So we step back a pace, Tom and Mother Hopkins and me, and Jim steps up.
He rests his shoulder ’gainst the door and leans forward, putting all his weight to it. Hadn’t been opened more’n once before, I guess. It opens slow and unwilling, the iron grinding and screeching ’cross the stone, scratching a curved line as it goes.
Soon as the door opens and we catch a breath of the cave air we can tell there’s someone – or something – in that little stone lobby. The daylight crawls in behind the door and we peer forward, a little fearful maybe. And there he is, laying up against the far wall, naked and shivering. Pap.
“Lord,” says Mother Hopkins. “That’s a sight I could’ve done without seeing!”
Pap raises his head, eyes blinking ’gainst the light, and croaks out some words.
“Huckleberry, is that you? Lord be praised, you’ve found me.” He gives a smile, weak as water. “Someone jumped me in the dark, knocked me out and stole my clothes. Had to feel my way round when I come to… but see what I got.”
All round him, heaped up and tumbled over, is treasure. Coins, ingots, jewels, watches, silver plate. All sorts; ’nuff to fill a dozen rich folks’ houses.
Jim takes off the pack of things he was carrying on his back and digs out a blanket. He goes over to Pap and drapes it ’cross his shoulders, helps him pull it round to cover hisself up. (He was good like that, Jim, as I said.)
“Thank you, kindly, sir,” says Pap – meaning Jim! “Glad you’re here. I owe you. Half o’ this here treasure’s yourn – that’s what we agreed, and I mean to stick to it. No man’s going to call me a liar from now on. Here, help yourself, and good luck to you.”
“Oh, Lord, Tom,” says I. “He’s gone mad from being shut up in here!”
“Not mad, son,” says Pap. “Sober. Being stuck in here’s been a blessing; done me a power o’ good. It’s starved and sweated the whisky out o’ me. First few days all I thought on was the treasure: digging it out and dragging it up here – and, Lord, that was a chore in the dark. Warn’t till I was done that I begun trying to figure a way out – but I couldn’t shift that door any more’n I could shift a mountain. And I didn’t dare risk no tunnels I hadn’t been down in the light. So here I’ve sat, hoping someone would come. And who should come for me but my own son? That’s another sign, boy.”
“Sign, Pap?”
“That’s right, Huckleberry. Ain’t had nothing to look at, here in the dark, ’cept inside myself. Ain’t liked what I’ve seen – no, sir. I’m blacker inside than these here caves. Well, all that’s going to change – starting now!” He sits hisself up straighter against the cave wall and lifts a scrawny, shaky hand; turns his eyes to Jim. “Shake my hand, sir. I’m a-begging you; you’d be doing me an honour!”
Jim didn’t say nothing, just reached out his good hand and shook Pap’s.
“Meant what I said,” says Pap. “Half o’ this here treasure’s yourn. Family’s important. You go get that one of yourn – don’t let it get lost, like mine.”
“Well…,” says Jim, soft, hardly believing his ears. “I reckon I will then, Mr Finn. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” says Pap, tears starting to his eyes.
Jim begins sorting through that loot, dividing it up even, packing some into his bag. A smile starts to light out ’cross his face as he does it, coming up slow like a sunrise. Cheers us all – but Pap mostly, it seems. Then Pap takes a deep breath.
“Mother Hopkins,” says he. “Ma’am. Reckon I owe you too.” He reaches his hand down into a big pile of silver dollars and jewelry, brings up a fistful and holds it out, his thin arm trembling. “Take, this, please, ma’am. It ain’t much, I know, for what I done to you, but it’s all I can do… that and beg your forgiveness.”
“Well…,” says Mother Hopkins, kind of reluctant. “I’ve had some mighty good notions of what I was going to do to you, been enjoying the thought of it, but…” She takes a-holt of the loot with both hands and starts stuffing it down into her apron. “…reckon it wouldn’t’ve been no worse than what you’ve already gone through. All right, Finn – we’re square.”
“That’s good, Mother,” says Pap. “Thank you kindly. Now, you, Tom Sawyer…” Pap reaches over and pats Tom on the shoulder. “…you’re a good boy, son, and you deserve some o’ this as much as anyone.” Pap picks up some coins, hands ’em to Tom. “I’m only giving you ten dollars – too much money spoils a child. But when I’m fit I’ll call on your Aunt Polly, if she can stand to have a wretch like me in the house, and give her some more. She’ll make good use o’ it now and for your future, I’ll lay. And you, son…” says he, turning to me. “…I’ll speak to someone ’bout investing this for you, so you won’t ever end up as low-down as me. Then I’ll get me a job and a house and we can live decent. Won’t that be grand?”
“Sure will, Pap,” says I.
