"You do not know her, Mike."
"That's all right, boy. You think what you want. You go catch her and love her up good, till such time as I can get down river and kill her. And hell, boy, after we've done her good and proper, you stay out on the river with me. It's the only life for a man and you know it to be true."
Dance on, Jacky, dance on—
Jaimy
PART IV
Chapter 35
And so we traveled down the Oh-Hi-Oh, singing and dancing as we went. It's been a good week since we left Pittsburgh behind us, and we have long since left the Pennsylvania shores to find the state of Virginia on our east, and Ohio on our west. Virginia is a slave state and that makes me somewhat nervous, what with Mr. Cantrell's girl being on board and all. But I've got to get used to that, 'cause soon we'll have slave states and slave territories on both sides of us.
I lose some passengers as Mr. McDaniel gets off at the squalid little town of Wheeling, Virginia—no taverns to play in, pigs runnin' free in the streets, whole place stinkin' to high heaven—and Mr. Brady leaves at East Lick, but I pick up another one there, and at the very last minute, too. Just as we are about to pull out into the current again, I hear a cry of "Wait! Wait! Please wait!" and this man jumps out of the bushes and leaps onto the Belle. He is a tall man, thin, and dressed as a preacher, stiff collar and all, and what he has clasped in his hands seems to be a collection box. He looks over his shoulder as if he fears pursuit but calms down as soon as we get far enough midstream.
"I am the Very Reverend Jeremiah Clawson," he says, smoothing down his coat and smiling the smile of the blessed and holy.
"I am pleased to meet you, Reverend Clawson," I answer, dropping into a medium curtsy. "I am the Very Mercantile Jacky Faber and the fare is twelve cents a mile, prepaid, Reverend." He nods and harrumphs and roots about in the box to come up with the fare, an amount that'll get him at least as far as Cincinnati.
He is not the only new addition to the Belle. After leaving East Lick, while we were swinging around a bend in the river and coming close to the shore, two buckskin-clad forms, each carrying a long rifle, dropped silently from an overhanging tree onto our deck. Katy sees them drop, rolls over from her place on the bow, nocks an arrow, and has that same arrow drawn and pointed at the chest of the taller of the two.
"Katy, wait!" cries Crow Jane, who had just come on deck for a smoke. "It's Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat! They're all right! Don't shoot! Boss, come here!"
I jump down to the main deck. There stand two men. One is an Indian with both sides of his head plucked bare and feathers stuck into the remaining crest. He's bare-chested and is wearing a breechcloth and fringed leather leggings, with beaded moccasins on his feet. In addition to his rifle, there is a knife and a tomahawk in his belt. Lord! My first real Indian! Except for Crow Jane, of course. True, I had seen some small encampments of what I had been told were Indians on the shores that we had passed, but here, standing before me, was a true Indian brave, skin bronze and gleaming, nose hooked, and eyes black as coal.
"They'll pay their way when they're aboard, trust me on that," promises Crow Jane. "They'll hunt and get game. And when you get to Cave-in-Rock, you'll be glad to have 'em on your side!"
The other man is a white man—or maybe once was a white man. His skin is just as dark and tanned, and he is dressed much as the other, but his eyes are green and they bore into the eyes of Katy Deere, whose arrow point has not wavered one inch from a point dead center on his chest. Unlike his friend's, this one's chest is covered with an overshirt of beaded, fringed buckskin. Not that it would in any way stop Katy's arrow on its way to his heart, should she choose to release it.
"Katy," I say. "Stand down."
She brings down the arrow, to point to the deck, but does not relax the bow.
"Your name is Lightfoot?" I ask of this frontiersman.
He nods but says nothing. He keeps his eyes on Katy and her still-nocked arrow.
"Where are you bound?"
There is a pause, then...
"Goin' to the Arkansas," he replies, slowly bringing his eyes over to bear on me. "Who the hell are you, girl?"
"Jacky Faber. Captain of this boat, that's who the hell I am. Why are you goin' to the Arkansas?"
"Huh!" he says, considering my captainhood. Then, "Man there. Needs killin'."
Hmmm...
"Well, Crow Jane vouches for you and that's good enough for me. So welcome aboard. Just follow the rules and we'll get along."
They don't say anything but instead seat themselves cross-legged on the foredeck, and there they sit in silence.
Later, when we anchor for the night, Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat slip off onto the shore to sleep in the forest, and I find that will be their usual way throughout this trip, and, right now, that's all right with me.
The second day they are with us, they come back aboard in the morning with a full-grown deer slung across Lightfoot's shoulder. When he steps aboard, he drops the carcass at my feet and turns away to resume his spot up near the bow, saying nothing.
Seeing this, Crow Jane comes up and grabs the dead beast by its hind legs and drags it off to butcher it. Thankfully, she does it out of my sight, but I must say the dinner that night was excellent, and a welcome change from the fish.
I expect my crew to do their jobs, but I ain't the type to just make work for people, so there's plenty of time for lounging about in the sun. I heard the Hawkes boys fooling around with a song and went forward to join them. They stand up as I approach. Good boys, you are learning.
"What's that you're singin'?" I ask.
"It's called 'Ground Hog,' Miss," says Matty. "We learned it as babies, didn't we, 'Thaniel?"
