No, this is not a solemn New England wedding, wherein the only two obviously happy people present are the bride and groom—and maybe the parents in relief at casting off two troublesome offspring into some sort of respectable life. No, this is marriage, Spanish style.
The reception takes place at Ric’s Café Americano, and he has outdone himself in the way of lavish display. There are garlands of aromatic flowers festooned about, tables laden with food and drink, and the dance floor cleared for . . . La Bamba!
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Su necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia . . .
Since I am the flower girl and friend to the groom and known to señor Ric, I am chosen to take up my guitar and start the festivities. I sing that verse as the newly married Concepción and John Tinker take the floor. She is dressed in white with a small black apron and he in his finest Faber Shipping nautical gear. The sense of the thing is that one must “have a bit of grace in order to sing this song,” and I hope I have that bit of grace as I go on . . .
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba
Ay arriba y arriba
Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!
Tink has a long red sash wrapped around his waist and Concepción unwinds it, spinning him slowly about. Tink is not a great dancer, due to his wounded leg, but he manages a huge grin as well as some fancy footwork—steps that I taught him yesterday—much stamping of his booted feet and all.
The ribbon is spread out straight on the floor and the newly married pair dance around it and begin to shape it about with little movements of their toes, the object being to form it into a bow, symbolizing the bond between the two performing the dance. Arriba, arriba! means take it higher! higher! encouraging the newlyweds to move faster! faster! and, indeed, the tempo of the music picks up as I strum all the faster.
Yo no soy un marinero
Yo no soy un marinero,
Soy Capitán,
Soy Capitán, soy Capitán!
This verse is usually sung by the groom, proclaiming him to be not just a simple sailor but a mighty captain, captain of both their fates. Their attention is to the ribbon and it seems to be taking shape. I knew this to be a Mexican tradition that had traveled out to the Hispanic islands and I briefed the confused Tink on how the thing was done and he seems to be doing all right while sweating mightily. I keep the thing going with a quiet vamp as they press on . . .
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba.
Bam!
They have accomplished the task. Concepción bends gracefully down and picks up the ends of the ribbon and, indeed, it is now in the form of a graceful bow, and it is held up for all to admire.
There is great applause and cries of olé! and Concepción takes up the ribbon and unties it and gives one end to Tink and then walks a short distance away and then places the other end on her own waist and spins around and around till she winds up in Tink’s arm with the ribbon wrapped tight around her middle.
He places a kiss on her brow, as I round things out with a final verse . . .
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Su necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia . . .
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba
Ay arriba y arriba Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba.
Bam!
I fade out into silence on the last lines and the party starts for real.
New England should take notice . . . Olé!
Chapter 17
We are once again heading up the mouth of the Mississippi River to New Orleans, with the intention of boarding Mrs. Babineau’s next batch of girls, reclaiming Clarissa Worthington Howe, and having a bit of fine liberty in one of the greatest liberty ports in this hemisphere.
We accomplish the first two goals, but not the third . . .
I know that trouble is afoot as soon as I ascend the steps of the House of the Rising Sun, Davy Jones and Jim Tanner by my side, and Herbert greets me with, “Bonjour, Miss, but you’d best see Madame Babineau, tout de suite.” He is not smiling when he says that and opens the door for us.
I wonder about this as I enter the foyer, but I do not wonder long for Mrs. Babineau comes storming out of her office as soon as Herbert announces me. She is plainly furious . . .
Uh-oh . . .
“You!” she cries, coming up before me and sticking her quivering finger in my face. “You bring that thing here and then go away and leave her? You go up there now and get her the hell out of here, you!”
She points up the stairs and snarls, “Claudelle’s room!”
I waste no time in running up the stairs. When I reach the landing, followed closely by my lads, I hear the sound of wailing and charge into the very yellow room of Mam’selle Claudelle de Bourbon, and the wailing is not coming from Clarissa, no, it is coming from a very distraught Mam’selle, who is standing crying in a corner, wringing her hands.
“Oh, Precious!” she cries. “Thank God you’ve come!”
No sound comes from Clarissa Worthington Howe, who lies on her back on Mam’selle’s very rumpled bed, clad only in chemise and drawers. Her mouth is open and a streak of white extends from each nostril down over her upper lip. There is a large brown stain on her undershirt that I can only hope is merely whiskey.
I whirl on Mam’selle. “How could you let this happen!”
Mam’selle’s face is contorted with anguish, as she holds out her arms to me. “Oh, Precious, you can’t be mad at your Mam’selle, you just can’t! I could not bear that! Please tell me you’re not!”
I ignore her outstretched arms. “You knew she was my friend and new to your town,” I say severely.
“Oh, Precious, did you ever try sayin’ no to that girl? She just won’t listen!”
