’t have to! Joy!”

  Amy can scarcely contain herself as she reads and mutters . . . “Rangoon . . . Burma . . . barbarians . . . Mr. Fletcher . . . ?”

  “Later, Sister, please,” I plead. I know she wants to pull out her pencil and portable writing desk right now, to start in, but it will have to wait. Then I rip open the letter from my grandfather . . .

  Reverend Henry Alsop

  London Home for Little Wanderers

  Brideshead Street, London, England

  April 26, 1809

  Miss Mary Alsop Faber

  Faber Shipping Worldwide

  State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  My dear granddaughter,

  It is my fondest hope and prayer that this letter finds you well and happy, wherever you might be in this world.

  The Home continues to do its good work for the orphan children of London, thanks to the donations from your company and the proceeds from the penny-dreadful accounts of your adventures so graciously donated by Miss Amy Trevelyne, the author of those little epics. I can barely make myself read them, but I do, and console myself in the hope that most of the rather risqué parts are figments of Miss Trevelyne’s vivid imagination. I have a full shelf of them in my study, the latest one being The Wake of the Lorelei Lee, but I don’t let the children read them, oh, no. I do, however, allow the staff to borrow the books, and I am afraid that some of them have found their way into general circulation among some of the older children. Oh, well, best they know something of their benefactors, I suppose . . .

  I myself am well, or as well as could be expected, considering my age, but I do grow a bit infirm. Oh, how I miss having Mrs. Mairead McConnaughey as Mistress of Girls, but I hear she is afraid to come back to the school in light of her last maltreatment by the British authorities.

  However, I do now have an excellent Assistant Schoolmaster in the person of a Mr. Thomas Arnold, a very well-educated young man, who, as Master, seldom wields the rod on his students, preferring to believe in the essential goodness of the children in his care. Who knows, perhaps some day I may leave the Home in his capable hands and come to see you in America? Yes, maybe there is yet one more adventure in me.

  I would dearly love to see you again, child, as it has been a long time.

  Your Loving Grandfather,

  Henry Alsop

  I do not pass that letter to Amy, but instead lay it aside, snorting back a bit of a tear. Amy Trevelyne, poet, writer, and would-be academic, does not need to see the term penny-dreadful put next to her name. No. Now for Higgins’s letter, which has been opened, as it is not addressed to me . . .

  John Higgins

  London, England

  May 2, 1809

  Ezra Pickering, Esq.

  Faber Shipping Worldwide, Inc.

  State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  My dear Mr. Pickering,

  I am writing this letter in hopes that you have been in contact with our peripatetic Miss Jacky Faber, who was last reported as having been seen in Madrid, sending dispatches concerning the French occupation of that city back to the English lines via a partisan guerilla band.

  As I informed you in my last letter, both she and I were assigned by British Intelligence to Sir Arthur Wellesley’s staff in Portugal, she as translator of French, Spanish, and Portuguese, and myself as aide to Mr. Scovell, the General’s spymaster and cryptographer.

  After our victory at the battle of Vimeiro, in which she performed as a dispatcher and from which she emerged bloodied but not seriously hurt, she was sent by Wellesley to Madrid in the care of the aforementioned guerrilla band—a very motley crew, I will tell you, and I did worry about her safety. By all reports, she did manage to make it to Madrid, where she joined a prominent artist’s household. In what capacity she was employed there, I cannot begin to guess, but we do know that, as a member of Francisco Goya’s staff, she accompanied him to the national palace to paint the usurper King Joseph’s portrait. While there, she gained much valuable information on the occupying French forces, information she was able to convey back to British Intelligence. I know General Wellesley found her dispatches most interesting.

  After his great victory at Vimeiro, Wellesley was replaced as Commander in Chief by an act of monumental stupidity on the part of the Royal Army and returned to England. He is currently working to clear up the political mess his removal occasioned, and it is widely expected that he will be returned to command and will continue the Peninsular War in Spain. He has asked that Miss Faber again be added to his staff at that time.

  I strongly feel that, given any latitude of freedom, she will head back to Boston, as she has great affection for that city and her many friends therein. And, of course, she will want to check on the status of Faber Shipping Worldwide. Plus, she is sure to be wary of any return to England, given her past experience with the government here.

  I, myself, have been given indefinite leave from Scovell’s staff, there not being much to do now that our operatives in the field, Miss Faber for one, have fallen silent. That being the case, I will now proceed to Waterford, in Ireland, to take passage back to America on the brigantine Lorelei Lee, Flagship of Faber Shipping, which is sure to be taking on passengers of a Celtic persuasion.

