In the Belly of the Bloodhound Read online

  No harm has come your house and lands,

  The little page did say,

  But Matty Groves is bedded up

  With your fair Lady Gay.

  Course all hell breaks loose then and Lord Arlen roars off to settle things with his wife and this Matty Groves, and most everybody ends up dead as usual in these kinds of songs, but still it's a great tune and I thought it a good name for my fiddle, as she is a frolicsome young dame, too.

  Star log, Nov. 26. Wind from the south. Fair skies. Decide to avoid New Bedford due to risk of capture and so set sail directly across Buzzards Bay, on Course 075 for small harbor called Woods Hole. Hope to make passage through Devil's Eye to save time. Chart so far proving good and true.

  I found out why it's called Devil's Eye. After a fast and very pleasant ride across the bay, I entered the passage between the Elizabeth Islands and the mainland of Cape Cod and was not even fairly into it when I encountered a tide rip so fierce as to make the very ocean itself writhe and foam like a mighty, raging river. I was able to hold my head in the torrent for a few moments, but I made a slight wrong move with the tiller and was turned violently around in the current and nearly sent tail over teacups, with the Star spinning around drunkenly, her sail flapping like a wild thing, and her boom swinging back and forth, threatening to brain me and send me overboard. Finally, I despaired, for all my efforts and all my troubles I am going to end up as mere fish food, after all. And on such a beautiful day, too, with blue skies and gentle breezes and all to lull me into complacency. Just goes to show, never trust the sea. Sometimes Neptune is your friend, and sometimes he ain't, and I vowed never to forget that again.

  After being spit back into Buzzards Bay, I regained control and put in to shore to wait for the tide to turn, hoping no other sailor saw me sent all a-hoo like that. would hurt my nautical pride, it would.

  The tide did turn and I went through the Eye again and, this time, slipped right into the charming little port of woods Hole. It has a perfectly protected inner harbor called, I found out later, Eel Pond, which didn't sound too cozy, but what the hell, I didn't see any slimy eels trying to climb aboard, so I pulled next to a likely looking dock and ... Aha! If that ain't a right jolly tavern right there, then my name ain't Jacky Faber, Singing and Dancing Toast of Two Continents. Three, if you count the time in Algiers last summer, on the tabletop in that hashish den, with my emerald—the jewel, not the ship—stuck in my belly button and ... well, never mind.

  After I scouted the little town and satisfied myself that there were none of those wanted posters around, I marched into the tavern and pronounced to the landlord that I was the renowned musician and singer Nancy Alsop and that if he was lucky enough to have me perform in his establishment for one, maybe two nights, I would do these sets in return for lodging, a bath, and whatever tips I might earn from the crowd. He, of course, would gain from the selling of his beers, wines, and whiskies to the increased crowds. when he looked doubtful, I pulled the newly christened Lady Gay from under my arm, put her under my chin, and whipped off a bit of "The Queen of the County Down," sang a verse, and ended with a rattle of my hooves on the floor.

  Entertainment of any kind, good or bad, is rare in these small towns, and I am hired, in spite of my youth and gender.

  As my bath was being prepared, I wandered through the town, playing on my concertina and announcing that I would be playing at Landlord Prosser's that evening and that all should attend for a night of good fun and entertainment. It did not take long to make a circuit of the village, but I thought that would be enough to get the word out.

  It was. We had a good crowd the first night, and a full house the second. Got men, young and old, and women, and yes, kids, too. Entertainment is hard to find and cruel winter's coming on.

  Being that Cape Cod was a seafaring place, I kept my act generally turned in that direction, with merry songs of the sea like "The Kangaroo"—"a China Rat and a Bengal Cat and a Bombay Cockatoo, all on board the Kangaroo." And sad songs like "The Lowland Sea"—"and he crossed his hands upon his breast and he sank to the bottom of the lowland, lowland, lowland sea..."

  Of course, "Cape Cod Girls" goes over real big here—"Cape Cod girls ain't got no combs, they combs their hair with codfish bones, boys..."

