Huckleberry Finn

by Dave Mckay

  The men moved around on their horses for a minute or two, and then left. As soon as they was gone I shouted out to Buck and told him. He didn’t know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men returned; said they was up to some bad business or other -- wouldn’t be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I was too scared to come down.

  Buck started to cry and shout, and promised that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young man) would make up for this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons had been waiting to take them by surprise. Buck said his father and brothers should have waited for their relatives -- the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they’d got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on because he had not killed Harney that day he tried to shoot him -- I ain’t ever heard anything like it.

  All of a once, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns -- the men had moved secretly around through the trees and come in from behind without their horses! The boys jumped for the river -- both of them hurt -- and as they were swimming down the river the men run along the side shooting at them and singing out, “Kill them, kill them!” It made me so sick I almost fell out of the tree. I ain’t a-going to tell all that happened -- it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn’t ever come to land that first night to see such things. I ain’t ever going to get shut of them -- lots of times I dream about them.

  I stayed in the tree until it started to get dark, afraid to come down. At times I heard shooting off in the trees; and two times I seen gangs of men ride past the shop with guns; so I believed the trouble was still going on. I was mighty sad; so I said I wouldn’t ever go near that house again, because I believed I was to blame, in one way or another. I judged that that piece of paper was telling Miss Sophia to meet Harney at half-past two and run off; and I judged I should have told her father about that paper and the strange way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up, and this awful killing wouldn’t ever have happened.

  When I got down out of the tree I went quietly along down the side of the river a piece, and found the two bodies lying in the shallow water, and pulled at them until I got them to land; then I covered up their faces, and got away as fast as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck’s face, for he was mighty good to me.

  It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but went through the trees and made for the wet land. Jim weren’t on his island, so I walked off in a hurry to where the raft was hiding and crowded through the trees around it, red-hot to jump on and get out of that awful country. But the raft was gone! My living soul, but I was scared! I couldn’t breathe right for a minute. Then I let out a shout. A voice not twenty-five foot from me says: “Good land! is dat you, honey? Don’t make no noise.”

  It was Jim’s voice -- nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the river a piece and got on the raft, and Jim he reached out and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says: "Lord bless you, child, I was right down sure you was dead again. Jack’s been here; he says he thinks you’s been killed, because you didn’t come home no more; so I’s just dis minute a starting de raft down toward de mouth of dis little side river, so as to be all ready for to push off and leave soon as Jack comes again and tells me for sure you is dead. Good Lord, I’s mighty glad to get you back again, honey."

  I says: “All right -- that’s mighty good; they won’t find me, and they’ll think I’ve been killed, and my body has gone on down the river -- there’s something up there that’ll help them think so -- so don’t you lose no time, Jim, but just push off for the big water as fast as ever you can.”

  I never felt easy until the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we put up our lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn’t had a bite to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn bread and milk, and salted meat and cabbage and greens -- there ain’t nothing in the world so good when it’s cooked right -- and while I ate my dinner we talked and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the wet land. We said there weren’t no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so squeezed up and hard to breathe in, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.

  Chapter 19

  Two or three days and nights went by; I might say they flew, they was so quiet and smooth and nice. Here is the way we put in the time: It was a great big river down there -- sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, but soon as night was almost gone we stopped sailing and tied up -- nearly always in the dead water under a little island; and then cut young trees and covered the raft with them. Then we set out the fishing lines. Next we would get into the river and have a swim, so as to clean up and cool off; then we would sit on the sand on the bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watch the sun come up. Not a sound anywhere -- perfectly quiet -- just like the whole world was asleep, apart from maybe a few frogs at times. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of grey line -- that was the trees on t’other side; you couldn’t make nothing else out; then a light place in the sky; then more light reaching out; then the river would show up softly away off, and it weren’t black any more, but grey; you could see little dark spots moving along ever so far away -- business boats, and such things; and long black lines -- rafts.

