Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West (40 page)

"Back us out the door or you'll never take another breath again, you scurvy dog!" I shout into his ear. He lunges wildly across the room, trying desperately to dig his fingers under the rope, to take that awful pressure off his windpipe, but he cannot. He can do nothing but gag. I am little, but I am strong. "The door, dog, or die!"

Again Flashby careens across the hold, this time in the general direction of the door. Another door opens and from the corner of my eye, I see Richard Allen, shirtless, step into the room. He takes in the scene—Moseley still on the floor, moaning, and Flashby staggering above him with a luridly purple face, and the Captain bursts into great gales of laughter.

"Nothing like a brisk ride of a morning to get the blood pumping, is there, old boy?" crows the delighted Allen. "Of course, I myself prefer to do the riding, rather than being rid, but then there is no accounting for taste, and I hear you Navy chaps do like your fun a little, well,
irregular. Hmmm
... It looks like she's got the bridle a bit tight, doesn't it.
Tsk, tsk.
"

"Get her! Tie her down!" This from Moseley, who has re-covered enough to stand. "If she gets out the door, she is gone!"

Flashby is starting to sink to his knees. 'Tis plain he ain't gonna carry me to the door. I let go and leap for the opening.
If I can get out and into the water, I might yet save myself!

"Allen, I order you! I swear I'll have you court-martialed!"

Captain Allen stops laughing long enough to say, "Oh, very well.
Ahem!
Sergeant Bailey, please apprehend that demon who has brought at least five hundred pounds of His Majesty's finest Intelligence Agents to their knees. Careful, now."

I'm out the door and there is the shining Mississippi and never did it look better, but there also is Sergeant Enoch Bailey, looking very large and very determined and very much in my way.

"Aye, Sir," says Sergeant Bailey. He whips out a hand and gets me by the neck—for a big man, he is very fast.

But I am very fast, too, and I use every dirty trick I know to try to break away. First I box his ears—bringing my two cupped hands together hard on his ears—he winces, but does not let go. Then I bring my knee up quick into his crotch—he doubles over and gasps, but he does not let go. Finally, I sink my teeth into the soft part of his shoulder next to his neck and I bite down as hard as I can. He does not let go.

"Archy ... Alfie ... help me," he wheezes, and the two soldiers are by his side, and they pry my now-defeated form off of their sergeant and carry me back inside and plop me in the chair. Rope is found and I am securely bound once again.

"Remember, no food, no water," says Moseley to Allen, as he prepares to leave. "I don't care what else you do with her, but no food, no water. And she had better not escape," he adds with a threatening look at the languid Captain Allen, who leans back in a chair, his booted feet crossed. He has on a loose white shirt now, but no coat. It is summer and it is hot. He also has a pistol in a holster by his side, I guess in case Flashby takes him up on one of his many challenges to duel.

"Don't worry, Guv'nor, she's in competent hands now," says the insolent Captain Allen, blowing an excellently formed smoke ring in Moseley's direction. I gather that Moseley and Flashby must journey back to the Shawnee village to find out what will be Tecumseh's stand on selling settlers' scalps for money.

Flashby, for his parting word, leans close to me and whispers, "The time to settle our unfinished business will come. You can mark me on that. When we get to New Orleans, goddamn Captain bloody Lord Allen will be gone, but you will still be my captive. We will see just how frisky you are then." He puts his hand to his neck, which is red with vivid rope burns. "And you may mark me on this, too. After I deliver you to the Admiralty and they are done with you, I shall give up fifty pounds of the reward for the privilege of putting the rope around your neck and pulling the lever to drop the trap myself. I am glad to inform you that I am quite highly regarded as a man up-and-coming in the Intelligence Service, and I am sure they will accede to my wishes. I will make sure that the drop will be the short one, not the long, so I can watch you strangle." He runs his finger over my throat when he says that.

I have not had a drop to drink in over twenty-four hours, but I manage to work up a gob of spit, and I sling it in his eye. Enraging him doesn't matter anymore, he will do to me whatever he will do.

He starts back, wipes his eye, and brings the back of his hand across my face. I shudder and hang my head and wait for another blow.

It doesn't come. Moseley and Flashby leave the hold.

