Jacky Faber

General Delivery

U.S. Post Office

Boston, Ma.s.sachusetts, USA

September, 1803

James Emerson Fletcher

Number 9 Brattle Lane

London, England

Dear Jaimy, I'm going to be writing this letter in little bits and pieces 'cause I know I can't send it out till I see a British ship come in the harbor 'cause that's the only way I can think to get a letter to you 'cause Mistress won't mail my letters to you 'cause she don't think it's right somehow. If you're going to write letters to me, please send them to the address up there on top.

A lot of the schoolwork here is stupid and useless and I get switched a lot even though I've been nothing but good, but I do like some of the things we do. I specially like the painting cla.s.s with old Mr. Peet-he's ever so sweet and nice to me. He says I have talent, hut I don't know. He's showing me how to do miniature portraits on disks of ivory-it's marvelous fun slipping the colors around on the slick surface till it looks right and you can get really really fine with it because we've got brushes so tiny there's only like three hairs in them and if you make a mistake you can wipe it off. I'm doing one of you, dear boy, from my poor memory and I know I haven't done you justice but I'm still working on it. When I'm done I'll tuck it in close to my heart. Then I'll do one of me and send it to you and I hope you still want to look at it when you get it.

They have taught me how to ride, too. I never thought I'd like getting close to horses, from my time in London when it was all I could do to keep from being stomped to death by them, they being such huge beasts with mean tempers, but I find I do like the riding of them, after all. I've been a.s.signed a sweet little mare named Gretchen and though we eyed each other most suspiciously when first we met, we are getting along right well. I often slip over to the stables and pet her and feed her bits of apple and such. Henry Hoffman saddles her up for me and gives me instruction and lets me take her out by myself into the fields behind the school, and it didn't take long at all for me to get good enough to join the rest of the girls in the circle.

Riding cla.s.ses are held in this huge round arena that has a dirt and sawdust floor and we get up on our horses and go around in a circle with Herr Hoffman standing in the center snapping his whip and barking out commands. Like, for a while we'll trot, in which we have to post, which is having your bottom make a b.u.mp-paddywaddy-b.u.mp rhythm on the saddle, then Herr Hoffman shouts "Canter!" and we do that for a while and it's a kind of slow gallop, and then we gallop and that's fast and scary hut exciting. When he says "Halt und veel!" we pull back on the reins and the horse stops and we wheel and go in the other direction. But then you probably already know all this because you're a n.o.b and were born to this stuff and are laughing at me for my greenness, so go ahead and laugh.

We also go outside and get taught how to jump with the horses-there's a course laid out with low jumps and high ones. I'm just up to the lowest ones now, but that Clarissa is wondrous good at it, I got to admit. She says it comes from being brought up civilized in Virginia, not in some slum like me, and riding to the hounds and all that fox-chasing stuff. I don't know how civilized she really is though. I found out that one of the reasons that Amy won't sit with the other girls at dinner is that she won't sit at the same table as slaveholders and Clarissa's family owns slaves. I thought when I first got here that all these girls were just bits of fluff, but I'm finding that they are pretty political and this country ain't easy with itself in some things.

Clarissa sure looks good, though, in her scarlet riding habit with the black lapels and the white lace spilling out at her throat and black gloves on her hands. Her jacket has little gold epaulets on the shoulders and is tailored perfectly to her form. She has a high bonnet in the Scottish style that sits up on top of her upswept hair instead of coming down low and tying under the chin like every other bonnet I've seen around here. My own bonnet ties under my chin, and upon seeing Clarissa's, I like mine less. I know that don't say too much for me, but there it is. Clarissa looks splendid, and I hate her for it.

Clarissa ain't the only one all decked out for Equestrian-every other time, whether for cla.s.s, meals, or church, the girls got to wear the black uniform dress-but here, I guess they're allowed to dress the way they want to, and given the freedom, they really do it up. Though Clarissa looks the best, there are many others who are close seconds in the way of finery, all in greens and purples and blues and every other color, and all in the finest of weaves and fabrics. I have to be content with putting on one of the dusters, which keeps my dress from getting dusty but also makes me look like a perfect washerwoman. But I am content and do not seek to rise too quickly above my station in life.

We had a bit of a tiff, this Clarissa and I, and I'm afraid she came out on top, but my wounds have healed. We stay away from each other because Mistress has warned us that we both will be expelled if we get into that sort of thing again, and neither one of us wants that. I know you're a little ashamed of me for this, Jaimy, but I'm being as good as I can be, and I hope you'll understand and forgive me.

Hark! There's the chimes for supper. More later.

Back again.

