Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy

by L. A. Meyer

  "And Brother Fox, he starts goin' to church and meetin's and soon he takes the Spirit into his heart and he put on the black hat and long frock coat and white collar of the preacher. Preacher Fox preaches all through the Big Woods and then goes to preachin' up and down the Big River and he got right famous and he never again ate another rabbit. End of story, back to work, both of you."

  "Jemimah, do you mean that there ain't any more stories?" asks Daniel, a bit crestfallen.

  "No, boy, I don't mean that at all. Y'see, when one wily fox step aside, another one will step up and take his place, and when one bear decide to lie back and smell the flowers, well, another mean old bear will come roarin' in, up to all sorts of rascality."

  Jemimah chuckles deep in her throat. "And you can be sure there'll be one very smart rabbit on hand to confuse them both. Heh! No, Sister Girl and Brother Boy, the stories never end. Now back to work, both of you."

  The kids scurry out and Jemimah brings her gaze to bear upon me.

  "I hear things down below. Late at night. Things rustlin' about. Sets my mind to thinkin'...and what I think is, Brother Rabbit may be the smart one in the Big Woods, but you, girl, you somehow be the trickster in this here story. I knowit to be true."

  I don't say anything to that, just continue to stroke Gringo's feathers as Jemimah continues to knead the bread.

  She's humming a tune as she does it and I say, "Jemimah. That song you're hummin'. It sounds right familiar. Will you sing it for me?"

  She slaps a dough ball on the board and commences to knead it. And she lifts her head and starts to sing and beat the bread at the same time:

  Oh, the High Sheriff, he told his Deputy,

  Go out and bring me Lazarus. (Huh!)

  Oh, the High Sheriff, he told his Deputy,

  Go out and bring me Lazarus. (Huh!)

  Bring him dead or alive, Lord, Lord,

  Bring him dead or alive.

  I was right, I had heard the song before. On the way down the Mississippi River, work gangs on the banks would sing this as they brought their big hammers down on the rocks they were splitting. They would time the hammer blows to fit the song, and so make the work pass easier. Just like sailors sing shanties when they're raising heavy sails, and just as Jemimah does as she kneads her bread, grunting huh! and slamming the dough down where the hammers would come down.

  Oh, they found poor Lazarus,

  up between two mountains. (Huh!)

  Oh, they found poor Lazarus,

  up between two mountains. (Huh!)

  And they brought him down, Lord, Lord,

  They brought him down.

  I'm noticing that the bread dough is taking a good deal of punishment, as Jemimah seems to be putting a good deal of anger into her huh! She sings on, her big voice filling the galley.

  And they shot poor Lazarus,

  shot him with a great big number. (Huh!)

  And they shot poor Lazarus,

  shot him with a great big number. (Huh!)

  Number forty-five, Lord, Lord,

  Number forty-five.

  She pauses a bit to put another dough ball on the board, and then takes up the song again.

  And they taken poor Lazarus,

  laid him on the commissary counter. (Huh!)

  And they taken poor Lazarus,

  laid him on the commissary counter. (Huh!)

  And they walked away, Lord, Lord,

  They just walked away.

  Lazarus's mother,

  she come a'runnin'. (Huh!)

  Oh, Lazarus's mother,

  she come a'runnin'. (Huh!)

  Cryin', My only son, Lord, Lord,'

  Cryin', My only son.'

  Jemimah stops singing, and she stops kneading, too, and just stands there for a while, her head up, her eyes closed.

  "That was beautifully sung, Jemimah," I say, meaning it.

  She nods and goes back to her task.

  A thought occurs to me and though I know that I'm probably treading where I should not go, I ask, "Jemimah, you've told us some things about your children, but you haven't said anything about your husband. Where is he?"

  She snorts. "He's either in Heaven or in Hell, but he's dead all the same."

  Oh.

  "How did it happen, if you don't mind me asking?" I say, as gentle as I can. "You can tell me to mind my own business and I will shut up and do that."

