Chapter 2

I take the coachman’s offered hand and step down from the carriage. Again my new friends and I had sat on top of the coach and laughed and sang our way into London on this glorious, sparkling day. It is late morning as I bid farewell to my companions, pick up my seabag, and enter the coach house. Five minutes later I have hired a one-horse carriage.

On this day, this special day, I have put on my glorious riding habit, the one Amy gave me for Christmas last year, the coat all maroon and the skirt all dark, dark green and the trim all gray and beautiful—with a gathering of white lace at my throat and the stiff lapels turned back just so. I put some powder in my hair and comb it so that it sweeps up under my jaunty Scot’s bonnet. My hat’s got a gold pin on one side and feathers hangin’ down all elegant. Why us young women put white powder in our hair to make it look gray, I don’t know, but it’s the ton, the style, so I do it. And I must admit it looks grand.

I really like the way the jacket clutches my chest and makes me feel all trim and taut. Also, I can tuck my shiv in its usual spot next to my ribs and I can’t do that in a dress. Plus, I think I look smashing in it. I really think I could charm my way into Buckingham Palace in this rig. I know I could. Yes, Little Mary Faber, late of the Rooster Charlie Gang, formerly residing under Blackfriars Bridge, Cheapside, returns to London in fine style.

“Nine Brattle Lane, Driver,” I say grandly, and climb aboard. “If you please.”

 

As we clatter through London, I get more and more nervous about what’s going to happen today. Jaimy and I had exchanged promises to marry, promises that I know were heartfelt and true, and we had even exchanged rings, sort of rings, anyway—they were the rings of the Dread Brotherhood of Ship’s Boys of HMS Dolphin that we had put through our ears and welded shut that wonderful day in Kingston on the island of Jamaica. I have mine on a chain about my neck so that it hangs close to my heart, since Mistress Pimm had it snipped out of my ear the first day I was at her school. Sometimes I put it back in my ear to remind me of the old days, but today I had thought I’d better look as ladylike as possible, so I didn’t. I take a deep breath and try to calm the butterflies kicking up a fuss in my belly.

Not only did I get no letters from Jaimy when I was back in the States, there’s a good chance he didn’t get any of mine, either. I saw our old mate Davy last fall when his ship came into Boston, and he told me Jaimy hadn’t got any letters from me and I had sent a whole bunch of them. I figured out that someone in Jaimy’s household must have been intercepting the letters and I have a good idea who. I hated the idea that Jaimy might think I was faithless because of this, so before Davy left, I dashed off a letter and made Davy swear on his Brotherhood tattoo to put the letter in Jaimy’s hand and his hand only if they should meet. I do hope their paths did cross, I do hope. . . . Ah, we’re here.

 

It is a nice-looking brick house with stone steps and curtained windows and it has two stories with a chimney at each end and appears to have a yard in back. There are some small boys playing with a hoop in the street and it gives me pleasure to think of Jaimy as a boy playing in this same street and in that yard.

I ask the driver to wait a moment, as I do not know what will happen inside. I walk up the stairs, brush my hands over my skirt, adjust my gay bonnet, take a deep breath, and lift the knocker and rap three times. The old Brotherhood secret number.

You calm down now, you. Jaimy’s probably not even here, he’s surely at sea, he’s . . .

The door opens and a young woman in serving gear peeks out.

“Yes, Miss?” she says. She is ginger haired, round faced, and appears cheerful and good-natured.

“Good day, Miss. My name is Jacky Faber and . . .”

Her smile broadens and she says, “Oh, yes, Miss! Please come in.”

Well, that’s a good sign, I’m thinking, as I step into the foyer and look about.

“I’ll go get me mistress,” says the girl as she spins and leaves the room.

I look about at the pictures on the wall, thinking that Jaimy must have known this room very well. Is that a portrait of him and his brother? I think the one on the left is . . .

