Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  “Can you see any of ’em, Huck?” Tom’s eyes is darting everywhere.

  My head twists and turns, looking every which way – but, no, I can’t see them.

  And then we hear laughing and splashing and whooping – ’bout a furlong downstream, on a tiny patch of shore ’mongst the bluffs, the boys are coming ashore. We count ’em up.

  “They’re all there,” says Tom. “Lord, I thought they was goners for sure, Hucky.”

  “Me too,” says I. “Looks like they had a good time, though.”

  Some of the boys see us and wave – but there’s some jeering too, I reckon, and Joe’s saying something we can’t hear that’s getting ’em laughing. They start picking their way up the bluffs; takes ’em a while to reach the top ’cause it warn’t a good place to come ashore, really. Tom and me walk over and wait for ’em.

  “Do you think they’re still alive, Tom?” says I. “Or are they like Joe now?”

  Tom looks at me kind of pained and his brows crease up; he hadn’t though of that. We shuffle up to the edge of the bluffs and look down at ’em clambering up.

  “Joe’s dead and looks it,” says I. “He’s ’most as white as that fence you got the boys to paint. Rest of ’em looks regular to me – pinkish.”

  Minutes later they was up with us and there was no mistaking that sparkle in their eyes and chime in their voices – they was as alive as us.

  “Did you see us, Huck, Tom?” Ben Rogers is falling over hisself to tell. “We all got caught in the current and – whew! – off we went! Thought I was headed for St Louis! Thought I was going to get drownded sure!” He gives a big laugh ’cause that didn’t happen.

  “I dived under and got myself stuck in the mud,” says Billy Fisher. “I was near ’nuff out of breath when Joe heaved me up top agin. Close call, I should say! My lungs was fit to bust!” And he reckons that’s worth a laugh too.

  “There was rocks and logs ev’rywhere and me just flying ’tween them, though I don’t know how,” says Jeff Thatcher, still gasping and puffing for breath. “Never swum so well in my life! ’Most got carried off by the current right at the end, though, I’ll allow – would’ve too, if Joe hadn’t pulled me back!”

  “Reckon Joe’s ’bout the best swimmer I ever seed,” says Bob Tanner. “Heck, you ain’t even wearing a charm ’gainst the cramp! Don’t know why you didn’t just swim to Jackson’s Island that night, Joe; don’t need no raft, way you swim. No way you’d get drownded neither!”

  “You know, Bob,” says Joe, real calm, but kind of prideful, “reckon you’re right and all! But you done pretty good too, Bob, I’ll allow. You all did, boys. We oughter do this more often; fun, ain’t it? Maybe Tom and Huck’ll join us next time – do more’n just watch! Though, Lordy, ain’t you been running, though? You two are sweating so much you might as well’ve jumped in; I’d rather be water-wet than sweat-wet any day – wouldn’t you, boys? Least none of us is going to stink!”

  They all have a laugh at that, give some injun whoops, then go running off back toward Petersburg. Tom and me don’t say nothing – ain’t much we can say. Once the boys is out of earshot, Joe walks after them – but he only goes a few paces ’fore bumping into Tom deliberate. And even though the sun’s hot and he’s been out the water a while and all the other boys has dried off, he still leaves a big wet patch ’cross Tom’s shirt and britches. He looks Tom in the eye, hard and steady.

  “They’re mine, Tom,” says he. “Any time I want ’em. You think on that!” Then he gives a smirk and runs off, laughing and hollering. “Wait up boys – I’m a-coming!”

  As we trail after them, back to town, Tom turns to me.

  “Jim?” says he.

  “Jim!” says I.

  The boys started looking somewhat sheepish once we reached Petersburg, them being in the buff and all, and having to walk through half the town to where they’d left their clothes. That would have made Tom and me laugh most times, but just didn’t seem funny somehow.

  Before they get back to near the steamboat jetty some fellers and ladies in the streets, and down near the waterfront, calls to them, kind of angry. Didn’t they have the sense they was born with to go near ’nuff drowning themselves – and the whole town shook up ’bout just such carryings on the week previous? Dern fool boys! Needed some sense beat into ’em! That was the gist of it. By the time the boys has done with their britches and are dealing with their shirts and shoes and all, some fellers’ ma’s is hoving into view and fixing to drag ’em home – and some of the boys is peeling off and slipping away ’fore they get hooked. There was a storm of scolding for them that was left. Couple of minutes later there’s just Joe near the jetty, fixing his clothes; Tom and me watching still, some distance back.