  I sprinkled the act with Irish and Scottish tunes, too, 'cause that's where a lot of these people come from originallike, and I go back and forth from fiddle to concertina to pennywhistle, peppering all with dancing. And I end off, as I always do, with "The Parting Glass"—"Good night and Joy to you all"—and I always think of Gully MacFarland, him who taught it to me.

  Course there were a couple, well, maybe more than a couple, of the local youngbloods who would like to get to know me better, but I put them off, saying they should pay attention to their local girls as I am sure they are much worthier than I, and not to think that I have any great worth for merely being a stranger. And besides, while you boys are so very pretty, and so very charming, I am promised to another.

  Back in my room, with some more jingle in my purse, I prepared for bed. First, I tapped the little wood wedges I carry with me under the door so it could not be swung inward. Then I took off my clothes and crawled into bed and I must admit that the bed did feel awfully good. Although my bunk on my dear Star is much loved, it does sometimes tend to be a bit damp, and this bed is not. I burrow in, knees to chest.

  Good night, Jaimy. Your girl is off again in the morning.

  Star log, Nov. 28. 07:30. Under way on Course 053. Winds from southeast, 10 knots. Seas 2 to 4 feet. Weather clear. Fine day. 09:35 altered Course to 045.12:12 altered Course, 033. Heading for Poponesset Bay. 13:50 sighted town of Mashpee. 16:45 moored alongside pier in Mashpee.

  Star log, Nov. 29. 07:30. Under way on Course 047. Winds fair, but chill. Hope to make Yarmouth.

  Mashpee was good. Another ten dollars. But I've got to get going. winter is setting in.

  16:30. Made Yarmouth. Moored. Bigger town than the others. No WANTED posters. Play at Bull and Moose tonight. Looks to be a rowdy place. Must be careful here. Self notes that while Landlady Willendorfer seems upright and kind, Landlord Willendorfer has a roving eye, it roving mostly over me. When Mrs. Willendorfer is not watching, Mr. Willendorfer makes his interest plain to me.

  The night's show went well, and I made a neat twelve dollars and left the stage to great applause. Dressed, as always in these shows, in my serving-girl gear to set the crowd's mind at ease as to who and what I was, I did my usual set and added to it two new songs that I learned from the fiddler on the Enterprise. One was "Billy Broke Locks," about a jail-break, which I could certainly warm to, having been behind bars more than a few times myself, and "Three Jolly Coachmen," a slightly bawdy little piece that I used to get the crowd roused up and singing along. If you can get the audience to do half the work by singing the chorus, why, all the better, I say, and this song has a lot of repeated lines that make it just right for such a thing. I started out the song on my own...

  Three Jolly Coachmen sat in an English Tavern,

  Three Jolly Coachmen sat in an English Tavern,

  And they decided,

  And they decided,

  And they decided ...

  To have another flagon!

  By the second line, the crowd, seated at tables grouped around me on three sides, got the idea and they would come in and repeat the first line once and the third line twice. Next there would be a slight pause, and I would come in at the last line, the hook, as we performers call it. Then on to the next verse, which also serves as the chorus...

  Landlord, fill the Flowing Bowl until it doth run over,

  Landlord, fill the Flowing Bowl until it doth run over,

  For tonight 'tis merry I'll be,

  For tonight 'tis merry I'll be,

  For tonight 'tis merry I'll be ...

  Tomorrow I'll be sober!

  That gets a laugh, as does the next verse...

  Here's to the man who drinks water pure and
goes to bed quite sober,

  Here's to the man who drinks water pure and goes to bed quite sober.

  He falls as the leaves do fall,

  He falls as the leaves do fall,

  He falls as the leaves do fall...

  He'll die before October!

  Back to the chorus again, and with each verse, I draw out the pause longer and longer before the last line for the best comic effect. Now to the maid who steals a kiss...

  Here's to the maid who steals a kiss and runs to tell her mother,

  Here's to the maid who steals a kiss and runs to tell her mother,

  She's a foolish, foolish lass,

  She's a foolish, foolish lass,

  She's a foolish, foolish lass...

