“Well, Miss, we have this,” he says, handing me a sort of flat wooden box. “A man attempted to escape with it, but he did not make it past your dragoons. Katy brought it down.”
I lift the lid. Inside is an assortment of watches, gold and silver coins, brass buttons, gold buttons, brooches, hairpins, necklaces, pearls… How sad, I think to myself when I pick up an exquisite cameo to examine. This was probably some poor girl’s most prized possession. It is all just so sad…the evil that exists in men, I cannot understand it.
“Good,” I say out loud, snapping the lid closed and handing it back to Higgins. “There will be a payday in Cairo when we get there, and I’m sure, since no one has gotten any pay yet, all will welcome that. What else did you find here?”
“Powder—whiskey, mostly. Several dozen chickens. Clothing we will be able to use or else sell. And one item in particular that might interest you, Miss,” says Higgins. “But first I must show you this.”
With that he strides over to the pallet that holds the sick boy. The boy’s eyes are still half shut and he is shivering. Higgins reaches down to lift the bottom edge of the blanket. Around the boy’s thin, grimy ankle is a shackle to which is attached a short length of chain and attached to that is an iron ball of about twenty pounds.
I draw in my breath. “A captive, then,” I say. “And not one of the scum. We must take him with us.”
I turn to Clementine. “Run back down to the boat and
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get Chloe. Tell her to bring her lock-picking tools. Both pistols in your hands, now, and keep a sharp watch.”
She looks at me with those cornflower blue eyes and nods, a slight smile on her lips. She pulls the pistols from her belt and heads out and down.
That look she gives me sometimes…it’s like an I-know-somethin’-you-don’t-know look…Nah, it’s just my imagination.
I turn back to Higgins. “When we get it all loaded, leave a big bag of powder in here. We’ll run a line of gunpowder from it and out the front, and when we’re done, we’ll light it off to burn anything in here that the robbers might find useful should they return. I want to hear their rotten teeth gnash from wherever I am when they discover that they don’t even have their foul beds to sleep on.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” says Higgins, knowing how much I like the title. “And here is the item you might find interesting.” He holds up a wooden thing that must be a musical instrument, for it has a hollow body, a fret board, and six strings.
I take it in my hands and strum the strings. It gives off a deep, mellow discord. “What is it?” I ask.
“I believe it is called a guitarra, Miss. It’s a Spanish instrument,” answers Higgins.
Yes, of course. I saw a woman in Kingston playing one the time I was there with the Dolphin. And, yes, of course, this is definitely mine.
In time, Clementine and Chloe come panting into the cave. Shown the shackle lock, Chloe has it off in under a minute. I, myself, am going to have to take some instruction from this remarkable schoolmistress of ours.
***
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We finish loading up by early afternoon. The last load is carried down, and the charge set. Higgins has taken the child down to the Belle and put him in a clean bunk in the passenger area, where cool compresses are put to his fevered brow. We don’t hold out much hope for the kid, but we’ll do what we can for him.
I call Lightfoot, Katy, and Chee-a-quat back down from the top of the cliff, and I apply my flint striker to the trail of gunpowder leading up to the bag deep in the cave. It catches and the flame sizzles its way up and into the mouth of Cave-in-Rock. We wait and are soon rewarded with a whoosh! and a tongue of flame that roars out the cave’s mouth. It looks like the mouth of Satan, himself, clearing his fiery throat.
“Wah!” exclaims Lightfoot, in appreciation.
“Wah!” echoes Chee-a-quat.
And Katy, surprisingly, also says, but much more quietly, “Wah.” Hmmm.
“Well, that purifies the place, at least till the vermin come creepin’ back,” say I, satisfied with both the spectacle and the outcome of the day. “Let’s get back down to the Belle.”
I realize that everyone is weary, I know I certainly am, but I feel we’ve got to push on. I don’t want to stay moored here tonight when any survivors of our attack might have leisure to take potshots at us.
I see that Jim has already put the towlines on the other two boats and we are ready to take off. I jump up on my quarterdeck.
“Stations, everyone!” I call out, and the oarsmen leap to their sweeps.