I hear a rustle behind me and I spin around to find a woman of medium height with dark hair going gray. She is well dressed in what I know to be the latest fashion and in what appears to be the finest of fabrics. She holds herself rigidly upright, and she is glaring at me most severely.

Uh, oh . . .

I gulp and drop down in my best curtsy. “Good day, Missus,” I quavers, coming up from the curtsy and meeting her eyes, eyes that look to have very little love for me in them. “If it please you, my name is Jacky Faber and I’m a friend of . . .”

“It does not please me in the slightest. I know who you are and I know what you are,” she says, coldly, indignation plain upon her face. “You will not step any further into this house.”

What?

“I cannot believe you would be so brazen as to come here,” she continues, biting off every word. “Even one such as you.”

“I . . . I don’t understand, Missus,” says I, stunned. “I was only . . .”

“You have come here only to bring more disgrace upon my family. I know your history, and I must say I find it appalling. And now, with this latest outrage, the whole world knows of your illicit liaison with my son.”

This latest outrage? What is she talking about? What latest outrage? What . . . I ain’t believin’ this, but she ain’t done yet, oh no, she ain’t.

“You are obviously a cunning and opportunistic adventuress. As such, you forced your attentions on a young and impressionable boy under very questionable circumstances, and now you come here to seek to better yourself by marrying into my family.” She takes a deep breath, looking down her long nose at me. “I can assure you that will not happen, not as long as I live. He is not a match for you and you are certainly not a match for him.”

She has worked herself up into a fine lather of hatred for my poor self, me standin’ there shakin’ in front of her, my belly churnin’ in dismay. I am unable to speak.

“I am gratified to inform you that James has, at last, seen the folly of his ways and wishes no more to see you nor to have any sort of communication with you.”

Oh, Jaimy, please, no, it can’t be, it can’t . . .

“Be gone, girl, and do not come back. You will receive no welcome from anyone in this house, as we do not welcome tramps!”

Tramp? She called me a tramp? That’s enough to shake me out of my confusion, and I throw my chin in the air and put on the Look and rear back and say, “What you say may be true, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’ll believe it when I hear it from Jaimy’s own dear lips! Lips with which, I might add, I am very familiar!”

“His name is James, you dirty thing, you! Pah!” spits Mrs. Fletcher. “Hattie, put her out!”

The girl rushes to the door and opens it.

Shattered, I stumble through the door and it slams behind me. I grab the railing and stand there stunned and disbelieving. My worst fears . . . My chest is heaving and my heart is pounding and I think I’m going to be sick. I think I’m going to throw up. I think . . .

I hear the sound of a window opening behind me, and in a daze I turn to see that it is Hattie, the serving girl, who has opened it. She leans out and whispers loudly to me, “Don’t you believe everything the old dragon says, Miss. Mr. James is home on leave and is out in the country with friends today, but he’ll be at the races at Epsom Downs tomorrow. And, Miss, he always speaks most highly . . . Ow! Oh! Mistress, please!”

The girl disappears back into the house and there are more cries of pain.

I stand there and bite my knuckles, thinking . . . I am sorry, girl, that you got a beating because of me, but I bless you for it, I do, for you have given me back some hope. I will see Jaimy and I will hear it from him.

I climb back into the carriage and take several deep, very deep, breaths to calm myself down. Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse, I reflect, after I’ve collected my mind somewhat, and settle back in the seat.

“Cheapside, Coachman,” I say to the driver. “The Admiral Benbow Inn, near Blackfriars Bridge.”

We rattle off.

 

The coachman gets me to the Benbow, but he doesn’t want to leave me off.

“It’s a dangerous place, Miss, are you sure . . .”

“I am sure, and I thank you for your concern,” I say as I pay him his fare. “Don’t wait for me as I will be taking lodgings here.” He drives off, shaking his head.

