by Dave Mckay
We never showed a light until we was about ten miles below the village. Then we put the light up and had a meal, and the king and the duke almost laughed their bones loose over the way they’d served them people.
The duke says: “What stupid people! I knew the first house would keep quiet and let the others get pulled in; and I knew they’d go for us the third night, and think it was their turn now. Well, it is their turn, and they can turn it into a party if they want -- they brought enough food for it.”
Them two took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in those three nights. I never see money pulled in by the wagon full like that before.
By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says: “Don’t it surprise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?”
“No,” I says, “it don’t.”
“Why don’t it, Huck?”
“Because it’s in the blood. I think they’re all the same.”
“But, Huck, dese kings of ours is like robbers; dat’s just what dey is; dey’s robbers.”
“Well, that’s what I’m a-saying; all kings is mostly robbers, as far as I can make out.”
“Is dat so?”
“You read about them once -- you’ll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this one is a Sunday-school teacher to him. And look at Charles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; they all used to run around so in old times and make like hell. My, you should a seen old Henry the Eight when he was at his best. He was a flower. He used to marry a new wife every day, and cut off her head next morning. And he would do it just as easy as if he was asking for eggs for breakfast. ‘Bring up Nell Gwynn,’ he says. They bring her up. Next morning, ‘Cut off her head!’ And they cut it off. ‘Bring up Jane Shore,’ he says; and up she comes, Next morning, ‘Cut off her head’ -- and they cut it off. ‘Ring for Fair Rosamun.’ Fair Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, ‘Cut off her head.’ And he made every one of them tell him a story every night; and he kept that up until he had saved a thousand and one stories that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it the Domesday Book -- which was a good name and said what it was about. You don’t know kings, Jim, but I know them; and this old man of ours is one of the cleanest I’ve seen in history. Well, Henry he starts feeling he wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at it? Does he say so? Does he warn the country? No. Without warning, he throws all the tea in Boston out of the ships, and starts a war. That was his way -- he never give anyone a way to get away. He didn’t trust his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up? No, he drowned him, like a cat. If people left money lying around where he was -- what did he do? He took it. If you had an agreement for him to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn’t sit down there and see that he done it -- what did he do? He always done the other thing. If he opened his mouth -- what then? If he didn’t shut it up very quickly he’d lose a lie every time. That’s the kind of insect Henry was; and if we’d a had him along instead of our kings he’d a tricked that town a lot worse than ours done. I don’t say that ours is lambs, because they ain’t, when you come right down to the cold truth; but they ain’t nothing to that old goat. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to make room for that. Take them all around, they’re a mighty bad lot. It’s the way they’re brought up.”
“But dis one do smell so, Huck.”
“Well, they all do, Jim. We can’t help the way a king smells; history don’t tell no way.”
“Now de duke, he’s a good enough man in some ways.”
“Yes, a duke’s different. But not very different. This one’s a little bad for a duke. When he’s drunk there ain’t no man could tell him from a king.”
“Well, anyway, I don’t want no more of ‘em, Huck. Dese is all I can stand.”
“It’s the way I feel, too, Jim. But we’ve got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make space for that. Times I wish we could hear of a country that’s out of kings.”
What was the use to tell Jim these weren’t real kings and dukes? It wouldn’t a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you couldn’t tell them from the real kind.
I went to sleep, and Jim didn’t call me when it was my turn. He often done that. When I waked up just as the sun was coming up he was sitting there with his head down between his knees, moaning and feeling sad to himself. I didn’t let on that I saw it. I knowed what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up north, and he was low and sad; because he hadn’t ever been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white people does for theirs. It don’t seem like that could be true, but I think it is. He was often moaning and feeling sad that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, “Poor little Elizabeth! poor little Johnny! it’s mighty hard; it seems I ain’t ever gwyne to see you no more, no more!” He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.
But this time, one way or another, I got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: “What makes me feel so bad dis time was because I hear sumpin over on de side of de river like a hit or a slap, a while ago, and it made me think of de time I act so rough toward my Elizabeth. She weren’t only about four years old, and she took sick and had a powerful rough time of it; but she got well, and one day she was a-standing around, and I says to her, I says: ’Shut de door.’
