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

  Yesterday, after I had gotten on the raft, which I promptly named the Deliverance, I tried to think of a way to signal the others that I was all right and heading downriver for New Orleans. I knew that they would be delayed by making repairs, but as soon as they were able, they’d push on, and I didn’t want them wasting any time looking for me. What to do? I’d only three things to my name: my shirt, my skirt, and my cutoff drawers. Hal That’s it, I thought, and poled my way over to the shore where I had spotted a likely looking overhanging tree. The sun was up over the horizon and it was now full day.

  I maneuvered under the branch, then reached up under my skirt and pulled off my drawers. Then I hung them by the drawstring so that they’d be spread out to flap in the

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  breeze. Anyone on the Belle would certainly recognize the underpants as being mine, all being quite familiar with their shortened condition, as I had pranced about on board on many an occasion, wearing only them as my lower garment. I know, I know…I wasn’t raised up proper.

  There being a clear open bank of fairly hard sand next to the tree, I hopped over and, keeping a wary eye out for ‘gators, scrounged up a long stick and two short ones and laid them on the sand in such a way as to form an arrow pointing downstream. Then I scatched a J in the sand and got back on Deliverance and poled as far out toward the middle as I could, and when the pole could no longer find bottom to push on, I let the current take me.

  There being no one in sight, I shed my shirt and skirt and hung them on the shack to dry. I sat down and leaned my back against the wall of the shady side of that cabin of sorts, and then as the day warmed up, I dozed off. I had, after all, been awake for over twenty-four hours.

  I awake with a start as the raft bumps against something.

  Oh, no! How long was I asleep? Damn! Just like Jacky Faber, Fine Lady, to arrive in New Orleans spread out on a raft, starkers!

  But I see it is only another floating trunk of a tree and there is still no one close around. There are, however, boats in the distance, and if anyone’s got a long glass…I jump up and throw on my now quite dry shirt and skirt. The skirt, being of leather, has shrunk up considerably and stretches tight across my tail and only goes down to mid thigh now. Lord, I must present a sight.

  I scan the horizon and realize it was lucky I awoke when

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  I did, for there, to the southwest, rise the spires of the city of New Orleans.

  I find the bottom again when the raft floats near to the levee, and I pole over to an empty spot on the dock and tie up. It is, indeed, a bustling harbor—barges and flatboats clustered around, bales of cotton piled high on the docks, workmen all over the place, noise and confusion, and the masts of tall ships poking up into the sky. Ah, yes, my kind of place!

  I nip into the raft’s shack and find the cleanest of the dirty rags and wrap it around my head as a shawl to hide my shorn hair and dart out into the town. I hurry, so that no one can come up and demand of me a dockage fee for my Deliverance.

  Oh, I could have a good time here, I’m thinkin’, looking around at the profusion of taverns and bars. There is the smell of good food everywhere and my belly is growling, but I don’t even have a pennywhistle to play upon to earn some coin with which to buy the food. Nobody’s gonna put a penny in my cup if I just stand on a street corner and sing. I don’t even have a cup. Shall I beg? The idea fills me with revulsion. No, never again will I beg. There is another way, and I start asking passersby for information.

  I try, but I don’t get the answers I’m looking for. I think maybe I’ve been asking my questions of people who are a mite bit too respectable looking. Ah, here’s two that look like they might be of the sportin’ class.

  “Excuse me, Sirs, but might you know of a woman—”

  “Comment?” says one of the men, clearly taken aback by my appearance. Ah, he is French. Well, then…

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  “Pardon, messieurs, mais…, ” and I ask the same question in French.

  They look at each other and smile what they think are secret smiles, but I know what they’re smiling at, the dogs.

  “Oui,” says the other man. “�� la Maison de le Soleil Levant. La rue Conti, ” and he points up a street leading into the town. “L��.”

  I say, “Merci, Monsieur. Au revoir, ” then head up Conti Street, wrapping my shawl tighter about my head.

  The street is narrow, as all the streets here seem to be, and long balconies hang overhead, with people sitting on them and laughing and talking back and forth. There seems to be a good deal of gaiety in this town, and I like it.

