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

  Aw, Janey…

  The Sign of the General Butler is very nearly full when we get there to prepare for the night’s show. I wear my cloak about my shoulders as if for warmth, though the night is warm enough.

  I set it up with Molly as to what Clementine’s duties will be, then I step up on the small stage we have had built, with Higgins taking his usual station behind me. I pick up my concertina to accompany the first song. Jim, without being told, goes to help Clementine. Hmmmm… In the beginning, I had half hoped that some sparks might work up between Katy and Jim, but nothing happened. Oh, they are good friends and trade jokes and gibes and all, but it’s a brother-sister thing. But with Clementine, now, I think I can feel the heat between them. But Jim, she says she’s a married woman…

  I put that out of my head and turn my mind to performance.

  “Good evening, gentlemen, and yes, ladies, as I do see some of the fair sex in the audience. All are welcome to the

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  Sign of the General Butler, and none may fear coarse or vulgar language. I will begin tonight’s show with ‘Handsome Molly’ in honor of our gracious hostess!”

  A cheer goes up for Molly Murphy, who acknowledges with a tankard held high, and I go into the song.

  I wish I was in London,

  Or some other seaport town,

  I’d set my foot on a sailing ship

  And sail the ocean round!

  While sailin’ round the ocean,

  While sailin’ on the sea,

  I’ll dream of Handsome Molly,

  Wherever she might be!

  That gets a round of cheers for both Molly and me. I play the melody on my squeeze box and look about and see that Clementine has wiped down a table and is looking about for more to do. Good girl. I do the next verse and another chorus.

  Don’t you remember, Molly,

  You gave me your right hand?

  You said if you should marry,

  I would be the man.

  I see that Jim Tanner is hangin’ right close to our Clementine, and I suppose that is good. We’ve got to watch out for each other, don’t we? I do the last verse, wherein Handsome Molly begins to stray.

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  I went to church last Sunday,

  You passed me right by,

  I could tell your mind was changin

  By the rovin’ of your eye.

  Clementine brings a tray of tankards up to a table and sets it down. Katy is there and she deals the drinks out to the table and Clementine is about to take the tray back to the bar when one of the gents reaches out his hand and runs it right up the back of her skirt. Uh-oh, forgot to warn her about that…

  She stands up straight, shocked, and not knowing what to do while this cove runs his hand over her rump. I’m about to stop the song and sic Higgins on him when Jim appears at her side and grabs the bloke’s hand and throws it down and sticks his balled-up fist in his face. The man looks up into the enraged eyes of the boy and decides not to push it. Clementine looks into Jim’s eyes and I can feel the heat from here. I sing while playing the last verse and chorus.

  While sailin’ round the ocean,

  While sailin’ round the sea,

  I’ll think of faithless Molly,

  Wherever she might be.

  As I round the song off, I notice Clementine heading back to the bar with her tray. Could that be Jim Tanner’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her on her way?

  Amid the applause, I whip off my cloak and reach back for the Lady Gay and put the fiddle to my chin and rip into

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  “Billy in the Low Ground,” and the crowd roars its approval, whether it’s more for the tune or the costume, I don’t know, but I’ll take it either way. I made this dress three years ago, and while it still fits me, the parts of me that might have grown a little bit since that time tend to be my upper works, parts that seem to be trying to work their way out of confinement as I saw away at my fiddle. Perhaps Higgins is right—it might be time to retire this garment. Or at least alter it. Ah, well, who cares, as I am not shy in that regard.

  After three or four more tunes, I do a poem, “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,” and manage to wrest a few tears out of many a manly eye, then lighten the set with a reel, a couple of jigs, a sailor song, and then I take a break.

  “Thanks, Molly,” I say, putting my nose in the foam on top of a tankard of ale and drinking down a long swallow. “Oh, and my throat was so dry, I tell you true.”

  “Ah, well, Jacky,” says Molly, “you’ve been doin’ just fine. Sad to think you’ll be gone in a coupl’a days.”

