With Higgins on the port oar and the others on the starboard, we start up the rhythm of the row.
"All pull," I say, and they do. These sweeps are curved in such a way that the rower can stand on the low cabin roof and put his full weight behind the pull or push. Very ingenious, I have thought, and even quite elegant, or as elegant as a boat can be that is not under sail. "All pull."
I see with mounting excitement that there are many taverns on the street running along the docks. I can't wait!
"Port, pull; starboard, hold," I call, judging the distance and the drift of the boat. Higgins pulls back on his oar, while Katy and Jim hold their oar out of the water. I swing the tiller bar to the right. "Port, pull; starboard, back." Higgins puts his oar in the water and pulls, while Katy and Jim dig theirs in and push. I put my rudder amidships.
We are swinging in. "Port, pull; starboard, ship your oar." Jim pulls in their oar, lays it on deck, and goes to tend the lines. I throw the tiller to the right and we slip alongside the dock, pretty as you please. Jim jumps over and ties her up. The Belle of the Golden West is moored.
The dock turns out to be a public pier, so the dockage fee is quite reasonable. Higgins goes to see the dockmaster and signs us up for a week, as there is much we have to do here. While he is gone, I go below to get myself into my remaining riding habit, the one I had bought in London. Tight dark green jacket with black velvet lapels and gold epaulets sitting up all jaunty on my shoulders and much creamy lace spilling out at my throat. On with the long black pleated skirt and my jockey boots. I figure why put on stockings when none can see them, as only the toes of my riding boots peek out 'neath the bottom hem of the skirt. Higgins comes back in time to fluff me up and brush me off. I top off my outfit with my rakish Scots bonnet, which, thankfully, Clarissa Howe did not grab when she raided my seabag to outfit herself on the Juno.
There. That oughta show these bumpkins what a true international entertainer looks like. A puff of powder on the cheeks and we are ready to be off on the town.
"All right, let's go. Katy, you can pretend to be my maid..." I get a snort for that, but a nod as well. "Higgins, be your usual self, and Jim, stay here and watch the Belle.'" I know he is disappointed, but his time will come. He nods and picks up a fishing rod, baits the line, and drops it over as he sits down to wait.
We stride out into the town.
The streets are muddy and pigs roam freely about and evidence of the passage of many horses is everywhere underfoot. The smell of coal fires and furnaces fills the air, but through it all, we can see the signs of many taverns—the Black Bear, the Harp and Crown, the White Horse, and there, the Sign of the General Butler.
I spy a passerby who looks like he might be of the sporting type, and I beg him to stop to tell me about the taverns that exist in this town and what sorts of entertainment they provide.
"Well, little lady," he replies, looking me up and down and grinning, "maybe you'd rather be checkin' in at one of the fancy houses uptown, like maybe Gypsy Sally's or—"
Higgins opens his jacket to expose the butts of the two pistols holstered there.
"Or then again, maybe not." The chastened sport gulps.
"A straight answer, if you please, Sir," I demand, my eyes demurely cast down. "And then we will be on our way, grateful for what information you may provide."
"Ahem. Well, Bob Erwin runs the White Horse, and he's a decent sort, and John Irwin, he does the Black Bear, and Molly Murphy owns the General Butler, and—"
"Thank you, Sir, you have been most helpful," says I, having heard enough. "A very good day to you, then." I dip down in a half curtsy as we leave him astounded in the dusty street.
"We will go to the General Butler," I pronounce, seeing the sign for the establishment swinging up ahead, "to see what we will see."
The interior of the General Butler is dark, smoky, and gloomy, but that is how it is supposed to look, and so I advance to the bar. I have found that I like working with landladies more than landlords, as the lords often tend to want a somewhat different kind of performance out of me than I'm willing to give.
"I wish to speak to Miss Molly Murphy," says I to the person behind the bar, who I suspect is Murphy herself.
I find I am not wrong.
"So, that's me," she says, without affectation. "So, what is it you want, dear?"
I like her already.
I puff up and say, "I am a musical and theatrical performer. I sing, I dance, I tell stories, I recite poems, I play the pennywhistle, fiddle, and concertina. If allowed to set up in your fine establishment, I will double your customers, guaranteed," I say.
"And how old are you, dearie," asks Molly, eyeing me not unkindly, "to be promisin' me all this?"
"Old enough, Missus," I answer, slipping into the Irish way of speaking. "Will you listen to this, then?"
Higgins hands me the Lady Gay, and instead of the raucous tunes I usually rip out at a time like this, I play a medley of the sad songs "Mountains of Mourn" and "Broom o' the Cowdennelles" and "Londonderry Air." It's the last one that nails her, which is good—if ever I can't make an Irishman cry with my fiddle, then I should hang it up and sit quietly by the fire forevermore.
The deal is struck. We get room and board for the four of us, and I will do two sets, one early evening and one that night. Katy will help out with serving the increased crowds, and Higgins'll provide security, with Jim to help out where he can.
We scope out where the stage is to be and then go back to the Belle to get ready for the night's revels.
Oh, I will be so glad to be back where I belong!
