Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West (23 page)

"Even more depths...," observes Mr. Cantrell under his breath, and his eyes narrow and look very sly.

"...but I will take your words under consideration," say I, again rising. "But now I must get back to work. Thank you for your company, Mr. Cantrell, and for your advice."

That evening, at six o'clock, Mrs. Clementine Fletcher gathers up her belongings and goes off the
Belle of the Golden West.
She gives Jim a squeeze of the hand and a kiss on the cheek, which I think is proper under the circumstances, she being a married woman and all, in spite of her age. He looks very down in the mouth, but I figure he'll get over it, 'cause you generally do.

She throws the strap of the rifle over her thin shoulders and picks up the bag she arrived with all those days ago, and starts off, not looking back.

I stand with Jim and watch her go, her too-short yellow dress blowing about her knees as she trudges off into the night.

I put my hand on Jim's shoulder and give it a shake, but I don't know if it helps any.

It starts to rain.

The Convict J. Fletcher
at Hard Labor
in a foul American jail

Jacky,

We got off the road gang later than usual this night, the rotten jailers getting an extra hour of work out of us, the sods. With aching muscles I sit down on the floor of the jail, my back to the wall, eating the bowl of gruel dished out to me. I don't even want to think on what's in it.

My boon companion, Mike Fink, slumps down at my side.

"Ha, boy, only twelve more days! Hell, I could do twelve days standin' on my head with my thumb up my ass! Ha!"

In former days, a statement like that could make me lose my appetite, but not now. I shovel in the landsmen's burgoo. Isn't the worst I've tasted, being Royal Navy and all.
Or, rather, used to be Royal Navy,
I think with some lingering regret. How proud I was to be ... never mind.

"Now, you, boy, you got less'n a week or so to go," continues Fink. "Hell, that's so short a time that I don't think I can even start up a long conversation with you 'cause I wouldn't get to finish it. I mean, that's so short a time that—"

"Jaimy."

I freeze with the gruel still on my lips.

"Jaimy. It's me. Clementine."

I fling down the bowl, its contents spilling over the floor, and leap to the window.

Looking out, I see her small and forlorn figure standing there in the rain in the dwindling twilight. She has nothing with her, just herself—wearing her yellow dress and white apron. The dress is becoming soaked in the rain and is clinging to her. She stands with her arms held straight down at her sides.

"I'm here, Clementine," I say. "I was so worried about you. I—"

"Shouldn't have worried about me, Jaimy. I found me some people what took care of me, so I was all right."

I notice that her hair is fixed different, with ringlets on the side of her face, and a cold feeling comes over me.

"You ... you didn't ... sell ... anything, did you?"

She raises her blue eyes to me. "I don't know what that means, Jaimy. No, all I sold was the labor of my hands, as that's all I'm good at. That what you mean?"

"Clementine, I—"

"No, hush now, Jaimy, and let me talk. I'll be gone off soon."

Chilled to my soul at that, I listen.

"I seen her, Jaimy, I did. I had to see what she was like to make you want her so. And I found out. I crept up outside the place where she was singin' and dancin' and tellin' stories and all. I seen her all right, and I seen that she can do all those things I cain't do. Dress up and act like a fine lady like she was born to it ... sing, dance, play all them musical things. Ever'body in the town just loved her, I could see. Me, I cain't do nothin' 'cept wash dishes and clothes."

She pauses here to take a breath. I can see her thin chest rise and fall. Myself, I can hardly breathe.

"I'm cutting you free, Jaimy, 'cause I know it's her you want and not me. I ain't gonna make no sense now, 'cause I'm just gonna ramble on so maybe you'll know why I'm doin' this...

"Now, don't say nuthin' and don't you worry about me, Jaimy. I've seen me some shows and some city lights, and I've learned to dance slow. I've met a sweet young boy. I've drunk me some drinks and et some things I never seen before, and I seen some sights. You was right, Jaimy, my life has got a lot better since I found you. God sent you to me and I still believe that, but now I'm thinkin' He sent you to show me that I could go off and have a better life even without you, on my own, like, and I thank Him for it, and I thank you, too, Jaimy, for taking me away.

"I got me a good job, taking care of the kids in this family that's going upriver to a new homestead. They was nice to me and fixed up my hair like this, and, no, Jaimy, I ain't sold 'em nuthin' 'cept the labor of my hands."

I know that it is not raindrops that are streaming down her face, but I say nothing. I only look into those sad blue eyes.

"One night when she was playing in that tavern, I snuck aboard the boat she stole from Mike Fink, just to look around. You know she got a paintin' of you above her bed, dressed in your fine uniform? Yup. It looks just like you. Oh, Jaimy, it just about tore my heart out to see you there, looking like that—all fine, fine as she is and fine as I never can be. Oh, yes, you and her, you both talk funny, you do, so I guess you belong together."

