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

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  new things at every bend in the river, huntin’, fishin’, pokin’ around in pools and streams, explorin’, like…But I know it’s comin’ to an end and you’re gonna go off into those cities and towns and I just don’t do good there. I tried it and it don’t work.”

  She pauses and takes a breath. I know this is one of the longest speeches Katy Deere will ever deliver.

  “You’ll go back to Lightfoot’s Shawnee village?”

  “No, we’re gonna go out West, see what’s there. Listenin’ to that Injun girl that time, Crow Jane’s niece, you remember, the one who’d been on that expedition, about all those things out there—spouts of hot water that shoot a hundred feet in the air, streams full o’ fish, deer with horns that curl back over their heads, big, big mountains, herds of buffalo so vast y’can’t see across ‘em, and another ocean over at the other edge. Well, we want to see it. Me and him.”

  Just a different version of me wanting to get the Bombay Rat, the Cathay Cat, and see the Kangaroo, but the same old thing…

  “And when you and me was on that Bloodhound? Right, it was awful, but…up till then, I’d never felt so…I don’t know what…”

  I nod at the recollection of that time, when we were both sisters-in-arms against evil.

  “And come winter, well, we might go back to my farm and hole up there. He could hunt and trap, and in the spring we’d hire a man and get a crop in. Huh! Don’t worry, I know that I’ll never get that man Lightfoot to ever hold a hoe. And I know I’d never be able to hold him on the farm when the weather warms up, so I’d go with him again. Get someone else to tend the crop and bring it in.”

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  She looks out to the west, over the treetops, and fondly I look upon her face in profile, with its high cheekbones, strong nose, and thin lips, knowing I’ll soon not be seeing it. “Or maybe we’ll go down into Mexico to winter over. Hell, you’ve given us enough money to get by for a coupl’a winters.”

  “Money you earned ten times over, Katy. How many times have you saved my life? Once, twice, at least three.”

  “Lightfoot don’t think you’ll have any more trouble in gettin’ to the city—the Beams is dead, the Indians is peaceable around here. So since we’ve got the ponies, we figured this was a good spot to go.”

  She rises and so do I.

  “I’ll miss you, Katy Deere.”

  “Me, too, Jacky. Miss you.”

  Katy’s things are packed and thrown across the back of the packhorse and secured, along with some provisions we have raided from Crow Jane’s stores. Her bow is slung from the pommel of the horse she will ride. I make up another posy crown and I reflect that the Reverend’s been real busy lately.

  “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of Almighty God to join in Holy Matrimony Katherine Deere and Lightfoot…er, Lightfoot, do you have a last name?”

  “Back when I was a young’un, it was Bumpus.”

  “Ah. Very well…and Lightfoot Bumpus. If any here among you…”

  Crow Jane whips up a fine bridal luncheon and we toast the bride and groom, both of them in their buckskins, seated at the head of the long table. The only thing to show that a

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  wedding has happened is the posy crown that I braided up for her. I am getting quite good at that.

  I give each of them a pistol, with powder and ball, and a bag of coins, which is their final share of the spoils of this journey. Of Lightfoot I ask, “Will she ride beside you or behind?”

  He thinks for a moment, and then says, “Beside me, Wah-chinga, just the way you’d want it.”

  “I’m glad, Lightfoot. Thank you for everything you’ve done. Fare thee well.”

  Katy goes down the gangplank and gets on her horse.

  “Wah-ho-tay, Wah-chinga. It was good knowin’ you,” says Lightfoot, and he, too, goes off the Belle and mounts up.

  “Wah-ho-tay, Lightfoot.”

  When I have said good-bye to dear friends in the past, they have usually been of the seagoing class, and as there are only so many ports of call in this world, there was always the chance that I would meet up with them again, sometime— and that possibility would dull the pain of parting. After all, didn’t I see Davy Jones and Hugh the Grand again? And sometimes Jaimy Fletcher?

  Yes, but when I think of the vastness of this American continent, with its forests and rivers and hills and mountains and prairies that roll on forever, I know that I will never see this girl again.