  Looking forward to renewing acquaintance with all my friends in Boston, I am your humble servant,

  John Higgins

  Vice President

  Faber Shipping Worldwide

  “Hooray!” I exult, handing the letter to Amy. “Nothing but good news today! All is well at the London Home for Little Wanderers, and our dear Higgins is returning to us on the Lorelei Lee! And here’s our fine lunch, to boot,” I say, as the steaming platter of cracked lobster is put in front of us, with saucers of melted butter placed all around, and fried potato slices, too, and it all looks just great.

  Amy ignores the food and instead scans Higgins’s letter.

  “Guerrillas . . . ? General Wellesley . . . ? An artist’s studio . . . ? Whatever did you do there, Jacky? What . . . ?”

  “Later, Sister, and all will be plain . . . At Dovecote, when we have the time.” />
  With my fingers, I’m dragging a big piece of claw meat through the hot butter and bringing it dripping to the waiting Faber mouth, and, Oh, Lord, that’s good! I give out a moan of absolute pleasure while Amy mutters, “Disgusting bug,” and contents herself with nibbles of the potatoes and bread, while the rest of us lay to with great sloppy gusto.

  “So, Ezra,” I manage to say, dabbing my lips with my cloth between bites. “A report on the state of Faber Shipping, if you would?”

  Ezra smiles and says, “After your dinner, dear. You look rather in need of some decent food and I would not want to upset your digestion.”

  True, I have been on lean rations lately—a big fat frog was very nearly on my menu not too long ago, when I was starving on the scrubby, dry plains of Spain, but Big Daddy Bullfrog did manage to ultimately avoid the Faber fangs.However, Ezra’s words do sound rather ominous, so I figure I’ll enjoy this dinner and this company and get the bad news when it comes.

  Finally, I dab the mouth, suppress an insistent burp, and say, “Let’s have it, Ezra. Hold nothing back. There are no secrets from those here at this table.”

  Ezra Pickering puts his own napkin to lips and says, “Very well, Jacky, here is the state of Faber Shipping Worldwide.” And with that, he reaches into his waistcoast, pulls out a paper, and passes it over to me. On it is:

  The Condition of Faber Shipping Worldwide, Incorporated

  As of June 6, 1809

  HOLDINGS:

  The Brigantine Lorelei Lee

  The Schooner Nancy B. Alsop

  Two Small Cutters, the Morning Star and Evening Star

  Faber Shipping Headquarters, State Street, Boston, Mass.

  Much Equipment—Traps, Rope, Tackle, etc.

  OFFICERS:

  Jacky Mary Faber, President

  John Higgins, Vice President

  Ezra Pickering, Esq., Treasurer and Clerk of Corporation

  EMPLOYEES:

  Onboard the Lorelei Lee

  Liam Delaney, Captain

  Ian McConnaughey, First Mate

  Padraic Delaney, Second Mate

  David Jones, Third Mate

  Seamen rated Able: 24

  Seamen rated Ordinary: 12

  Ship’s Boys: 3

  Onboard the Nancy B. Alsop

  James Tanner, Captain

  Crew: Daniel Prescott, Finnbar McGee, John Thomas,

  all seamen, rated Able

  Jemimah Moses, Cook

  OTHER STAFF:

  Solomon Freeman, Fisherman in Charge of Harbor Operation

  Clementine Tanner, Headquarters Housekeeper

  Annetje Wemple and Rosie Moses, Chambermaids

  Chloe Cantrell, Secretary to Ezra Pickering, Esq.

  CASH ON HAND:

  $2,704.67

  ACCOUNTS PAYABLE:

  Payroll this month—$1,304.77

  ACCOUNTS RECEIVABLE:

  $6,822.12

  MISC. EXPENSES:

  Fire Prevention and Insurance—$300.00

  Domingo Marin, Delivery Charge—$50.00

  “Hmmm . . .” I say, scanning the paper. I lift an eyebrow. “Treasurer Pickering, eh?”

  “Someone has to manage the money when you and Mr. Higgins are off saving Britannia from ruin,” he says dryly.

  “Quite a payroll, I must say,” I murmur, continuing to read. “I trust we continue to prosper . . .” Ezra does not reply to that, but only gives a discreet cough. “And Jemimah Moses is still listed as Cook? I thought she was well fixed with her share of the Santa Magdalena haul.”

  “Yes, she is, but she still searches the southern East Coast towns for news of her children who were sold off just before you bought her. She has reclaimed some but still searches for others. We make sure the Nancy B. puts into Charlestown on each trip so that she can check around. She figures they must be in the area and, actually, she did manage to find and to buy out her eldest daughter, Rosie, and Rosie’s two young children. You see her listed there under Housekeeping Staff, and her two boys are listed as ship’s boys on the Lee,” says Ezra. “Plus, I think Jemimah grew bored in Boston and likes the short cruises of the Nancy B. Though she enjoys her freedom in Boston, she also likes the southern sun.”