The rain pours down now and the ringlets are gone from her hair.

"Clementine, you're going to catch your death—"

"Don't you worry about that none, neither." She gulps, sobbing now. "But listen to this: I've left the rifle and pistol and the other stuff at the General Butler tavern. Ask for Molly. She's been real good to me, too. I left the money I earned with her, too. The rowboat's down at the pier."

She stands there for a moment longer, then says, "I think that's all I got to say. Good-bye, Jaimy. I loved you so."

She turns and walks away. Just before she gets out of sight, she stops for a moment, and when I don't call her back, she goes on and disappears into the night.

I slump down, my back against the wall of the cell.

There,
my rational mind thinks,
my problem is solved, just like that.

So why do I feel so wretched and alone?

And why do I feel so damned rotten?

"Jake said he wanted to go north with some trappers. Tol' me I could go with him if'n I wanted to," said Clementine when she appeared back at the boat that night, standing soaking wet in the rain, with no rifle, no bag, no nothing ... nothing but her poor self, her arms wrapped around her shivering form.

"Tol' him I didn't want to. Tol' him I didn't want to go off with a bunch of dirty trappers. No tellin' what they'd do with me if'n his back was turned," she said, not moving from the place where she first appeared. The expression of total resignation that was writ on her face also did not change. "If'n the work of Cook's Helper is still offered to me, I'll take it and be grateful for your kindness. If'n not, I'll be on my way."

"Of course you can go with us, Clementine," I say, reaching my hand up to welcome her aboard, but my hand is beat to it by a joyous Jim Tanner, who bounds up to the dock.

"
My dear girl!
" he exclaims as his hand takes hers.

She looks up at him. "I warn't really married to him, not like in church and all. My real name is Clementine Amaryllis Jukes, named after my mother."

"Well, consider yourself the newest employee of Faber Shipping, Worldwide, Clementine Amaryllis Jukes," I say, taking her by the arm. "And stand off, James Tanner, as we've got to get her below and get her dry."

Strange, but I thought I felt her stiffen a bit when I called Jim "James."

The morning dawned glorious, as it often does for me when I am off on a new venture. The sun shone, the sparkling wavelets were dancing merrily, and all was well in our watery world.

There was the hustle and bustle of getting the passengers aboard with their luggage, the last-minute payments of dock fees and such, which gives me time to sit down at my topside table and write my first entry into the log:

Belle of the Golden West
log. Preparing to cast off from the port of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA, on the Ohio River, bound south for New Orleans and all points between. Passenger manifest as follows:

Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, with servant

Mr. Manning and daughter Elaine

Mr. and Mrs. Pankowski and family, homesteaders

Mr. McDaniel, lumber merchant

Mr. Brady

Miss Umholtz, schoolmistress, Cincinnati Normal School

Under way, 10 o'clock. Weather clear, all secure.

"Cast off!" I cry, exulting in two of the sweetest words in the sailor's language. The lines are taken in and we shove off the dock and pull out into the stream, finally, on the Ohio River.

"Man your sweeps!" I joyously sing out. Nathaniel is on port forward oar, his brother Matt on the starboard forward one. Behind Matt stands Jim Tanner on aft starboard, Higgins on port aft oar, and between them, on the cabin top, stands me on the tiller. Katy's on bow lookout, watching for snags and debris and other shipping that might impede our progress, while Clementine is below helping Crow Jane get the noon meal together.

When I see that all the oars are ready in the up position, I call out, "All ... pull!"

The oars dip into the water, the stroke is pulled, and they return to the up position.

"All ... pull!" and it is done again. And again.

When we're well clear of the dock area I say, "Port, hold! Starboard, pull!" I throw my tiller over to the right and the
Belle
turns neatly to the left, pointed downriver and parallel to the shore.

After several more pulls by all, I say, "Secure the after oars; forward oars pull together," and Higgins and Jim ship their oars and secure them. "Jim, take the tiller if you would. Keep her about fifty yards offshore and be alert if Katy spots a snag." We're going fast enough that we can get by with just the Hawkes boys on sweeps, and they know each other well enough that they don't need the strokes called out. We'll reserve that for tight situations, like coming in to dock and such.

