Now this is a man of the cloth I can relate to.
"So," I say at last, "if we could pick up a small sailboat, one that could be handled with oars if the wind was contrary...," I say, musing.
"I'm sure the proper boat could be found in Cincinnati. Y'see, I know the Ohio, down to Cincinnati, but I don't know the river the rest of the way, nor do I know the Mississippi." He looks off, all dreamy-eyed. "The Big River, the Father of Waters, oh, I'm so anxious to go, Miss. Can you imagine the multitude of souls who need saving all along the Big Muddy, all the way down to the evil dens of New Orleans?"
I look over at Reverend Clawson and realize that he would not be found terribly out of place in those evil dens.
"This has been a most interesting conversation, Reverend Clawson," I purr, "and I believe you may be safe in now calling yourself part of the crew of the Belle of the Golden West."
He gets up and bows. "And it is a singular honor to be named as such, Miss Faber. I look forward to a long and profitable relationship." Then he takes his leave of the quarterdeck.
I sit back in my chair and look out over the broad Ohio River and I think on what he has said. After a while I get up and go down to my bunk to rummage through my seabag and get out my carving tool, it being a V-shaped sort of blade that I've used before in woodcuts and in scrimshaw. I go down into the lower hold and find a nice smooth piece of hardwood.
Returning to my quarterdeck table, I set to work. Taking my pencil, I sketch out the words, backward of course, since this will be a print.
Captain Jack's Elixir
The finest of Tonics for the Cure of
Catarrh, Ague, Liver Dyspepsia, Choleric
Humor, Contrary Children, and Female
Vap ors, Nerves, & Hysteria
If I can find a printer in this upcoming Cincinnati, I will add more to the label. If not, this will have to do. I set to work on the wood square and let the chips fly.
***
I am finishing up the third line when Yancy Cantrell comes back aboard.
"Thank you for waiting, Miss Faber," he says, coming up to me and putting the fare money into my hand. I notice he has some more money, which he puts back into his pocket. "If you would shove off now, I think it would be good."
"Jim. 'Thaniel. Matty," I call, getting up and dusting the chips from my lap. "Let's be on our way. Cast off."
"Thank you, Mr. Cantrell," I say, bending back to my work, "but really, I would have trusted you for the money."
"I knew that, Miss Faber, but I felt it best that we keep accounts square," says Mr. Cantrell. Then, unaccountably, he says, "If it is not too much trouble, if we could keep close to the left bank, I would appreciate it."
This sounds a bit strange to me and I lift my head from my work. It is then that I notice that Cantrell's black girl is not with him. Grave suspicion grows in my mind.
"Where is your girl?" I demand, rising from my table.
"I sold her," says Yancy Cantrell, calmly, "for my fare, and for my stake in the next high-stakes card game. If you'll excuse me, Miss Faber, I believe I'll wash up for dinner."
"Higgins!" I shout. "My pistols! Now!"
Bearing the two firearms, Higgins bursts out of our quarters, a look of alarm on his usually placid face. I grab the pistols from him and train them both on Mr. Yancy Cantrell's forehead. He falls to his knees.
"You low-down, no-good son of a bitch! You sold that girl into slavery! Get off this boat! Get in the water now, before I blow your brains out! Now get out! Over the side! Now, you slimy bastard!"
Cantrell, seeing the fury in my eyes, puts his hands up in front of his face and pleads, "No, please, Miss. Don't shoot. Just wait a few minutes, please. You'll see. Just wait. Stay close to the shore. Please."
The Belle of the Golden West slips by the southern bank, and as it does, I hear a splash, then the sound of someone swimming, and someone swimming quite well. I look over the port side and see Cantrell's girl stroking along, tawny arm over arm, and coming briskly alongside. Katy Deere reaches over the side and hauls her aboard.
"Now, if you could get to the middle of the stream, that would be good," says Mr. Cantrell, still looking fearfully down the barrels of my cocked pistols.
When I see the girl safely aboard, I put the pistols at half c*ck and lower them.
"So what's the scam, then?" I demand, not in the least mollified.
"We have done it many times before, Miss Faber," says Cantrell. "When we are in need of money, I take her inland, sell her, and return to the river. She makes her escape, and believe me she is expert in that, and she rejoins me downriver and we go on our merry way."
I am incredulous. "What happens if they lock her up?"
The girl looks at me with her dark eyes, water dripping from her hair. She pulls out a necklace, and from it dangles what I see is a set of lock picks. She shakes it and it tinkles like little bells.
"She knows how to get out."
"What if she can't?"
"I return and buy her back. Say I've had a change of heart. It's only happened once or twice."
I hand the guns back to Higgins. "All right, Mr. Cantrell. It is a good scam. But I will tell you this: I know I am barely sixteen years old, but this is my boat and I will say what scams get run from it, and you will never again do that particular one. If that ain't clear, you can get off now. What do you say to that?"
