Jim tosses out the Belle's anchor without having to be told and we come to a halt, close to the Louisiana shore.
Higgins comes up with a questioning look, and I say, "Will you please get me two silver dollars from our cache? Thanks. Place them right there on the cabin top. Good."
I take one of the coils of rope that we always have positioned in various spots on the deck and I kneel down next to Pretty Saro. I lift her trusting head and tie a noose about her neck, just behind her ears. I've got to pull it pretty tight, 'cause her neck is wider than her head, and she squeals a little bit in protest.
Then I stand and say, "Anyone who wants to look away may do so, as I'm about to take off my skirt." I slip my buckskin skirt down and flip it into my cabin, leaving me in my light cotton top and my cutoff drawers. I notice out of the corner of my eye that Captain Allen has forsaken his book and now stands in the bow of the Britannia, taking this all in.
Taking the other end of the line that I tied to Pretty Saro, I jump into the water. My feet hit the sandy bottom and I am able to stand.
"All right, shove her in!" I shout, and it takes Jim and Clementine and the Hawkes boys to move her, but presently about two hundred pounds of squealing pig hits the water.
She goes under, but her snout pops right back up. Most animals know how to swim and this pig is no exception. Her cleft hooves churning, she makes for the shore, with me trailing after her. We make the bank and we both climb up.
I give her ears a rub, 'cause I know she likes it. "You hear them out there, Saro?" She seems to c*ck her head at the sounds of rooting and grunting not far off in the forest. "That's right, Saro, listen up good. Y'think any of them gentleman piggies might strike your fancy?"
Grunt?
I swear she grunted in a questioning way—interested, yet a bit doubtful.
There's a high-pitched squeal from the woods off to the left. Her head jerks up.
Grunt?
"Ah, so maybe he's the one, Saro. Here, let me get that off." I loosen the rope from around her neck and set her free, but she does not run off. "You ain't got much choice, my girl, either a dangerous life of freedom, or Crow Jane's knives."
She starts forward, making a few tentative steps in the direction of that last squeal. Then she looks back at me and I give her a last scratch on her bristly head and slap her on the butt. She lets out a high, trumpeting squeal of her own and goes charging off into the woods. The last I see of my little piglet is her little curly tail.
Fare thee well, Pretty Saro. May you wed with the fiercest of all the tuskers out there in those deep, dark woods. May you live long and have many fine babies and may none of them ever end up in a cook pot. Amen.
I coil the rope over my arm and swim back to the Belle, climb the ladder, and confront a furious Crow Jane. Before going down into my cabin to change, I pick up the silver dollars that Higgins had placed on the cabin top and put them in her hands.
"Here, Janey. In the next town we hit, go off and buy some meat. Some meat we don't even know the name of."
With that, I dive down into the cabin.
That evening, just before we are to anchor for the night, we come to a fork in the river.
"You're gonna find that happenin' a lot as we get farther into the delta," says Lightfoot. "The river takes off into all sorts of directions."
"Which one, Missy?" asks Jim.
"Let's take the one on the right, Jim. It looks to give us a bit more sea room."
He moves the tiller over and down the right course we glide.
Chapter 59
James Fletcher, Riverman
Somewhere on the Mississippi River
Somewhere in the USA
Jacky Faber, Showgirl
On the Belle of the Golden West
Somewhere downriver
Dear Jacky,
I sit here with my paddle across my knees, trying to decide which fork of the damned Mississippi to take.
I did not expect the river to separate like this, but I tell myself that surely the two branches will rejoin up ahead and, besides, the land between the forks is but a very large island. But what would happen if I took the wrong branch and got ahead of you? To be sure, it would be highly ironic if I were to beat you to New Orleans.
Of course, all I will have to do, after the waters converge, is to inquire in the next town whether or not your boat has passed, and from what I have heard of your boat and your shows, the townspeople could hardly have missed you.
And yes, Jacky, I have heard of your torn-away-dress routine—you know, Miss, the second thing I am going to do when I catch you is to sit you down on my knee for a stern lecture on behavior.
Aside from the various reports I have heard about you from the towns where I have stopped, I believe I might have other evidence of your passage: Several days ago, as I rounded a bend in the river, I was shocked to see a man, an Indian with a half-red face, dangling from an overhanging tree and staring right down at me! I furiously back-paddled away from the shore, but then I discovered that I did not need to, for it was then I saw the tomahawk thrust in the back of his head and realized he was quite dead.
As I cautiously proceeded, I found several more bodies lying facedown in the water, their toes still stuck on the bank. Many other Indians were sprawled about nearby, most of them not dead, but moaning and groaning mightily, as if unable to rise. When I spotted the empty casks and bottles strewn about, I understood the reason. It's plain they'd gotten into the whiskey and then turned to fighting among themselves. A bottle floated by my canoe. I reached over and picked it up to read the label that still clung to it: Captain Jack's All Season Tonic and Elixir. I don't know if you had a hand in this, Jacky, but it certainly has your mark on it. If you did, then my thanks, for I certainly won't have to worry about this bunch any longer.