Jim takes the tiller and I go forward to mix with the passengers for a bit. As I go, I step over the blue line I had the sign painter draw on the deck. It runs from the port gunwale over the deck, up the side of the cabin, across the top and down the other side, over the starboard deck to the gunwale on that side. That line separates the quarterdeck from the rest of the ship, and all passengers have been told that, for safety's sake, no one is allowed abaft that line 'cept crew—can't have some little brat hangin' off the tiller bar, now, can we? The real reason is that I like the separation. I've got three young females back here and I don't need any nonsense in that regard. Plus, we must separate the officers from the crew, the crew right now being the Hawkes boys, but I suspect it might grow. I offered a bunk back aft for Crow Jane, but she let it be known that she'd rather sleep next to her stove. For one thing, I know she didn't take kindly to my rule of no smoking at any time in Officers' Country, as it has become known. For another, I think she just liked it better there, next to her stove, with the Hawkeses for company. They've known each other a long time and are comfortable with that, and I can certainly understand.

About midway through our stay in Pittsburgh, I had promoted Jim from coxswain to Third Mate, with great ceremony and cheers from all about. With the title, he gets a slight increase in pay, which doesn't really matter much, for I can't afford to pay him anything at all now, but I know he appreciated the recognition. More than once when in the taverns, I saw him put his thumb to his chest and announce to others gathered about him that he was "Third Mate on the
Belle of the Golden West,
the best damned keelboat on any river in America!" It seems to me that the bragging and boasting tradition of the river has taken hold of our Jim Tanner.

All the passengers are out on deck, watching the riverbank slide by and remarking on the other shipping and the beauty of the river and of the day. I greet Mr. and Mrs. Pankowski and comment on the beauty of their children and am about to turn to engage others in small talk, when I look up and see a sight that sends me running back to the quarterdeck.

There on the bank, downriver, is a gang of convicts in black and white striped shirts and pants, toiling away at building a seawall. I can hear the sound of their hammers smashing rocks, to be pounded into the space behind the big rock wall that has already been put up. And there, as we draw closer, I see that at the top of the pile of rocks stands none other than Mike Fink, King of the River.

"Higgins!" I shriek. "Please, my fiddle!"

***

J. Fletcher, Convict
On the Rockpile on the bank of the Ohio
Pennsylvania, USA

To Jacky Faber or anyone else who might be the least bit interested in my wretched life:

I was in an extremely surly mood this morning, and in no temper at all to listen to any more of Mike Fink's drivel, or anything else for that matter. The other convicts have learned to stay clear of me, as I have been in several fistfights with a few of the more unruly ones and they have come out the worse for it. Harrumph—to think they would try to best an officer of the Royal Navy with any kind of weapon, including fists. Think of it—I, who have sat at the same table with the great Lord Nelson, now bruise my knuckles on the unshaven chins of ignorant American rabble in a squalid jail in the trackless wilderness.

Fink, of course, continues to think of me as his protégé in the life and the lore of the rivers, not getting it through his thick head that I could give less than a tinker's damn about all that.

Yes, it is true: Clementine's departure last night has wounded me to my core.

"
Boy! Lookee there!" shouts Fink from the top of the pile. I am down at the bottom of the hole, tamping the broken bits of rock into the base of the seawall. I poke my head up over the top of the wall. "Out on the river! What's that say on the side of that boat?
"

"
It says, you illiterate brigand, 'Belle of the Golden West.' What of it?
" Uh-oh,
I say to myself
—I believe I've seen that craft before.

"
I'll be damned if that don't look like my boat, all gussied up like a fifty-cent whore!
"

I look with a good deal more interest now. I can see people, a lot of them, on the deck and in the stern, and then what appears to be a girl with a fiddle jumps up on the cabin top.

Then, as the boat comes abreast of us, we can hear the strains of a fiddle and a voice raised in song.

Dance the boatman's dance,
Oh, dance the boatman's dance,
Dance all night till the broad daylight,
And go home with the girls in the morning!

I ripped out the melody of the "Boatman's Dance" and then put up my bow to sing the chorus, 'cause I knew Mike would enjoy it so, then I play and sing the verse that most pertains to the poor convicts' situation.

I went on board the other day,
To see what the boat girl had to say,
And there I let my passion loose,
And they crammed me down in the calaboose!

"Oh, look, Higgins, how he does rant and roar! Is this not just the finest thing!" I gloat.

"Have you never heard of the ancient Greek concept of hubris, Miss? If not, there are definitely some gaps in your education, to say nothing of your philosophy," says Higgins, observing the scene with a lot less relish than do I.

"Oh, bother all that," I say. "Here, I'll give him more of the tune and maybe a bit of a dance to cheer him and those poor convicts. How could that be bad of me?"

I don't wait for an answer but instead put bow to the Lady Gay and tear out the song, both with fiddle and feet. I'd like to take off my dress so that my legs could more freely move, but I've got passengers aboard and I cannot. However, in my skipping and jumping, I make sure my dress comes up well over my knees, because I am not shy in that way and I mean to bring only joy to those who watch.