Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer among the Indians

by Twain, Mark

  “And besides,” said Mrs. Wheelright, “how do we know it is real money? He may be a juggler out of India; in that case the drawer is empty, or full of sawdust by this time.”

  “I am afraid it’s not going to happen,” said Hotchkiss; “the money was rather heavy for sawdust. The thing that mainly interests me is, that I shan’t sleep very well with that pile of money in the house—I shan’t sleep at all if you people are going to tell about it, and so I’ll ask you to keep the secret until morning; then I will make the boy send it to the bank, and you may talk as freely as you please, then.”

  Annie put on her things and she and her aunt departed with the rest. Darkness was approaching; the lodger was not come. What could the matter be? Mrs. Hotchkiss said he was probably coasting with his schoolmates and paying no attention to more important things—boy-like. Rachel was told to keep his supper warm and let him take his own time about coming for it; “boys will be boys, and late by nature, nights and mornings; let them be boys while they can, it’s the best of life and the shortest.”

  It had turned warm, and clouds were gathering fast, with a promise of snow—a promise which would be kept. As Doctor Wheelright, the stately old First-Family Virginian and imposing Thinker of the village was going out at the front door, he unloaded a Thought. It seemed to weigh a good part of a ton, and it impressed everybody—

  “It is my opinion—after much and careful reflection, sir—that the indications warrant the conjecture that in several ways this youth is an extraordinary person.”

  That verdict would go around. After such an endorsement, from such a source, the village would think twice before it ventured to think small potatoes of that boy.

  Chapter 4

  AS THE darkness closed down an hour later, what is to this day called the Great Storm began. It was in reality a Blizzard, but that expressive word had not then been invented. It was this storm’s mission to bury the farms and villages of a long narrow strip of country for ten days, and do it as compactly and as thoroughly as the mud and ashes had buried Pompeii nearly eighteen centuries before. The Great Storm began its work modestly, deceptively. It made no display, there was no wind and no noise; whoever was abroad and crossed the lamp-glares flung from uncurtained windows noticed that the snow came straight down, and that it laid its delicate white carpet softly, smoothly, artistically, thickening the substance swiftly and equably; the passenger noticed also that this snow was of an unusual sort, it not coming in an airy cloud of great feathery flakes, but in a fog of white dust-forms—mere powder; just powder; the strangest snow imaginable. By 8 in the evening this snow-fog had become so dense that lamp-glares four steps away were not visible, and without the help of artificial light a passenger could see no object till he was near enough to touch it with his hand. Whosoever was abroad now was practically doomed, unless he could soon stumble upon somebody’s house. Orientation was impossible; to be abroad was to be lost. A man could not leave his own door, walk ten steps and find his way back again.

  The wind rose, now, and began to sing through this ghastly fog; momently it rose higher and higher, soon its singing had developed into roaring, howling, shrieking. It gathered up the snow from the ground and drove it in massy walls ahead of it and distributed it here and there across streets and open lots and against houses, in drifts fifteen feet deep.

  There were disasters now, of course. Very few people were still out, but those few were necessarily in bad case. If they faced the wind, it caked their faces instantly with a thick mask of powder which closed their eyes in blindness and stopped their nostrils and their breath, and they fell where they were; if they tried to move with the wind they soon plunged into a drift and the on-coming wall of snow buried them. Even in that little village twenty-eight persons perished that night, some because they had heard cries of distress and went out to help, but got lost within sixty seconds, and then, seeking their own doors, went in the wrong direction and found their graves in five minutes.

  At 8, just as the wind began to softly moan and whimper and wheeze, Mr. Hotchkiss laid his spiritualistic book down, snuffed the candle, threw an extra log on the fire, then parted his coat tails and stood with his back to the blaze and began to turn over in his mind some of the information which he had been gathering about the manners and customs and industries of the spirit land, and to repeat and try to admire some of the poetry which Byron had sent thence through the rapping-mediums. He did not know that there was a storm outside. He had been absorbed in his book for an hour and a half. Aunt Rachel appeared, now, with an armful of wood, which she flung in the box and said—

  “Well, seh, it’s de wust I ever see; and Jeff say de same.”

