Besides the Royal Navy crew, there's bunches of other swells and nobs about, but nobody introduces me to none of 'em. Guess it's 'cause of the excitement of the moment. That midshipman looks like he'd like to be introduced, though, but of course he can't move from his spot. These boys weren't brought here to have fun—they was brought to serve the Captain and the Lieutenant. The Captain is a loud, garrulous fellow, but he seems a decent sort, for a captain, while the Lieutenant is a tall, thin, dark cove who's got a pair of mustachios that he continually twirls as his eyes go over the nearby girls. I know what's on his mind, and it ain't horse racin'.
Randall is standing at the rail with Clarissa on his arm. She must have forgiven him, or maybe she just considered it his right as a lord of the manor to cover whatever lower-class girls he wanted. Or maybe Randall came up with a real good explanation, which I wouldn't put past him—he's a clever one, he is, as I know right well. Whatever, she sends a glare in my direction, which I return with a smile and slight, ever so slight, curtsy.
I go to the rail myself, but not close to the young lovers, as I don't want to get into a down-on-the-ground-hair-pullin'-face-scratchin' fight with Clarissa just now, what with everything goin' on, and if I know anything about proud Clarissa by now, it's that she wouldn't be afraid to do it anyplace, anytime.
So I look out over the track, and the jockeys are starting to get on their mounts, the little men all in their colorful silks, each one different depending on the farm they're racin' for. I look around for the green-and-white stripes of House Trevelyne, but I don't see none—I don't see Pete, neither.
Uh-oh.
There's the Sheik, dancin' and prancin', but it's a groom what's leadin' him about, not Petey. I look at the Colonel and he's lookin' down at the track, too, and his mouth is set in a grim line around a cigar that is clenched tight in his jaws.
I spy the groom George working his way through the crowd toward us and I know what that means: Petey ain't gonna make it. I hope he ain't dead, 'cause I've grown fond of the little man. George leans in and says something in Colonel Trevelyne's ear and the Colonel nods curtly and bows to his party and leaves the grandstand, but before he does, he motions for Randall to follow him.
I grab Amy's arm and pull her along. "Let's go, Sister. Things are going wrong and we must do what we can."
"But what...?"
"Petey ain't gonna make the race." I turn and look at her, and her face is now empty of all hope. "Please, just go along with whatever I say, no matter what. No matter how crazy. Will you do it?"
She nods and follows me out of the box, her face ashen.
We hit the ground and race toward the jockey rooms and we meet the Colonel and Randall as they are coming out of Petey's room.
I give Amy an elbow and hiss at her, "Ask them what's the matter." as it ain't my place and I don't want to spook 'em.
"Father. What is the matter?" she says.
"Jarvis can't race. He's barely conscious," growls the Colonel. He takes his cigar and throws it to the ground. "Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"
"Can't you forfeit? Call off the bets?" asks Amy without much hope in her voice.
"I can forfeit, but I cannot call off the bets, and what, Daughter, gave you the idea that you can talk to me in this way?" His face is bright red and his tone is dangerous.
"I shall ride him, Father," says Randall, and he begins to unbutton his jacket.
"Aw, you're too damned heavy, boy, you'd surely..."
It is time, Jacky, I says to myself, and I pulls out my asafoetida bag and clutches it in me hand and I steps forward.
"Beggin' your pardon, Colonel Trevelyne, but I have here in my hand an answer to your problem." I ain't used to talking up to large powerful men, so my voice shakes a bit.
"What?" shouts the Colonel, shock and outrage on his face as he stares down at me.
I pushes on. "I have this here powerful voodoo potion that I picked up when I was sailin' on the Caribbean Sea," I says, and waves the bag decorated with its strange symbols in front of him. "It's powerful strong magic, Sir, as it was put together by Mama Boudreau, herself, a most famous hoodoo conjure woman."
"Let me see that," orders the Colonel. He reaches out a meaty paw for my bag, but I shrinks back and holds the bag tighter to my chest.
"Oh no, Sir! Don't mess with the gris-gris, Sir, it's very dangerous in unschooled hands. It's very powerful stuff and no tellin' what would happen." I shivers and looks all scared at the very thought.
"Rubbish," says he. "Has this girl ever been to the Caribbean?" he asks Amy. It looks like he is ready to grasp at straws.
"Yes," says Amy, and then, incredibly, she says, "she has often spoken of her knowledge of the mysterious arts of that region."
The Colonel squints at me. "It's powerful enough to cure someone as sick as him?"
"Sir, it was made to raise the dead. It may not cure Mr. jarvis, but it will get him up."
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "All right. Go get him up. And hurry."
Ah. And now for the hook.
"I have terms, Colonel Trevelyne, and you may not like them." I'm puttin' up a brave front, but I'm shakin' inside. To talk to a colonel like this...
"What! What terms, girl?"
"If I rouse up Peter Jarvis enough so he can get on the Sheik and win the race, you must swear, on your honor as an officer and gentleman, to never again bet on anything. Not a penny, not a pound, not a dollar, not a dime. Nothing wagered ever again."
He balls his fist and lifts it high above me. "Why, you insolent piece of baggage...!"
I cringe and hunch my shoulders, and wait for the blow, but the blow does not come.
"Father, please!" say both Amy and Randall together.
I open my eyes. The Colonel is standing there, and he is a bit shrunken, like the air has gone out of him.
I have no mercy. "Do you so swear?"
"Yes," he says, quietly. "I swear."
"All right," I say, all brisk. "Amy and Randall, I'll need your help. Randall, get everybody out of Petey's room." I cross my arms at the wrists over my chest like I'm a voodoo princess and I put my head back and slit my eyes and start into a low chant, "Hey-ya, hey-ya, hey-ya, hey!" over and over and follow them in.
We surge into Petey's tiny room and there are people in there standing around him lying there in the bed. Petey's mouth is open and his face is gray and he looks half dead. "Everybody please leave," says Randall, curtly. They look confused. "Out!" he roars this time. "Now!" And out they go, falling over each other in their haste. Randall's blood is up.
As soon as the door is shut, I say, "Randall, put your back to the door and let no one in! Amy, help me!" and I flip my hat to the floor and start to struggle out of my dress. "Randall. Turn around!"
Petey's silks are hanging on the wall with his boots beneath them. Amy has undone the buttons on the back of my dress and I flip it over my head. Off with the shoes and stockings and I pull off my slip and—"Randall, turn around!" Oh, to hell with it, there's no time! I put my thumbs in the waistband of my flouncy drawers and pull them down and step out of them. I reach for the silk pants...
"Don't ... don't let 'em..."
Petey's talking! His eyes flutter open. I dash to his side. "Don't let 'em what, Petey? Don't let 'em..."
But he passes out again and there's no time to try to bring him back.
I go to the wall and get the silks. I sit on the edge of the bed to pull on the white stockings and then stand and tug on the tight pants and buckle 'em below the knees, then the loose, blousy green-striped top, which'll hide what I got up there. On with the boots—they're a little big, but they'll serve.