I continue to hang my head and sag in my bonds. I try an experimental whimper.

"Well, you did spit in his eye, dearie, you can't deny that. I'd have smacked you one, too, for that."

"Would you, to someone tied in a chair? I think not, Captain Allen."

"I don't know about that, as I've never tied anyone to a chair. It ain't my style." Allen rises and locks the hatchway door and puts the key in his pocket. After he glances up at the clock—you can always trust the military to be watching the clock—he goes to a cupboard and takes out a bottle of wine and one glass. He draws the cork with his teeth and fills the glass. Then he pulls up a chair next to me and sits down.

"Do you know what Moseley and Flashby are doing at the Indian camp?" I ask.

"Oh, stirring up trouble, I suppose. They haven't seen fit to let me in on it yet, and that's fine with me. My only job is to protect the politicos, and that's what I'm doing."

For some reason, it gladdens me to hear that.

"How long will they be gone?" I ask with a sniffle. "Till they come back to torture me some more?"

"Oh, four or five hours. And I won't let them torture you. Oh, you'll have to suffer a little, but I won't let it get too far."

"Too far? Will you lift the edge of my skirt over my left leg a few inches?"

He grins. "Why, I'd be delighted." He gets to his feet and comes over and flips up my skirt. The angry red burn marks are plain on my leg.

Captain Allen's face loses its smile.

"Flashby's cigar. Just before you came in, he held it close to my eye. I-I thought he was going to blind me. But then he decided to brand my leg instead."

"It won't happen again. I'll remain in the room when they question you further."

"I must name you my friend and protector, then, and give you my heartfelt thanks," I murmur.

"Nay, don't name me that. It doesn't suit me being considered honorable."

"I think you like to paint yourself as a rogue when, in fact, you are not," I say, watching him take a long, slow drink of his wine. "Though you are torturing me by drinking that in front of me." Time for big, sorrowful eyes now.

"
Hmmm.
Moseley said no food, no water, but he did not say anything about wine," says the Captain, musing. "Very well. Here." And he holds the blessed cup to my lips and tilts it such that the liquid pours into my mouth.
Oh, Lord, that's good. So good.

"Thank you, Sir," I say, running my tongue over my lips. "Thank you so very much."

"You are quite welcome, my dear. Now tell me something of yourself."

"Is this a further interrogation? Will you beat me, too?"

"No, no," he says. "It is just to pass the time. The agents seem to think you've been up to some pretty adventurous antics. Hard to believe, though, to look at you." He has another sip of wine and then puts the glass to my lips. "Then again, that was a right impressive rain of curses you were calling down on my poor sergeant's head as he tried to subdue you, so..."

I consider, and then I begin telling him of my early life as a beggar in London, of my time on the
Dolphin,
of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, and of Dovecote, of the
Wolverine
and my
Emerald
and the
Bloodhound.
I am helped along by many, many sips of the glorious wine. When I am done, we are on the second bottle. In my telling of my story, I did not mention the fact that I was not unfamiliar with wine, so that when I begin acting a mite bit tipsy, he is not surprised. He only smiles secretly to himself, or so he thinks, the rogue.

"...And so I was arrested by Captain Rutherford, escaped, hired the mountain man Lightfoot to guide me to New Orleans, and here I am, tied to a chair. End of story."

"A remarkable account," observes Captain Allen, nodding. "Remarkable, indeed." He rises to go to the stove to light up a cigar.

"And now let us hear of your life, Captain. Surely you have had some adventures, too," I simper. "I heard that Flashby call you
Lord
Allen. Could you actually be one?"

"Well, my father is, anyway, the cantankerous old fart, and I could have been one, too, if I had been good, which I wasn't ... Here, another sip, my dear? There you are ... No, I messed up in school, got into fights, got into the wrong politics, got several daughters of the local gentry in trouble.
Le droit de seigneur
should have applied in those cases, I thought, but others thought differently ... Would you like a puff, dear?"

"The 'right of the lord' to mount any girl in his fiefdom on her wedding night? Certainly an out-of-date custom, my lord," says I, shaking my head to his offer of a puff on his cigar.

