He glares balefully up at me through red-rimmed eyes, but he is not to be subdued. “What? Hell, no! I ain’t never had a hangover in my whole life, and that includes the night I drunk George Washington, Ben Franklin, Dirty Mary, and Man Mountain Murphy all under the table at the Dew Drop Inn down in Roarin’ Springs.” Mr. Fink pauses here to expel a huge rolling belch, and I believe he feels some benefit from it, as he resumes his tale with increased vigor.
“Ol’ George was out West surveyin’ somethin’ ‘fore he got
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to be President, and he fancied that he could drink with the likes of us. Can you believe it? Pshaw! Thought he could dance, too. Pshaw! That East Virginny pantywaist was the first to fall, and us only four bottles into it. I drug him out and throwed his powdered butt in the horse trough. Went back in and found Dirty Mary a-sittin’ and a-squirmin’ on ol’ Ben’s lap and him a-laughin’ away, but game as he was, and mighty good company, too, Ol’ Lightnin’ Rod didn’t last too long after that. Hell, another bottle and he giggled and keeled over, his bald head thrown back, a smile on his face.
“Dirty Mary lasted a few more rounds, but finally she stumbled over and laid her head on Ben’s slumberin’ chest and passed clean out herself. I gotta say, for a woman she could sure hold her likker. Didn’t look half bad, neither, if’n it was dark and you’d already had a few.
“Man Mountain Murphy, though, he took some doin’, him bein’ three hundred and fifty-five pounds o’ pure dirt-dog meanness. Me and him was eye to eye over our cups till way in the mornin’, but then he finally stood up and said, ‘Lord, I’m a-goin’ home,’ and he keeled right on over.” Fink rubs his chin as if he’s recalling all this. “Yep. He fell straight down like a tree dropped with a sharp ax. ‘Course it didn’t hurt him none, him being so hairy from his beard to belly, to his bare and hairy toes, it was like him fallin’ into a soft mattress, it was. Some fellas are lucky that way, I suppose.”
“That must have been quite an ordeal, Mr. Fink,” I comment, reminding myself to double his dose when the time comes.
“Ah no, girly-girl, far from it.” Fink chuckles. “After I’d disposed of Man Mountain Murphy and the rest, I went ‘round and drank what was left in their cups, then went
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outside and greeted the dawn. I butchered a hog, made up a four-foot stack o’ pancakes, ate it all down, the hog included, from snout to trotters, and finished it off with a gallon o’ coffee so strong you could melt nails in it. Then I took two promenades around the town square, got a shave and a haircut, shot a man for lookin’ at me funny, and then went back to my boat, scrubbed her down from stem to stern, and cast off and went on my way. The town o’ Roarin’ Springs voted itself dry the very next day. Still cain’t get a proper drink within fifty miles of the place, no sir, and it’s a shame. I don’t go there no more. Damn tight-ass teetotalers. Gimme that tiller, boy, and somebody get me somethin’ to eat.”
The morning passed uneventfully, with all of us doing our usual things: Katy the Huntress, with her bow and arrows, looking for food; Jim next to Fink, feigning admiration and pumping him for river lore; and Higgins and me casing things out down below for the final time.
“There are many tools, Miss, and they seem in excellent order,” says Higgins.
“And that is good, Higgins, as we will need them. Oh, and rope, too. Let’s put that coil next to the hatchway, shall we? Good.”
We examine the hold till we feel we have exhausted all its possibilities, and then I say, “The whiskey, Higgins, if you would,” and he produces the bottle.
I go over to my bunk and open my seabag and stick my hand in and rummage around till I feel what I am looking for—it is a small bottle, corked tightly with a coat of
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protective wax on the neck. I break through the wax and hand the bottle to Higgins. “If you would uncork it, please.”
Higgins always keeps certain implements close at hand, one of which is a corkscrew. He produces it and quickly uncorks the little bottle and hands it back to me.
“Now the whiskey bottle, if you please.”
He applies his corkscrew to that bottle and expertly draws the cork from it. He gives the cork a quick sniff and says, “Excellent.”
“Good. Pour a bit out of it. Have a drink yourself, if you’d like.”
