Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West

by L. A. Meyer

  He goes to do it, and then I hear Richard Allen say, "Sergeant, have the men reload and stand at Port Arms facing the Belle of the Golden West."

  Uh-oh...

  I turn to face him. "Do the terms of your parole still stand?"

  He smiles, hand on the hilt of his now-sheathed sword. His cigar, miraculously, is not only still in his mouth, but still lit. He sends a puff of smoke in my direction. "My parole? Why, yes, it still stands—did I not give you my word? But, Princess, my men will keep their powder and shot."

  "Very well, Captain Allen. You and your men acquitted themselves bravely and honorably today. You have our heartfelt thanks. And you, Sir, showed yourself to be a much better leader than I."

  "Ah, Princess, not so. You were unprepared, true. You let your guard down, also true. 'Tis true also that you should have trusted my word and let us keep our powder, but when it came to the fight, well, you were every inch a general!"

  There is a weary but generous cheer to that, and for that, I am grateful.

  After tincture of opium is swallowed, teeth are gritted, and torn flesh is sewn up, we have a conference on the top decks.

  "Did you notice anything about the attack?" I ask, as Higgins brings me a wet towel to wipe the blood from my hands.

  "That they had no powder, else half of us would be dead?" asks Captain Allen.

  "Right. They probably wanted that as much as they wanted our scalps for the bounty."

  "Ha! The scalps! The money for which to pay for them lies right down below me! Oh, how I do love a bit of delicious irony," says Richard from his cabin top. "But you know, of course, they will be at us again."

  "Yes, I know, but perhaps we can prevent that. Nathaniel, Jim, Solly ... could you make us up a little raft, say about six feet square?"

  Mystified, those named nod assent.

  "Good. Then let's get on it. How many hostiles do you think are left, Sergeant? About sixty, you think? All right. Reverend Clawson, how much elixir do we have left? You've just made up a new batch? Good. Mr. Higgins, when the raft is complete, will you put on it twenty one-gallon jugs of our fine Kentucky bourbon, with as many bottles of the elixir as will fit neatly between those jugs? Also, Mr. Lightfoot, do you think our tormentors will find our little gifts?"

  The frontiersman leans on his rifle and laughs. "'Course they'll find 'em. They're watchin' us right now. They'll be on that hooch 'fore we rounds the next corner!"

  Good.

  Chapter 57

  We haven't seen signs of any Indians for several days now, so we're starting to relax a bit—not too much, though, as we have learned our lesson well. We now have armed men on each boat scanning the shore during the daylight hours, and at night we anchor out as far as we can with night watches set.

  But it is not only Indians that we fear, for now a new threat has arisen to worry us—we are being watched by slave hunters.

  It was at a town called Thomasville on the Arkansas side, not much more than a salt lick and a hog wallow, but we decided to set up the show, anyway, just to keep our hand in and maybe spread a little joy.

  We had sold a few bottles of Captain Jack's Elixir and were halfway through our little playlet when we heard the sound of hoofbeats and saw five men pull up behind our small crowd. They did not dismount.

  So what, I think, all are welcome to the show. Gather round.

  So the play goes on, the dress comes off, there is the final curtain, and when we go to take our bows, there is no applause—the five men have rudely spurred their horses through the audience and are directly in front of us. They are dressed in long, dirty white dusters, buttoned to the neck, and have wide-brimmed hats on their heads. There are rifles stuck in leather boots on each saddle, and it's plain that each man wears a belt with two holstered pistols under his coat. Manacles and chains lie across the saddles of several. All of the men have long, stringy hair hanging down to their shoulders; four of them are dark-haired, but the old one in the middle has only wispy strands of gray, blowing about his face in the light breeze.

  The formerly festive mood of the audience is gone, and the families fearfully melt away.

  "Sergeant," says Captain Allen quietly, "form your men. Port Arms." The Britannia is moored alongside of us, and I hear the soldiers' boots scrape on the cabin top as they line up, their rifles held diagonally across their chests, at the ready.

