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

  “A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things. Fink, I swear you are the most uncouth man I have ever met.”

  “Jest as I thought, boy. Oh, she prances, and she dances, and she says ‘Oh, Mr. Man, you are just the very finest of men,’ but when it comes down to tearin up the sheets together, she’s gone all prissy church lady and won’t deliver the goods. ‘Why, Suh, I hardly know you…’ I can hear it now. Yup, she’s the teasin’ kind, I can tell.”

  “You do not know her, Mike.”

  “That’s all right, boy. You think what you want. You go catch her and love her up good, till such time as I can get downriver

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  and kill her. And hell, boy, after we’ve done her good and proper, you stay out on the river with me. It’s the only life for a man and you know it to he true.”

  Dance on, Jacky, dance on—

  Jaimy

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  PART IV

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  ***

  Chapter 35

  ***

  And so we traveled down the Oh-Hi-Oh, singing and dancing as we went. It’s been a good week since we left Pittsburgh behind us, and we have long since left the Pennsylvania shores to find the state of Virginia on our east, and Ohio on our west. Virginia is a slave state and that makes me somewhat nervous, what with Mr. Cantrell’s girl being on board and all. But I’ve got to get used to that, ‘cause soon we’ll have slave states and slave territories on both sides of us.

  I lose some passengers as Mr. McDaniel gets off at the squalid little town of Wheeling, Virginia—no taverns to play in, pigs runnin’ free in the streets, whole place stinkin’ to high heaven—and Mr. Brady leaves at East Lick, but I pick up another one there, and at the very last minute, too. Just as we are about to pull out into the current again, I hear a cry of “Wait! Wait! Please wait!” and this man jumps out of the bushes and leaps onto the Belle. He is a tall man, thin, and dressed as a preacher, stiff collar and all, and what he has clasped in his hands seems to be a collection box. He looks over his shoulder as if he fears pursuit but calms down as soon as we get far enough midstream.

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  “I am the Very Reverend Jeremiah Clawson,” he says, smoothing down his coat and smiling the smile of the blessed and holy.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Reverend Clawson,” I answer, dropping into a medium curtsy. “I am the Very Mercantile Jacky Faber and the fare is twelve cents a mile, prepaid, Reverend.” He nods and harrumphs and roots about in the box to come up with the fare, an amount that’ll get him at least as far as Cincinnati.

  He is not the only new addition to the Belle. After leaving East Lick, while we were swinging around a bend in the river and coming close to the shore, two buckskin-clad forms, each carrying a long rifle, dropped silently from an overhanging tree onto our deck. Katy sees them drop, rolls over from her place on the bow, nocks an arrow, and has that same arrow drawn and pointed at the chest of the taller of the two.

  “Katy, wait!” cries Crow Jane, who had just come on deck for a smoke. “It’s Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat! They’re all right! Don’t shoot! Boss, come here!”

  I jump down to the main deck. There stand two men. One is an Indian with both sides of his head plucked bare and feathers stuck into the remaining crest. He’s bare-chested and is wearing a breechcloth and fringed leather leggings, with beaded moccasins on his feet. In addition to his rifle, there is a knife and a tomahawk in his belt. Lord! My first real Indian! Except for Crow Jane, of course. True, I had seen some small encampments of what I had been told were Indians on the shores that we had passed, but here, standing before me, was a true Indian brave, skin bronze and gleaming, nose hooked, and eyes black as coal.

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  “They’ll pay their way when they’re aboard, trust me on that,” promises Crow Jane. “They’ll hunt and get game. And when you get to Cave-in-Rock, you’ll be glad to have ‘em on your side!”

  The other man is a white man—or maybe once was a white man. His skin is just as dark and tanned, and he is dressed much as the other, but his eyes are green and they bore into the eyes of Katy Deere, whose arrow point has not wavered one inch from a point dead center on his chest. Unlike his friend’s, this one’s chest is covered with an over-shirt of beaded, fringed buckskin. Not that it would in any way stop Katy’s arrow on its way to his heart, should she choose to release it.

