The Silver-Tongued Sermon of Hannibal Heyes

By Howard Weinstein

How Hannibal Heyes and me ended up in the Mississippi River on a cold December night might sound like a tall tale . . . but I swear it ain’t! And it’s worth telling. But first you need to know that sayin’ Heyes is a pretty good poker player is like sayin’ I’m a pretty good shot. We mostly hit what we’re aiming for.

Except that night on the glittering Queen of New Orleans riverboat, with fifty thousand dollars on the line, Heyes actually lost. And not to any ordinary gambler, but to Gideon Duvall, known as the Mississippi ’Gator, all dressed up in black broadcloth and fine silk. Never mind the charming French lilt in his voice, he showed no mercy—or scruples—when it came to cards.

This wasn’t the first time Heyes tangled with Duvall. A week before, at the swanky St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans, Heyes stunned the highfalutin Duvall and won a tidy ten thousand bucks.

Even back to when we were kids, Heyes always had a knack for spotting a sharper in the act. But that night on the riverboat, he missed what he shoulda seen. By midnight, the rest of us had folded, and it was down to Heyes and Duvall. Certain he held a winning hand, Heyes bet everything, then laid out the nine, ten, jack, queen, and king of clubs. Straight flush.

Then Duvall showed his hand. All diamonds. The ten, jack, queen, king . . . and ace. His royal flush beat Heyes’s straight.

As spectators whooped and Duvall accepted accolades, Heyes sat gaping at the cards. Trying to figure out how he coulda been wrong.

Gideon flashed a pearly smile. “Money talks, mes amis. Mostly, it says . . . au revoir. To the valiant vanquished,” the conquistador said as he flipped one shiny, gold Liberty Head ten-dollar coin apiece to the six of us losers.

I caught mine. But the one tossed to Heyes conked him square on the head. I got him up on his feet and steered him outside. We turned up the collars of our frock coats against the cold, and I kept him company as he paced the promenade deck, replaying the final hand in his brain, over and over.

“Duvall could not have had those cards,” Heyes finally said.

“But he did.”

“How?” He silenced me with a finger before I could answer. “Don’t tell me, ’cuz you don’t know.”

“Yeahhh, I do. He cheated.”

Heyes stopped, dumbstruck. “H-h-how did I miss it?”

“You got greedy. He played you like a fiddle. And you rosined up the bow.”

“You knew?”

“I thought for sure you knew. Heyes, you’re the best honest poker player I ever saw. But you gotta pay attention against cardsharps like Duvall.”

“Awww, Kid . . . you coulda told me.”

The boat’s steam whistle moaned in sympathy. We both plunked our elbows on the rail and imagined running our fingers through fifty thousand dollars—more than we’d ever robbed from a bank or train with the Devil’s Hole Gang.

That’s when Duvall happened by. “You were schooled tonight, son,” he said with a smug little smile.

That did it. Heyes charged at Duvall—and I got in his way. “He cheated,” I said as we scuffled, “but if you throw the first punch, you’re gonna get us tossed overboard. And it’s too damned cold for a midnight swim.”

But Heyes wouldn’t quit—until our grappling and grunting got interrupted by four burly deckhands. They hauled us before their amused captain, a grizzled Irish sea-dog puffing on a pipe carved like a mermaid figurehead on a ship’s prow.

“I don’t cotton to brawlin’ on the Queen, boyos,” he said. “Can ya swim?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“He started it,” Heyes said with a glare at Duvall.

Duvall raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “All I did was win a poker game, mes amis. Fair and square.”

Heyes gritted his teeth. He wanted to argue, but the captain’s expression made it clear our fates were sealed. 

“Seein’ as how I’m judge and jury on this here vessel,” he said, “yer sentence is eviction. But I give ya the choice—y’can jump. Or we can toss ya.”

“You sure we can’t bribe you?” said Heyes.

The captain cocked an eyebrow. “With whut?”

He was right about that, since Duvall had pretty much picked us clean. Heyes and me exchanged a grim glance. “Jump,” we both mumbled.

“Ya make it to St. Looie, you’ll find yer gear at the dockmaster,” the captain said. “Now, overside ya go.”

We straddled the rail like reluctant monkeys clinging to their first vine. Then we plunged feet-first into the frigid river and swum for shore as fast as our flailing arms and legs could take us.  

