Chapter 9: SMUGGLER'S BLUES
"Cap'n Booger? Can I ask you a question?"
The little man chortled. "As opposed to what you been doin' fer the past hour?"
"Well... it's sort of personal. You don't have to answer if you don't want to..."
"Go ahead. Shoot..."
"Are you really a smuggler?"
In the silence that followed, the captain took his eyes off the horizon and turned his head slowly. "Where'd ya hear that?"
"Celia Mount... she didn't exactly say you were... but she hinted at it. And I sort of figured out the rest for myself."
The captain frowned, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Now then, that's mighty impertinent comin' from a pup like you... a man could get hisself kilt askin' a question like that. You or that so-called cousin a yers one a them revenoors?"
"Oh no, sir!" Jay Dee replied hastily. "We don't have anything to do with the law... except Jess... back in Laramie he sometimes serves as deputy sheriff... but that's not anything to do with why he's here."
"Waaaaal... I 'spose I needn't worry 'bout a part-time lawdog."
"Absolutely not... I promise."
"Why do ya wanna know?"
"I've never met a smuggler before. Probably won't ever get another chance. Missus Mount's library had some books about blockade runners and pirates and such. Celia said sometimes there's gun battles out on the open water when customs agents try to board a boat they think is involved in smuggling."
"Aye. That's true. It happens. Not to me in recent years, anyways, though we've had skirmishes with pirates."
"Really? There's pirates? Do they really fly the Jolly Roger?"
Cap'n Booger slapped his thigh and guffawed. "Son, ya been readin' too many dime swashbucklers. Pirates these days ain't nothin' more than seagoin' highwaymen an', yes, they're real enough. Why dya think me an' my crew go around armed, or ain't ya noticed?"
"I noticed today. I'm sure Jess'll notice when he gets out and about. At home he goes armed all the time, too. Almost all the time. He used to be a gunfighter with a bad reputation."
"Izzat right? Fast, is he?"
Seeing he now had the captain's rapt attention, Jay Dee inadvisedly forged on, forgetting he wasn't supposed to be talking about that.
"We only just met right before coming here... but my father says he's not only fast but dead accurate. He... my dad, that is... he worked for a couple of weeks on the ranch where Jess lives. He didn't actually see Jess in action but he sure heard about him in town."
"That's certainly good information to have on hand... not that I'm expectin' trouble, but that's when it always happens... when ya ain't lookin' for it. He got a gun with him?"
"Yessir, he does."
"An' you... you a gunslick, too?"
"Hell, no! I mean, nossir. I have one but I've never shot at anyone... or had anyone shoot at me. I hunt with my dad a lot and get my share of game... but that's with a rifle or shotgun. I don't know if I could shoot a person."
"You could was you scared enough. Speakin' a yer cousin the gunfighter, how's he doin'?"
"He was looking a little ill at breakfast... but that was two hours ago."
"How're you holdin' up?"
"Me? I'm fine. Maybe he's okay now."
"Don't hold yer breath. On the other hand, ya might just have to. My advice... afore ya go to yer stateroom, go by the galley an' have Alcide make up some ginger tea for yer cousin. An' make sure he drinks it."
Jay Dee'd noticed, as they'd been conversing, that the boat was no longer rolling along nicely in gentle swells. Though not yet at gale strength, the wind was driving a steady rain against the wheelhouse windows, impairing visibility, and a threatening squall line was approaching from the southwest.
Cap'n Booger scowled and barked something into the voice tube connecting him with engineering. As the Jolie Rouge began to come around, pointing toward shore, the choppy waves now hitting her broadside were causing her to pitch and yaw in an alarming manner.
"Best ya get below now, son."
Jay Dee didn't hang around to ask why.
Splayed on his bunk, Jess was positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was knocking at the gates of Hades. The mild uneasiness he'd felt toward the end of breakfast he'd chalked up to being cooped up on a boat on open water—just a case of nerves, which he'd get over soon enough. No one else at the table seemed to be bothered. Exiting the saloon, he realized he'd begun perspiring. The passageway seemed to be undulating. He managed to keep his balance by gripping one handrail after another until reaching his cabin.