  “Katy,” I say. “Stand down.”

  She brings down the arrow, to point to the deck, but does not relax the bow.

  “Your name is Lightfoot?” I ask of this frontiersman.

  He nods but says nothing. He keeps his eyes on Katy and her still-nocked arrow.

  “Where are you bound?”

  There is a pause, then…

  “Goin’ to the Arkansas,” he replies, slowly bringing his eyes over to bear on me. “Who the hell are you, girl?”

  “Jacky Faber. Captain of this boat, that’s who the hell I am. Why are you goin’ to the Arkansas?”

  “Huh!” he says, considering my captainhood. Then, “Man there. Needs killin’.”

  Hmmm…

  “Well, Crow Jane vouches for you and that’s good enough for me. So welcome aboard. Just follow the rules and we’ll get along.”

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  They don’t say anything but instead seat themselves cross-legged on the foredeck, and there they sit in silence.

  Later, when we anchor for the night, Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat slip off onto the shore to sleep in the forest, and I find that will be their usual way throughout this trip, and, right now, that’s all right with me.

  The second day they are with us, they come back aboard in the morning with a full-grown deer slung across Lightfoot’s shoulder. When he steps aboard, he drops the carcass at my feet and turns away to resume his spot up near the bow, saying nothing.

  Seeing this, Crow Jane comes up and grabs the dead beast by its hind legs and drags it off to butcher it. Thankfully, she does it out of my sight, but I must say the dinner that night was excellent, and a welcome change from the fish.

  I expect my crew to do their jobs, but I ain’t the type to just make work for people, so there’s plenty of time for lounging about in the sun. I heard the Hawkes boys fooling around with a song and went forward to join them. They stand up as I approach. Good boys, you are learning.

  “What’s that you’re singin’?” I ask.

  “It’s called ‘Ground Hog,’ Miss,” says Matty. “We learned it as babies, didn’t we, ‘Thaniel?”

  “Yup. It’s about a critter what lives aroun’ here. Sometimes called a ‘whistle pig’ ‘cause of the sound it makes when it’s standin’ next to his hole, ‘bout to dive in. Learned to eat ‘em and learned to sing their song, too.”

  “So sing it, then,” say I, crossing my arms across my chest.

  They ain’t shy about doing it. They each have these little

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  metal things they call jaw harps, and they whip them out of their pockets and stand up next to each other. Then they cup them in their left hands and press them against their teeth, and with their forefinger, they strike the twangy part of the mouth harp to make the sound. By working their jaws up and down, and I suspect some tongue action inside, they make something that sounds almost like a melody. It certainly seems to fit the tune they start to sing. After the boys hammer away at the tune to set the mood, Matty stops playing his and howls out:

  Grab yer gun and whistle up yer dawg,

  We’re goin’ to the wild woods to hunt ground hawg!

  Ooooooh, ground hawg!

  Matty slaps his jaw harp back up to his mouth and twangs away while ‘Thaniel takes up the next two verses.

  I dug down but I didn’t dig deep,

  Found a little whistle pig fast asleep!

  Oooooh, ground hawg!

  Here come Sally with a ten-foot pole,

  Twist that whistle pig outta his hole!

  Oooooh, ground hawg!

&n
bsp; My sympathies fast attaching to the unfortunate rodent, I listen as Matty now steps to the fore to bellow out the last two verses.

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  Here come Susie with a snicker and a grin,

  Ground hawg gravy all over her chin.

  Oooooh, ground hawg.

  Little piece o’ cornbread, sitting on a shelf,

  You want any more, you can sing it yourself.

  Oooooh, ground hawg!

  The Hawkes lads round off their number with both of them on jaw harp and their feet pounding the deck in a dance I take to be the “clog” that others have told me is common to this area.

  When the last foot has stomped down, I give them a delighted round of applause, which is echoed by the passengers who have gathered about, and the boys blush and say, “Pshaw! Warn’t nuthin’; anyone kin do thet…”

  But I, for one, know that isn’t true. I find out later that they also know how to call out the square dances, and I figure that could prove mighty useful. I resolve to have them teach the skill to me. In return, I might include them in my act—I can see us in a line, with me and my fiddle and maybe Clementine, too, all of us twanging and singing and clogging away. Hmmm. We shall have to work on it. First I’ve got to make the Lady Gay sing that high, lonesome sound, and neither she nor I have got it yet.

