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

  “Slave pens. Slavery everywhere you turn in this world, it seems,” I say, disgusted.

  “So it seems, Tonda-Zoy-o. Will you not try a crayfish? They are very good here.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” says I, taking the tiny red lobsterlike thing from her. “How do I eat it?”

  “Why, you bite off the tail and chew it with your dear little teeth and then you suck out the head and then you swallow.”

  It sounds disgusting, but then I’ve eaten some pretty strange things in my life and so I do it and find it quite delicious.

  “Um, that’s very good,” I say, reaching for another. “But tell me, Mam’selle, how did you manage to remain free in this world of slavery?”

  “Free?” Mam’selle asks, incredulous. Then she begins to laugh. “Free? Why, child, Missus Babineau owns my high-yellow ass from the top of my yellow hair down to my yellow-painted toenails! Didn’t you know that?”

  Shocked, I shake my head.

  “Oh, yes, she bought me when I was a little girl and raised me up right there in the Rising Sun, and when I was old enough and ready to enter the Sportin’ Life, I did it.”

  Aghast, I say, “But when you were up at Missus Bodeen’s in Boston, you could have run away…”

  “And done what, Precious? Scrubbed floors, washed

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  clothes? No, not for Mam’selle Claudelle day Bourbon. Come right down to it, I wanted the Life. I wanted the clothes, the music, the money, the fine wines, the high times, the well-dressed gentlemen, and the pretty, pretty girls. After all, I met you, didn’t I, ch��rie? Non, je ne regrette rien. Non.”

  But, dear Sister, the Life leads only to disease, disgrace, and death’. I think that, but I don’t say it, for I know it will do absolutely no good.

  We sit the whole afternoon, sipping at the wine, snacking at food, and talking, but nothing comes in sight to bring me cheer. No Belle of the Golden West, no Jaimy. In late afternoon we rise and go back to the Rising Sun to prepare for the evening.

  I had begun the evening’s set by doing “The Willow Garden,” followed by “Scarborough Fair,” and then I turned to “The Young Girl’s Lament,” a sad song I recently learned from Solomon Freeman. It seemed appropriate, seeing the kind of place I was in.

  When I was a young girl, I used to seek pleasure,

  When I was a young girl, I used to drink ale,

  Out of the alehouse, and down to the jailhouse,

  Right out of a barroom, and down to my grave.

  Mrs. Babineau had me placed in a chair, a guitar on lap, on a small stage off the main entrance and between two arched doorways, where I can be seen and heard but not be in the way.

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  If he had but told me, before he shamed me,

  If he had but told me about it in time,

  I could have had potions, and salts of white mercury,

  But now I’m a young girl, cut down in her prime.

  The doorway to my left is where the girls meet with their customers, and the one on the right leads to the gaming rooms. I am to play softly, just loud enough to lend some atmosphere to the place, some class. Mam’selle has fitted me with a filmy black veil that sits on the bridge of my nose and covers my lower face, should Jean Lafitte enter and recognize me. After my musical set, I am to go into the gaming room and deal blackjack. I will thus pay for my keep and make some money for myself in the form of tips, half of which I get to keep. Seems fair, considering.

  When I was a young girl, I used to seek pleasure,

  When I was a young girl, used to drink ale,

  Out of the alehouse and down to the cathouse,

  My body is ru-ined…they left me to…die.

  I wind up the “Lament,” not singing the lyrics very loud nor very plain, so as not to upset anybody, and figure I’ll go next to some French tunes, and start up on “Plaisir d’amour…”

  Plaisir d’amour

  Ne dure qu’un moment.

  Chagrin d’amour

  Dure toute la vie.

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  I’m well into it when I notice this gent standing off to the side, looking intently at me. He nods, smiling, then he chuckles at some secret joke.

  I look away from him, and when I finish the song, he comes up to me and says, “Very nice, Mademoiselle. Tr��s charmante.” He bows. He is middle-aged, well-dressed, bearded, and strangely familiar. Who is he? Think, girl! Imagine him without the heard. No, perhaps I was mistaken…

  “Merci, Monsieur,” I softly say, looking into his deep, penetrating gaze. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out two silver coins and places them on my tip tray. “Merci, encore.”