“She never done it; just stood dere, kind a smiling up at me. It made me angry; and I says again, mighty loud, I says: ’Don’t you hear me? Shut de door!’
“She just stood de same way, kind a smiling up. I was a-burning up! I says: ’I know how to make you do what I say!’
“And wid dat I give her a slap up side de head dat sent her to de ground’. Den I went into de other room, and was gone about ten minutes; and when I come back dere was dat door a-standing open yet, and dat child standing almost right in it, a-looking down and being sad, and de tears running down. My, but I was angry! I was a-gwyne for de child, but just den -- it was a door dat open in -- just den, along come de wind and force it to, behind de child, ker-blam! -- and my land, de child never moved! My breevin’ almost stopped; and I feel so -- so -- I don’t know how I feel. I went quietly out, all a-shaking, and went secretly around and open de door easy and slow, and put my head in behind de child, soft and quiet, and then I says BANG! just as loud as I could shout. She never moved! Oh, Huck, I break out a-crying and take her up in my arms, and say, ‘Oh, de poor little thing! De Lord God forgive poor old Jim, because he never gwyne to forgive himself as long as he lives!’ Oh, she couldn’t hear, Huck, she was deaf, and I’d been a-doing dat to her!”
Chapter 24
Next day, toward night, we stopped under a little island out in the middle, in a place where there was a village on each side, and the duke and the king started to lay out a plan for working them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn’t take but a few hours, because it got very difficult for him when he had to lie all day in the tent tied with the rope. You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anyone happened onto him not tied it wouldn’t look much like he was a prisoner. So the duke said it was kind of bad to have to be tied up all day, and he’d work out some way to get around it.
He was very smart, the duke, and he soon found it. He dressed Jim up in one of his acting uniforms -- it was a long dress. -- with white hair and a white beard; and then he took his theatre paint and painted Jim’s face and hands and ears and neck all over solid blue, like a man that’s been drowned nine days. I’ll be... if he weren’t the most awful looking thing I ever did see. Then the duke took and wrote out a sign like so:
Sick Arab -- but safe enough when he's not out of his head.
And he nailed that sign to a stick, and put the stick up four or five foot in front of the tent. Jim was happy with that. He said it was better than lying tied two years every day, and shakin
g all over each time there was a sound. The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anyone ever come looking around, he must run out of the tent, and carry on a little, and give a shout or two like a wild animal, and he believed they would run off and leave him alone. Which was true enough; but you take most people, they wouldn’t even wait for him to shout. Why, he didn’t only look like he was dead, he looked even worse than that.
These old robbers wanted to try The King’s Foolishness again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn’t be safe, because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time. They couldn’t hit no plan that fitted perfectly; so at last the duke said he thought he’d rest and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn’t put up something on the Arkansas village; and the king he said he would drop over to t’other village without any plan, but just trust in God to lead him the best way -- meaning the devil, I think. We had all paid for shop clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his on, and he told me to put mine on. The king’s clothes was all black, and he did look real smart and straight.
I never knowed how clothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the worst old man that ever was; but now, when he’d take off his new white animal skin hat and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that great and good and holy that you’d say he had walked right out of the Temple, and maybe was old Moses himself.
Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my oar ready. There was a big river-boat stopped on the beach away up under the point, about three mile above the town -- been there two or three hours, taking on boxes and other things.
Says the king: “Seeing how I’m dressed, I think maybe I should arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the river-boat, Huckleberry; we’ll come down to the village on her.”
I didn’t have to be told more than once to go and take a river-boat ride. I reached the side a half a mile above the village, and then went moving up river in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to a nice-looking young country man sitting on a log rubbing the heat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had two big bags by him.
“Run her nose in,” says the king.
I done it.
“Where you going, young man?”
“To the river boat; going to Orleans.”
“Get in,” says the king. “Hold on a minute, my servant will help you with them bags. Jump out and help the man, Adolphus” -- meaning me, I see.
I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young man was very thankful; said it was hard work carrying his bags in such weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he’d come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. The young man says: “When I first see you I says to myself, ‘It’s Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come very close to getting here in time.’ But then I says again, ‘No, I think it ain’t him, or else he wouldn’t be coming up the river in a canoe.’ You ain’t him, are you?”
