by Mark Twain
CHAPTER XIX.
TWO or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by,they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we putin the time. It was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mileand a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon asnight was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly always inthe dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods andwillows, and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next weslid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off;then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep,and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogsa-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water,was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn'tmake nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more palenessspreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't blackany more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along everso far away--trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices,it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see astreak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there'sa snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streaklook that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and theeast reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edgeof the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being awoodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog throughit anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you fromover there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woodsand the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left deadfish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and nextyou've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and thesong-birds just going it!
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off ofthe lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would watch thelonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy offto sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe seea steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards the other sideyou couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern-wheel orside-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nornothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft slidingby, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they'remost always doing it on a raft; you'd see the axe flash and come down--you don't hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the timeit's above the man's head then you hear the K'CHUNK!--it had took allthat time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazyingaround, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and therafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboatswouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hearthem talking and cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn'tsee no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spiritscarrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits;but I says:
"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"
Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about themiddle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wantedher to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, andtalked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night,whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes Buck's folks madefor me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go much onclothes, nohow.
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longesttime. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe aspark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the wateryou could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybeyou could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts.It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckledwith stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, anddiscuss about whether they was made or only just happened. Jim heallowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it wouldhave took too long to MAKE so many. Jim said the moon could a LAID them;well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it,because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done.We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jimallowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.
Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in thedark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out ofher chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awfulpretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out andher powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by herwaves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle theraft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn'ttell how long, except maybe frogs or something.
After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or threehours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows. Thesesparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant morning wascoming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away.
One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute tothe main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mileup a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't get someberries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossedthe crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight asthey could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever anybody wasafter anybody I judged it was ME--or maybe Jim. I was about to dig outfrom there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung outand begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing,and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. Theywanted to jump right in, but I says:
"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got timeto crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then youtake to the water and wade down to me and get in--that'll throw the dogsoff the scent."
They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our towhead, andin about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off,shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't seethem; they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then, as we gotfurther and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them atall; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck theriver, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hidin the cottonwoods and was safe.
One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald headand very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and agreasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffedinto his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. He hadan old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung overhis arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. Afterbreakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come outwas that these chaps didn't know one another.
"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap.
"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--andit does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but Istayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act ofsliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and youtold me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So Itold you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out WITH you.That's the whole yarn--what's yourn?
"Well, I'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week,and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was makin' itmighty warm for the rummies, I TELL you, and takin' as much as five orsix dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers fre
e--andbusiness a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little reportgot around last night that I had a way of puttin' in my time with aprivate jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin', and toldme the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, andthey'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, andthen run me down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and featherme and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast--I warn'thungry."
"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team ittogether; what do you think?"
"I ain't undisposed. What's your line--mainly?"
"Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor--tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's achance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecturesometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so itain't work. What's your lay?"
"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on o'hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and Ik'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find outthe facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's,and missionaryin' around."
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sighand says:
"Alas!"
"What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-head.
"To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degradeddown into such company." And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye witha rag.
"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says thebaldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
"Yes, it IS good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for whofetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame YOU,gentlemen--far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all. Letthe cold world do its worst; one thing I know--there's a grave somewherefor me. The world may go on just as it's always done, and take everythingfrom me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that.Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heartwill be at rest." He went on a-wiping.
"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heavingyour pore broken heart at US f'r? WE hain't done nothing."
"No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I broughtmyself down--yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer--perfectlyright--I don't make any moan."
"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?"
"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass--'tis no matter. The secret of my birth--"
"The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say--"
"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it to you,for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!"
Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too.Then the baldhead says: "No! you can't mean it?"
"Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fledto this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pureair of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own fatherdying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized thetitles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. I am the linealdescendant of that infant--I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; andhere am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised bythe cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to thecompanionship of felons on a raft!"
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, buthe said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if we wasa mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anythingelse; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought tobow when we spoke to him, and say "Your Grace," or "My Lord," or "YourLordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain"Bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; andone of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for himhe wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stoodaround and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have some o' dis orsome o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing tohim.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, anddidn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going onaround that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along inthe afternoon, he says:
"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but youain't the only person that's had troubles like that."
"No?"
"No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked downwrongfully out'n a high place."
"Alas!"
"No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." And,by jings, HE begins to cry.
"Hold! What do you mean?"
"Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing.
"To the bitter death!" He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it,and says, "That secret of your being: speak!"
"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says:
"You are what?"
"Yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very momenton the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy theSixteen and Marry Antonette."
"You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you mustbe six or seven hundred years old, at the very least."
"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brungthese gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you seebefore you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on,and sufferin' rightful King of France."
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what todo, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. Sowe set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort HIM.But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it allcould do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier andbetter for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and gotdown on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "Your Majesty,"and waited on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his presencetill he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing thisand that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we mightset down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful andcomfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bitsatisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted realfriendly towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all theother Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by HIS father, andwas allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffya good while, till by and by the king says:
"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft,Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? It 'll only makethings oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke, it ain'tyour fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? Make thebest o' things the way you find 'em, says I--that's my motto. This ain'tno bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come,give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends."
The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took awayall the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because itwould a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft;for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to besatisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others.
It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't nokings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But Inever said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way;then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. If theywanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long asit would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell Jim, so Ididn'
t tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learntthat the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let themhave their own way.