We round a bend in the river, all of us at our usual stations: Katy at the bow on lookout, the Hawkes brothers on the forward sweeps, Jim on steering oar, and me at my quarterdeck table, with First Mate Higgins at my side. I have on my black cloak and am covered by it from neck to boot top. Clementine and Chloe sit on the cabin top, in plain sight of anyone with a long glass, sewing away at a quilt and chatting sociably. All others are below, the better to make us look like helpless and easy prey.
“A fine morning, Miss,” observes Higgins. He is wearing a long riding duster over his usual clothes, the better to conceal the two pistols he wears tucked in his vest.
“Indeed it is, Mr. Higgins,” I reply. I put down my teacup and look out over the river, which does seem to be working itself up into a faster flowing stream. On the shore, I see bigger and bigger boulders sticking out of the water. I suspect the Rapids of the Ohio are not far downstream. In front of me is a map, which shows what we know of Cave-in-Rock, which is not much. It is apparently a fifty-foot cliff on the Illinois side of the river giving anyone standing on top a clear view of the river traffic coming down. In the cliff itself there is a large cave twenty feet high and thirty feet across its mouth and a hundred and fifty feet deep, wherein the outlaws and their hangers-on live.
“What do you think, Miss?” asks Higgins, refilling my cup from the pot that sits on the table.
I consider this and say, “There are evil men there, Higgins, men who think they are powerful and cunning, and we shall be meeting them soon, I think, but I try to hold down my fear.” I add, “For are we not, you and I, Royal Navy?”
“Yes, Miss, we are.”
“Then, they don’t stand a chance, do they?”
“No, Miss, they do not.”
“I thought not, Higgins,” I answer. “However, if they do manage to prevail against us, I want you to know that I consider you the best friend I have ever had in this world and I will die happy knowing that I had your friendship to the end.”
“The feeling is mutual, Miss, but you should not let—”
“Man in boat to starboard!” shouts Katy. “Callin’ out to us!” Higgins rises from the table and goes to the side.
Ah, that would be our guide through the treacherous Rapids of the Ohio . . . or to be delivered to what other treachery might lurk there.
I look out and see a man standing in a rowboat, waving his hat to us.
“Pull over by him,” I say to Jim, and the Belle glides over to the small boat.
“What do you want?” calls out Higgins to the man.
“Sir,” announces this person, “I am Mr. Fortescue, Frederick Fortescue, as it were, and I am a most experienced pilot. I would be glad to guide your boat through these wicked waters for a most modest sum. What do you say?”
“Bring him aboard,” calls out Higgins, who will be acting as Captain for a short time. The man scampers up our side, leaving his rowboat to fend for itself. He shakes Higgins’s hand and strides back to the quarterdeck and stations himself in front of Jim at his steering oar.
Hmmm. Not a good sign in a waterman, I’m thinkin’, leavin’ his boat adrift like that.
“Off to the left there, boy. Now rudder amidships! Steady as she goes!”
“You are experienced in these waters?” asks Higgins, affecting a pose of hopeful indecision.
“None better!” crows this creature. “Why, I know ever’ rock in this river better’n I know the hairs on the back of my hand!”
Well, we shall see about that. I sense him for a fraud right off, but I have been told that there are honest guides on this river, as well as the rogues, so I hold my tongue, at least for the time being. We head down the river and the stream gets faster and faster and the rocks appear more and more frequently at our sides.
While this man is guiding us along, I rise from my table and approach this Mr. Fortescue, with my eyes cast down, and ask in a tremulous voice, “Please, Sir, I beseech you for myself and on behalf of the other helpless females aboard this craft that you will do your best to see us through to safety.”
He looks at me, and then at Katy and Chloe and Clementine sitting up forward, and then smiles a smile that I recognize as being full of absolute joyful anticipation. Of course, I know he would not be high on the pecking order, but I also realize that he knows he’d have a run at us after the big tough men were done.