  "What do you want?" I ask of the men.

  "We'uns think you stole those nigras," says the old man, looking at Chloe up top, seated at her harpsichord, and Solomon to the left of the stage, with the guitar. "And we'uns aims to get 'em back to their rightful owners."

  "You are wrong, Suh," says I, thinking it wise to sound a bit southern. "These here are my nigras."

  The old man smiles a sly smile and looks to the men on either side of him. "Ah think that buck's name is Solomon and you stole him from a plantation up in Tennessee. The wanted poster said some people saw him climbin' on a boat. A boat painted up like a whore, just like this one." The old man whips back the tails of his duster to show the butts of his pistols, and the other men do the same. Several of them chuckle at the old man's wit. "Is that your name, boy? It is, ain't it, Solomon?"

  "No, it ain't," says I. "It's Bill, if it's any of your business, which it ain't. And speakin' of business, what gives you the right to come bustin' in here and wreckin' our show?"

  "Yer show didn't look like much to us, just a whore show with you takin' off yer clothes and prancin' around like that."

  "Pick your targets, men," orders Captain Allen. "Full cock. Shoot the first man who goes for his gun."

  "Ah think yer not only a whore, but a goddamned Abolitionist as well," says the old man lazily. "You know what we do with goddamned Abolitionists around here? You tell her, Ezekiel."

  The man next to him giggles and says, "We hangs 'em, is what."

  "I think you have said just about enough, old man. Take yourself off," says Allen. "If you'd like to try us, just reach for a weapon."

  "Calm yerself, General. We're a-goin'."

  Fearing for his safety, I go over to Solomon and put my hand on his shoulder and say, "Get back on the boat, Bill." I feel his muscles tense under my hand.

  "Yes, Miss Jacky, I'm goin'," he answers as he steps back on the Belle. "I'm goin'."

  "You see that, Pap?" says the man named Ezekiel. "She touched that dirty nigra. On his skin."

  "I seen it, boy. Don't you worry, I seen it good and plain," replies the old man, looking at me through narrowed eyes. "Makes me sick to my stomach." He takes his gaze off me and slowly looks over my crew. He then leans over to spit a brown stream of tobacco juice on the stage in front of me. "Let's go, boys, and leave this goddamned bunch o' nigra lovers. For now..."

  And with that, the horsemen wheel about and gallop off, their white dusters flying out behind them.

  "Wrap it up," I say. "There'll be no tavern tonight. Let's get on over to the other side. Don't like it here, much, no, I don't."

  I don't hear anyone argue with that.

  Chapter 58

  The confrontation with the slave hunters cast a pall on things for a few days, but gradually our good humor returned. All of the wounds encountered during the battle with Half Red Face and his bunch healed nicely, though we had worried about Alfie's leg. But that, too, eventually cleared up, and soon he was up and about.

  And as for the slave hunters, what did we have to worry about when we were in the company of a squad of fine British Regulars?

  This afternoon I'm feeling extremely lazy and indolent. The sun is shining, but it is not too hot as I amble back to the quarterdeck looking for a likely spot for a bit of a snooze. I spot Pretty Saro lying there on her side, snoring fitfully away, and take a notion to lie down next to her, my head on her fat, soft belly and my straw hat pulled down over my eyes.

  Ahhh... I sigh as I contentedly drift off to dream, my head rising and falling with Saro's deep breathing.

  And I'm back on the quarterdeck of my love
ly Emerald and the wind is fair and in my face and hair, and oh, this time Jaimy is with me, by my side, and we are sailing off to far Cathay to see what riches might lie in store for us there, and then I see the door of my cabin is open and I take Jaimy by the hand and we go down below and he puts his arm around my waist and then, oh my, all my clothes have disappeared, and his, too, and then ... and then Constance Howell, of all people—Connie Howell?—has me by the foot and is saying, "Naughty Jacky, naughty Jacky, naughty, naughty Jacky..."