  I pass Decatur Street, then Chartres, then Royal, and…there it is, just as he said. There is a sign above the doorway, made of carved wood, showing a semicircle sitting on a horizon, with rays coming out of it, all painted in bright golds and oranges and red.

  It is the sign of the House of the Rising Sun.

  A man in livery stands at the entrance and greets men as they enter. I know that welcoming customers in is not his main duty, though, that being keeping scum like me out. So I lurk and await my chance.

  It comes when a carriage drawn by two fine horses pulls up in front and the doorman goes to it to help the occupants out. He goes down the six or so steps to the street, and I dash up them and through the door.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I make out a small trim woman standing before me.

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  “Please leave,” she says. “We don’t take on Indian girls here.”

  I’m astounded. “Missus Bodeen? How could—”

  “My name is Mrs. Babineau. Mrs. Bodeen is my sister. How do you know of her?”

  “Uh, she got me out of a scrape one time. In Boston.” I let the rag slip back from my head, exposing my sandy blond stubble.

  “Hmmm. It is obvious that you are not an Indian, but just what do you want here, child? Employment?”

  “No, Ma’am, but I’m told a friend of mine lives here and I’d really like to see her. Her name’s Mam’selle Claudelle de Bourbon, and—”

  “Precious! Dear, dear, Precious!” A burst of vivid yellow comes out of the next room, arms extended. “You’ve come to see your Mam’selle, just as I knew you someday would. Oh, come here, Precious, and give your auntie a big ol’ hug!”

  “Oh, Mam’selle, I’m in so much trouble!” I wail, letting the tears come and falling into her embrace. “I’m all alone and I ain’t got a dime! Can I stay with you for a few days till my friends catch up with me? I’d be ever so grateful!”

  “Everybody in this house pays their way,” says Mrs. Babineau, in warning.

  “Oh, she will,” says Mam’selle, brightly, “she will. But first we’ve got to get this poor little thing into a bath.”

  “There now, Precious, you shed your darlin’ little Indian-girl outfit—I declare you arrive in our midst at the forefront of fashion—and slip into that tub. That’s it. Now, isn’t that some fine?”

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  Ahhhhhhhh…oh, yes, it is.

  “I must say your choice of hairstyle had me quite astounded when first I gazed upon it,” she says, running her hand over my fuzzy head, “but now I must say I find it…curiously charming. Perhaps, someday, you’ll tell me how you came by it?”

  “A long story, Mam’selle, involvin’ some crazy men and a whole lot of tar and feathers.”

  “Ah yes, I see some black smudges, here and there. Have you been a bad girl, again? I certainly hope so,” she says, giving me a broad wink. “But don’t worry, Precious, I’ve got an emollient right here that’ll take that tar right on off. Here, lean forward. Let me work it in. That’s it.”

  Ahhhhhhhh…

  “You shall sleep next to me tonight, Precious, safe and protected, so shut your lovely eyes and relax, free of all cares and woe.”

  I crack open one of those lovely eyes and say, “I gotta tell you, Mam’selle, that I am promised to another person, body and soul…and that person is a young man.�
��

  “That’s all right, Precious, and that is how it should be. I just want to feel the warmth of your dear body close to mine as we lie in sweet slumber. That’s all,” Mam’selle says.

  She picks up a towel from a hook on the bathhouse wall and spreads it open. “Stand up, dear, and let’s dry you off. Then we’ll see about some proper clothing for you. That’s it, step over here.”

  I stand and climb out of the tub.

  “Oh, Precious, you are just the most exquisite little thing.”

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  ***

  Chapter 69

  ***

  “Yes, Precious, the Lafitte brothers do, indeed, frequent this establishment, mostly for the gambling. They were here not two days ago. Why do you ask?”

  “Because, Mam’selle, if they get their hands on me, they’ll kill me. Jean Lafitte bears me a special grudge ‘cause we stopped one of his ships last summer, and when we found it was full of slaves, we liberated the poor wretches on the coast of South America and gave them all the ship’s stores of food, tools, and weapons, to get them started in their new life. I marooned the slavers’ crew on an island after several days’ sailing and then burned their ship to the waterline right before their eyes. Told ‘em to give Jean Lafitte the regards of Jacky Faber, La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci.”