I pick up my seabag and look at the Admiral Benbow, sitting there on the corner of Water Street and Union. Was it only a little over two years ago that I stood right here on this spot, a beggar in rags, listening to sailors singing of Bombay Rats and Cathay Cats and Kangaroos? Then, ragged Little Mary Faber couldn’t even go in the back door of this place. Now, with the Look—eyes hooded, head up, lips together, teeth apart—she sails right in through the front door.

“Ah yes, my good woman,” I say to the astounded landlady behind the bar, frosting her with my Look, “I am Lady Faber and I have business hereabouts and I will have a room.” With that, I snap one of my silver coins down on the counter. Then I brush off my fingers as if I am not used to handling money directly, because of my high station, don’cha know?

She eyes the coin greedily, with nary a thought in her mind to deny me entry.

“Yes, Milady,” she says, scooping up the coin. “Jim, take up the Lady’s bag, for Chris’sakes; don’cha know quality when you sees it?” Jim shambles out of the shadows and picks up my seabag. “The good room, Jim. I’m sure it will be to milady’s likin’,” she says, grinning a gap-toothed smile.

“I am sure it will be . . . adequate,” says I, growing not the least bit less haughty. “I will go up and refresh myself and when I come down in an hour, will you see that I have a basket of food prepared—breads, meats, cheeses, puddings? Some cider, perhaps? A large basket, if you would? Thank you so very much.”

I follow this Jim up to my room, give him a penny for his troubles, and, after the door closes behind him, Lady Faber flops back on the bed and reflects that all the world’s a fake.

 

A tousled head pops up from under the pile of rags and straw that is the old Blackfriars Bridge kip. It belongs to a boy of about eight years of age, and it is plain that he is the sentry posted to stay behind and watch and make sure that no one tries to take over the kip while the rest of the gang was out and up to the day’s mischief. His eyes go wide at seeing me ducking my head under the edge of the bridge and entering the hideout. Scurrying outside, he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out three piercing whistles.

Three blasts—that was our old signal, too—trouble at the kip! Everybody get back! Guess it got handed down from gang to gang. Ah, tradition . . .

It all comes rushing back at me—the memories of this place. . . . The kip itself, the place where we slept all in a pile of urchin, rag, and hay, sits up on a sort of stone ledge. I dust off a spot on it and sit myself down, placing the basket next to me. I don’t remember the kip smelling quite this bad, but back then I was part of the smell and so wouldn’t notice. The rest of it is the same, too—the river slipping by below, the heavy stones looming overhead, interlocking together to form the underside of the bridge, arching away in the distance. Those stones always scared me a bit, thinkin’ that some day or night they would let loose and come down and crush us all like bugs. But they never did, and I guess they never will.

The boy comes back and sits down on the pile of old rags and smelly hay and stares at me, saying nothing. I don’t say anything, either—I’ll wait for the others to get here.

While I wait, I look about and think back to that first terrible night I spent in this place—the gang had picked me up in some dark alley where I had run to in grief and horror after my family had died and I had been put out in the streets in order to conveniently follow them in death—put out and placed in the streets by Muck, the Corpse Seller himself, may he rot in everlasting Hell for his crimes. But I didn’t die, and Charlie and the bunch picked me up and brought me here, and the next day I was set to the begging and, after a while, this dank and forbidding place began to look like home. I shiver a bit, thinking of all that.

Soon there’s the sound of pounding feet outside coming from several directions, and then a boy and a girl, both about twelve, come in. Then from the other side, two girls about nine and then another boy of the same age. The boys are all dressed in ragged shirts and trousers, most barely reaching their knees before turning into tatters, and the girls in formless shifts that come down to midthigh in some, midcalf in others. The shifts, once white, are now gray. One of the younger girls has tied up her hair with a piece of old blue ribbon that she undoubtedly had picked out of the trash. Her face is dirty, her hair is a tangled mess, and the ribbon itself is wrinkled and stained. Still, the sight of it touches me.

