Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (30 page)

I fold up the letter and slide it under my pillow for Amy to put in my seabag tomorrow with the rest of my personal effects.

I sigh and look about me. I have thought of nothing except escape since they first brought me in here, but all those thoughts have been in vain. There is a lock on my shackle, a lock on the cell door, and yet another on the entrance to the corridor. I have no metal with which to fashion a key, and the Deputy and Sheriff keep too close an eye on me for any of my visitors to pass such a thing to me. No, I am truly lost. This is one cage that Jacky Faber will not get out of . . . until, that is, they take me out for the final time. Yes, I am truly—

I am startled, not so much by a sound, but by the sudden lack of any noise, and I realize what has happened. Outside my window, there is no more hammering or sawing . . .

“All right, boys, let's give 'er a try,” I hear one of the carpenters say, and there is the rasp of a lever being thrown, and the sound of something falling with a
whump!

They have completed the gallows and are testing the trap, the platform that will fall from beneath my feet.

I crawl into the bed and pull my knees to my chin, my ankle chain rattling on the bedstead as I do it. I put the pillow over my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

Oh, was I ever so bad as to deserve this?

The gallows is ready.

It looms up against the sky, and seems all right and proper. It has the required thirteen steps from the ground up to the platform on the right, and the noose is in place, looped over the center of the crossbeam. The edges of the trap are plainly visible at the front of the platform, the trap lever off the right. The carpenters have done a workmanlike job.

When I am let out for my airing today, I am chilled to find that both the newly arrived Federal Marshall Overseer and the Hangman himself are up on the scaffold. The two are attired in somber suits, and the Marshall wears a round black hat. The Hangman is hatless, but a tight leather hood covers his upper face. Both of the men wear thick beards that go from neck to eyes, the Marshall's being black laced with gray, and the Hangman's a bristly brown. The former is a large man while the latter is a hunchback, very small. But hey, how big do you have to be to merely sling a rope?

The Hangman is up there, testing the trap on the brand-spanking-new gallows over and over and over again. It is a hinged piece of the platform that lies level with the rest; that is, until the long lever over to the right is pulled. Then it swings smoothly down. Good job. Too bad this rig will be used only once, for it is very well made. He has rigged up a sandbag approximating my weight, around which he puts the noose. I hear a
twang
from the rope after each fall of the trap and look up to see the bag descend quickly and then jerk to a halt with another
twang.

Well, at least they are being professional, and I trust they will not botch the job. I do not want to suffer. I certainly hope that I will be able to make a good show of it and not shame my friends. But I have never been very brave, not really, and I fear I will quail at the end. I hope I will not . . .

After I watch a few of those tests, I can't look anymore, so I turn away to gaze over the harbor and out to the sea. I think of the many things I have seen and done, and the many wonderful people I have met upon my way . . . Then I think on Jemimah Moses. I know she has heard of my troubles and taken them to her great heart, and I also know what she would say . . . 
“Now, you know, child, that Brother Rabbit never give up, even when he hangin' over a pot of boilin' oil; no, he didn't. So he don't expect you to give up, neither, girl, not till you're singin' in that Heavenly Choir. That rabbit had lots of tricks up his sleeve, he did, but so do you, Sister Girl. Don't forget that you be the trickiest one of the bunch.”

I shake my head and smile ruefully at that.
Sister Girl done run out of tricks, Jemimah. No more cheating at cards, no more purple potions, no more Jacky's Little Helper, no more deceptions. No more anything, 'cept that gallows looming above. That's gonna put a stop to all my tricks, for sure.

As I am looking out to sea, there is a sudden commotion behind me! I turn and look. Someone has breached the rope! Is it Ganju Thapa and his Gurkhas? Is it Randall Trevelyne and the U.S. Marines? Is it Cavalry Captain Lord RichardAllen and his lads?

No, it is not. It is merely one very small boy, standing there before me.

“Edgar! You are not allowed, you—”

“I hate what is going to happen to you. It is not right.” His big dark eyes smolder as he looks up at the gallows.