  “As do I,” I say, recalling some particularly harsh winters in New England. “Ummm . . . And what’s this accounts-receivable amount being so much bigger than the cash on hand?” I ask, with a glance to Ezra.

  “Ah,” he says softly, “therein lies the problem.”

  “Which is?” I ain’t liking the sound of this one bit.

  Ezra folds his soft hands and says, “You, of course, recall your scheme of bringing penniless Irish men over here onboard the Lorelei Lee to work on the many municipal projects this town has undertaken—the filling in of the Mill Pond and the Fenway works—and taking their indenture for the passage until such time as they could pay?”

  “Yes?”

  “Some of them are not paying,” says Ezra, settling back and waiting for the explosion, which is not long in coming.

  I shoot to my feet in a state of high indignation.

  “What? The dogs! What have John Thomas and Smasher McGee done about that?”

  “I believe those two stalwarts have done what they could in the way of gentle persuasion, but it has not proved to be enough.”

  “Where are they?” I say through clenched teeth, with a hint of menace in my voice.

  “They are down on Hallowell’s Wharf, on the Nancy B.,” he says, “newly arrived from a Caribbean run. But there is something else you should know . . .”

  “And that is . . .?” I ask with some trepidation. Geez, I step away for a year or two and everything falls apart, I swear . . .

  “Not everyone in this town shares your vision of a brave new American world for Irish immigrants. There are many who think the Irish should stay where they are, starving or not, and here you are bringing in boatloads of them on the Lorelei Lee.”

  “Yes, Jacky,” says Amy, with a certain amount of primness in her voice. “You must know that some of the Irish men can be quite rowdy, especially when they are drinking, and there are those people who feel they should be more carefully controlled. There have been more than a few . . . disturbances.”

  “And who might those people be, Sister?” I say, sitting down again but getting well steamed.

  “Various churches, civic groups . . . and the Boston Army for the Women’s Suffrage, too. You saw our parade today, Jacky, the one in which I was marching.”

  “Well, they should mind their own business, and not mine,” I pronounce.

  “That may be true, Sister,” says Amy, “but you should know the situation if you are to continue in your venture.”

  “But who else will do the work? The Mill Pond, the Fenway . . . who?” I ask, full of righteous indignation.

  “There are some of the local men who feel that jobs are being taken from them by the Irish who will work for lower wages,” says Ezra.

  “They didn’t want the dirty jobs then, but they want them now?” I hiss.

  “I think it best that you talk to Thomas and McGee, Miss Faber,” replies Ezra, “as they are much closer to the street life than am I.”

  I stand and say, “I will now go and do that. Please believe me when I say that it is so good to see you again, my dearest friends, but I must be off to tend to business. I will be moving into my cabin on the Nancy B. It would give me great joy, Amy, if you could come join me there later, that is, if you can free yourself from the Lawson Peabody. Till later, then, as I must fly. Adieu.”

  “Uh-oh . . . Skipper’s back and she don’t look happy . . .”

  I hear that spoken as I stride resolutely up the gangway of the Nancy B. Alsop, and, indeed, I am not pleased at all. Things that would seem to be ever so simple always seem to turn out to be not simple at all—complicated, even. I mean, what could be simpler than my old credo of, All I want is a little ship, and with that little ship I would take stuff from a place that’s got a
lot of that stuff and take it to a place that ain’t got a lot of that same stuff, and so prosper. In this case, the “stuff” being Irish laborers. But it doesn’t seem to be working out all that simple, no it doesn’t. Complications, always bloody complications.

  When I gain my quarterdeck, my anger fades as I gaze about at my elegant little schooner lying there all gleaming and polished, all trim and shipshape. Oh, you are so beautiful, my dear, dear Nancy. How my heart leaps to be once again upon thee! And there’s Jim Tanner, saluting in his captain’s rig, and I hug him to me. And there’s Daniel Prescott, too—my, haven’t you grown! A good foot at least! And Jemimah, dear Jemimah! Oh, please, come give me a hug!

  Then I see John Thomas and Finn McGee, hanging back, and to them I give no kisses, no hugs, no, I merely say, “You two! To my cabin, NOW!”

  I am seated at my desk, reveling in the familiar surroundings of my tiny but very well appointed cabin—my fine desk designed by Ephraim Fyffe, now prominent furniture maker and husband to my good friend Betsey, formerly Byrnes, now Fyffe; my lovely bed worked in against the far wall under the speaking tube, warm maple and mahogany all around. Yes, it’s good to be home, I think with a sigh as I settle into my chair. It is, indeed.