Her mother never told her
The things a young girl should know,
About the ways of Boston men
And how they come and go . . .
This gets a cheer from the Boston men, and Arthur comes down from the stage, places his arm about my waist, and sings the last verse . . .
Though age has taken her beauty
And sin has left its sad scar,
Remember your mothers and sisters, boys . . .
And let her sleep under the bar!
There is a roar of applause as I slip down to lie on the floor, my hands folded under my cheek, a look of sweet repose on my face.
There is another roar as Arthur lifts me once again to my feet and I call out, “That one was dedicated to our fine sisters of the Committee on Women’s Suffrage! And in that spirit, I declare it to be Intermission and the bar is open!”
Yet another roar as all head for blessed refreshment.
Molly and Joannie are dishing it out as fast as they can, even as they manage to get a pint into my fist, which is good, as my throat needs it. I look to see Ezra Pickering at my side.
“Well met, Ezra,” I say. “A glass of wine with you?”
“That would be nice, Jacky, thank you,” he says. “A very good crowd you have here. Although I don’t know how that last bit will go over with the Temperance movement.”
“Why, Ezra,” I reply, “‘The Lady in Red’ is a moral lesson on the dangers of Mr. Booze. How could they be angry?”
“Well, that costume . . .”
“Look. There’s Wiggins over there, sucking up my ale. He’s not sayin’ anything.”
“Yes, but you don’t know who else might be here. I don’t like the look of some of them . . . There’s too many in black suits of a common cut, scattered about, in certain places.”
“Wot?”
“Look at those two, leaning against the back wall.”
I shift my gaze and spot the pair he means. Both are thick of neck and low of brow and each looks as if the black jacket he wears on his back is the first one to ever ride there.
“I see them, Ezra. So what?”
“So there are two more over there, and two by each of the two side exits.”
I look around, and sure enough, there they are—all big and stupid-looking, and all dressed in the same jackets.
“Ah, well, Ezra, we’ve got to let in anyone who buys a ticket. There are a lot of sailors in here who look a lot rougher than them. Nay, don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of my bully boys in here tonight. They’ll take care of things.”
Ezra sighs and continues to survey the crowd. “I hope so . . . but my lawyer sense tells me that something big just might happen here this fine evening.”
It is then that I notice the Hunchback is once again in attendance. Hmmm . . . I wonder at that, but then turn back to conversation with Ezra and Arthur till Ravi comes through, ringing his chimes and signaling the end to the Intermission.
“Well, whatever, Ezra, the show must go on.”
Back on stage, I run through my fiddle, pennywhistle, and concertina numbers. This is followed by Fennel and Bean proceeding to murder Shakespeare with the Death of Caesar scene from Julius Caesar, complete with the entire male members of the cast dressed in togas. With their white and hairy calves sticking out below the sheets, this gets more laughs than anything else.
Mr. Bean, the larger of the two thespians, plays Caesar, who, when he is stabbed by the rabblement, confronts Brutus and beseeches, “Et tu, Brute?” Then, after Brutus stabs him in the heart, he cries, “Then fall, Caesar!” and with that, the curtain also falls.
We scurry about behind the curtain, setting up for the last big number of the night, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden. It is accomplished quickly, and the curtain rises.
Clarissa stands there as Prudence Goodheart, looking glorious, wringing her hands in sorrow. Any who have seen my little play know that the Goodheart farm is in serious financial trouble. She speaks . . .
“Oh, whatever shall we do, dear Brother? The crop has failed and we must go to Banker Morgan for help!”
“No, dear Sister, not him! He is evil and will bring us to ruin!”
I know it is stupid, but I do love seeing this thing performed. Sin of Pride, I know . . . And hey, Clarissa is doing a great job.
Eventually Banker Morgan comes to collect on the dreaded mortgage and proposes that Prudence give herself over to him in return for tearing up the paper.
“Woe is me! Oh, what shall I do? Keep my sacred honor or give in to the fiend’s demands? Oh, what shall I do?”
Mr. Fennel, playing Banker Morgan, complete with long mustache, leers at her . . .
“Make up your mind, girl, as my patience grows short!”
With that, Fennell, as Morgan, performs the showstopper: He reaches over and rips the tear-away dress from Clarissa, revealing her standing open-mouthed in naught but chemise and drawers. She screams, but that is nothing to the howls from the audience. Clarissa crosses her arms on her chest . . .
“Oh, I am undone!”
Not yet, my lovely, but—
And, true enough, it appears that Prudence is actually right in thinking herself undone . . . For in the middle of the lower audience, a large figure of a man rises up, throws off his cloak, and points at Clarissa. “I am General Virgil Howe,” he bellows, “and I have no daughter!”
Oh, my God, Clarissa’s father?
With that, he turns, throws his cloak about his face, and rushes out of the theater, pushing all in his way roughly aside.
Clarissa stands stunned . . . Daddy? I hear her whisper, but then, to her credit, she snaps her head around, straightens her back, and goes on with the play.
“Shall no one save me? Must I yield to dishonor?”
