We went into the cabin. There was a fireplace, with several embers glowing in it, and a table on which rested an earthenware jug.
"Yew. Stand over there where I can see yew," said this Mr. Jukes to me, gesturing with the barrel of the gun. "Clemmie. Make up the fire and git me somethin' t' eat."
The girl, no longer the happy, free wood sprite I met in the forest, slumped over to throw some pieces of wood into the fireplace. She took down a pot from a hook overhead and spooned what I took to be cornmeal into it. Then she ladled in some water from a nearby bucket. Her face was now dead, a mask, totally devoid of expression. It was then that I noticed the bruises on her arms, neck, and lower legs. In my own pain and torment, I had not previously seen those very plain marks of pain and abuse upon her, more shame on me.
The demeanor of the father, upon entering the cabin, completely changed from that of threatening bully to that of sneering, snickering bully. I wondered at it but figured that he perceived that I, barely half his size, was no physical threat to him, and so he could in all ease put aside the gun and lift the jug of spirits to his lips. He could not have known that I had been an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy and, as such, trained in many ways of death-dealing, none of which, I had to admit, seemed to apply here, as I had no cannon, no pistol, no sword.
"Yew look right pretty in that little apron, pretty boy, oh yes, yew do." He giggled, having yet another hit at the jug. "Whyn't yew come over here now and share a drink with me, hmmm?"
"Sir, I would rather retire for the night, as I have had a very trying day. You and your daughter have been most gracious to me in my hour of need, but I am now in great need of sleep and would consider it most kind of you to let me gain that rest."
"My, yew sure do talk funny," said Jukes, rising from the table. "But come with me and we shall put yew to bed, oh, yes."
He took up his gun again and led me out into the farmyard and to the barn. On the way out, I caught Clementine's eye, but she gave a quick shake of her head in a warning way. I took the warning to heart.
"Git in there, pretty boy, and up into the hayloft. In the mornin' we'll put yew to some work in payment fer yer lodging." He chuckled again. "And maybe even before then."
I went in at the point of the barrel. There was a stall, with a very large plow horse in it, and a ladder up to the hayloft.
"Up there, boy. That's it. G'night, now."
With that, the barn door closed and I heard the locking bar fall down in place.
I waited a long time, savoring the quiet and peace. Then I felt my way to the door and tried to figure out how to jimmy up the bar from inside. I am sure, Jacky, that you would have been out of this place in a minute and on your way, knowing your skill at escaping confinement, but I, alas, was found wanting, and the bar stayed in place and my attempt at fleeing this madhouse was thwarted. This whole country is a madhouse, as far as I am concerned, and I am sick of it.
Bone tired, I crawled up the ladder and burrowed into the straw and fell instantly asleep.
My sleep, however, was not to be undisturbed.
I do not know how long I had been there when I felt her slip in beside me. When I started, she put her hand on my lips and said, "Shush, Jaimy, quiet now. Pap's passed out asleep, but still, it's best we be quiet, just in case."
She wriggled around and her head came to rest on my shoulder and her arm draped around my chest. I felt her skin warm against mine. I did not feel any clothing and I knew that she wore none.
"Ain't this nice, Jaimy? I kin feel your heart beatin' there under my hand. Mmmmm..."
I was quite sure it was beating much faster now than it was before Miss Clementine Jukes's arrival. I could not protest, as that would raise an alarm and she would be in trouble with her father, and no telling what he would do to me.
No, there was nothing for me to do but remain as I was, and forgive me, Jacky, but I did not find it the most unpleasant thing that happened to me on this day....
Chapter 13
I could smell the river way before we actually got there. While it lacks the salty tang of the ocean, smelling more of dark pools and grassy banks and fish, it was a most welcome aroma.
We had spent the last night at Katy's place, getting as comfortable as we could on the few straw pallets that were left in the house. It was plain that someone had gone through the cabin during its time of abandonment and taken all of value. We did, however, manage to find a few saucepans and a banged-up old teapot, which Higgins judged could come in handy later, and Jim added them to our packs.
Higgins has become quite lean and craggy-looking during these past few weeks on the road—the rough life is good for him physically, though it certainly doesn't suit his refined temperament. Still, he does not complain, and he maintains his good humor.
Before we left, Katy asked me to rummage in my seabag for quill and ink so I could write a note on a fairly clean cedar shake she had found:
This here farm belongs
to Katherine Deere
and I will come back
to claim it someday
so stay off it
I wrote it down just as she said it, and we nailed it to the front door. Then we climbed on the horses and rode off. Though Katy was behind me and I could not see her, I sensed that she did not look back.
"There it is!" shouts I, standing up in the stirrups and pointing to the gleaming ribbon of river lying in the valley down below. "The Allegheny River, at last."
"Yes, and a most welcome sight it is, Miss," says Higgins, with feeling. "Although this stoic beast has been very accommodating of my bulk these past weeks, still, if I never again see him or any of his brethren, I shall be content."
"Don't be expectin' too much down there, Jacky," warns Katy into my left ear. "East Hickory's only a little itty-bitty town."