Opening the door required a major effort that brought on a wave of vertigo. Sinking to the floor, he crawled on hands and knees to the underbunk cabinet hiding the chamberpot, wrenching it into position just in the nick of time. Rivulets of sweat dripped off his brow, nose and ears, trickled down his back. His eyes burned. Breakfast erupted in a hot spew of vomitus—not all at once but in a series of spasms followed by dry heaves that painfully constricted his chest and belly. Still the nausea continued.
After what seemed like an eternity Jess hauled himself to his feet and lurched toward the washstand, where he attempted to pour a glass of water, most of which splashed into the basin. All he wanted was enough to swizzle away the foul taste in his mouth. That done, he poured more with the intention of drinking it. Not even water would stay down. Burning up now, he fumbled off his shirt and longjohn top and collapsed onto his bunk.
This was the most sick Jess could remember ever being... worse than the worst hangover he'd ever experienced. He'd gone through terrible fevers, usually due to infections brought on by being shot or knifed... but he'd usually been unconscious most of those times. Nothing like this, where no amount of positive thinking or earnest prayer would bring on that blissful absence of consciousness. The room was spinning like a Texas twister. He couldn't tell which was thrumming harder... head, heart or belly. His teeth chattered. He could only hope that, having already dispensed with his morning constitutional, there were no worse indignities to follow.
Jess wanted... needed... more water. His mouth was dry as the Sonoran desert. There was no way he could again make it to the pitcher on the washstand. If only Jay Dee would return and bring him some water. No... he didn't want Jay Dee to find him in this predicament. If only Jay Dee stayed away until he got over this.
I'm gonna die...
The saloon was empty when Jay Dee lurched through, noting that all moveable objects had been stowed away. Around the table, which was bolted to the floor, chairs had been secured by the simple expedient of running a rope through their slats and around the table. Making his way from one handhold to the next along the tilted passageway, he could overhear moans and unrestrained retching coming from behind closed doors. Thus forewarned, he cautiously opened the door to his own cabin... just a crack, but enough to catch a whiff of something that triggered his own gag reflex. Closing it again, he slid toward the galley and tapped on the door.
Jay Dee delivered his request and the old man nodded, indicating he should take a chair chained to the bulkhead as he, Alcide, was already in the midst of preparations. With the surefootedness of a fly on a vertical surface, the gnarled old gnome padded around his domain with no visible concern for the constantly shifting angles and planes. He seemed pleased to have the company, carrying on a running commentary as he grated ginger root and juiced lemons. With the cookstove going full blast, the room was sweltering yet the Cajun remained dry as a bean.
Jay Dee found that following the old man's advice—breathing through his mouth instead of his nose and focusing on a stationary object instead of looking around—helped alleviate the rising tide of nausea.
"Soon we come land, boat, she stop movin'. Ever'one, he feel bettah, ey? Then big job, me..." He pointed toward a mop and broom rack hanging over a pile of rags and several buckets of water. "Peeeee yeeeewwww!" Big job indeed. In a moment of mental aberration, feeling sorry for the man, Jay Dee found himself volunteering to help.
Jay Dee paid close attention and took notes (for his mother's later edification) as the cook added ingredients to the cauldron of water bubbling away on the stove: grated ginger, lemon juice, honey, pulverized chamomile leaves... and a handful of chopped dried vegetable matter with a positively putrid odor. When asked, Alcide explained with a toothless grin that it was black horehound... also known as stinking horehound. Most efficacious for mal de mer... but not to fret—the stink and the taste would dissipate as the concoction brewed.
The Cajun went on to detail how, when the boat came to a halt (hopefully at its intended berth and not on a sandbar or the seafloor) and when the mixture cooled enough, he'd strain it through cheesecloth. Then they would take around mugs of warm ginger tea, along with dry soda crackers, to the afflicted. Alcide didn't anticipate a need for much cooking that day. Especially if the Jolie Rouge foundered and they had to swim for it. In Jay Dee's estimation the man was entirely too cheerful in the face of impending disaster.
