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

by Louis A. Meyer

  Mike—for I have been allowed to call him that, since we are now partners in pursuit of you—is dead set on your grisly demise. I have tried appealing to his better nature, hoping that one exists there in that mountain of hair and muscle and bone, but he persists in calling for your end. He

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  has gone through many versions of what he hopes will be your last moments on this earth, some of which are quite colorful. The one concerning cramming a charge of powder up a certain posterior part of your anatomy and lighting the fuse with his cigar being one of them. I myself, in the past, have thought of paddling that same part of you into some sort of submission for your depredations against both society and my own well-being, so I had some perverse sympathy with his scenario, but still I pled your case.

  “She really is a good girl at heart, Mike,” I said. “And, yes, while it is true that on occasion she is given to larceny— it is, admittedly, one of her less admirable qualities—still I wish you would give her the chance to explain her actions. She does sometimes have a good, reasonable motive for the things she does.”

  “You sure do talk funny, boy,” said Mike, ruminating on what I had just said. Upon some serious consideration, he went on. “Nope. Gotta kill her. Y’see, my reputation on the river depends on it. Why, if it got out that I was bested by that little twig of a girl, I’d be a goner. Ever’body’d be laughin’ at me, and I couldn’t have that. I’ve come to like you, boy, even if you do talk like a Baton Rouge girly-man, but no, my mama’d roll over in her watery grave and swamp two, three dozen boats in the process, and we can’t have that, surely. Nope, Jacky Faber’s got to go down.” He clamped his jaw shut, and the case was closed.

  I decided to keep silent on the subject and just row—for one thing, talking about you upsets Clementine. Sometimes she continued to knead my shoulders as before, sometimes not. Sometimes I felt her teeth gently nibbling on my neck, sometimes not…not gently, I mean. What I

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  really plan on doing when we catch up to you is to get between the warring parties and appeal to sweet reason in both of you and arrange for you to give him his boat back with your apologies.

  “But, Mike, they will hang you if you kill her,” I said.

  “Nah. They tried to hang me once for horse thievin’ down in East Lick but it didn’t take. Nope. I ‘member it clear as day. The judge, he got up on his hind legs and hammered down with his little wood hammer and said, ‘Mike Fink, you stand accused of stealing this man’s horse and fer that I find you guilty! Guilty as hell, you thievin’ rascal, since we found you a-ridin’ on that very same horse and braggin’ about it to boot!’

  “Well, I couldn’t deny that, so I tol’ them to get on with it as I was a busy man. Then the little judge got up again and must’ve been consumed with his own eloquence, ‘cause he said, ‘Mike, there’s gonna be a big card game tomorrow and all the local sports’ll be there, a-sittin’ at a big ol’ table ‘neath the big oak in the town square, and thar’ll be piles o’ money on the table and around that table will be the best gamblin’ men in the country. But you ain’t gonna be there, Mike Fink, ‘cause tomorrow morning we’re gonna take you out and hang yer sorry ass for the stealin’ of this man’s horse, and we’re gonna hang it from that very same oak tree hangin’ over that big card game. No, Mike, the cards’ll be slappin’ down but you’ll never hear ‘em ‘cause yer dead butt’ll be hanging over the game as a lesson to all those miscreants and yer soul’ll be twangin’ its harp up in Heaven or else be roasted by all the demons down in Hell, which we all find much more likely!’

  “So they brung me out the next mornin’ and done it,

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  sheriff and preacher and all, and they put me on a box, put the rope around my neck, and swung me off into eternity.”

  Mike paused to shake his head in wonder at the perfidy of the human race and then went on.

  “Or so they thought. Y’see, the problem was that my neck muscles was too thick and strong, so I wouldn’t choke t’death like they wanted. Oh, I gasped a bit and all, but nothin’ serious, nothin’ worse than a little ol’ sore throat, the kind you get if’n you been drinkin’ bad whiskey for a week or so. Anyways, after about ten minutes o’ swingin’ there, when ever’body was startin’ to go home, tired of it all, I looked down and saw that the card table with all the sharpers was at my danglin’ boot tips, and, damn, I couldn’t let that go, so I begged for someone to come and take my boots and socks off, and who should come up but my good ol’ girlfriend Sugartail Sophie, and it was she who pulled off my boots and socks, and bein’ familiar with me and all, she didn’t faint away when they come off, jest staggered a bit, is all. Good girl, she was.”