  “Worst what?”

  “Storm, seh.”

  “Is there a storm?”

  “My! didn’t you know it, seh?”

  “No.”

  “Why, it’s de beatenes’ storm—tain’t like nothin’ you ever see, Marse Oliver—so fine—like ashes a-blowin’; why, you can’t see no distance scasely. Me en Jeff was at de prar meetin’, en come back a little bit ago, en come mighty near miss’n de house; en when we look out, jist dis minute it’s a heap wuss’n ever. Jeff he uz a sayin’—” She glanced around; an expression of fright came into her face and she exclaimed, “Why, I reckoned of cose he uz here—en he ain’t!”

  “Who?”

  “Young Marse Fawty-fo’.”

  “Oh, he’s playing somewhere; he’ll be along presently.”

  “You hain’t seen him, seh?”

  “No.”

  “O, my Gawd!”

  She fled away, and in five minutes was back again, sobbing and panting.

  “He ain’t in his room, his supper ain’t tetched, he ain’t anywhers; I been all over de house. O, Marse Oliver de chile’s lost, we ain’t never gwyne to see him no mo’.”

  “Oh, nonsense, you needn’t be afraid—boys don’t mind a storm.”

  Uncle Jeff arrived at this moment, and said—

  “But Marse Oliver dis ain’t no common storm—has you been to look at it?”

  “No.”

  Hotchkiss was alarmed, at last, and ran with the others to the front door and snatched it open. The wind piped a high note, and they disappeared in a world of snow which was discharged at them as if from steam-shovels.

  “Shut it, shut it!” gasped the master. It was done. A blast of wind came, that rocked the house. There was a faint and choking cry outside. Hotchkiss blenched, and said, “What can we do? It’s death to go out there. But we must do something—it may be the boy.”

  “Wait, Marse Oliver, I’ll fetch a clo’es line, en Jeff he—” She was gone, and in a moment brought it and began to tie an end around uncle Jeff’s waist. “Now, den, out wid you! me en Marse Oliver ’ll hole on to de yuther end.”

  Jeff was ready; the door was opened for the plunge, and the plunge was made; but in the same instant a suffocating assault of snow closed the eyes and took away the breath of the master and Rachel and they sank gasping to the floor and the line escaped from their hands. They threw themselves on their faces, with their feet toward the door; their breath returned, and Rachel moaned, “He’s gone, now!” By the light from the hall lamp over the door she caught a dim vision of the new boy, coming from toward the dining room, and said “Thank de good Gawd for dat much—how ever did he find de back gate?”

  The boy came through against the wind and shut the front door. The master and Rachel rose out of their smother of snow, and the former said—

  “I’m so grateful! I never expected to see you again.”

  By this time Rachel’s sobs and groans and lamentations were rising above the clamors of the storm, and the boy asked what the trouble was. Hotchkiss told him about Jeff.

  “I will go and fetch him, sir. Get into the parlor, and close the door.”

  “You will venture out? Not a step—stay where you are! I wouldn’t allow—”

  The boy interrupted—not with words, but only a look—and the man and
the servant passed into the parlor and closed the door. Then they heard the front door close, and stood looking at each other. The storm raged on; every now and then a gust of wind burst against the house with a force which made it quake, and in the intervals it wailed like a lost soul; the listeners tallied the gusts and the intervals, losing heart all the time, and when they had counted five of each, their hopes died.

  Then they opened the parlor door—to do they didn’t know what—the street door sprang open at the same moment, and two snow-figures entered: the boy carrying the unconscious old negro man in his arms. He delivered his burden to Rachel, shut the door, and said—

  “A man has found refuge in the open shed over yonder; a slender, tall, wild-looking man with thin sandy beard. He is groaning. It is not much of a shelter, that shed.”

  He said it indifferently, and Hotchkiss shuddered.

  “Oh, it is awful, awful!” he said, “he will die.”

  “Why is it awful?” asked the boy.

  “Why? It—it—why of course it’s awful!”

