Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Journal Entry, July 22, 1809
Yes, I have decided to keep a journal. Instead of railing against unseen, uncaring, and probably nonexistent gods, I shall put my thoughts and doings down on paper. Possibly they could prove of interest to someone in the future, though I cannot imagine why. However, this pointless scribbling does seem to soothe my still-turbulent mind to a small degree and so I shall continue to take up pen to record events as they happen.
Last night I took in her musical revue at the Emerald Playhouse and, were I not so bereft of joy in all things, I would have found it most enjoyable. My appreciation of her Spanish songs was tempered, however, by the suspicion that she learned them from one Amadeo Romero. Probably he sang them to her as he lifted his brush while she lay naked on—
No. I shall not pursue that line of thought as it only stokes the hot coals smoldering in my mind.
During intermissions, I have taken to chatting up this Molly Malone, a barmaid at the Pig and at the Playhouse. Molly is the only one of her cohorts whom I have not met on my previous visit to this town. She is a spirited Irish girl who does not shy from speaking to a raspy voiced, grotesquely deformed hunchback. Rather, she converses freely with me as I stand at the bar. “Aye, Sir, poor Miss Faber, she pines away for her lover who is far away at sea.” Which lover is that, I wonder? Number Two, Five, or Seven . . . One can only surmise.
This Molly is a merry sort and she gives me cheer. I have learned she is Arthur Goddamn McBride’s miss. That lout never seems to lack female companionship. Though I question her judgment in the way of men, still I enjoy her company. At least when she is present, McBride keeps his hands off J. Should he do so in my presence, I fear I would lose control and wrap my staff around his head, and to hell with the consequences. But it has not come to that . . . not yet, anyway.
Strange that I find it easy to talk to bar girls, and they to me. There were those in London who led me to Bliffil . . . and to Bess. Yes, dear sweet loyal and loving Bess . . .
At the end of the first part of the show, the aforementioned Miss F. performed a pantomime as the Lady in Red, and she did, indeed, end up “sleeping under the bar,” her face in mock sweet repose, mere inches from my foot. I could have lifted said foot and placed it on her countenance and given it a bit of a grind, but I did not. No, I did not, but it took a bit of effort not to. “Peace,” yes, I know, Master Kwai Chang, “Peace and the Calm of Buddha . . .”
After the intermission, the audience members, by now well oiled by their trips to the bar, returned to the main stage for the raucous remainder of the show. And raucous it was—the Shantyman, Enoch Lightner, bellowing out his fine sailor ballads in his deep baritone, with herself pumping her concertina and singing along, and a supposed humorous bit by Fennell and Bean, all of which culminated in an unexpected drama.
At the height of the evening’s hilarity, when the silly Villain Pursues playlet was being performed, and the dress was torn from the actress playing Prudence Goodheart, a man stood up in the audience and shouted out that she was no longer his daughter, publicly disowning the poor girl, who did seem stricken to her very core. It was then that full mayhem ensued, with articles being thrown by members of a local suffragette society—the COWS, I believe they are called. The place dissolved into chaos, with the actress, a Miss Clarissa Howe, being hauled off to jail on a charge of assault.
The proprietress of the Playhouse was fully ready to engage in the melee, having received an overripe vegetable to the side of her own face, and was in full fury over the destruction of her premises—the rum, whiskey, and wine were flowing quite briskly underfoot. And while I was somewhat gratified at the sight of the tomato sliding down her cheek, I did feel her distress. So in spite of all, when the contemptible Constable Wiggins attempted to apprehend her, I could not let him put his foul hands upon her. I just could not let it happen. I took my Bo stick, and feigning clumsiness due to my supposed infirmity, I contrived to insinuate it between his fat legs such that he pitched squalling to the floor. Thus, Ezra Pickering was able to get her out the back door to safety, at least for the time being.
Back now in my rooms, I think back on Molly’s words . . . “Her lover, far away at sea . . .” Indeed . . . food for torture . . .
