Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business by L. A. Meyer Page B

and heading northwest.
    â€œDon’t worry, Jemimah,” I say. “Ravi’s a good kid and he won’t fail.”
    Old habits die hard. One of the first things Jemimah did upon setting up residence in Boston was to plant a vegetable garden behind the Pig. “Plenty of good dirt, plenty of good manure, be a shame to let it lie fallow. An insult to the Lord who gives us the good earth to till.”
    I took that advice to heart and set up a little patch of my own—about four-foot square, well spread with horse manure, with a little fence all around. Yes, I dropped some beet seeds in, but mainly what I did was cut up my last Spanish purple mushroom cap, soak the pieces in warm water, and then bury them a few inches under the topsoil. Who knows? At least I’ll get some nice beets.
    Mrs. Bodeen’s girls have been fed, and now I’m seated at the head of the table with my crew about me for the second serving, except for the two on watch above. Joannie and Daniel have passed the plates around and poured the drinks and Jemimah now sits to my left, while Clarissa sits to my right. To her credit, she has reconciled herself to sitting at the same table with a black person.
    Ravi, of course, wanted to come on this voyage, but I couldn’t let that happen. He was not along on the
Santa Magdalena
salvage expedition and must not know about it. He is a bright, inquisitive little fellow and would quickly figure out what I would be doing down there below the salt. I told him he was needed at the Pig to tend the garden and to hand out the wooden nickels. I assured him I would take him along on the next voyage, so he took it all in good grace.
    In spite of my precautions in that regard, however, it did turn out that there was another onboard who had also not been on that trip, and therein lies a problem—how to get rid of my unexpected guest when the time comes.
    I cut my eyes to Clarissa and come to a decision.
    â€œClarissa,” I say, “are you up for a bit of fun?”
    She eyes me suspiciously, a breaded pink shrimp poised between her perfect lips. “Knowing you, I can only suppose it will entail some indignity to my person,” she says before the perfect, small white teeth descend to crush the shrimp and slide it down her slim white neck.
    â€œNot at all, Sister mine,” I say, smiling at the thought of various indignities I
could
impose upon her before banishing them from my mind as idle and unworthy speculation. “But have you ever been to New Orleans?”
    â€œNo,” she answers, eyebrows raised in question.
    â€œWell, Clarissa, it is a wonderful place, a city so full of life and charm that it will take your breath away. We will be there in a few days to deliver Mrs. Bodeen’s girls to the House of the Rising Sun. We will have to give Mrs. Babineau a week to prepare the next batch of girls for the voyage north, and during that time, I plan to take the
Nancy B.
down to Key West to gather sponges for sale back in Boston.” Groans from my crew on
that
pronouncement. I send a severe glare down the table . . .
Come on, you sods, you know there will be at least several days’ liberty in New Orleans, so put a sock in it.
    â€œSounds wondrous exciting,” grumbles Clarissa, lifting wineglass to lips and taking a great gulp.
    â€œIt is not exciting at all,” I say, “but a ship of the Blue Anchor Line does not travel with an empty hold.” It is the practical tradesman in me and I will not deny it.
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œSo I know someone at the House of the Rising Sun who might delight in showing you the wonders of New Orleans. In return for your having done your duty on the
Nancy
,
I shall introduce you to her.”
    I see a flicker of interest in this.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWe’ll leave you there in good hands, go down to dive for the sponges, and then pick you up on the way back. How does that sound?”
    â€œSounds