The only thing I don't understand about the riding is, why do they make us ride sidesaddle? It seems it'd be a lot more stable if we could just throw a leg over on either side, like you boys do. Amy says it's because it looks more ladylike and I says it ain't very ladylike to fall off and roll in the dirt because you can't grasp the horse between your knees and get a proper grip, like. She says it's also because they think we'll hurt our female equipment and not be fit for marriage or able to have babies and such. I think it's a bunch of nonsense-ain't I wrapped my legs around many a spar and never yet hurt myself? Amy says I should stop talking about my knees and legs and such as it ain't ladylike, neither.

Amy is my new mate. She's a bit stiff and a gloomy Puritan to the core, but I know she's got a good heart. Maybe I can loosen her up a bit and she can give me lady lessons and we'll be good for each other.

Anyway, I've been going over and taking Gretchen out during some times I can get free and we ride through the fields on Beacon Hill. Beyond the row of houses on Beacon Street it's almost all open field and meadow and it's wondrous pretty in this fall time. Henry comes along sometimes and he's good company. But don't worry, Jaimy, I'm being good.

Arithmetic is easy after all that navigation figuring we had to do on the ship, and the French teacher, Monsieur Bissell, is patient with me. I've found that not all the froggies are bad.

Penmanship and writing is good 'cause I get to write letters like this one in there and Miss Prosser, the teacher, gives us pointers like using those little apostrophe things and how to spell stuff right. That and how to write so it looks pretty.

And we have Geography with Mr. Yale who also does some history with us and it looks like good stuff for me to learn, like for when I have my little merchant ship {don't you laugh, Jaimy) and I'll need to find my way about. A funny thing-we were all up looking at a map of the world and Mr. Yale asks us to point out where we've been and Clarissa had been the most traveled because she comes from Virginia and had been to the Carolinas and was proud of that, but then I pointed out England and then the Rock of Gibraltar and the Arab lands on the north coast of Africa and then Palma and then the Caribbean Sea and Kingston and Charleston. Mr. Yale said, "A cruise, then?" and I said, "Sort of." Clarissa looked at me all narrow-eyed at that. You can tell that Clarissa and I don't get along all that well.

I've discovered that the cla.s.ses are not quite so fixed as I'd thought when I first got here. Like, you might be in Embroidery but leave sometimes for an individual music lesson with Maestro Fracelli, or you might step out of Art for a private lesson in horsemanship. In other words, they don't always know where you are. Heh, heh. And you know me, Jaimy-If they ain't got Jacky Faber lashed down tight, she's apt to be up and off. And I was. I made a trial run yesterday, pretending to be going to the stables, but instead walked a bit down toward the docks. Not all the way, just enough to know I could do it, as do it I must when a ship comes in, to mail these letters. That's how I found the post office. I went out through the kitchen and came back the same way so the staff down there gets used to me going in and out.

Oops. Time to go to Music. More later.

The music cla.s.ses are going well and I'm practicing as much as I can on the flute that Maestro Fracelli has lent me. You got to blow it from the side, and right off I couldn't get no sound out of it at all but now it's going better. I'm learning to read music-Amy is helping me with that as she knows how to play the harpsichord powerful good and reading music sort of goes with that. I know it's going to be handy 'cause I'll be able to write down tunes I make up and I'll be able to do other people's tunes without having to be there listening to them doing it.

So, actually, now that I've written it all out, I guess I don't hate it here at all. 'Cept for the fact that you're not here. I miss you more than you can know.

All my love always, Jacky

Chapter 8.

Dear Jaimy!

A ship! At long last a British warship! It's now the 27th of September and my month-long letter shall now go out to you! It is the Shannon and I must gather up all these papers and make a packet and I must make my plans to get out and go down to the docks!

Blot blot kiss kiss and G.o.dspeed this letter to you!

All my love forever and ever and ever, Jacky I think about telling Amy about my plan to go to town today, but then I think better of it-better she should just think I am off with my dear Gretchen again, and that makes me think that maybe I should take Gretchen down cause it would be faster but, no, best not to attract notice. I bind up the packet of letters and the miniature of me, which I know ain't good enough but I'm sending it along, anyway, and I bind them up in oiled paper that I got from Art cla.s.s to keep them safe and I get some sealing wax from Penmanship and drops a great gob of melted wax on the edge of the folder and then presses me thumb into it to hold it together and make it personal-like and then, after Penmanship, I tucks it in my bodice and shoves me whistle up one sleeve and me shiv up the other cause who knows what I might need it, and then I am off and out through the kitchen and out into the world. I've got a couple of hours and I am sure to be back before tea.

I cut by the side of the school so no one sees me go and cross Beacon Street and I plunge right into the Common amongst the black-faced sheep who go baa and I push their woolly fat rumps out of my way and I joyously run down the swale, by the cows and goats. I come out on Common Street and go up that to Tremont and then down Tremont till I hit Court Street. I don't know these streets except for their signs as I'm just heading pell-mell downhill to the docks where I see the Shannon sitting all pretty at the wharf.