The oldest girl looks at me with deep suspicion plain on her face. I do not blame her—what’s somebody like me, dressed as I am, doing in their kip? I look at her with special interest ’cause I know she’s the me of a couple of years ago, and it is she who says, “Ain’t nobody here wants to be ’dopted, Mum, so you best be on your way.”

My, my. It’s a great day for putting Jacky Faber out, I’ll own.

“That’s right, Mum. Now . . . ,” begins the older boy. I notice that all of them are carrying rocks.

“Now, now, mates,” I say, turnin’ back to the old talk to put them at their ease, “I ain’t here to adopt none of yiz. I’m just here to visit me old kip and maybe find out what happened to me old mates what used to live ’ere with me.”

There are snorts of disbelief all around.

“Nay, it’s true, and I’ll prove it to you,” says I, and I point to a place between two of the overhead stones. “There’s a leak there, and there, and there, but the biggest one is right there, which we called Old Guzzler, from the sound it made when it was really rippin’.”

“That’s what we call it, too,” says one of the younger girls, shyly.

“There. You see? I lived here when I was with Rooster Charlie’s gang, two years back. I was called Little Mary then, but you can call me Jacky now.”

“I remembers you,” says the older girl, coming closer to me now and looking in my face. “I was with Toby’s bunch when you came that night to where we was livin’ under the gratin’ on West Street and said we should all come here ’cause Rooster Charlie was killed and we should put the two gangs together.”

“That’s right. And now you shall tell me what happened to my mates,” says I, pulling my shiv out of my sleeve and opening my hamper of food. “But first, let’s eat.”

I open the hamper and their eyes grow wide and they all put down their rocks. First I take out a loaf of bread and slice it in eight pieces and put each portion in front of me and then I do the same with the cheese and the meat. When all is set out, I ask the boy to do the honors, to see if it’s still done in the old way. It is.

He turns away and faces outward. I point at a portion and say, “Now,” and he says, “Jennie,” and one of the girls comes up and takes that portion.

“Again,” I say, pointing at another portion. “Billy,” and Billy comes up and takes his.

“Again.”

“Mary.” Ah. Yet another Mary.

“Again.”

“Me.” That portion is put aside for the head boy.

“Again.”

“Susanna.”

“Again.”

“Joannie.” The older girl, the leader, takes hers.

“Again.”

“Ben.”

And that’s the last of it and all fall to in the eating of it, me included. When we are done, I pass around small cakes and the jug of cider, which we all take slugs out of.

“Well, then,” I say, wiping off my mouth with my handkerchief, which I have stored up my sleeve. Putting them at their ease is one thing, but nothing is gonna make me wipe my greasy mouth on the sleeve of my riding habit. “What can you tell me of my mates? Polly Von? Judy Miller? Hugh the Grand? Nan Baxter?”

Joannie takes a mighty swig of the cider. “A press-gang got our Hughie one day,” she says, chuckling at the memory. “It were a true Battle Royal. You should have seen it, Miss. It took twenty of the bastards to haul him down, with all of us about throwin’ rocks and curses, him bellowin’ and layin’ about with his fists, but it didn’t do no good at the end. They bound him up good and proper and hauled him off, and that’s the last we seen of him.”

Poor Hughie. I hope you found good quarters, wherever you are.

“And Polly and Toby both disappeared one other day. They went off together and never come back. We think Toby was got by a press-gang, too, them gangs bein’ right numerous and fierce around here. Polly, we don’t know, she bein’ so pretty and all . . .” Joannie lets this trail off.

Our pretty, pretty Polly, the one that looked like an angel even under all the dirt. I so hope you’re all right. But I do fear the worst.

“Nan went off with a country bloke, what come in for the big fair, who said he was gonna set her up as a barmaid in his tavern out in the country. I guess he did, ’cause she never come back,” Joannie continues. It’s plain she does the talking for this bunch.

“Now Judy, she was taken into service a while back by a man who hired her to take care of his old mum. We had a little party for her when she left. She must be awful busy with the old lady, ’cause she ain’t been back to see us, she hain’t.”

