Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (14 page)

He places a kiss on her brow, as I round things out with a final verse . . .

 

Para bailar la bamba

Para bailar la bamba

Su necesita una poca de gracia

 

Una poca de gracia . . .

Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba

Ay arriba y arriba Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!

Ba, ba, bamba!

Ba, ba, bamba!

Ba, ba, bamba!

Ba, ba, bamba.

Bam!

 

I fade out into silence on the last lines and the party starts for real.

 

New England should take notice . . . Olé!

We are once again heading up the mouth of the Mississippi River to New Orleans, with the intention of boarding Mrs. Babineau's next batch of girls, reclaiming Clarissa Worthington Howe, and having a bit of fine liberty in one of the greatest liberty ports in this hemisphere.

We accomplish the first two goals, but not the third . . .

 

I know that trouble is afoot as soon as I ascend the steps of the House of the Rising Sun, Davy Jones and Jim Tanner by my side, and Herbert greets me with, “Bonjour, Miss, but you'd best see Madame Babineau,
tout de suite.
” He is not smiling when he says that and opens the door for us.

I wonder about this as I enter the foyer, but I do not wonder long for Mrs. Babineau comes storming out of her office as soon as Herbert announces me. She is plainly furious . . .

Uh-oh . . .

“You!” she cries, coming up before me and sticking her quivering finger in my face. “You bring that
thing
here and then go away and leave her? You go up there now and get her the hell out of here, you!”

She points up the stairs and snarls, “Claudelle's room!”

I waste no time in running up the stairs. When I reach the landing, followed closely by my lads, I hear the sound of wailing and charge into the very yellow room of Mam'selle Claudelle de Bourbon, and the wailing is not coming from Clarissa, no, it is coming from a very distraught Mam'selle, who is standing crying in a corner, wringing her hands.

“Oh, Precious!” she cries. “Thank God you've come!”

No sound comes from Clarissa Worthington Howe, who lies on her back on Mam'selle's very rumpled bed, clad only in chemise and drawers. Her mouth is open and a streak of white extends from each nostril down over her upper lip. There is a large brown stain on her undershirt that I can only hope is merely whiskey.

I whirl on Mam'selle. “How could you let this happen!”

Mam'selle's face is contorted with anguish, as she holds out her arms to me. “Oh, Precious, you can't be mad at your Mam'selle, you just can't! I could not bear that! Please tell me you're not!”

I ignore her outstretched arms. “You knew she was my friend and new to your town,” I say severely.

“Oh, Precious, did you ever try sayin' no to that girl? She just won't listen!”

I then turn and point down with a stiff finger to Clarissa's crotch and demand, with menace in my voice, “Any men there?”

“Oh, no, Precious, no . . . mens,” she whimpers, looking away. “I wouldn't let that happen to your dear frey-und.”

“What did she have?” I ask, looking down on the sodden mess on the bed.

“Oh, just a little morphine . . . whiskey . . . not all at once, mind you, I been watchin' out for her, really I has . . . absinthe . . . smoke . . . lots of hemp, some of it laced with opium . . . She don't know how to handle that junk, but still she kept keepin' on . . . I had to hang on tight.”

“All right,” I say, having heard enough. “Davy. Jim. Wrap her in that sheet, then pick her up and let's get her out of here.”

As they go to do it, I walk over to the sniveling Mam'selle and say, “I am most definitely not pleased with what happened here, but I know she can be most willful and I forgive you, Mam'selle, I do.” I plant a kiss on her brow and turn back to Clarissa just as Mrs. Babineau bursts into the room, waving a sheet of paper.

“You may forgive, but I do not.
That
one,” she snarls, pointing at the unconscious Clarissa who now rests on Davy's shoulder, her rump in the air. She waves the paper in my face. “That
chienne
owes me four hundred and seventeen dollars, for food, drink, gambling markers, and damage to my house. She will pay me back, either on her back or on her knees, but she
will
pay me back.”