“But first, though,” says Pap, struggling to get to his feet. “if you boys’ll help me into town, I’ve got things to do.”
“You need to see the doctor,” says Tom. “Feller’s just took over from Doc Robinson – he’s good, they say.”
“You’re right, o’ course,” says Pap. “But first – soon as I’ve got some clothes on – I’ve got to get me to the church, kneel ’fore that altar and thank the good Lord for my deliverance. Get me a Bible from the reverend and learn to read it. I’m born agin, boys.” Tom and me set ourselves under his arms to hold him up; he’s like a scarecrow. “And when I’ve seen the reverend and the doctor,” says Pap. “I’ll go to the hotel and have a drink – good, clean water, not whisky – and a square meal. Then I’ll have me a bath, and go to the barber and get my hair cut respectable and have this raggedy beard shaved off. Then you needn’t be ashamed o’ me, Huckleberry. Then, when I’m able, I’ll walk from one end o’ Petersburg to t’other, making all the apologies and paying all the debts I owe. Take a month, maybe, but I’ll do it. Now let’s get out into that light, boys! It’s hurtin’ my eyes, but, Lord, it does look good.”
’Bout four days later, Pap, roaring drunk, took what was left of the money and some new pals he’d bought in town and caught a steamboat downriver. Didn’t say goodbye. Left me five dollars at the tavern and a message he’d probly be back some time. Jim warn’t around to see it – he’d gone south after we left the cave, jangling with loot. He’d knowed Pap couldn’t change, as well as I did – I could see it in his eyes while he listened to Pap telling his plans – but he didn’t let on. Jim was always good like that. Hope he finds his wife and daughter – I know he’d like to and I reckon he deserves that. Maybe he’s in Alabama already – don’t know where it is nor how long it takes to get there. I guess he’s got as good a chance as anyone – must be the richest ex-slave in the South, Jim.
I could tell it galled Tom to see Pap steaming off with all that treasure, bound for St Louis or New Orleans or somewheres, and the money bound for the pockets of brewers and distillers and gamblers. But, all things considered, we reckoned we come out of it a sight better’n we might’ve. Had enough for a new hat each, anyways; new Barlows and fish lines too. Had some chaws in my britches pocket – and a couple of dimes left over for emergencies. Sometimes I fretted ’bout that lost soul of mine, but we was working on that, Tom and me.
“Any sign in that one?” says I.
Tom picks up the catfish he’s just brained ’gainst the side of the skiff and guts it with his Barlow. Has a rummage with his fingers then washes them off in the Miz.
“No, ’fraid not, Hucky,” says he. “Guess we’d best keep trying.”
“Been out here all day,” says I. “Thought we’d’ve caught it by now. Mother Hopkins said that fish’d hunt us out. I mean, it’s a fine way to spend the day, and all, and I’ve never caught so many fish before – better’n yesterday – but… it’s ’most sunset.”
And, Lordy, what a sunset: red and gold and orange bars stretching along the horizon, far as you can see, like they was racing the Mississippi downstream
. Birds seem happy with it too, singing away like they do.
“It’s a mighty big river, Hucky,” says Tom. “That fish could’ve been miles off when Mother Hopkins’ spell fetched it back. Maybe it’s still on its way. Don’t fret, though – it ain’t looking for nobody but us.”
There was a whistling and a bell-ringing and Tom and me look over our shoulders, upstream. It’s the Belle of the West rounding the point, smoke piling up out of her chimneys – jet black ’cause of the pitch thrown in the furnaces to put on a show. My it’s a gaudy sight! Folks is lining the decks, and all of them happy – far as we can tell. We lay down our rods on the floor of the skiff, Tom and me, and wave. They wave back – ’most all of them. Keep it up till they’ve steamed past, south, into the distance, and our arms is aching. The sunlight’s glinting all rainbowy through the water coming off of the paddlewheels.
“My, it’d be fine to be a riverboat pilot, wouldn’t it, Hucky?” says Tom. “Better’n being a captain –and they get paid slathers of dollars too, more’n circus clowns even.”
Tom always did like the boats; even Big Missouri hadn’t dampened that none.
“Maybe.” I give a shrug.
“‘Maybe?’ But Huck, when you’re out in a skiff like this, don’t you ever feel like paddling her into the current and setting her loose? See where the Miz takes you? Far as New Orleans – see the sea? Or Texas? Mexico, even? Or light out for the Territory? All sorts of things out there, I’ll lay.”
“Sometimes.” I give another shrug. “I like Petersburg well enough.”
“You could always come back,” says Tom. “Like your Pap does.”
“Yep,” says I, quiet, ’most to myself. “That’d be like Pap, all right.”
