We’re just starting up Cardiff Hill when we hear the shots. Up ahead of us, shotguns; long way off still; ’most at the top, sounds like.
“The Widder’s place!” says Jim. “Lord, what’s a-happenin’?” There ain’t but one answer to that and Jim knows it. “If that no-good Injun Joe’s hurt them ladies, I’ll, I’ll…”
Jim don’t stop around to tell what he’ll do – maybe it don’t matter since we’re all fixed on putting that noose round Injun Joe’s murdering neck anyways. Jim starts off agin, even faster’n before, giving the ground a pounding with his feet.
“What’ll we do, Tom?” says I.
“Lord, Hucky,” says Tom. “We can’t leave him now, can we? Jim ’most got himself killed for us earlier; reckon he’s ’bout to do the same for the Widow Douglas. Best keep an eye out for him.”
“Well, all right, then,” says I. “Long as I know.”
And on we run.
We’re ’bout halfway up the hill when we see the flames lighting up the night sky ’bove us.
“Oh, Lord,” says Jim, wiping a hand ’cross his face. “Oh, Lord!”
On we go, hearing a crackle of flames and gunshots both as we climb up the hill. Though none of us says nothing ’bout it, it’s clear it won’t be healthy to just march up to the front door, so we skirt round to the west of the Widow’s house, toward the bushes ’bout fifty yard from the entrance. The sky’s a fearful orange all ’bove us – so awful a sight we can hardly stay fixed on our sneaking. Whole top floor of the Widow’s place is ablaze, flames licking out of the windows and piling the sky with smoke. The barn and stables is afire too – horses screaming and kicking ’gainst the planks. Felt my innards ’most turn to water agin. We was shaking, Tom and me, I don’t deny it. We crouch low by them bushes and Jim pokes his head through to have a squint. Soon as he does, a groan just wrenches itself out of his mouth and tears start to his eyes. Tom and me glance at each other then look too – though we know we ain’t going to like it.
There’s a couple of bodies laying out on the gravel in front of the house and a third sprawled ’cross the porch, near the door. They was the Widow’s men servants, I guess. One of ’em looks like he’s been fitted with a handle – it’s a hatchet sunk in his back. Front door’s wide open like the whole house is hollerin’ – can see a couple of legs just beyond it, belonging to someone laying on the floor, poking out of her dress and petticoats all unseemly. One of her shoes is missing.
Jim makes a pained sound, gets up and starts wading through them bushes. Then there’s a scream and a young woman comes tearing out the house and down the steps. She’s in her nightdress and there’s blood running down her arm and she’s screaming and screaming; she don’t see us – she runs off t’other side of the house.
“That’s Lizzie, the Widder’s maid,” says Jim. “Lizzie!” He shouts but she don’t hear. Then, of a sudden, long shadows come striding out the house, cast by the flames. Tom and me clutch at Jim, pull him back into the bushes a little as the fellers that’s casting them shadows come outside. There’s three of ’em – shotguns in their hands and pistols at their sides. Two’ve got their faces all swaddled up in cloths and hats pulled low so’s you can’t see nothing of their faces; wearing long gloves too, so no skin’s showing. T’other feller’s got two shotguns, one in each hand, and, well…
“Woo-eee! We’s a-risin, we’s a-risin! Blood ’n’ slaughter, Petersburg, yessir! We’s a-risin!” He’s hollering to the heavens – don’t care who hears him. “Now’s our time, yessir! Remember Nat Turner! The last shall be first! Blood ’n’ slaughter! ’Member Nat Turner! Time’s come for freedom, yessir!” Then he
fires off his shotguns, first the right, then the left, scarce having to change his footing to brace ’gainst the shock. “Yessir – blood ’n’ slaughter, Petersburg, that’s what I’se a-bringin’ you! Blood ’n’ slaughter, yessir! Woo-eee!” Then he laughs like a madman, case we hadn’t guessed. All three of us is gaping at his face, twisted up with the glee of killing.
“That’s… that’s…” Tom can hardly speak. “…that’s Jim!”
“That’s you, Jim!” says I, my voice croaky.
“That’s… me!” says Jim.
Then Jim turns round and the three of us start flinging glances from one to another like they was hot coals. We knowed who it was: “Injun Joe!”
“Mother Hopkins never said he could take off voices too,” says I. “Sounds ’zactly like you, Jim – leastways how you’d sound if you went crazy and started killing folks.”