J. E. F.
Chapter 28
The coach pulls up outside the Pig, so I hurry out to stand beside it. Ezra climbs out and hands me up.
From behind me, I hear the sound of Molly Malone directing the cleanup crew in the repair of the damage to the Playhouse. There is the crackle of broken glass being gathered up, along with the swish of mops sopping up the spilled rum and whiskey and ale from the floor.
And where the hell is Joannie? Count on that girl to disappear when there’s hard work to be done! And Ravi? Where is he? Down to the docks with his peanut cart? Jemimah is spreading sawdust on the floor to soak up the rest . . . The waste, oh, the foolish waste . . .
“So report, friend Ezra,” I say as I settle in beside him. “How fares our sister Clarissa?”
She had spent the past night in the courthouse jail, a place with which I am very familiar and know its amenities to be few. I, however, slept in my own soft bed in my rooms over the Pig, having been tossed in there by my good Mr. Pickering. I triple-barred the door, knowing that Wiggins could not get in at me without a court order, which I suspect he did not have.
“I am glad to say that she will be released upon our arrival at the courthouse. She was arraigned this morning, but neither Mrs. Shinn nor Constable Wiggins was on hand to press charges of assault. Caroline Thwackham, the Judge’s own granddaughter, had managed to slip into the jail to spend the night with Miss Howe and provide her with a decent dress for her appearance in court.”
Thank you, Caroline . . .
“With none to stand against her as she stood in the dock, the judge asked her where her parents were and she lifted her chin and declared that she had none. I stood and announced that I was representing Miss Howe in this matter, which elicited some heartfelt groans from the court, my being sometimes perceived as a thorn in the side of that particular august institution, and I am well used to that sort of reception from my esteemed colleagues. I then proclaimed that I was witness to the altercation and at no time did Miss Howe ever lay a finger on Mrs. Shinn in the way of assault. When Thwackham then asked who her accusers were, and none appeared, both Mrs. Shinn and Constable Wiggins being unaccountably absent, he brought his hammer down and declared it a simple case of ‘Disturbing the peace, by God, fifty dollars fine. Next case and I can only hope it’s a decent horse thief rather than some other wayward female!’
“Her fine, and the fines of the others, have been paid and we can expect that we shall find Miss Howe in some sort of reasonably sound condition,” reports Ezra, with some satisfaction. “However, I do wonder, with some trepidation, at the absence of Mrs. Shinn. I hope she is not aiming for bigger fish than our little Miss Howe.”
“Hmmm,” I say to that. “We shall see . . .”
We note Clarissa and Caroline coming out the side door of the courthouse jail, and Ezra pops out to hand Clarissa up into the carriage.
Clarissa gives Caroline a hug of thanks in parting and then drills me with her eyes. “Where the hell were you?”
I note that having been disowned, pelted with rotten vegetables, arrested, and subsequently jailed has not done wonders for Clarissa’s disposition. Her face is dirty, and I think I see tear streaks on her cheeks.
“Sorry, Clarissa, but Ezra here felt it best that I stay out of sight, my being under a sentence of the court on my own.”
“Umm,” she says. “That’s fine for you. But what I need is a bath. Now.”
“You shall have it, Sister. Now calmness, please.”
As she settles, seething, back into the seat next to me, I say, “Perhaps I gave you bad advice, Clarissa—joining our company and all. And if that is true, I am sorry. Things tend to get rough around us. Maybe you
should go back home to Virginia.”
“No. I like what I have been doing,” she says, her voice firm. “They can all go to hell, including you. Now, let’s go back to the Pig. I could use a drink.”
When our coach pulls up in front of the Pig, I am concerned to see that Constable Wiggins and four of his pug-uglies are lined up in front of the door, two on either side of his fat self.
Uh-oh . . .
“Stay in here, Jacky. You, too, Miss Howe,” orders Ezra, climbing out of the coach. “I will see what is going on.”
“Gweetings, all,” says Wiggins, beaming his good will all around. “I have here an Affy-Davy from the High Court of Massy-chusetts,” he claims as he hands an envelope to Ezra and then rocks back on his heels and grins in anticipation.