I pause a brief moment to wistfully imagine Clarissa paying her debt in either of those positions, then I banish those lurid images from my mind and I reply to the outraged Mrs. Babineau . . .

“Mrs. Babineau, you have always been most kind to me in our past dealings and I thank you for it. Furthermore, I do not expect you to suffer for my friend's transgressions, so this is what I propose: You were to pay me five hundred dollars to transport ten of your girls to Boston?”

She nods.

“You will not have to pay that. They will ride for free and Faber Shipping and the House of the Rising Sun will be square. Do you agree?”

She considers, then nods again. “
Oui.
As long as you get her out of here
now.
”

Done and done.

 

“Throw her on the bed,” I order as we enter my cabin back on the
Nancy B.
“Then prepare the ship to get underway. We have once again worn out our welcome in yet another town. All shore leave is cancelled. Let's go home.”

I hear no protest on that as Davy flings Clarissa on my bed. Her arms and legs flop around, but still she does not make a sound. I begin to worry. Davy and Jim leave, to get on with things, as Joannie enters and looks at what lies on my bed.

“Wot . . . ?” she begins, but I cut her short.

“Go get Jemimah. We need her.”

As she flees, I put the palm of my hand to Clarissa's forehead.
Seems all right . . . but I don't know what to do. I know how to sew up a wound, how to take out a bullet . . . but I don't know what to do here . . . please . . .

In a moment, Jemimah comes in and regards the mess on the bed.

“Good Lord, what happened?” she exclaims.

“Too much bright lights, big city, and way too much of what New Orleans had to offer,” I reply. “Jemimah, I don't know what to do.”

“Hmm . . .” she says, considering. “Back on the Hamilton Plantation, young Master Ashley Hamilton sometimes used to be brought back in a coach from Charleston lookin' just like this, and we house nigras learned how to deal wit' it.”

I look at her. “How?”

“You got to bring 'em back slow, else they go crazy,” she says. “Sister Girl, you go get some cloths and some cold water. Quick, now.”

Joannie scurries out, returning in a moment with a bucket in her hand and rags over her arm.

“Here, now, take a cloth, dip it, wring it out and hold it against her face, like this,” she says, “and over her brow, too.”

I pick up a cloth, wet it, and apply it to Clarissa's face. It seems she moans a bit at the touch of the cold compresses, and I find that encouraging.

“Pull her top down and swab her chest, too. She'll prolly start in sweatin' pretty heavy, but keep swabbin'.”

I do it, dropping the cloth back into the bucket to keep it cool, for sure enough, Clarissa starts putting out a lot of sweat . . . and then . . . and then . . . she starts to speak . . .

“Mammy Josie . . . help me, Mammy Josie. Ah'm sick, Mammy Josie.”

“I t'nk she gone back to her child days in her mind now,” observes Jemimah. “But at least she can talk, which is a good sign.”

“Help me, Mammy Josie,” gasps Clarissa. “Ah . . . ah gotta go potty . . .”

“Not on my bed, you don't!” I exclaim, horrified. “C'mon, let's get her offa there!”

I grab one arm and Jemimah the other, while Joannie hauls down Clarissa's drawers, and we get her in the chamber pot chair. After she's done, we clean her up, leaving drawers and chemise on the floor, and then get her back in my bed, where she gets into some serious raving.

“I don' wanna! No, I won't do that! Let me alone, all of you, just let me alone!”

We don't know just with whom she is talking, but then Jemimah says, “Time for a bath, now, which she sure could use. I t'ink a cold one would be best.”

I go to the door and shout, “John Thomas! My tub, filled with cold water, in here, now!”

 

Clarissa Worthington Howe shrieks as she is lowered into the cold-water tub. She thrashes about, but we manage to hold her down in it.

“What are you doing to me? Help! Help! Oh, please, help me! I am so c-c-c-c-cold!”

I think she is returning to her senses and say, “What we are doing is trying to return you to this world, Clarissa, whether you want to come back or not. Do you understand me?”