“No, my name’s Blodgett -- Alexander Blodgett -- Reverend Alexander Blodgett, I must say, as I’m one of the Lord’s poor servants. But still I’m just as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he’s missed anything by it -- which I hope he hasn’t.”
“Well, he don’t miss any wealth by it, because he’ll get that all right; but he’s missed seeing his brother Peter die -- which he may not feel bad about, nobody can tell as to that -- but his brother would a give anything in this world to see him before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn’t seen him since they was boys together -- and hadn’t ever seen his brother William at all -- that’s the one that can’t hear or talk -- William ain’t more than thirty or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and William’s the only ones that’s left now; and, as I was saying, they haven’t got here in time.”
“Did anyone send ‘em word?”
“Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter said then that he felt like he weren’t going to get well this time. You see, he was pretty old, and George’s girls was too young to be much company for him, apart from Mary Jane, the red-headed one. He was kind of sad after George and his wife died, and didn’t seem to care much to live. He most truly wanted to see Harvey -- and William, too -- because he was one of them that can’t be worried about making papers for what to do with his wealth after he died. He left a letter behind for Harvey, and said he’d told in it where his money was hiding, and how he wanted the land and other things cut up so George’s girls would be all right -- for George didn’t leave nothing. And that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to.”
“Why do you think Harvey didn’t come? Where's he live?”
“Oh, he lives in England -- preaches there -- hasn’t ever been in this country. He hasn’t had any too much time -- and besides he mightn’t a got the letter at all, you know.”
“Too bad, too bad he couldn’t a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?”
“Yes, but that ain’t only a part of it. I’m going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Rio de Janeiro, where my uncle lives.”
“It’s a pretty long trip. But it’ll be nice; wish I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?”
“Mary Jane’s nineteen, Susan’s fifteen, and Joanna’s about fourteen. Mary Jane's one that gives herself to good works.”
“Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so.”
“Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they ain’t going to let them come to no bad end. There’s Hobson, the Baptist preacher; and Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Doctor Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and -- well, there’s a lot of them; but these are the ones that Peter was closest to, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey will know where to look for friends when he gets here.”
Well, the old man went on asking questions until he close to emptied that young man. I’ll be blamed if he didn’t ask about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peter’s business -- which was making leather; and about George’s -- which was a carpenter; and about Harvey’s -- which was a free preacher; and so on, and so on. Then he says:
“What'd you want to walk all the way up to the boat for?”
“Because she’s a big Orleans boat, and I was afraid she mightn’t stop here. When they’re deep they won’t stop for a shout. A Cincinnati boat will, but this is a St. Louis one.”
“Was Peter Wilks well off?”
“Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it’s believed he left three or four thousand in gold hiding Lord knows where.”
“When did you say he died?”
“I didn’t say, but it was last night.”
“Funeral tomorrow, you think?”
“Yes, about the middle of the day.”
“Well, it’s all very sad; but we’ve all got to go, one time or another. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we’re all right.”
“Yes, sir, it’s the best way. Mum used to always say that.”
When we reached the boat she was about finished putting things in, and pretty soon she left. The king never said nothing about getting on her, so I lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me push up another mile in the canoe, to a place away from any houses, and then he got off and says:
“Now hurry back, right now, and bring the duke up here, and the new bags. And if he’s gone over to t’other side, go over there and get him. And tell him to get himself up quickly. Move along, now.”
I see what he was up to; but I never said nothing. When I got back with the duke we put the canoe in a good hiding place, and then they sat d
own on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young man had said it -- every last word of it. And all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like he was from Britain; and he done it pretty well, too, for a learner. I can’t do it, and so I ain’t a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good.
Then he says: “How are you on not being able to hear or talk, Bilgewater?”
The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played such a person on the stage. So then they waited for a river boat.
About the middle of the afternoon two little boats come along, but they didn’t come from high enough up; but at last there was a big one, and they called out to her. She sent out her small boat, and we went onto her, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was shouting angry, and called us a few bad names, and said they wouldn’t land us. But the king was quiet and easy. He says:
“If men are happy to pay a dollar a mile each to be took on and off in your little boat, a river boat can carry ‘em, can’t it?”
So they went a little softer and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they sent us to the landing in their little boat. About twenty men crowded down when they see the little boat a-coming, and when the king says: “Can any of you tell me where Mr. Peter Wilks lives?”