Alcide also went on to vent his opinion that, as at the moment there was nothing to be done to improve the lot of the stricken, he and his guest may as well remain in the galley. Approaching any of the sick people at this point would no doubt result in being cussed at and/or barfed on. With any luck, they would've yielded up the last of their stomach contents long before the boat made landfall, when Alcide and his volunteer assistant janitor would have to shoulder their mops.
After a particularly violent upheaval, Jess found himself on the floor again. Lying there and looking up, he discovered that his bunk was equipped with a side railing that could be sprung up to prevent such an occurrence. Too late now.
Time went by and the hull-pounding continued. The porcelain pot had slid to the other side of the cabin but, fortunately, managed to remain upright without too much sloshing. Also fortunate Jess had nothing left to contribute to it. Whoever had the odious duty of emptying it would no doubt find an internal organ or two... a lung or a kidney. One of the water pitchers had bounced out of its containment rail and shattered on the floor, so now Jess' backside was wet. Instead of drowning in sweat he was freezing. His eyeballs felt loose in their sockets. Even his hair hurt. Death couldn't come too soon.
Eventually Jess realized that the earthquake-like movement had ceased, replaced by thumping and scraping noises, voices outside the exterior door to the promenade, footsteps in the passageway on the other side of the interior door, moans seeping through the thin partition to the adjacent cabin. He didn't expect hell to be this subdued. Or this cold. He curled himself into a fetal position, afraid to open his eyes.
Presently that interior door swung open and a familiar voice called out his name.
"Jess?" Then, "Oh shit!"
Two pairs of hands pulled him up and peeled off his wet pants before applying towels.
"C'mon Jess... I know you're awake."
"Leave me alone..."
"No can do. Alcide, help me get him on the bed... it's still clean."
Jess couldn't have resisted if he wanted to... he didn't have an ounce of strength left. Besides, if he were going to cash in his chips he'd rather do it on a nice, soft bed than on the cold, wet floor.
"Jess... drink this... just a sip," Jay Dee urged.
Jess wanted to bat away the cup being held to his lips, but his arms weren't cooperating... just hanging there uselessly. He took one sip just so Jay Dee would shut up, then another and another. It was lukewarm and sweetish and his mouth was so dry...
"Okay... that's all of it. Think it's safe to lay him down, Alcide?"
Who the heck is Alcide? He cracked his eyes open just enough to make out the steward's shadowy form. Pretty sure they didn't provide stewards in hell, Jess closed his eyes again. Damn. Still alive. The nausea and dizziness were receding but he still felt awful.
"I'll be back to check on you in a while. Try to sleep."
As if on command, Jess felt himself floating away as Jay Dee tucked a blanket around him.
Alcide and Jay Dee made the rounds, administering ginger tea and soda crackers. On their next circuit they stripped and replaced bedding where needed. Third time around they emptied slop jars and mopped. Twice Jay Dee had to stop and dash out to the railings. After that he felt well enough to continue. Surprisingly enough, the half of the passengers who hadn't succumbed to motion sickness pitched in to help tend the other half and clean up. In short order the stench of vomit was canceled out by the chemical reek of carbolic soap. Putting in an appearance, Cap'n Booger raised an eyebrow at Jay Dee carrying out a load of soiled linens, but nodded his head in appreciation. Good solid youngster, that 'un. He'll amount to somethin' someday!
Alcide's expectation of getting a day off from cooking was firmly squelched. Only a quarter of the folks onboard weren't in any shape to face solid food. The other three-fourths still needed to eat. Jay Dee checked in on Jess regularly and was gratified to find him sleeping soundly despite his greenish pallor. The storm raged for only a few hours before moving inland, taking the wind and rain with it but leaving overcast skies.