  “That was very gallant of you, ch��rie. Here, turn around, we must adjust the sash. There.”

  A dress, a red one with a very low-cut bodice, has been found for me and I am being put in it, on this, the morning after my arrival in the city. I spent last night in Mam’selle’s yellow room, in one of her flimsier yellow nightgowns, she having taken the night off in order to tend to me. She had dinner brought up to us—it was hot, spicy, and good.

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  Tonight, however, we know we must work—she at her trade, me at mine.

  “Stupid of me, really. The taunting—not the liberation—I mean. The slavers were picked up by a passing ship and they got back to Lafitte and reported what had happened, and he, of course, was furious and swore eternal vengeance. I saw him once after that, when our ships passed close going in opposite directions in the harbor at San Juan. He stood on his quarterdeck and shook his fist at me and cursed great French oaths, but we had the wind behind us and he did not, so he could not make good on his threats. I thought of bending over and giving him a look at my backside, but instead I merely gave him a deep curtsy and laughed. Prolly shouldn’t have laughed at him, male pride and all that, but I did, long and loud. One of these days I will learn when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “You were not afraid he might chase you?”

  “Chase and catch my Emerald? It never happened. Well, except for the last time, that is,” I say wistfully. “She was one fine, fast ship.”

  “And she is now…?”

  “At the bottom of the sea, off the coast of France.”

  “Ah, I am sorry…But you know, don’t you, Precious, that he’s a respected citizen of New Orleans?”

  Which tells you something of the nature of this town, I’m thinking.

  “Lots of people think Jean Lafitte is a bold pirate, Mam’selle, but really, he’s just a dealer in stolen goods and a slaver. He buys things off of real pirates and then sells them in this town. That’s why people here like him. They like the price of those stolen goods.”

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  “Eh bien, ch��rie. But since he has many friends here, we must put you in disguise. This will help. Mam’selle Colette was kind enough to lend it to you till your own lovely locks grow back out.” Mam’selle takes this huge wig from its stand and puts it on my head. “My! Look at you now, child!”

  I stand in front of Mam’selle’s full-length mirror and I am amazed at what I see. Long, thick black ringlets hang by my face and tumble off my shoulders and back. My chest swells out of the lace that lines the bodice of the dress, which goes in tight at the waist and then flares out the back, over my rump, and down to my ankles. There are gossamer white, puffy sleeves, for coolness, and white cotton gloves for my hands. I am speechless with wonder.

  Mam’selle is not, however. “Precious, you are the very picture of a Marie Antoinette of Color! Why, with that tan, you look every bit a very pretty high-yellow gal, just like me. I declare you could pass for mulatto, or at least quadroon.”

  She pats things in place and takes a powder puff and dusts my upper chest and then my nose.

  “You’re lucky, child, that you have those big brown eyes—were they blue, we might have trouble, but they aren’t, are they? They’re just the loveliest shade of deep amber. Now, let’s get some color on that cunning little white eyebrow and a little rouge on your cheeks, uh-huh…and a little red on your lips. Pucker up now, darlin’, that’s it. Oh, that’s so cute, I can’t resist. A little kiss, Precious? Just a peck? Oh, thank you, dear, and be still, my heart! And now a little beauty mark right…there. Done! Even your dear old mother wouldn’t know you!”

  She sure wouldn’t, I think to myself, and if she did, she’d he aghast. Painted up like a three-dollar—

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  “We shall have to choose another name for you, Precious, for purposes of concealin’ your identity and keepin’ you from further harm. How about…Jasmine?”

  I consider this and continue to regard myself in the mirror and a wicked smile comes over the lips of the person reflected. Oh, if only I could appear to Miss Amy Trevelyne like this, why I declare she’d just faint dead away, yes, she would…

  “That’s very nice, Mam’selle, but I’ve always been partial to Tondalayo. I could be your sister, Mam’selle Tondalayo day Bourbon, of the New Orleans Bourbons, and none of that Baton Rouge trash,” I say, recalling Mam’selle’s first introduction of herself to me in Constable Wiggins’s jail in Boston.