Her ice blue eyes look at me uncomprehending. “W-w-what? I'm c-c-cold. Why are you being mean to me? Why?”

“What is your name, girl?” I demand, grabbing a handful of her hair.

“I . . . I . . .” The baby blues still look at me without much sense in them. “I don't know, I—”

I force her head down into the water and hold it there for a good long while, till she starts violently struggling, then I pull her head back up, with the water streaming over her gasping face.

“Now,” I say, all relentless, “what is your name and what is the name of this ship?”

“M-m-m-my name is Clarissa . . . Clarissa Worthington . . . Howe,” she gasps. “And . . . this is the
Nancy B.
”

“
Right. And who am I?”

“You are . . .” she whispers, her teeth chattering, “J-J-Jacky Faber.”

“And what am I?”

“C-C-Captain of this g-g-goddamn boat,” she says with some of the old venom back in her voice.

“You'd better believe it, Clarissa,” I say, releasing my grip on her hair.

“Easy now, girl,” Jemimah says to me. “Lighten up a bit.” She is a little more sympathetic toward our unfortunate subject than I am. My crew and I had been looking forward to a few fine days in New Orleans and we did not get them because of this spoiled little Southern Belle.

“All right,” I say, relenting. “Joannie. Hot water now.”

 

Later, when the cold water in the tub has been replaced with the hot and steaming, Clarissa's teeth stop chattering, but she still seems somewhat shaky. Heeding Jemimah's advice to let Clarissa down easy, I take my bottle of Tincture of Opium, also known as Jacky's Little Helper, and pour her a dram and hold it to her lips.

“Take this, my errant Sister, and drink,” I say. “It is one of those things you have been throwing into your body the last week or so. It will make you feel better. Tomorrow you shall get half a dram, the next day a quarter, and then nothing after that. Do you understand?”

She nods, her eyes sullen. She drinks down the dram and says, “Ummm . . .” as so many have before.

I once again grasp a hank of her matted hair and thrust her head down between her knees, but only for a short time, just long enough to wet her hair. When I bring her back up, I apply soap to her blond mop and begin to lather it up.

Jemimah and Joannie have gone off to prepare dinner, and I can tell from the movement of the ship that we are out on open water again.

“Do you know what could've happened to you back there when you were in that helpless state? You could now be carrying some drunkard's child, or even worse, find yourself with a case of the pox. Do you know that?”

“Don't care, don't care, don't care. Just leave me alone.”

“What makes you act the way you do, Clarissa?” I ask, truly curious.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asks in a dream sort of way, plainly now feeling the beneficial effects of the Tincture of Opium.

“You are the daughter of a powerful family with enormous holdings of land and property, you have a high position in society and will never lack for money, and your marriage prospects are beyond the dreams of the majority of girls in this land, me included. Dip down to rinse.”

Her head goes under again and my fingers work at her scalp to free her hair of soap. She comes back up laughing, the water running out of her open mouth and over her perfect teeth.

“I have everything, right? Money, position, and power? Right. I have all of those things, but what I do not have is what
you
have.”

“Oh, come on, Clarissa, just what do I have that you might covet? This little boat? My silly little company that your father could buy ten times over and crush me like a bug in the process? Just what is it?”

She leans back, luxuriating in the steam and the warmth, and she smiles and says, “If I ask my daddy to buy me another fine horse like Jupiter, he will do it. Another slave to take the place of Angelique? He would buy me two. If I beg of Momma for more fine crinoline dresses,
why of course, dear, anything you want in this world and it is yours, as your birthright . . .
”

Clarissa straightens up in the tub and continues, “. . . but if I were to say,
Daddy, please buy me a little boat like that Jacky Faber has so I could go out a-roving like she does,
he would say,
No, daughter, put such notions out of your head. There is a grand ball tonight and you must look your prettiest, for all the local swains will be there—the Randolphs, the Calhouns, the Wilkes, the Clays—why, the very flower of Southern manhood will be there at your feet.