Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West

by L. A. Meyer

  I take that silent advice to heart. I push my very sorry beer to the side and say, "I'll try some of that."

  Another glass is put in front of me, and I look at the clear liquid and then I taste it. My, that is good! It reminds me a bit of the sassafras root beer that Amy had at Dovecote.

  Anticipating my question, Katy says, "You peel up a bunch of black birch twigs, then you soak 'em for a long time. Later you add sugar and yeast, and there you go."

  Hmmmm. Good to know, I think, quaffing the rest of mine down.

  "Actually, this is quite good," says Higgins, rolling the whiskey around on his tongue.

  "Only the finest barrels of Kentucky bourbon come up this river, Sir," explains Mr. Tweedie with satisfaction. "Only the finest. The crowned heads of Europe have not tasted finer."

  "Amazingly, I can agree with that," says Higgins, finishing off his glass.

  All right. Down to business, I'm thinking.

  "Landlord Tweedie, we desire to book passage downriver, but I see no boats moored at your dock. Why is that?" I ask.

  "Ah, Miss, all the boats have gone downriver with loads of logs for Pittsburgh, they havin' used all theirs up in their furnaces for makin' glass and suchlike. They'll be polin' back up in a couple of weeks."

  A couple of weeks! We can't wait that long!

  I stand and think on this: Our horses are about shot—they need rest and food and shelter, things we cannot give them. The roads out here grow worse and worse—soon we will be leading the horses, rather than riding them. Damn!

  "Maybe we could build a raft, Jim?" I ask of my coxswain.

  "Yes, we could, Missy, but we'd need seasoned lumber and tools, neither of which we have," he says, but then, like any true can-do sailor, he goes on to say, "but maybe we could find a good stand of straight timber, cut 'em down, and bind 'em together with rope and..."

  "WEEEEEEEE ... OOOOOOOOP! WEEEEEEE-O OOOOOP! GET OUT OF MY WAY! BY GOD, GET OUT OF MY WAY OR GET CHEWED RIGHT ON UP! WEEEEEEEEE ... OOOOP!"

  Shocked, I look upriver and see a boat coming down. It's about forty feet long, got a cabin, no sails, and a long, long sweep of an oar out the back to which clings a huge solitary figure. Is it man or ape? I wonder.

  "Christ. It's Fink," curses Mr. Tweedie. He hurriedly scoops the bottles from the board and hurries them inside his general store, which he then locks securely.

  I walk out on the dock to study this "Fink," angling its way to the dock with great swipes of its sweep.

  It turns out to be a man, after all, a man about six and a half feet tall, chest like a barrel, arms like eighteen-pound cannons each, legs like hogsheads of molasses, and, perched above it all, a head that is mostly hair and beard and beady eyes, all crowned with a round, flat-brimmed black hat.

  "Is he drunk?" I ask the scurrying Mr. Tweedie.

  "No, only about a quarter drunk, I'd say, 'cause you can still understand what he's sayin'," says Tweedie. "Half drunk he talks to the angels, three-quarters he talks to God, and full drunk he shouts with Satan. Least that's what he says, and when he's full drunk, it's best to believe him."

  Hmmmm ... I decide the waif approach would be the best. I go to the end of the dock, fold my hands before me, and cast down my eyes, all girlish and respectful-like in front of the big, bad man who's coming on in, his head back and shoutin'.

  "WEEEEEEEEE ... OOOOOP! LOOK AT ME! WEEEEE ... OOOOP!! LOOK AT ME! I'M A RING-TAILED ROARER! I'M THE ORIGINAL IRON-JAWED, BRASS-MOUNTED, COPPER-BELLIED CORPSE MAKER FROM THE WILDS OF ARKANSAS! I'M HALF HORSE AND HALF ALLIGATOR! I WAS BORN IN A CANEBRAKE AND SUCKLED BY A MOUNTAIN LION! CAST YOUR EYES ON ME, AND LAY LOW AND HOLD YOUR BREATH, FOR I'M ABOUT TO TURN MYSELF LOOSE. WEEEEE ... OOOOP! WEEEE ... OOOOP!"

  I stand and wait for his boat to land. Quarter drunk or not, he brings his boat expertly into the dock, roaring out one last blast.

  "WEEEE ... OOOOP! LOOK AT ME! I CAN SPIT FARTHER, PISS HIGHER, AND FART LOUDER THAN ANY MAN JACK ON THIS RIVER! WEEEE ... OOOOOP!"