  “II nefait rien,” he says. “It is nothing, as they are nothing but coins, when they should be diamonds for one who has eyes as beautiful as yours, ch��rie. But, alas, they are all that I can afford at the moment. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.”

  He bows again and then turns and goes into the gaming room.

  What a strange thing to say…

  The place is beginning to fill up and Mrs. Babineau nods at me and I put the guitar aside and rise. I go into the gambling room, sit down at the blackjack table, and shuffle the cards.

  “Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs,” I say. “Please place your bets.”

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  ***

  Chapter 70

  ***

  I learned a lot last night about the House of the Rising Sun, as I dealt out hand after hand of the game of twenty-one, sometimes called blackjack. You are showing a four, Monsieur, do you wish a hit? Ah, a mighty king…are you still in the game? Busted, ah, what a pity, Sir. Madame, what is your pleasure? Hit you? But, of course. A five and a six showing…if you have a face card under, you will beat me. Too bad, you do not, but I do. I’m sure your luck will change. Place your bets, mesdames et messieurs, the cards are being dealt…Ohhh, double down on aces, Sir. Formidable!

  When I first arrived, I was made to show my skill with guitar, voice, and cards to Mrs. Babineau, so she could see what I might do to pay for my shelter. While she was pleased with my musical ability, she was most taken with my skill with the deck of fifty-two. I want the house to win, she had said, looking at me hard, not too much and not too obvious, but win all the same. Do you understand, Tondalayo?

  I do. The players I liked, those who were kind and courteous, they walked away winners. Those I didn’t like walked away considerably lighter in the purse than when they had first sat down. But, by and large, the house always came out

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  ahead at my table. Cheating? Hey, cast the first stone, you. Those men shouldn’t have been in a place like this, anyway, is what I say.

  I learned that while the blackjack and faro and three-card monte tables were popular, it was at the poker table where the serious money was being wagered, bet by hard-eyed men with stacks of coins and bills in front of them. I further learned there was seldom trouble with sore losers because guns are checked at the front door by Mrs. Babineau, herself, and anyone who is found to have violated that hard-and-fast rule by sneaking in a handgun is forever banned from the Rising Sun. As it is the finest establishment of its kind in the city, that is severe punishment indeed. Herbert, the doorman, is expert at spotting suspicious bulges under gentlemen’s coats and is not at all shy in giving a customer a quick frisk. Anyone found with a weapon of any kind is thrown over the wrought-iron railing to the hard cobbles below, no matter what his status or standing in the town.

  And yes, I found that all feuds and disagreements among men, gangs, families, or even pirate crews, Lafitte and his bunch included, are left at the door, else they would be denied admittance forevermore, and everyone, everyone, comes to the House of the Rising Sun.

  I discovered, too, that both men and women were welcome at the gaming tables, whether the game be faro, blackjack, dice, or poker, which sets New Orleans off from a lot of towns I know, Boston and London being two.

  And I learned that Mam’selle was as good as her word in regards
to sleeping with me—aside from sleeping with her nose pressed up against the back of my neck with her arm thrown across me, she was good. Mostly.

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  ***

  I step out of the House of the Rising Sun in late morning and stand blinking in the light of the actual sun, already well risen in the cloudless sky. Mam’selle has several…uh…appointments today, so I will strike out on my own.

  “Good morning, Herbert,” I say while putting up my parasol.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle de Bourbon. ” He offers his arm and I lay my hand upon it and together we go down the steps, then I am off down Conti Street, intending to check out the docks again to see if the new day has brought me anything in the way of good news of my friends. My picture of Jaimy is rolled up in my hand, too, for I will not give up on that.

  As I walk away from the Rising Sun, I get several glares from ladies dressed more somberly than I, who had plainly seen me come out of the place. “The wages of sin are death, slut!” says one of them, unable to contain herself. I stick my nose higher in the air and walk on. I swear, there are biddies, always biddies, everywhere in this world, who are more concerned with the morals of others than they are with their own.

  A group of nuns approaches me, as I near Royal Street, to tell me they can help me get out of the Life if I would just come with them and let them take care of me, but I say, “Thank you, Sisters, but not just yet,” and press on. At least they were nice about it.