Then the false Jim – Injun Joe, that is – and the fellers at his side run off into the night, firing in the air and whooping and hollering. We’re all so shocked no one moves a muscle till they’ve gone round side of the house. Then Jim shakes hisself, grabs up a big stone from the ground, and rises up from them bushes, Tom and me hanging off of his arms.
“I’se gonna get you, Injun Joe,” he hollers. “Break your no-good neck, so help me! I’ll…”
There’s a rumpus on the far side of the drive, then some more fellers come busting through the bushes, painted black and orange by the light of the flames. It’s Welshman Jones and his two sons – growed men both, sturdy fellers. And they’ve all got shotguns. Behind ’em’s the girl Lizzie, pointing.
“Quick,” shouts Jim. “Round side of the house! He’s gettin’ away!”
Tom and me’ve already slipped off of Jim and back into the bushes by now – reckon we know what’s coming.
“There he is,” shouts Welshman Jones. “And there’s more of ’em hiding in the hedge. Let ’em have it, boys!”
Then Jim’s staring into both barrels – three times over; Tom and me – we’re already flat on the ground, crawling away. There’s an almighty crash and Jim comes tearing through them bushes like a bull and lands heavy alongside us; moment later the leaves and branches just ’bove our heads is shredded all to flinders as those shotguns rip things up.
“Hurry up, boys,” comes Welshman Jones’ voice. “Let’s get those horses out the stables – we’ve got to warn the town.”
Tom and Jim and me, we crawl off into the dark, then stand a little and run off crouching, then, when we was a little ways farther off, just hightail it like rabbits, fast as we can. Don’t slow down till we’re at the foot of the hill; we was gasping for breath then.
“Lord,” says Jim, all mournful. “They think I done it! They think I done it! I’se got to get out of Petersburg, else I’m a dead man for sho’.”
“Can’t we just go to the sheriff, like we ’greed?” says I.
“Nat Turner!” says Jim, ’most grabbing me by the shoulders. “Nat Turner!” He don’t say no more, don’t need to. I know what he means – anybody would’ve. Happened ’bout the same time as the Blackhawk War, way I heard it. Turner was a slave over in Virginia; led a rebellion and killed scores of folk. It was put down pretty heavy – you wouldn’t want to’ve shown a black face round there while the militia was at work.
“He’s a cunning devil, that Injun Joe,” says Jim. “You and Marse Tom can go back to town maybe, see if the sheriff’ll listen to you. Me? I’d be shot or hung ’fore I got a word out! No, sir, I ain’t settin’ foot in Petersburg till this’as blowed over. Can’t ’scape by land – Injun Joe’s the fearsomest tracker in these parts and he’d find me certain, jump me when I didn’t ’spect it. And everyone else in these parts’ll be huntin’ me ’fore dawn! No, I’m headed for the river straight – Lady Miz don’t have no business with me. Steal me a skiff and go downriver. Then Lord knows what!”
“All right, Jim,” says I. “You can’t lose no time. You get to the river. I’ll go get our soul whatnots, our…”
“Talismans,” says Tom.
“…our talismans from Mother Hopkins. I’ll be at the river, just north of where the creek joins, in ’bout two hours to pass yourn to you; if you have to go ’fore then, I’ll keep it safe.”
“That’s good, Hucky,” says Jim. “If you run, you c
ould do that, yes, sir.”
“Then I ’spose I’d best go see the sheriff,” says Tom. “Tell him ’bout Injun Joe and Muff Potter. Make sure folks know it ain’t you at all, Jim. If he believes me I’ll bring him to find you too – take you back into town under guard so you’ll be safe till everybody knows the truth. If he don’t go for it, I’ll lead him somewheres else.”
“Well, all right, then, Marse Tom,” says Jim, kind of breathy, his eyes a little wild. “Worth tryin’, I guess – folks do see sense sometimes. Thank you, chillen… though I kind of wish I hadn’t ’greed to help you – and that’s the truth.” With that he takes a deep breath and is off running agin.
“We ain’t done him no favours,” says I.
“Deed we ain’t,” says Tom. “Reckon we’d best do what we can now!” He claps me on the shoulder, we nod at each other, then off we run – Tom toward town; me off toward the old stable where Mother Hopkins was going to hide our truck.