  “Can I sleep in your woodshed tonight, Tom?” says I.

  “Sure thing, Huck,” says Tom. “Sneak in after dark so’s Sid and Aunt Polly don’t see you. Don’t reckon Mary would mind, but she’d probly tell Aunt Polly – and she wouldn’t let you without more of an explanation than we want… You’ll have to be out early, though, so you don’t get seen.”

  “That’s all right, Tom,” says I. Then I whisper. “If we’re going to go and ask Jim’s help we can’t go empty-handed – not for the kind of help we’ll be asking for. I’ll go round the slaughterhouse early and root out something to give him – there’s always plenty of good truck to be found down there, and I know the kind of thing Jim’ll like.”

  “Good thinking, Huck,” says Tom. “I’ll meet you round back of the school house ’bout ten – don’t reckon Joe’ll be hanging round there, and we don’t want him seeing what we’re about. I’ll tell Aunt Polly I won’t be back for lunch; fix us some sandwiches – we can give Jim some of them too.”

  “That’s good, Tom,” says I. “Say, on the subject of sandwiches…”

  “Reckon I can do better’n that, Hucky,” says Tom, nudging me. “I’ll leave a piece of pie in the shed for you, you bet.”

  That’s good; Tom’s Aunt Polly was ’bout the best cook in Petersburg.

  We was turning to go when we heard a woman’s voice, all piled up with rage and pain, coming along the road toward the jetty. It’s Joe’s ma; she sees Tom and me first, her eyes flashing lightnings.

  “I might have known you’d be part of this, Thomas Sawyer. And you, Huckleberry Finn, you… Where is he? Where is he now? Tell me – none of your nonsense.”

  I guess she means Joe, but before I can point him out she spots him herself and strides off of the road and down to the shore. She slows when she finds the ground kind of muddy down there, hoicking up her skirts ’bove her ankles and picking her way forward kind of dainty – which don’t square with her mood. That ain’t dainty!

  “Joseph Harper! You look at me when I’m talking to you, Joseph Harper! What have I told you about going near the river? What have I told you? And you standing there, your feet ’most in the water! You look at me when I’m talking to you, my boy! I’ve a mind to take a switch to your backside right here! Are you trying to get yourself drowned? Wasn’t last week enough for you, you’ve got to go and do it all over again? Oh, my poor heart – what have I done to deserve this? You used to be so good, and now you’re all over disobedient and rude and naughty. That I’d live to see the day!”

  My, she does run on. Joe turns to look at her while she’s doing this, a frown on his face ’cause he ain’t enjoying it none. Just as me and Tom’s walking away I catch sight of a smirk creeping out on his face.

  “Hey, Ma,” says he. “Come down here a minute. Got something to show you.”

  It was kind of snug that woodshed – I’d slept in bigger ones. Least it was dry. Smelt kind of nice too, the logs piled all round. Full of spiders, though, and I don’t reckon much on spiders. Went in just before twilight ended so’s I could see what was what, then shut myself in. Couldn’t light a candle – would’ve been a giveaway if the light had got out of any chinks in the walls. Didn’t like the thought that Joe might come ’rou
nd spying on Tom or some such, but there was nothing I could do ’bout that. Would’ve wedged the door shut ’cept it opened out. Good pie, though. All in all it was ’bout the comfortablest night I’d had for more’n a month.

  The sound of the door barking and grating, being dragged open, wakes me with a jerk. It’s morning already, all at once, with a figure in the doorway hardly more’n an arm’s length away – black and lit up from behind by the daylight. My heart was in my mouth till I heard it speak.

  “Why, Huckleberry Finn! What are you doing in our woodshed?”

  I wipe the sleep from my eyes and take a squint. It’s Tom’s cousin Mary.

  “Sleeping, I guess, Mary,” says I. “Tom said I could.”

  “Well… better not let my ma catch you, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout that, Mary,” says I. “I was fixing to sneak out anyways – and I’m ’bout the sneakingest boy in Petersburg when I’ve a mind to be.”

