Curse of the Blue Tattoo: Being an Account of the Misadventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman and Fine Lady by L. A. Meyer
Authors: L. A. Meyer
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all.
Please, God, let this he over soon.
"You will maintain a respectful attitude, young woman!" he warns. "Remember where you are!"
"Yes, Sir," I say, dropping my hands to my sides and coming to attention, my eyes straight ahead.
"That is better," he says. He looks at me carefully for signs of disrespect, but I let none show. He looks at me for a long time and the silence hangs in the gloom of the church. Presently, he leaves the pulpit and comes down to where I'm standing in the aisle and walks slowly around me. I hold the military posture, but I don't like him behind me where I can't see him. What if he should hit me? What if...
I'm relieved to see him come back into my sight.
"While I would usually ascribe an incident as occurred yesterday to the hysterical vapors common to the female," he goes on in a musing way as if he'd been thinkin' on it a while, "in your case I believe it is different. I believe the sordidness of your early life has affected your judgment, your character, and perhaps even your very soul."
He goes back up to the pulpit. "We must pray together. Back on your knees."
Thump.
It went on for hours, it seemedâpraying and reading from the Bible and more praying and sermons on evil and sin and me, always back to me, me and my early life, me on the ship, me and how I got here, me and the devil that's in me till I was dizzy and ready to keel over in a dead faint.
Finally, after one last long prayer delivered with his one hand on my head and the other stretched out toward Heaven, he freed me and I ran back to the safety of my school.
Chapter 7
Jacky Faber
General Delivery
U.S. Post Office
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
September, 1803
James Emerson Fletcher
Number 9 Brattle Lane
London, England
Dear Jaimy,
I'm going to be writing this letter in little bits and pieces 'cause I know I can't send it out till I see a British ship come in the harbor 'cause that's the only way I can think to get a letter to you 'cause Mistress won't mail my letters to you 'cause she don't think it's right somehow. If you're going to write letters to me, please send them to the address up there on top.
A lot of the schoolwork here is stupid and useless and I get switched a lot even though I've been nothing but good, but I do like some of the things we do. I specially like the painting class with old Mr. Peetâhe's ever so sweet and nice to me. He says I
have talent, hut I don't know. He's showing me how to do miniature portraits on disks of ivoryâit's marvelous fun slipping the colors around on the slick surface till it looks right and you can get really really fine with it because we've got brushes so tiny there's only like three hairs in them and if you make a mistake you can wipe it off. I'm doing one of you, dear boy, from my poor memory and I know I haven't done you justice but I'm still working on it. When I'm done I'll tuck it in close to my heart. Then I'll do one of me and send it to you and I hope you still want to look at it when you get it.
They have taught me how to ride, too. I never thought I'd like getting close to horses, from my time in London when it was all I could do to keep from being stomped to death by them, they being such huge beasts with mean tempers, but I find I do like the riding of them, after all. I've been assigned a sweet little mare named Gretchen and though we eyed each other most suspiciously when first we met, we are getting along right well. I often slip over to the stables and pet her and feed her bits of apple and such. Henry Hoffman saddles her up for me and gives me instruction and lets me take her out by myself into the fields behind the school, and it didn't take long at all for me to get good enough to join the rest of the girls in the circle.
Riding classes are held in this huge round arena that has a dirt and sawdust floor and we get up on our horses and go around in a circle with Herr Hoffman standing in the center snapping his whip and barking out
Please, God, let this he over soon.
"You will maintain a respectful attitude, young woman!" he warns. "Remember where you are!"
"Yes, Sir," I say, dropping my hands to my sides and coming to attention, my eyes straight ahead.
"That is better," he says. He looks at me carefully for signs of disrespect, but I let none show. He looks at me for a long time and the silence hangs in the gloom of the church. Presently, he leaves the pulpit and comes down to where I'm standing in the aisle and walks slowly around me. I hold the military posture, but I don't like him behind me where I can't see him. What if he should hit me? What if...
I'm relieved to see him come back into my sight.
"While I would usually ascribe an incident as occurred yesterday to the hysterical vapors common to the female," he goes on in a musing way as if he'd been thinkin' on it a while, "in your case I believe it is different. I believe the sordidness of your early life has affected your judgment, your character, and perhaps even your very soul."
He goes back up to the pulpit. "We must pray together. Back on your knees."
Thump.
It went on for hours, it seemedâpraying and reading from the Bible and more praying and sermons on evil and sin and me, always back to me, me and my early life, me on the ship, me and how I got here, me and the devil that's in me till I was dizzy and ready to keel over in a dead faint.
Finally, after one last long prayer delivered with his one hand on my head and the other stretched out toward Heaven, he freed me and I ran back to the safety of my school.
Chapter 7
Jacky Faber
General Delivery
U.S. Post Office
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
September, 1803
James Emerson Fletcher
Number 9 Brattle Lane
London, England
Dear Jaimy,
I'm going to be writing this letter in little bits and pieces 'cause I know I can't send it out till I see a British ship come in the harbor 'cause that's the only way I can think to get a letter to you 'cause Mistress won't mail my letters to you 'cause she don't think it's right somehow. If you're going to write letters to me, please send them to the address up there on top.
A lot of the schoolwork here is stupid and useless and I get switched a lot even though I've been nothing but good, but I do like some of the things we do. I specially like the painting class with old Mr. Peetâhe's ever so sweet and nice to me. He says I
have talent, hut I don't know. He's showing me how to do miniature portraits on disks of ivoryâit's marvelous fun slipping the colors around on the slick surface till it looks right and you can get really really fine with it because we've got brushes so tiny there's only like three hairs in them and if you make a mistake you can wipe it off. I'm doing one of you, dear boy, from my poor memory and I know I haven't done you justice but I'm still working on it. When I'm done I'll tuck it in close to my heart. Then I'll do one of me and send it to you and I hope you still want to look at it when you get it.
They have taught me how to ride, too. I never thought I'd like getting close to horses, from my time in London when it was all I could do to keep from being stomped to death by them, they being such huge beasts with mean tempers, but I find I do like the riding of them, after all. I've been assigned a sweet little mare named Gretchen and though we eyed each other most suspiciously when first we met, we are getting along right well. I often slip over to the stables and pet her and feed her bits of apple and such. Henry Hoffman saddles her up for me and gives me instruction and lets me take her out by myself into the fields behind the school, and it didn't take long at all for me to get good enough to join the rest of the girls in the circle.
Riding classes are held in this huge round arena that has a dirt and sawdust floor and we get up on our horses and go around in a circle with Herr Hoffman standing in the center snapping his whip and barking out
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