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

  “Faber?”

  Hearing this, I lift my head and look to the dock. Standing there is a woman, about five feet tall and three feet wide, a solid woman built like a door. She is dressed in a skirt of what I take to be leather, a fringed shirt of the same, and a red headband around her brow. Her hair is black, with streaks of white, and it is braided into two pigtails that are bound with bright ribbons. In her hands she holds the hilts of at least three knives and several pans.

  “You must be Crow Jane,” I say, somewhat taken aback at her appearance.

  “Yep. Cook. Lookin’ fer work. You the boss?”

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  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Whatcha got?”

  “Well…”

  “Lemme look at yer fire,” she says, and with that she steps aboard, her saucepans clanking about her. She heads for the hatchway down into the hold. I meekly follow her.

  She rattles around the stove, opening doors and lifting lids. She checks out the wood stacked next to it, picking up a piece and holding it to her cheek. She nods in apparent approval and then examines the sleeping quarters.

  “All right. What pay?”

  “Uh…,” I stammer, “…a dollar a day, room and board. A cut of any prizes.” That last part sort of slipped out.

  She turns to look at me, with black eyes ‘neath lowered black brows. “Prizes? I ain’t heard of prizes before.”

  “Prizes are anything we can take…steal, like,” I say, lamely.

  She gives a grunt of a laugh. “All right, then.” She puts her pans on the stove and throws a sack I had not noticed before on the bunk that was to be hers. Her knives go into a slot on the side of the stove. Then she looks at me, sizing me up, I suspect. “Whatcha got fer crew?”

  “Well, we have two girls, me being one of them, one young lad, and one big man,” I say.

  “You’ll need more. At least two strong men. You got the Rapids of the Ohio to get through. Cave-in-Rock, too. More stuff after that. Where’s yer supplies—flour and lard and such?”

  “Down here below,” I say, showing her the entrance to the lower hold. “Do you know of any that might serve?”

  “Might. The Hawkes boys are both in the jailhouse. Due to get out tomorrow. Nathaniel and Matthew Hawkes.

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  They’re good boys if you can keep ‘em away from strong likker and wild women. Good boatmen, too. Grew up on the river. If you want ‘em, best pick ‘em up right from the jailhouse and bring ‘em here. Don’t give ‘em no money or they’ll just get in trouble ag’in. I’ll go with you when you pick ‘em up. They’ll mind me.”

  What could I say to that? I now have a cook and some additional crew. I hope I have done right.

  But now I must put all that out of my mind. I must finish up my distance figuring, compose an advertising poster for the Belle, and then take it up to the printer on Market Street. When I return, I need to get ready for tonight’s show.

  That night, during the second show, all was going really well, when, in the midst of me doing “Billy Broke Locks,” there was the sound of a tremendous fight going on down the street. There were shouts and gunfire going off, and in the midst of it all, there was an oddly familiar roar that I could not quite place. Higgins went to the door to see what was up. He was gone for a short while, and when he returned, he reported, “It was a big riot going on down at the White Horse. The sheriff and his crew arrived and are beating men to the ground with truncheons. It seems to be ending. Even as we speak, men are being dragged off to jail.”

  “None of our concern, mates!” I crow. “Stay here and be gay, for there’s nothing but trouble down there, and nothing but good fun here!”

  And so they stayed and so we played, far, far into the night.

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  ***

  Chapter 26

  Jaimy Fletcher

  At Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

  Jacky,

  We got into Pittsburgh in the early evening and I suggested to Mike that we might put up for the night along the wooded shore and resume our search in the full light of day, the better to give me some time to work things out between you two, hut he would have none of it.

  “No, b’God! Mike Fink don’t wait when there’s killin’ to be done! Nope, he gets right down to it and sends them souls directly to Heaven or Hell, dependin’ on their inclinations, and I suspects that Jacky Goddamn Faber is goin’ to the lower regions ‘cause God don’t put up with people who steal other people’s boats. No, he don’t,” said Fink with great resolution and firmness of purpose in his voice. “Hey!” He sat up straight and pointed off to port. “That looks like my boat! Pull over there!”