I catch the slight edge of hurt in her voice. You’re supposed to come back and take care of your mates if you had a bit of good fortune. What happened, Judy, that you didn’t?

“Is she near here?” I ask.

“Up on Bride Street, she said it was,” says Joannie. “We don’t go there as that’s the Shanky Boys turf.”

“I see. And what about Muck? Is he still around?”

“Aye, he is, the miserable bugger,” growls Joannie, “but we ain’t seen him in some months now. The constables is after him on charges of grave robbin’ and he’s layin’ low. The word is out that sometimes he don’t wait for people to die natural-like, but speeds things up a bit on his own.” She sighs and goes on. “But he’ll be back, and what’s the difference, anyway—there’s plenty more of his kind about, ready to sell our bodies should we die.”

“Well, you must be careful and I must be off,” I say, getting up. I pull my small purse from my jacket. “So what did you say your name is?” I ask the head boy.

“Zeke,” says he.

“Do you share equal, Zeke?” I ask.

“We do,” says the head boy, and heads nod all around.

“Good. Here’s half a crown.” Eyes widen at the sight of the coin. I put it in the boy’s fist—I want to put it in Joannie’s hand but that would shame him and cause discord in the gang, him being the oldest boy and all.

“Make it last, Zeke. See if you can get them some warm clothes for the winter, and here . . .” I count out seven pennies. “Here’s a penny for each of you to buy a treat tomorrow all for yourself that you don’t have to share.”

I put a penny in each outstretched hand.

“Good-bye, then. I’ll try to get back to visit, but I don’t know what my situation will be.”

“Good-bye, Jacky,” says Joannie. “We’re glad you came,” is all she says in way of thanks ’cause you don’t thank a fellow gang member for sharing what they got.

 

I’m heading up toward Bride Street, thinking about how Judy always said she wanted to go into service for a fine lady, so maybe it worked out for her. We shall see.

As I cross Fleet Street, I see again the printer’s shop where I used to sit on Hugh the Grand’s shoulders and read the broadsides out loud, hopin’ to get a penny or two from the crowd that would gather to listen, me being the only street kid that I knew of who could read, having been taught that by me mum and dad before they died. There’s a crowd here now, too, but they ain’t here to hear some half-naked urchin spout off, no, they’re lined up to buy something, and I’m curious enough to go look to see what it is.

The owner, whom I recall as a decent sort, in that he didn’t shoo away my filthy, ragged young self from in front of his business back then, is outside the shop hawking copies of something. A book, it looks like. I get closer.

“Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have it again!” he crows, holding up and waving a book above the heads of the crowd. “Sold out on its first printing and the sensation of London and all the English-speaking world, it is back in its second printing and available right here. Only one shilling a copy and guaranteed to please—I know you will not be able to put it down! And to think the plucky heroine of this grand story is a local girl, our own Mary Faber, whom . . .”

What?

“. . . I well remember standing right here where you stand today, the plucky little tyke who read the broadsides to the illiterate masses . . .”

What?

“. . . and then went off to glorious adventure on the high seas! Hurry, they won’t last!”

In a not-very-ladylike fashion, I elbow my way to the front of the shop, where pinned to the wall is the cover of . . .

 

Bloody Jack,

Being an Account of the Curious Adventures

of Mary “Jacky” Faber, Ship’s Boy,

as told to her dear friend and companion

Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne

 

Oh, Lord.

In shock, I get in line to buy one. After all, I do have to know what is being said of me. Hmmm . . . so this is what Mother Fletcher was talking about when she said the “latest outrage.” What she must have thought when she read about this. What did Jaimy think when he read it?

Oh, Amy. What have you done to me?

On the cover of the book, the printer has added a woodcut of a woman standing on the deck of a ship with crossed belts on her ample chest, firing a pistol out of each hand. The woodcut is crude and doesn’t look at all like me—much too buxom, for one thing, and for another, I never smoked a pipe. Oh, well . . .