“Don’t you worry, Miss,” says he. “This is all gonna work out jes fine. Jest you settle back, now.”
Finally, after the river rounds another bend, Cave-in-Rock comes into view. It is much as it had been described: a high cliff with a cave in its face. It has low-growing bushes about the mouth to the cave, and some more growing across the top. Bigger trees are at the bottom.
Mr. Fortescue guides us toward the middle of the river . . . Should he bring us in the slightest way to the right, then we will know for sure that he is a bad one, and we will go from there.
“Steady as she goes, boy,” he says to Jim, and Jim nods.
The cliff is now about a half mile downriver. I can see figures moving at the top of the bluff, and I see a boat putting off from the shore that lies beneath the looming cliff.
“Take her off to the right, boy,” says Mr. Fortescue, sealing his fate.
“Belay that, Master Tanner,” I order, standing and flinging off my cloak, revealing that I am dressed in full military array—my beautiful blue lieutenant’s jacket with all its gold trim, black boots, white britches, and leather straps across my chest holding my two fine pistols. I withdraw one of the pistols and point it at Mr. Fortescue’s forehead and say, “On your knees, scum.”
He gapes and does not move.
“On your knees, now!” I warn. “Or I’ll scatter your brains all over the river.” I click back the hammer. “Now!”
He drops to his knees, too shocked to say anything.
“Higgins! Pull him over to the other side of the cabin! Put him down and bind him!” Higgins grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him over to the side. Higgins had laid out two short lengths of rope for just this purpose, and now he uses them to truss up the hands and feet of the false pilot. Higgins uses his booted foot to force him face-down onto the deck, out of sight of anybody watching us with a long glass from the cliff.
“Help me, boys! Help me!” bellows our prisoner.
“Best gag him, Mr. Higgins, before he alerts his friends.”
Higgins takes a handkerchief from his pocket and crams it into the captive’s mouth. Aside from muffled curses, we hear no more from him.
The boat I had spotted before is now about a hundred yards ahead, and I can plainly see that it is full of men, probably a good ten or twenty of them, with no guns in sight.
Good. That means they didn’t leave many behind to guard their fortress.
“Ready, everybody,” I call, trying to keep my voice from trembling. Legs, stop shakin’! Katy and Chloe get up and go into the foreward hatch, while Clementine comes around the starboard side and goes down into the rear hatch. All in the crew had been given permission to get off with the passengers and meet us downstream, no hard feelings, but none took me up on it, not even the Preacher.
The boat is now fifty yards directly ahead. The men in it wave and halloo and yell out things like “Come visit our tavern!” and “Good entertainment up at the Cave!”
Twenty-five more yards and the charade is over. We see the men in the boat raise their rifles and point them at us, calling out, “Pull up, pull up there or forfeit your lives!”
I hear a pop and see a puff of smoke rise from the boat. The bullet hits the top of the cabin down and to the right of me.
Wait one more second, till they are in point-blank range . . . Now!
I throw over my table and whip the canvas cover off the swivel gun that lies beneath it, calling out, “Rudder hard right! Matty, pull! ’Thaniel, back!” and Jim throws the rudder over and the Belle swerves to the left, swinging her stern to face the oncoming boat.
I throw the levers that allow the gun to swivel on its base and to be raised or lowered. Then I point the barrel down to aim it directly at the enemy boat, lock down the levers, yell fire! and pull the matchlock.
There is a roar as five pounds of sharp nails spray our would-be murderers. Then there are screams as many claw at their bloody faces while others curse, but some don’t say anything at all.
“Reload! Jim, keep bringin’ her around! Matty, pull! ’Thaniel, back! Bring her around!”
At the sound of the blast, Clementine, stripped to undershirt and drawers for ease of movement, bursts out of the crew’s quarters, carrying a charge of powder. Higgins is already swabbing the barrel. Clementine slides the bag down the barrel and steps out of the way as Higgins rams in a wad. She picks up another cloth bag, this one containing more nails, and puts that in. Another wad, another ram, and ready again.