  “Perhaps it is as you say; I do not know. Shall I fetch him?”

  “Great guns, no! Don’t dream of such a thing—one miracle of the sort is enough.”

  “But if you want him— Do you want him?”

  “Want him? I—why, I don’t want him—that isn’t it—I mean, why, don’t you understand?—it’s a pity he should die, poor fellow; but we are not in a position to—”

  “I will fetch him.”

  “Stop, stop, are you mad!—come back!”

  But the boy was gone.

  “Rachel, why the devil did you let him get out? Can’t you see that the lad’s a rank lunatic?”

  “O, Marse Oliver, gim it to me, I deserve it! I’s so thankful to git my ole Jeff back I ain’t got no sense en can’t take notice of nothin’. I’s so shamed, en O, my Gawd, I—”

  “We had him, and now we’ve lost him again; and this time for good; and it’s all your fault, for being a—”

  The door fell open, a snow image plunged in upon the floor, the boy’s voice called, “There he is—there’s others, yet,” and the door closed again.

  “Oh, well,” cried Hotchkiss with a note of despair, “we’ve got to give him up, there’s no saving him. Rachel!” He was flapping the snow from the new take, with a “tidy.” “Bless my soul, it’s Crazy Meadows! Rouse up, Jeff! lend a hand, both of you—drag him to my fire.” It was done. “Now, then, blankets, food, hot water, whisky—fly around! we’ll save him, he isn’t more than half dead, yet.”

  The three worked over Crazy Meadows half an hour, and brought him around. Meantime they had kept alert ears open, listening; but their listening was unblessed, no sounds came but the rumbling and blustering of the storm. Crazy Meadows gazed around confusedly, gradually got his bearings, recognized the faces, and said—

  “I am saved! Hotchkiss, it seems impossible. How did it happen?”

  “A boy did it—the most marvelous boy on the planet. It was lucky you had a lantern.”

  “Lantern? I hadn’t any lantern.”

  “Yes, you had. You don’t know. The boy described your build and beard.”

  “I hadn’t any lantern, I tell you. There wasn’t any light around.”

  “Marse Oliver,” said Rachel, “didn’t Miss Hannah say de young marster kin see in de dark?”

  “Why, certainly—now that you mention it. But how could he see through that blanket of snow? My gracious, I wish he would come! Oh, but he’ll never come, poor young chap, he’ll never come—never any more.”

  “Marse Oliver, don’t you worry, de good Lawd kin take care of him.”

  “In this storm, you old idiot? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait—I’ve got an idea! Quick—get around the table; now then, take hold of hands. Banish all obstructive influences—you want to be particular about that; the spirits can’t do anything against doubt and incredulity. Silence, now, and concentrate your minds. Poor boy, if he is dead he will come and say so.”

  He glanced up, and perceived that there was a hiatus in the circle; Crazy Meadows said, without breach of slave-State politeness, and without offence to the slaves present, since they had been accustomed to the franknesses of slave-State etiquette all their lives—

  “I’ll go any reasonable length to prove my solicitude for the fate of my benefactor, for I am not an ungrateful man, and not a soured one, either, if the children do chase me and stone me for the fun they get out of it; but I’ve got to draw the line. I’m willing to sit at a table with niggers for just this once, for your sake, Oliver Hotchkiss, but that is as far as I can go—I’ll get you to excuse me from taking them by the hand.”

  The gratitude of the two negroes was deep and honest; this speech promised relief for them; their situation had been a cruelly embarrassing one; they had sat down with these white men because they had been ordered to do it, and it was habit and heredity to obey, but their seats had not been more comfortable than a hot stove would have been. They hoped and expected that their master would be reasonable and rational, now, and send them away, but it didn’t happen. He could manage his seance without Meadows, and would do it. He didn’t mind holding hands with negroes, for he was a sincere and enthusiastic abolitionist; in fact had been an abolitionist for five weeks, now, and if nothing happened would be one for a fortnight longer. He had confirmed the sincerity of his new convictions in the very beginning by setting the two slaves free—a generosity which had failed only because they didn’t belong to him but to his wife. As she had never been an abolitionist it was impossible that she could ever become one.