  I awaken to find Higgins gently nudging together my two ankles as I lie sprawled on the deck.

  "It is to be devoutly hoped, Miss, that you will not take up other disgusting habits like chewing tobacco and spitting or saying things like pshaw!"

  I lift my straw hat to glare at him. "Higgins, you have just ruined the most wonderful dream."

  "I am sorry, Miss. Did it concern your Mr. Fletcher, or was it about Captain Allen?"

  "You wound me, Higgins. Of course it featured Jaimy Fletcher," I growl, pulling my hat back over my eyes.

  "Your pardon, then, Miss. I must be off."

  I close my eyes, hoping to slip back into the same dream again, but then that never happens, does it?

  All of a sudden, I'm noticing a strange sweetish odor. I sit up and sniff. "Saro, you stink, and Daniel has just given you your bath." I smack her lightly on her belly and she lets out a small grunt.

  Clementine, sitting over next to Jim, who is on helm, hears me saying this and raises her own nose and sniffs. Then she comes over on hands and knees and lifts Pretty Saro's curly tail and peers under.

  "Yup. Thought so. Your Pretty Saro is of a mind to have herself some little piggies," says the farm girl Clementine Jukes, releasing Saro's tail and going back to Jim, to twine her arms about his calf and rest her head against his leg.

  "Why, you hussy, you!" I say, giving her another little smack.

  "It's prolly hearin' all those wild porkers in the woods is what set her off," says Clementine.

  Hmmm... We have been hearing a lot of oinks and grunts from the woods lately. Crow Jane says they're pigs who've descended from the hogs that escaped from farms and went wild. Real wild, according to Janey—"They've gotten big and lean and mean, and they've got big tusks, so you got to watch 'em, as they can hurt you. Good eatin', though."

  I think about this and go over to the port rail, the one closest to the shore. I sit there and listen, and in about a half hour I am rewarded by the sound of thrashing and loud grunting in the woods.

  "Jim, swing in close to the bank, if you would."

  "Sure, Missy."

  I look back at the Britannia, on station behind us, with Private Luce on helm. "Fred!" I shout. "We'll anchor here for just a bit!"

  Richard, sitting at his table topside, looks up from his book. The cur has books over there, but that swine won't lend me any unless I come over there to get them, which I won't do. I know he has Izaak Walton's The Compleat Angler, a book about fishing, and I really want to get my hands on that book, but ... oh, well.

  Jim tosses out the Belle's anchor without having to be told and we come to a halt, close to the Louisiana shore.

  Higgins comes up with a questioning look, and I say, "Will you please get me two silver dollars from our cache? Thanks. Place them right there on the cabin top. Good."

  I take one of the coils of rope that we always have positioned in various spots on the deck and I kneel down next to Pretty Saro. I lift her trusting head and tie a noose about her neck, just behind her ears. I've got to pull it pretty tight, 'cause her neck is wider than her head, and she squeals a little bit in protest.

  Then I stand and say, "Anyone who wants to look away may do so, as I'm about to take off my skirt." I slip my buckskin skirt down and flip it into my cabin, leaving me in my light cotton top and my cutoff drawers. I notice out of the corner of my eye that Captain Allen has forsaken his book and now stands in the bow of the Britannia, taking this all in.

  Taking the other end of the line that I tied to Pretty Saro, I jump into the water. My feet hit the sandy bottom and I am able to stand.

  "All right, shove her in!" I shout, and it takes Jim and Clementine and the Hawkes boys to move her, but presently about two hundred pounds of squealing pig hits the water.

  She goes under, but her snout pops right back up. Most animals know how to swim and this pig is no exception. Her cleft hooves churning, she makes for the shore, with me trailing after her. We make the bank and we both climb up.

  I give her ears a rub, 'cause I know she likes it. "You hear them out there, Saro?" She seems to cock her head at the sounds of rooting and grunting not far off in the forest. "That's right, Saro, listen up good. Y'think any of them gentleman piggies might strike your fancy?"

  Grunt?