"One they should have kept. A country breeds a better sort of bastard that way," he says, blowing a perfect smoke ring. It rolls and curls in on itself and then settles about my head. He grins and then continues.

"So the old man bought me this commission in the dragoons, knowing I'd be shipped out of the country,
tout de
suite,
and so I was. I survived several battles on the Continent, and here I am."

"Dragoons? You are a cavalryman then?" I ask, knowing full well that he is.

"Yes. And where's my horse, you might ask? He's back with the rest of my company, getting fat and lazy, the rascal. I got in a bit of a tiff with the Colonel and got put off on this wretched 'detached duty.' Something to do with his lovely wife, and trust me, she was
very
lovely."

Captain Allen gets up to stand next to me, the butt of his pistol very close to my face. "And speaking of lovely women," he says, "it's been a long time for me, stuffed out here in these woods." He runs his finger down my cheek.

"And so you would force me, a helpless captive? I should not think a man as handsome as yourself would need to do that." I drop my chin and look up at him through my eyelashes. "I am scarce sixteen, and yet a maiden, and you are what, twenty-two, three?"

"A maiden? You?" he snorts. "From your reputation, I should think the last time you suffered that state was when you were twelve or so."

"It is the truth, my lord, in spite of what you might think."

He stands looking at me, thinking. At last he says, "You said in your story that you count yourself a commissioned officer in the Royal Navy. Do you?"

"Yes, I do. I earned that commission."

"Um. Then do you understand the meaning of
parole
?"

"I do. It's when a captured officer gives his word of honor that he will not try to escape in return for a measure of freedom until such time as a prisoner exchange is arranged. It is a common thing, but I will not give you my parole. I cannot," I say, "for if I am delivered to London, it will not be for repatriation, it will be for death."

"All right, then, how about a conditional parole? One for, say, a half hour. You'd be able to stand and stretch your legs, or ... whatever else might occur to us."

I pretend to consider this, then I say, "Very well, I give you my parole for half an hour, and thank you."

Allen puts his cigar out in the ashtray on the table and proceeds to untie me. While he is bending over, undoing my feet, I look over him at the clock. It is exactly six minutes to twelve noon.
So twelve twenty-four, then.

When he is finished untying my hands, he rises and says, "There, you can stand up now. But remember, on your honor..."

I rub my wrists and then stand and stretch my arms above my head, my back arched. "Oooh, that feels so good ... Oh!"

Pretending to lose my balance, I fall against him, giggling. "Oh, my lord, my head is spinning so!"

His arm comes around my shoulders. "Here, let me steady you, my dear. Come sit at the table. I'll get another glass for you." He seats me on the bench and goes to get it. I notice he picks up another bottle on his way.

"You are probably dizzy from the confinement. Here, a glass of wine with you, to clear your head," he says, pouring out a generous dollop.

I notice that he allows the pistol butt to be within grabbing distance, and I have the feeling he is testing me to see if my honor will hold. I am quite sure he would seize my hand in time should I try for the gun.
Not, yet, Captain Allen.
It is now twelve-oh-three.

I take a goodly slug of the wine, sigh a heartfelt sigh, sit back, and put my elbows behind me on the table. "Ah, that is much better, Richard. May I call you Richard, my lord?"

"Of course, you may, Jacky." He sits next to me so that our shoulders touch.

I lean into him. "Richard, my lord, my lord, Richard," I prattle. "Such a fine name, such a fine man." I put my hands to my face to stifle more giggles.

He puts his arm around me and squeezes. With his other hand, he puts two fingers to my forehead and says grandly, "And I name you my own Lady Jacky, Duchess Pretty-Bottom, my dear little woodland sprite."

The woodland sprite does not shake off his arm. Instead she puts two fingers of her own to his brow and says, "You are a very forward fellow, Lord Richard. That was very naughty of you that day, to come upon me when I was bathing. I fear you are a rake, Sir."

"It was the vision of your loveliness that drew me there, Jacky, and I was glad I did it." He slides his arm down to my waist.

"Have I a pretty bottom? I have no way of telling."

"Oh, yes, Jacky," he says, beginning to angle his face toward mine. "The very finest I have ever seen. I shall never be the same again."