  By command the slaves joined hands with their master and sat trembling and silent, for they were miserably afraid of spectres and spirits. Hotchkiss bowed his head solemnly to the table, and said in a reverent tone:

  “Are there any spirits present? If so, please rap three times.”

  After a pause the response came—three faint raps. The negroes shrunk together till their clothes were loose upon their bodies, and begged pathetically to be released.

  “Sit still! and don’t let your hands shake like that.”

  It was Lord Byron’s spirit. Byron was the most active poet on the other side of the grave in those days, and the hardest one for a medium to get rid of. He reeled off several rods of poetry now, of his usual spiritual pattern—rhymy and jingly and all that, but not good, for his mind had decayed since he died. At the end of three-quarters of an hour he went away to hunt for a word that would rhyme with silver—good luck and a long riddance, Crazy Meadows said, for there wasn’t any such word. Then Napoleon came and explained Waterloo all over again and how it wasn’t his fault—a thing which he was always doing in the St. Helena days, and latterly around the festive rapping-table. Crazy Meadows scoffed at him, and said he didn’t even get the dates right, let alone the facts; and he laughed his wild mad laugh—a reedy and raspy and horrid explosion which had long been a fright to the village and its dogs, and had brought him many a volley of stones from the children.

  Shakspeare arrived and did some rather poor things, and was followed by a throng of Roman statesmen and generals whose English was the only remarkable thing about their contributions; then at last, about eleven o’clock, came some thundering raps which made the table and the company jump.

  “Who is it, please?”

  “Forty-four!”

  “Ah, how sad!—we are deeply grieved, but of course we feared it and expected it. Are you happy?”

  “Happy? Certainly.”

  “We are so glad! It is the greatest comfort to us. Where are you?”

  “In hell!”

  “O, de good Lawd!—please, Marse Oliver, lemme go, oh, please lemme go—oh, Marse Oliver, me en Rachel can’t stan’ it!”

  “Hold still, you fool!”

  “Oh, please, please, Marse Oliver!”

  “Will you keep still, you puddnhead! Ah, now, if we can only persuade him to materialize! I’ve never seen one yet. Forty-four, de
ar lost lad, would you mind appearing to us?”

  “Oh, don’t, Marse Oliver!—please, don’t!”

  “Shut up! Do materialize! Do appear to us, if only for a moment!”

  Presto! There sat the boy, in their midst! The negroes shrieked, and went over on their backs on the floor and continued to shriek. Crazy Meadows fell over backwards, too, but gathered himself up in silence and stood apart with heaving breast and flaming eyes, staring at the boy. Hotchkiss rubbed his hands together in gratitude and delight, and his face was transfigured with the glory-light of triumph.

  “Now let the doubter doubt and the scoffer scoff if they want to—but they’ve had their day! Ah, Forty-four, dear Forty-four, you’ve done our cause a noble service.”

  “What cause?”

  “Spiritualism. Stop that screeching and screaming, will you!”

  The boy stooped and touched the negroes, and said—

  “There—go to sleep. Now go to bed. In the morning you will think it was a dream.” They got up and wandered somnambulistically away. He turned and looked at Crazy Meadows, whose lids at once sank down and hid his wild eyes. “Go and sleep in my bed; in the morning it will be a dream to you, too.” Meadows drifted away like one in a trance, and followed after the vanished negroes. “What is spiritualism, sir?”

  Hotchkiss eagerly explained. The boy smiled, made no comment, and changed the subject.

  “Twenty-eight have perished in your village by the storm.”

  “Heavens! Can that be true?”

  “I saw them; they are under the snow—scattered over the town.”

  “Saw them?”

  The boy took no notice of the inquiry in the emphasised word.

  “Yes—twenty-eight.”

  “What a misfortune!”

  “Is it?”

  “Why—how can you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I could have saved them if I had known it was desirable. After you wanted that man saved I gathered the idea that it was desirable, so I searched the town and saved the rest that were straggling—thirteen.”