The Puppy and the Pirates

Bob stood on an upper gallery of a paddleboat, gazing out at the wide expanse of the Mississippi River.  He was a farm puppy but he’d found life on the farm in Arkansas boring and dreary.  At his first opportunity he had hidden in a wagon, and when it stopped, had followed the casks of whiskey being offloaded onto a riverboat.

“This has to be the most water in the whole world,” he said out loud as he watched another boat working its way upriver.

         “This?” A snooty tomcat, with a French accent said and laughed.  “This is nothing, just wait until we get to New Orleans.  There will be ships that sail the oceans all over the world.”

         “And the ocean has more water than this?” he asked in disbelief.

         “To the ocean, this is…ah, how you say…a drop in the bucket,” he snickered.  He flicked his tail before he continued.  “But New Orleans is more than a way to the ocean—it is the center of the world.  All manner of people go there,” he leaned closer and whispered, “to do all manner of things.”  Then he gave a knowing wink.

         Bob waggled his tail and started to introduce himself, “I’m Bo…”— then stopped.  ‘Bob wasn’t a very impressive name, after all,” he thought.  He lifted his paw and said, “I’m Balthasar.”

         “And I am Pierre…Balthasar…” the cat smirked. He bowed before he continued, “Come on, it’s nearly dinner time.  My person works in the galley.  He’ll have something good for us to eat.”

         He followed the sleek gray cat down a companionway.  He didn’t know what a galley was, but his nose twitched as wonderful aromas called to him.  Spicy smells he’d never experienced on the farm.  Smells that made his mouth water with excitement, and made him aware of how hungry he was.

         “Meow,” Pierre mewed outside of an open door.

         Bob peeped in to see ebony men in sparkling white jackets bustling around with huge trays held high over their heads.  Other men stood over steaming pots and sizzling skillets. 

         “MEOW!”  Pierre yowled.

         “Yes, yes…I hear you.  Why is it I only see you when you are hungry?  Huh?  And you bring a friend too?”  A black man with grizzled gray hair grumbled, as he scraped scraps into a bowl, and placed it before them.  “Enjoy,” he added, and he bent down to give them each a pat before he returned to work.

         Later they stood on the upper gallery again, this time facing west, watching the blood red sun sinking behind the trees that lined the river. 

         “We’ll be in New Orleans in the morning,” Pierre said, “and then I will show you the sights.”  He settled himself on a bale of cotton and began to preen.  “Such things I will show you, tomorrow.  Now find somewhere comfortable to sleep.  We have a lot to see in the morning.”

                                                 * * * * *

He woke to Pierre saying, “Balthasar, wake up!” Then he felt a cold nose on his own, nudging him.

They went back to the galley and the old man gave them more food.  “You stay on the boat.  You hear me Monsieur Pierre?  Last time we were leaving when you came straggling back.”  He bent down and gave the cat an affectionate scratch.  “I saw you racing along the levee to catch us.  And you and me are too old to be doing much running.”  He laughed as he walked away, leaving them to finish their breakfast.

They both gobbled down the food.  Bob was anxious to get going, but Pierre insisted on cleaning himself before he led the way to the gangplank.  But by that time, the majority of passengers had disembarked, so they had the ramp to themselves.

Pierre pranced along, with Bob trotting behind him.  First they stopped at a café where patrons fed them bits of sweet fried dough. 

“This is the French Market.  All manner of goods are sold here—including men.”

Bob heard a hint of contempt in his companion’s soft voice, but he knew about

slaves.  His farm didn’t have any, but the horse that pulled the wagon bringing supplies had told him about them. 

         They continued along the narrow, cobblestone streets, Pierre pointing out shops selling fine silks, rich cheeses or imported wines.  With Bob turning his head this way and that, awestruck by everything he saw. 

When they returned to the café, Pierre stood with his back to the river and lifted a paw.  He must have thought it dirty, because he chewed at it and cleaned it with his sandpaper tongue before he spoke.  He often did this—so Bob was getting used to it.

After he finished, he again lifted his paw and pointed to the square before them.  “See those buildings on either side?  Those are the Pontalba Apartments—the first apartments in the New World.  And opposite us, on the far side of the square is St. Louis’ Cathedral.” 

He looked as though he was going to continue his lecture when something must have caught his eye, for he spun around and gave a Cheshire grin.  Bob turned to see what he was watching.  What he saw took his breath away. 

For sailing towards the docks was a huge wooden ship.  But this was different from the white paddleboats.  This ship was enormous, two masts rising higher than any tree he’d even seen—white sails billowing.

All along the deck, men were calling to each other and tugging on lines and lowering sails.  Some paused to wave at people on shore, while others coiled ropes or stowed equipment.  Never had he seen something so wonderful—so exciting—so hypnotic. 

He knew that was where he was meant to be.  “That ship,” he called to Pierre, whose attention had been captured by an unwise, unfortunate and now dead mouse. 

“What?”  Pierre asked, as he licked at paw and rubbed his cheek with it. 

