Don’t seem so grand when it’s coming for you and you feel like you’re set to find out how the corn feels when it gets threshed. And you don’t feel too grand knowing that even if you manage to dart in front of the bow and escape getting crushed under the boat’s keel, there’ll be the other wheel coming for you on the far side. And then you’ve got to jump onto the guard. And climb up the side! And all with a fish-injun-wendigo snapping at your heels, and a river that wants you drownded, and a one-time pal that wants to help it. It don’t put a smile on your face.
“He’s gaining on us,” says I, checking over my shoulder. “He’s coming fast!”
It was like the water was torn up behind him, frothing and furious, and ugly too – kind of like a scar ’cross Lady Miz’s face.
“How far?” shouts Jim.
“Furlong,” says I. “Near ’nuff.”
“Lay it on, Jim,” shouts Tom, all encouraging. “You too, Mr Finn… if you please.”
Well, they do – their arms is blurs. But Big Missouri’s awful close now, its decks crowded with folks peering over the side – crew and passengers both; the leadsmen busy with their lines, sounding the river to check her depth (way it’d been acting up, they couldn’t be sure any of the regular channels was running right). See, a riverboat pilot – feller that turns the wheel that steers the boat – well, he knows the river like the back of his hand, has to. Gets it memorised, studies it so long and so well he can take a boat up river or down easy as pie, knowing all the safe channels and depths and reefs and sandbars and snags and wrecks; everywhere he should go and everywhere he should avoid. Gets hisself good ’nuff to steer that boat in the dark – ’cause he has to steer that boat in the dark. They run them steamboats through the night, like they was doing now. Only thing that gets a pilot nervous is when something changes in the river – a flood that spreads it out ’cross the neighbouring land, or cuts off a piece of land and makes a whole new route for itself, turns somewhere into an island that never used to be. Or when there’s a heap of rain raises it higher than he’s seen before, or, worse, a drout that drops it low; or a landslide that changes the banks, or fallen trees, or wrecks, or other snags. That’s why a pilot needs his leadsmen to sink their leads in the river any time there’s any doubt and sound off ’bout the depth. That’s what they was doing now.
“Quarter four… Half four… Half four… Mark four… Good Lord! There’s a skiff down there!” Then there’s a whole host of shouting on the deck and Big Missouri starts ringing her bell to warn us off, as if we hadn’t spotted her till then. Then to us: “Git away, you dern fools! Git away – you want to git crushed?”
Well, we didn’t – we’d been thinking ’bout it – but there warn’t much we could do. Pap suggests the wrong thing, as usual.
“We’ve got to veer off,” says he. “To the right… right! Starboard, dern it! We’re too close.”
“I ain’t veerin’ nowhere,” says Jim. “So you paddle same way as me, Finn, else you’ll keep us stuck here till it hits.”
“Dern it!” says Pap, adding a couple of cuss words for luck, before paddling harder than ever.
I tap Tom on the shoulder.
“Tom,” says I, quiet, holding out that brass doorknob. “Want your soul back?”
“Thanks, Hucky,” says he, taking it off me. He holds it up in front of his face a moment and squints at it. “What d’you think? Put ’em back in and risk Lady Miz getting us, or leave ’em out and risk getting damned if we drown or get chewed up by the wheel or crushed under…?”
“It’s too many for me,” says I. “But time’s run out on us, and that’s a fact.” I nudge him and he sees what I mean: there’s Big Missouri, looking ’bout as big as her name, ’most close ’nuff to touch.
“Oh, Lord!” says Tom, and he rams that doorknob down his britches pocket. And… and… we slip past the bow of that steamboat, round to the larboard side.
“Damn! We did it,” says Pap, starting to crow. “We did it, we… damn!”
Cause that’s when he looks up and sees the larboard wheel coming straight for us. Pap and Jim lay into the river harder than before.
“Lord,” says Jim. “I ain’t worked so hard since I was a field hand!”
“I ain’t worked so hard,” says Pap.