“A bit early, Miss. However, I will save it for later.” He surmises what I am up to and pours out into a cup an amount equal to what is in my little bottle and places the cup on a shelf, then hands me back the whiskey bottle.
I pour the contents of my bottle into the bigger bottle and hand it back to Higgins, who puts the cork back in and gives it a bit of a shake.
Ah, Mother’s Little Helper, we meet again, I think. Whatever would I have done without you, throughout this life of mine? You helped me find a home for my baby Jesse, you eased my pain when I was beaten, you helped my men when they were grievously wounded, and now you shall help me do this.
That done, I go back up into the light and compose myself for the coming little drama.
Mr. Fink, now fully recovered from the revels of the night before, regales me with at least ten more tall tales as the day wears on. I contentedly sit and watch the panorama of the riverbanks slipping by in all its infinite variety—here a cove,
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there a beach, here a shady grove of trees hanging over the bank, there a quiet pool that makes me long for a lazy swim. Perhaps with a certain James Emerson Fletcher, sans culotte, hmmm…
“And then ol’ George, he…”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fink, but might you get in trouble for blaspheming the name of General Washington?” I ask. “Back East he is hailed as the Father of His Country, you know.” Several of Mr. Fink’s stories have figured the late President in them.
“Not out here, girly-girl. He tried to slap a whiskey tax on us when he was Prez-ee-dent, and you know that bird didn’t fly, father or not,” replies Fink, with firmness. “We rose us up a rebellion and ol’ George sent out the federals to put us down, but we whupped the hell out of ‘em. I did most of the whuppin’, of course. Was gonna make us a new country, but me and a feller named Shay couldn’t come to terms on what to name it, so the rebellion fizzled.” Fink shakes his head sadly over the vagaries of politics. “They took back the tax, though.”
I reflect that, in most places in the world, the affairs of men are driven by love of country, by war, or by religion. Here, however, they seem to be driven by whiskey.
“What a shame,” says I. “To think we could be traveling through the country of Finklandia right now.”
He looks at me sharply. “You know, girly-girl, I git the feelin’ sometimes that you’re laughin’ at me.” He growls, not at all friendly. “You know, for all your ladylike airs, you got a mouth on you, and I mean to remind you just who’s
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Captain of this ark and if’n I take a notion to pitch you over the side, I’ll do it. See if’n I don’t!”
It is the opening I’ve been looking for.
I gasp and put the back of my hand to my forehead and go into a swoon, as if I am struck to my very core to be addressed so harshly. Me, who’s been called every dirty name in the book, and generally deserving of it.
“Oh, Mr. Fink, how could you think that of me?” I cry, squeezing out a tear. “Why, I-I feel faint. I…”
Higgins is instantly at my side to lend comfort. He casts an accusing eye on the now slightly alarmed Fink. “Sir, please! She is of such a delicate nature! I fear you’ve brought on an attack of the female vapors.” To me he asks, “Are you all right, Miss?” as he puts his hand to my back to steady me.
“Oh, Higgins, oh, please don’t let him hit me! I fear I shall die!” I wail, as I bury my face in my hands.
“Ah, now, I warn’t gonna hit her, you know I warn’t. Oh, damn, please, girly-girl, stop crying now,” pleads Fink, completely flummoxed.
“Shall I make up your bed, Miss, that you might lie down?” asks Higgins.
“No…no, it’s too stuffy down there,” whines I. “Perhaps if you helped me down the deck a bit, and then if you could bring up my medicinal spirits, I think I would be myself soon.”
Higgins helps me limp about ten feet down the deck. While I sit back down, Higgins hurries below. He quickly returns, bearing a tray with the bottle and a glass upon it. He sets it down on the cabin top and pours an ounce or two into my glass.
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I hold it up to the sunlight so Mr. Fink can truly appreciate the warm, deep amber color, a color with which I know he is very familiar.
I lift it to my lips and pretend to sip.
“Ah, that’s much better,” I sigh. “I’m sure my spirits will soon be restored.”
Mr. Fink responds with a profound snort. “Here, boy, take the tiller.” Then I hear his boots tromping toward me. He lifts the bottle and sniffs it. “Why, that’s straight corn likker with some sugar in it! What doctor give you that?”