  “Fare thee well, Katy Deere.”

  She nods and we lock eyes for a moment, and then she and Lightfoot turn their horses and are gone.

  The Belle of the Golden West gets under way once again, this time with a much diminished crew—we now have only

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  myself, Higgins, Jim and Clementine, Reverend Clawson, the Hawkes boys and their wives Honeysuckle Rose and Tupelo Honey, Crow Jane, Solomon, young Daniel Prescott, and a very much saddened Chloe Abyssinia Cantrell.

  We are fairly close to New Orleans now, and we settle back into our usual routines to pass the time on the last part of our long journey. Jim takes the tiller, with Clementine beside him, and I perch on my chair at my table under the canopy.

  I notice that Solomon sits up forward on the cabin top, near, but not too near, to Chloe, who has forsaken our cabin to sit out in the air. Grief or not, it’s just too damned hot down there. He has the guitar and plays some of the happy, spirited songs he knows, like “Hop High, Ladies,” and “Sour-wood Mountain,” and “Sail Away, Ladies,” and it seems to have a good effect on her spirits—I even saw her crack a wan smile, once.

  Later, I take a lesson on guitar from Solomon, and as we toil away over a difficult fingering, I ask him, “Solly, you told me once that you didn’t have a last name. Is that true?”

  “Yes…uh…Jacky, most slaves take their owner’s last name…or are forced to take ‘em. I don’t want to do that.”

  I knew it took an effort to say my name without the “Miss,” but he did it.

  “Hmmm. Well, you are a free man now, so you are equally free to choose a last name. Tell me, Solomon No-Name, what will you be known as from now on?”

  He puts up the guitar for a while and thinks. Then he says, “Since I am to be a free man, I will take the name Freeman. ” He pauses again, plainly mulling this over. “Yes, I like

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  the sound of that. Solomon J. Freeman. And the J , Miss Faber, stands for Jack!”

  We go on with the lesson.

  Last night I was so exhausted by all the events in what was probably the most horrific day of my life that I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. But not tonight, oh no, not tonight, for tonight he comes, as I knew he would—old Pap Beam with a rope in his hand and a tomahawk in his head, grinning at me through the blood that runs down over his face and reachin’ out for me…

  I wake up just when I’m into the babbling-pleas-for-mercy stage of the nightmare and not yet into full-scale howling, and I rise up on my elbow and collect my scattered wits. And then I hear Chloe weeping in her bunk across the room.

  “Come over here, Chloe,” I softly say. “We could both do with a bit of comfort.” And she does.

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  ***

  Chapter 67

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  We first noticed it as a worrisome bank of low black clouds lying off on the southern horizon, when we were about a day’s travel outside of New Orleans. With increasing worry, we watched it grow higher and higher.

  “We’d best batten down for a blow, Jim. Get everything below that’s likely to be carried away,” I say. “It’d sure be nice if we’d find a nice quiet cove to anchor in.”

  “Sure would, Missy,” says Jim. “I ain’t never seen clouds that dark before.”

  But we found no such luck. The banks of the river remained straight and featureless, with nothing even suggesting shelter, and unlike Jim, I have seen clouds this black before—last summer in the Caribbean, on the Emerald. We were
lucky; we managed to get her into safe harbor at St. Maarten before the storm was upon us. I hope we’ll be lucky again, but I worry, for I well remember the fury of a hurricane.

  My table and canopy are taken down to be stowed below. Windows are closed and tightened down, and everything breakable is taken off shelves and secured. I have Crow Jane make up the big meal of the day at noon, for there probably

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  won’t be any cooking tonight. We all eat together at the big tavern table, mostly in silence.

  There is a strange, oppressive stillness in the air. It is dead calm, and seabirds, gulls and such, are overhead, flying inland.

  We have done all we can. Now we wait.

  In the early evening, the storm hits. It starts as a sudden strong breeze, and within minutes it is a howling gale. Minutes after that, a full-blown hurricane. Like a dog on a leash, the Belle thrashes about on its anchor line, and I am glad we secured the boat with backup lines tied to trees on the shore, should the anchor drag.