“This business has got out of hand,” I think, as I’m running. “The Widow’s servants killed, and the Widow herself, most like (and Miss Watson too, doubtless), and her house burned up, and the whole of Petersburg set to be put in a panic and looking the wrong way for the reason.” Then I think I hear something behind me, so I glance over my shoulder as I’m running – and I only go and look over the left one, that’s all. Why couldn’t I have chose the right? ’Cause what do I see? Only the moon! “Lord,” I think, “Might have guessed that’d be in the cards, way things is going! Moon over shoulder means bad luck, certain. Well, I ain’t complaining ’bout that – ain’t such a fool. Ev’rybody knows cursing your bad luck makes it double.”
So I just keep running; ain’t much else for it.
I slow up a little once I get to the woods; would’ve picked my way through ’em careful and quiet if I’d had the time, but don’t reckon I do. Ain’t much light neither, under the trees, them being so thick with leaves keeping the moon out. I don’t like that – somehow it seemed if there was anyone else round they’d be likelier to see me than me them. Can’t say why, just felt it’d be so, way my luck was running. Don’t see no one though, don’t hear no one neither – just owls hooting and who-whoing and twoo-wooing (most likely talking ’bout ghosts, as they do). At last I get through the trees and up to the thin old track that leads to the stable. There it was, square and black in the shadows, with even blacker patches here and there where timbers was missing and you could see the dark inside. Feel a chill at the sight of it – kind of ghosty it was – but I’d slept in plenty worse places, so that warn’t going to keep me out now. Don’t reckon many of the boys in town would’ve gone in in my place, though.
I check the road each way: no one. Scout out the trees round the stable: no one. Leastways no one moving – couldn’t’ve spied anyone keeping still in that kind of darkness. Don’t hear no one, though. I recall why I’m here, and that Jim’ll be needing his soul back some time if he skips town, so I steel myself and run ’cross the road, right up to the stable doors. They’re rotted and unlocked, of course, but pulled together pretty close. I push one a-ways and squeeze through the gap. North-west corner, Mother Hopkins said; well, all right, then.
I’ve no sooner stepped forward when something lams me in the back, right ’twixt the shoulder blades. Fist, I guess. I go sprawling ’cross the room, crack my head ’gainst the edge of a post and land face down in the dirt. Land alongside something already laying there. Someone. A woman – and she ain’t moving. Mother Hopkins! I roll over straight, smelling the earth and the blood in my nose and blinking ’gainst the pain. And there he is, lit up by the moonlight coming through the doorway – one of the faces I least want to see.
“Hello, Huckleberry,” says he. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I rub the blood off my nose on the back of my hand: “Hello, Pap!”
Chapter 8: His own self!
Wonder for a moment if it’s Injun Joe, taking off Pap like he took off Jim – but then the whisky fumes reach me and I think, no, that’s Pap all right. Must’ve kept his mouth shut when he sneaked up on Mother Hopkins – she’d’ve smelt him coming certain otherwise. Hope he ain’t going to light his pipe – if he strikes a match we’ll all go up.
“Is she dead?” says I.
Pap shrugs.
“Give her a tap, that’s all,” says he. “Owed her that.” And he rubs his arm, the one that got broke. “Tho’ I must say, Huckleberry, I’m hurt. Hain’t seen me for months and your first words is: ‘How’s the witch?’ Hain’t you got nothing better to say to your old Pap?”
“Glad you’re still alive, Pap,” says I. “What’d you hit me for?”
“You’re my son, ain’t you?” says he. “Has a man gotta have reasons? Anyhow, you’ve given me plenty of trouble rooting you out – warn’t in your hogshead and hain’t been seen round your haunts. Keeping on the move, eh? Getting like your Pap. Well, that’s smart, I guess. Then a feller I had to spring a drink for told me he’d seen you heading out o’ town in company. And that road don’t lead nowhere but Mother Hopkins. ‘What does Huck want with that old witch?’ thought I. So I come looking. And what do I see but you and the Sawyer boy and a big nigger coming out o’ her shack and heading off all sneaky. Thought you’d be back, mind – got a nose for such.” And he taps the side of it with a yellow finger. “Kept a look on the place. Followed her here when she come out – looked like she was carrying something worth hiding. Got a nose for that too.”
“How’d you spring on Mother Hopkins, without her knowing ’bout it beforehand? Her a witch and all.”
And Pap gives me his narrow broke-tooth grin and lifts up his left boot. There’s nine hobnails pushed into the heel, set out to make a cross; then he reaches up a finger and flicks at his hair, where it’s hanging down ’bove his collar, and I see he’s got a bunch of it tied up with thread.
