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

apart . . . Wot . . . ?
    I turn to my left and see that it is none other than Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen, looking equally gorgeous in his deep scarlet regimentals, all red and gold and fine.
    â€œCome, Princess!” he calls, his white teeth gleaming around a long black cheroot. “Can you not hear the huntsman’s call?”
    Indeed, I do . . . Arrrroooo! Loud and clear in the distance.
    â€œThey must have spied the fox! I’ll race you to that hedgerow, Prettybottom! Away!”
    Arrrooooo!
    But then yet another comes up and slides between Lord Allen and me. It is Clarissa Worthington Howe, riding sidesaddle on her mighty horse Jupiter. She smiles upon the both of us.
    â€œNo, Richard,” she says. “It is I whom you shall race to that row of trees. I am sure we will be the first upon the fox!”
    Arrrrooooo!
    â€œTally-ho, then!” says Allen, spurring his horse forward and leaping ahead, not to be denied his place at the kill.
    Arrrooooo!
    Clarissa comes up beside me and leans over, holding up her left hand to me. On it is a large ring.
    â€œSay it, Jacky, say it,” she says, her cold blue eyes shining with a devilish light. “Say it.”
    â€œNever!” I cry. “Never shall I say that!”
    â€œOh, but someday you shall, darling Jacky,” she says with a laugh as she spurs off to overtake Richard Allen. “Someday you most certainly shall!”
    â€œLet them go,” I say to my faithful Jaimy, who still rides by my side. “I’d rather be with you than anyone in the world. Come kiss me, love.”
    The day continues, lovely and quiet and warm, and Mathilde is changed in that way that dreams will into my dear gentle Gretchen from back at the Lawson Peabody. I lean over and nuzzle my nose into Jaimy’s thick dark hair and prepare for his sweet kiss and . . .
    Arrrooooo!
    Then my eyes fly open and I suddenly realize that I have been nuzzling my nose into the hair behind the ear of Amy Trevelyne and not that of Jaimy Fletcher, and that sound of the hunter’s horn is real! It is Edward’s warning trumpet and I must fly!
    I leap out of bed, gather up my oilskins—thanking God that I had slept in my sailor togs—plant a kiss on Amy’s drowsy cheek, and say, “Goodbye, Sister,” and I am through the door, down the stairs, and out the back, racing down the path to my waiting
Evening Star.
    There is the sound of galloping horses and shouting back at the great house, and I see torches being lit. Then someone yells, “There she goes!” and rifles are fired—
pok! pok! pok!
The dust behind me is pelted with angry bullets, but they don’t hit me, for I am too far ahead. I manage to reach the boathouse unharmed and leap, breathless, into my
Star.
I throw off the lines, raise the sail, and grab the tiller.
    A puff of welcome breeze and I am off to sea . . .
 Let them shout and let them shoot; they can’t catch me here . . .

 
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Part II

Chapter 6
    Plymouth is a very pleasant, well laid-out port, with many places of business, nautical or otherwise, arrayed along Water Street, which runs along the ends of the wharves and piers that jut out into the harbor. I think I shall like it here.
    Sailing in, I had found a good tie-up for the
Star,
in a nest of similar small working boats bobbing alongside a floating dock, so didn’t have to pay anything for the mooring, which is good. I am wearing my money belt, but in my haste to leave Boston, I didn’t have time to properly stuff it with coin of the local realm, and I expect it to grow even thinner as I go along. Oh, well, I do have my pennywhistle, if it comes to that.
    Pulling my seabag out of the cowling, I stuff my ordinary seaman’s cap inside and take out my midshipman’s hat and cram it on my head, figuring I’ll get a bit more respect than if sporting