I swivel, aim, and fire!
More screams, more shouts, but the boat with its cargo of killers is not yet done. There are several of the bandits who remain untouched and are shaking their fists and demanding revenge.
At the sound of the first shot, as planned, Lightfoot, Chee-a-quat, Cantrell, and Katy hurry back up on deck, their rifles at the ready. Katy, like Clementine, has stripped down to her old fighting gear—drawers rolled to her knees, white band around her head. She also has her strung bow across her chest and a quiver full of arrows hanging down her back. The three of them take up positions on the cabin top and begin shooting with great effect into the other boat. Katy and Lightfoot say nothing as they set about their grim work, but Chee-a-quat stands straight and tall and sings what I suspect is a death song.
The Belle has now swung completely around such that her bow again points directly at the brigands’ boat. I bound across the cabin top and yank off the canvas from the forward fixed cannon. There is, I know, a four-inch round ball deep in the cannon’s throat, resting on a full charge of powder.
The Preacher has come up on deck with swab in hand, to help me with the gun. Feeling that it would not be right for a man of the cloth to be actively killing people, howsoever vile they might be, he has elected to be gun loader on the forward cannon. It is still a dangerous job, as bullets continue to buzz about us. One bullet takes off his hat and sends it skidding across the deck.
I take the ratchet bar and crank down the barrel, then call out to the Hawkeses. “Matty, back! ’Thaniel, pull! Keep doing it till you hear this gun fire!”
They do it and the barrel of the gun swings into range of the attacking boat. I have only to wait till it comes to bear. A little bit more, a little bit more . . . The gun points at the water, then the gun points at their hull . . . now . . . Fire!
The recoil from this much more powerful gun shoves the Belle ten feet back in the water and knocks both the Preacher and me from our feet. It may do some damage to us, but it is nothing compared to what it does to the other boat. The ball slams into their starboard side, opening a huge hole, and the boat goes straight down. Or down as far as it can, which is about two feet, before it hits bottom. Those in the boat who are still able climb out and head for the bank. Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat take down a few before they reach the safety of the shore. Several even try to climb aboard the Belle, but showing no mercy, we club them down with the butts of our rifles. They sink and try us no more.
I keep telling myself, These are murderers, girl . . . They have killed helpless men, women, and, yes, even children . . . You should not care what you do to them . . . I tell myself that . . . but still . . .
Cradling in her arms a bag of powder, Chloe, in the same state of undress as Katy and Clementine, emerges from the hold to reload the fore cannon.
At the sight of her doing her job, I shake myself out of these bootless thoughts and look over the battlefield and, satisfied with what I see, call out, “Plan B!”
At that, Katy returns to her lookout position and I go back on the quarterdeck. I remove my long glass from its rack to scan the cliff. Hmmm. No sign of much activity, yet. Then I lower the glass and scan the bank on the right.
“Anything, Katy?” I ask.
“Nothin’ yet . . . wait! Got bottom . . .’bout six feet down . . . sandy . . . some rocks . . . now about four feet.”
I had spied before a large tree trunk that had fallen from the bank into the water, its roots still anchored to the shore.
“Jim! Steer for that tree! ’Thaniel, pull! Matty, hold! Now pull together! Katy?”
“’Bout the same . . . no . . . bottom comin’ up. Two feet now, still sand and a few rocks, now . . .”
There’s a grating sound as the Belle’s keel slips up on the shoal, but we are close enough such that her bow noses up to the fallen trunk.
“All right! Go!”
And Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat and Katy leap up on the trunk and disappear into the woods. Their mission: to keep the robbers from taking their booty out of the cave. I don’t want Katy to go, but she insists, saying that she can cover them with her arrows whilst they reload their rifles, and so I let her go. She’d have gone, anyway; my authority only goes so far on this bark.
“’Thaniel and Matty! Push us off, boys!”