  Fink again stopped his narrative to make sure I’m rowing hard enough. Satisfied with our progress, he went on.

  “So I played in that game with my toes four inches off the table. Had Sophie pull out the three quarters I had in my pocket so as to get in the game. Won the first hand o’ Five Card Stud with two queens up and one in the hole and then won ever’ hand—or, in my case, every foot—after that. Seven Card Stud, Low Ball, Texas Sweat, Razzle Dazzle Pass the Trash, didn’t matter which game, ol’ Mike Fink’s luck was with him. I had Sugartail pull in the winnin’s, but I handled the cards with me toes. Got so’s I could deal pretty neat with them toes, too. Shuffle, even.”

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  He took another deep breath and then concluded.

  “Eventually I won all the money and most o’ the real estate in that town. Told ‘em I’d give ‘em all their money back if’n they let me go and rename the town after me. And if’n they didn’t, I was gonna give it all to Sugartail Sophie to set up the biggest whorehouse in the territory. Damned if they didn’t agree. They cut me down and tol’ me to get out of town and to never come back, which was all right with me ‘cause I was sick and tired of their hard hospitality, anyways. I thanked Sophie for her help and lit out of Finktown fer good. Never been back there since, nope.”

  Mike Fink relaxed against the transom and said, “Tomorrow, we’ll be there. Time to get some killin’ done.”

  With that he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, leaving Clementine and me to navigate that last stretch on the Allegheny River.

  What will tomorrow bring? I cannot help but shudder at the possibilities…

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  ***

  Chapter 25

  ***

  This town calls itself the Gateway to the West, so I guess we ain’t seen nothing yet in the way of real wilderness, though it sure seemed wild on the way down here. I have heard tales of the West and I worried some about that. River pirates and wild red Indians and all. I had also learned that much of Pittsburgh was made of the bricks from an old fort upriver that was torn down after it fell into disuse. It was named Fort Pitt and was used in what the locals call the French and Indian War, and so I resolved, first chance I get, to go exploring the warehouses and supply houses of this town to see what I might find in the way of discarded firepower.

  My performances, both in the General Butler and elsewhere, have been going very well—I don’t know whether it’s the quality of the music and the entertainment, or the fact that there’s so little of it out here that anything in that regard is welcome. I don’t know, but I’ll take it, either way. The tips have been most generous.

  The barn dances that we’ve entertained at have been the most riotous affairs, fueled with high spirits and, of course, with the ever-present whiskey. The couples arrange

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  themselves in squares, and “callers,” men who call out instructions to the dancers in time to the music, sing out: “Swing your partner, bow to your corner, do-si-do, and promenade!” It is all good fun, and sometimes I wish someone else was playing the fiddle so I could join in the dance. There is much sparking going on among the young people, that’s plain, and there’s more than one good-looking lad.

  On this particular morning, however, I put my mind back on the business of self
-protection, and Higgins and I suit up and go off to scour the warehouses and supply houses that abound. That is the purpose, but it’s also an excuse to sashay around in all my finery, nodding to them on the streets who recognize me, and, I must say, there are many. I can scarcely walk down the street without being recognized by my public. I love it.

  Sure enough, we soon find a nice little three-inch swivel gun. That’s a cannon mounted on a swivel so that it can be easily aimed. The three inches is the measurement across the barrel’s mouth. We also buy a deadly looking four-inch cannon. These guns are small enough that they won’t tear the deck of the Belle apart when they are fired, but they are large enough to be effective. We haggle over price and pick them up for a song, since to these people who are no longer at war, the cannons are only worth the brass that is in them. I order them brought to the Belle. They will shine up beautifully. I look forward to drilling my crew in gunnery.