  For she'll not get another!

  There are cries of "Hear! Hear!" from the younger men, who look across to meet the eyes of the young women seated with their parents, and then it's on to the last verse...

  Here's to the maid who steals a kiss and stays to have another,

  Here's to the maid who steals a kiss and stays to have another,

  She's a boon to all mankind,

  She's a boon to all mankind,

  She's a boon to all mankind...

  And here I let the pause go on seemingly forever, till at last I put aside my concertina, puff out my belly and grab it with both hands, and sing out the last line...

  ...For soon she'll be a mother!

  There are roars of laughter and admonishing fingers waved in the faces of young women by the fathers and mothers of same. From the hot glances I see cast around the room twixt the young men and young women, however, I don't think their warnings are gonna do much good in the end.

  One more chorus, which fairly shakes the rafters, a restatement of the melody on the fiddle, a bit of a dance, a bow, and off.

  As always, when I'm between sets in these taverns, I don the apron and help serve the crowd. They are getting more customers because of me being there, and the landladies are glad of the help and it puts them on my side. Plus, I get some more tips that way. All I have to do is dodge the more rascally hands and all is well.

  Because the crowd was jolly and the money good, I had planned to do another night, in spite of my desire to get to Boston as quickly as possible, but events of that evening changed my mind on that.

  For when I got back to my room, I noticed that the door opened out into the hall, so I couldn't put my wedges under to secure it. There was a crude lock and I was given a key, so I chided myself for being overly concerned about the door—Hey, this is a respectable house, you big baby—and prepared for bed. Soon I'm in my nightshirt and under the covers, and after knocking off a quick prayer for the safety of those friends of mine who might still be alive and the salvation of those who ain't, I curl up and drift off to sleep, thinking amorous and, by the standards of almost any religion that I know of, highly impure thoughts of Jaimy.

  In the past I have noticed that when I am suddenly startled, I feel the muscles above my ears tighten, and I have always felt that that was the animal in me trying to prick up its ears ... and it was happening now and it brought me quickly up out of sleep. Was that the lock rattling? I turned over on my back and my eyes popped open just as a hand came across my mouth and I saw the landlord leaning over me, clad only in nightshirt and cap.

  "Shush, shush, now dearie. We're just going to have a little fun," he said. "Shush, now..."

  I figured he was aiming to get a little more entertainment out of his entertainer, but I also reckoned he wasn't gonna get it. I jerked my head to the side just enough to get my mouth clear of his hand and then bit down hard on the finger I felt on my cheek. He cried out in pain and jerked his hand from my jaws, and I screeched out, "Help, help, help!" And anyone who has ever heard me bellow out an order on a ship knows that for my size, I can really shout.

  I succeeded in rousing the house, or at least I got up old Mother Willendorfer, who came charging into the room in her own nightdress and cap, with fire in her eye and a frying pan in her hand, and the landlord wailed, "Now, Mother, I was just seein' if she was settled in right." But she wasn't having any of that and she swung her frying pan up alongside his head with a mighty boooonnng and he went careening out the door and she got him again and he tumbled down the stairs to the great hilarity of those who still sat about the fire in the great room.

  I ran to the top of the stairs with my shiv in my hand, my nightdress billowing about me, my hair all undone and looking a sight, I know.

  "Well struck, Madam!" sang out the residents of the inn, who were pouring out of their own rooms in various states of undress, and who plainly did not have a very high opinion of either the landlord's generosity or his character, and adding, "Let's have another for the cheap bastard, him who won't fill a pint up to the proper top! And another for the poor girl! Oh, the poor thing!"

  The poor thing herself continued to watch the mayhem in astonishment. The unfortunate Landlord Willendorfer was now on his hands and knees, bum in the air, and his missus gave him a swat there, too, then succeeded in kicking him moaning and groaning back to their quarters, where I am sure he did not pass a very pleasant night. I wondered what had gone on in his mind when he planned his little visit with me. Did he really think I'd just go tee-hee and comply with his wishes? Men, I swear...