Alcide set up a washing station outside on the quarterdeck. A hand pump drew fresh water from a cistern up to a spray nozzle mounted head high. Anyone in need of deodorizing was welcome to avail himself of the improvised shower, soap and towels provided. A line immediately formed. Jay Dee reminded himself to later record in his notebook the image of a dozen shivering naked men attempting to scrub away the miasma of vomit with lye soap. His mother would get a chuckle out of it.
Once again joining the captain in his aerie, a lye-scented Jay Dee observed their surroundings—as far as the eye could see, flat, featureless salt marsh criss-crossed by narrow winding ribbons of water. The gulf was visible in the distance as a thin strip of pewter. How did the captain know exactly which channel would accommodate his vessel? And would he be able to guide her back out to sea without running her aground?
Other than some minor bobbing, the boat was stationary. Down below many of the off duty crewmen and a few passengers were plying cane poles and circular crab nets off the sides. The crabbers were having better luck than the line fishermen, judging by the occasional whoop of glee as an occupied net was brought up.
"What kind of fish are they catching?"
"Mostly croaker an' flounder, both good eatin'. Wouldn't mind havin' a mess a crabs for supper, though."
"We'll be here that long? Why can't we...?"
"Gotta wait fer high tide. She's damn near restin' on the bottom as it is."
"Oh. In that case, would it be okay if I tried my hand at fishing, too?"
"Help yerself. Plenty a extra poles. One thing, though... keep yer arms an' legs outta the water an' away from the gunnels."
"Why?"
Cap'n Booger took a long suck on his pipe, slowly expelling a spiral of smoke. "I 'spect ye'll see fer yerself soon enough. Mind what I say."
Below on the main deck, the hands nodded and grinned at Jay Dee, welcoming him into their midst. A pole with a pre-baited hook was thrust into his hands and the others made room for him. He almost missed noticing that two of the crew members weren't fishing but lounging back against the bulwarks, smoking and holding rifles. No one was leaning on the gunwhales.
Jay Dee's first catch was a small fish, smaller than palm-size. He was about to throw it back when a young crewman nearby snatched it and carved it into chunks on a barrelhead. "Bait," he said.
"Oh... okay... that makes sense."
Other fishermen were dipping croaker fingerlings out of another barrel and hooking them through the eye. After awhile, seeing the live bait lines were yielding pan-size flounder, Jay Dee switched over from cut bait. He was rewarded with a nice twelve-incher that drew applause. He was about to haul in his fourth fish when a commotion broke out to his right, screeches of alarm and a torrent of cursing. He turned his head just in time to see a monstrous prehistoric creature sunfish out of the water almost to its rear legs, with a line protruding from its hideous jaws.
The man at the other end of the pole dropped it and scrambled backwards, cussing a blue streak. The man standing next to him calmly aimed his rifle and fired twice into the back of the alligator's head, just below the skull cap... a perfect—and almost impossible—killshot. The gator thrashed and rolled in its death throes, throwing up great gouts of water that soaked everyone nearby and yanked the pole into the drink. In a matter of minutes it turned belly up and sank. A half dozen other very much smaller alligators snorkeled out of the sloughs, intent on capitalizing on the unexpected feast.
As Jay Dee looked on in fascination, four juvenile reptiles met their fate in a blaze of gunfire and were immediately gaffed out of the water and dragged onto the deck. One that still showed signs of life was clubbed into oblivion. The same youth who'd chopped up Jay Dee's first fish and two other men set to work with razor sharp knives, skinning out the gators and tossing the prime cuts of meat—cheeks and tail tenderloins—into an empty bucket someone else had thoughtfully provided. The carcasses were thrown overboard and a feeding frenzy ensued. The tea-colored water was boiling with alligators.
"You're gonna eat... that?"
The brown-skinned youth looked up and grinned. "Be good eatin', dat."
Nope, Jay Dee thought. Nopity nope nope. No lizard for this farm boy.
Jay Dee decided he'd had quite enough of fishing for one day even though, on other side of the boat, unperturbed seafood aficionados continued pursuing their prey.