Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West (19 page)

I almost snort some tea through my nose. "Now, Higgins, this is not London and we must do as the Romans do. We must not be shy, if we mean to make money." I settle back in my chair. We have got a small table and four chairs, and they are set up on the cabin top when the weather is good, which it is today. "You've met Crow Jane?"

"Yes, actually. We went over our stores yesterday and she was quite useful in pointing out what we lacked. Strange things, like buckwheat, and sourdough starter, beef jerky, and sorghum molasses. She seems to know what she is doing. I gave her some money to go off to buy what we needed."

"I have told her that you are second-in-command of this ship, and that she is to take an order from you the same as if it came from me." I put a slice of buttered toast to the teeth.

"Ah, yes. First Mate on a riverboat on a river in the trackless American wilderness, hip to hip with a red Indian sous-chef. Surely every British butler's dream," replies Higgins, absolutely deadpan.

"Higgins, you kill me," I chortle. "You really do."

"And now you've gone and made a bit of a mess. Here, let me tidy you up."

Higgins applies the napkin to the jelly smears on my face, and then I return to my breakfast.

"
Mmm.
Good toast. And what is this?"

"Elderberry jelly, locally made. You will find it quite good, I think. And yes, the bread was made by Crow Jane. She was up early and had the stove going nicely."

A head appears at the passenger hatchway up forward. I see who it is and say to myself,
Why not?

"Mr. Cantrell. Will you come share tea and toast with me?"

He looks over at me, at my table, removes the hat he had just put on, and says, "That is very kind of you. I will be happy to join you."

He comes up on the cabin top, and Higgins pulls out a chair for him, and he sits down, brushing back the tails of his coat.

"Lovely day, Miss," he says.

Higgins brings another place setting and I pointedly glance down at the Colored girl, who has also come up on deck to sit next to the railing and look out over the water. Higgins nods and goes below.

Higgins reappears, with another cup for Mr. Cantrell, which he fills from the teapot that sits on the table. He has also brought up two baskets of buttered toast, one of which he places on my table and the other of which he places in front of the girl. She looks up, suspicious, but she puts her hand in anyway and takes a slice and eats it.

"Yes, Mr. Cantrell, it is a most lovely day."

We spend breakfast in learning about each other's origins, him being from New York City and me being from Boston, which is as far as I am willing to go in revealing my past. It is most enjoyable, as he is a very amusing and well-spoken guest. Eventually, though, Crow Jane comes up with a stick in her hand and announces that it is time to go get the Hawkes boys out of jail, and I rise and bid him adieu.

As we approach the jail, or calaboose, as Crow Jane would have it, I ask her why people call her Crow Jane.

"Well, y'see, Boss, there's a tribe o' Indians out West called Crows, and a lot of folks think I'm Crow. But I ain't. I'm Shoshone, from up in the high parts of the Snake River. Early on, got me a taste for French trappers, whiskey, and tobaccy, so here I be. Got two sons, François and Jacques, trappin' up on the Missouri, and a daughter married to a trapper named Baptiste who runs the trading post on the Platte. Got some grandbabies by them, too."

We walk on a bit, and then she says, "Could be 'cause I had a tame crow onc't. Named Henri. Had his tongue split so he could say some words. Nobody could understand him but me, but they was words, I know. Died last year. Miss him. Jail's right here, Boss."

Boss Faber looks up at the edifice. It's made of brick and stone, and I'd hate to have to break out of this one, accomplished jailbreaker though I might be.

"The way in is on the other side," says Crow Jane, starting in that direction. I go to follow when I hear a familiar bellow.

"
Goddamn! It's her! Right there! The one what stole my boat!
"

I freeze for a second—
Good God, it's Fink!
—then I whip out my shiv and get into a crouch, expecting attack from any side.

But it does not come. Carefully I look around, and then I look up. There I see a very small, barred window about six feet up the side of the wall, and filling the entire window is the enraged face of Mike Fink.

When I see that Mr. Fink is safely confined, I replace my knife in my arm sheath and turn to talk to him.

"Good day to you, Mr. Fink!" I chirp, and drop down into a full curtsy. "How good to see your cheerful countenance again."

He manages to get an arm through the bars and seems to be reaching for my throat. I step forward and keep that throat about two inches beyond his grasp.

What he says is not coherent, but it seems to dwell mainly on a fervent wish for my imminent death by strangling.

"I am so glad you survived your fall into the river, Mr. Fink. We looked for you, you know, but as we were inexperienced, we were swept down the river. I ask you, what could we do?"