As I stand and wait my turn, I put it all together: Amy, who had been scribbling on this thing all winter, asking me questions about my life and all, gets it done after we have our falling-out. She then takes it to a printer in Boston, partly, I guess, because she’s resentful and wants to pay me back and partly because she wanted people to read her words. It is sold in the bookstores and then some passenger bound for England must have seen it, found it interesting, and took a copy back to a friend who’s a printer in London, and here it is.

When I give the man a shilling for the book, he looks concerned and says, “Now, Miss, there’s some rough stuff in this book. Maybe you’d best let your father read it first to see if it’s all right for you, it being plain that you are a person of breeding and all.”

“I thank you, Sir, for your consideration of my tender sensibilities,” I say, trying not to snort out loud. “I will take your advice to heart and I shall give it to my pastor for his review to see if it is appropriate for one such as I.” I lower my eyes demurely and clasp the book to my chest and retreat.

I’ll think about this later, I decide, as I continue on my way up to Bride Street.

 

I ask on Bride Street for a serving girl named Judy Miller, but all I get is Sorry, Miss, and Never ’eard of ’er, till an old woman working at a churn in her doorway gives a loud tsk! and says, “Ye will find the poor soul four houses down thataway.”

 

I look in the doorway and see that it is a wash house, and there, bent over a tub, is Judy Miller, my good and true mate from the Rooster Charlie Gang. Steam fills the place as does wood smoke from the fires to heat the tubs, and there are piles of dirty laundry everywhere. Judy is dressed in a formless gray dress, not much more than a shift, really, and her arms, what I can see of ’em, are red and raw and chafed from the harsh soap. And though I am overjoyed to see her again, this doesn’t look much like being a maid to a fine lady to me.

I step into the laundry and she looks up, and I see that she does not recognize me. She has become a rawboned, large girl, a good foot and more taller than me. In the gang she was not among the most clever, but she was solid and fiercely loyal to the pack. She was generally cheerful and quick to laugh in spite of our troubles. No more, though. Her eyes are listless and dead, and her shoulders slump in fatigue and defeat. Her arms are in the water up to her elbows, and when she brings them out, I can see that they are red and sore and split from the work.

“Yes, Milady” is all she says upon seeing me standing there in my fancy rig. She waits there as if expecting someone to hit her.

“Judy. It’s me. Little Mary from Charlie’s Gang. Remember?”

Her eyes go over me without interest. “Little Mary?” she says in confusion. “But you’re a fine lady, Miss, not the Little Mary that I knew.”

“Nay, I ain’t a fine lady,” I say, and laugh to put her more at ease. “I’m just dressed like one.” Which is the truth, but she doesn’t know that yet. “But I am the girl you knew as Little Mary.”

She doesn’t know what to say, just stands there stunned, but finally she hangs her head and says, hardly above a whisper, “So you done good, Mary, and I done bad.”

“The kids down at the kip told me you had gone into service. Is that right?” I ask, not feeling good about this at all.

She turns back to her tub. “No, it ain’t right, Miss. A man come to see me one time when I was beggin’ up on Ludgate and ’e asks would I like to be maid to ’is mum and ’e seems such a decent sort so I says yes, I would, and so I goes to the gang and tells ’em I’m leavin’. And they give me a little party with cakes and all; and I don’t know where Toby come up with them, but ’e did and we was all right merry. I said I wouldn’t forget ’em as soon as I got set up, and they cheered me off. But it didn’t happen that way at all. Not at all.”

She reaches in the steaming tub and pulls up a shirt and begins scrubbing it against the washboard that she hauls out and leans against her chest.

“What happened, then?” I ask.

She waits for a while, as if it’s hard for her to speak, but then she does. “There weren’t no ‘Mum.’ There was only him, and he used me most cruel, he did. He used me in shameful ways that I ain’t gonna tell you about and I don’t want to even think about ever again, and then when he was tired of using me that way, he put me out here. I couldn’t go back to the gang as I’m grown up now and shamed. It was either here or the whorehouse, so here I am.”