  With Clementine steaming behind me, I rowed in that direction.

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  ***

  Clementine has been steaming a lot, ever since she found out that not only are you not a boy, but, worse yet, my betrothed.

  “That mean you gonna marry her, Jaimy?” she asked last night when we finally camped onshore, her hot eyes brimming with tears.

  “I don’t know what anything means anymore, Clementine,” I answered wearily, “but I meant what I said: I won’t leave you.”

  “What you gonna do, keep me in a shed out back of yer place when you marries her? Is that what you mean to do, Jaimy?”

  “No, I don’t. Now come over here and give me a kiss, and hush, now. Hush.”

  “Do you love me, Jaimy?” I took a breath, held it, and then exhaled. “Yes, I do, Clementine.”

  She waited a moment and then came over and lay next to me and put her hot, tearful face next to mine.

  “I was so happy then, Jaimy, before…when it was just you and me on the road.” She snuffled. “So happy…”

  “Now, now. You’ll be happy again, Clementine,” I said. I promise.

  “It shore looks like my boat, but what are them lumpy things on deck? And what does that say on the side?” asked Fink, squinting in the gloom.

  “It says ‘Belle of the Golden West,’ and I don’t know what those things are,” I said, trying to figure a way to divert his attention. It was his boat, all right, and I knew damned

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  well what those canvas-covered things were: They were guns. I reflected that it did not take long for La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci to commandeer a ship and rearm herself. “Let’s put in there and then go check out the taverns. That’s where she’s most likely to be, night falling as it is.”

  “All right,” growled Fink. “I could use a drink, anyhow. Do it.”

  I steered toward a landing, breathing a small sigh of relief as we hit the shore. If he had gone directly to the boat, all hell would have broken loose. I had recognized Jim Tanner standing guard on the deck of that boat. There’s no mistake. You are somewhere in this town, Jacky.

  Mike jumped out of the boat and headed toward the lights of the town, which were just now being lit.

  I jumped out after him and said to Clementine, “You stay here and watch our stuff. Give me the pistol.”

  She handed it to me and said, “Oh, Jaimy, stay here with me! She ain’t worth it, please, Jaimy…”

  “Now, Clementine, I will be careful. You’ll see.”

  And with that I scrambled after Fink, who was heading full tilt for the nearest tavern.

  “Mike, wait!” I panted as I caught up with him. For a huge man, he can certainly move fast. I looked up and found we were at the entrance of the White Horse Tavern. From up the street, at another tavern, I heard applause and then a female voice say, “Thank you, thank you, you are all too kind. I would like to sing you now a song from the days of your glorious revolution, ‘Billy Broke Locks.’” I knew in an instant it was you, and it was all I could do to keep myself from bolting up the street. But what I thought was good sense prevailed: I couldn’t let Mike Fink at you just yet.

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  “Let’s ask in here,” I said to Mike, and shoved him in the door of the White Horse Tavern.

  It was dark and s
moky and smelled strongly of every bit of spilled beer or whiskey that ever soaked into the floor, but not smoky enough to keep us hidden from view. As soon as we stepped in, someone said, “Christ, it’s Fink!”

  “Goddamn right, it’s Fink,” roared Mike. “Now give him a drink a-fore he kicks some serious ass!”

  “You got any money, Mike?” asked the landlord, fixing a suspicious eye on my companion.

  “Hell, yes, I got money,” said Mike, sticking out his lower lip. “So set ‘em up!”

  “Wal, then, Mike,” said the landlord, “mebbe you kin pay me back for the damage you done last time you was in my place, drunker’n a skunk!”

  Mike was outraged.

  “HOLD ME BACK! HOLD ME BACK! I’M A RING-TAILED ROARER AND ABOUT TO DO SOME DAMAGE! OOOOOWEEEEE! I’M A-GONNA CUT EVER’ONE IN THIS PLACE A NEW-”

  “You ain’t gonna cut nothin’, Mike,” said a voice from the shadows. Into the light steps the hugest man I have ever seen. ‘“Cause I’m a-gonna toss yer dried-up carcass outta here, right now.”