  She clasps her hands together and exults, “Oh, that’s just perfect! My own dear little sister Tonda lay o, come in from our country estate to visit with her big sister Claudelle! Oh, we will have such fun together! Here, let’s put this hat on you, and off we go into the town, to see the sights and search for your lost friends! Take your parasol, now, for you must keep the sun off your face.”

  Shortly, we are off in the town, heading in the direction of the levee, Mam’selle pointing out things of interest as we go.

  “…And we are now crossing Bourbon Street, which, as you must know, was named after my family, and over there’s the graveyard—see how all of ‘em’s aboveground like that? That’s ‘cause the water level is about a foot under the surface, so they can’t put ‘em below. They’ve got to put ‘em up…”

  I nod, noting with fondness that Mam’selle’s speech sometimes lapses back into that which she learned as a girl, just like mine does sometimes.

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  “…there’s the Convent and the Church and there’s…”

  We meet many people, some of whom know Mam’selle and bow politely, and she introduces me as her sister and some ask me if I am a new resident of the House of the Rising Sun and I answer that yes, I am. I’ll be performing musical numbers tonight as well as dealing faro, three-card monte, and blackjack, and would they please be so good as to drop by? It is in my nature to always drum up business for whatever establishment I happen to be playing in.

  Finally, we come down to the docks, where I had arrived only yesterday.

  I look anxiously around for the Belle, but find nothing. Was I too optimistic to think that they had got through the tornado all right? Oh, I hope not…

  I see that my raft Deliverance is still there, tied alongside the dock. It’s got a little bit of paper tacked to the shack, probably a demand for dockage. I ignore it and move on.

  “Your pardon, Sir,” I ask of a man who looks like he’s in charge of things on the dock, “but have you seen this boy— this man—recently? His name is James Emerson Fletcher, and I’d be ever so grateful if you’d search your memory for any sign of him. He probably tried to gain a berth on an outbound ship as either mate or seaman. He is an experie
nced sailor. He was dressed in buckskins, last I saw him…”

  The man shakes his head, looking at the drawing I had done of Jaimy only this morning. It was, of course, from memory, and memory is fading.

  “Nay. Could be any of a hundred men I’ve seen today. And ships come in here and go, they don’t sign in with no harbormaster, no, and don’t post no manifests, neither.

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  Three left just this mornin’—one to gather sugarcane in the Caribbean, one to Boston with a load o’ molasses, and the other to the South Seas. Bor-nee-o, and all that.”

  “Well, thank you for your time, Sir, and if you hear of anything…”

  “Say, sweetie, where’re you berthin’ right now?” asks the man, lookin’ me up and down. “Yer a right good-lookin’ little Colored gal.”

  “At the House of the Rising Sun, Sir,” I simper.

  “Wal, I’ll sure be there later tonight,” says the man, with a big grin.

  “That’s fine, Sir. All true gentlemen are welcome at our maison.”

  “Come, Precious, let us take a table at the Cafe Dauphin, right over there. We shall take refreshment and you’ll be able to keep an eye on the levee,” says Mam’selle, as she drags me over to a table on an open patio over which canopies have been spread.

  “Ah, that’s much better,” says she, sitting and folding her parasol. I do the same. “Garcon, two dry sherries, please. And a plate of crawdads, too.”

  “Is this the only place the big ships dock?” I ask, still scanning the harbor area.

  “Oh, no, sugah. They dock all the way down the river from here. All the way to Lafitte’s slave pens on Grand Terre Island, out on Barataria Bay. Then the Gulf opens up and it’s all salt water from there on.”

  Hmmm…when the Belle gets here, we’ll have to search even farther on down. If the Belle gets here…

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  I lift the glass of amber-colored wine to my lips and take a mouthful and swirl it around on my tongue and then swallow. Ahhhhh… There is always something to be said for the riches of a seaport town.