Solomon had not known the names of the fingerings, but he did know how to do them. So after we matched up the chords to the notes on Chloe's harpsichord, we were able to name them, which made it easier for me to learn.
Although I glow under his praise, I grumble, "You don't have to butter me up, Solomon. No one else around here does. And you must stop calling me Miss Jacky. It sounds too slavey, and you're a free man now. You may call me Jacky."
"Huh, I'll count myself a free man when I step on the dirt of a free state, not before, and as for callin' you by your name, huh! See this neck that my head sits on, Miss Jacky? Well, I'm right fond of it and don't want no rope gettin' around it, just 'cause some cracker in one of these towns hears me slip up and call you Jacky, all familiar-like. Uh-uh, no, Ma'am."
"Then how about Miss, like Higgins does, or Skipper, like the Hawkes boys do, or Missy, like Jim?"
"All right, Missy, but if we ever in the hearin' of any crackers, then you'll hear me fallin' right back into Miss Jacky right quick. Now, whyn't you try that Frenchy thing again?"
I finger the C chord and start the roll with my right hand, and then I start to sing that song I had learned from our rich French captive on board the Emerald. What was his name? Oh, yes, the Marquis de Mont Blanc, the man with many jewels, half of which he left with us, much to his sorrow.
Plaisir d'amour
Ne dure qu'un moment.
Chagrin d'amour
Dure toute la vie.
I run through the three chords used in this song, keeping up the roll, and then I sing the translation.
Joys of love
Are but a moment long.
Pain of love endures
The whole life long.
A final strum across all strings and I'm done. It does sound so much better than with the fiddle. I shall learn to do all my slow, sad songs on the guitar, I think, and save the fast, raucous stuff for Lady Gay.
"Bravo, Jacky! Bravo!" I look over to see Richard Allen, seated at his table on the cabin top of the Britannia, in open white shirt, white britches, and black boots. He has taken to setting his table up there in a mockery, I think, of mine. He has a glass of wine in front of him, no doubt from the case he bought from us, paid for, I'm sure, from the scalp money that I returned to him. It seems he means to be quite free with it.
"I thought I told you to stay behind us. You are blocking my view of the shore."
"The better to hear your sweet voice, my dear, raised in joyous song!" he taunts. "Perhaps you'll join me in this one. I'm sure you know it." He stands up and, completely unabashedly, begins to sing.
There once was a troop of British dragoons,
Went marching down to Fennario,
And their captain fell in love,
With a lady like a dove,
And they called her by name, pretty Jacky-o.
This could be fun, I'm thinking. Why not? I rise and go over to the edge of the cabin top, opposite him, as he does the second verse.
Oh, I will give you ribbons, love,
And I will give you rings,
And a necklace of pure amber-o,
And a silken petticoat with flounces to the knee,
If you'll take me into your chamber-o.
Solomon takes the guitar from my hand and begins to strum along with the tune. On the other boat, Archy MacDuff has taken up a small snare drum and begins a soft rum-tum-tum in march time, so I know this is a set-up thing. No matter. I lift my voice and and give the song back to him.
Oh, I'll not go with you, sweet Richard-o,
And I'll not take you into my chamber-o.
No, I'll not marry you, for your guineas are too few,
And I fear it would anger my poor mama-o.
Striding to the edge of his cabin top, Allen, cigar in hand, sends it back to me.
What will your mother think, pretty Jacky-o?
What will your mother think, my sweetheart-o?
What will your mother think
When she hears the guineas clink,
And my soldiers all marching before you-o?
The man on Britannia's tiller thinks it would be in his captain's interest to bring the boats even closer together, so that Captain Allen and I are a mere six feet apart. I puff out my chest and trade another verse.
I never did intend a soldier's wife to be,
No, a soldier shall never enjoy me-o.
I never will go into a foreign land,
And I never will marry you, sweet Richard-o.
Captain Allen tosses his cheroot into the narrow gap of water that flows between us, fixes me with his gaze, and launches into his last verse.
Come tripping down the stairs, pretty Jacky-o,
Come tripping down the stairs, oh, my lovely-o,
Come tripping down the stairs, combing back your yellow hair,
You're the prettiest damn thing I ever seen ... Oh.
Richard bows to me and acknowledges the cheers of his men, but I pipe up and say, "Surely you've forgotten the last verse, Sir? Perhaps I should sing it for you." And I do.
Sweet Richard he is dead, we must mourn him-o,
Sweet Richard he is dead, oh, my comrades-o,
Sweet Richard he is dead and he died for a maid,
The fairest of the maidens in Fenn-ar-i-o.
Applause from my boat, but my partner in this duet is not yet done.
If ever I return, pretty Jacky-o,
If ever I return, oh, my lovely-o,
If ever I return, all your cities I will burn,
Destroying all the ladies in Fenn-ar-i-o.
I give him a deep Lawson Peabody curtsy on that one, which must look a bit foolish, with me wearing my Indian buckskin rig, but so what. There are cheers from both boats.
"Now, about that bit concerning you inviting me down into your chambers," says Captain Allen, "shall we discuss that?"
