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

  Higgins laughs, then says, “All right, Miss, very well composed. I think Mr. Fink himself would be pleased.”

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  “Besides, Higgins, do I not have in my possession a Bill of Sale for this boat, signed by Mr. Fink, himself? Any court in the land would surely honor it.” I had taken the piece of paper upon which Mike Fink had so laboriously penned his signature and I had written the Bill of Sale for the boat above it, all legal-like. The price was fifty dollars, the amount I had already paid him, which I think was fair. Serves him right, too, ‘cause he shouldn’t have been so greedy. Mr. Fink has found to his sorrow that it’s not a good idea to try to cheat an old Cheapside hand.

  “Yes, you have shown me the paper. I think Ezra Pickering, while aghast at the speciousness of the whole thing, would nevertheless be proud.”

  “So you see, Higgins,” say I, “there is absolutely nothing to worry about. And, furthermore, if you think I feel guilty because of this, think again. Think how he cheated us on the fare he was charging us to Pittsburgh. And if you really think that Mike Fink came by this boat in any way honestly, well, I’ve got some stock in an under the English Channel tunnel company I’d like to sell you.”

  “Very well, Miss,” replies a jocular Higgins, “I shall pass on the stock, put legal concerns out of my mind, and concentrate my thoughts on dinner. If you’ll excuse me.”

  I go up to sit for a while with Katy and watch the shore slip by, all deep and dense and green. The cleared farms are growing fewer and farther between, as are the tiny towns. I wonder if there are any Indians lurking just beyond the edge of the forest?

  Katy and I are both delighted to shed our dresses now that Mr. Fink has left our company—it’s back to undershirt

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  and drawers without stockings, just as we were dressed in the hold of the Bloodhound. Higgins expresses some concern that our attire might keep poor Jim in a state of constant excitement, but I reply that he’ll have to get used to it, as the rivers are long and the work will be hard and dresses get in the way. I promise, however, to sew us up some heavier canvas trousers as soon as we can get the cloth. Meanwhile, randy Jim should keep his mind on his nautical studies and not on us. Boys, I swear…

  We neither see nor catch anything edible, and so I go back to the spot on the cabin top right up in front of Jim, at his steering oar, and flop down on my back. Lolling about in the sun, I decide to call this spot the quarterdeck. I think on that: the quarterdeck of the Belle of the Golden West, Lieutenant J. M. Faber, Commanding.

  Yes, I do like the sound of that, I do. And so, my bully crew, on to this Pittsburgh, where we shall see what we shall see.

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  ***

  Chapter 20

  Jaimy Fletcher

  Kittanning, Pennsylvania

  USA

  Jacky,

  We reached the Allegheny four days ago at the town of Kittanning. It was a wretched little town with very little to offer, hut it did have a dock from which I hoped to gain us passage downriver.

  It was noon, with the sun high overhead, so we had time to take care of some things before finding a place to sleep for the night. I went to question the people at the dock as to our chances of finding a boat going downriver, while Clementine had the sad duty of taking Daisy off to sell her, the forests around the river getting so thick that we could not think of taking her farther.

  I was informed that without money “y’ain’t got the chance of a snowball in Hell of gettin’ on a boat, but mebbe if one comes down needin’ a hand, well, mebbe…You’ll just have to wait and see what comes by.”

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  Clementine came back, disconsolate, with a sack that contained two smoked hams and a jug of whiskey.

  “It was the best I could do, Jaimy, I’m sorry, but at least the people seemed like they’d be kind to her.” She turned away as her fingers brushed at her eyes. I knew, from the way Clementine would lay her face against the mare’s neck on our journey here, that Daisy was the only thing in her former life that she could love and be loved by in return, if only in the simplest of ways: a neigh, a welcoming whicker, a happy toss of the head when the girl would come into the old plow horse’s sight.

  I assured Clementine that she had done well by both Daisy and me, and I put my arm around her and drew her to my side to lend her comfort. Then we trudged off to see what we could do in this town till opportunity presented itself. At least, finally, I had made it to the river.