  Mary just sighs and looks at the plate Tom brung the pie on (crumbs now), then looks at me all pitying, like she wants to wash my face and mend my clothes and feed me up some. Read at me from the Bible too, I’ll bet, given half a chance.

  “Hungriest boy in Petersburg too, I’ll allow,” says she. “I could probably find you another piece of pie – seeing as you like it so much. Guess we might have some coffee left over too; could probably bring you a cup without ma seeing.”

  “That’d be fine, Mary,” says I.

  Mary was a few years older’n me. She always looked neat, like her clothes had been pressed while they was on her, and her face clean and hair tidy and always sweet-smelling. She was like a fresh breeze in a meadow, Mary.

  “You’re lucky Sandy’s been sent out to fetch vegetables, else he’d’ve found you – fetching kindling for the stove’s his job, usually. That’s what I come for.”

  Sandy was Tom’s Aunt Polly’s boy – done the chores ’bout the house and such. Bought down South ’bout two year back. ’Bout halfway ’twixt Tom and Sid in age; cheery feller, always singing and whistling.

  “Heck, Mary,” says I, “Sandy’s never told on me before. He ain’t like that.” Once I’ve said it I wish I could reel it back in – don’t want to get Sandy in no trouble.

  “You’d best fetch me some of those logs, Huckleberry,” says Mary.

  I grab up an armful and hand them to her – she has to set a couple down ’cause they was heavy. I wish I could carry them to the house for her – but then I’d be seen and that’d ruin everything. In my mind, I make a note I owe her a favour; I like to keep a tally of such.

  “Let me help you get a-holt of ’em, Mary,” says I. “You don’t want to dirty up your dress.”

  As I’m helping her do that, one of her fingers reaches out and rests itself on the back of my hand. I look up and she’s staring me straight in the eye, her face right in front of mine. Her eyes was light brown and kind of reddish – warm looking – like her hair; like the side of a deer – the kind you see in the woods sometimes, you know? She speaks up soft.

  “Sid told me you said you’d whup him, Huckleberry. You wouldn’t do that, would you? He’s so little.”

  “I’d never whup him, Mary,” says I. “Honest I wouldn’t. Tom and me was just trying to scare him off of fooling in the river. That river’s dangerous and that’s a fact.”

  “I believe you, Huckleberry,” says she. And her finger presses the back of my hand a little ’fore she moves away. She turns and I catch a glimpse of Tom’s Aunt Polly behind the window in her kitchen.

  “I’d better shut you in again or Ma’ll see you,” says Mary.

  “That’s all right, Mary,” says I. “Being shut in a woodshed ain’t no hardship to me, long as I can get out some time.”

  “But don’t you go smoking your pipe in here,” says she. “Ma’ll smell it certain. And don’t go spitting your chaws on the ground – she’ll see them too.”

  “’Ready thought of that, Mary,” says I. “Dug a little hole for ’em in the corner!”

  Reckoned that would please her, knowing I could keep a place neat. Didn’t say I had to go to the slaughterhouse later, though – girls don’t like that, I’ve found. Off she went.

  I’d been waiting for Mary quite a while, ’fore she come back. Was getting a mite uncomfortable, if you follow, having been shut up all night. I was starting to wonder if I’d be able to stand still for the coffee by the time it arrived, when I hear her steps coming and the door opens wide. I shuffle back a-ways into the shadows.

  “Don’t worry, Huckleberry,” says Mary. “Ma’s in the front parlour with Mrs Waite and Mrs Beecher – you won’t be seen.” Her voice is kind of soft and sad and broke up. “Oh, Huck – you were right, you were!”

  “’Bout what, Mary?” I’ll lay I didn’t know.

  “Sereny Harper didn’t go home last night. Hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon, not hide nor hair. And her bonnet’s just been found floating in the river!”

  Chapter 6: Jim: not a “nigger”

  “There’s something I should tell you, ’bout Jim,” says I. “Cause I reckon I know him a little better’n you, Tom – I must’ve spoke to him ’most a dozen times since he’s been in Petersburg.”

  “Well, that’s so, I guess,” says Tom.