Bob waited until he was sure that he had Pierre’s complete attention and then pointed to the tall ship and asked again.  “That ship…what do you know about it?  Tell me everything you know about it,” he asked with excitement. 

Pierre’s eyes widened.  “That ship…?  That is the ‘Petit Milan’, one of Jean Laffite’s ships.”

“Jean Laffite.  Who is Jean Laffite?  Do you think he’d let me sail with him?”  Bob babbled to his friend, unable to control the excitement bubbling up inside him.

“No…don’t even think about that.  The man is a brigand, a thief.  Why would you want to throw in with his lot?”  Pierre stared at him, not blinking, not moving a muscle.

“But I want to sail around the world in that ship,” Bob insisted.  He took a deep breath and continued, “Look at those sails.”

Pierre made a face as if he smelled manure.  “The man is a criminal—a pirate.  He and his brother, Pierre,” the cat said, hanging his head in shame, “run a thriving business.  Jean and his men steal goods and smuggle them into the city, and Pierre sells them to less than honorable merchants.  They called themselves ‘privateers’ and that what they do is within the law,” he shrugged and continued, “but who really knows?”

“‘Pirate’?  ‘Privateer’?  I don’t care.  How can get on that ship?  What did you say the name was?”

“The Petit Milan, and as it happens,” he licked a paw and smoothed his whiskers with pleasure, “I know a delightful little feline who resides on that ship.”  He switched paws, so both sets of whiskers were equally perfect and began walking towards the quay. 

“Well, if you are sure you want this, I will introduce you to FiFi.”  He hadn’t gone far when he stopped and faced the puppy.  “But if we ah…disappear for a few minutes…you won’t follow us?” he asked, laughing.

“Well, I suppose not.  But why?  Why would you leave me alone—even for a little while?” 

Pierre gave him a piercing look, shook his head and began walking again.  “Never mind.  Are you sure about this?  Being at sea isn’t like floating down the river.  You might not set foot on land for months at a time. 

“There’ll be no turning back once the ship has left port.  Maybe you should think about this.  After all, ships come and go every day here.  There’s really no hurry.”

Bob could see that Pierre was voicing genuine concern, and he felt rather flattered.  But it did not lessen his resolve.  He followed Pierre to the wharf, happy in knowing he was going aboard that magnificent vessel. 

He had a flash of recollection about a story one of the ducks had told back on the farm about a rowboat, but he shook it off.  That was his old life—and before him stood the gangplank—the gateway to his new life.  A life of travel and adventure.

He looked up to see a fluffy white Persian cat with startling blue eyes sitting on the deck, staring down at them. 

She stood up, gave an exaggerated, seductive stretch and purred, “Well Pierre, what a pleasant surprise.”  She stretched again, this time arching her back, nodded at Bob and asked, “And who is this little one?”

“FiFi, meet my new friend, “Bo….  Ah…  I mean…Balthasar.”  He turned to the pup and said, “and this beautiful creature is FiFi.”

With his best manners, he answered, “I’m very happy to meet you Miss FiFi.” 

Pierre gave him a wink, moved closer to FiFi and whispered, “Could I talk to you in private?”  He gave Bob a second wink and escorted FiFi behind some crates.

Bob examined everything around him.  ‘What a life I’ll have here.  A life of adventure on the high seas,’ he thought, as he began exploring the ship. 

He had worked his way about halfway down the ship when he found steps leading below deck.  He looked to see if FiFi and Pierre had reappeared before he bounced down the stairs. 

He was greeted by the sharp stench of brackish water and body odors.  ‘The barn at home smelled better than this.’  He heard a commotion, hurried around corner to see what was going on and came to a screeching halt.

He peered into a room where the sailors would eat.  The table and chairs had been shoved to one side and the scurvy looking crew formed a ring.  Two of the filthiest men he’d ever seen stood inside—their left wrists bound together by a grimy scarf, their right hands holding lethal looking daggers.

A third man held up his hand and shouted, “Quiet down. You two have been causing trouble this whole voyage.  And the captain wants it to end—today! 

“Since neither of you will give quarter, we’re going to let you settle it yourselves.  You two understood what would happen if you couldn’t get along and neither would leave the crew.  Well,” he let out an evil laugh, “one of you will be leaving.  This is a fight to the death and we’re here to finish it, if you find you lack the stomach.”  He stepped outside the circle.

They lunged at each other, slashing and stabbing and making growling sounds.  The men around them rumbling jeers and encouragement.

Bob watched as the one with dark hair cut the redhead’s cheek.  Ruby red blood oozed out.  With a sudden tug, the redheaded man yanked the dark haired one towards him—impaling him on his knife.  Then he jerked it sideways.  This time blood gushed out, followed by intestines. 

Bob sat down hard, made sick and dizzy by the violence, the groans and the metallic smell of blood.  Maybe Pierre was right.  Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.  Without waiting for his friend, he dashed down the gangplank, and ran along the quay until he found a steamboat headed up river.  Maybe life on the farm wasn’t as bad as he thought after all.



Word count: 1996

Inspired by three (and a half) of the prompt pictures: the tall ship; the puppy; the corner of Jackson Square in New Orleans and the long road home.