  At times you could hear an oar moving; or mixed up voices, it was so quiet, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a line on the water which you know by the look of it that there was a branch sticking up in the movement of water that breaks on it; and you see like a little cloud coming up off of the water, and the east turns red, and the river too, and then you can make out a log cabin looking out through the trees, away on t’other side of the river, often being a timber yard, likely with the cut timber made to look like more than it was by putting pieces on top of each other in a way to leave holes big enough to throw a dog through. Then a nice wind comes up, so cool and clean and sweet to smell on because of the trees and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead fish lying around, and they do get pretty awful; and next you’ve got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song birds just going at it!

  By that time our little smoke wouldn’t be easy to see, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And after, we would watch the big empty river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy off to sleep, then wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a river boat coughing along up the river, so far off toward t'other side you couldn’t tell nothing about her only if she was a back wheel or a side wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn’t be nothing to hear and nothing to see -- just solid empty.

  Next you’d see a raft going by, away off in the distance, and maybe a man on it cutting timber, because they’re most always doing it on a raft; you’d see the axe fly up and come down -- you don’t hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it’s above the man’s head then you hear the k’chunk! -- it had took all that time to come over the water.

  So we'd put in the whole day, lazying around, listening to the quiet.

  Once there was a thick fog, and people on rafts and things that went by was hitting tin pans so the river boats wouldn’t run over them. A flat boat or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and using bad language and laughing -- heard them clear as anything; but we couldn’t see no sign of them; it made you feel strange; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says:

  “No; spirits wouldn’t say, ‘Curse the cursed fog.’”

  Soon as it was night out we would push off again. When we got her out to about the middle we
let her alone, and let her go wherever the river wanted her to; then we smoked the pipes, and put our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things -- we was always without real clothes, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us -- the new clothes Buck’s family made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn’t go much on clothes, anyway.

  Sometimes we’d have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Off in the distance was the sides and the islands, across the water; and maybe the smallest little light -- which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a light or two -- on a raft or a flat boat, you know; and maybe you could hear a violin or a song coming over from one of them. It’s great to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all covered with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and talk about if they was made or only just happened. Jim he believed they was made, but I believed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a made them; well, that seemed easy enough to believe, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a fog make almost as many, so that proved it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them come flying down. Jim believed it was ones that was too selfish and they was being pushed out of the nest.

  One or two times each night we would see a river-boat coming along in the dark, and now and then she would cough up a whole world of fire and smoke from out of her chimneys, and the little pieces of fire would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her noise shut off and leave the river quiet again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and move the raft a little, and after that you wouldn’t hear nothing for you couldn’t tell how long, apart from maybe frogs or something.

  After midnight the people went to bed, and then for two or three hours both sides of the river was black -- no more lights in the cabin windows. These lights was our clock -- the first one that showed again would tell us that morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away.

  One morning just after the sun come up I found a canoe and crossed a channel between the island and the side of the river -- it was only two hundred yards -- and went about a mile up a shallow little side river with a lot of trees on it, to see if I couldn’t get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where one could walk across the little river because of shallow water, here comes two men running toward me as fast as they could foot it.

  I thought I was a goner, for whenever anyone was after anyone I judged it was me -- or maybe Jim. I was about to take off in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and shouted out and begged me to save their lives -- said they hadn’t been doing nothing, and was in trouble for it -- said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says: “Don’t you do it. I don’t hear the dogs and horses yet; you’ve got time to squeeze through the bushes and get up the river a little ways; then you take to the water and walk down to me and get in -- that’ll throw the dogs off the smell.”

  They done it, and soon as they was in I headed for our island. In five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting. We heard them come along toward the side river, but couldn’t see them; they seemed to stop and act confused a while; then, as we got farther and farther away, we could only just hear them; by the time we had left a mile of trees behind us and come to the river, everything was quiet, and we went over to the island to hide in the trees where we was safe.

  One of these men was about seventy or more, and had no hair and a very grey beard. He had an old knocked about soft hat on, and a dirty blue shirt, and very old blue pants pushed down into the top of his tall shoes, and a knitted rope over one shoulder to hold up the pants. He had an old blue coat with gold buttons over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, dirty bags made from rugs.

  The other one was about thirty, and dressed about as poorly. After breakfast we all rested and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these men didn’t know one another.