“Take us farther out,” yells Tom. “Hurry, hurry now – but not too far. We’ve got to stay close enough to jump or Injun Joe’ll get us.”
“Yes, sir,” says Pap, kind of snarly.
“Yessir,” says Jim, kind of growling.
It was a fix that warn’t improving anybody’s mood, but I was with Tom; he’s a handy feller for telling folks what to do. Stay’s cooler’n most too.
“That’s it… that’s it,” says Tom. “’Most there… ’most there…” Lord, my stomach was in my mouth – ’bout to come out, truth be told – as I watch them paddle blades coming toward us. “Couple more feet and all we’ve got to do is stand up and jump,” says Tom.
Well, something happened then made us jump, all right – and not in the way Tom meant. There’s an almighty bump ’most lifts us out the water and an awful cracking and a hole splits itself open in the floor of the skiff. And there he is, busting up through the splintered planks – Injun Joe, all fish-headed and snapping his fangs. Tom skips over to the bow sharpish else he’d’ve lost a foot.
“I’ll do for you, so help me,” comes a voice from somewhere within that fish. Lord, it was eerie to hear – made my spine feel like ice.
“Lam him,” yells Pap, whaling on that catfish head with his paddle. “Lam him good!”
Jim didn’t need no encouragement – starts whaling on that monster straight off, fetches it a couple of good ’uns ’fore it grabs a-holt of that paddle in its jaws and shreds it to flinders. He’s thrashing like he’s caught in a net, Injun Joe, widening that hole and working hisself up, more and more of him joining us in the skiff – which’d be sinking even faster’n it was if he warn’t blocking so much of the hole.
“Careful, he’ll have us in the water,” says Jim. We was ’most standing on the gunwales to keep out of reach of them jaws. “’Twixt the Devil an’ the deep blue sea, an’ that’s a fact!”
Tom had another fact for us.
“Big Missouri,” he hollers. “Jump for it!”
It’s almost on us, just a handful of yards. And what with all Injun Joe’s thrashing we hadn’t cleared the larboard wheel – half the skiff was dead in its path. The half with Tom and me standing on it. Them paddles was coming for us like sidelong iron teeth, dripping water like spit. Tom crouches then springs forward, catches a-holt of the edge of the wheel guard – ’bout half a foot wide – and starts shinning up.
“Help me, Pap,” says I.
“Ev’ry man for hisself,” hollers Pap, springing for the side of the wheel guard.
That’s Pap!
Soon as Pap jumps the force sends the skiff rocking more’n ever; I can feel myself tumbling over to the left, straight into the path of the wheel, so there ain’t nothing for it ’cept to kick off against the skiff while still I can and hope for the best.
Second later I’m clinging to the edge of the wheel guard, couple of feet ’neath Tom’s britches seat. Can’t hear nothing but the churning of the wheel; could’ve reached out and touched it – if I’d wanted to lose my arm (didn’t). I’m soaked through in an instant ’cause each paddle flings up slathers of water every time it lifts out the river. I guess Jim must’ve jumped too, ’cause I feel a hand on my right arm, and when I look it’s black. He’s on the side of the guard, clinging on somehow.
I feel something nudge the sole of my foot: it’s Catfish Joe – he’s ’most wriggled hisself all the way up through that hole and is trying to launch hisself with his tail. He tries agin, ’most lifting the skiff out the water with him. I raise my feet and feel the breeze of his jaws snapping shut an inch below ’em. But he’s gone and over-thrashed hisself – the skiff crashes back and spins to the side, straight under those iron p
addles as they come down. Injun Joe and the skiff get caught ’twixt two of ’em – ain’t no escape – and get pushed under the water with a sound of cutting and splintering and gasping, and the foam turns red. When those paddles come back round there’s pieces of wood and scales and fish flesh dropping off of ’em.
“He’s done for!” says I. “Can’t swim through wood and iron, Injun Joe!”
Don’t reckon the others heard me. I look up and see a half dozen ropes hanging down from the boiler deck and a score of arms reaching toward us and clutching. They’ve ’ready laid a-holt of Tom and they’re pulling him over the rail. Pap’s next up, grabbing for a rope; Jim’s trying to keep a-holt of me – must think I’m in danger – so I look round the side of the guard and smile to show him I’m all right. Next minute or so’s all just shinning and grabbing and scrambling and hauling and hoping. Then I’m tumbling over the rail, landing on the deck and sitting up, resting my back against a post while I catch my breath. There’s a whole crowd of folks circled ’bout us, some gaping; some talking; of those that’re talking, some’re shouting.
“Didn’t you see us, you derned fools? You blind? You want to git killed? Deserve to git drownded, you do!”
That was the kind of thing; I couldn’t care ’bout it though – warn’t nothing they was going to do that’d be near as bad as what’d ’ready happened. Some of ’em cared, though; I could see there was a couple of female passengers just itching to fuss over Tom and me. One fool was offering Pap a sip of brandy to revive him.
“That’s right, that’s right…,” says Pap, taking a swig. “…say, hand it back now. Can’t you see I’m soaked through? D’you want me to die of fever? That’s it…”
Warn’t nobody else going to get a taste of that brandy.
After a couple of minutes the captain arrives and the first and second mates clear the gawkers back a few paces.
“What the Devil do you mean by this, sir?” says he.
Pap looks ’round for a moment ’fore he realises the captain’s talking to him – Pap ain’t “sirred” much; but I guess a half-drownded no-good and a half-drownded gentleman look much the same, so the captain’s given him the benefit of the doubt.
“Well…,” says Pap, rifling his store of stretchers, “…didn’t want to miss the boat. Got ’portant business down the river, my man.” (Pap generally tacks on a “my man” here’n there when he wants to put on airs, so I seen at once how he was fixing to play this.)
“Oh, you’ve got business, have you, sir?” says the captain, his cheeks swelling red ’bove his white whiskers. “’Portant business down river, is it?” He ain’t looking soothed. “Business “’portant” enough to endanger my boat, alarm my passengers, and near get yourself killed – you and these two poor boys! ’Portant enough for that, was it?”
Pap sucks his teeth a moment.
“Reckon,” says he. “On my plantation. Them things don’t run themselves, my man.”
“Oh, don’t they,” says the captain, casting an eye down on Jim for the first time (him still lying on the deck, gasping for breath and ’most spent, it seems). “Guess that’s what he’s for! Well, since you didn’t want to come aboard in town – guess that was too usual for you – what were you fixing to do with the skiff, eh? Assuming it was yours to begin with.”
“Mine? Mine to begin with?” Pap goggles a moment and does a fair stab at outrage. “Why, what are you in-sin-u-ating, my man? Figured you could tow her for me. Else set her adrift – I’ve got slathers o’ skiffs, me; letting one go don’t cause me no pain. Rather travel in style on a steamboat like this’n – yessir, that’s my style.”
“That’s Henry Finn,” says one of the passengers, stepping forward (some farmhand-looking type of feller come down from the hurricane deck to gawk). “He don’t own no plantation, nor no skiffs neither. Don’t even own no paddle. If anything he’s got on him is his I’d be surprised. ’Cepting that boy there – that one’s his, t’other one ain’t.”
“What about the negro?” says the captain.
“Naw,” says the feller. “Doubt it. He could never afford a nigger.”
“Boy,” says the captain, turning to Jim – all of us holding our breaths, hoping there warn’t no one on board could recognise him. “Who do you belong to?”
Jim swallows his pride some, I reckon, and answers in his most humble, chuckleheaded, pitiful voice.
“Why, I’m Marse Finn’s boy now, sir, an’ dat’s a fact. He done won ole Jacob from his las’ marse in a card game. An’ ain’t I glad, sir – he treats Jacob so good!”
The captain narrows his eyes and turns to the farmhand feller – him being the closest thing to an expert on Pap, I spose.
“That sound right to you?” says the captain.