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“Push us off!” and off we go into the stream to face the Rapids of the Ohio. A little white blur skitters around my feet—it is Pretty Saro squealing in delight at seeing me and at being back up on deck again, she having been sequestered below for the duration of the fight. I give her a quick scratch and say, “Later, baby. Work to do now,” and I attend to business.
“Bring him up here,” I order, and Higgins pulls the miserable Mr. Fortescue to his feet. “Cut off his leg bindings.” It is done. I withdraw one of my pistols and hold it to his head. “Stand here. Do you have a good view of the river, Mr. Fortescue?”
“Y-Y-yes, I do, but…”
“Good. Then you may prolong the length of your miserable, rotten life a bit longer. We are now going to go down through the Rapids of the Ohio and you will guide us. If we so much as touch bottom or hit one rock, I shall blow your head off. Do you understand that, Mr. Fortescue?”
“Y-yes…but what kind of fiend are you, that you would do this to me?”
“Ah, Mr. Fortescue, I am not half the fiend that you or any of your former friends are. I am, however, in many parts of the world known as Jacky Faber, Pyrate, and even as La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci, ‘the beautiful young girl without mercy.’ You may discount the ‘beautiful,’ but I advise you not to discount the ‘without mercy’ It would be at your peril, Mr. Fortescue.”
I pause here and call forward, “Crow Jane.”
“What, Boss?” Her head pops up above the front hatchway. I suspect she has been slaughtering chickens for tonight’s victory feast.
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“Bring up our worst tablecloth and spread it over here on Mr. Fortescue’s left side. Should it happen that I must shoot him, I will do it from the right side, as I don’t want to spill his brains all over my clean quarterdeck.”
“Yes, Boss,” she says, as she goes below to get the cloth.
I look over at our sorry river pilot and ask, “Any orders to the helm, Mr. Fortescue?”
His face fades to an even whiter shade of gray and he says, “Right rudder. Get to the center. Might hit that rock on the right. Hard right, now…”
Six wild hours later and we are through the Rapids without a scratch, on any of the three boats. We drift into the now quiet center of the river and heave great sighs of relief. Then we reflect on what to do with Mr. Fortescue. I have my table set up again and convene the trial. Good smells are drifting up from Crow Jane’s kitchen. I rap my knuckles on the tabletop.
“The good people of the Ohio River Valley versus the False Guide and Deceiver Mr. Frederick Fortescue. How do you plead, Sir?”
“Not guilty,” he answers. “I’m but an honest river pilot trying to ply my trade.”
“Right, Mr. Fortescue,” say I. “Will anyone else speak in his defense?”
Not a word is spoken. The defendant squirms in his bonds.
“Is there anyone who wishes to speak against him?”
“He did order us over to the right, in order to ground us and to put us at the mercy of the river pirates,” testifies Jim Tanner.
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“I was there and heard that order myself,” I concur. “I call for a verdict. So say you one, so say you all…”
“Guilty!” comes the call from all those aboard. Mr. Fortescue looks noticeably uncomfortable.
“Let us proceed now to the penalty phase. All in favor of hanging him, sa
y aye.”
There is a goodly chorus of ayes.
“Hmmm,” I say. “Will anyone speak for the condemned?”
“Your Honor, if I may,” says Preacher Clawson, rising with hands outstretched. “Whatever his past crimes, I beseech you to extend mercy, for is he not still one of God’s creatures, even though he has gone wrong?”
“Hmmm. Very well, Reverend, we will take your recommendation under consideration.”
I sit back and pretend to deliberate. Then I say, “Mr. Tanner, prepare the gangplank.”
Mr. Fortescue looks aghast.
“Yes, Mr. Fortescue, for your crimes against the good people of this country, you shall, indeed, walk the plank. You and your cohorts thought they were true pirates, but, Sir, you do not know real pirates.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s get this unpleasant work done. Strip him down to his underclothes and put him on the plank Prepare some heavy chain to wrap around him so that his body does not float up.”
The Hawkes boys grab the quivering Mr. Fortescue and relieve him of his outer garments. Clanking chain is brought up and placed near him. His eyes begin to go out of focus. The brothers put him on the gangplank that extends over the port side of the Belle. I go up behind him, cocking my pistol. He stands, his hands bound behind him, his knees shaking.