  "I am sure those are all admirable traits and abilities, Mr. Fink," I say, demurely. "Jim, will you attend to the gentleman's lines?" Jim Tanner jumps in the boat, grabs the stern line, and secures it to the butt on the dock. Then he does the same with the bowline. "Now, Mr. Fink, if you would give me and my friends a ride down to Pittsburgh, I would indeed count you a man among men."

  A look of low cunning comes over what I can see of the man's face. "Hey, girly-girl. Didn't see you standin' there, or I would've—"

  "You would have had perhaps a gentler speech of introduction to your splendid self?" I ask.

  "Hell, no," he says, hands on hips and grinning hugely. "I would've bragged more about my legendary prowess in splittin' sheets and tearin' up mattresses with pretty little things like yourself! Ha!"

  "Be that as it may, Mr. Fink, will you carry us down to Pittsburgh?"

  He casts an eye on our party. "Four of you, hey? Hmmm ... All right, twenty-five bucks apiece—a hundred dollars even."

  "I perceive that you are not only a man of great renown, Mr. Fink, but also a thief who preys on the misfortunes of poor young girls," says I, batting the eyes.

  "You're breakin' my heart, girly-girl," says Fink. "A hundred dollars or you swim it."

  Higgins comes up next to me and whispers, "That's half our current fiscal holdings, Miss!"

  "I know, Higgins. Go and sell the horses and let's get on board," I whisper back at him. "Think of it not as fare money, but as the purchase price of this fine, fine boat."

  Higgins looks at me sharply. "While there is a price on your head in Britain, there are no charges against you in this land. It may be well to keep it that way, Miss."

  "Don't worry, Higgins, I shan't steal this man's boat," says I, smiling. "Nothing of the kind."

  I raise my voice to say to Mr. Fink, "I accept your terms. I shall give you half now and half on our safe arrival. Agreed?"

  "Sure, girly-girl. Come on board and make yourselves comfortable. Ain't nobody in this world can't say that Mike Fink is a poor host, no sir!"

  I take Mr. Fink's proffered hand and step aboard what I believe will be the new flagship of Faber Shipping, Worldwide.

  Chapter 14

  Jaimy Fletcher

  In the hayloft of a barn

  In Pennsylvania, USA

  In the company of Miss Clementine Jukes

  "I love you, Jaimy," Clementine whispered into my ear. I was lying on my back in the hay, and her right leg was thrown over me, with various parts of her female self pressed tightly to my side. My right hand was on her shoulder and her hair was in my face. It smelled good. I liked it, the way it felt. I looked up into the darkness.

  "And I, Clementine—"

  That's as far as I got.

  There was a squeak as the barn door was dragged open and the light of a lantern entered the barn. Both Clementine and I went rigid. It's Pap. There was a grating and creaking from the ladder, then his face, illuminated by the lantern swaying next to it, appeared over the edge of the loft.

  "Hey, pretty boy, how yew doin'?" His words were slurred and his eyes rolled about, not quite able to focus on us in the dark. "Yew ready for some fun? Some manly fun, boy? Some..."

  That's when the fact of two pairs of white eyes peering at him from the loft instead of just one suddenly registered in his sodden brain.

  "What the hell? Clemmie? What yew doin' here?" He lowered the lantern and started back down the ladder. "That's it. Gonna kill the both of yew right now."

  My mind, which had plainly been At Ease for the past hour or so, snapped back to Attention. He's got the gun down below and he's going to use it. On us.

  I jumped out of the straw. "Get over there, up against the back wall!" I hissed at Clementine, and lunged over to where I had seen a heavy block and tackle hanging from its lines. It was probably used to haul heavy loads up to the loft. Its bottom hook was fastened to a metal hoop, but I was able to free it, so that the heavy block swung freely in my hand. I waited but I did not have
to wait long. Pappy Jukes's head reappeared at the top of the ladder, and this time he had his rifle in his right hand, and, damn! a pistol in his left!

  I swung the block toward his head, and as I did so, he fired the pistol. I jerked back as the ball flew by my face, nicking my right earlobe but doing no other damage. My aim with the block and tackle, however, was true, and it caught him in the middle of his forehead and toppled him backward off the ladder. I heard the thud as he hit the floor below, and I followed him down, leaping off the edge of the loft, hoping to catch him before he could aim the rifle.

  I caught him all right. I landed with both of my heels on his chest, knocking the wind completely out of him. His rifle was lying off to the side, so I leaped over and picked it up.