  "No, child, it's all right. I will tell you." She takes a deep breath. "His name was Moses and everybody called him Mose. He was a big man and did the blacksmithin' work on the plantation, poundin' out hot iron and steel. Worked with the horses, too. Everybody liked him, colored and white, alike. When he was a young man, he run away twice, tryin' to get to freedom, but he was caught and brought back each time and whipped. After me and the children come along, he stopped tryin' to run away. He learned to get along, just like the rest of us."

  She is quiet again for a while, then heaves a great sigh and goes on.

  "He was good to me and he was a good father to the kids, too. Raised 'em up as good as he could—bein' a slave and all, you ain't got all that much say in things. Yes, he loved his children and that's what brought him down at the end. When things went bad and the plantation was bein' broke up, some men from Charleston come up to take our two oldest kids away. When Mose saw my Josh and my Rosie bein' bound up and put in the wagon to be taken off and sold, sumthin' happened in his mind and he rushed at the men and tried to set our chil'ren loose so's they could run off to the woods and maybe get away, but he didn't have much luck in that. They hit at him with clubs and told him to lie down and don't cause no trouble, but he wouldn't do it, no, he swung on the men with his big fists and when two of 'em was on the ground and he saw that they was bringin' guns, he re'lized what he had done and he run off into the woods, all crazy in his head.

  "They sent out armed men on horses with dogs, and they run him down and they killed him. Shot him when he run and cut him down when he turned and tried to make a stand.

  "They brought him back in a buckboard with his toes draggin' in the dust, and just like poor Lazarus, they laid him out all bloody on a plank, right there in front of me and what children were left. Did it as an example to us Nigras what would happen if we ever act up. We buried him that afternoon, and the next day they come and took the rest of my kids down to the Charleston Slave Market. In a few days, they come and took me there, too."

  She paused for a moment, her eyes still closed.

  "Mose thought he was strong as Brother Bear, fast as Brother Fox, and clever as Brother Rabbit, but he warn't none of those, no," she says, shaking her head. "But he was my good old man, and I miss him."

  With that, Jemimah Moses takes off her dusty apron and hangs it up. And as for Jacky Faber, she who used to think she had seen some trouble in her life, well, I just sit there and don't say a mumblin' word.

  Chapter 45

  I left Gringo's vest on him for the journey to La Pelea de Gallos Arena, and this time I put it on over his wings so he wouldn't flap about and waste his strength. Carnival is still in full swing and the bird's beady little eyes seem to take in the excitement that swirls all about. The place is packed, with crowds of people pushing and shoving to get in the still-open doors. Davy, Tink, and Daniel, who had come with us, go off to join the throng. Joannie, I keep by me.

  Before we go in the contestant entrance, I put the little leather hood over Gringo's head to keep him from getting too excited at the sight of the other birds. Still, I can feel his heart thumping in the palm of my hand.

  I'm given my fight number. It's three, my lucky numeral, and we settle down to await our turn. The other handlers look at El Gringo curiously—what with his tight vest and all. The others have their birds in cages and they flutter nervously within.

  Soon Red Sash leaves the holding area, and shortly we hear a trumpet blast and then:

  "Señores y señoritas! Welcome to La Pelea de Gallos Arena on the last day of the season! Tomorrow we shall
all don our ashes and there will be no contests for forty days! But today, eat, drink, be happy, and place your bets! The first fight will be between El Pollo Feo of Rancho Verde, and Chucho from La Playa Hermosa! Handlers, to your positions!"

  The doors swing open and the first two contestants are marched out. Through the open doors I can see that Tink and Davy have managed to worm their way to spots right on the rail.

  "Joannie. When we go out, I want you to join Davy and Tink and Daniel. They're right there." The doors close. "And here"—I dig in my pocket and pull out a gold coin—"put this on El Gringo to win. You should get good odds. And I'll give you Gringo's vest when we get to the center."

  She nods, and a roar goes up from the arena. The first two gladiators are definitely at it now.