  “What got you into trouble?” says the old man to t’other.

  “Well, I’d been selling a chemical to take hard dirt off the teeth -- and it does take it off, too, but most of the time it takes some of the tooth along with it -- and I stayed about one night longer than I should have, and was just in the act of leaving when I ran across you on this side of town, and you said they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was running from trouble myself, and would run off with you. That’s the whole story -- what’s yours?

  “Well, I’d been doing a little preaching there about a week, and the women, big and little, liked me because I was making it mighty warm for the drinkers, I tell you, and taking as much as five or six dollars a night -- ten cents a head, with children and slaves free -- and business was growing all the time, when one way or another a little story got around last night that I had been doing a little secret drinking myself. A slave warned me this morning, and told me the people was coming together on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they’d be along pretty soon and give me about half an hour’s start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they would put tar and feathers on me. I didn’t wait for no breakfast -- I weren’t hungry.”

  “Old man,” said the young one, “I think we could work together as a team; what do you think?”

  “I ain’t against it. What’s your line -- mostly?”

  “I learned to do printing as a boy; make a little of my own medicines; do some acting -- serious parts, you know; take a turn at telling people about themselves from the shape of their head when I can; teach, anything from singing to history, for a change; give talks sometimes -- oh, I do lots of things -- most anything that comes up, so long as it ain’t work. What’s your thing?”

  “I’ve done a lot in the doctoring way in my time. Laying on of hands is my best trick -- for cancer and people that can’t move, and such things; and I can tell a person’s future pretty good when I’ve got someone along to find out things for me. Preaching’s my line, too, and missionary work.”

  Nobody never said a thing for a while; then the young man breathed out loudly and says: “Oh me, oh my!”

  “What are you oh mying about?” says the head with no hair.

  “To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be pulled down into such company.” And he started to rub the corner of his eye with a cloth.

  “Cook your skin, ain’t the company good enough for you?” says the head with no hair, pretty proud like.

  “Yes, it is good enough for me; it’s as good as I’m worth; for who brought me so low when I was so high? I did it myself. I don’t blame you, my friends -- far from it; I don’t blame anyone. I had it all coming. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know -- there’s a hole in the ground waiting for me. The world may go on just as it’s always done, and take everything from me -- loved ones, my land, everything; but it can’t take that. Some day I’ll lie down in that hole and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.” He went on a-rubbing his eyes.

  “Forget your poor broken heart,” says the head. “What are you throwing your poor broken heart at us for? We ain’t done nothing.”

  “No, I know you haven’t. I ain’t blaming you, friends. I brought myself down -- yes, I did it myself. It’s right I should go through this -- perfectly right -- I don’t make any groans about it.”

  “Brought you down from where? Where was you brought down from?”

  “Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes -- let it go by -- it’s not important. The secret of my birth -- “

  “The secret of your birth? Do you mean to say -- “

  “Good men,” says the young man, very seriously, “I will tell it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. The truth is that I am a duke!”

  Jim’s eyes pushed out when he heard that; and I think m
ine did, too. Then the head with no hair says: “No! you can’t mean it?”

  “Yes. My father’s grandfather, oldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, ran off to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the clean air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the duke who died robbed his name and his wealth -- the baby that was the real duke was forgotten. That baby became my grandfather -- I am the true Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, sad, robbed of my wealth, hunted of men, hated by the cold world, poor, sick, with a broken heart, and brought down to being friends with runaways on a raft!”

  Jim felt sorry for him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to make him happy, but he said it weren’t much use, he couldn’t be made happy; said if we was to receive him as a duke, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we should bend over when we spoke to him, and say “My Lord” -- and he would let us call him just “Bridgewater,” which, he said, was more than just a name; and one of us should serve him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.

  Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and served him, and says, “Will my lord have some of dis or some of dat?” and so on, and a body could see he was mighty happy with it.

  But the old man got pretty quiet by and by -- didn’t have much to say, and didn’t look very comfortable over all that serving that was going on around the Duke. He seemed to be thinking about something. So, along in the afternoon, he says: