I writhe in mental anguish, but for now, my main thought is to get to the river, which, I am told, is three days up ahead.
I don't know what else to say....
Chapter 18
The next day dawns bright and full of expectation. I pop out of bed ready to get on with it. I nudge the still-sleeping Katy. Off with nightshirt, on with regular gear, tell Jim to get his lazy butt up and commence ship's work. Things're gettin right lax around here, by God, and I won't have it. Higgins, of course, is already up and hot tea is ready at hand.
We are moored alongside the only dock in the town of Kennerdell.
"Thanks, Higgins. Any sign of our stalwart Captain?"
"I believe he came in about two in the morning at the behest of the townspeople who prodded him back aboard by many a pitchfork aimed at his backside. It is possible that he has worn out his welcome in this burg."
"He was not brought back unconscious?"
"No, he was his usual charming self."
"Hmmmm. Where did he sleep?"
"On the deck, next to his tiller. I believe he's still stretched out back there."
"At least we can be thankful for that, that he didn't come roaring into the sleeping quarters, disturbing our slumbers."
"That is true."
I have a suspicion that Higgins had stayed up the entire night, seated at the entrance to our sleeping quarters, his two pistols at the ready in case Fink returned with evil on his mind. More than a suspicion. Rather, more of a certainty. Good Higgins, are there any better than you in this world?
As we gather on deck to find out our sailing plans for the day, the recumbent Mr. Fink stirs, groans, and sits up. It is a very bleary but not totally subdued Mr. Fink who rises to face the day.
He stumbles to the side, leans over, and thrusts his head into the water, keeping it under there an impossibly long time. Long after we think him quite drowned, he jerks his head back out and shakes it as a dog shakes himself when he comes out of the water.
"Ah, that's better. Boy, cast off."
Jim takes in the lines and then pushes our boat out into the stream with one of the long poles. I reflect that I chose well in taking on Jim Tanner as my coxswain. He is really getting the feel of this kind of navigation.
"Are we suffering the effects of our carousing last night, Mr. Fink?" I ask, as prudish as I can make it.
He glares balefully up at me through red-rimmed eyes, but he is not to be subdued. "What? Hell, no! I ain't never had a hangover in my whole life, and that includes the night I drunk George Washington, Ben Franklin, Dirty Mary, and Man Mountain Murphy all under the table at the Dew Drop Inn down in Roarin' Springs." Mr. Fink pauses here to expel a huge rolling belch, and I believe he feels some benefit from it, as he resumes his tale with increased vigor.
"Ol' George was out West surveyin' somethin' 'fore he got to be President, and he fancied that he could drink with the likes of us. Can you believe it? Pshaw! Thought he could dance, too. Pshaw! That East Virginny pantywaist was the first to fall, and us only four bottles into it. I drug him out and throwed his powdered butt in the horse trough. Went back in and found Dirty Mary a-sittin' and a-squirmin' on ol' Ben's lap and him a-laughin' away, but game as he was, and mighty good company, too, Ol' Lightnin' Rod didn't last too long after that. Hell, another bottle and he giggled and keeled over, his bald head thrown back, a smile on his face.
"Dirty Mary lasted a few more rounds, but finally she stumbled over and laid her head on Ben's slumberin' chest and passed clean out herself. I gotta say, for a woman she could sure hold her likker. Didn't look half bad, neither, if'n it was dark and you'd already had a few.
"Man Mountain Murphy, though, he took some doin', him bein' three hundred and fifty-five pounds o' pure dirt-dog meanness. Me and him was eye to eye over our cups till way in the mornin', but then he finally stood up and said, 'Lord, I'm a-goin' home,' and he keeled right on over." Fink rubs his chin as if he's recalling all this. "Yep. He fell straight down like a tree dropped with a sharp ax. 'Course it didn't hurt him none, him being so hairy from his beard to belly, to his bare and hairy toes, it was like him fallin' into a soft mattress, it was. Some fellas are lucky that way, I suppose."
"That must have been quite an ordeal, Mr. Fink," I comment, reminding myself to double his dose when the time comes.
"Ah no, girly-girl, far from it." Fink chuckles. "After I'd disposed of Man Mountain Murphy and the rest, I went 'round and drank what was left in their cups, then went outside and greeted the dawn. I butchered a hog, made up a four-foot stack o' pancakes, ate it all down, the hog included, from snout to trotters, and finished it off with a gallon o' coffee so strong you could melt nails in it. Then I took two promenades around the town square, got a shave and a haircut, shot a man for lookin' at me funny, and then went back to my boat, scrubbed her down from stem to stern, and cast off and went on my way. The town o' Roarin' Springs voted itself dry the very next day. Still cain't get a proper drink within fifty miles of the place, no sir, and it's a shame. I don't go there no more. Damn tight-ass teetotalers. Gimme that tiller, boy, and somebody get me some-thin' to eat."
The morning passed uneventfully, with all of us doing our usual things: Katy the Huntress, with her bow and arrows, looking for food; Jim next to Fink, feigning admiration and pumping him for river lore; and Higgins and me casing things out down below for the final time.
"There are many tools, Miss, and they seem in excellent order," says Higgins.