  I spy El Matador's handler sitting nearby with a cage next to him. He is a small man with a large mustache, and wears the loose white linen suit so favored in this country. I've heard him addressed as Señor Maza. I am sure he remembers me from the last match—female trainers are not all that common—and I know he is eyeing me with a certain smug confidence.

  We'll see about that.

  I unlace Gringo's leather hood and pull it off. I had made it to look like the hoods that falconers put on their harriers, and the effect is not lost on the other handlers in the place. I have their undivided attention.

  Gringo shakes his head and looks about, fierce as any hawk. Then he crows out his challenge, loud and clear.

  "Hush, Gringo," I say, stroking his head, his uncut bright red comb a taunt to all the bald heads sticking out of cages. "Save it for the ring." I reach up under him and massage his legs and thighs to loosen him up, something I have been doing of late and which he seems to enjoy, or at least tolerate.

  I have found that, in any game, be it cards or swordfighting or chess or whatever, part of the victory will be won by messing with your opponent's head in the lead-up to the actual battle. Make him lose his confidence, like.

  In that spirit I remove the lead slugs from Gringo's vest, one by one, and drop them in my pocket. This also is not missed by the others, especially by El Matador's handler. Could it be that I have started a new kind of training for the gamecocks of Cuba? If so, I pity the poor things.

  There is another roar from outside and then silence, which means the first fight is over. Sure enough, the doors swing open and two men walk in, one triumphant, holding his struggling gladiator with both hands, the other disconsolate, carrying a very limp and very dead bird in his. The men put their birds, both the quick and the dead, back in their cages, and the defeated pair make their exit through the back door, while the victors sit and await the awards ceremony that will happen when all the fights are done. The Spanish, like most of us, do love their ceremonies.

  I pull another coin from my pocket and walk over to Señor Maza.

  "Buenos días, Señor. It seems our fighters are to meet again in combat," I say in Spanish. He nods. "Would you like to place a side bet on the outcome?" I hold up the piece of eight. "Even odds, even though your bird is heavily favored. Yes?"

  He considers and again he nods, but he does not seem quite so confident now.

  There is another trumpet call and two more men and their birds tromp out to meet their fates. I settle back down and undo the lacings on Gringo's vest, but I do not take it off just yet. Instead I reach in my pocket and pull out a few seeds and offer them to El Gringo. He pecks at them avidly. We didn't feed him this morning, wanting him to stay lean and mean and hungry. But I figure a bit of a treat now won't hurt, and it'll keep his mind off the other birds.

  Again there is a roar as the second bout ends, so we stand up and get ready. The doors open, and two men come back in, bearing their now quiet burdens—both cocks are still alive, but just barely. Blood trickles down through the fingers of one of the men, and from his expression, his bird was clearly the loser.

  The trumpet calls and we rise, and, next to Señor Maza and El Matador, we march into the ring.

  When we turn and face each other, Red Sash gestures to me and calls out, "In this next bout, we present the challenger El Gringo Furioso from Rancho..."—here he squints at his notes—"Dove-coot..."

  I raise Gringo up for the crowd to see and there are shouts of derision as well as comments on his peculiar garment.

  "Look! He's already trussed up for the oven! Ha! Five pieces of silver on El Matador the Invincible!"

  "Is El Gringo cold? Is he afraid? Does he even have any wings?"

  "I think he is very handsome and dressed in the height of fashion," calls out one of the señoritas who lean out over the balcony. "Two pieces on him!"

  Thank you, Sister.

  I take off Gringo's vest and hand it to Joannie. "Go, girl." And she bounds across the ring and vaults over the rail and is collected by Tink and Davy. Gringo, freed of his vest, spreads his wings and crows out his challenge. The crowd cheers.

  "...and on this side is El Matador, the champion! From Hacienda Maza!

  There is a roar from the crowd as Señor Maza lifts up his fighter.

  El Matador! Viva el Matador!

  "Engage!" shouts Red Sash, and we shove our gamecocks against each other to get them good and mad. They both shriek and try to slash at each other, their neck feathers straight out.

  "Ready!"

  Señor Maza and I both crouch down and place our fighters on the sand.