Maybe it was some kind of Christmas miracle, but after collapsing shivering and breathless on the sandy bank, we spied a dilapidated fishing shack in the moonlit woods. It looked abandoned, with its roof half caved in, so we were grateful to find a rusty potbellied stove and a busted footlocker containing dry matches and musty blankets. We splintered some boards, fired up the stove, stripped down, wrapped those blankets around us, and toasted ourselves and our soaked clothing.  

Next morning, we hiked a riverside trail that eventually led to St. Louis. Seeing the Queen of New Orleans tied up at the wharf reminded us how much ill-gotten money ended up in Gideon Duvall’s pocket and how little we had in ours.

We claimed our belongings at the dockmaster’s shed, and faced facts: we had twenty-five bucks between us—not enough to get anywhere worth going, or into a decent poker game to revive our fortunes. Hard as it is to think on an empty stomach, we fortified ourselves with biscuits, stew, and coffee at a waterfront tavern.

As we ate, I glanced at Heyes and his furrowed brow. “I know that look.”

“What look?” 

“You ruminatin’ on a plan. You gonna tell me?”

“So you can mock me?”

“Awww, poor little you.”

He wiped his mouth and got up. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

Leaving me with our bags, Heyes darted out and disappeared around the corner. I helped myself to his leftovers, wondering what scheme he had in mind. When he came back an hour later, I was waiting outside the tavern. He’d flattened the brim and punched out the crown of his black hat, taken off his silk brocade vest, and wore his black frock coat over his white shirt.

I noticed a familiar book tucked under his arm. “You stole us a Bible?”

“Borrowed.” He struck a humble pose. “So . . . what do I look like?”

“A preacher. So?”

“So, I’m gonna preach a sermon.”

“What? When?”

“Tonight.”

“Where?”

"Where” turned out to be the Maison Rouge Saloon & Dance Hall three blocks away, a classy joint with a fancy red-and-gold-painted entry arch.

“Heyes, how’s this gonna make us any money?”

“When I’m done, you’ll pass the hat.”

By the hopeful look on his face, I knew he thought this was a great idea, but I was a long ways from convinced. Once inside, we saw a middling midday crowd of gambling patrons and working girls. The proprietor, a jovial chatterbox in a plaid suit, greeted Heyes with a back slap. “Brother Joshua!”

My eyebrows arched. “Brother Joshua . . . ?”

Heyes ignored me. “Howdy, Mr. Wilson.”

“Y’all set for the show tonight?”

“Not a show—a sermon.”

Wilson chortled. “More like throwing Christians to lions. Or . . . like seein’ pigs fly!” He pumped my hand. “You must be Brother Thaddeus from the orphanage!”

I played along. “Uhhh, yessir . . . from the orphanage.”

We’d never seen a man as tickled as Wilson. “Imagine! Preachin’—to gamblers! Yessiree, that’s some punkins! Not likely you’ll save many souls, but the Lord does work in mysterious ways,” he said with a cackle as he walked away.

“That’s some punkins, Heyes,” I said with a dubious squint as we left the Maison Rouge.  “Except for one big fly in the ointment. Why would confirmed reprobates gambling the night away give money to a preacher?”

“Well, see,” Heyes said, “that phrase—‘a fly in the ointment’—comes right outta the Bible.” He flipped some pages. “Here, in Ecclesiastes: ‘Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour.’ ”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You got any better ideas?”

“Don’t get touchy, Brother Joshua. Just make sure you and your silver tongue don’t offend anybody to where we get beat up. Or worse.”

“Kid, what kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“An idiot pretending to be a preacher, so we can fleece hard-case gamblers out of their hard-won money. That kind of idiot.”

*****

Sermons were rarely entertaining—but this one would have to be. Three blocks north, we found ourselves a quiet corner of the Riverview Hotel lobby—nothing special, just the kind of transient layover where nobody would care if we bided there until showtime. After Heyes mooched some paper and a pencil from the desk clerk, we camped out in a couple of wing chairs. He opened his Bible, and started thinking. By the time he’d finished scribbling two hours later, his head felt like a jumble of biblical porridge.

After a meager supper, we returned to the Maison Rouge. “Got yourself quite a crowd,” Wilson said as he took us backstage behind crimson curtains. Then he ducked out front. “Ladieees and gents! La Maison Rouge proudly preeeesents a novelty act for your soul-savin’ pleasure—Preacher Brother Joshua!”