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“Mr. Fortescue,” I say, “you are, indeed, fortunate to have fallen into our hands, for unlike you and your sort, we are not murderers of the innocent, nor even of the guilty.” With that, I take out my shiv to cut the bonds from his hands.
“We have shown you mercy, Mr. Fortescue, kindness that you and your type have shown no others. It is to be hoped that you remember this, whether you sink now, or are able to swim to safety. I do not care which.”
I put my foot in the small of his back and push him over. There is a splash and I do not turn around to see whether or not his head bobs up.
We have a great, triumphant feast that night, all three boats nested up and anchored in a quiet cove. Bottles of our best wine are opened and Crow Jane’s fried chicken is received with great acclaim. Even Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat join us in this celebration. Tales of individual bravery are told and retold. Praise is heaped upon every brow. Songs are sung and more stories are told and eventually we go off to bed. It has been a very long day.
Clementine and I tumble into our bunk and begin to settle ourselves for the night. When we are set and quiet, but before we blow out the candle, I say, “Thank you, Clementine. You saved my life today, you did, and don’t deny it.”
She sniffs and maybe nods but says nothing else.
“I mean it,” I go on. “And if there’s anything I can do for you, please tell me.”
At that, she gets up on one elbow and faces me. “All right. You see that?”
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She points to my miniature painting of Jaimy, which I keep above my bed.
“Yes,” I say. “That is a picture of my intended husband, Jaimy Fletcher, he’s—”
“Uh-huh,” she says. Then, “You done that picture?”
“Yes, though he’s much better looking than—”
“Uh-huh,” she says and settles back down into the pillow. “Then, if you’d make one of Jimmy, uh, Jim Tanner, for me, I’d be grateful…and then…we’ll be even.”
“Of course, I will, Clementine. I’ll start on it tomorrow,” I answer, preparing myself for the sleep that may not come, not for either of us. For I know I will have a new nightmare, that of a man standing over me with a bayonet, ready to gut me like a pig, while she’ll be dealing with the fact that she killed a man.
Dona Nobis Pacem, Pacem, I sing over and over to myself as Clementine and I lie wrapped in each other’s arms against the terrors of the night. Dona Nobis Pacem…
Give us peace.
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***
Chapter 43
Belle log, midsummer. 12:35. Arrive town of Cairo. Debark passengers. Look out over Mississippi River. Personal observation: I had thought that we had been on mighty rivers these past few weeks, but I have never seen anything like this. Good Lord.
We had picked up our former passengers at Elizabethtown the day following the Battle of Cave-in-Rock. They expressed both delight and surprise that we were still alive, and climbed eagerly back aboard. All of them would get off at Cairo, most of them going upriver to St. Louis, which seems to be the only big town around here, and that mainly a trading post. Before leaving Elizabethtown, we informed the town fathers that we had cleaned out the nest of outlaws up at Cave-in-Rock and it would be well if they could send some good men up there, well armed, to keep the bandits from creeping back in and setting up their vile business again, which would surely help the future hopes of their little town. Whether or not they did so, I don’t know. Prolly not.
Higgins had taken to calling me Commodore Faber on the way down to Cairo, but alas, that tide was not to stick.
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We had such a torturous time keeping the three boats in a line that we decided to sell the latter two at Cairo, it being the meeting place of the Ohio and the Mississippi, where boats like these would be in great demand. When I finally did get a good look at the mighty, turbulent flood that was the Big River, all doubts were dispelled: No way was I going to take three boats tied together on the crest of that. Hell, there were houses floating by, for God’s sake, to say nothing of massive uprooted trees, and other nasty snags what could gut the Belle and put all of us under in a minute. One thing you never know about a river: On one day it can be calm, then within minutes all that can change into a roiling mess that doesn’t begin to calm down for several days.
We call a general meeting up on the cabin top soon after we dock and all the passengers have left.
Mr. Cantrell thought that it might be nice to keep one of the boats as a sort of floating tavern and gaming place, but I countered that by pointing out if we stopped carrying passengers, we could do the same thing with the Belle. And so it was decided and all agreed: No more passengers unless they could contribute to our general enterprise. They were mostly a bother, anyway. You had to feed them and all. Plus we would have had to hire on more crew, and I want no more of that. I know Crow Jane was relieved—she was cooking for enough people right now. No, it would be the Belle of the Golden West and our performances—Sanctified, Minstrel, or Medicine—that would see us downriver, and if they don’t pay, well, we will just eat catfish and bullfrogs till they come out of our ears.