The Hawkes brothers take their sweeps from the oarlocks and stick them into the sandy bottom and push with all their might. It is not enough, though, so Higgins and Reverend Clawson come up to add their backs to the push. Reluctantly, the Belle slides back into the stream.
“Get your oars reset and pull us out!” Out, so I can have some firing room. “Stroke! Stroke!”
I look up at the cliff and as soon as I can see the cave opening, I say, “Drop the anchor, Jim!” and he does it. We can feel the hook take hold by the dragging of the deck below our feet, and I go to the forward cannon.
I crank up the elevation as high as it will go. I will aim it side to side with the help of the Hawkeses.
“’Thaniel, back. Matty, pull. Keep doing it till I say ‘hold.’” They do it, and the barrel of the cannon slowly swings over toward the mouth of the cave.
“Hold,” I say. Then, as the momentum takes us a few more degrees to port, I say, “Fire!” and pull the lanyard of the matchlock.
The cannon barks out its ball and we stand and wait for the results. It hits above and to the right of the cave mouth. I think I can hear cries of alarm from up there. It is good that the shot was high, for I can get no more elevation out of this gun. I take the ratchet bar and crank down two. The Preacher and Chloe have already reloaded, and I have only to yell fire! and pull the lanyard.
This time the ball hits the right side of the cave wall and careens into the interior. There are more screams and people spill out. I note with dismay that some are women.
But I harden my heart, and when the gun is reloaded, I fire it again. This time the ball goes straight into the mouth. I think I hear glass shattering.
“Let’s have a hot one this time,” I say, as Chloe and the Preacher reload. “Jane! Bring up a hot ball!” and Crow Jane struggles out of the hold, grasping in big tongs a red-hot cannonball, which had nestled in the coals of the stove for many hours. She drops it in the barrel and I waste no time in firing it, for the heat of the ball could set off the gun all by itself.
It, too, goes right into the cave mouth, followed by more shrieks and howls. Smoke begins to pour out of the opening. I lift my glass and watch. And then I hear the popping of rifle fire. That would be Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat firing at the retreating robbers. Their orders are to prevent the out laws from hauling off any booty with them, but I fear they might be doing much more than that.
“Hold fire,” I order, as I notice a woman come out of the cave, holding a baby. A few minutes later I see a figure on top of the cliff waving a red piece of cloth. It is Katy, and it is the signal that the place is taken.
“Secure the cannon. Lift anchor. Bring us back to the shore. Well done, all.”
The Belle swings back into the shore and again runs gently aground. I hop out into the shallows and call out for Higgins, the Hawkes boys, and Cantrell to come with me, leaving the ship in the capable care of Jim, Clementine, Chloe, and the Preacher. I lead my party into the woods.
We find a well-worn trail that we know will lead up to Cave-in-Rock, and we work our way along it, pistols at the ready should we meet any disgruntled former inhabitants of the place. We meet none.
Eventually we reach the top to find Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat leaning on their rifles. From Lightfoot’s belt hangs a bloody swatch of what looks like human hair.
“Where’s Katy?” I ask, and he nods his head in the direction of the cave mouth. “And what’s that—on your belt?”
Lightfoot considers this, then says, “’Member when I said I was goin’ downriver ’cause there was a man down there who needed killin’?”
“Yes . . . ?”
“He don’t need killin’ no more.”
Ah.
Higgins and I go off to find Katy, while the Hawkes brothers strip the bodies on the ground of any valuables they might have. I notice that two of the dead men have arrows sticking out of them. Another looks like he was done in with Chee-a-quat’s tomahawk. I look away from that.
I find her coming out of the mouth of the cave, dragging the smouldering bedding that had been set on fire by the hot cannonball. The cave entrance was clearing of smoke.
“What have we got, Kate?”
“Some food. Powder. Bullets. Guns. Piles of stuff. The place looks like pigs’ve been living in it,” she says. “I think Lightfoot dropped the one that was trying to get away with the money box. But then again, I think the real prize is down there . . .” She points down toward the water, and there, nestled amongst the greenery of the shore, float two boats, one a flatboat, the other a keelboat like the Belle. It’s plain that they are boats stolen from innocent, luckless, and now-dead travelers. There is a path that leads down to the boats.