Yancy Cantrell bows his head and says, "Agreed." He turns to the black girl and says, "All right, Chloe. Go down and get dressed."
She gets up and says the first words I have yet heard her say.
"Yes, Father."
And she goes below.
Chapter 40
Mr. Cantrell is being chastised for running that risky scam, and while I know I will forgive him eventually, for now he is banned from my table. I do, however, ask that he invite his daughter for dinner with me that afternoon as we approach the town of Cincinnati.
She emerges from the lower decks, the ribbons and braids gone from her hair, hair that now falls in glossy black ringlets to her shoulders. She wears a gray dress of a quite nice cut, with a white shawl about those same shoulders. White stockings and neat shoes on her small feet complete the outfit. All gaze upon her in astonishment.
When she comes back on deck, she takes Cantrell's arm and he brings her up to me.
"Miss Faber, may I introduce my daughter, Chloe Abyssinia Cantrell?" says Mr. Cantrell. The girl lowers her eyes and dips down into a very acceptable curtsy.
I return the same.
"Her mother, my late and very much missed wife, was a teacher of the Coloreds in New York City," said Cantrell, by way of explanation for the girl's appearance here on the Belle of the Golden West.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Faber," murmurs this Chloe creature.
"Mutual, I am sure," I say. "And now will you join me for dinner so that we might become better acquainted?"
"I would be delighted, Miss Faber."
Will wonders never cease?
The dinner is laid out by Higgins, himself, this time. I think it's mainly because he wants to listen in to the conversation that will surely ensue, being as curious as to the nature of this girl as I am.
We go to my table. The canopy is up, this time because it looks like it might rain. She sits, tucking the dress under her bottom as she settles in. Napkin in lap, face composed. Hmmmmm...
"How came you to be here, Chloe, if I may call you that? Thank you, Higgins."
Higgins pours the tea and steps back. He gestures and Clementine brings up the platter of meat and potatoes. Chloe picks up the tongs and expertly nails a piece of venison. The platter comes to me and I do the same. This girl knows her way around a table, that's for sure.
"My mother was a teacher at the Abyssinian Academy in New York. She was educated by her parents, her father being a well-known Abolitionist preacher, who often addressed the students and teachers at King's College on the 'Peculiar Institution' of slavery. Her mother was a former slave, who had been indulged and set free by her owners. After I was born, Mother set herself to educating me to the highest level possible, believing that education was the way to advancement for any of the Colored race." She says this last with a wry smile.
"You don't agree with that?" I ask.
She cocks an eyebrow at me. "With my education, I could have become a tutor, maybe a governess."
"And that was not enough?"
"Enough for a black girl, you mean?"
I catch the edge in that. "There were times in my life, Miss, that I would have rejoiced to be either one of those. I have a book for you to read sometime. It was written by a friend of mine. It concerns my early life as a beggar on the streets of London."
"I would be glad to read it," she says, attending to her dinner. "This is very good. Thank you for inviting me."
"Yes, Janey's a very good cook," I say, applying myself to my own dinner. "I am sorry about your mother. Has she been gone long?"
She nods and, I think, loses some of her icy composure. "It's been two years. The yellow fever. I was devastated. Father returned home several days before she died, and was with her at the end," she says, "as was I."
"Mr. Cantrell was away at the onset of her illness?" I prompt, gently as I can.
"Father was away much of the time, pursuing his many ... enterprises. We never knew what they were, but he generally returned with enough money to sustain us in the style to which we were accustomed," she says, a smile returning to her lips. "Grandfather Burgess never quite approved of Mother's choice of Father, but then one must follow one's heart, mustn't one?"
I take another sip of the tea and ask the question I have been dying to ask. "Your father ... and mother ... from such different ... backgrounds, as it were. Was there not much talk?"
"Him being white and she being black, you mean?"
"Umm."
"Well, they did not go out together in public much, not that Father gave a damn what anyone thought." Done with her dinner, she pats her lips with her napkin and places it on the table. "Besides, Mother was very beautiful, and Father was not untouched by the tar brush, as they say."
"Which means?"
"Father is from New Orleans. He is what is called an octoroon."
"Which means?"
"Which means a great-grandparent of his was a black man. Or woman, which is more likely the case."
"And so...?"
"In New York, people left us alone, and after Mother died, Father told me of his life and offered me the choice: Stay comfortable and bored in New York, or go off with him. I opted for the risky game."
I smile at that. "We are going to the South, you know, into the slave territories."
"I can play the po' little ol' black girl, as you know."
I think on that. "You know, you just might prove valuable on this journey, Miss Cantrell. Are you musical?"
"I can play the harpsichord, Miss Faber."
I have to laugh at that. "We are hardly likely to find such an instrument in Cincinnati, but who knows? As for now, let us talk of the 'risky game,' as you put it. Higgins, will you uncork us a bottle of the burgundy?"