"And that is good, Higgins, as we will need them. Oh, and rope, too. Let's put that coil next to the hatchway, shall we? Good."
We examine the hold till we feel we have exhausted all its possibilities, and then I say, "The whiskey, Higgins, if you would," and he produces the bottle.
I go over to my bunk and open my seabag and stick my hand in and rummage around till I feel what I am looking for—it is a small bottle, corked tightly with a coat of protective wax on the neck. I break through the wax and hand the bottle to Higgins. "If you would uncork it, please."
Higgins always keeps certain implements close at hand, one of which is a corkscrew. He produces it and quickly uncorks the little bottle and hands it back to me.
"Now the whiskey bottle, if you please."
He applies his corkscrew to that bottle and expertly draws the cork from it. He gives the cork a quick sniff and says, "Excellent."
"Good. Pour a bit out of it. Have a drink yourself, if you'd like."
"A bit early, Miss. However, I will save it for later." He surmises what I am up to and pours out into a cup an amount equal to what is in my little bottle and places the cup on a shelf, then hands me back the whiskey bottle.
I pour the contents of my bottle into the bigger bottle and hand it back to Higgins, who puts the cork back in and gives it a bit of a shake.
Ah, Mother's Little Helper, we meet again, I think. Whatever would I have done without you, throughout this life of mine? You helped me find a home for my baby Jesse, you eased my pain when I was beaten, you helped my men when they were grievously wounded, and now you shall help me do this.
That done, I go back up into the light and compose myself for the coming little drama.
Mr. Fink, now fully recovered from the revels of the night before, regales me with at least ten more tall tales as the day wears on. I contentedly sit and watch the panorama of the riverbanks slipping by in all its infinite variety—here a cove, there a beach, here a shady grove of trees hanging over the bank, there a quiet pool that makes me long for a lazy swim. Perhaps with a certain James Emerson Fletcher, sans culotte, hmmm...
"And then ol' George, he..."
"Excuse me, Mr. Fink, but might you get in trouble for blaspheming the name of General Washington?" I ask. "Back East he is hailed as the Father of His Country, you know." Several of Mr. Fink's stories have figured the late President in them.
"Not out here, girly-girl. He tried to slap a whiskey tax on us when he was Prez-ee-dent, and you know that bird didn't fly, father or not," replies Fink, with firmness. "We rose us up a rebellion and ol' George sent out the federals to put us down, but we whupped the hell out of 'em. I did most of the whuppin', of course. Was gonna make us a new country, but me and a feller named Shay couldn't come to terms on what to name it, so the rebellion fizzled." Fink shakes his head sadly over the vagaries of politics. "They took back the tax, though."
I reflect that, in most places in the world, the affairs of men are driven by love of country, by war, or by religion. Here, however, they seem to be driven by whiskey.
"What a shame," says I. "To think we could be traveling through the country of Finklandia right now."
He looks at me sharply. "You know, girly-girl, I git the feelin' sometimes that you're laughin' at me." He growls, not at all friendly. "You know, for all your ladylike airs, you got a mouth on you, and I mean to remind you just who's Captain of this ark and if'n I take a notion to pitch you over the side, I'll do it. See if'n I don't!"
It is the opening I've been looking for.
I gasp and put the back of my hand to my forehead and go into a swoon, as if I am struck to my very core to be addressed so harshly. Me, who's been called every dirty name in the book, and generally deserving of it.
"Oh, Mr. Fink, how could you think that of me?" I cry, squeezing out a tear. "Why, I-I feel faint. I..."
Higgins is instantly at my side to lend comfort. He casts an accusing eye on the now slightly alarmed Fink. "Sir, please! She is of such a delicate nature! I fear you've brought on an attack of the female vapors." To me he asks, "Are you all right, Miss?" as he puts his hand to my back to steady me.
"Oh, Higgins, oh, please don't let him hit me! I fear I shall die!" I wail, as I bury my face in my hands.
"Ah, now, I warn't gonna hit her, you know I warn't. Oh, damn, please, girly-girl, stop crying now," pleads Fink, completely flummoxed.
"Shall I make up your bed, Miss, that you might lie down?" asks Higgins.
"No ... no, it's too stuffy down there," whines I. "Perhaps if you helped me down the deck a bit, and then if you could bring up my medicinal spirits, I think I would be myself soon."
Higgins helps me limp about ten feet down the deck. While I sit back down, Higgins hurries below. He quickly returns, bearing a tray with the bottle and a glass upon it. He sets it down on the cabin top and pours an ounce or two into my glass.
I hold it up to the sunlight so Mr. Fink can truly appreciate the warm, deep amber color, a color with which I know he is very familiar.
I lift it to my lips and pretend to sip.
"Ah, that's much better," I sigh. "I'm sure my spirits will soon be restored."
Mr. Fink responds with a profound snort. "Here, boy, take the tiller." Then I hear his boots tromping toward me. He lifts the bottle and sniffs it. "Why, that's straight corn likker with some sugar in it! What doctor give you that?"
"Oh, no, Sir. This is a very special tonic. It has the most potent medicines from the mysterious Orient in it, and I fear for your health—"
"Aw, come on..."
"Nay, Sir, as weak and frail as I am, my constitution is used to the power of this restorative, and I fear that yours is not."