“I think you’re right, Katy,” I say, already making plans in my head.
“There’s a child in there, too,” adds Katy, nodding toward the cave. “Boy child. Sick. Maybe dead.”
I look at Higgins and we go into the cave. It’s plain that there’s another entrance to this place, for a breeze blows through and the smoke is all but gone. The place is indeed a sty, but what would you expect from an outlaw den?
There is a natural stone aisle that leads right into the cave—it is almost as if stonemasons had carved it, it is so straight and regular. On either side of this passageway are relatively flat rock ledges, shoulder high, that extend to the cave edges and have plainly served as sleeping areas—some seem almost to look like family hearths, with bunks and beds laid in a circle. I decide not to think on that.
Following the aisle to its end, we come to a large, domed room, which has a small hole at the top, through which sunlight twinkles. There are remains of a large fire in the center of this room, and a trickle of smoke trails up to the vent hole at the top. What a perfect fortress, says the pirate in me.
There are piles of clothing and barrels of whiskey and tons of other booty the river pirates have taken and that now belong to us. Back along the right side of the cave is one of the living areas, and in one of the beds there, I see the recumbent form of a child, lying faceup.
I go over, with Higgins beside me, and look down. “What do you think?”
Higgins puts his hand on the boy’s forehead. “He is about eight years old and still alive, at least, but very feverish.” He opens the boy’s shirt and looks at his chest. “No measles, no chicken pox, no smallpox . . . I think it’s influenza. He is barely conscious.” The boy moans and twists in the bed. He is covered in sweat.
“All right,” I say. “If he’s still alive when we’re ready to quit this place, we shall take him with us. Now let’s get loading.”
I leave Higgins to supervise the loading of the goods and go back out to the Hawkes brothers, who are now through with their grisly work.
“Matty. ’Thaniel. I’m going back to move the Belle over next to those boats you see down there. We’ll load whatever we can take from here into them.”
They both answer, “Yes, Skipper,” as they get down to the business of stacking up the booty.
“And, lads, you could not have been more brave today when those bullets were whizzing around and yet you stood at your posts, manning your sweeps. We could not have done this without you, and I want you to know that.”
“Ah, pshaw,” the boys reply together, blushing, but I know that they are pleased.
I make sure that Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat are continuing to guard against the return of the remnants of the outlaws, and then head back to the Belle at a dead run.
“We’re gonna move her about fifty yards downriver to load cargo. Everybody on the poles to pull her off!”
The Belle comes off the shoal fairly easily and we slip back into the stream.
“Mind the rocks now, Jim . . . There! You see those two boats tied up there? Head in!”
We slip in beside the other boats and tie up.
“I’m going back up,” I say, leaping onto the deck of the flatboat and then onto the other keelboat. “Clementine, you, too.” With a delighted yelp, she follows me off.
She falls a bit behind me ’cause it’s always been my pride that no one beats Jacky Faber in climbing the rigging, and nobody beats her on a steep trail, either.
There is a rustle in the bushes next to me, and startled, I turn to face a very large, extremely wet man with rivulets of blood coursing down his face. Apparently he is one of the men from the robbers’ attack boat, obviously his rifle is wet and useful now only as club, and plainly he wishes to kill me. He swings the rifle butt at my head as I manage to raise my shoulder in time to deflect the blow, but still it knocks me facedown in the dirt, stunned.
Looking up, I see with horror that there is a bayonet at the other end of the gun. He reverses the gun in his hand and lifts it over his head and prepares to use all his force to drive the point through my back and pin me to the ground.
I can’t reach my pistols, I can’t . . . Oh, God, I’m gonna . . .
I hear two shots, one right after the other, and two blossoms of red appear on the man’s chest. He drops the weapon and falls back, still as a stone.