“Well…” Feller scratches his chin. “He gambles all right. Guess he could’ve won once.”
That was all Pap needed to pick him up.
“Win! I should say I won. Cleared the feller out: won his nigger, won his skiff and won his money.” Pap reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handful of the money he took off of the no-good Cooper back in Tom’s Aunt Polly’s place. “My luck’s in, so I hope you got a game going on board – that’s why I want to travel steamboat. Always good for a hand of poker, ain’t they? I’m taking this here nigger downriver to sell him for a better price’n I can get in these parts. Taking my boy with me too – he ain’t never seen down South; it’s educational.”
“And t’other boy?” says the captain.
“Family friend. Taking him too.”
“You’ve picked an odd time for it, what with a slave rising being cried up all over town.”
“Reckon I’ve picked the best time for it then,” says Pap, clapping Tom on the shoulder. “It’s a mercy – taking him safe out of town; his folks begged me, tears in their eyes. And it’s a kindness to this boy too…” He waves his hand at Jim. “…cause I wouldn’t want folks to think he had nothing to do with a rising. Why, he’d rather die than raise his hand against a white man, he’s so good and gentle and obedient. Ain’t that right… Jacob?”
“Oh, yessir, Marse Finn,” says Jim, smiling through his gritted teeth. “Ain’t dat de truth!”
“Won him at poker, eh?” says the captain. “Fair game, I spose?”
“Fair?” Pap reaches for one of the biggest lies he’s ever told and hefts it with both hands. “Wouldn’t play no other way!”
“All right, then,” says the captain. “Spent enough time on you, I reckon – I’ve got a boat to run…” Actually it was the pilot who done all the work steering and such – boat had been carrying on downriver just fine all the time he’s been talking. “…and we don’t give no free rides.” He leans forward and plucks a couple of coins from Pap’s hand; Pap starts a little, but knows he’d best say nothing. “This’ll cover you to our next landing, then I want you off – you can get the packet the rest of the way. Now, you’d best get inside and dry yourselves in front of a stove – don’t want you catching chills and getting sick on my boat. And don’t cause no trouble, else I’ll set you down on the first likely patch of land I see!”
He turns to go.
“Excuse me, sir,” says one of the leadsmen, starting after him. “Ain’t no one going to mention that thing that was chasing him?”
The captain casts his eye about the other crewmen, his brows rising and falling.
“What thing?” says he. “What are you talking about, Fletcher?”
“Well, there was some mighty big fish following ’em – chasing ’em, looked like. Dived under the boat. Didn’t see what happened to it after that. My, it was a monster, though! Didn’t nobody else see it?”
The crew and passengers stare; don’t know how they could’ve missed it, but they did.
Captain snorts.
“Get back to work, Fletcher,” says he. “All I want to hear from you is depth soundings, not what kind of fish is in the river. Anderson: are the boilers all stoked back up to full steam?”
“Yes, sir,” says one of the mates. “All eight.”
“Good – I want to put this Godforsaken stretch of river behind me quick as I can!” Off he walks, the officers trailing after him and the passengers wandering off their own ways now the excitement’s over. “Big fish, indeed!”
“Nice talking to you, captain,” says Pap, picking hisself up and wringing some water out of his sleeves. “And if you want my boy to shine your shoes or do any other chores while we’re aboard, you just holler – he’ll count it a pleasure.”
Tom, Jim and me get up too, wet and exhausted.
“Hell,” says Pap, looking round us, grinning and talking low. “That went better’n I ’spected. Brandy, steamboat ride, poker, no more Injun Joe and a clear run to McDougal’s Cave. I’m gonna find me that game… say, boy… Boy! Wait up there! Got more of that brandy?” And off he skips like he don’t hardly have a care in the world.
I lean over the side a little and look back the way we come – but I don’t see nothing but Big Missouri’s wake.
“What you think we should do with our souls, Jim?” says Tom, taking out his doorknob and staring at it. “Put ’em back in while we got the chance?”
Huck Page 20