Now I'm goin' on Court Street and I know it's that 'cause there's a courthouse there and behind it a jail and next to that, oh, Lord, there is a pillory with its head hole and hand holes. I'd seen poor blokes in these stocks in London, with their heads and hands stickin' out about to die from tiredness and shame and people throwin' stuff at 'em, and there's a stake there, too, prolly for the whippings. I hurry past all that.

Court Street turns into State Street and that leads down to Long Wharf, where the Shannon is moored alongside.

It is a glorious day with the sun shining and the wind whipping the Shannon's flags about, and she looks in wonderful trim all polished and painted, and I trips it up the gangway and the Officer of the Watch, who is a very well-turned-out young man, comes up before me and says, "I'm sorry, Miss, but no females are allowed on board without-"

"Begging your pardon, Sir"-and here I does my best and lowest curtsy and brings the eyes up under the eyelashes-"I come not to visit but merely to ask that you carry this letter to my very dear friend Midshipman James Fletcher of 9 Brattle Lane in London," and I hand him the letter.

He bows and takes it and says, "I am acquainted with Brattle Lane and will consider it an honor to convey it to a fellow sailor who is lucky enough to be in the favor of one such as you."

I blush the blush and bat the eyelashes and say, "Vous etes tres galant, mon capitaine," proudly using some of my new lady talk.

"Et tu es tres belle, Mademoiselle," he says. I do not miss the familiar tu but I let it pa.s.s.

"Thank you, Sir," says I. "And the mail you carried with you here?"

"Already delivered to the post office, Miss. Sorry." Ah, well. It's too early for a letter from Jaimy. It's only been a month or so.

I'm looking about me at the ship with its lace and shiny bra.s.s and things so familiar to me. I look up at their foretop and my throat tightens and my eyes mist up. It is very close to the Dolphin in all things, and I thinks I'd better leave now before I make a fool of myself, something I find I'm very good at.

The young man notices my distress and says, "Depend upon it, Miss. Your Mr. Fletcher shall receive this letter."

"Thank you, Sir. Good-bye." And I turn and go back down the gangway and try to walk with my head up away from the ship. The old sights, the old sounds, the creaking, the ... No, I will be strong.

When I am a safe distance from the ship I let myself slip over into a few tears and then I look out over the harbor. There is a wonderland of wharves down here. There are at least fifty wharves with ships at em just within my sight. If I was higher, I'm sure I should see at least twice as many. It is a seafaring town, no mistake about that, what with all the chandlers and shipfitters and victuallers and the taverns and the ropewalks, the huge long buildings built solely for the making and twisting of long lengths of rope.

I feel better now, knowing that my packet will get to Jaimy's house.

I don't want to leave the familiar sights and sounds of the port just yet and I figure I've got some time before High Tea and prolly wouldn't be missed, anyway, so I climbs up on a piling at the end of the pier and look about at the scene spread out before me, all flags and rope and pitch and tar and wooden ships and iron men, and I pull out my whistle and start to play.

I start out with "The Mountains of Morn," and then keepin' in the slow and sad mode, I does the "Londonderry Air," that sad, sad song of a father sending his son off to war to the sound of the calling pipes. Oh, Danny boy...

"Luffly, Miss, just luffly," I hears a voice say. "But could it be that you'll play sumthin' a bit more merry for poor John Thomas and 'is mates what had had enough of sadness and woe and hard times?"

I pops open my eyes and sees a group of sailors standin' in front of me. They look like they're just off the ship and heading for a bit of fun. A huge red-bearded brute seems to be the one what spoke, him grinnin' from ear to ear and flippin' a coin in an arc toward me.

The beggar in me reaches out and s.n.a.t.c.hes the coin from the air without thinkin' and drops it down my front to free up my fingers and I hops off the piling and rips right into "New York Girls," a real rousin' tune that's sure to please this crowd.

It does. They whistle and stamp and some of 'em roar into the chorus of "Oh, you New York girls, can't you dance the polka" and John Thomas crosses his arms and starts in to dance, which causes his mates to cheer and shout, and so I starts into dancin', too, and that gets 'em cheerin' louder, and so I goes faster and faster and I had forgotten how much I love this singin' and dancin' and showin' off that I completely loses myself in it all, I love it so, and then John Thomas crows out with, "You can't match this step, girl!" and I taunts back, "Can, too!" and, though a part of me thinks that maybe I shouldn't be doin' this, I lifts up my skirts to show the steps and I does the step he did and then I tops it with one of my own and then...

And then I notice that they've all stopped dancin' and singin' and foolin' around and are slinkin' back and lookin' at somethin' over my shoulder. Then I feels a heavy hand on me shoulder and I hears a squeaky male voice that says, "Come with me."

I turns around and looks up into the sweaty face of a man with round, fat, pink jowls.