I roll over to see Clementine standing over me, her two smoking pistols held out at shoulder level.
“Thank you, Sister,” I say, my voice quavering as I get to my knees and then shakily stand. “He’d have skewered me for sure.”
She nods, looking dumbly at the smoking pistols in her hands. I know how that feels, Clementine, when you kill someone, no matter how vile they might be, but we’ll deal with this later.
“Reload, Clementine. There might be more.” Given this simple task to do, she does it, and we continue on to the cave, with me being much more watchful this time. Stupid thing, you! Keep watch!
We gain the cave mouth and the Hawkes boys begin taking the plunder down to the boats. I go around to the side, where Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat and Katy are standing guard against a possible return of the thieves, and I call Katy to me. As she comes toward me, I notice Lightfoot watching her as she goes. Hmmm.
“Katy,” I say. “Stand guard on Matty and ’Thaniel as they take the goods down. I was almost killed by one of the survivors of the bandits’ boat on my way up here. If not for Clementine, I’d be dead right now.”
“Um,” she says, nods, and lopes off after the boys.
Clementine and I go into the cave to find Higgins separating what we can use or sell from that for which we’d have no possible use.
“So, Mr. Higgins, just what do we have here?”
“Well, Miss, we have this,” he says, handing me a sort of flat wooden box. “A man attempted to escape with it, but he did not make it past your dragoons. Katy brought it down.”
I lift the lid. Inside is an assortment of watches, gold and silver coins, brass buttons, gold buttons, brooches, hairpins, necklaces, pearls . . . How sad, I think to myself when I pick up an exquisite cameo to examine. This was probably some poor girl’s most prized possession. It is all just so sad . . . the evil that exists in men, I cannot understand it.
“Good,” I say out loud, snapping the lid closed and handing it back to Higgins. “There will be a payday in Cairo when we get there, and I’m sure, since no one has gotten any pay yet, all will welcome that. What else did you find here?”
“Powder—whiskey, mostly. Several dozen chickens. Clothing we will be able to use or else sell. And one item in particular that might interest you, Miss,” says Higgins. “But first I must show you this.”
With that he strides over to the pallet that holds the sick boy. The boy’s eyes are still half shut and he is shivering. Higgins reaches down to lift the bottom edge of the blanket. Around the boy’s thin, grimy ankle is a shackle to which is attached a short length of chain and attached to that is an iron ball of about twenty pounds.
I draw in my breath. “A captive, then,” I say. “And not one of the scum. We must take him with us.”
I turn to Clementine. “Run back down to the boat and get Chloe. Tell her to bring her lock-picking tools. Both pistols in your hands, now, and keep a sharp watch.”
She looks at me with those cornflower blue eyes and nods, a slight smile on her lips. She pulls the pistols from her belt and heads out and down.
That look she gives me sometimes . . . it’s like an I-know-somethin’-you-don’t-know look . . . Nah, it’s just my imagination.
I turn back to Higgins. “When we get it all loaded, leave a big bag of powder in here. We’ll run a line of gunpowder from it and out the front, and when we’re done, we’ll light it off to burn anything in here that the robbers might find useful should they return. I want to hear their rotten teeth gnash from wherever I am when they discover that they don’t even have their foul beds to sleep on.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” says Higgins, knowing how much I like the title. “And here is the item you might find interesting.” He holds up a wooden thing that must be a musical instrument, for it has a hollow body, a fret board, and six strings.
I take it in my hands and strum the strings. It gives off a deep, mellow discord. “What is it?” I ask.
“I believe it is called a guitarra, Miss. It’s a Spanish instrument,” answers Higgins.
Yes, of course. I saw a woman in Kingston playing one the time I was there with the Dolphin. And, yes, of course, this is definitely mine.
In time, Clementine and Chloe come panting into the cave. Shown the shackle lock, Chloe has it off in under a minute. I, myself, am going to have to take some instruction from this remarkable schoolmistress of ours.