  There was a livery stable, owned by a Mr. Owens, and he offered me the job of shoveling manure and sawing and chopping wood in exchange for breakfast, dinner, and supper for Clementine and me. We could sleep in their barn if she would help Mrs. Owens with the house and laundry chores. We gratefully took the offer.

  So, for the next four days, I endured some of the most grueling work I have ever done. I shoveled manure into barrows and then took those barrows out to fields and spread that same manure around, countless trips back and forth, back and forth.

  Once, when I wheeled the barrow nearby the Owens’s house, I heard Clementine inside singing as she went about her tasks.

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  Come all ye fair and tender ladies,

  Take warning how you court young men,

  They’re like a star of a summer’s mornin,

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

  They’ll tell to you some loving story,

  They’ll tell to you some far-flung lie,

  And then they’ll go and court another

  And, for that other one, pass you by.

  If I’d a-knowed before I’d courted

  That love it was such a killin’ crime,

  I’d a-locked my heart in a box of golden

  And tied it up with a silver line.

  I stood there and listened, and it humbled me that while she sang happily in her present state, I grumbled and cursed. I picked up my barrow and moved on.

  When I was not moving manure about, I chopped, sawed, and split wood for the coming winter’s fires. I thought often, Jacky, whilst trying to neatly split a log with one blow of my ax, how you have often observed that no skill is worthless and that something can be learned from the meanest of jobs. And, while I cannot claim to like it, I have grown quite lean and sinewy in dealing with this harsh American life. I am probably in as good a physical condition as when we belonged to the Dread Brotherhood of the Dolphin and swung through the rigging like crazed little apes.

  Not having the luxury of a razor, my beard has grown out, too. I have never been unshaven before, and I find my

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  whiskers grow out black and fine. Clementine says she likes it, saying that while my chin formerly rasped her cheek, now it is all soft and silky. On our journey here, she was fond of smoothing it out with her fingers as we lay abed for the night. Yes, and she’d stroke it sometimes in the daytime, too, when we would lie on a verdant creek bank, taking the sun and…well, resting.

  I caught my reflection in a horse trough one day and was quite shocked. With my long dark hair and pointy beard, I looked every inch the bloody pirate, except, that is, for my clothes. No piratical elegance there. My only two garments were Pap Jukes’s overalls and the shirt that Clementine had sewn for me. The shirt, actually, was quite fine, but the rough overalls and bare feet made me appear to be the simplest of country bumpkins.

  The nature of my situation is not lost on me: I cross the American wilderness in pursuit of one girl, while yet another girl stands by my side. If those two brigands had not waylaid me, none of this would have happened. I know that I would have caught up with you and things would be vastly different right now. But then Clementine, too, would have been stuck back at that awful place with no joy, no hope, no future, only vain wishes and prayers uttered by mountain streams, heard by nobody.

  I do not know what to think and so I shall think about nothing. After our day’s labor, we return exhausted to our nest in the hay and burrow in. She lies down next to me and
we sleep deeper than I have ever slept before. I shall take it day by day.

  I know I can only take one day at a time, but I also know I grow more and more fond of her every day.

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  ***

  It was on the morning of the fifth day in Kittanning, while I was filling yet another barrow with ordure, that I heard a commotion down by the river. It sounded like a boat coming in to the dock! And here I had been despairing of spending the rest of my life as a manure-hauler! With hope surging, I ran down to see. On my way, I saw Clementine up in the kitchen window of the Owens place and called out to her to come running and she did, catching up to me at the foot of the dock.

  “I’m a-gonna kill ‘er, that’s for sure!” came the call across the water. “I’m a-gonna kill ‘er! Oooooweeeeee! I’m a ring-tailed roarer who has been brought down sad, but I’m a-gonna kill her, I’m a-gonna flay her, I’m a-gonna skin her, I’m a-gonna tan her hide, and then I’m a-gonna wear her skin for my hat, and then ever’thin’ will be all right! Ooooooooweeeee! Ain’t nobody in this whirly world kin steal Mike Fink’s boat and live, so I got to kill ‘er and I will! I’ll do it, you’ll see! Ooooooweeeee! I’m a hidebound walloper born in a canebrake and ready to roar! Oooooooweeeee!”