  Later, when all is quiet, I'm thinking that maybe in light of what happened with the now lumpy-headed and very sorry landlord, I should not have sung that "Jolly Coachmen" song, for perhaps it might have given him the wrong notion as to my own character, him figuring me to be free and easy in my ways. Which I surely am, in some ways, but not in all. Still, the song was not that bad, considering the words to some I know. Tucked deep in my seabag I still have the book Laugh and Be Fat that I bought back in Ireland, which is filled with the awfullest, most gross and foul jokes and songs in the world, all of which used to send both me and Mairead Delaney into fits and howls of uncontrollable laughter back in my cabin on the Emerald during that time she sailed with me. Dear Mairead, you of the flaming red hair and fiery spirit, I do hope you and Ian are well and happy...

  Note to self: Never, never again sleep in a room that cannot be locked from the inside. And maybe lay off the naughty songs when you don't know the lay of the land. So resolved, and so back to bed.

  Star log, Nov. 30.05:00. Under way on Course 090. Weather clear, winds fair and from the southwest. Making good time. Bound for Chatham.

  And so it went, from Chatham to Eastham, from Wellfleet to Provincetown, and, on a terrific, tearing beam reach, from Provincetown across Cape Cod Bay to Green Harbor. Thence to Scituate and then, on the next day, into Boston Harbor.

  I played in each of those towns, and in each made money, and all in all, my voyage around the Cape was most pleasant. I could happily do this for a long time, plying the musical trade I have learned, seeing places I have never seen before, meeting good people and bringing them a good time, but winter's about to set in, and I must find out what's happening at the Home for Little Wanderers and what's up with Jaimy, and what is to be my own fate as well, so I press on.

  I anchored this last night in the lee of one of the many islands that dot Boston Harbor. I made myself a nice dinner and ate it, then sat sipping my wine and watching the sunset. No black clouds, neither in the sky nor in my mind. This journey has been good for me, I reflect, putting my hand on the tiller of my lovely Star. In a way, a very small way, to be sure, I am again Tonda-lay-o, Queen of the Ocean Sea.

  Tomorrow, Boston.

  Chapter 6

  The coast seems to be clear. Having left the Morning Star in the care of my newfound coxswain, Jim Tanner, I'm peeking around the corner of a warehouse and peering up and down Boston's Union Street, but no, I don't see anything that looks like a British soldier, sailor, officer, or spy, so I continue watchfully on my way down to my intended destination, that destination being the office of Ezra Pickering, Esquire. Before I left the Star, I had gone down into the cabin and chan
ged into my old black school dress, the one I had once so proudly worn as a student at the Law-son Peabody School for Young Girls. Well, sometimes so proudly worn, that is—there was that time when Mistress Pimm stripped it from my back for bringing shame and disgrace to her school, and I was put in serving-girl gear in punishment for my crimes against ladyhood. Ah, yes, those good old golden school days...

  I also donned my mantilla, the black lace one that Randall Trevelyne gave me that Christmas at Dovecote, and wrapped it around my head, shoulders, and face for both warmth and disguise. It is a cold day and there is, after all, a hefty reward out for my capture. I wonder if they've gotten to Boston yet with their damned posters. I haven't seen any, but that doesn't mean there ain't some around.

  I go through the Haymarket Square, past Faneuil Hall, then go right onto Union Street.

  Was it only the Christmas before last that Randall gave me this shawl? It seems like a century ago, that—Ah, here we are...

  Damn! Ezra's door is locked! Where the hell could he be?

  Hmmm ... I'm thinking he's probably in court, today being Monday and him being a lawyer and all. Well, I can't stay around here—too suspicious looking, a lone female hanging about the streets—so I'll walk up to Court Street and see if I can catch him there. Shouldn't be any danger lurking in an American courthouse, 'cept maybe from that swine Constable Wiggins, who for certain would still enjoy getting his piggy paws around my blameless neck.