  “There’ll be someone else who’ll come along soon to play the old tunes, Molly, you’ll see. I ain’t the only songbird in the bush,” I say, somewhat regretfully. I have enjoyed playing here, but I know I got to push on.

  On the other side of the bar, Clementine and Jim are head to head and elbow to elbow, washing mugs and glasses. I know this is a chore that Jim would rebel at in ordinary times, but these, apparently, are not ordinary times for young Jim.

  I finish off the mug, push it away, and again mount the stage. There are whoops and hollers as I launch into another set of songs, instrumentals, and patter. There are times when I look up and notice that Clementine, when not involved

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  in work, or engaged with Jim, continues to study me with those cold blue eyes.

  I reflect also that it is a lot of work holding a crowd in the palm of your hand all by yourself, and it is often that I long for the company of my old partner Gully MacFarland, he of the magic fiddle and the knowledge of a thousand songs. True, he was a drunk and a no-account, but still he had his charms. I think of one of his old jokes, which he used to break up a set, and looking around at the females in the crowd and judging that they’re a quite bawdy bunch of women, I decide to recount it. I put up my bow and begin telling the joke.

  “There once was a Scotsman who was far from his native land, in Pennsylvania it was, and not far from here, in fact. He had drunk his fill in the local tavern and then stumbled out into a nearby field, to answer the call of nature…”

  “Hear, hear, go on, go on!” says the crowd.

  “…and he did relieve himself, but in trying to return to the revels in the tavern, he found that he had already drunk his fill and so keeled over on his back, fast asleep in the heather…”

  “Sounds like a damned Scotsman,” says some bloke, and another tells him to shut his gob. Peace, all, please, I think to myself.

  “…and he lay there till mornin’, peacefully slumberin’ away, when who should come upon his sleepin’ form but two young maidens out to take the cows to pasture. Seein’ him there, one says to the other, ‘I’ve heard that Scotsmen wear nothing under their kilts. What say we find out, Sister?’

  “And so, being bold Pennsylvania girls, they go and lift up the front of his kilt and find…”

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  Guffaws and snickers all around.

  “…and find that he indeed has nothing on ‘neath his kilt. ‘Lord,’ says one of the maidens, ‘look at that, will you!’ and the other says, ‘We must be going on, Sister, but how can we leave him a message that we have been here to observe him in all his manliness?’”

  I give a bit of a pause to build it up a bit, then proceed.

  ” ‘We will do this, Sister,’ and she pulls the blue ribbon from her hair and ties it…about…well, you know what she ties it about,” say I, blushing mightily, my eyes cast down in fake modesty. “Then she pulls his kilt back down, smooths it out, and the two girls go off on their way.”

  I take a deep breath and look off into the rafters, as if the story is done. I give it a beat or two, and then I resume.

  “Presently, our Scotsman wakes up, and again feels the call of nature and goes off to the nearest bush and raises his kilt.” I look all wide-eyed and innocent about the place. “He looks down at his…uh…member, with the blue ribbon around it, and exclaims, ‘I don’t know where you�
�ve been, laddie, but wherever it was, it looks like you won first prize!’”

  And with that, I slam down my bow and tear into “Scotland the Brave,” and the place explodes in laughter. That’s one thing I like about the frontier: You can tell the oldest joke and it’ll be new here.

  The rest of the night went well, and all left very satisfied. When I ended off with, as I always did, “The Parting Glass,” me and Gully’s closing song, I noticed that Jim and Clementine were off in a darkened corner, slowly dancing to the tune.

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  ***

  Chapter 32

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  This will be our last day in Pittsburgh and we are �� making the most of it, doing our last-minute outfitting, loading on supplies, and saying our good-byes.

  I’ve arranged with Molly for Clementine’s lodging till her man gets out. She’ll do chores at the General Butler in return for her room and board. Today she’s here doing our laundry, the tubs being set up outside on the deck to keep from steaming up the hold. I’ve given Jim an errand to run in town so maybe she can get some work done. He has been most attentive to her this past week, and I don’t think she has minded the attention. He’s getting all gloomy now that we’ll be gone tomorrow and she’ll still be here. Ah, the pangs of young love. Poor Jim.