“Hey, Captain Polk, how else is a pirate supposed to end up?” I ask, trying to keep things light.

“I want you to know that I did not tell on you.”

“You don't have to say that, Edgar. We both know that pirates don't peach on each other.” I spy a frantic Mrs. Polk ducking under the rope and heading our way.

“I have a knife up my sleeve. I will pass it—”

I force a laugh at that. “Spoken like a comrade in arms, Captain Blood!” I say. “But you see my hands are bound, so I couldn't grab it. The two of us would get caught, and then we'd be in deep trouble.”

Mrs. Polk is almost upon us.

“Nay, Edgar Allen Polk, the best thing you can do for me is to go on and live your life. Be the best you can be. I was so proud to see you in your school's football team uniform, I—”

Mrs. Polk takes her son by the shoulders and turns him away.

“I—I'm . . . sorry, Miss,” she whispers.

“Don't be, Madam. You have a fine young son there,” I say, then I bid farewell to the lad. “Goodbye, Captain Blood.”

He turns for a last look. “Goodbye, Annabelle Leigh.”

A tear comes to my eye as they walk off . . . 
And please, Missus, don't let him watch . . .

Matron takes me back to my cell. This will be my last exercise period, as things need to be put in train.

 

All my appeals have been exhausted; all my hope of pardon is gone. Ezra Pickering is back in Boston, trying with all his very considerable abilities for a last-minute stay of execution, but there is little or no hope of that. The war fever between England and the United States has grown so intense that no politician would risk his political life by trying to save a mere girl who was caught with damning evidence of high treason.

There has been no sign of Jaimy.

Oh, well . . . 
I have lived more adventures and seen more things than I could have ever thought possible back when I was Little Mary Faber running the streets of London with Charlie and the gang. All that time at sea when many about me died and I didn't—“a girl what's meant for hangin' ain't likely to be drowned” . . . or hit by a cannonball or run through with a sword. No, I always sort of knew I would wind up on the end of a rope, 'cause it was what I feared most. And now here it is. Tomorrow morning, I will . . . 
Enough of that, you.
They have given me quill and paper and I shall write my last letter to Jaimy, and thus calm my raging mind.

 

Jacky Mary Faber

Plymouth, Massachusetts

November 9, 1809

 

Dearest Jaimy,

Tomorrow, as you will find when you reach this place, I will be at my final rest. Please, Beloved, think of me not as the cold clay that will be lying in the ground but as the young girl you knew on the dear old
Dolphin
. Think of you and me swinging in our hammock, our wonderful secret known only to us two. I have known true bliss in my day, and I assure you, Jaimy, that was one of the best of times for me.

I set out on a life of adventure and I got it—but this is the other side of that coin. Sometimes you do adventure, and sometimes the adventure does you. So I ain't complaining about how it all ended.

It is time for you to be getting on with the rest of your life, and I mean that, Jaimy. I want you to have a fine life out on the ocean, and I want you to join with a good young woman and have a fine family with her. Perhaps, if your wife doesn't mind too much, you could name one of the kids after me . . . it doesn't matter, boy or girl, as “Jacky” works both ways. Ha, ha. It gives me comfort to think there might yet be a Jacky Fletcher abroad in the land, even though it didn't turn out to be me.

Please excuse the shaky handwriting and the tears that have fallen on the page. Know, Jaimy, that my last thoughts were of you.

 

Yours through eternity,

Jacky

It is the night before . . .

I sit on my bed and await Amy's arrival. It is six o'clock in the evening, and she will be my last visitor. I shall give the letter to her, and she will see that Jaimy gets it.

Earlier in the day, I had received another visit from Reverend Milton, he who will be carrying out his clerical duties tomorrow on the scaffold. He is a kind man and we have spent many hours in the past two days readingScripture and discussing theology. We prayed for a while, and then he patted my hand and left.

Next, in trooped the members of the local Ladies Aid Society. They, too, have been kind, reading me passages of the gospel and rendering what solace they can.