“Keep witches off and keep off the Devil, who fires ’em up,” says he, kind of prideful. “Don’t do to let a witch know you’re coming, that’s true.” In the moonlight I can see there’s little crosses stomped all around in the dust, everywhere Pap stood. There’s plenty round Mother Hopkins.
“And did she have anything valuable?” says I, kind of casual. I hoped she’d got it hid before Pap jumped her.
“No,” says Pap, shaking his head, and I breathe a little easier. “Just this…” And from behind his back he brings out that box I’d seen in the shack and my heart jumps. He flicks open the lid and lifts out Tom’s doorknob, frowning. He drops it back and picks up Jim’s hairball. “Don’t know what the Hell this is,” he mutters. “Been trying to figure what she thought so valuable ’bout this rubbage that she brung it out here…” And he turns his eye on me. “…but since you’ve come out here too, I reckon you must know all ’bout it, Huckleberry. So why don’t you tell your Pap, now?”
Now if you knowed my Pap like I knowed him, you’d know better’n to let on what that truck was for – ’cause then he’d know he’d got a powerful hold on you and he’d use it. Ain’t nothing certainer. He’d have all your money off of you, if you had any, or send you out stealing to get some, if you hadn’t. Have you fetching him whisky and running errands and doing all his dirty business for him. We’d’ve all of us been slaves – worser’n Jim ’ready was. He wouldn’t’ve cared ’bout our troubles none, not Pap. Couldn’t tell him it was valuable – he’d’a kept hold of it; couldn’t tell him it was worthless, he might’ve just thrown it away anywheres. Didn’t want to tell him some of it was Jim’s, ’cause he might’ve broke it in spite. (Pap hated black folks – hated free ones worser’n slaves, though; if he ever got onto the subject when he’d been at the jug you wouldn’t get him off of it ’fore he passed out. Just boiling up that the gov’ment ought to do something and chase ’em down and round ’em up and sell ’em off and start doing something for decent folks like him. Don’t know why he was like that.) If I told him it was mine, then he’d keep it as his. Considered telling him it was Tom’s – To
m being respectable – and that he’d get in trouble for stealing a boy’s truck. But, no, that wouldn’t have phased him – Pap don’t care nothing ’bout decency. Only one thing I could think of, on the spot like that, with Pap’s eye on me, and him so lively to spotting my lies.
“It’s all Injun Joe’s,” says I. “Sent me to fetch it for him. Mother Hopkins been fixing up something special for him – he’ll be awful mad if you take it. He’s ’ready mad at you cause of that ten dollars you owe.”
“Injun Joe?” Pap wasn’t ’specting that. His brows crease up.
“Awful mad,” says I in a low voice, shaking my head slow and looking at him pityingly.
“I ain’t afeard of Injun Joe,” says Pap, kind of growling. Well, I know he’s drunk now all right. “Anyhow, he won’t know I took it – lessen you tell him, Huck. And you ain’t going to tell him, I’ll lay, ’cause you know what’s good for you. And since when’ve you been hanging round with Injun Joe, anyhow? No one who ties hisself up with that half-breed lasts long – hain’t you heard that? Lucky for you I’m here to set you straight – that’s what a father’s for, son.”
“Oh, but, Pap…” I was running out of ideas. “Why risk rilin him at all? It’s just rubbage – said so yourself.”
“Hain’t rubbage to Injun Joe; warn’t rubbage to Mother Hopkins neither. No, this here box means something.” And he blinks and a smile crawls ’cross his face. “Course! Shoulda guessed sooner. Heard whispers fer years that that cutthroat has hisself a hideaway nearabouts piled with loot. These here things is clues to where it is, I’ll lay! He must’ve got Mother Hopkins to fix a charm on the place, keep it secret or such…”
“Oh, well, then…,” says I. “…best leave well alone, I reckon, if there’s a charm guarding it. No telling what…”
“No, no,” says Pap, real quick – and I can tell he’s in one of those hopeful moods he gets sometimes – specially after whisky – seeing visions of riches set out for him special, just ready for the taking. “Whatever she was about I got her ’fore she did it. That charm’s gone unfinished, I’ll bet – know ’nuff ’bout charms to know if you don’t do ’em right then they don’t count fer nothing. No, all I’ve gotta do is work out what these here things mean, and where they point – then go get that treasure. Gonna start by getting me a drink – this’ll do for that!”
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