I try to keep my voice level and calm. “Did you sign any paper when you came here? Did you put your X on anything?”

She shakes her head.

“Does he pay you anything? Give you anything?”

Again she shakes her head. “Only thing he ever give me was this dress, which somebody left here and didn’t bother to pick up.” There are tears in her eyes now and she has stopped scrubbing.

“Would you like to be maid to me, Judy?” I say, looking at her all steady, so she’ll know I ain’t foolin’.

She looks at me, her mouth open in amazement.

“Good,” I say. “Let’s go. I don’t have much money, but I have enough to keep us both for a while.”

 

We got out of there quick, though I was ready if the sod should appear. Judy had nothing to take—just a little rag doll that she had got somewhere and which probably gave her a little comfort at night when she slept on a pile of rags in the corner of the wash house.

“Come on,” I say. “We’ve got to get you into some proper clothes. Then we will get something to eat.” I ain’t hungry, but I know she is and has been for a long, long time.

 

We find a dressmaker’s shop and are able to fit Judy off a rack of maid’s clothing all ready made. It’s a blessing that she’s clean, having worked at the laundry, so she ain’t shamed by that, at least.

There’s a different style of maid’s clothing here in England from the ones in the States. Softer and more looselike, so fitting Judy out ain’t a problem. There’s a pink dress with pleats that gather below the chest and then a white collar thing and puffy sleeves, then a white apron. And a cap. Judy is in a daze and can only run her hands down the soft new cloth in wonder. A nightshirt, some new drawers, stockings, and petticoats, and we’re done at the dressmaker’s shop.

To the shoemaker’s for a pair of slippers and then back to my digs at the Admiral Benbow.

I think about taking our dinner in the main room, but I know that will be too much for Judy right yet, so when I sweep back through the Benbow with Judy in tow, I say to the landlady, “We’ll take our dinner in our room. Send it up. Tea, and some wine, too, if you please.”

A table is set up and the food and drink is placed upon it. The food is good and the wine even better. Judy eats carefully, watching me to see what I do with the tools. She still casts her eyes about, as if not believing any of this.

“Well, that was good,” I say, dabbing my lips with the napkin. “What do you think, Judy?”

She bends her face forward and starts crying into her hands. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I’m sorry, I . . .”

I put my hand on her shoulder and draw her to me. “I know, I know, it’s a shock. There, there. I know you’ve had a rough time, but things will be different now, I promise, I do.”

She will not call me Mary or Jacky or anything but Mistress and I let her do it. I certainly understand the comfort of knowing one’s place.

I pat her back and say, “You settle in, now. I’ve got one more thing I’ve got to do this day.”

 

I go back to Bride Street with Judy’s old dress in my hand and my riding crop under my arm. When I get to the house where Judy was so cruelly deceived, I rap on the door.

The door opens and a man stands there, his pants not buttoned, his vest hanging open, his face unshaved, his hair uncombed. A musty smell comes off of him.

“Wot?” he says, his eyes blinking at the light. “Wot the devil do you want?” He is not pleased at the intrusion. He idly scratches his belly and looks out over my head.

I fling the shift in his face and say, “Here. I’ve taken poor Judy Miller off your dirty hands. May you roast in Hell for what you did to her, you piece of filth!”

I’m about to leave it at that and I turn to go, leaving the scum with the rag of a dress wrapped around his face.

Then I see her.

She is cowering back in the shadows behind him, and she is clad in rags, and she can’t be more than twelve. I see how things are and I lose control of myself and I rear back with my crop and whip him across the face as hard as I can.

“You miserable bastard!” I yell, and I hit him again and he screams and stumbles out into the street. The girl behind him puts her hands to her mouth in terror.