  I also buy powder and shot, a dozen cannonballs for each gun, and some bags of rock salt—I’ve no wish to kill anybody, and a tail full of rock salt can discourage even the most persistent of pests.

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  The hot work of munitions shopping done, we roll back up the street and into the General Butler and stick our noses in a couple of pints and pack in some lunch while I get a report from Molly. I had posted some hand-lettered notices about the docks, advertising the fact we were taking on passengers for a trip downriver and anyone interested could sign up at the General Butler.

  “You got five passengers to Cincinnati. One man alone, a man and wife with two kids. All paid up. There’s some more say they’re goin’ but need some time to scrape up the dollars.”

  “That’s good, Molly, thanks.”

  “Oh, and a man named Cantrell wants to talk to you. Tol’ him you’d be playin’ tonight and he could talk to you then.”

  “All right.”

  “Looked like a real slick fella to me.” Molly sniffs, with a bit of warning in her eye.

  “Well, he’d best not try to flimflam an old Cheapside scammer like me.” I laugh.

  “And he’s got a young black girl with him.”

  “What? Well, I won’t have that,” I say, firmly. “There is to be no slavery on my ship.”

  “Look, dearie, you can fluff up your feathers all you want, but if you’re goin’ all the way down to New Orleans, you’re gonna have slave states on your left side all the way down, so you’d best get used to it.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to him, anyway,” I say and turn my full attention to the food in front of me, it being chops and gravy. “This is really good, Molly. You are some great cook.”

  Molly smiles, pleased, and wipes down the bar at which we are seated.

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  “Speakin’ of that, Jacky, I recall you sayin’ that you were lookin’ for a cook for your ark?”

  I nod. “Still am,” I say around a mouthful of chop.

  “Well, Crow Jane’s in town and she’s lookin’ for work. She’s good—can cook for five, can cook for fifty. Injun woman. Knows how to run a kitchen. Started off workin’ for French trappers goin’ up the Missouri, then she got onto the riverboats.”

  An Indian! I had seen some people that I thought might be Indians on my way here, but none definite, and none I could see up close.

  “A very colorful name,” I say, careful of my words, my mind conjuring up visions of painted faces and tomahawks.

  “If you want, I’ll send a boy to find her and tell her you want to talk. You gonna be back on your boat this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And, yes, do send her by.” I look at Higgins and shrug, and he shrugs back.

  Quelling my usual urge to wipe my mouth on the back of my sleeve, I pull my handkerchief out of that selfsame sleeve and pat my lips.

  “Come, Higgins, we must return to the Belle,” I say, rising. “The guns will be delivered soon and I want to see them put in place. Cheers, Molly.”

  We are off.

  The Belle of the Golden West is a hive of activity this afternoon.

  The guns are brought aboard at one o’clock and we haul the four-inch cannon up forward and secure its carriage tightly down there, with the barrel sticking out over the

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  bow. Katy will now have to straddle the gun if she wants to sit in her usual spot, but she says she doesn’t mind, it’s all the same to her.

  We mount the swivel gun on the cabin roof, right in front of the quarterdeck. We make sure the apparatus holding the swiveling post that allows the gun to be aimed is anchored in good solid wood. Even though this is only a gun with a three-inch mouth, still, the recoil would be quite powerful.

  When we get them in place, with the help of our carpenter, Mr. MacCauley, I stand back and admire them.

  “Once again, Miss,” says Higgins, with a certain dryness in his voice, “you stand in command of a warship. My congratulations, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Higgins,” I say. “I know you are saying that with just a touch of sarcasm, but still, I like to hear it.”

  I set Jim to polishing the cannons and Katy to sewing up canvas covers for the armament—it’s best that one’s capabilities in that regard be kept from those who might be watching. Higgins takes off into the town to buy plates and other gear we will need for the feeding of passengers. The sign painter I had hired has arrived to paint Belle of the Golden West on either side of the cabin walls in big fancy gold and black letters. He sets up his buckets and brushes and gets right to work.

