Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer

profound hope that our two ships never meet in battle. Things are heating up between our two countries . . .”
    â€œI pray that never happens,” I manage to say, horrified at the very thought of my dearest friends being forced to kill each other in a senseless war.
    â€œYes, but it could . . .”
    â€œWell, it isn’t happening now,” I reply. “The
Shannon
sets sail for England tomorrow, with Lieutenant Fletcher aboard with intentions to clear up my latest mess from that end. My good Higgins and Ezra will work on it here. I, of course, will be on the lam.”
    â€œBut where will you go?” asks Polly.
    â€œI’m thinking Rhode Island. They’re pretty broad-minded there and might be a little more forgiving of my ways.”
    â€œBut why not stay here? With me?” asks Amy.
    I put my hand on hers and look into her sweet face. “Dear Amy, that would be my fondest wish, but it would be the first place they would look. Have you not heard of a certain series of books written about me and my wanton ways? Even police can read, you know.”
    â€œOh,” she says meekly, being the authoress of said potboilers.
    â€œAnd in regard to that, if anyone comes looking for me here, please tell the truth: I came here today, stayed overnight, and then pushed off in my boat. You cannot afford to be caught in a lie, because I’m sure you realize that you could get in big trouble, all of you. Yes, the truth is best . . . You could even say that I had mentioned Providence, RhodeIsland. It’s a big town, and I could easily hide there till this ridiculous thing blows over.”
    â€œThis ‘ridiculous thing’ you mention, Jacky,” saysRandall, “could the end of it result in a certain person being hanged by her delicate little neck? Hmmm?”
    â€œWell, yes, Randall, it usually does, doesn’t it?”
    Both Amy and Polly gasp. Randall does not. He only looks into his empty glass. “Hmm . . . Then you must be very careful.”
    â€œI am always careful, Randall. You know that.”
    That
gets me a good snort all around.
    â€œWell, I am,” I retort, slightly miffed. “But for now, let us forget idle troubles, and repair to the music room for some merriment and song! Let us banish all care!”
    â€œHear, hear!”
is the answer from my companions as we all rise to go. I notice that Randall grabs the bottle on his way.
    Â 
    We belted out every song we each knew. Randall introduced us to some raunchy barracks ballads he had picked up from his time in the service of the U.S. Marine Corps. Polly blushed prettily at those tunes—in a very charming way—but I am sure she could produce those rosy cheeks on cue, as she is an excellent actress. I, too, did work up a blush, but it was difficult, my knowing that I knew a lot worse in the way of the vile and obscene.
    But after all was sung and danced, it was time for bed, and Polly and Randall headed off for theirs, while Amy and I off to hers.
    Â 
    As we wash up before sleep, Amy offers me a nightshirt, but I demur, saying, “Nay, Sister, I’d best stay in these. There is not much of a chance, but we might have unfriendly visitors. Move over . . .” and soon we are wrapped around each other and falling into peaceful sleep—peaceful for her, any­way . . .
    I dream I am on the back of my dear Mathilde, galloping across a large green meadow on a glorious, sunlit day without a cloud in the sky, and I am riding beside my beloved Jaimy Fletcher, dimly aware that we are on a fox hunt. He looks glorious in his lieutenant’s jacket of blue, and I am supremely happy. Seeking to embrace him, I forget about the bloody fox hunt and urge Mathilde to the side of his mount and lean toward him . . .
    But suddenly another rider comes up between us, forcing us