“Back to the Pig. I shall do a set.”
“But are you up to it? Today must have been most trying to you.”
“I must. We will need bail, bribe, and hush money. No sense moping around. Let’s get to it.”
Chapter 30
The Journal of J. E. Fletcher
Envoy, House of Chen
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Journal entry, July 24, 1809
A disguise, I find, can be a very handy thing. With my current raiment I can easily travel about this town quite unobserved, as who could care about the ramblings of a pathetic cripple. I have been to the Court House and to the State House and to the Customs House and even into the depths of Skivareen’s, where I beheld the legendary and loathsome Pigger O’Toole sitting in regal squalor with his Queen Glory. I also saw Pyro Johnny, the Firestarter, sitting in a corner with his bowl of phosphorous flames dancing before his glowing face. I did not linger long in that place.
I am currently at the Pig and Whistle Inn. I have been having my dinners here of late as the food is very good. Yes, I still take pleasure in some things and I know that soon I will be back at sea, where the fare will not be nearly as good. And, furthermore, it gives me a chance to talk with Molly Malone concerning her employer. Why I should care about her, I do not know, but I do.
“Yes, Sir,” she relates, sadly, “it has hit our Jacky most hard—to have her two kids grabbed like that and then be called a bad mother. There’s no worse curse in the world than that. That fat pig of a constable seized Joannie from here when she went out to empty kitchen slops, and she put up a mighty fight she did, but it didn’t do her no good. Then they snatched up poor little Ravi when he was workin’ his peanut cart down at the docks. We found it overturned and broken up—prolly by Pigger O’Toole and his foul crew, who must’ve watched the whole thing and laughed at the poor lad’s distress. Aye, it has not been a great few days for Faber Shipping, that’s for sure . . . nor for Jacky herself, her sailor lad still not returned to her side to help her through these troubles. Here’s your plate, Sir, and a pint of ale? Certainly, Sir, here we are . . .”
When I ask Molly just how this could have been brought about, she replies, “Well, Mr. Pickering has found out that Mrs. Shinn, you know, the one what leads the COWS, has sworn out affy-davies in court before Judge Thwackham sayin’ that Jacky gave the kids rum to drink that day of the COWS parade, and that she saw it with her own eyes! Well, Sir, I was there on that porch, and with me own eyes I saw that those kids had nothin’ in their glasses but sweet tea! And I will stand and testify to that next Thursday when the hearing is held.”
I compliment Molly on her steadfastness as she moves off to serve another table.
As I eat, I’m surprised to see that J. F. has come out to do a set. There’s a reasonable crowd and I imagine she feels the show must go on, no matter what, the Playhouse still being closed due to repair and legal problems.
She mounts the stage, does some soft instrumentals on violin and concertina, then goes into some slow, sad songs—“The Galway Shawl,” “The Mountains of Mourne”—and then into brighter, gayer tunes. And yes, she is bright, she is gay, but I can see the sadness and hurt in her eyes. I want to tell her that she had it coming, that she should have known better, and that she brought it all on herself, but I just can’t bring myself to do it, or even wish it upon her. She does some hornpipes and jigs on the pennywhistle, then she calls out, “For our own dear Molly Malone, I will now do ‘Cockles and Mussels!’”
In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
Alive, alive-O! Alive, alive-O!
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
She was a fishmonger, but sure ’twas no wonder
For so were her father and mother before
And they each wheeled their barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
Alive, alive-O! Alive, alive-O!
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
At this, Molly pipes up with, “I ain’t never been to Dublin, and I ain’t never sold a cockle, let alone some mussels!” and the crowd laughs in appreciation at her jolly cheekiness. Herself goes on, in a more subdued way . . .
She died of a fever, and no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
Alive, alive-O! Alive, alive-O!
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
From behind the bar Molly calls out, “If I dies, me ghost won’t be goin’ back to Ireland, where the poor thing would surely starve, spirit or no. Nay, my ghost will stay right here to haunt you good Boston folk to the end of your days for the meager tips you leave a poor hardworkin’ Irish girl!”
There are roars of laughter at this, and coins are flipped and rain down upon the merry barmaid, and when the audience subsides, J. F. asks, “Are there any requests? If there are, and I know the tune, I would be happy to play and sing it for you.”
I decide to take a chance.
I rise, hunched over and leaning heavily on my staff. I approach the stage, and when I get there, I flip a half-eagle gold coin into her open fiddle case.
“Do you know the ballad ‘John Reilly’?” I ask in my raspy voice.
She looks at me curiously, but then nods and picks up her guitar and plays the melody, then raises her chin and sings the song straight out . . .
A fair young maid was in her garden,
A strange young man comes riding by
Saying “Fair maid, will you marry me?”
And this then, Sir, was her reply . . .
Oh, no kind sir, I cannot marry thee,
For I’ve a love who sails all on the sea,
Though he’s been gone for seven years,
Still no man shall marry me.