  I needn't have hurried. Jukes lay at my feet, his face contorted in agony. His left leg was twisted up under him at an odd, but to me rather pleasing, angle. I pointed the rifle at his head.

  "My leg's busted, Clemmie, oh God, help me, Clemmie, my leg's busted." He moaned. "Fetch me that rake, girl, so's I kin stand up and git in the house. Oh Clemmie, fetch it fer me like a good girl."

  Clementine appeared at the side of the loft, again clad in her flimsy yellow dress, took one look at him sprawled helpless on the floor, and climbed down the ladder. She gazed at her father in the circle of light cast by the lantern, careful, I noticed, to keep out of reach of his hands.

  "Ain't fetchin' nothin' fer you, ever ag'in, you mean ol' man. You kilt Ma with yer meanness. You kilt any pet I ever had—my bunnies, my kitten, my ducklings—you kilt 'em ever' time you found out I was lovin' 'em, and you laughed when you did it. But you ain't gonna kill me, no, you ain't. I got half a mind to jest tip over that lantern and burn up this barn with you in it, I do, but I ain't like you, Pap, so I ain't gonna do it. But I ain't fetchin' nothin' fer you, neither. I'm leavin' here, I'm leavin' with Jaimy, and I ain't never been happier in my life."

  Jukes looked at her, and then at me, with a cold, level glare of pure rage. "I'll git yew two, I will. Jest you wait."

  "Clementine," I said, "get the horse out and tie it to the porch rail."

  She went to do it, picking up bridle and reins on her way. The horse whickered quietly as she entered the stall. "There, there, Daisy, it's all right. We're leavin' here, and you'll never be whipped by that mean ol' man ag'in."

  "You," I said to Jukes, "you move and I'll put a bullet in your head. I have been an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy. I have been in battle, and I know how to kill a man, believe me. When she gets the horse out, I will bar the door from the outside, just like you did for me. If you connive a way to get out, I'll kill you out there. Is that clear?"

  I was rewarded with an even more withering glare of hatred from the helpless Mr. Jukes.

  Clementine backed the mare Daisy from the stall and led her out of the barn. I bent down and retrieved the empty pistol and, with the same hand, picked up the lantern. I went out the door, and from the now pitch-black interior I heard, "Yew come here. Yew steal my girl and then yew go and steal my horse. I place my curse upon yew. May yew rot in Hell."

  Fine, old man, I thought as I closed the door and slammed down the latch, curse away.

  Attending to the business at hand, I saw that Clementine had, indeed, tied the mare to the rail and had gone into the house. I followed with the lantern and found her stuffing some things in a sack.

  "Blankets," she said, "pots, some flour, cornmeal, and we'll need a water jug..."

  "How about gunpowder, balls..."

  "That chest over there."

  I went to the chest and found a powder horn, flints, and bags of balls, for both pistol and rifle, all of which I stuffed into an empty powder sack also kept therein.

  "Money?" I asked, the last shreds of civilized behavior having been drained from me in this violent land.

  "Oh, he's got some, but he never tol' me where he hid it. You could put hot coals to his feet and he'd not tell you where it was, I know that. Here, these're his Sunday-go-to-meetin' overalls. They're clean. I just warshed 'em. Only shirt he's got is the one he's got on."

  I caught the overalls and put them on. It struck me that I had been essentially naked for the past twenty or so hours and was becoming quite used to it. I was becoming a savage in a savage land.

  The rough garment was quite huge on me and hung loose on my frame. Only the shoulder straps kept it up. Upon seeing me in it, Clementine giggled, then said, "Oh, yes, and needle and thread, too. And here's some cloth to make you up a shirt." These items she also threw into her sack.

  "What else?" I asked.

  "Ain't nothin' else here," she said. "Not for me, anyways. Let's go."

  I blew out the lantern and we went back outside. The first threads of the light of dawn were beginning to appear in the eastern sky. I made slings of our bundles and we slung them about our waists, there being no saddle to affix them to. I climbed up on Daisy's very broad back and reached down for Clementine. She took my hand and vaulted up and settled in behind me, and we rode slowly off.

  I took one last look back at the silent barn, but she did not.

  As we rode along at a slow walk, which is all I suspected that the massive Daisy could ever do in the way of speed, Clementine Jukes wrapped her arms about my waist and put her face against my bare back. I felt her slim body pressed against me. I felt her lips kiss me between my shoulder blades. I felt her long flaxen hair blow about my shoulders, and sometimes in my face, in the soft morning breeze.