“Get back to your gang, girl! This man means you no good!” I yell to the girl. She jumps out and runs past me and off down the street like a startled rabbit, the soles of her bare feet flashing in the dimming light of the day.

I’m little but I’m strong, and I’m quick and I’m mad, and he’s fat and slow and he stumbles to the ground crying out, Stop, please, for the love of God, stop! But I don’t stop. I bring the crop down and down again and he squeals like the pig he is when he feels it bite into his legs and his fat buttocks, down and down and down again with all the strength and rage I’ve got in me. And while I’m doing that, I’m cursin’ him straight to Hell and back again, and I get him across the shoulders and then twice across the face, back and forth, and he howls and curls up in a ball. Then I stop and stand over him, my chest heaving, and I tell all the people standin’ around watchin’ just what he’s been up to, and then I work up a wad of spit and I spit it on him and then I get out of there before the peelers come.

I slip around the corner of Trumbull Lane, tryin’ to get back to the Benbow without being seen. I don’t know what kind of friends that slime bag has with the local constables, and my experience with constables, both here and in the States, not bein’ all that cordial, I lay low.

I peek around the corner and find myself lookin’ square into the eyes of Joannie, the girl from the Blackfriars Bridge Gang. We both start back.

“Wot? Miss? Jacky? You?” she says. “What’s going on?”

I see that she’s got the younger ones spread out around the square, hands out in begging, with eyes out for any chance for something better. Zeke leans against the Benbow, keepin’ an eye out for any trouble.

Joannie seems to have trouble speaking. She flushes and stammers, “I . . . I’m sorry, Jacky, it ain’t easy for me to talk like this wi’ someone lookin’ like you.”

I see, and I put my hand on her bare arm. “It’s all a game, Joannie,” I says, “and it would be good for you to remember that. Now listen,” and I tell her what happened to Judy and about the girl I saw there and what’s likely to happen to anyone who that man gets behind his door.

She sags against the wall and lets her face become a mask of cold indifference like she’s seen all this before, time and again. Then she says, “We’ll tell all the other gangs. We’ll work up a truce concerning Bride Street. We’ll get there.” Then her face gets hard as stone and she turns to me face on and hisses, “Depend upon it, Jacky. That dirty bugger’ll never pass a peaceful day or night again. We’ll take care of that!”

 

I pop back into our room to Judy’s great relief. “Mistress, I was so worried.”

“Just takin’ care of some business” is all I’ll say. “Now, let’s get ready for bed. I plan a big day for tomorrow.” With that I start undressing and she comes over and helps me get my clothes off and hung up proper.

Later, when we’ve both got our nightdresses on and are under the covers, I say, “Now, Judy, would you like to hear a story?”

“Coo, yes, Mistress, I would.” She is easier with me now, now that I’m not in the lady clothes anymore.

“Very well, get over here next to me and I will read you a story,” and, as I feel her head on my shoulder, I pick up Amy’s book and begin.

“My name is Jacky Faber and in London I was born . . .”

 

When I’m done with the first part, I ask her what she thinks and she says that this Amy’s got it just about right, but didn’t we do as much stealin’ and scammin’ as we done beggin’? And warn’t there a whole lot of drunkards who regretted passin’ out on our turf, with us swarmin’ over ’em as soon as they hit the cobblestones? And I have to say aye, but Miss Amy, bein’ a Puritan, felt she had to clean us up a bit—and I didn’t tell her all of it.

Judy giggles. “Remember the time you stole the famous Darby Ram right from under the noses of his keepers at the Great Fair and brought ’im back to the kip and . . .”

Yes, I say, but that’s another story.

I read on far into the night, till she falls asleep, and then I read on silently till I am done. When I finish, I turn back to the cover and read once again as told to her dear friend and companion Miss Amy Wemple Trevelyne. Hmmm. Strange, that. I thought she hated me, betraying me to the kidnappers and all.

Well, maybe someday we’ll see. I snuff out the candle, draw Judy to me, and I go to sleep.