Well, what if he’s in some battle slain,
Or drowned in the deep salt sea,
Or what if he’s found another love,
And he and his love both married be?
If he’s in some battle slain,
I will die, when the moon doth wane,
And if he’s drowned in the deep salt sea,
I’ll be true to his memory . . .
Does she choke up a bit on that? I cannot be sure. She goes on . . .
And if he’s found another love,
And he and his love both married be,
Then I wish them health and happiness,
Where they now dwell across the sea . . .
Did I see the glint of a tear in her eye? I don’t know . . .
He picked her up all in his arms,
And kisses gave her one, two, and three,
Saying weep no more my own true love.
I am your long lost John Reilly.
Of course, she does a fine job . . . But does she take the meaning of it? And do I hope she does? I do not know what I hope . . .
Did I then stand up and rip off my disguise and declare that I was “her long lost John Reilly”?
No, I did not . . . I only stood and left the Pig, my mind in turmoil.
J.E.F.
Chapter 31
I end my set by taking a modest bow, putting aside my guitar, and stepping down from the stage. As I do so, I see the Hunchback rise and limp out the door.
Strange, I think, that he should request that particular song. Well, I hope it brought him some cheer for his half-eagle tip, though it didn’t cheer me much. I was thinking all the way through it, Where is my own John Reilly?
Where are you, Jaimy, when I need you so much?
As I’m going up to talk with Molly at the bar and maybe have a bit of something for my dry throat and my worried mind, a man, one of Arthur McBride’s crew who has been assigned to watch the Pig and Playhouse to keep Pyro Johnny and any other of Pigger’s foul crew from setting fire to the place, bursts in and shouts . . .
“FIRE! FIRE DOWN AT THE DOCKS!”
I am out the door in a flash, with Molly close behind. Once in the street, I see the plume of smoke rising above a building at the end of Long Wharf, and I hear the clanging of the fire brigades charging toward the fire.
Thank God, it is not our building!
As Molly and I pound down the street, skirts held to our waists, we are passed by the Sons of Boston Fire Hose and Pump. They do not suffer us a glance, but Molly manages to flip them a rude gesture as they pass. Then comes Arthur McBride and the Shamrock Hose, Ladder & Pump Company thundering past. When we arrive at the dock, we see that Pigger O’Toole and his Free Men’s Fire and Insurance Company wagon is already there in front of the burning building, which turns out to be a freestanding warehouse belonging to a wool importer, a Mr. Linus Woolsey. I do feel for the man, however, as smoke is pouring out of the roof and flames flicker at the upper windows of his building.
There is no emblem affixed to the side of the building, so the three principal fire companies face off.
“There ain’t no mark on that place!” roars Captain Pigger in Arthur McBride’s face, “so I claims this here fire is ours, so bugger off, mick!”
“Bugger off, will I?” shouts Arthur right back at him. “Aye, right after I bury me fist in yer fat gut, you scum-suckin’ English pig!”
“Gentlemen, please!” cries poor Mr. Woolsey, who dances about, pointing at the flames coming from his warehouse. “Put out the fire, I beg you, then we will talk about recompense!”
Captain Warren of the Sons of Boston Firehouse strides into the midst of the others, copper hat on head and speaking trumpet under arm, and intones through his long, blue, New England nose, “We shall put out the fire, Sir, for the sum of five hundred dollars.”
“But . . .” sputters the unfortunate but very aptly named Mr. Woolsey.
“Four hundred,” intones Captain Pigger.
The fire in question sizzles quite nicely behind the negotiations, the raw wool within being heavy with lanolin, an oily secretion of the skin of the sheep from which the wool was sheared, providing a fine burning material. There is a brisk onshore wind and that sure ain’t helping matters any. The place fairly sizzles, and under the overwhelming stench of burning wool, there is a faint odor of mutton.
Arthur McBride considers this, then sticks his finger in the air and is, I believe, about to undercut the bid, when, with a roar, the entire roof of the structure collapses and the walls fall inward, and within minutes, all that is left is a big pile of glowing embers.
Mr. Woolsey’s shoulders slump as he looks over the mess, the ruin of his business, then he curses all three fire companies and stalks off, waving his arms about in impotent anger.
“You’re right,” says Arthur, reconsidering his bid. “It is your fire, after all, Pigger. I wish you the joy of it.”
One who is definitely enjoying the whole spectacle is Pyro Johnny, whom I had spotted as Molly and I came up to join Arthur and his Company. The little dervish was dancing excitedly about the edge of the smoldering ruins, his face all aglow in the reflected heat of the embers.
“Poor Mr. Woolsey,” I say, meaning it.
“Poor nothin’,” says Arthur, rounding up his men. “He should have bought the Shamrock insurance. He was offered it and didn’t take it, so bad luck to him. And it looks like he’s already had it. Let’s go, lads.”