  Jim Tanner, alas, has no music in him at all, and his voice is that of a tone-deaf frog. Oh, he likes the music, especially

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  when Clementine is doing the singing—he just can’t sing, is all.

  I have started Clementine on her ABCs and simple numbers, and have required Jim to become more proficient at both those studies, and since he gets to sit next to Clementine, he does not protest too much. Actually, he does know how to read, basically, so he takes over most of the education of Clementine Jukes. When they don’t think I am looking, they hold hands under the table. Oh, Jim, I wonder just who’s gonna be getting the education here? She and I work on duets and are coming along quite nicely. If only we had some audiences. Crow Jane says there ain’t gonna be much in the way of that till the town of Maysville, on the Kentucky shore. I think on it and come up with a plan—sending Jim ahead to scare up a crowd. Tell ‘em showboat’s a-comin’. But how to get him there? Hmmmm.

  During this leg of our journey, I find myself more and more frequently inviting Mr. Cantrell back to my table to dine with me. As we travel farther south, the sun grows steadily more fierce, so I had the Hawkes boys install a sort of canvas canopy over my quarterdeck table to shield me and whomever I might invite to join me.

  On this day, Yancy Cantrell fans a deck of cards out across the table. I look at them, and then up at him, with disdain.

  “I do not believe in gambling, Mr. Cantrell,” I say, severely.

  He smiles and smooths back his mustache.

  “Neither, Miss Faber, do I.”

  I consider this for a moment and then nod. He smiles and smoothly deals out the cards.

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  ***

  And so begins my education as a card sharp. First I learn the rules of the various games of faro, three-card monte, baccarat, and poker. Then, I am taught the odds of drawing certain cards in each of the games, the better able to gauge my chances of winning. After that I practice the art of the bluff. This is how to win when you have nothing in your hand and have only the steady eye and confident demeanor that convinces your opponent that he is the loser, and not you. And then, I learn the dark arts: how to deal smoothly from the bottom of the deck, how to deal seconds, how to palm a card, and how to use marked and shaved cards. I, of course, would never use such cheating skills in an actual game. I study them only for amusement, much as a magician learns sleight of hand. It helps pass the time as we float down the river, that’s all. And Mr. Cantrell is an amusing companion.

  We pass by Ohio on our starboard side and slide into Kentucky on our port side and glide into a place called Vance-burg, where we act upon Mr. Cantrell’s advice and take on a cargo of Kentucky bourbon whiskey.

  “The purest whiskey you will ever find,” promises the distiller with a great amount of pride, counting out the money we put into his hand. His pride notwithstanding, Higgins taps each twenty-gallon barrel we put below, to make sure we are not being had. Everything seems to be in order. Mr. Cantrell assures us, with a wink, that our cargo will come in very handy, in spite of the draining of our very meager resources.

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  Until we can find a regular way to get Jim downstream to stir up a crowd for the showboat, I figure I’ll send him ahead with Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat. I’m anxious to try a show out here on the frontier, and Crow Jane says that Maysville might have enough people around there to make up an audience. When I propose that they do this, Lightfoot looks at Chee-a-quat and says, “Wah?” and Chee-a-quat says in return, “Wah!” and Lightfoot and the Indian pick up their rifles and lope off into the woods at an easy gait, with Jim hurrying after them, plainly buoyed by the kiss that Clementine gave him as he set off on his mission.

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  ***

  Chapter 36

  Jaimy Fletcher, ex-con

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  USA

  Jacky,

  I was released several days ago, bidding farewell to the Pittsburgh jail and to Mike Fink, who graciously wished me luck in my search for you, saying, “Love her up good, boy, fore I come down and mess her up for good and ever. After she’s down at the bottom of the river with an anchor chain wrapped ‘round her neck, maybe you and me’ll bring my boat back upriver. Haul some cargo, buy us a coupl’a fancy ladies, have us a time. Wha’d’ya say, boy?”