Chapter 22
Jaimy Fletcher
In the company of Mike Fink
On the Allegheny River
Pennsylvania, USA
Jacky,
It soon became apparent that Mike Fink intended for me to do all the rowing, as he plunked himself down in the stern, with his hand on the extra oar that he was using as a rudder, and guided us along while I provided the sole power. When I am done with this American odyssey, I shall be able to hire out as a circus strongman.
Clementine perched behind me in the bow seat and kneaded my shoulders to lend them relief. I had taken off my shirt in the heat and her hands felt good on my aching muscles.
Fink slumped in the back, mumbling curses over some recent bad luck he had recently experienced.
"Goddamn ... goddamn ... best boat I ever had, it was, too, and she stole it. Goddamn her to Hell and back. Fooled poor Mike Fink, who was good enough to give her a ride on his boat, then she stole it from him, bighearted, stupid Mike Fink. Damn! But I'm a-gonna catch her and I'm a-gonna kill her..."
I was sure this was just another interesting tale of mischief on the river, no doubt perpetrated on the wounded Mike Fink by some river slattern of low moral character, but I didn't ask for details. I knew it would come out, Fink being the braggart he most plainly was. It occurred to me that he was bragging even about being bested by this woman who had robbed him.
He left off his rant for a moment to peer closely at me and ask, "How come you're tryin' to get to Pittsburgh? Looking for work, I reckon."
"Yes," I said, mindful of Clementine listening behind me. "I am also trying to locate a friend, and furthermore, I would not mind catching up with the two men who robbed me on the road, taking all I had." I then recounted to him, between strokes of the oars, the story of my downfall and my rescue by Clementine.
"Hmmm," he mused, stroking the massive mat of his beard, "so you mean to kill them fellers, I suspect."
"The thought had crossed my mind," I wheezed, pulling at the oars, "being that they clubbed me and stripped me and shot me and left me for dead."
"All right," said Fink, "we'll get down there and you kill them fellers and I'll kill that thievin' little bitch. Here's how I'm a-gonna do it: I'm a-gonna wrap my two hands around her skinny little neck till her face turns blue and them big brown eyes pop right outta her skull!"
Right about then a cold suspicion began to dawn on me. It was the "little bitch" that first alerted me to an awful possibility. No, it could not be...
It was.
"She was there with those three others, her big fancy man and the boy and the other girl," Fink went on. "But you could see plain that she was the boss of all of 'em. 'Oh, thank you, Higgins,' she'd say for any little thing he done for Her Royal Majesty. And, oh, she'd prance around like the most frail and delicate thing, ready to swoon and faint away at the sound of any decent cussword. 'Oh, Mr. Fink, you are so very big and strong, you must be the very finest man I have ever met! Oh, please, tell me another story of your adventures!' she'd plead, and flutter those big brown eyes at me, and me, the fool, just lapped it up, when all along she was plannin' to steal my boat. It ain't right, t'ain't right, and I got to kill her."
I continued pulling away at the oars, hoping he would not pronounce your name. It was, of course, a vain hope.
"Yep, it won't be long now, as she's only got about three days' head start on me. Yep, Miss Jacky Faber has got about four days left on this earth," said Fink, with great satisfaction.
Oh, Lord...
Clementine's hands tightened on my shoulders, and then I felt them drop. Her freckled face appeared next to my left cheek, her blue eyes drilling into mine.
"I thought you said Jacky Faber was a boy," hissed Clementine into my ear, but loud enough for Fink to hear. "Why're you chasing her, Jaimy? You tell me. You tell me now."
I didn't have to respond, for Mike Fink exploded in rage. He pointed his finger at my nose and shouted, "You know her! Goddammit! You're part o' her filthy gang o' thieves! It comes to me now—you talk funny, jest like that Jacky Faber and her fancy man. Well, by God, yer gonna get it!"
With that, he threw over his improvised rudder, and we hit the shallows next to the bank. He jumped out of the boat, remarkably light on his feet for such a huge man. He paused to throw back his head and cry out with a mighty roar, then he lunged at me.
I rolled over to the opposite side of the boat to evade his grasp, but he managed to grab the suspenders of my overalls and hurl me onto the muddy bank on which we had just landed. I tried to gain my feet, but could not. Fink whipped me around like a toy and slammed me down face-first in the muck, his foot planted on the back of my neck. All my circus strongman illusions were gone, for I realized that the man was incredibly strong.
But he was also immensely vain. While he took a moment to rear back to beat his chest and loudly bray out his superiority to a pansy weakling such as the likes of me, I managed to scramble out from under his foot and jump to my feet.
I steadied myself enough to face him. I was breathing hard and thinking that I had endured just about enough of America and its brigands and river louts. Propelled by all my pent-up anger, I pulled back my right fist and punched him in the face where I thought his chin might be under all that matted hair. I hit with all the force and anger within me. Pain radiated up my arm—I feared that my knuckles were shattered and my wrist was broken.
Fink stepped back, surprised. He put his hand to his whiskered jaw and looked off, thoughtful. "Wal, now," he asked, working his jaw like a ruminating steer, "was that a fly, a mosquito? Nah, must have been a gnat. A baby gnat ... Must've been. C'mere, boy, I'm about to show you what real river fightin's like."