We finish loading up by early afternoon. The last load is carried down, and the charge set. Higgins has taken the child down to the Belle and put him in a clean bunk in the passenger area, where cool compresses are put to his fevered brow. We don’t hold out much hope for the kid, but we’ll do what we can for him.
I call Lightfoot, Katy, and Chee-a-quat back down from the top of the cliff, and I apply my flint striker to the trail of gunpowder leading up to the bag deep in the cave. It catches and the flame sizzles its way up and into the mouth of Cavern-Rock. We wait and are soon rewarded with a whoosh! and a tongue of flame that roars out the cave’s mouth. It looks like the mouth of Satan, himself, clearing his fiery throat.
“Wah!” exclaims Lightfoot, in appreciation.
“Wah!” echoes Chee-a-quat.
And Katy, surprisingly, also says, but much more quietly, “Wah.”
Hmmm.
“Well, that purifies the place, at least till the vermin come creepin’ back,” say I, satisfied with both the spectacle and the outcome of the day. “Let’s get back down to the Belle.”
I realize that everyone is weary, I know I certainly am, but I feel we’ve got to push on. I don’t want to stay moored here tonight when any survivors of our attack might have leisure to take potshots at us.
I see that Jim has already put the towlines on the other two boats and we are ready to take off. I jump up on my quarterdeck.
“Stations, everyone!” I call out, and the oarsmen leap to their sweeps.
“Push us off!” and off we go into the stream to face the Rapids of the Ohio. A little white blur skitters around my feet—it is Pretty Saro squealing in delight at seeing me and at being back up on deck again, she having been sequestered below for the duration of the fight. I give her a quick scratch and say, “Later, baby. Work to do now,” and I attend to business.
“Bring him up here,” I order, and Higgins pulls the miserable Mr. Fortescue to his feet. “Cut off his leg bindings.” It is done. I withdraw one of my pistols and hold it to his head. “Stand here. Do you have a good view of the river, Mr. Fortescue?”
“Y-Y-yes, I do, but . . .”
“Good. Then you may prolong the length of your miserable, rotten life a bit longer. We are now going to go down through the Rapids of the Ohio and you will guide us. If we so much as touch bottom or hit one rock, I shall blow your head off. Do you understand that, Mr. Fortescue?”
“Y-yes . . . but what kind of fiend are you, that you would do this to me?”
“Ah, Mr. Fortescue, I am not half the fiend that you or any of your former friends are. I am, however, in many parts of the world known as Jacky Faber, Pyrate, and even as La Belle Jeune Fille sans Merci, ‘the beautiful young girl without mercy.’ You may discount the ‘beautiful,’ but I advise you not to discount the ‘without mercy.’ It would be at your peril, Mr. Fortescue.”
I pause here and call forward, “Crow Jane.”
“What, Boss?” Her head pops up above the front hatchway. I suspect she has been slaughtering chickens for tonight’s victory feast.
“Bring up our worst tablecloth and spread it over here on Mr. Fortescue’s left side. Should it happen that I must shoot him, I will do it from the right side, as I don’t want to spill his brains all over my clean quarterdeck.”
“Yes, Boss,” she says, as she goes below to get the cloth.
I look over at our sorry river pilot and ask, “Any orders to the helm, Mr. Fortescue?”
His face fades to an even whiter shade of gray and he says, “Right rudder. Get to the center. Might hit that rock on the right. Hard right, now . . .”
Six wild hours later and we are through the Rapids without a scratch, on any of the three boats. We drift into the now quiet center of the river and heave great sighs of relief. Then we reflect on what to do with Mr. Fortescue. I have my table set up again and convene the trial. Good smells are drifting up from Crow Jane’s kitchen. I rap my knuckles on the tabletop.
“The good people of the Ohio River Valley versus the False Guide and Deceiver Mr. Frederick Fortescue. How do you plead, Sir?”
“Not guilty,” he answers. “I’m but an honest river pilot trying to ply my trade.”
“Right, Mr. Fortescue,” say I. “Will anyone else speak in his defense?”