I have also heard that you have somehow picked up an escort of British soldiers and that gives me cheer, knowing you have that extra protection. Reports portray your demeanor as happy and cheerful, so I must assume the soldiers did not know of your status as a wanted fugitive. May that remain the case until I can join you and spirit you away.
I put my paddle back in the water and dig it in. I move forward again, having made up my mind—the water on that side is calmer, and for that reason, I think you would have chosen that branch.
I take the left fork.
Oh, Jacky, you are so close, I can just feel it!
Yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 60
"When Old Man River takes it into his mind to cut him a new course, he does it," says Crow Jane. "Next summer someone comes by here, that island could be gone, or else all the water moved over to this side. Who knows?"
We can see the river widening up ahead so we know that the land to our left is indeed an island, a huge island that we have been passing for a couple of days now.
"Private Merrick!" I sing out to the Britannia following in our wake. "Toss out the anchor! We're stopping here! I want to check around the bend before we go any farther!"
"Thanks, Nathaniel," I say to my own tillerman, as he puts up his steering oar and tosses in the anchor.
We have come to a stop about fifty yards from the end of the island and I want to make damned sure that there's nothing lurking on the other side. I have learned my lesson.
"Jim, take the Star and have a peek around the corner. Make sure that pack of rascally Indians ain't fixin' to jump on us again. But be careful."
"Yes, Missy," he says, and in a moment he is in the Evening Star, oars in the water, and off.
He disappears from sight around the bend, and in a few minutes we are surprised to see him walk out of the bushes that line the bank on this side. He's not but twenty yards away.
"All clear," he calls out. "Island's real narrow right here, as you can see. Nice little cove on the other side, with a sandy beach. Water's pretty clear, too. Well, I'm headin' back," and he ducks into the bushes.
Nice sandy little beach, eh?
It's been a while since I've had a swim, what with all these men being around and all. It's about four o'clock and this is as good a place as any to stop for the night. And the island end with its thick growth of bushes makes a good privacy screen. Why not?
"Anyone care to join me in a dip? Katy? Chloe? No? Honeysuckle Rose? Tupelo? Clementine? 'Snakes'? What snakes? Ah, what a bunch of cowards you are. Fine, I'll go by myself. Higgins, a bit of soap if you would."
There's a thump as the Evening Star comes back alongside.
"Don't bother tying up, Jim, just jump aboard and let me get down in the Star." In a moment Jim is on deck and I am rowing for the end of the island, and when I am around the bend, I pull into the cove.
Jim was right, it is a lovely spot. There is a gently sloping, almost golden sand beach, and the water runs clear next to the bank. Trees, thick with summer leaves, lean over and shade the pool. I hop out into the ankle-deep water, pull up the bow of the boat, and go along the soft sand to the nearest tree. I shed my shirt, skirt, and drawers, and hang them on a branch and then go back to wade into the water. I get maybe six yards from the shore when suddenly I'm completely underwater— the current must have carved out a deep trench during some mighty flood!
I kick and come sputtering back to the surface—I certainly didn't expect that! I swim a little farther out and my feet hit sand again so I am able to stand, the water now waist-deep. It is wondrously cool and refreshing after the heat of the day and I splash about for a while, diving like a porpoise, floating on my back, then flopping over to look underwater, all the usual things I do when in the water.
After a bit of this, I swim back across to get my bar of soap from the Evening Star, wash myself, and then begin lathering my hair. From across the narrow island, I hear Solomon strike a chord on the guitar, then he begins his three-finger rolls, this time heavy on the bass strings to give the sound a driving, throbbing, pulsing beat. He begins to sing.
Black snake, black snake, lyin' in a persimmon tree,
Yes, black snake, black snake, lyin' in that 'simmon tree.
You mean old black snake,
Don't you flop down on top of me!
"Very funny, Solly!" I shout, and look more closely at the branches and vines that trail in the water. Could that be a ... no, of course, it is only a black stick. He sings on.
Now Sister Cottonmouth, don't you come out to play, no,
And Mr. Water Moccasin, you just slither on your way.
And Brother Rattler, you just stay there sunnin on the clay,
'Cause Miss Jacky's gone a-swimmin in your water today!
"You stop that now, or I'll get you, Solly! I mean it!" I yell, scanning the bank on either side of me for reptiles that might be sneakin' up on a poor girl.
Solomon laughs his deep, booming laugh and hits an ending chord. "Yes, Missy."
I flip the piece of soap back into the Star, my hair now a mass of lather, and decide to put some distance between me and the shore. I dive down into the trench and run my fingers through my hair to rinse it. When I resurface and stand on the sandbar, facing the shore, my hair hangs in my eyes and as I pull it clear, I see that it is not a black snake that I must beware of, but a white one.
"Richard!" I gasp, clasping my hands to my chest. Richard Allen stands on the bank, shirtless and barefoot, in his dripping wet drawers. It is plain that the scoundrel had slipped over the side of the Britannia on the Belle's blind side, and then had waded over to the shore, through the bushes, and here, to stand in front of me.