  I swear she grunted in a questioning way—interested, yet a bit doubtful.

  There's a high-pitched squeal from the woods off to the left. Her head jerks up.

  Grunt?

  "Ah, so maybe he's the one, Saro. Here, let me get that off." I loosen the rope from around her neck and set her free, but she does not run off. "You ain't got much choice, my girl, either a dangerous life of freedom, or Crow Jane's knives."

  She starts forward, making a few tentative steps in the direction of that last squeal. Then she looks back at me and I give her a last scratch on her bristly head and slap her on the butt. She lets out a high, trumpeting squeal of her own and goes charging off into the woods. The last I see of my little piglet is her little curly tail.

  Fare thee well, Pretty Saro. May you wed with the fiercest of all the tuskers out there in those deep, dark woods. May you live long and have many fine babies and may none of them ever end up in a cook pot. Amen.

  I coil the rope over my arm and swim back to the Belle, climb the ladder, and confront a furious Crow Jane. Before going down into my cabin to change, I pick up the silver dollars that Higgins had placed on the cabin top and put them in her hands.

  "Here, Janey. In the next town we hit, go off and buy some meat. Some meat we don't even know the name of."

  With that, I dive down into the cabin.

  That evening, just before we are to anchor for the night, we come to a fork in the river.

  "You're gonna find that happenin' a lot as we get farther into the delta," says Lightfoot. "The river takes off into all sorts of directions."

  "Which one, Missy?" asks Jim.

  "Let's take the one on the right, Jim. It looks to give us a bit more sea room."

  He moves the tiller over and down the right course we glide.

  Chapter 59

  James Fletcher, Riverman

  Somewhere on the Mississippi River

  Somewhere in the USA

  Jacky Faber, Showgirl

  On the Belle of the Golden West

  Somewhere downriver

  Dear Jacky,

  I sit here with my paddle across my knees, trying to decide which fork of the damned Mississippi to take.

  I did not expect the river to separate like this, but I tell myself that surely the two branches will rejoin up ahead and, besides, the land between the forks is but a very large island. But what would happen if I took the wrong branch and got ahead of you? To be sure, it would be highly ironic if I were to beat you to New Orleans.

  Of course, all I will have to do, after the waters converge, is to inquire in the next town whether or not your boat has passed, and from what I have heard of your boat and your shows, the townspeople could hardly have missed you.

  And yes, Jacky, I have heard of your torn-away-dress routine—you know, Miss, the second thing I am going to do when I catch you is to sit you down on my knee for a stern lecture on behavior.

  Aside from the various reports I have heard about you from the towns where I have stopped, I believe I might have other evidence of your passage: Several days ago, as I rounded a bend in the river, I was shocked to see a man, an Indian with a half-red face, dangling from an overhanging tree and staring right
down at me! I furiously back-paddled away from the shore, but then I discovered that I did not need to, for it was then I saw the tomahawk thrust in the back of his head and realized he was quite dead.

  As I cautiously proceeded, I found several more bodies lying facedown in the water, their toes still stuck on the bank. Many other Indians were sprawled about nearby, most of them not dead, but moaning and groaning mightily, as if unable to rise. When I spotted the empty casks and bottles strewn about, I understood the reason. It's plain they'd gotten into the whiskey and then turned to fighting among themselves. A bottle floated by my canoe. I reached over and picked it up to read the label that still clung to it: Captain Jack's All Season Tonic and Elixir. I don't know if you had a hand in this, Jacky, but it certainly has your mark on it. If you did, then my thanks, for I certainly won't have to worry about this bunch any longer.

  I have also heard that you have somehow picked up an escort of British soldiers and that gives me cheer, knowing you have that extra protection. Reports portray your demeanor as happy and cheerful, so I must assume the soldiers did not know of your status as a wanted fugitive. May that remain the case until I can join you and spirit you away.

  I put my paddle back in the water and dig it in. I move forward again, having made up my mind—the water on that side is calmer, and for that reason, I think you would have chosen that branch.