  It was the first time we’d spoke for ’bout a quarter hour. Tom had been fretting ’bout Mrs Harper when I met him back of the school house; we’d had some words ’bout that, all right. We both knowed what we thought’d happened; didn’t ’spect to see her agin (though we’d been wrong ’bout such before, of course). We was taking a long route to the Widow Douglas’s place up on Cardiff Hill, going west a-ways, then turning round in a wide circle and going back toward Petersburg. Didn’t want to run no risk of Joe spotting us if we could help it. We warn’t cheerful.

  “So, what ’bout Jim?” says Tom.

  “Well,” says I, “I know it sounds kind of strange, Tom, but Jim don’t like being called a ‘nigger’ – it riles him, somehow. So you’d best take care not to call him that, nor say it at all in his hearing, if you can.”

  Tom pauses sudden and gapes at me, disbelieving.

  “Why don’t he like it, Huck?”

  “He counts it disrespectful, Tom,” says I. Tom boggles some. “It’s true,” says I. “Thought he was going to whup me once! He ’most lost his temper – then he told me why.”

  “But why don’t he like it, Huck? It’s the word folks use – niggers and white folks both.”

  I shrug.

  “I never heard such a thing,” says Tom. “Cat don’t mind being called a cat; dog don’t mind being called a dog. Why’d a nigger mind being called a nigger?”

  “Well, I didn’t go rifling him for reasons, Tom,” says I. “Didn’t seem the moment. But he don’t like it and that’s a fact.”

  Tom ponders.

  “Well,” says he, “we need Jim’s help, so it don’t make sense to go calling him names he don’t like – that ain’t no hardship. Don’t worry, Hucky – we’ll stroke him right, I reckon.”

  “That’s all I was meaning, Tom,” says I.

  We walked on agin then – didn’t need mention it no more.

  “That it?” Tom’s stopped at a fence, peering at a roof over ’cross the far side of the field, just visible ’mongst the trees at the edge of a wood. He steps up onto one of the rails of the fence and answers hisself. “No, it’s Welshman Jones’ place – reckon we’ve come round farther than we needed.”

  “Well, we’ll be there in ’bout another quarter hour then, I guess,” says I. “Long as Joe don’t see us, I don’t mind.”

  It was a hot day. My collar was getting prickly with sweat. There was flies buzzing round me – and even more round the sack I was carrying under my arm. I’d got some blood on it while I was rooting round back of the slaughterhouse and carried the smell away with me. Flies liked it; me and Tom warn’t sold.

  “What in the nation is that?” says Tom.

 
“Something Jim’ll like,” says I. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Well, whatever it is,” says Tom, “I’m glad we didn’t put the sandwiches in with it.”

  We carry on sneakingly toward the Widow’s place, just to be safe; we don’t want her or her servants spotting us and wondering what we come calling ’bout. Too many questions agin, that’d be. We don’t catch sight of Jim as we approach, creeping close to the hedgerows and fence posts, stooped over, our heads ’most in the meadow grass ’mongst the crickets. They was in fine voice, cricking away like they do. Smell of the grass makes a change from that sack slung under my arm too – it was like summer all to itself, that smell.

  “Can’t see no sign of Jim,” says Tom. “Should be easy to spot too – far as I know, Widow Douglas don’t have no nig-… no black folks of her own. No slaves, just regular servants. And Miss Watson’s only got Jim.”

  “Reckon that’s so,” says I. “Jim’s usually round back of the place, and in the kitchen ’most times. Don’t reckon he has much to do, what with him being Miss Watson’s and this place being her sister’s. Thin old bird like Miss Watson can’t take much waiting on, I reckon.”

  Tom allows that’s likely, so we head for the kitchen, taking a dash ’cross the back lawn when the moment seems right. I take a peep through the kitchen window, though it’s misty with steam – there’s something boiling away in a pot on the stove. But there’s no one there, far as I can tell. I signal to Tom to try the door. It’s unlocked, of course, so in we creep. Soon as Tom closes that door behind us our eyes start tearing up and blinking – we missed that meadow grass then, I’ll lay. Even the sack seemed fresher, somehow.

  “Lord!” says Tom.

  “If it’s dinner, the cook’s out of a job, I reckon,” says I.

  “I was planning on waiting for Jim in here,” says Tom. “But I don’t think I can stand it.”

  “Let’s wait outside,” says I. “That stink’s fierce, but it ain’t fierce ’nuff to stink up the garden – quite.”