  As I cross Royal and see Chartres Street up ahead, I become aware of three men walking behind me.

  Uh-oh…Am I being followed?

  I speed up my pace, but they stay right behind me. We

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  cross Decatur and then Peters Street and we’re about to get out into the open area around the docks, and I’m about to break into a dead run, when, from the last alleyway to the left, step three more men. These men have swords, and they are drawn, and… What? …and at the front of them is the man who last night tipped me with two coins, saying he wished they were diamonds. Diamonds! Of course, you idiot! It is the Marquis de Mont Blanc, the Frenchman you captured off the coast of France, the one who was fleeing the wrath of Napol��on and who had converted all of his family’s wealth into diamonds! Damn! You charged him half his fortune to get him safely to England! Damn, damn, and double damn!

  “I am but a defenseless girl. Why are swords drawn against me?” I ask, the Lawson Peabody Look in place, determined to bluff it out, if I can. The end of this street widens out onto the levee, and I can see the river shining up ahead. If I can make it there, I might yet be safe.

  “You do not recognize me, my dear?” he asks, bowing low. “Why, I was the one who once taught you the song you sang last night, ‘Plaisir d’amour,’ when I was a guest upon your ship, L’Emeraude. Ah, I see that memory serves you well now. Will your memory also recall that you fleeced me of a fortune in diamonds, rubies, and emeralds?”

  “Ah, the Marquis de Mont Blanc, of course, I remember you, and most fondly, I might add. And I recall you saying, when you last dined with me, that you would make for New Orleans after we reunited you with your family, and here you are. Imagine that.” Stupid, stupid, not to remember that, you!

  “It is true you brought me to the bosom of my family, but for that you charged me half the ancestral fortune of the

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  family Mont Blanc. Would not even La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci find that fee a trifle exorbitant?”

  “You might like to know, Monsieur, that your fine jewels went to build an even finer thing, an orphanage, the London Home for Little Wanderers, where many a woeful waif has found warmth and refuge and much kindness and love,” I say, with a full curtsy. “There is even a bronze plaque in the dining room, telling of your generosity. Daily the children sing your praises.”

  “You cannot know how that gladdens my heart, Miss Faber,” replies the Marquis de Mont Blanc. “But for now, on to other matters. May I present, Mademoiselle, my cousins Jean and Pierre?”

  I gasp as a sword point is put to my throat. I look down the length of the blade and behold the smiling face of Jean Lafitte, who holds the hilt at the other end.

  “Bonjour, ma petite. I see that you have grown some since our last encounter and that is good. The exacting of my revenge is going to be very, very pleasant for me…But as for you? Ah, well, we will see if you enjoy it as much as others have. You will place your person in that carriage there, yes, and—”

  “She isn’t going anywhere, Froggy, ‘cept into a ship bound for England and the gallows at Newgate! Now stand back!”

  All heads, including mine, jerk up to see in the alleyway to the right, a group of men holding guns, both rifles and pistols, all cocked and pointed at my captors. Lafitte’s men, thinking only to capture a helpless female, did not carry any guns, and must therefore drop the points of their swords.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” exclaims Jean Lafitte, enraged at the intrusion. “Who dares—”

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  Flashby? How—

  “I dare, Frenchy,” snarls Lieutenant Harry Flashby, his face covered with what must be a thousand insect bites. He is surrounded by a crew of grim-looking thugs. “I have here with me heavily armed agents of the British Embassy in this town, and if you do not wish an international incident, or to have a bullet put in your snail-eating guts, you will stand back and you will stand back now, Mon-soo-wer!”

  Jean Lafitte’s sword point does not drop from my throat.

  “Stand back? Stand back?” he cries, ready to thrust the blade into my throat. “I will not stand back, dog of an Englishman! I laugh at your threats! I spit in—”

  “OOOOWEEEE! STAND BACK! STAND BACK! I’M A REAL STRAIGHT-OUT RING-TAILED ROARER AND I GOT ‘ER NOW, AND I GOT ‘ER GOOD, BY GAWD, AND I’M A-GONNA KILL ‘ER. YESSIR, GONNA SNAP ‘ER SKINNY LITTLE NECK, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW! YES, LORD, It’s JUDGEMENT DAY! OOOOOWEEEEE!”