Seeing Heyes hesitate, I gave him a shove. He popped out through the curtains, clutching that Bible over his heart like a sacred shield. Despite Wilson’s enthusiasm, gamblers kept gambling. But indifference was a whole lot better’n threats of mayhem, so Brother Joshua cleared his throat. “Th-thanks for letting me visit with y’all this evening, brothers and sisters.”

And then his mind went blank. Lucky for Heyes, nobody much was listening, ’cuz it felt like forever ’til a few ideas percolated through his brain like flotsam stirred up by a dust devil. It didn’t really matter where he started, so he blurted: “Y’all know my favorite commandment?”

“The eleventh?” someone heckled. “Thou shalt shut up?”

“ ’fraid that one got edited out, brother,” Heyes said with a dry chuckle. “No, sir . . . it’s th-the tenth. Sure, it’s got lots of ‘Thou shalt nots’ in it. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house or wife . . . or manservant, or maidservant . . . or his ox or his ass . . . or anything else. But it doesn't say thou shalt not win thy neighbor's money in a fair poker game.”

I heard a few laughs—somebody was paying attention.

“I-I-I’ve been where you are, folks,” Heyes continued. “Checkin’ the cards. Makin’ sure the other fella doesn’t see ya sweat. Truth is, most of what I’ve learned about prayer came from playing poker.”

That earned a bigger laugh, and some nods of affirmation.

Heyes opened the Bible. “Why, right here in Ecclesiastes . . . the Good Book says, ‘I saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong—’ ”

“But that is the way to bet,” I called out, spurring more laughs.

“ ‘—neither yet bread to the wise, nor riches to men of understanding, nor favor to men of skill . . . but time and chance happeneth to them all.’ ”

“Amen!” I chirped—prompting a number of voices to chime in.

“Amen!”

“Preach it, Brother!”

That gave Heyes a lift. “I don’t think the Bible even condemns gambling—‘chance happeneth to them all.’ But it does frown on cheating: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Which reminds me of this poker player, he throws down a royal flush, and reaches for the pot. But the dealer draws on him and shouts, ‘You cheated, mister!’ And the player, well, he shouts right back, ‘I did not!’ And then the dealer yells, ‘You did! I know for a fact I did not deal you that ace!’ ”

To which the gamblers roared with laughter.

“Why, there was even gambling right there in the Garden of Eden,” Heyes said. “Didn’t Adam double down on that apple? ’Course, he lost—so, I reckon the moral is . . . beware of dealers who’re snakes. And speaking of animals, I was at a horse race once, and seein’ all the betting—and losing—it struck me that horses must be smarter than us. Have you ever seen a horse go broke bettin’ on people?”

More laughter, and applause.

Heyes headed into the homestretch: “I’ve known many a man who counted heavily on luck. But if you’re relying on that little rabbit’s foot in your pocket? Don’t forget how that worked out for the rabbit. So, I think you can be both a Christian and a gambler. And if you play fair, some guardian angel might just slip you that ace you’re praying for. Thank you kindly for your time, folks. Brother Thaddeus over there’ll be passing the hat. We’d be much obliged if you’d toss in a dollar or two for . . . for the orphanage in Fort Smith.”

I scooted among the tables, collected a surprising bounty, and met Heyes at the door where Wilson greeted us with a merry grin. “Brother Joshua! That was better’n a lot of our actual entertainment. You wouldn’t happen to sing . . . or juggle?”

“Sorry.”

Wilson shook our hands. “I was right, though, ’bout the Lord workin’ in mysterious ways.”

“You don’t know the half it,” Heyes called back as we dashed out the door.

We returned the borrowed Bible to a nearby church, with a five-dollar donation tucked inside. (And we did eventually mail a contribution to that Fort Smith orphanage.) Then, like rodents seeking a safe burrow, we scurried back to our quiet corner at the Riverview Hotel, where I tallied our proceeds. “Heyes, you managed to charm two-hundred and fifty-seven dollars out of a saloon full of gamblers.”

“Wouldn’t our mamas be thrilled to know all their Bible lessons didn’t go to waste?”

And I’ll tell you something else, for sure—no cardsharp ever again got the best of Hannibal Heyes.

THE END

Author's Note: This story is adapted from the Alias Smith and Jones-inspired, award-winning western novel Galloway’s Gamble by New York Times bestselling author and ASJ fan Howard Weinstein. Galloway’s Gamble and Galloway’s Gamble 2: Lucifer & the Baltimore Brawl are available from Amazon.com.