Fink gains his voice.

"What can ye do? You can bail us out of here and give me back my boat!"

"Ah, Mr. Fink, I have here next to my heart a Bill of Sale for that boat, signed by you," I reply. "Do you see your signature there? Do you deny that it is yours?"

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you! I'll kill you! Kill you, kill you, kill, kill, kill—"

"And just how long is your sentence, Mr. Fink? Twenty days? Ah, that is a very convenient time, Mr. Fink. I'm afraid I have no connection to the local law, and I and the
Belle of the Golden West
will be long gone before you get out. But don't despair. You may reclaim your boat in New Orleans, as I shall be done with it then. I shall leave it in good condition, better condition than when I found it. I am not greedy. I will name you a fair price for it."

I know it is evil to taunt him, but it is so much fun. Fink rages and tries to rip out the bars, but it is all to no avail. I think I hear someone else within the jail calling out, too. I think I heard my name shouted, but that's probably 'cause I'm getting so well-known around here.

"Well, Mr. Fink, this has been a most enjoyable conversation, but I must take my leave now, as business calls. My ship needs further outfitting before we embark for points south. Adieu, Mr. Fink. I do hope you'll enjoy your stay as a guest of this fair city," I say as I give him a slight curtsy while turning to leave.

"Wait a minute," Fink says in a more or less normal voice. I stop and wait. "There's a little girl, prolly sittin' by the front door of this here jail. She's got no one to watch out fer her, 'cause her man's in here with me. He's only got ten days while I got twenty. If you could do sumthin' fer her, I'd take it kindly. He would, too."

"Why, Mr. Fink," I exclaim, pleased. "That's the most decent thing I have ever heard you say. I shall see what I can do. Good-bye, Mr. Fink." I give him a little finger wave and my brightest smile.

"I'll be seem' you again, girly-girl, when you least expect it, but you'll know it's me who's killin' you, I'll make sure o' that," replies Fink, back to his old mean self. "And you know somethin' else? I know a secret thing that you don't know and I ain't gonna tell you what it is."

"To make rabbit stew, you must first catch the rabbit, Mr. Fink," I answer, all smug. "And I don't think I need to know your secret. Cheerio, Mr. Fink. I don't think we'll be meeting again."

I leave Mike Fink banging his head against the bars and go around the corner with Crow Jane to claim the Hawkes boys. I wonder, but not too much, about what secret he had to tell. I was glad to learn of Fink's being in jail, though—I was kinda worried he might catch up to us and cause trouble. And now he can't, for twenty days gives us too big a lead for him to catch up with us. Yes, this works out just fine.

Crow Jane chuckles. "Ol' Mike Fink, brought down by a girl. Wait'll the river hears about this.
Yiyiyiyi, wah-toh-pah!
"

I don't know what it means, but I can guess.

At the entrance to the jail is a bench and on the bench sits a girl. She is a little rag of a thing, with lank, strawlike hair, crudely cut across at the eyes, which are a washed-out blue. She is freckled all over her face and shoulders and even on her bare arms. A rag, too, is the old faded yellow dress she wears, its torn hem barely reaching to her bony knees. I suspect she has owned that dress a very long time, probably from when the hem came down to her ankles. She wears a white apron over the dress. Her nose is red, from crying probably, hands red from work are twisting in her lap, and her feet look like they probably never saw shoes. A fuzz of fine white hair grows on her lower legs. She's pretty clean, though, considering. At least there's no caked dirt between her toes.

"My name is Jacky Faber," I begin. "What is your name and how old are you?"

At the mention of my name, the girl jerks as if she has been touched with a hot poker. She glances up at me with a look of pure hatred, locking eyes with me.

"M-m-my name is Missus Clementine Fletcher. I am fourteen, if that is any bidness o' yours, which it ain't."

Well.
This is a tough one.

"That's young to be married," I say.

"It's old enuff." She lowers her eyes and looks to the side.

"Boss, I'm goin' in't' get the Hawkes boys," says Crow Jane. "They'll need someone to vouch for 'em, say they got a job and all, or the sheriff'll jus' arrest 'em again for bein' vay-grunts."

"Good. Thanks, Jane," I say, and turn my attention again to Mrs. Fletcher. "I, too, have a boy named Fletcher, Jaimy Fletcher, and I hope to be his wife someday, but he lies far over the sea. Count yourself lucky to have your man out in twenty days. I would gladly trade places with you."