"No, Captain Allen, we shall not. I have invited a much more cultured man than you, a common soldier, to grace my table today. Ah, here you are, Mr. Cantrell. Please have a seat. Our food and drink will be up directly. If you'll excuse us, Captain Allen?"
Yancy and I sit down at my table. I sneak a glance sideways and find that Richard is again seated at his table, but his boat does not return to its position behind us. Well, so be it. It's not important. I turn to Yancy to make small talk and I find him much amused.
"That was quite the performance, Miss. I enjoyed it thoroughly." He looks over at Captain Allen, who has lit yet another cigar and continues to gaze upon me. I pretend not to notice.
"I'm glad you did, Yancy. Ah, here is our dinner. Thank you, Higgins. A glass of wine with you, Mr. Cantrell?" Higgins draws the cork, pours out two glasses, and then puts the cork back in the bottle.
"Thank you, Mr. Higgins, but could you have my Chloe bring me up a glass of water? I fear my throat is dry and I don't want to waste this fine wine on mere thirst."
Higgins nods and goes below, and presently Chloe appears with the glass of water. She places it on the table and Yancy takes a sip of it. "Thank you, Daughter."
She murmurs, "You're welcome, Father," and steps off the cabin top.
I take a mouthful of my wine, swallow, and look at my guest. "It must be hard on you, Yancy, not to have had a game of chance to play since Memphis. I do hope you haven't completely cleaned out the Reverend and the Hawkes boys?"
He laughs. "No, we pass the time playing pinochle and whist for mere worthless chips. They are becoming quite expert." He looks at me in an appraising way. "We could, however, play a game of chance between ourselves, Miss. A harmless game that will cost you nothing."
"And that game would be?"
"I will bet you that I can make fifty dollars without moving from this spot."
"Don't think, Yancy, that I would ever think to best you in a game of cards. I have gotten quite skilled, but I'm not stupid enough to take you on in that regard."
"No, Miss, it will not be a card game, but it does involve a wager."
"Go on," I say, all suspicious.
"I bet you that I can take a drink out of that bottle right there, without taking out the cork."
I look at the bottle. It is about half full. As I look at it, Yancy reaches over and with his thumb, pushes the cork down even further into the bottle's neck.
"And what will be my part of the wager?"
"A mere kiss, Miss Faber. On the lips, and shall we say of a thirty-second duration?"
Hmmm... I didn't know that Yancy thought of me in that way—men, I swear! But what the hell, it's only a kiss, although Yancy is a somewhat older, handsome man.
"Very well. I take the bet, provided your part of the wager is giving up those foul cigars for a full week, should you fail."
"Done."
"So let's see you try to do it."
Yancy smiles at me with a look that says, "I have done this as part of your continuing education, Miss, and the title of today's lesson is: Never Bet on a Sure Thing. Or, at least what looks like a sure thing."
"Regardez-vous, Mademoiselle," Yancy says.
He takes the wine bottle and turns it over. Like all wine bottles, it has a depression in the bottom—something to do with how the glass is blown—a depression about an inch deep. Yancy takes his water glass and fills the concave depression with water. He lifts it to his lips and drinks.
"Ah. That was most refreshing," he says, smiling like the cat who has just swallowed the bird, "and you see, I did take a drink out of that bottle without removing the cork. And, furthermore, I believe I have won the wager."
"I believe you have, and I'm certain I have learned a great lesson here, but still, all you have won is a kiss, one that I will readily give you, but you have not won fifty dollars."
"That is true, Miss, but the kiss is not for me. The wager was for a kiss, not necessarily a kiss for me. You must learn to read the fine print in a contract. That is your second lesson today."
I feel a slow burn working up my neck and into my face. "So what will you do with this promise of a kiss?"
"Why, auction it off, of course! To the highest bidder!"
He stands and addresses all on both boats. "Gentlemen, listen to me! I am the bearer of a note promising one kiss, one most extraordinary kiss, one kiss on the lips of Miss Jacky Faber, the Lily of the West, the duration of said kiss being a slow count of thirty! What am I bid?"
Every man, every boy, every girl on both these boats is standing and looking at me with great glee. I have been had, but good!
On the Britannia, Archy MacDuff fishes in his pants pocket. "I got half a crown, and I bids it!"
"We have a bid of half a crown. But please, gentlemen, this is the fair Jacky Faber we are talking about here, and we can do better than that, surely. The winner will be able to tell his grandchildren that he once placed his lips on those of the famous riverboat queen, and they will look on him with awe and admiration. Do I hear more?"
"Two dollars," calls out a hugely grinning Jim Tanner, which gets him a glare and a poke in the ribs from Clementine.
"I have two dollars! Who will say more?"
"Two-fifty!" says Private William Quimby, followed quickly by "Three dollars!" from Seamus McMann.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," says my former friend Yancy Cantrell, shaking his head. "I'm afraid we're going to have to up the ante, or we'll be at this all day. No, I must say that the minimum bid will have to be fifty dollars. Do I hear fifty?"
"Fifty dollars." All heads turn to look upon the bidder, who now stands at the edge of his cabin top, with his thumbs hooked into his belt, his cigar at a rakish tilt, and his eyes burning into mine.