"I'm sure it will serve, dear, for all we will need is to find us a boat to take us down the river," says I, full of hope and anticipation. "Let's go!" And we pound down into the river valley.
"Itty-bitty" is an understatement. East Hickory consists of a general store that, as a matter of fact, doesn't seem to have much in it, a stable containing a few dispirited swaybacked nags, a smelly tannery, and a rickety dock sticking out into the flowing stream—a very swiftly moving stream, I note. The Allegheny, being about a quarter-mile wide at this point, has a lot of water moving downstream. And this is the littlest of the rivers we will ride? I wonder.
It turns out that the man who runs the general store—a fat, fussy little man with a squeaky voice—also runs the stables and the commercial dock, at which, I notice with dismay, no boats are tied.
We dismount at the foot of the dock, and the little man hurries up to us.
"Welcome to East Hickory," he squeaks. "My name is Enos Tweedie. What will be your pleasure? We have the finest of whiskey and some very good beer." There is a board balanced on sawhorses at the dock's entrance, and Mr. Tweedie lays out several bottles and glasses thereon, then peers at us expectantly. This, apparently, is what passes for a tavern in East Hickory, Pennsylvania, in the United States of America.
I decide that the Fine Lady persona will serve us best here, so I put on the Lawson Peabody Look and say, "Mr. Higgins will have a whiskey, and Miss Deere and I will each have a glass of wine. And a beer for young Master Tanner, if you please, Landlord Tweedie." I pull up the small purse that hangs at my waist.
I can see that he is pleased to be addressed as such, and extremely pleased by the sight of my purse.
"Yes, oh, yes," he chortles, and he goes to pour some whiskey into a glass for Higgins.
"Wait," says Higgins, as he takes the empty glass from Mr. Tweedie's hand, holds it up to the light, frowns, pulls out a spotless handkerchief, and proceeds to polish it. Then again he holds up the glass to the light. "Ah. That is much better. We wouldn't want to sully the taste of your finest of whiskeys with a less-than-clean glass, now, would we?"
Mr. Tweedie, somewhat amazed, takes the glass back and fills it with brown liquid and places it in front of Higgins, then says, "Sorry, Miss, but no wine until the elderberries get ripe."
"A beer, then," I say, and a foaming tankard is put in front of me. I stick my nose in it and drink. It is very poor. Very poor. I look over at a silo that stands next to the tannery and suspect that there is a spigot at the bottom of it. The silage is soaked from the rain leaking in at the top, and the so-called beer comes out the bottom. But I drink it, anyway, as I cannot offend my host, from whom I will want to get some information.
"You got any birch beer?" asks Katy.
"Oh, yes, Miss, right down here." He stoops down and picks up another jug.
"Good. One for me and one for the boy."
Jim tastes his and his eyes open. "Oh, that's good," he says.
"Thought it might be," says Katy, tasting hers. She looks at me over the top of her glass, and I think she's saying silently to me, Y'oughta check with what the locals are gettin 'fore you plunge ahead, girl.
I take that silent advice to heart. I push my very sorry beer to the side and say, "I'll try some of that."
Another glass is put in front of me, and I look at the clear liquid and then I taste it. My, that is good! It reminds me a bit of the sassafras root beer that Amy had at Dovecote.
Anticipating my question, Katy says, "You peel up a bunch of black birch twigs, then you soak 'em for a long time. Later you add sugar and yeast, and there you go."
Hmmmm. Good to know, I think, quaffing the rest of mine down.
"Actually, this is quite good," says Higgins, rolling the whiskey around on his tongue.
"Only the finest barrels of Kentucky bourbon come up this river, Sir," explains Mr. Tweedie with satisfaction. "Only the finest. The crowned heads of Europe have not tasted finer."
"Amazingly, I can agree with that," says Higgins, finishing off his glass.
All right. Down to business, I'm thinking.
"Landlord Tweedie, we desire to book passage downriver, but I see no boats moored at your dock. Why is that?" I ask.
"Ah, Miss, all the boats have gone downriver with loads of logs for Pittsburgh, they havin' used all theirs up in their furnaces for makin' glass and suchlike. They'll be polin' back up in a couple of weeks."
A couple of weeks! We can't wait that long!
I stand and think on this: Our horses are about shot—they need rest and food and shelter, things we cannot give them. The roads out here grow worse and worse—soon we will be leading the horses, rather than riding them. Damn!
"Maybe we could build a raft, Jim?" I ask of my coxswain.
"Yes, we could, Missy, but we'd need seasoned lumber and tools, neither of which we have," he says, but then, like any true can-do sailor, he goes on to say, "but maybe we could find a good stand of straight timber, cut 'em down, and bind 'em together with rope and..."
"WEEEEEEEE ... OOOOOOOOP! WEEEEEEE-O OOOOOP! GET OUT OF MY WAY! BY GOD, GET OUT OF MY WAY OR GET CHEWED RIGHT ON UP! WEEEEEEEEE ... OOOOP!"
Shocked, I look upriver and see a boat coming down. It's about forty feet long, got a cabin, no sails, and a long, long sweep of an oar out the back to which clings a huge solitary figure. Is it man or ape? I wonder.