  All heads, both English and French now, turn to look at the shaggily bearded three-hundred-and-fifty-pound apparition pounding up the levee on tree-trunk-sized legs, hands outstretched and reaching for my neck.

  Good God, it’s Fink!

  I look at my options—Lafitte, Flashby, and Fink—and decide on the lesser of three evils.

  I duck under Jean Lafitte’s sword point and run to Mike Fink and throw myself upon him, my arms about his thick neck, my face buried in his bushy beard.

  “Oh, Mikey, save me! Those men, they wanna hurt me!”

  “Hurt you? Hell, I’m a-gonna kill you! Hurtin’ ain’t even in it!”

  “You can kill me later, Mikey, but right now you gotta

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  stop those men, ‘cause they wanna deny you the pleasure of killin’ me!”

  “They do, do they? Wal, we’ll see about that!”

  With me still clinging to his front, Mike Fink picks up a medium-sized anchor from inside a dory that’s drawn up on the levee and commences to swing it on its rope, around and around, letting the line play out till the anchor describes a fifteen-foot arc in the air, whistling around and keepin’ my would-be captors back and at bay, at least for the moment.

  But it ain’t gonna serve! Soon they’ll start pepperin Mike with their pistols and he’ll go down, no matter what he says about his invincibility! What to do, what—?

  “Jacky! Get down! Now!”

  I pull my face from Mike’s bristly beard and look over his shoulder and peer right down the five-inch barrel of the bow gun of the blessed Belle of the Golden West. Jim Tanner stands to the side of it, firing lanyard in hand.

  “Mike! Get down! They’re gonna fire! Get down!”

  He jerks his head around and stares at the Belle drawn up to the levee bow first. He lets fly the anchor, which I see with some satisfaction lands on the foot of Lieutenant Flashby, who grabs his wounded part and hops about, bellowing in pain, and then all three hundred and fifty pounds, more or less, of Mike Fink hits the deck—right on top of me.

  “Oo
oofff!” I gasp, unable to draw breath.

  Crrrrrack! barks out the bow gun.

  “Omigawd!” scream out the English, clawing at the red-hot chunks of rock salt imbedded in their faces and hands.

  “Mon Dieu! Diable!” echo their fellow victims, the French, similarly afflicted with the painful condition of salt under the skin.

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  Mike starts to rise, but I reach up and grab his ears and pull his massive face to mine. “Not yet, Mike! They’re gonna fire the other gun next, they’ll—”

  Crrrrack! The swivel gun fires and I hear the salt whistling overhead on its way to sting the flesh of any who might have escaped the first blast. There are more screams and now there is the sound of running feet, feet running away.

  “Now, Mike! Now while they’re reloading! Let’s go, let’s get in the boat!”

  Fink jumps to his feet, picks up my gasping self, and runs for the Belle. I peek back over his shoulder as I suck some breaths of air noisily back into my grateful lungs. Most of my would-be nabbers have fled, as well as any amazed bystanders, but I note with some satisfaction that Flashby is on his knees, his hands to his face. The dock area, just lately a hive of activity, is mainly deserted, only some very cautious eyes peeking up over cotton bales are to be seen.

  “OOOOOOWEEEEE! LOOK OUT BELOW! HERE COMES MIKE FINK, KING OF THE RIVER! STAND BACK OR BE SMASHED LIKE THE LITTLE PISSANTS YOU ARE! WOOOOOOEEEEE!”

  And with a leap, the King of the River’s mighty boots hit the deck of the Belle of the Golden West.

  “Put me down, Mikey! You can deal with me later!”

  He does it, seeing that the Belle has pulled away from the dock, such that I cannot escape my impending execution by his hand, and I run to the swivel gun, which has been freshly reloaded by Matthew Hawkes.

  “Good to see you again, Skipper,” says Matty, handing me the firing lanyard.

  “Oh, Jacky, we were so worried!” cries Clementine Tanner.

  “If I ever see you attired in such a way again,” warns

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  John Higgins, “I believe I shall have to terminate my employment.”