Not a word is spoken. The defendant squirms in his bonds.
“Is there anyone who wishes to speak against him?”
“He did order us over to the right, in order to ground us and to put us at the mercy of the river pirates,” testifies Jim Tanner.
“I was there and heard that order myself,” I concur. “I call for a verdict. So say you one, so say you all . . .”
“Guilty!” comes the call from all those aboard. Mr. Fortescue looks noticeably uncomfortable.
“Let us proceed now to the penalty phase. All in favor of hanging him, say aye.”
There is a goodly chorus of ayes.
“Hmmm,” I say. “Will anyone speak for the condemned?”
“Your Honor, if I may,” says Preacher Clawson, rising with hands outstretched. “Whatever his past crimes, I beseech you to extend mercy, for is he not still one of God’s creatures, even though he has gone wrong?”
“Hmmm. Very well, Reverend, we will take your recommendation under consideration.”
I sit back and pretend to deliberate. Then I say, “Mr. Tanner, prepare the gangplank.”
Mr. Fortescue looks aghast.
“Yes, Mr. Fortescue, for your crimes against the good people of this country, you shall, indeed, walk the plank. You and your cohorts thought they were true pirates, but, Sir, you do not know real pirates.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s get this unpleasant work done. Strip him down to his underclothes and put him on the plank. Prepare some heavy chain to wrap around him so that his body does not float up.”
The Hawkes boys grab the quivering Mr. Fortescue and relieve him of his outer garments. Clanking chain is brought up and placed near him. His eyes begin to go out of focus. The brothers put him on the gangplank that extends over the port side of the Belle. I go up behind him, cocking my pistol. He stands, his hands bound behind him, his knees shaking.
“Mr. Fortescue,” I say, “you are, indeed, fortunate to have fallen into our hands, for unlike you and your sort, we are not murderers of the innocent, nor even of the guilty.” With that, I take out my shiv to cut the bonds from his hands.
“We have shown you mercy, Mr. Fortescue, kindness that you and your type have shown no others. It is to be hoped that you remember this, whether you sink now, or are able to swim to safety. I do not care which.”
I put my foot in the small of his back and push him over. There is a splash and I do not turn around to see whether or not his head bobs up.
We have a great, triumphant feast that night, all three boats nested up and anchored in a quiet cove. Bottles of our best wine are opened and Crow Jane’s fried chicken is received with great acclaim. Even Lightfoot and Chee-a-quat join us in this celebration. Tales of individual bravery are told and retold. Praise is heaped upon every brow. Songs are sung and more stories are told and eventually we go off to bed. It has been a very long day.
Clementine and I tumble into our bunk and begin to settle ourselves for the night. When we are set and quiet, but before we blow out the candle, I say, “Thank you, Clementine. You saved my life today, you did, and don’t deny it.”
She sniffs and maybe nods but says nothing else.
“I mean it,” I go on. “And if there’s anything I can do for you, please tell me.”
At that, she gets up on one elbow and faces me. “All right. You see that?”
She points to my miniature painting of Jaimy, which I keep above my bed.
“Yes,” I say. “That is a picture of my intended husband, Jaimy Fletcher, he’s—”
“Uh-huh,” she says. Then, “You done that picture?”
“Yes, though he’s much better looking than—”
“Uh-huh,” she says and settles back down into the pillow. “Then, if you’d make one of Jimmy, uh, Jim Tanner, for me, I’d be grateful . . . and then . . . we’ll be even.”
“Of course, I will, Clementine. I’ll start on it tomorrow,” I answer, preparing myself for the sleep that may not come, not for either of us. For I know I will have a new nightmare, that of a man standing over me with a bayonet, ready to gut me like a pig, while she’ll be dealing with the fact that she killed a man.
Dona Nobis Pacem, Pacem, I sing over and over to myself as Clementine and I lie wrapped in each other’s arms against the terrors of the night. Dona Nobis Pacem . . .
Give us peace.