  Mike Fink reared back and fixed his eye on this newcomer to the discussion.

  “Wal, wal,” he said, nodding his head in appreciation of the new situation here. “If it ain’t Man Mountain Murphy, the biggest, stupidest, and ugliest man on the frontier. Heard you had a new job, Murphy—”

  “Wha’s that?” rumbled this mountain of a man.

  “Standin’ out in front of a doctor’s office, makin’ people

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  sick.” Mike chortled. “Ha! I heard that ugly sits on you like stink on—”

  “And I heard,” said Man Mountain Murphy in a curiously high, piping voice, “that some little slip of a girl done stole Mikey Fink’s boat. Tha’s what I heard.”

  That did it.

  Mike brought back his right fist and slammed it straight into Murphy’s jaw. Murphy rocked back on his heels, but recovered quickly and grabbed Mike in a great bear hug, and together they staggered to the door and out into the street, the riotous crowd within following the fracas and egging on the participants.

  I, too, went back out into the street, but not to enjoy the spectacle, oh, no—I was thinking this was an excellent time to race up the street, whilst Mike was otherwise engaged, burst into the tavern in which you were playing, be joyously reunited, tell you of Mike Fink’s murderous intentions, and then light the hell out.

  Such was not to be. As the main combatants fell to wrestling on the ground, other members of the audience chose sides and tempers flared. It seemed that Mike was not without friends in this port, and other fights erupted. I heard whistles blown and curses shouted and knew it would not be long before the police arrived. As I slunk away from the action, a hand fell on my shoulder and I was turned around.

  “Friend of that Fink, ain’t-cha, farm boy,” said a grizzled old cove, and a fist exploded on the side of my jaw. I was dazed and confused. I tried to lift my fists to strike back, but I found I could not. “You like that, boy? Well, here’s some more.”

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  I was slammed on the other side of my jaw and I went to my knees, in shock. Then the man who was beating me was hauled back, and I dimly perceived a policeman telling me to get down on the ground, and then when I did not understand what he was saying, he brought his club around and struck me on the back of my head.

  My last conscious memory that night was of Clementine shouting, “No! No! Git off him! Leave him alone! Git off my man!”

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  ***

  Chapter 27 Notice

  All Persons Desirous of Waterborne Transport to

  Louisville, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Beyond A Voyage to those Places will be Undertaken by

  Belle of the Golden West

  A Finely Fitted-out River Cruiser which will be Departing Shortly Possessing all of the Amenities including Fine Wines, Spirits, and Tobacco. Breakfast, Dinner, and Supper will be Available for your Pleasure.

  Entertainment Nightly

  The Fare Being 12 cents a Mile Traveled:

  Louisville $38

  Cincinnati $57

  St. Louis $93

  New Orleans $234

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  The Belle of the Golden West can be viewed at the Publick Dock, and Reservations can be made at the Sign of the General Butler. Measures have been taken to ensure Passenger Safety when under way.

  “Now, ain’t that fine, Higgins?” I say, holding up one of my new posters. It’s morning and they have just been delivered. I am again dressed in my finest clothes, since I will be going to the jail to bail out two miscreants. I want to look my best, responsible citizen and all, so it’s the riding habit again. If fortune smiles on me in the future, I mean to get some new clothes. Maybe in New Orleans, as they are sure to have the latest fashions.

  “Yes, Miss,” says Higgins, pouring the morning tea. “And in the best of taste, too, echoing the refinement of the name of this vessel, painted on its sides. I am especially fond of the curlicues on each of the letters. Serifs, I believe they are called.”

  I almost snort some tea through my nose. “Now, Higgins, this is not London and we must do as the Romans do. We must not be shy, if we mean to make money.” I settle back in my chair. We have got a small table and four chairs, and they are set up on the cabin top when the weather is good, which it is today. “You’ve met Crow Jane?”

  “Yes, actually. We went over our stores yesterday and she was quite useful in pointing out what we lacked. Strange things, like buckwheat, and sourdough starter, beef jerky, and sorghum molasses. She seems to know what she is doing. I gave her some money to go off to buy what we needed.”