We all stand on board this ship as brothers and sisters! So say you one, so say you all! Good. It is agreed.
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***
We set about in a great bustle of activity, selling some things we took from the Cave, stowing others. Higgins sets off into the town to sell the two captured boats, while Yancy and I set about making changes to the Belle. We hire carpenters and have half the passenger berths taken out on the starboard side, to be replaced by a good, sturdy bar with shelves and racks behind to hold the bottles of spirits. Our long mess table will serve as tavern seating. Lanterns and lamps are set about to provide the warm and welcoming lighting. Cantrell wants a small, round table set to the side, seating maybe six, for serious players. I admonish him that I will brook no cheating nor skinning of helpless country boys, and he assures me that only serious members of the sporting class will be allowed to take their place at that table. On the floor to one side of that table, we install a trapdoor, with a secret pull-lever handy to the head chair, to take care of any unruly patrons. There is much hammering and sawing going on as I take my leave of the place, to go out into the town, satisfied that all is going well.
The boy? Oh, yes, that boy. He does recover, against all odds. On the second day, his eyes pop open to stare about him in wonder, seeing three young females about him, mopping his brow with cold compresses and murmuring soothing words. It has to be quite a change from his former company.
When he is able to speak, he tells us that his name is Daniel Prescott and tearfully r
elates that he was captured by the river pirates last year, along with his father and uncle, neither of whom survived the attack. When I tell him of our
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successful attack on those same vermin, he expresses great joy to hear it.
“I hope you killed them all. Warn’t a good one in the bunch. I hate them.”
“And I hope that you do not let that hatred fester in your heart, young Daniel, for it will mean that they managed to hurt you for the whole of your life,” I say, placing my hand upon his arm. “Never fear, many of them are dead, Daniel and you are alive, here, and safe.”
In his delight at being aboard the Belle, he is soon up and about and getting into everything. When we get him clean and presentable, I stand him up in front of me and inform him that his billet is to be ship’s boy, and in that capacity he is subject to the orders of every single person aboard. In addition to any chores the others assign him, he has the job of looking after Pretty Saro, scrubbing her down and keeping her in the pink, and she seems to thrive under his care. Crow Jane, with plenty of new slabs of bacon and butts of ham now in her food locker, has given up gazing pointedly at a contentedly sleeping Saro whilst running her thumb along the edge of her knife to test its sharpness. My piglet is safe, for the time being, at least. But every day she is growing larger, and very soon we will no longer be able to call her a piglet.
Crow Jane has an unlooked-for delight in this port when she meets up with someone from her own Shoshone village high up on the Missouri and Snake rivers. There are exclamations of happiness at the meeting, expressed by a sort of shuffle dance done with thumb in mouth, then great hugs
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and squeals of joy. The girl, who turns out to be Crow Jane’s niece, has with her a little boy of about two, Jean Baptiste. She was captured, as a child, by the Hidatsa Indian tribe and then later sold to a French trapper, who made her his wife when she was old enough to be a wife and to be gotten with child. I think to myself, Huh! A lot of say she had in the matter, but the travails of her life don’t seem to bother her overmuch. She eats and laughs with great gusto and charm as she recounts her travels, in both French and English. I find that she has been on that Lewis and Clark Expedition across the new Louisiana Territory that Amy Trevelyne was going on about back in Boston. That expedition is now breaking up, the leaders heading back to Washington to report to President Jefferson. ‘Tis no wonder the men on the expedition took her along, as I am sure she brought them much cheer in their darkest hours. Now she’s been hired as cook on a boat going downriver. Of course, she’ll take her son along, too. Her name in English is Bird Girl, and we invite her to dinner and avidly listen to her tales of the wild wonders she has seen, especially me, and, curiously, Katy, too, who seldom expresses enthusiasm for anything. And this Indian girl has even seen the Pacific Ocean on the other side of this massive country. Jeez…Even I ain’t never yet seen the Pacific. We sit there far into the night, listening with chins in hands, rapt, until she finally rises, picks up her child, thanks us for dinner, and leaves to continue her journey downriver.
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 25