We pick up our rods, but then Tom glances over at me; I nod and we set them down agin.
“I guess you’re right,” says I. “It’s ’bout time we went back to town. When did you say we have to get this skiff back?”
“Well, Ben Rogers and his folks get home from St Louis next week – so any time before then.”
“It’s good they don’t mind,” says I. “Or know.”
Back we go, the river running gentle past us as we paddle upstream. I was glad we was all right with the Miz agin; it’d preyed on my mind, it had, and now it didn’t. It was like being somewhere quiet after getting shouted out; sometimes I let my hand down over the side, like I was patting a dog. It’d been a hot day, the air all thick and heavy and kind of hard to breathe till we’d got out on the water. The evening was cooling off nice, now, though. Plenty of folks was out enjoying it when we got back to town, hanging round on the steamboat jetty jawing, having seen off the Belle of the West. Some of the boys was still out too.
We paddle up to where we found the skiff and slot it back into place ’twixt two others. Not a scratch!
“Shall we leave a catfish for Ben?” says I. “As a thank you.”
“That’s a nice idea, Hucky,” says Tom. “But it won’t seem so grateful after it’s been in the sun for a week – reckon we can settle for thinking well of him.”
We’re just getting out the skiff and tying it up when along comes Sid looking real pleased with hisself, Jeff Thatcher strolling along behind. Sid’s whipping a hoop along with a stick and carrying something in his t’other hand. Tom reaches out sudden and grabs me by the elbow.
“Look!” says he.
I see what he means at once: Sid’s carrying a catfish ’most as big as hisself, his fingers stuck in its gills.
“‘Finn’ or ‘Sawyer’ Mother Hopkins said,” says Tom. “There’s a Sawyer for you!”
“See what I got, Tom,” says Sid, running up. “Look, see!”
Tom catches the hoop ’fore it runs off into the river.
“New hoop,” says he. “Pretty good fish too, I’ll allow. Give it here, Siddy – let’s take a look.”
“Sure, Tom,” says Sid, handing it over. “Jeff let me have a go on his line and I got this’un in minutes! Ain’t it bully? Oh, you been fishing too? You’ve got slathers!”
Tom holds up the catfish and turns it slow; its belly was cut open.
“You’ve gutted it?” says Tom. “Did you…?”
“Jeff gutted it for me,” says Sid.
“That’s the funny thing, Tom…,” says Jeff, who’s reached us by now. “I was showing Sid how to do it and…”
“…and we found a quarter inside,” says Sid, laughing. “A whole quarter!”
“Counterfeit,” says Jeff. “But still…”
“And there was a boy watching,” says Sid. “Waiting for the Belle with his folks – they’re going to St Louis. ‘That’s lucky!’ says Jeff when we found it. ‘I should say it’s lucky,’ says the boy. ‘That’d be a charm, certain,’ says he. ‘You think?’ says I. ‘What for?’ ‘Most anything,’ says he. ‘What you want for it?’ ‘What you got?’ says I. ‘This hoop,’ says he. ‘And the stick to go with it.’ So we shook on it. And I got to keep the fish too. Good, eh, Tom? Ain’t it?”
Tom glances over at me, his face kind of pained.
I look down the river. Away in the distance, far off, I can just see the black smoke rising from the steamboat’s chimneys.
“Tom,” says I. “Hand me that paddle.”
— END —
About the Author
Steven Prizeman is a writer and graphic designer. He has worked as a newspaper reporter and computer games reviewer. He is also the author of the Renaissance revenge epic Arise, Black Vengeance, already available for the Kindle.
Suggestions for Further Reading
To quote Mark Twain: “You don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer…”
If you’ve found your way to Huck – and thank you if you have – I think it is likely that you have already read Mark Twain’s classic novels The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. If so, the best thing you can do right now is read them again. If you haven’t yet read them, delay no further: you will be as surprised as you will delighted.
If, like me, you enjoy spending time in the fondly remembered – but never idealised – Missouri of Mark Twain’s youth in the 1840s (and a few decades subsequently) you will also relish his autobiographical Life on the Mississippi about his days travelling that great river as a steamboat pilot. He was plain Sam Clemens back then, with literary immortality still some way in his future, and had plenty of time to rack up the experiences and anecdotes that made him such a great writer.
Pretty much anything by Mark Twain is worth reading, but fans of Tom and Huck are likely to particularly enjoy Roughing It (memoirs of mining, Mormons and more) and My Autobiography: “Chapters” from the North American Review. Returning to fiction, the novella Pudd’nhead Wilson puts slavery at the heart of an entertaining detective story.
I haven’t specified any particular editions of these books because there are more in print than you can shake a stick at – and that ain’t stretching it none, neither.
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