Presently, they leave, and Amy is let in. The door is left open behind her, but little good that will do me, shackled as I am.

“Hullo, Sister, it is good to see you,” I greet her as she enters and sits down upon the visitors' bench. “You've met the ladies of the Aid Society?” I ask, trying desperately for a note of cheer to what is sure to be our final visit.

“Yes,” she says. “I hope they have been a comfort to you.”

“Oh, yes, they have,” I answer as brightly as I can. “They have sat with me for great amounts of time, brought me good things to eat, have read me even more Scripture, and prayed with me for hours on end—or so it seems. And they have sewn for me a dress to wear on . . . well, you know when . . . It's all prim and proper—black, of course—and covers me all the way to my . . . neck. But,
ahem!
Can you believe that two of the younger women are both Lawson Peabody girls? Yes, it's true, and we have shared humorous stories of the dear old school and Mistress Pimm. But the lady who brings me the most cheer is old Missus Milford, who is convinced, in her dotage, that I am to be
married
tomorrow and not . . . the other. She gaily prattles on, oblivious to the others' protestations, giving me the most outrageous advice on how to conduct myself on the wedding bed! You would . . .”

But Amy will not be cheered. I want to say something like, “Don't worry, Sister, the reprieve will come through, and soon we'll be back in your room at dear old Dovecote,” or something like that, but I can't, for we both know it would be a lie.

Instead I say, “Will you take my nightdress out of my seabag, Amy? I will dress for bed.”

She nods and goes to my bag to pull out the nightdress, which I knew to be right on top. She hands it to me, and I pull off the Lawson Peabody dress I had been wearing and give it to her. Deputy Cole has the good grace to look away. She folds it and places it in the bag.

“Deputy Cole, will you see that my seabag goes with Miss Trevelyne when she leaves, as I want her to have it? Thanks so much.”

It is warm, so I don't get into the nightdress right away, but instead sit back down on the edge of the cot in my underclothes.

Another sad silence falls upon us, but finally I suck in a breath and say, “Have you got a place to put me?”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “Up on Daisy Hill.”

“Has it been dug?”

“Yes.”

There is silence for a while. Then . . .

“Will you see me put right? Straighten out my legs and cross my hands upon my breast?” I know my voice is beginning to tremble, but I can't help it. “I don't want anyone touching me but you,” I manage to whisper.

She nods. “I will do that.”

“Daisy Hill,” I say, collecting myself and taking a deep breath. “That very same hill where we first rode together at Dovecote, with Millie the dog bounding about . . . chasing butterflies and geese. Yes, that is a fine and wonderful place, with the sea close at hand. Thank you, Sister. I shall rest easy there, and I hope you will bring your children up to visit me some . . . times and tell them about me and how we were friends and maybe tell them I . . . I wasn't really so bad . . .” I begin to choke on my words.

“There will be no children. None of mine, anyway,” she says, all calm and collected.

“What . . . what do you mean by that? That you intend to live single all—”

“No. I do not mean that at all. I mean that I intend to cross over with you.”

I shoot to my feet, all thoughts of tomorrow swept from my mind. “You cannot mean that, Sister! It will be a double tragedy! It's against God's laws!”

“I cannot live in such a cruel world,” she says, quietly folding her hands on her lap, “nor worship a god who would allow this to happen . . .”

“Promise me you will not do that, Sister! Please promise me that!”

“I hear you, Sister.”

“That is
not
an answer! Swear to me that you—”

There is a sudden commotion near the cell door . . .

“Sir! You cannot go in there! Stop!” shouts Deputy Cole.

“Like hell I can't! Get your hands off me!”

Wot? Who? Randall?

“Get him out of here!” roars the Sheriff.

“He's Colonel Trevelyne's son!
You
get him out!”

I look to the door of the cell and there stands Randall Trevelyne, coatless, in a shirt that is stained with whiskey and vomit. He is unsteady on his feet and has to lean against the bars of the cell to prevent his falling to the floor.