  We all sit at the tavern table throughout the long night and try to give one another cheer, as sleep would be impossible in this maelstrom. There is only the light of a single candle set in the middle of the table, for we don’t want to take a chance with a lamp, which might overturn and spread fire in the hold.

  We try a few songs, hymns mostly, and Reverend Clawson offers up a prayer for our deliverance, to which we all add a fervent amen. We fall silent after an especially fierce squall that sets the Belle rocking in a very alarming way. Young Daniel sits by my side, and I can feel him shudder. I reach over and take his hand and hold it.

  “Tell me a story, Missy,” he whispers. “Please.”

  I have to smile, thinking of other stories I have told in other places in other times. “All right, Daniel,” I say, and collect my thoughts. Then I begin.

  “Any old port in a storm. That’s what I was thinking as I wove my little boat through the ships in the crowded harbor…”

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  ***

  At about midnight, the wind suddenly lessened and then died out completely. Many heads, which had been resting on arms, popped up to listen.

  “Is it over?” wondered Honeysuckle Rose. “Lord, I hope so. This has been the worst night of my life.”

  “Maybe not,” I say. “I was in St. Maarten down in the Caribbean last year when a hurricane struck the island, and the wind died down all of a sudden just like this, so we went out and saw that the storm was swirling all around us. People told us it was the eye of the hurricane and we’d better get back inside or we’d be sorry. And they were right— the storm came back, fiercer than ever. But maybe…”

  And then again, maybe not. It starts as a low whistle, then a long whine, and then it slams into us again, twice as hard and from the exact opposite direction—where before the wind was trying to drive us into the bank, now it’s trying to force us to the middle of the river.

  Sometimes I hate being right.

  Oh well, where was I? Oh, yes…

  “‘Take her up and tie her to the mast!’ roared Captain Blodgett, and heavy hands are put on me…”

  In the morning, well before dawn, we are granted relief. The wind subsides to a mere gale and then tapers off to nothing more than a strong breeze. I conclude my tale and find that my telling of the exciting story has put young Daniel fast asleep. Ah, well, that is for the good. A young boy needs his sleep and I shan’t take offense.

  I stand up to stretch and say, “I think we’re through it, mates, and—”

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  And I am knocked off my feet as there is a terrific shock and a great splintering, grinding noise aft and then along the Belle’s port side.

  Damn! Something hit us hard!

  “Nathaniel! Open the hatch! We’ve got to see!”

  He unlocks the door and I rush past him and look aft.

  A house! A goddamn whole house has crashed into us, splintering the steering oar!

  The building, which must have been unwisely placed on a bank near the river and was washed away by the storm’s floodwaters, slowly turns in the current, then grinds down the Belle’s port side, and then floats off, rocking wildly in the madly roiling water.

  I run aft to look at the damage.

  “Jim! The tiller is gone! We’ll have to rig another! And it looks like there’s a crack in the hull, down by the waterline, see it? Get some girls on the pump below and report if we’re taking on any water!”

  I look out over the river. There is all manner of flotsam, whole trees uprooted—there’s a giant oak, its roots washed clean by the flood, turning over and over as it floats down the river.

  “We’ve got water down here, but I think we can stay ahead of it!” shouts Clementine from below.

  ” ‘Thaniel! Matty! Get some boards and nails! We’ve got to—”

  “We’ve got to get below!” hollers Jim, pointing up to the sky. “Look! It’s a tornado!”

  I look up and see the thing, its black funnel twisting out of the edge of the retreating storm, and scream, “Everybody back below! Move it!”

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  The Hawkes boys pound across the deck and down the hatch, with Jim and me close behind.

  “Hurry, Jim!” I shout, pushing my hand on the small of his back, as we round the edge of the cabin top and head for the open hatch. He tumbles down in and I go to follow, but it is too late. The twister is upon us, howling out its natural fury.

  It lifts me up and I grab for the hatchway top and manage to catch it, but my fingers soon start to slip. Jim’s hands grasp my wrists, but they, too, cannot hold on.

