Mississippi Jack: Being an Account of the Further Waterborne Adventures of Jacky Faber, Midshipman, Fine Lady, and Lily of the West (45 page)

"That would be hard for me to do. You could take me captive again, and carry me back to England, where I would surely be hanged," I say, dropping the eyelashes over the eyes and squeezing out a tear.

"I know that you plan to stop in the towns that lie below us, to put on your shows. We would be with you, but we cannot be seen without guns. It would shame the men beyond all endurance. They wouldn't stand for it."

"Suppose we give you back the weapons, but without powder and shot?"

"
Hmmm.
That might be acceptable. I assume we'll be allowed to leave when we wish?"

"If you want to leave us now, I won't prevent you, but unarmed in these hostile territories, well, you might reconsider..."

"Our sabers. They will be returned?"

"Yes."

"I think we are close to agreement, my dear."

"That is very good, Richard. What do you plan to do with the money?"

He takes another long drag on his cigar and then brings his attention back to me. "I plan to acquire horses when we reach a place called Baton Rouge, which is in Louisiana, and it is there that we will leave you. We'll travel overland to the south and thereby find our way back to our base in Jamaica. According to maps left behind by former agents Moseley and Flashby, we'll be getting into flatter, more open country, and much more suited to horses, and at Baton Rouge we should be able to get outfitted properly. I must tell you that, however charming the company, these leaky, damp, and altogether wretched boats do not suit Heavy Cavalry. I can tell you the lads will be much relieved."

"We have agreement, then?"

"
Umm.
And just what
did
you do with Moseley and Flashby?"

"I marooned them on separate sides of the river, many miles upriver, and several miles apart, dressed only in their drawers."

Richard Allen throws back his head and roars with laughter. "Serves the buggers right! Oh Lord, the picture of Flashbutt scurrying around in the bush with only his knickers to protect him from mosquitoes, gnats, and hostiles! It is just too, too rich!"

I rise from the table. "All right, Richard. Recite to me your oath."

He rises and holds out his half-full glass to me. "I, Richard Allen, Captain of Royal Dragoons, give my pledge that I will not cause harm to you, Lieutenant Jacky Faber, nor to any of your crew of the ... what?"—he pauses to look over the side to read—"the
Belle of the Golden West,
in return for the terms agreed upon."

He drains the glass and continues. "I do, however, reserve the right to continue to pursue the aforementioned Jacky Faber, Wah-chinga, and Princess Pretty-Bottom, for purposes amorous!"

I lift my own glass and say, "It is so agreed. You may re-lease your men and tell them of the terms. Please station your own men on the tiller and sweeps as soon as possible. Have them take position behind us until we stop for the night. Since you have already dined here, we will have Sergeant Bailey and Privates McMann and Merrick over for dinner tonight. As for assaults on my virtue, you, Lord Allen, are confined to the
Britannia
unless specifically invited over to my ship."

Richard Allen prepares to leave. "So you do not trust me, then?"

I down my glass and say, so that others cannot hear, "Nay, Richard, it is myself that I do not trust."

He smiles, bows, looks at me from under lowered brows, and then crosses over to the
Britannia.

Hmmm...

***

The three soldiers are shy at first, but they are soon relaxed by the food, the drink, and the general merriment of our little tavern, to say nothing of the presence of Clementine, Chloe, Honeysuckle Rose, Tupelo Honey, and my own cheeky self. In no time at all, the stiff-collared red jackets are cast aside and the dragoons are bellowing right along with us as we sing every song we know.

As I crawl into bed, thankful for the bits of canvas that we'd rigged to scoop any errant breeze directly into our cabins, I gaze up at my picture of you, Jaimy, and pray once more for your health and safety. I have no idea where you are and I'm sure you couldn't possibly guess my whereabouts, either. We are just two little specks on the surface of this great big old world, aren't we?

G'night, Clementine. G'night, Chloe. G'night, Katy...

G'night, Jaimy.

And so my fleet, such as it is, rolls on down the Big River. Higgins has taken to calling me Commodore again, Solomon is teaching me the guitar, Pretty Saro grows bigger by the day, and what I'm going to do about that, I do not know.