  "Fight!"

  We release and stand back while the cocks leap at each other, spurs up and slashing, beaks thrusting at each other's necks and eyes.

  "Olé!" shouts the crowd.

  "Get him, Gringo!" shouts Joannie from behind me. Gringo takes an early slash on the wing from El Matador, but the wound is not deep and he presses his attack. No longer the weaker one, he is relentless in pushing back the other bird, back against the rail. El Matador takes a cut to the neck, and the blood flows. But the wound is not mortal, so he fights on against Gringo's furious onslaught—he is not called el campeón for nothing—he's got depth and he's got bottom. He angles for a weakness and he strikes back as he finds it. He lashes out with his beak and finds Gringo's untrimmed comb, grabs it, and holds on tight.

  Oh no! Was I wrong in keeping his comb uncut?

  Maybe I was. El Matador has him in a death grip and he does not let go as blood seeps out of Gringo's torn comb and trickles over his face.

  Come on, Gringo! You can get out of that! Fight!

  Fight he does. Just like a cat when losing a fight will turn on her back and rake her opponent's belly with her open claws, Gringo brings up his spurs, and with his strong legs, drives them deep into El Matador's breast and holds them there.

  El Matador quivers, but still he holds on. Gringo pushes his spurs deeper ... deeper ... Then slowly El Matador opens his beak, tries and fails to make a last defiant crow, and falls back, done.

  "Fight over!" shouts Red Sash, and the crowd roars. The champion is down!

  I scoop up the victorious Gringo and hold him up to the cheering crowd, then hand him off over the rail to Daniel. "Get him back in his hood and vest! We've got to calm him down!" I can feel his chest heaving and his heart pumping wildly under my hand. I hear Joannie whoop as she runs off to collect our winnings. The trumpet calls and I go back through the doors as the next two contestants come out, carrying their fighters. Señor Maza and what's left of El Matador go back through with me.

  I watch him as he tenderly puts his fallen gladiator back into his cage for the last time. I think I hear him say, "Sleep, my son, you have died with honor," and I see something I didn't notice before—the sleeves and pant legs of his linen suit are frayed. It comes to me that Hacienda Maza is probably no more than a few cages behind an earthen-floored hut in the poorer section of this town, and that El Matador was feeding his master and his family.

  Oh, why must I be so mean and thoughtless sometimes?

  I approach him, intending to give my condolences, and he looks up and announces, his face a mask of shame, "Señorita
... the wager ... I cannot..."

  I know he cannot cover the bet, so I say, "Put the money in the poor box at the Cathedral, a little at a time, over the year. And, here, add my bit for los pobres." And I give him my piece of eight.

  He nods gravely and takes it as I sit down next to him to await the end of these proceedings.

  There are four more contests and then there is the final awarding of the prizes. I collect my two hundred pesos and rejoin my mates.

  "Well," I say, "not a bad day all around. The drinks at Ric's will be on El Gringo Furioso. Shall we go?"

  Go we shall, but something is wrong...

  "Where's Joannie?" I ask.

  We look around, and she is not here. I look at Davy.

  "Last I saw of her, she was off to collect your winnings," says he.

  Worried looks all around.

  Joannie is missing and nowhere to be found.

  Uh-oh...

  Chapter 46

  "We'll go to Ric's. Whoever has taken her would look for us there. Daniel, you take Gringo back to the ship and tell them what has happened. Have Jim make the Nancy ready to go on a moment's notice. If you receive any word there, run to Ric's and tell us. If Higgins is not aboard, send for him. Tink and Davy, come with me."

  Daniel flies off and the three of us march grimly across the plaza to Ric's.

  "What do you think, Jacky?" asks Tink.

  "I think it's surely someone who knows us—either Cisneros or El Feo or someone of that ilk. I can't believe that some random scoundrel would just snatch a kid who looks like a wharf rat and think she might be worth something to somebody." Joannie was dressed in her sailor garb—loose white shirt, canvas trousers, hair braided in a pigtail, feet bare. "Hope not, anyway."