  I hurried to the end of the dock to see what this hullabaloo might be. The other people on the dock, formerly concerned with their daily occupations, suddenly got up and ran the other way, crying, “Christ, it’s Fink!” which should have been a warning to me, but I was anxious to be on my way, so I stood my ground at the end of the dock. Clementine grabbed my hand as we watched this apparition approach.

  He was in an open rowboat of about fifteen feet in length. There was little else in the boat except him, but of him there was a lot. Dressed in dark trousers, white shirt,

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  boots, and wide-brimmed hat, he seemed a good four hundred pounds. He was also clothed in a good deal of hair— his great beard billowed from his chin almost to his eyebrows, which were equally bushy. Beneath those brows gleamed two beady and angry eyes.

  “If you please, Sir,” I ventured. “Mr. Fink, is it? We are desirous of a passage downstream, and—”

  “What the hell you talkin’ about?” demanded this Fink, while he brought the boat alongside the dock. I grabbed the lines and tied them securely to the posts.

  “Please, Mister,” pleaded Clementine. “We needs t’get downriver and we was hopin’ you might help us.”

  “Wal, little girl, tha’s more like it. How come he cain’t talk straight like you?” Fink crawled out onto the dock and stretched his considerable bulk.

  “He’s from away and don’t know how to talk right sometimes,” explained Clementine. “But he’s my man and I love him.”

  “Wal, there’s some straight talk, I’ll own,” said Fink. “Now what about goin’ downriver?”

  “Well, Mr. Fink,” I began earnestly, “while we have no money—”

  “If’n you ain’t got money, you ain’t gettin’ on my boat,” said Fink, firmly.

  “Yessir,” piped up Clementine, blinking her eyes and wringing her hands. “But we got two good hams and a jug o’ whiskey, and Jaimy could help you row the boat, and I could wash up things and—”

  “Well, hell, whyn’t you say so?” said Fink. “Get in the goddamn boat.”

  ***

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  We made our good-byes to Mr. and Mrs. Owens, who, by and large, had been very good to us, Mrs. Owens even packing a bag of food for Clementine, and Mr. Owens clapping me on the back and saying that if I ever wanted a job as manure-hauler again, well, it was here waiting for me. I thanked him for his kindness, and Clementine and I went back to the boat.

  I handed the jug of whiskey down to Mr. Fink, and then I got in and reached up my hand for Clementine and she hopped in and sat down on the bow seat. I picked up the oars and dug them deep in the water. This was how it was done in the Royal Navy, Mr. Fink, in case you didn’t know.

  I pulled us out into the stream and we were bound for the town of Pittsburgh, wherever the hell that is….

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  PART III

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  Chapter 21

  ***

  “Hooray!” I exult as we finally bring the Belle of the Golden West to Pittsburgh. “It’s a town, a real town! Look! Factories! Smoke! Dirt! Stink! I love it! Hooray!” I am a city girl at heart.

  The trip down was calm and leisurely, made more enjoyable because I was on a watercraft under my own command again. If I felt like it, I could order us anchored and we could go ashore to enjoy the charms of the land. We picnicked on grassy banks, swam in glassy pools, and explored the many small streams that emptied into the river. Jim would go off with his rifle into the woods in search of game, but it was mostly fish that we ate. While onshore we dug worms and with them baited our hooks, and we were most successful. We cut poles to tie our fishing line to, and it was most pleasing to sit on the cabin top with the baited line in the water, waiting for that thrilling jerk. That is, when we did not have to row, or take our turn at the tiller. Yes, and we practiced shooting, too, gaining proficiency with both pistol and rifle and alarming the bird population no small degree with our noise.

  Along the way, we provisioned at various tiny towns

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  along the river’s banks, and while there, we let it be known that we would carry passengers to Pittsburgh. But, alas, we got no takers, even though we promised them nightly musical entertainment. So we stuck to eating fish, buying only flour and lard and such to conserve our money, which was getting very low.

