Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber Read Free

something.
    â€œVery interesting and, indeed, it does explain much.”
    â€œIt certainly explains why I have chosen to live single all of my life. If it does not, here is another letter that I received after that. It is one that certainly threw the latch on my heart for good and ever. It is from Cavalry Major Lord Richard Allen. When last I saw that gallant officer, he was being carried off the field at the Battle of Vimeiro, grievously wounded. I got it several weeks after Miss Howe’s chatty little note.”
    I toss over the letter bearing the coat of arms of theSeventh Dragoons at the top. He takes it up and reads . . .
    Â 
    Major Lord Richard Allen
    Seventh Dragoons
    Kingston, Jamaica
    August 28, 1809
    Â 
Miss Jacky Faber
The Pig and Whistle
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
 
My dear Jacky,
Yes, Prettybottom, I am back from the dead and back on the line. I cannot thank you enough for seeing me into the care of the very competent Dr. Stephen Sebastian and his delightful family. I am quite sure I would now be bothering the imps of hell if not for your efforts.
You can see from my address that I am back in harness, and with a promotion to boot for showing “conspicuous bravery” in holding that breastwork at Vimeiro. I was also given a nice medal. I asked that you be awarded one, too, since you also were there, but they would hear none of that. Surprisingly, though, Old Nosey spoke up on that one, saying, “The girl was most valuable both in Portugal and Spain and certainly deserves something for her service,” but nothing came of it. I think the only reward you will receive is being once again reassigned to his staff when he returns to Spain as Lord Wellington. Best lie low, Jacky, if you want to avoid that singular pleasure.
I have heard you are back in Boston, and I do hope you will meet up with your Lieutenant Fletcher, Royal Navy. That would be a good thing, as I found him a fine man and entirely worthy of you . . . should I ever let you slip from my grasp.
I myself have had a rather pleasant time of it—travel-, career-, and romance-wise. It went down like this:
Last month I was selected to lead a delegation of politicos to New Orleans to confer with American officials there to try to lessen the tensions that are growing between our two countries—maybe they thought a “Real British Lord” would impress the colonials; I don’t know. But I certainly put on the Aristocratic and Arrogant Young Lord act for them, and I hope they appreciated it, and I further hope it did something to avoid a stupid war.
But if it comes down to a conflict, what will you be, Jacky—British or American? Hmmm . . . I hope you never have to choose.
But on to more pleasant things . . . much more pleasant things.
After the political business of the first day was done—thank God; dreadfully boring stuff—our party was shown to a very active gambling and sporting house for some pre­dinner drinks. We were standing at the bar and toasting kings and presidents and such, when the bell for four o’clock was chimed. Then one of the comely young things the place seemed to be full of advanced to a spot behind the bar where hung a silken cord that was attached to a set of velvet draperies, which apparently concealed something of interest to the crowd. I guessed this was a sort of ceremony that opened the night’s festivities, and I was right.
The girl pulled the cord, the curtains parted, and a fine painting was revealed. The place gave a roar of approval.
Oh, my God, Princess, how you have gotten around!
Glasses were lifted and toasts were made to “
The Venus de New Orleans
,” “
The Naked Maja
,” and “
The Girl with the Blue Tattoo
,” and I must say, Prettybottom, you may rest assured, your front is every bit as pretty as your back.
My gasp of astonishment was echoed even more forcefully by a young man who stood