“Oh, no, Sir. This is a very special tonic. It has the most potent medicines from the mysterious Orient in it, and I fear for your health —”
“Aw, come on…”
“Nay, Sir, as weak and frail as I am, my constitution is used to the power of this restorative, and I fear that yours is not.”
That does it, as it is a direct challenge to his manhood.
“I will have a drink of that bottle, as is my right as Captain of this here boat,” he says, firmly.
“Very well,” I sigh. “If you insist, but I shall bear no responsibility for what results. Is that understood, Mr. Fink?”
He nods and licks his thick lips, not a pretty sight. The little sniff of whiskey he has had so far has merely whetted his appetite, as I knew it would.
“Very well. Higgins, will you bring up another glass?”
Higgins goes below and comes back with the glass, places it on the tray, pours in the liquid, and hands the glass to Fink, who promptly upends it.
“Ah,” he says with great satisfaction, “give me another.”
“Sip, Mr. Fink. You must sip it like you would sip the
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finest of liqueurs,” say I, in warning. At my nod, Higgins refills his glass.
“Sip, hell,” says Fink. “This is how a man sips the finest lee-koors.” And again he drops the opium-laced whiskey down his throat. “Candy,” he says. “It tastes like candy. Give me another.”
“Others have said that, Mr. Fink,” I say, noticing that Fink is starting to sway a bit on his feet. “But I fear for the consequences, I do.” I nod again at Higgins and the glass is refilled, and again downed in one swallow.
Mike Fink places the glass back on the tray with what seems like extreme concentration. He then turns and gazes out over the water. He lifts his arm and points at something I know only he can see.
“Swans,” he says. “White swans. Look at that…I ain’t never seen swans on the river before…and there’s women ridin’ ‘em like they was horses, with their legs wrapped ‘round them birds’ necks…nekkid women…”
Then Mr. Fink sinks down to the deck and keels over, a smile of wonder on his sleeping face.
“Quick!” I say, jumping up. “We’ve got to move fast. Jim! Steer over to the bank!”
Everybody leaps into action. Jim puts the tiller over and we turn toward the shore. Higgins dives below and brings up the coil of rope. Katy runs over and crouches next to the aft anchor. I watch for the proper place to do what we’re going to do, and as I watch, I take off my shoes, dress, vest, and stockings. Higgins slips the rope under Fink’s arms and ties it at his back and then stands ready at the side, holding the end of the line.
“There!” I shout, pointing at a stretch of open beach
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where a tree with overhanging branches is growing. “Jim! Take ‘er in! Katy! Drop the anchor!”
It is done. The anchor catches and holds, and the boat swings in to the shore.
I leap over the side into the shallow water, which is a mite colder than I thought it would be. I fall over but my feet find the bottom and I can stand. I reach up and hold out my hand as Higgins tosses me the end of the rope to which Mr. Fink is tethered, and I half walk, half swim to the shore. When I am there, I take the rope up to that overhanging tree and wrap it around the trunk, taking up the slack so it is taut.
“All right, Katy!” I shout, and I see her let slide the anchor rope around the butt to which it is wound.
The boat, pulled by the current, moves forward, and though I can’t see him, I know that Fink’s bulk is being pulled back toward the stern. In a moment I see his head appear over the edge, then his shoulders, the rope under his armpits, and then the rest of him plunges into the water.
Please don’t wake up, Mike! I’m thinking as I pull him to shore, fearful that the shock of the water might restore him to consciousness. This was the only way we could do this, him being so huge and heavy and all.
“Hold the anchor!” I cry, and Katy ties it off and the boat stops moving. There is another splash as a shirtless Jim Tanner jumps into the water, as planned, to come help me drag my burden to the shore.
My fears are groundless—Fink doesn’t wake up, but snores peacefully on as he is hauled to shore.
“Damn, he weighs a ton.” I grunt as we pull him out of the water so that only his feet remain submerged. “But that’s
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good enough. Let’s go.” Jim unties the rope from both tree and Fink and we start off.
Fink stirs and we freeze, but he only smiles and says, “Swans…”
Jim and I swim back to the boat and are pulled aboard. Jim goes to the steering oar and the anchor is hauled and taken aboard and we are under way again.