  After assuring Mike that I would take that under serious consideration and after enduring a manly hug from him that nearly broke several of my ribs, I walked out of the jail a free man and went directly to the General Butler tavern, hoping that Clementine might still be there. Alas, those hopes were dashed when I was informed by the landlady that she had indeed gone, and to where the landlady did not

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  know. Or said she didn’t. Molly Murphy handed over the items that Clementine had left for me—the pistol, rifle, bag of sundry items, and three dollars and seventy-five cents.

  From her look, I could see that this Molly Murphy had very little use for me. “She also paid for two days’ lodging for you,” she said, as she slapped down the coins on the counter.

  I looked down at the coins. That dear, sweet girl…

  “How old are you, Fletcher?” she asked, her arms crossed on her chest and her gaze stern and disapproving.

  The question took me aback. “Why, nineteen,” I answered. “But why—”

  “You nineteen, a grown man with a beard, and that poor girl just fourteen? You ought to be ashamed. Your room’s at the top of the stairs,” said she, biting the words off short. “You’ve got today and tomorrow and then I want you out of my place.”

  With that, she turned her back to me and stalked off.

  Her words hit me like a punch in the stomach. Fourteen! Oh, Lord, I now know that I am surely going to spend eternity in Hell.

  I did stay those two days at the General Butler in spite of the coldness against me, as I needed to rest and eat some decent food to get my strength up: Mr. Beatty will get out of jail in four days and I intend to be ready. I have kept my beard, for Beatty’s partner, McCoy, has been hanging about town, waiting for his release, and I did not want to be recognized as their former prey. I followed him one day to another tavern and stood at the bar near him, having a drink on the generous Clementine, and listened to his conversation with

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  another lowlife. I was gratified to hear that the two brigands still intend to go down to that place called Johnstown, and there’s only one road there.

  I did make one other purchase with Clementine’s money: I found a rusty cavalry saber with scabbard at a secondhand store. It will look ridiculous hanging at the side of a barefoot man wearing overalls, but I don�
��t care. I reflect that there’s a lot I don’t care about anymore.

  I spend a good deal of time sanding the sword clean and sharpening it to a razors edge. That, and plotting my revenge, for if I am going to he condemned to roast in Hell for my deeds, I intend to have company….

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  ***

  Chapter 37

  ***

  As soon as we pull into the dock at Maysville, Jim is there to meet us, rocking on his legs, in a state of total exhaustion.

  “Missy! They ran all the way! My lungs are about blown out! I’m a sailor, not a damned greyhound! We gotta do this a different way next time. Please, Missy!”

  We bring him aboard, and soothing female hands are put to his fevered brow. It turns out that he and his fleet escort have been around to all the farms in the area and spread the word that there would be a show at Maysville landing tonight, one show only, starting at dusk. It also turns out that Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat are capable of running, flat out, for an entire day, and have, in fact, the ability to run down a deer if they have the running room. Poor Jim. We assure him that a different way will be found, and I leave him to the tender murmuring ministrations of Clementine Jukes and go out to supervise the preparations for the evening’s show.

  Matty and ‘Thaniel bring up the boards that attach us to the dock, and after the boards are put down and fastened, the brothers bring up the benches and put them in a rough semicircle, facing the stage area of the Belle of the Golden

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  West. I go down to tune up the Lady Gay and to get into ray finery and prepare for the performance.

  “I think the blue dress would be just the thing tonight, don’t you, Higgins?”

  “Yes, Miss. But maybe with your black shawl around your shoulders, as we do not know the nature of the crowd.”

  The people come trickling in well before the fall of night and sit down quietly, their children on the ground before them. The young people, those in their teens, stand behind their elders, and I notice that many pair off, shyly. All are as silent as the grave. The older people are dressed simply, the men in overalls and the women in shapeless linsey-woolsey dresses. The children wear garments that appear to be made of flour sacks. They make not a sound.