Ezra tears open the packet and then looks back at me. “It is not an affidavit. It is a subpoena, ordering you to appear in court on Monday the thirty-first.”
I am aghast. “On what charges? I have been accused of nothing!”
“Not charges,” says Ezra wearily. “No, it is something else. You are required to show cause as to why you should not be declared a negligent guardian as regards the child Joan Nichols and an unfit mother as regards the child Ravi. Both children are now in the custody of the State.”
Unfit mother! What?
“That’s right, girl,” says Wiggins, all smug. “Read it and weep.”
I plunge out the door of the coach.
“Where are they, you rancid pile of lard?” I snarl and shove my finger in his fat face.
“The girl is in the Boston Asylum for Females, a ward of the State of Massachusetts,” chuckles Wiggins. “And the boy is in the Reformatory for Stubborn Boys. Not all the females in the loony bin are crazy—most are—but all the boys in the Reformatory are bad to the bone. The boy will have a real good time in there, count on it. He did try to be brave, I’ll give him that, but when I dragged him through the bars of the front gate, I think I did hear the little nig cry out once for his mommy. Fair broke me heart, it did. Har, har!”
A red curtain of rage blinds me and I reach for my shiv, fully intending to disembowel the bastard and let his guts spill out on the dirt, but Ezra has his hand on my arm and he holds my struggling form to his chest so I am unable to draw my blade.
“Let her draw it out,” sneers Wiggins. “Let her assault me. My lads and I can handle her, and then it will be my turn to deliver the strokes of the rod that have been promised her, and oh, that will be sweet, so sweet!”
I seethe, I fume, but I eventually subside, and Wiggins and his cohorts walk away, snorting with laughter.
I stand there totally perplexed and wounded, too. I have been called many things in this life, but this is new to me and it cuts me to my core . . .
. . . unfit mother . . .
Chapter 29
I was sick in my heart. It would have been better, I know in my heart of hearts, had I never come back to Boston, maybe never to have been born. I wanted to be back in the hayloft at Dovecote with Amy. I wanted . . . but never mind what I wanted—the Black Cloud swept over me and I just wished to pull the covers over my head and go to sleep for a good, long time . . . maybe forever . . .
But I did not do that, for Ezra pulled up in a coach this morning and Molly shook me out of sleep and I managed to dress and join him, all groggy, in the cab.
We are off to visit the kids in their confinements to see what can be done. I am not hopeful.
“As for Joan Nichols,” says Ezra, as we clatter along, “I shall try to have her remanded to the custody of Mistress Miranda Pimm of the Lawson Peabody. Mistress has already said she would agree to the arrangement, the school year starting up again shortly, so it should not be a burden on either of them.”
You don’t know Joannie, I’m thinking. And as for Mistress, I know she’d like to have me back in her office with my toes on her white line, the rest of me leaning over her desk with my skirts pulled up, my bottom ready for the rod.
“As for the lad,” Ezra continues, “that is a little more difficult.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Well, he, unlike Joan Nichols, has been charged with an actual crime.”
“Wot?” I exclaim, incredulous. “How could that sweet little boy be guilty of anything?”
“The charge is ‘Littering the Streets of Boston,’” replies Ezra with a sigh. “Said charge being brought by Percy Tooley, Captain of the Free Men’s Fire and Insurance Company, Ravi having been peddling his peanuts outside the door of Skivareen’s, Tooley’s base of operations.”
“Littering?” I gasp. “Because people dropped their shells on the ground?”
“Even so,” says Ezra. “There’s no denying they did that.”
“And so the shells defiled the horse shit that was already lying in the street?”
Ezra shrugs.
“Good God,” I say, my teeth clenched. “I wish I were back at sea.”
And before I go, I’ll get you for that, Pigger, I swear I will!
“Well, be that as it may, here we are, Miss, the women’s asylum,” says Ezra, as we pull up in front of a very forbidding building.
He did not have to announce that, as we can already hear the howls from within. We alight and go in the front entrance.