"Who are you?" I ask, all fearful and stupid and not likin' this turn of events at all.

His eyes are almost buried in the folds of his cheeks and they peer down at me with a feverish glint. He wears a black hat and a coat with a high collar that bites deep into the flesh of his neck. He carries a stout stick.

"I? Who am I, it asks? Well, I'll have it known that I am Constable John Wiggins, the High Sherwiff of Boston." He smugly chuckles. "And you, my girl, are a dirty little twollop what's under awest for Lewd and Lacsiwious Conduct!"

He's got me in the jail now next to the courthouse that I saw on my way down to mail my letter, back when I was happy and didn't know it, and he prodded and poked me with his stick the whole way here with me wailin' and beggin' for mercy but not gettin' any and once I tried to run away down an alley but he caught me and clamped his hand on me neck and I'm cryin', "Let me go let me go let me go..." And he says, "Let you go? I'll let you go when your back is stwipped and stwiped!" And I wails, "Stripped and striped, oh no!" and he keeps his hand on me neck the whole way back and again I see the stocks and the horrid whipping post, oh, please...

Now we're standin' in an open s.p.a.ce in front of some cages and he goes over me top part and finds me shiv tucked up me sleeve and looks at it and gives a low whistle. "Well, you are a rum little tiger, ain't-cha? And with a sharp tooth, yet." And he grins and says, "We'll have to find out if you've got any more teeth on you, won't we now?"

"Oh no, Sir, please," I pleads.

He kneels down in front of me with a grunt and says for me to hold me d.a.m.n tongue or he'll fetch me a whack alongside me head and so I shuts me mouth on the tears of shame that are rolling out of me eyes and down me cheeks as he sticks his hand under me dress and runs his hand up the inside of me legs and I gots to stand there and take it and take it till I thinks I'm gonna lose me mind and me chest is racked with sobs and I starts a high keening sound and my spinnin' mind thinks over and over Dirty and shameful yes, shame on you Jacky Faber the finest of ladies, oh yes just the finest of the ladies, and oh Jaimy I'm so sorry, this is so dirty and shameful, I'm so sorry, I can't help it I can't help it I- "So. Up the skirts again, eh, you old dog?"

Dimly, I see through me shame and misery that a stout woman has come into the room.

The constable removes his hand from messin' with me lower parts and stands up to face the woman.

"Now, Wife, I was doing my duty checking the mis-cweant for contwaband," he says, all red in the face. "Just look at this wicked blade, Goody. We should stwip the female down, we should, as she might wewy well have another."

Missus Constable casts him a shrewd eye and says that we'll see about that. She pats me all around and sticks her hand in all me private places, then spins me around and does it again and says, "There's nothin' there, 'cept this toy." She holds up my pennywhistle for her husband to see and then flings it into the nearest cage, where it clatters across the stone floor. Then she puts her hand in the middle of me back and shoves me into the cage after me poor whistle.

"Get in there, you little hoor," she says. "And you can stop with yer caterwaulin', as your tears will buy you scant pity here." She takes a large key from a string around her waist and jams it in the lock to my cage and turns it home with a large clack. "This will be your new home, sweetie, at least till we take you out in the morning to Judge Thwack-ham's court. Then it'll be out to the whipping post with you, for sure!"

She gives me a big gap-toothed smile. "You sleep tight, now."

The constable and his wife have left the cell block and I am left alone to take stock of my surroundings and to contemplate my doom. Mistress is gonna kill me, of that there is no doubt. But will I be publicly whipped, too?

There is a narrow wooden bench along the back wall. Next to it is a slop jar. At the other end is a water bucket with a ladle in it. There is a tiny window up high and through it I can see nothing except that night has fallen. That is all. The shame the shame, why couldn't I just have mailed the letter to Jaimy and gone hack home, why cant I he good, why cant I ever he good, why cant...

I go over and sit on the bench and I reach down and pick up the whistle and put my fingers over the familiar holes, and it gives me some comfort as I sit there and wait for whatever's gonna happen to me.

I notice that there is another cage that b.u.t.ts up to mine and has the same bench and same slop jar in it. Other than that, there's a pile of dirty rags in the corner.

I don't want to think about what they're going to do to me or what Mistress is going to do to me, so I lift my whistle and play, as I have done so many times before when I'm down and feelin' low, my "Ship's Boy's Lament."

I'm about halfway through it and I'm hittin' the high notes as long and as mournful as I feel and- "That's lovely, Miss, but maybe some other time as my poor head is throbbin' somethin' awful and a high tune ain't quite the thing for it right now and poor Gully MacFarland is more in need of a drink from your bucket than for a tune from your pipe."

The pile of rags in the next cell has risen up and become a man. Sort of a man. What once was a man. A very dirty and tousled man. A man who reaches out a grimy paw through the bars toward me.

I shrink back against the wall.