  Having gotten some good maps and a set of dividers on one of my forays into the town, I spread out the maps on the quarterdeck cabin top and start figuring out distances so as to be able to charge the proper fares. The day is calm with no wind, so the maps do not blow around, and the sun is

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  warm on my back. All is good, I reflect, taking a satisfied breath and then bending to my task.

  “Miss Faber, I presume,” I hear from the dock, and look up to see a very well-dressed man taking off his hat and bowing to me. Instinctively, now, I drop into a bit of a curtsy, then rise to look at him. He is dressed in black from bottom to top. Black trousers, black coat pulled back to reveal a black vest. His hair, which he wears cut short and not tied back, is wavy and black, except for gray at his temples. His hat, which he now puts back on his head, is curled in the brim, high in the crown, and black. The only spot of color is his red cravat, which is worn instead of lace, at his neck. I put his age at about forty-five, fifty, or so. I also put on the Lawson Peabody Look—back straight, chin up, lips together, teeth apart, and eyes hooded.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, and I am bound for New Orleans.” He smiles, and I see that, unlike many around here, his teeth are white and even. Except for a neatly trimmed mustache, he is clean shaven, which is also a rarity around here. All in all, he is a very handsome man.

  “That is good, Mr. Cantrell, as I plan to journey there myself, on my boat.”

  “Alas, Miss Faber, I have only enough fare to travel halfway to Cincinnati, but I assure you, in all confidence, that I will gain the rest of the fare as we travel on. If I do not, then you shall be free to put us off wherever you choose. Agreed?”

  I do not yet agree. I see some telltale bulges under his jacket and comment upon it.

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  “All guns are checked at the gangway, Mr. Cantrell, and believe me, you will be checked,” I say, in warning.

  “That is a very wise rule, Miss Faber,” he replies, bowing again, apparently to my wisdom. He broadens the smile.

  “What do you mean by ‘us’?” I ask, suspicious. I have seen the Colored girl hanging back behind him.

  “I have my girl, Chloe, here with me. She will be no trouble.”

  “I’ll have no slaves on my ship, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “She is not my slave. She is my servant, and she is free to go at any time.” He reaches back and brings the girl forward. She is clad in a dingy white shift, he
r slightly maturing figure evident through the thin cloth. From the bottom of her shapeless dress extend possibly the longest legs I have ever seen on any human around the age of sixteen, which age I suspect she is. Her hair is tied up in small braids, and on her face she wears an expression of the purest indifference.

  “You agree with what was just said, girl?” I demand.

  The girl nods, not looking me in the eye.

  “She is mute, Miss Faber. That is all the answer you shall get from her, I’m afraid.”

  I think on all this, and I decide.

  “Give me your hand on it, Mr. Cantrell,” I say, as I walk to the gangway and extend mine. I feel the touch of his palm and know that his hand has never felt labor of any kind. He squeezes my hand and then raises it to his lips.

  “Thank you. Miss Faber. I do not think you will regret your decision.”

  “I hope I shall not, Mr. Cantrell,” I reply, withdrawing my hand and looking at him with my level gaze.

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  “And now, Miss Faber, I would like to move aboard, as I would rather give what money I have to you, rather than to some inn. Is that agreeable?”

  We are more than a few days from departure, but what could it hurt?

  “That will be acceptable, Sir. However, you shall have to take your dinners onshore, as we have not yet set up our kitchen,” I explain.

  “That will be just fine, Miss Faber,” answers Mr. Cantrell. “I will take my leave now to go collect our luggage.” With that, he bows again and turns to leave, walking back up the dock, the long-legged black girl loping in his wake.

  Well, I think, and turn back to my task. According to my calculations with my dividers, Cincinnati is about four hundred and seventy-five miles downstream, so at twelve cents a mile, that works out to fifty-seven dollars, more or less, which seems fair, considering the fact that we are providing both food and entertainment. So that means that passage to Cairo in Illinois Territory will cost—