Memphis is a pretty large settlement, compared to what we have seen lately, so we set up for the full show there, and do well. We haven't had to use the trapdoor since Moseley and Flashby—it doesn't hurt to have a fully armed squad of redcoats ready to dampen the spirits of any would-be troublemaker, does it? Even if the guns are not loaded, they are in plain sight, and there are those cavalry sabers hanging by the soldiers' sides. There had been a few small settlements on the way here, so tiny that Sergeant Bailey and his men made up a large part of the audience, but they were appreciative of the shows and applauded loudly—especially when my dress comes off in the last act of
The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden.
Captain Allen had insisted that he be given a part in the play, and so he was given the role of Captain Strongheart, which he played with great gusto. He was
much better at it than poor Jim, who was glad to get out of the part, and at the end, I would fall into Richard's arms, which was fun. No kiss, though, oh no. I must be good. And careful.

When we leave Memphis, it is not long till it is no longer Tennessee, but the Louisiana Territory, that we have on our left.

"No, Miss Jacky, you've got to get your pinky finger all the way down here, and you got to hold the string down hard, so's it won't buzz when you pluck it with your other hand."

We are at my table on the cabin top, under the canopy.

"But, Solomon," I wail, "it won't stretch that far. My hands are half the size of yours!"

"It'll stretch. I seen littler girls than you make that chord. There, see, you got it, Miss Jacky. Now with your right hand do thumb, first finger, thumb, middle, and now do it again till you got a nice roll goin', like that. Good. Now keep up that roll and change to the G chord. Good! Now you rollin'! You a fast learner, Miss Jacky."

Solomon had not known the names of the fingerings, but he did know how to do them. So after we matched up the chords to the notes on Chloe's harpsichord, we were able to name them, which made it easier for me to learn.

Although I glow under his praise, I grumble, "You don't have to butter me up, Solomon. No one else around here does. And you must stop calling me Miss Jacky. It sounds too slavey, and you're a free man now. You may call me Jacky."

"
Huh,
I'll count myself a free man when I step on the dirt of a free state, not before, and as for callin' you by your name,
huh!
See this neck that my head sits on, Miss Jacky? Well, I'm right fond of it and don't want no rope gettin' around it, just 'cause some cracker in one of these towns hears me slip up and call you Jacky, all familiar-like. Uh-uh, no, Ma'am."

"Then how about Miss, like Higgins does, or Skipper, like the Hawkes boys do, or Missy, like Jim?"

"All right, Missy, but if we ever in the hearin' of any crackers, then you'll hear me fallin' right back into Miss Jacky right quick. Now, whyn't you try that Frenchy thing again?"

I finger the C chord and start the roll with my right hand, and then I start to sing that song I had learned from our rich French captive on board the
Emerald.
What was his name? Oh, yes, the Marquis de Mont Blanc, the man with many jewels, half of which he left with us, much to his sorrow.

Plaisir d'amour
Ne dure qu'un moment.
Chagrin d'amour
Dure toute la vie.

I run through the three chords used in this song, keeping up the roll, and then I sing the translation.

Joys of love
Are but a moment long.
Pain of love endures
The whole life long.

A final strum across all strings and I'm done. It does sound so much better than with the fiddle. I shall learn to do all my slow, sad songs on the guitar, I think, and save the fast, raucous stuff for Lady Gay.

"Bravo, Jacky! Bravo!" I look over to see Richard Allen, seated at his table on the cabin top of the
Britannia,
in open white shirt, white britches, and black boots. He has taken to setting his table up there in a mockery, I think, of mine. He has a glass of wine in front of him, no doubt from the case he bought from us, paid for, I'm sure, from the scalp money that I returned to him. It seems he means to be quite free with it.

"I thought I told you to stay behind us. You are blocking my view of the shore."

"The better to hear your sweet voice, my dear, raised in joyous song!" he taunts. "Perhaps you'll join me in this one. I'm sure you know it." He stands up and, completely unabashedly, begins to sing.

There once was a troop of British dragoons,
Went marching down to Fennario,
And their captain fell in love,
With a lady like a dove,
And they called her by name, pretty Jacky-o.