  "Mrs. Clementine Fletcher, mmmm. I really do like the sound of that, Jaimy, I do," I heard her purr.

  Oh, Lord...

  Chapter 15

  We did, as Mr. Fink commanded, cast off immediately, or almost immediately, for Higgins had to go sell the horses to Mr. Tweedie first. While he was gone, the rest of us stowed our gear below and then came back up on deck to await departure. When Higgins returned, he was not at all pleased, I discovered, as he stepped back on board.

  "Damned thief! He knew we were at a disadvantage, so I could barely get more than the cost of our drinks from the blackguard!"

  I put a restraining hand on Higgins's sleeve. "Dear Higgins, set your mind at rest. Right now the locals are having their way with us, but I promise you that it will not always be so. Let's live in the moment. All our gear is stowed and we should be at ease. After all, Higgins, the horses are sold, which means you do not have to ride one of them."

  He agreed that this was a very fine thing, indeed, as he scurried about to see what cooking gear might be contained on this bark.

  "Cast off!" roared Fink, standing aft at his steering sweep as soon as Higgins was aboard. "You, boy! Take off the stern line! Coil it down! Move yer ass, or I'll kick it all the way to Pittsburgh!"

  Jim looked to me, angry. I gave a quick nod and mouthed do it and gave him a wink to let him know I understood the blow to his pride.

  "Aye, aye, Sir," said Jim. He took off the line and coiled it expertly down on the deck, ready for its next use.

  Our first day out on Mike Fink's flatboat is most pleasant. It's a fine, warm day and Fink, with what seems to be very little effort, keeps the boat on a leisurely course close to the eastern shore. I, naturally, waste no time in casing out the boat, which turns out to be a very well-made craft, well-found in her knees and planking. Quite new, too. As soon as I can, I go below, to thrust my shiv into various parts of the frame, but I can find no softness, no damp rot of any kind. A remarkable piece of work, I conclude.

  The belowdecks area is fitted out with twenty bunks on each side, with curtains that can be drawn over each for privacy. In the center is an open hold for cargo, with a ladder going down into the bilges.

  Jim Tanner is with me as we examine the inner hull of the flatboat. "Jim," I say, "I want you to watch this Mike Fink in every way, especially in how he handles this boat. Learn how to operate that sweep. Pretend to admire him and draw him out as to how this boat is run with a full crew on board. Appeal to his considerable vanity. I
shall ask Higgins to do the same. All right?"

  Jim nods, mollified now that he has a mission. I believe he is as happy as I am to be back on water, no matter fresh or salt and in spite of the boisterous Fink. There's not enough of a roll on this flat river to quicken the heart of any true sailor, but it's something.

  Katy Deere, too, seems content to be here. With her skirt pulled up almost to her waist, she sits on the prow, her long legs dangling over each side. Her bow in hand, strung, nocked with a fishing arrow, and with its length of light line coiled beside her, she looks down into the dark water for whatever it might offer up.

  Much later, when back on deck, I commend Mr. Fink on the quality of his craft and his skill in guiding it, and he guffaws in what I have already learned is his usual manner of speech ... or rather, his usual mode of shout, "Oh, yes, and she's a fine one! Fitted out for passengers, as you've probably already noticed. Yeah, I seen you crawlin' and nosin' around down there. Jus' took thirty holy pilgrims up to a tent revival up in Jacob's Holler! Two whole dollars each!"

  "As big and strong and manly as you so plainly are, surely you could not have gotten this heavy craft with thirty stout pilgrims aboard up this swiftly flowing river?" I ask, doing the arithmetic in my head: Thirty souls upriver at two dollars each equals sixty dollars, while we four poor souls were charged one hundred dollars for going downstream. Ah, Mr. Fink, I do think you've got it coming to you.

  "Nah! I had a crew of ten and I dumped 'em off up there. Mike Fink don't need no crew to navigate downstream, no, he don't!"

  He looks slightly offended, as if anyone could think otherwise.

  "I see," I reply, and settle myself down on the edge of the low cabin. The cabin, itself, takes up most of the deck room, leaving only a narrow path for what I now know would be the boots of the crew as they poled this boat upriver, or guided it on its way down.

  As I sit watching the trees on the banks go slowly by, Higgins comes up bearing a tin tray with a cup and steaming teapot upon it. Somehow he has managed to find a clean white tea towel, which he drapes over his arm before he pours the tea from the battered pot we had gotten at Katy's place into the cup he had picked up from God-knows-where.