Well, it’s not dishonor to which she must yield . . . no, it is to a well-thrown and overly ripe tomato that hits her squarely in the face. Another catches her on the chest and stains the front of her once white chemise a sickly red. It appears that Wiggins’s minions have allowed a troop of angry COWS through the front door, while shooing out loyal patrons through the side exits. Many protest, but to no avail. Move along now, that’s it. Police action here. Move along . . . .
“SIN! SIN! AND DISGRACE! CLOSE DOWN THIS DEN OF INIQUITY NOW! NOW! NOW! SAVE OUR YOUTH! CLOSE THIS HELL HOLE!”
The men in black coats now open them to reveal shiny tin stars on their vests. “These men are my deputies!” shouts Wiggins. “Anyone who touches them will be guilty of assaulting a police officer! Do you understand?”
My bully boys have gathered in a line facing Wiggins’s thugs, with a furious Arthur McBride at their front. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts at the Constable.
“I am merely protecting these fine ladies in a lawful demonstwation. Bill of Rights and all that.”
About ten women are standing in the aisle and slinging vegetables and other foul things at the stage and those upon it. I rush out only to be clobbered with a slimy cabbage on my nose. I brush it off and head straight into the melee. I spot the large figure of Mother Shinn right in the middle of the pack.
“Charge on, ladies, charge on! Fear not! Right is on your side! Charge on! Bring down the Forces of Darkness! Charge on!” she shouts, rallying her troops.
They don’t need much rallying, no. They come on with grim determination. Now they are flinging rotten eggs, and the stench of them is spreading through the place. Rage rises in me, but it pales next to that of Clarissa’s. With tomato juice and rotten eggs sliding down her face, she races up the aisle and launches herself at Mother Shinn.
“You miserable old sow!” she screeches. “I’ll rip your ugly face off!”
Clarissa has her fingers crooked into claws, and they are searching for her tormentor’s face, and I know from personal experience, they can do some serious damage. But, alas, they do not reach their target. No. Instead, Constable Wiggins appears by Shinn’s side, grabs Clarissa around the waist, and then hands her off to one of his deputies.
“Here. Take this one. Put her in the wagon,” he says. Clarissa is hauled out, squealing. He then points at me. “That one next!”
“What’s the charge, pig?” I ask, incredulous. “Why are you taking that girl? And why are you shutting me down?”
“That girl, on a charge of assault against poor Mrs. Shinn here, and you for causing a public disturbance.”
“What? Public disturbance? Shinn and her COWS threw the garbage at us! They should be the ones arrested!”
“I didn’t see anything like that,” answers Wiggins complacently. “I just saw a bunch of very questionable stuff going on on that stage.”
“Just look at this mess!” I cry, pointing at Shinn. “She did it!”
Mother Shinn grins at me and pulls out something from her shawl. It is a small ax. “You haven’t seen a real mess yet, harlot, but now you will.”
She marches toward the bar, where the stunned Molly and Joannie are standing.
“Step aside, sluts,” roars Mrs. Shinn, and with her first swing of her ax, she shatters a good five bottles of my finest Barbados rum. Her next blow takes out the gin, and then the champagne bottles explode, spraying all over.
“No!” I shout. “You cannot! That is mine! Stop!”
But she does not stop. She continues till each bottle is smashed, its contents leaking to the floor.
“There. Try to sell that. Perhaps you’d like to lick it up,” she says, her eyes dark little marbles of self-righteous indignation.
That’s too much for my bully boys. Constitutional Right to Lawful Assembly is one thing, but spilled and wasted whiskey is another thing altogether.
“Let’s get ’em, boyos,” says Arthur McBride, taking his shillelagh from his side. Behind him stand John Thomas, Finn McGee, Jim Tanner, and even Mr. Bean, still clad in toga and holding a golden scepter from some play or another. Arthur knows he cannot attack the COWS, being women, but that leaves Wiggins’s men on which to vent his anger, and the anger of Faber Shipping.
“Stop!” says Wiggins, his hand outstretched, palm forward. “You must remember that these men are duly sworn deputies, and if you touch them, you will be guilty of a serious offense!”
Arthur McBride considers this for a moment, slapping his club into his palm thoughtfully, then he says, “All right. We hear you, copper. Get ’em boys!”
And the riot is on. Clubs and fists and even scepters rain down upon Wiggins and his men. Heads are cracked and howls of pain are heard.
The melee continues as the COWS empty their bags of offal and fling it about. I stand in impotent fury.
No. I will fight back. I will strangle that old bitch, I will—
But I will do nothing, for standing before me is Constance Howell, a large red tomato in her hand, ready to fling it in my face, and all the fight goes out of me.
“Et tu, Connie?” I whisper, my shoulders slumping and tears coming to my eyes. “Then fall, Jacky.”
Connie looks at me, then shakes her head and drops her tomato to the floor, where it lands with a quiet plop. She turns to leave, following her sisters out my door.
I stand and stare at the wreckage of my beautiful Emerald Playhouse, and the tears run down my face. I am devastated, but then I find that Wiggins is not yet done with me.