"Yup. It's about a critter what lives aroun' here. Sometimes called a 'whistle pig' 'cause of the sound it makes when it's standin' next to his hole, 'bout to dive in. Learned to eat 'em and learned to sing their song, too."
"So sing it, then," say I, crossing my arms across my chest.
They ain't shy about doing it. They each have these little metal things they call jaw harps, and they whip them out of their pockets and stand up next to each other. Then they cup them in their left hands and press them against their teeth, and with their forefinger, they strike the twangy part of the mouth harp to make the sound. By working their jaws up and down, and I suspect some tongue action inside, they make something that sounds almost like a melody. It certainly seems to fit the tune they start to sing. After the boys hammer away at the tune to set the mood, Matty stops playing his and howls out:
Grab yer gun and whistle up yer dawg,
Grab yer gun and whistle up yer dawg,
We're goin' to the wild woods to hunt ground hawg!
Ooooooh, ground hawg!
Matty slaps his jaw harp back up to his mouth and twangs away while 'Thaniel takes up the next two verses.
I dug down but I didn't dig deep,
I dug down but I didn't dig deep,
Found a little whistle pig fast asleep!
Oooooh, ground hawg!
Here come Sally with a ten-foot pole,
Here come Sally with a ten-foot pole,
Twist that whistle pig outta his hole!
Oooooh, ground hawg!
My sympathies fast attaching to the unfortunate rodent, I listen as Matty now steps to the fore to bellow out the last two verses.
Here come Susie with a snicker and a grin,
Here come Susie with a snicker and a grin,
Ground hawg gravy all over her chin.
Oooooh, ground hawg.
Little piece o' cornbread, sitting on a shelf,
Little piece o' cornbread, sitting on a shelf,
You want any more, you can sing it yourself.
Oooooh, ground hawg!
The Hawkes lads round off their number with both of them on jaw harp and their feet pounding the deck in a dance I take to be the "clog" that others have told me is common to this area.
When the last foot has stomped down, I give them a delighted round of applause, which is echoed by the passengers who have gathered about, and the boys blush and say, "Pshaw! Warn't nuthin'; anyone kin do thet..."
But I, for one, know that isn't true. I find out later that they also know how to call out the square dances, and I figure that could prove mighty useful. I resolve to have them teach the skill to me. In return, I might include them in my act—I can see us in a line, with me and my fiddle and maybe Clementine, too, all of us twanging and singing and clogging away. Hmmm. We shall have to work on it. First I've got to make the Lady Gay sing that high, lonesome sound, and neither she nor I have got it yet.
Jim Tanner, alas, has no music in him at all, and his voice is that of a tone-deaf frog. Oh, he likes the music, especially when Clementine is doing the singing—he just can't sing, is all.
I have started Clementine on her ABCs and simple numbers, and have required Jim to become more proficient at both those studies, and since he gets to sit next to Clementine, he does not protest too much. Actually, he does know how to read, basically, so he takes over most of the education of Clementine Jukes. When they don't think I am looking, they hold hands under the table. Oh, Jim, I wonder just who's gonna be getting the education here? She and I work on duets and are coming along quite nicely. If only we had some audiences. Crow Jane says there ain't gonna be much in the way of that till the town of Maysville, on the Kentucky shore. I think on it and come up with a plan—sending Jim ahead to scare up a crowd. Tell 'em showboat's a-comin'. But how to get him there? Hmmmm.
During this leg of our journey, I find myself more and more frequently inviting Mr. Cantrell back to my table to dine with me. As we travel farther south, the sun grows steadily more fierce, so I had the Hawkes boys install a sort of canvas canopy over my quarterdeck table to shield me and whomever I might invite to join me.
On this day, Yancy Cantrell fans a deck of cards out across the table. I look at them, and then up at him, with disdain.
"I do not believe in gambling, Mr. Cantrell," I say, severely.
He smiles and smooths back his mustache.
"Neither, Miss Faber, do I."
I consider this for a moment and then nod. He smiles and smoothly deals out the cards.
***
And so begins my education as a card sharp. First I learn the rules of the various games of faro, three-card monte, baccarat, and poker. Then, I am taught the odds of drawing certain cards in each of the games, the better able to gauge my chances of winning. After that I practice the art of the bluff. This is how to win when you have nothing in your hand and have only the steady eye and confident demeanor that convinces your opponent that he is the loser, and not you. And then, I learn the dark arts: how to deal smoothly from the bottom of the deck, how to deal seconds, how to palm a card, and how to use marked and shaved cards. I, of course, would never use such cheating skills in an actual game. I study them only for amusement, much as a magician learns sleight of hand. It helps pass the time as we float down the river, that's all. And Mr. Cantrell is an amusing companion.
We pass by Ohio on our starboard side and slide into Kentucky on our port side and glide into a place called Vanceburg, where we act upon Mr. Cantrell's advice and take on a cargo of Kentucky bourbon whiskey.
"The purest whiskey you will ever find," promises the distiller with a great amount of pride, counting out the money we put into his hand. His pride notwithstanding, Higgins taps each twenty-gallon barrel we put below, to make sure we are not being had. Everything seems to be in order. Mr. Cantrell assures us, with a wink, that our cargo will come in very handy, in spite of the draining of our very meager resources.