This could be fun,
I'm thinking.
Why not?
I rise and go over to the edge of the cabin top, opposite him, as he does the second verse.

Oh, I will give you ribbons, love,
And I will give you rings,
And a necklace of pure amber-o,
And a silken petticoat with flounces to the knee,
If you'll take me into your chamber-o.

Solomon takes the guitar from my hand and begins to strum along with the tune. On the other boat, Archy MacDuff has taken up a small snare drum and begins a soft
rum-tum-tum
in march time, so I know this is a set-up thing. No matter. I lift my voice and and give the song back to him.

Oh, I'll not go with you, sweet Richard-o,
And I'll not take you into my chamber-o.
No, I'll not marry you, for your guineas are too few,
And I fear it would anger my poor mama-o.

Striding to the edge of his cabin top, Allen, cigar in hand, sends it back to me.

What will your mother think, pretty Jacky-o?
What will your mother think, my sweetheart-o?
What will your mother think
When she hears the guineas clink,
And my soldiers all marching before you-o?

The man on
Britannia
's tiller thinks it would be in his captain's interest to bring the boats even closer together, so that Captain Allen and I are a mere six feet apart. I puff out my chest and trade another verse.

I never did intend a soldier's wife to be,
No, a soldier shall never enjoy me-o.
I never will go into a foreign land,
And I never will marry you, sweet Richard-o.

Captain Allen tosses his cheroot into the narrow gap of water that flows between us, fixes me with his gaze, and launches into his last verse.

Come tripping down the stairs, pretty Jacky-o,
Come tripping down the stairs, oh, my lovely-o,
Come tripping down the stairs, combing back your yellow hair,
You're the prettiest damn thing I ever seen ... Oh.

Richard bows to me and acknowledges the cheers of his men, but I pipe up and say, "Surely you've forgotten the last verse, Sir? Perhaps I should sing it for you." And I do.

Sweet Richard he is dead, we must mourn him-o,
Sweet Richard he is dead, oh, my comrades-o,
Sweet Richard he is dead and he died for a maid,
The fairest of the maidens in Fenn-ar-i-o.

Applause from my boat, but my partner in this duet is not yet done.

If ever I return, pretty Jacky-o,
If ever I return, oh, my lovely-o,
If ever I return, all your cities I will burn,
Destroying all the ladies in Fenn-ar-i-o.

I give him a deep Lawson Peabody curtsy on that one, which must look a bit foolish, with me wearing my Indian buckskin rig, but so what. There are cheers from both boats.

"Now, about that bit concerning you inviting me down into your chambers," says Captain Allen, "shall we discuss that?"

"No, Captain Allen, we shall not. I have invited a much more cultured man than you, a common soldier, to grace my table today. Ah, here you are, Mr. Cantrell. Please have a seat. Our food and drink will be up directly. If you'll excuse us, Captain Allen?"

Yancy and I sit down at my table. I sneak a glance sideways and find that Richard is again seated at his table, but his boat does not return to its position behind us. Well, so be it. It's not important. I turn to Yancy to make small talk and I find him much amused.

"That was quite the performance, Miss. I enjoyed it thoroughly." He looks over at Captain Allen, who has lit yet another cigar and continues to gaze upon me. I pretend not to notice.

"I'm glad you did, Yancy. Ah, here is our dinner. Thank you, Higgins. A glass of wine with you, Mr. Cantrell?" Higgins draws the cork, pours out two glasses, and then puts the cork back in the bottle.

"Thank you, Mr. Higgins, but could you have my Chloe bring me up a glass of water? I fear my throat is dry and I don't want to waste this fine wine on mere thirst."

Higgins nods and goes below, and presently Chloe appears with the glass of water. She places it on the table and Yancy takes a sip of it. "Thank you, Daughter."

She murmurs, "You're welcome, Father," and steps off the cabin top.

I take a mouthful of my wine, swallow, and look at my guest. "It must be hard on you, Yancy, not to have had a game of chance to play since Memphis. I do hope you haven't completely cleaned out the Reverend and the Hawkes boys?"