  We’ve got a total of nine passengers, most of them bound for ports this side of Cincinnati—‘tis plain that the passenger trade ain’t going to do it for us in the way of getting rich, that’s for sure. Nope, performance has got to be the way. They’ve gotta be hungry for entertainment out in the wilderness, that’s what I’m thinking. Higgins reserves judgement on this.

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  In that regard I’ve had Carpenter MacCauley make up some wide boards that hook together at their edges, which we can lay from the Belle to any dock we might be next to, making a sort of stage area, where we can put on shows for the people in these port towns and thereby not have to find an accommodating tavern in which to perform. Jane says taverns are going to get scarcer and scarcer as we move on, anyway, so I think it’s good we’re doing this. We have also built some light benches for future audiences, which we’ve stowed down in the still-empty cargo hold—wasn’t able to find a cargo yet, ‘cept for livestock, and I don’t want to smell up my newly beautiful Belle with any of that.

  I’m glad we are moving on. It’s not good to grow stale by staying in one location too long—first whiff of that and you are toast, and old, cold toast at that. Nope, always leave ‘em wantin’ more, as Gully MacFarland used to say. Our good-byes were said last night at the Sign of the General Butler and all pronounced themselves sad to see us go, and that is as it should be.

  Come time for lunch, I have my private table set up on the quarterdeck, as it is a lovely, mild day, and I invite Mr. Cantrell to join me, as he is amusing company even though I know he is a rounder of some sort—just what kind, I don’t know yet, but if he stays with us long enough, I’m sure I will find out.

  “Thank you for inviting me, Miss Faber,” he says, pulling out my chair for me. Ah, I do like gentlemanly manners.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Cantrell,” I purr, and slide into the chair as Katy comes up with the tray. The tea is poured and the food is served and we fall into a wide-ranging conversation

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  that winds up with me lamenting the lack of a cargo to take down the river.

  “It’s got to be clean and compact, and short of carrying a cargo of gold, I can’t think what that could be.” I sigh, resigned to having an empty hold.

  “I have a suggestion, if you don’t mind,” he says, smiling. He smooths back his mustache with the top of his forefinger.

  “Please. I’d like to hear it,” I say. I’ve noticed that men with mustaches do that smoothing bit a lot. “It seems to me that…”

  From up forward I hear Clementine’s voice, raised in song. Hmmm.

  I stand up. “If you’ll please excuse me for a moment, Mr. Cantrell? And please hold your thought on my cargo problem.”

  He stands up as I do and says, “Of course.”

  I recognize the song as “Fair and Tender Ladies.” I know that song, ‘cause Katy taught me the words. ‘Course there’s an old English version, but the American tune is much more sorrowful. Wonder why that is with the Americans— they’re so wildly optimistic about their burgeoning country, yet their songs are so sad and lonesome?

  Come all ye fair and tender ladies,

  Take warning how you court young men,

  They’re like the stars of a summer’s mornin’,

  First they’ll appear and then they’re gone.

  I walk over the cabin top and look down upon her bent over the scrub board. She has a good voice and she sings

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  with great feeling. She does the verse about love bein’ a killin’ thing, and she sounds like she really means it. I wonder where she’s been, to have such intensity. Then she does the bit about wanting to be a tiny sparrow… spay-row is how she says the name of the little bird.

  I wish I was some little sparrow

  And I had wings and I could fly, I’d fly

  away to my false true lover,

  And all he’d say, I would deny.

  As she starts the last verse, I join in. She starts at the sound of my voice joining hers, but she doesn’t miss a beat, nor stumble on a word.

  But I am not some little sparrow,

  I have no wings, and I can’t fly,

  So I’ll stay right here in my grief and sorrow

  And let my troubles pass me by.