  “I have told her that you are second-in-command of this

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  ship, and that she is to take an order from you the same as if it came from me.” I put a slice of buttered toast to the teeth.

  “Ah, yes. First Mate on a riverboat on a river in the trackless American wilderness, hip to hip with a red Indian sous-chef. Surely every British butler’s dream,” replies Higgins, absolutely deadpan.

  “Higgins, you kill me,” I chortle. “You really do.”

  “And now you’ve gone and made a bit of a mess. Here, let me tidy you up.”

  Higgins applies the napkin to the jelly smears on my face, and then I return to my breakfast.

  ” Mmm. Good toast. And what is this?”

  “Elderberry jelly, locally made. You will find it quite good, I think. And yes, the bread was made by Crow Jane. She was up early and had the stove going nicely.”

  A head appears at the passenger hatchway up forward. I see who it is and say to myself, Why not?

  “Mr. Cantrell. Will you come share tea and toast with me?”

  He looks over at me, at my table, removes the hat he had just put on, and says, “That is very kind of you. I will be happy to join you.”

  He comes up on the cabin top, and Higgins pulls out a chair for him, and he sits down, brushing back the tails of his coat.

  “Lovely day, Miss,” he says.

  Higgins brings another place setting and I pointedly glance down at the Colored girl, who has also come up on deck to sit next to the railing and look out over the water. Higgins nods and goes below.

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  Higgins reappears, with another cup for Mr. Cantrell, which he fills from the teapot that sits on the table. He has also brought up two baskets of buttered toast, one of which he places on my table and the other of which he places in front of the girl. She looks up, suspicious, but she puts her hand in anyway and takes a slice and eats it.

  “Yes, Mr. Cantrell, it is a most lovely day.”

  We spend breakfast in learning about each other’s origins, him being from New York City and me being from Boston, which is as far as I am willing to go in revealing my past. It is most enjoyable, as he is a very amusing and well-spoken guest. Eventually, though, Crow Jane comes up with a stick in her hand and announces that it is time to go get the Hawkes boys out of jail, and I rise and bid him adieu.r />
  As we approach the jail, or calaboose, as Crow Jane would have it, I ask her why people call her Crow Jane.

  “Well, y’see, Boss, there’s a tribe o’ Indians out West called Crows, and a lot of folks think I’m Crow. But I ain’t. I’m Shoshone, from up in the high parts of the Snake River. Early on, got me a taste for French trappers, whiskey, and tobaccy, so here I be. Got two sons, Francois and Jacques, trappin’ up on the Missouri, and a daughter married to a trapper named Baptiste who runs the trading post on the Platte. Got some grandbabies by them, too.”

  We walk on a bit, and then she says, “Could be ‘cause I had a tame crow onc’t. Named Henri. Had his tongue split so he could say some words. Nobody could understand him but me, but they was words, I know. Died last year. Miss him. Jail’s right here, Boss.”

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  Boss Faber looks up at the edifice. It’s made of brick and stone, and I’d hate to have to break out of this one, accomplished jailbreaker though I might be.

  “The way in is on the other side,” says Crow Jane, starting in that direction. I go to follow when I hear a familiar bellow.

  “Goddamn! It’s her! Right there! The one what stole my boat!”

  I freeze for a second— Good God, it’s Fink! —then I whip out my shiv and get into a crouch, expecting attack from any side.

  But it does not come. Carefully I look around, and then I look up. There I see a very small, barred window about six feet up the side of the wall, and filling the entire window is the enraged face of Mike Fink.

  When I see that Mr. Fink is safely confined, I replace my knife in my arm sheath and turn to talk to him.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Fink!” I chirp, and drop down into a full curtsy. “How good to see your cheerful countenance again.”

  He manages to get an arm through the bars and seems to be reaching for my throat. I step forward and keep that throat about two inches beyond his grasp.

  What he says is not coherent, but it seems to dwell mainly on a fervent wish for my imminent death by strangling.

  “I am so glad you survived your fall into the river, Mr. Fink. We looked for you, you know, but as we were inexperienced, we were swept down the river. I ask you, what could we do?”