"Jes' bet you would."

"What does that mean?"
This is one strange girl,
I'm thinking.

"Nothin'. Go away."

Hmmmm.

"I told Mike Fink I'd see what I could do for you, but I'll be damned if I'll pay for your lodging, or put up with your lip. Get up. You can stay on my boat and work for your keep till we leave, or you can go to Hell, for all I care."

"All right. I'll go to Hell. Now just go away and leave me alone."

"What are you going to do for all that time? Just sit there?"

"Yup. If'n I have to."

I have to admire her loyalty, if not her intelligence. Why does she hate me so? Could it be my fine clothes while she sits in rags? Could it be that she's heard of my singing and dancing and doesn't approve 'cause that sort of thing's against her religion? I've found that there's lots of crazy cults that call themselves Christian in this country, that's for sure.

"Come along with me or you'll be arrested for vagrancy," I snarl. I am growing irritated. I am not used to having my charity spurned.

Just then Crow Jane comes out the jailhouse door behind two long and lanky young men who are protesting violently the fact that she's switching them unmercifully from behind.

"Crow Jane, now, you stop that! Yow!" begs the blonder of the two brothers. Both are clad in boatman's gear of canvas pants held up by a rope, loose white shirt, boots, and the boatman's black hat. Their unruly hair hangs loose and unbound to their shoulders. Each could use a shave and, from the smell of 'em drifting over to my nose, a bath.

"I'll stop, Matthew Hawkes, when you two polecats stop actin' like fools, drinkin' rotten whiskey, and chasm'
squa
ever' chancst y'git when y'got some jingle in yer pants," says Crow Jane, driving them relentlessly on till they stand in front of me. "This here's yer new boss lady. Take off yer hats. Ain't-cha got no manners?"

"A girl is our new boss, Crow Jane? Now that cain't be right," says the darker of the two. His hair grows back from a high forehead and he affects a pointy little chin beard. For his impertinence he receives another switch from Jane's rod. "All right, all right!" he cries. "She's our new boss!"

"Damn right, 'Thaniel Hawkes," says Jane.

The Hawkes boys take off their hats and hold them to their chests. "Pleased to meet-cha, Ma'am," they say in unison, exposing their teeth in what I'm sure they take to be winning smiles.

"Mutual, Messrs. Hawkes," says I. "I hope you will turn out to be good men. Now let us return to the ship and acquaint you with your duties. Clementine, come along."

The girl does not move.

"You want this
ikouessens
on the boat?" asks Crow Jane. "Then, here." And with that she reaches down and grabs Missus Clementine Fletcher's left ear and hauls her to her feet, howling in pain.

"Wait, wait!" cries the girl. "I'll go with you!"

"Thought you might," says Crow Jane, releasing her ear, which now glows a bright red from the pinch.

"Got our rowboat over there. Got our stuff in it," she says, rubbing her ear.

"Matty," says Crow Jane, and nods in that direction, "we're on the next dock over. The boat with all the fancy stuff on the sides."

Matty Hawkes, glad to get out of range of Jane's switch, lopes over to the rowboat.

It's plain who is the Captain of the
Belle,
and also who is First Mate. It's now also plain who is the Bo'sun.

"I'm glad you decided to do the smart thing, girl," I say to the sullen Clementine.

In all her sullenness I think I see a new look of cunning come over her face.

"I will come along with you, Miss Jacky Faber, oh, yes, I will," she whispers low. "It is the right thing to do, I see that now."

Could it be that I see a warning of danger in her hot blue eyes?

Jaimy Fletcher
In the Pittsburgh Jail
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
In the Goddamned United States of America

Jacky,

I have been chained ankle to ankle with Mike Fink and various other lowlifes in this stinking jail cell since our arrest last night outside the White Horse Tavern. I have been massaging my swollen jaw and amusing myself by thinking up variations on USA. How about Ubiquitous Swine devoted to Anarchy? No? Then how's this: Unwashed Savages of Abysmal ignorance? I find myself longing for a civilized drawing room in London. Perhaps a soiree or a grand banquet, or at the Captain's table on a first-rate ship of the Line of Battle just before some Glorious Action? I, who have sat at the same table as Lord Nelson, himself, now sit on a cold stone floor in a squalid prison, shackled to ... no, wait...
squalid's
a good word ... let's see ... Unabashedly Squalid and Asinine. That's a good one.
Or, as my present companions would say, "Tha's a good 'un, har-har, lesh haf another.
"