  She turns to look up at me as we finish the duet. “You have a very lovely voice, Clementine,” I say. “And I think we sounded very good together, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Well, I guess you have to answer that way, Clementine, whether you think it or not. I consider the girl, who returns to her scrubbing. “You say your husband is a good man, and I believe you. You have proved to be a good worker in your own right. That said, should you catch up with us in your rowboat, I will give you both employment. What do you think?”

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  She turns to look at me and a slight smile crosses her features.

  “Ill ask him,” she says. “Tonight. I’ll be leavin’ this evenin’, since you’re goin’ in the mornin’.”

  From the corner of my eye, I notice that Jim Tanner has chosen this moment to return from his errand and has heard this exchange. I see his shoulders sag.

  “All right,” I say.

  “And, Miss,” Clementine goes on, “you said you might pay me somethin’ for my work…”

  “You shall have it, Clementine. It was good having you aboard,” I say, and with that I return to my lunch with Mr. Cantrell.

  “That was a lovely duet,” says Mr. Cantrell, as we settle back in. “I must say that my first thought when you got up from the table was that you were going to chastise the girl for disturbing our luncheon.”

  “Voices raised in song never disturb me, Mr. Cantrell,” I reply, a bit severely.

  “Nor me, Miss Faber,” says Yancy Cantrell, with a slight bow. “I, too, take delight in music, all music, however simple the source.” The mustache is stroked yet again. “I must say that over the past week I have perceived depths in your character that I had not previously discerned. My compliments.”

  Oh, you are so smooth, Mr. Cantrell.

  “I, too, am a very simple sort, Mr. Cantrell, having been raised as a homeless orphan on the cruel streets of London. But let that go,” I say. “Now, what were you saying on the matter of cargo?”

  “Simply, Miss, that instead of hauling gold, you might consider amber,” says Mr. Cantrell.

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  “Which means?”

  “Whiskey, Miss, is what I mean. The very finest of bourbon whiskey,” he says, pulling out a long cheroot. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all, as long as the smoke doesn’t drift my way and you don’t set my ship afire,” I say. “Whiskey?”r />
  He pulls out one of the newly invented matches and fires up the foul thing. “Yes, Miss. It is clean, compact, and, ounce for ounce, very valuable.”

  “Hauling whiskey to New Orleans sounds to me much like hauling coals to Newcastle,” I answer, doubtfully. “I’ve been to New Orleans. It seemed it was fairly awash in spirits. Need they more?”

  “What you tasted was rum, Miss, or at best rye whiskey, not fine bourbon whiskey. They don’t have the ingredients down there, nor do they know the secrets of the sour-mash process.” He leans across the table and points the cigar at me. “Now, as we journey down the Ohio, you will presently find Virginia on our left, and then, after a time, you will find the state of Kentucky, and there, Miss, is where the very finest of whiskeys are made. And, where you can pick it up for a good price.” Satisfied he has made a good case, he settles back in his chair and watches me for my reaction.

  “Well, as for tasting rum in New Orleans, that did not happen. I have taken a vow never to drink spirits, and I have not, except when certain men of low character have forced it between my lips…”

  “Even more depths…,” observes Mr. Cantrell under his breath, and his eyes narrow and look very sly.

  “…but I will take your words under consideration,” say

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  I, again rising. “But now I must get back to work. Thank you for your company, Mr. Cantrell, and for your advice.”

  That evening, at six o’clock, Mrs. Clementine Fletcher gathers up her belongings and goes off the Belle of the Golden West. She gives Jim a squeeze of the hand and a kiss on the cheek, which I think is proper under the circumstances, she being a married woman and all, in spite of her age. He looks very down in the mouth, but I figure he’ll get over it, ‘cause you generally do.

  She throws the strap of the rifle over her thin shoulders and picks up the bag she arrived with all those days ago, and starts off, not looking back.

  I stand with Jim and watch her go, her too-short yellow dress blowing about her knees as she trudges off into the night.

  I put my hand on Jim’s shoulder and give it a shake, but I don’t know if it helps any. It starts to rain.

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