I then turn and point down with a stiff finger to Clarissa’s crotch and demand, with menace in my voice, “Any men there?”
“Oh, no, Precious, no . . . mens,” she whimpers, looking away. “I wouldn’t let that happen to your dear frey-und.”
“What did she have?” I ask, looking down on the sodden mess on the bed.
“Oh, just a little morph**e . . . whiskey . . . not all at once, mind you, I been watchin’ out for her, really I has . . . absinthe . . . smoke . . . lots of hemp, some of it laced with opium . . . She don’t know how to handle that junk, but still she kept keepin’ on . . . I had to hang on tight.”
“All right,” I say, having heard enough. “Davy. Jim. Wrap her in that sheet, then pick her up and let’s get her out of here.”
As they go to do it, I walk over to the sniveling Mam’selle and say, “I am most definitely not pleased with what happened here, but I know she can be most willful and I forgive you, Mam’selle, I do.” I plant a kiss on her brow and turn back to Clarissa just as Mrs. Babineau bursts into the room, waving a sheet of paper.
“You may forgive, but I do not. That one,” she snarls, pointing at the unconscious Clarissa who now rests on Davy’s shoulder, her rump in the air. She waves the paper in my face. “That chienne owes me four hundred and seventeen dollars, for food, drink, gambling markers, and damage to my house. She will pay me back, either on her back or on her knees, but she will pay me back.”
I pause a brief moment to wistfully imagine Clarissa paying her debt in either of those positions, then I banish those lurid images from my mind and I reply to the outraged Mrs. Babineau . . .
“Mrs. Babineau, you have always been most kind to me in our past dealings and I thank you for it. Furthermore, I do not expect you to suffer for my friend’s transgressions, so this is what I propose: You were to pay me five hundred dollars to transport ten of your girls to Boston?”
She nods.
“You will not have to pay that. They will ride for free and Faber Shipping and the House of the Rising Sun will be square. Do you agree?”
She considers, then nods again. “Oui. As long as you get her out of here now.”
Done and done.
“Throw her on the bed,” I order as we enter my cabin back on the Nancy B. “Then prepare the ship to get underway. We have once again worn out our welcome in yet another town. All shore leave is cancelled. Let’s go home.”
I hear no protest on that as Davy flings Clarissa on my bed. Her arms and legs flop around, but still she does not make a sound. I begin to worry. Davy and Jim leave, to get on with things, as Joannie enters and looks at what lies on my bed.
“Wot . . . ?” she begins, but I cut her short.
“Go get Jemimah. We need her.”
As she flees, I put the palm of my hand to Clarissa’s forehead. Seems all right . . . but I don’t know what to do. I know how to sew up a wound, how to take out a bullet . . . but I don’t know what to do here . . . please . . .
In a moment, Jemimah comes in and regards the mess on the bed.
“Good Lord, what happened?” she exclaims.
“Too much bright lights, big city, and way too much of what New Orleans had to offer,” I reply. “Jemimah, I don’t know what to do.”
“Hmm . . .” she says, considering. “Back on the Hamilton Plantation, young Master Ashley Hamilton sometimes used to be brought back in a coach from Charleston lookin’ just like this, and we house nigras learned how to deal wit’ it.”
I look at her. “How?”
“You got to bring ’em back slow, else they go crazy,” she says. “Sister Girl, you go get some cloths and some cold water. Quick, now.”
Joannie scurries out, returning in a moment with a bucket in her hand and rags over her arm.
“Here, now, take a cloth, dip it, wring it out and hold it against her face, like this,” she says, “and over her brow, too.”
I pick up a cloth, wet it, and apply it to Clarissa’s face. It seems she moans a bit at the touch of the cold compresses, and I find that encouraging.
“Pull her top down and swab her chest, too. She’ll prolly start in sweatin’ pretty heavy, but keep swabbin’.”
I do it, dropping the cloth back into the bucket to keep it cool, for sure enough, Clarissa starts putting out a lot of sweat . . . and then . . . and then . . . she starts to speak . . .
“Mammy Josie . . . help me, Mammy Josie. Ah’m sick, Mammy Josie.”
“I t’nk she gone back to her child days in her mind now,” observes Jemimah. “But at least she can talk, which is a good sign.”
“Help me, Mammy Josie,” gasps Clarissa. “Ah . . . ah gotta go potty . . .”
“Not on my bed, you don’t!” I exclaim, horrified. “C’mon, let’s get her offa there!”
I grab one arm and Jemimah the other, while Joannie hauls down Clarissa’s drawers, and we get her in the chamber pot chair. After she’s done, we clean her up, leaving drawers and chemise on the floor, and then get her back in my bed, where she gets into some serious raving.
“I don’ wanna! No, I won’t do that! Let me alone, all of you, just let me alone!”