  “Close it up and dog it down!” I shout. This might be the last order I ever will issue on the Belle of the Golden West.

  Jim’s hands slip and I am lifted into the air.

  I am aloft in the sky over Louisiana for what seems an impossibly long time, but is, in fact, probably only five seconds or so, and then I am dashed back into the waters of the Mississippi.

  I go way under and then kick myself back to the surface and look about—‘least I ain’t got no hair to get in my eyes—and see only darkness. But then out of it approaches this many-tentacled monster and I scream in terror and flail about—only to see that it is merely the roots of that huge tree I had seen float by earlier. The tree seems to have steadied itself, so I swim out beyond the roots to the trunk and climb aboard.

  I see the first glimmers of dawn in the east, but still can see nothing of the Belle, or much of anything else, for that matter.

  Oh well, I say to myself as I wrap my legs around the trunk beneath me. Let’s just see where this ship takes us, shall we?

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  ***

  That ship, HMS Log, takes us to a sandbar on the western bank of the river and there runs aground, its sailing days forever over. It is full light and I look upriver to see plenty of other stuff floating by—sheds; fence poles; chicken coops with the hens still sitting, clucking on the roof; many more big trees; the carcass of a poor drowned cow; dogs and cats, and sometimes people sitting up on the rooftops of their washed-away homes, but I see nothing of the Belle of the Golden West, nor any of her gallant crew.

  I decide to follow the bar to the shore and then find a tree to climb, to see if that gives me a better vantage point.

  I unwrap my legs from the HMS Log and walk along the sandbar to the shore, and I pick out a good tall tree to climb. As I put my foot on a lower limb, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye. It is but a small alligator, no more than four feet long, but still it sends a shiver up my spine. I climb up and look about, but again I see nothing welcoming to my eye—still nothing upriver. Damn!

  I worry about my crew, of course, but not too much. I have the sense that the tornado only skirted us; otherwise, I would be quite dead and no more a bother to anyone.

  Should I try to go back upriver, overland? It would seem to be the thing to do, after all…

  No, that is not the thing to do at all, I think as I look below. My four-foot a
lligator has been joined by numerous relatives, many of whom exceed his length by ten feet or more. Some lie on the bank, some lie in the shallows just under the surface, with their two inquiring, very interested eyes poking through the top of the water.

  Damn!

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  Looking out on the river, I see something new slipping by. It is a crude raft, maybe fourteen feet square, made up of logs bound together with rope, upon which sits a cabin of sorts, a rude hut, really. Perfect! If I can make it to that raft, I’ll make it to New Orleans! I start my journey out on a long, overhanging limb. The eyes look up at me, one of my stranger, more hostile audiences, I reflect.

  I run to the end of the limb, to the place where the branch will no more support my weight, and I leap off.

  I hit the sandbar running, and I hear the monsters behind me bellowing and lunging out of the water and comin’ after me, and Lord, help me!

  I get to the end of the sandbar and dive in, arms and legs churnin’ for all I’m worth, and I pull for the raft, which is slippin’ on down the river, and I hope nothin’ comes up from the horrid depths below and grabs one o’ me legs and drags me down. Oh please, please, God, don’t let that happen. Ill be good from now on. I promise!

  Nothing grabs me and I am allowed to keep my feet, my legs, my life. Thank you, Lord, oh thank you! and I clamber aboard the raft.

  I take more than several deep breaths and then look around me. The cabin is such that it could barely keep off even a light rain, and it contains only a pile of rags for bedding, but it sure looks like home to me. There are long poles laid out on the deck and I take one up to keep us off the shore, and I realize that this is how it will be from now on…

  I will float and pole myself down to the city of New Orleans, and, if all goes well, as it very seldom does, I will be there tomorrow.

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  Chapter 68

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  I keep hoping that my friends on the Belle are all right after yesterday’s blow. They must be safe, I pray, ‘cause everyone but me got down below and the tornado only struck us a glancing blow, I’m sure, for if had it hit us full on, I’d be lyin dead somewhere far away. I keep telling myself that.