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

the cap of a common swab. My oilskins still cover the rest of me, and yes, it’s still drizzling. So off I go in search of dry lodging and, ultimately, some worthy employment as a cover for my being here in this town as a single female.
    Seabag on shoulder, I trudge up First Street, which takes its origin from Water Street and leads into the center of the town, glad to see up ahead the sign for the Tail and Spout Inn
.
It displays a blowing white whale against a blue background and words below that, promising food, drink, and lodging. Before I enter, I reach down and pick up a little mud with my forefinger and run it across the bridge of my nose, to show that I’ve run into some hard traveling on the way here, and for sure, I have seen that. Then I adjust my middy cap and go in.
    It is a cheerful, welcoming place with maybe ten small tables and one big one running down the center, with a large fireplace at the end—unlit because it is the end of June and quite warm. A bar runs along the other end of the room, and a woman sure to be the landlady is doling out foaming tankards of suds to a chubby and cheerful serving girl, who carries them to the tables. There are quite a few customers in the place, too—a table with four seamen grouped around, and another with what look to be merchant officers.
Hmmm
—I notice some swarthy tattooed fellows off in a corner, their harpoons leaning against the wall. Most of the men are smoking their vile pipes, and there is a thick layer of smoke hovering next to the ceiling. Another table of four NewEngland seamen is lustily singing “The Black Ball Line.” You can tell they’re Yankee sailors, ’cause their hair is cut short behind, unlike the Brits and Irish, who wear their hair long, in pigtails, like mine. Their rendition of the fine old song is met with approval from those within, as there are cheers and whistles when they end. I wish I could join in, but alas, I cannot, for I must lie low.
    Well, the place seems right cozy to me, so I march my sodden self up to the landlady and say in my deepest voice, “I’d like a room for the night, Missus. A single, if you please.”
    â€œA single it is, lad, and ain’t you a fine-lookin’ young sailor boy,” she says, reaching back for one of the keys that hang on the wall behind her. “A half dollar a night, in advance.”
    These inns not only rent out single and double rooms, to those what can afford ’em, but also mere bed space—like in three or four blokes to a mattress—and there’s no way I want that big Samoan harpooner over there throwing his heavy leg over me in the middle of the night. He must be three hundred pounds if he’s an ounce.
    I dig my finger under my oilskin and into my money belt and pull out the required coin, and she delivers the key. “Top o’ stairs, first door to the right, number seven.”
    I shoulder my seabag and head up.
    Number 7 is indeed a single—and not much more than that—a narrow bed and a washstand and room enough only to stand and turn around. But it sure looks like home to this weary traveler. The door opens inward, so I plant my wedges, peel off my ’skins and the rest of my damp sailor togs, and fall across the bed for a delicious afternoon nap . . .
Oh, yes . . .
    Â 
    Later, I arise refreshed, then wash up and put on my midshipman’s uniform—blue jacket, white trousers—my sword Esprit, snug in her harness, my cap back on head. “There,” I pronounce, looking at myself in the washstand mirror, every inch a proud midshipman in His Majesty’s Service. It’s time to head back downstairs in search of some food, drink, and maybe some information.
    On my way to an open table, I ask of the landlady, “Pardon, Missus, but where might I buy a newspaper?”
    She looks me over yet again. “Royal Navy, eh? If’n I’d known that, I’d have