“I wish you the joy of your new command, Miss,” says Higgins, smiling. “I shall lay out some dry clothes.”
Still dripping, I jump up onto the cabin top and plant a wet foot on each side of the centerline, the better to feel the action of my boat.
Oh, how good it feels!
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***
Chapter 19
***
We arise this morning at dawn as masters of our own fate—or masters of our own boat, anyway. We breakfast on biscuits, maple syrup, and bacon, and then head back out into the current to continue our journey.
Yesterday, after we had parted company with the redoubtable Mr. Fink, we continued on our way with much singing and revelry and bragging about what clever scammers we were, but it turned out to be not quite as easy as we had supposed—the current had picked up some, likely the result of a heavy rain upriver, and we were pitched about in a most unseaman-like way. I know that Jim was mortified at not being able to keep the boat’s head up when we got spun around several times. We brought up two of the long oars— sweeps, as Mr. Fink had called them—and fixed them in their oarlocks and went to work, with Katy and me on one and Higgins on the other, and we were able to keep her bow to the west till evening, when, exhausted, we pulled in to the shore as night was falling.
Higgins whipped us up a good dinner from the provisions he had bought back in Kennerdell—some bacon, salt
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pork, a kind of dried beef called jerky, and even a good smoked ham. And a halfway decent bottle of wine made, it was said, from the fruit of the wild grapevines we had seen growing along the shore. “Fox grapes,” Katy announced. “Ain’t good fer nuthin’ ‘less you add pounds and pounds o’ sugar to ‘em.” So we were rewarded for our labors and our good cheer was restored.
As we sat watching the evening sun go down in a glorious sunset, I got up and poured a libation of fox-grape wine over the bow, then said, “I christen thee the Belle of the Golden West! Long may you sail! Or float…or drift…or whatever…”
“Hear, hear,” cheered my crew, raising their glasses.
Today, however, the water flows smoothly and the winds stay calm, and we are able to ship the sweeps and rely only on the steering oar. I set up a watch rotation such that every one of us
four would become skilled at the handling of it. Under Jim’s now-expert tutelage, we all do attain a measure of proficiency, but I certainly wouldn’t want to do it for a living, as it takes a certain amount of brute strength to move the thing. There were several times when my feet were lifted from the deck in my efforts to make the damned oar behave.
It is plain that we shall have to hire more crew when we get to the mighty Ohio. How we will pay them, I don’t know, but I’ll worry about that later. Maybe we’ll pick up some paying passengers in Pittsburgh. Going to have to get some good maps there, too, so’s I can gauge distances and figure out what to charge my customers. By the mile, I think, and the money up front.
***
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In the afternoon, as things are going smoothly, I sit with Higgins and we discuss the events of the past day.
“You do not think he will cry bloody murder when he gets up and finds his bearings but not his boat?” asks Higgins. “While it has been my pleasure to serve you these past years, still I would prefer not to be hanged by some unwashed, illiterate American mob for flatboat theft in this benighted wilderness. I had fancied a rather more elegant end to my days—something more in the line of a peaceful death after an honored life, followed by a stately but tasteful funeral featuring endless ranks of weeping but well-dressed mourners covering the casket containing my mortal remains with mounds of perfect yellow roses.”
“Very poetic, Higgins,” I say, “and I hope all that comes to pass for you, but not all too quickly, for I need you here by my side and not reclining elegantly dead in some vault in Westminster Abbey.”
“Westminster Abbey,” muses Higgins. “I do like the sound of that.”
“Anyway,” I say, breaking into his self-elegy, “when Mr. Fink wakes up, he will think that he fell overboard during a drunken stupor and he’ll consider himself lucky to be alive. I’m sure he is right now making up a tall tale to fit the occasion. Shall I give it a shot? Very well: Thar I was, throwed overboard by the biggest wave ever seen east of the monster waves of Bor-nee-oh, tossed down to the bottom o’ the river whar I sucked up enough mud to chink all the log houses from Ohio to Saint Louis. I come back up to the surface and spit up all the dirt inta one big pile and that pile become Mount—”
Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West (Bloody Jack Adventures) Page 11