  All in all, it was a most enjoyable cruise. But still, I was glad to see smoky, gritty Pittsburgh. It smelled, but to me it smelled like money.

  “Jim! See the docks down there at the end!” I shout, pointing. “Steer for them. Man the sweeps!” “Aye, aye, Missy,” says Jim.

  “The sweeps shall be manned, Captain,” says Higgins. “But first you and Katy must dress, else I fear arrest.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. I had forgotten.

  Katy and I get into our Lawson Peabody serving-girl gear as fast as we can and then run back up on deck. We are much closer now, and I pick out a likely looking open space on a large dock as our destination.

  “I’ll take the helm, Jim,” I say, placing my hand on the steering oar. “Take the starboard sweep with Katy.” He does not protest.

  With Higgins on the port oar and the others on the starboard, we start up the rhythm of the row.

  “All pull,” I say, and they do. These sweeps are curved in such a way that the rower can stand on the low cabin roof and put his full weight behind the pull or push. Very ingenious, I have thought, and even quite elegant, or as elegant as a boat can be that is not under sail. “All pull.”

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  I see with mounting excitement that there are many taverns on the street running along the docks. I can’t wait!

  “Port, pull; starboard, hold,” I call, judging the distance and the drift of the boat. Higgins pulls back on his oar, while Katy and Jim hold their oar out of the water. I swing the tiller bar to the right. “Port, pull; starboard, back.” Higgins puts his oar in the water and pulls, while Katy and Jim dig theirs in and push. I put my rudder amidships.

  We are swinging in. “Port, pull; starboard, ship your oar.” Jim pulls in their oar, lays it on deck, and goes to tend the lines. I throw the tiller to the right and we slip alongside the dock, pretty as you please. Jim jumps over and ties her up. The Belle of the Golden West is moored.

  The dock turns out to be a public pier, so the dockage fee is quite reasonable. Higgins goes to see the dockmaster and signs us up for a week, as there is much we have to do here. While he is gone, I go below to get myself into my remaining riding habit, the one I had bought in London. Tight dark green jacket with black velvet lapels and gold epaulets sitting up all jaunty on my shoulders and much creamy lace spilling out at my throat. On with the
long black pleated skirt and my jockey boots. I figure why put on stockings when none can see them, as only the toes of my riding boots peek out ‘neath the bottom hem of the skirt. Higgins comes back in time to fluff me up and brush me off. I top off my outfit with my rakish Scots bonnet, which, thankfully, Clarissa Howe did not grab when she raided my seabag to outfit herself on the Juno.

  There. That oughta show these bumpkins what a true

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  international entertainer looks like. A puff of powder on the cheeks and we are ready to be off on the town.

  “All right, let’s go. Katy, you can pretend to be my maid…” I get a snort for that, but a nod as well. “Higgins, be your usual self, and Jim, stay here and watch the Belle.” I know he is disappointed, but his time will come. He nods and picks up a fishing rod, baits the line, and drops it over as he sits down to wait.

  We stride out into the town.

  The streets are muddy and pigs roam freely about and evidence of the passage of many horses is everywhere underfoot. The smell of coal fires and furnaces fills the air, but through it all, we can see the signs of many taverns—the Black Bear, the Harp and Crown, the White Horse, and there, the Sign of the General Butler.

  I spy a passerby who looks like he might be of the sporting type, and I beg him to stop to tell me about the taverns that exist in this town and what sorts of entertainment they provide.

  “Well, little lady,” he replies, looking me up and down and grinning, “maybe you’d rather be checkin’ in at one of the fancy houses uptown, like maybe Gypsy Sally’s or—”

  Higgins opens his jacket to expose the butts of the two pistols holstered there.

  “Or then again, maybe not.” The chastened sport gulps.

  “A straight answer, if you please, Sir,” I demand, my eyes demurely cast down. “And then we will be on our way, grateful for what information you may provide.”

  “Ahem. Well, Bob Erwin runs the White Horse, and he’s a decent sort, and John Irwin, he does the Black Bear, and Molly Murphy owns the General Butler, and—”