Inside, we find a long table with several chairs lined along it, behind which is a row of bars running floor to ceiling. There is no door into the cage. There is, however, a barred window off to the left, about eight feet above the floor.
Behind the bars sits a thin, severe-looking woman dressed in what I suppose is to suggest the uniform of a nurse. Her face, however, shows no trace of the kindness and compassion we usually associate with women of that profession.
“Yes?” is all she says by way of greeting.
“Attorney Pickering and my client, Miss Faber, here to see Joan Nichols. I believe we are expected.”
“Sit there and wait,” she says, rising and going through a door in the back.
“Lovely place,” I observe, looking about as we sit down in the hard chairs.
“Indeed. I know on at least two occasions I have been successful in keeping a certain Miss Faber out of here,” says Ezra, with a sigh. “Just barely successful . . .”
Presently, the matron returns with a very sullen Joannie Nichols in tow, whom she pushes down into a chair on the other side of the bars. She wears a gray woolen shift, shapeless and coarse, buttoned to the neck. Her hair is dirty and hangs down over her face.
“Don’t try to pass her nothin’. I’ll be watching.” With that, the woman goes back to her desk.
“Get me out of here,” whispers Joannie through clenched teeth. “They’re all crazy in here . . .”
Just then a high, piercing scream is heard from within the madhouse, a scream that trails off to a piteous wail of utter despair.
“That yelling goes on all day, all night. The jailers are cruel witches. Some of the women spend their whole time tied to chairs or chained to the wall. The stink is awful . . .”
“Poor Joannie,” I say, reaching out for her hand but not getting it.
“Watch that!” warns the matron. “You do that again and this little meeting is over.”
I withdraw my hand and say softly to her, “Hold on, Joannie. Mr. Pickering is working on your case. The hearing comes up on Thursday, and he has gotten Mistress Pimm to agree to take you on as her ward,” I go on, bitterly, “since I have been found wanting in that regard.”
“Great,” says Joannie, not quite convinced of the wisdom of that. “I’ll have to go back to school.” The lower lip comes out. “And I won’t get to be in the big play.”
“There will be other plays, Joannie, and school starts up again next month.”
She considers this, then says, “If it doesn’t work, what then? Do I spend the rest of my life here?”
“Do they chain you up at night?” I ask.
“No. The buggers know I’m not a loony. That’s why they use me to
clean up the slops of the others, thems that can’t control themselves.” She looks down at her filthy hands. “It’s lucky for you that you were not able to take my hand. No, I’m locked in a room by myself.”
“Could you get out if you had to?”
She manages a small smile at that. “Who are you talking to, Jacky? Some wet-nosed kid new to the streets? Nay, I scoped it out early on—the lock is simple and I’ve already found me a nail to lift the latch. So what’s your plan?”
“You know there’s a window over there. Don’t turn around to look, for it’s there, all right. So if things don’t go our way in court and they send you back here, that night, listen up for a faint chiming of a firebell, ding-ding-ding, then three dings again. When you hear it, get up and go to that window. You still can climb a rope, can’t you? Or has all that easy livin’ here in Boston softened you up?”
She chuckles, considerably brightened by what I have said—trust a Cheapside Cockney to trust more in one’s friends than in the courts—and says, “I could climb it faster than you, that’s for sure, you fat, lazy thing, you.”
That’s my girl!
“We are done here, Matron,” I say, rising. I put my hand in my purse, draw out a ten-dollar gold piece, and snap it down on the table. “Take this, please, and see that she has something decent to eat over the next several days. Thank you.”
I know that most will go into the warder’s pocket, but it just might buy a little better treatment for Joannie.
Joannie is led off, and Ezra and I leave the asylum.
We climb back into the coach for the short ride to the Reformatory for Stubborn Boys, it being in the same run-down neighborhood.
There is large iron gate at the front of the place with a guard sitting by it.
“Open the gate, please,” says Ezra.
“Hain’t visitin’ hours,” answers the lout, chewing on a pipe stem and not getting up.