The Speculative Fiction of Mark Twain

by Mark Twain

  Now I thought of the children, and ran all about inquiring for them, but no one had seen them. I thought they must have been washed overboard, and for a moment my heart stopped beating. Then the hope came that they had taken refuge with their mother; so I ran there; and almost swooned when I entered the place, for it was vacant. I ran out shouting the alarm, and after a dozen steps almost ran over her. She was lying against the bulwarks drenched and insensible. The surgeon and young Phillips helped me carry her in; then the surgeon and I began to work over her and Phillips rushed away to start the hunt for the children. It was all of half an hour before she showed any sign of life; then her eyes opened with a dazed and wondering look in them, then they recognized me and into them shot a ghastly terror.

  “The children! the children!” she gasped; and I, with the heart all gone out of me, answered with such air of truth as I could assume—

  “They are safe.”

  I could never deceive her. I was transparent to her.

  “It is not true! The truth speaks out all over you—they are lost, oh they are lost, they are lost!”

  We were strong, but we could not hold her. She tore loose from us and was gone in a moment, flying along the dark decks and shrieking the children’s names with a despairing pathos that broke one’s heart to hear it. We fled after her, and urged that the flitting lanterns meant that all were searching, and begged her for the children’s sake and mine if not for her own to go to bed and save her life. But it went for nothing, she would not listen. For she was a mother, and her children were lost. That says it all. She would hunt for them as long as she had strength to move. And that is what she did, hour after hour, wailing and mourning, and touching the hardest hearts with grief, until she was exhausted and fell in a swoon. Then the stewardess and I put her to bed, and as soon as she came to and was going to creep out of her bed and take up her search again the doctor encouraged her in it and gave her a draught to restore her strength; and it put her into a deep sleep, which was what he expected.

  We left the stewardess on watch and went away to join the searchers. Not a lantern was twinkling anywhere, and every figure that emerged from the gloom moved upon tip-toe. I collared one of them and said angrily­

  “What does this mean? Is the search stopped?”

  Turner’s voice answered—very low: “—’sh! Captain’s orders. The beast ain’t dead—it’s hunting for us.”

  It made me sick with fear.

  “Do you mean it, Turner? How do you know?”

  “Listen.”

  There was a muffled swashing sound out there somewhere, and then the two moons appeared for a moment, then turned slowly away and were invisible again.

  “He’s been within a hundred yards of us, feeling around for us with his arms. He could reach us, but he couldn’t locate us because he’s blind. Once he mighty near had us; one of his arms that was squirming around up there in the dark just missed the foremast, and he hauled in the slack of it without suspecting anything. It made my lungs come up into my throat. He has edged away, you see, but he ain’t done laying for us.” Pause. Then in a whisper, “He’s wallowing around closer to us again, by gracious. Look—look at that. See it? Away up in the air—writhing around like a crooked mainmast. Dim, but—there, now don’t you see it?”

  We stood dead still, hardly breathing. Here and there at little distances the men were gathering silently together and watching and pointing. The deep hush lay like a weight upon one’s spirit. Even the faintest quiver of air that went idling by gave out a ghost of sound. A couple of mellow notes floated lingering and fading down from forward:

  Booooom——booooom. (Two bells in the middle watch.)

  A hoarse low voice—the captain’s:

  “Silence that damned bell!”

  Instantly there was a thrashing commotion out there, with a thundering rush of discharged water, and the monster came charging for us. I caught my breath, and had to seize Turner or I should have fallen, so suddenly my strength collapsed. Then vaguely we saw the creature, waving its arms aloft, tear past the ship stern first, pushing a vast swell ahead and trailing a tumultuous wake behind, and the next moment it was far away and we were plunging and tossing in the sea it made.

  “Thank God, he’s out of practice!” said Turner, with emotion.

  The majestic blind devil stopped out there with its moons toward us, and we were miserable again. We had so hoped it would go home.

  I resumed my search. Below I found Phillips and Lucy Davis and a number of others searching, but with no hope. They said they had been everywhere, and were merely going over the ground again and again because they could not bear to have it reported to the mother that the search had ceased. She must be told that they were her friends and that she could depend upon them.

  Four hours later I gave it up, wearied to exhaustion, and went and sat down by Alice’s bed, to be at hand and support her when she should wake and have to hear my desolate story. After a while she stirred, then opened her eyes and smiled brightly and said—

  “Oh, what bliss it is! I dreamed that the children—” She flung her arms about me in a transport of grief. “I remember—oh, my God it is true!”

  And so, with sobs and lamentations and frantic self-reproaches she poured out her bitter sorrow, and I clasped her close to me, and could not find one comforting word to say.

  “Oh, Henry, Henry, your silence means—oh, we cannot live, we cannot bear it!”

  There was a flurry of feet along the deck, the door was burst in, and Turner’s voice shouted—

  “They’re found, by God they’re found!”

  A joy like that brings the shock of a thunderbolt, and for a little while we thought Alice was gone; but then she rallied, and by that time the children were come, and were clasped to her breast, and she was steeped in a happiness for which there were no words. And she said she never dreamed that profanity could sound so dear and sweet, and she asked the mate to say it again; and he did, but left out the profanity and spoiled it.

  The children and George and Delia had seen the squid come and lift its moons above our stern and reach its vast tentacles aloft; and they had not waited, but had fled below, and had not stopped till they were deep down in the hold and hidden in a tunnel among the freight. When found, they had had several hours’ sleep and were much refreshed.

  Between seeing the squid, and getting washed off her feet, and losing the children, the day was a costly one for Alice. It marks the date of her first gray hairs. They were few, but they were to have company.

  We lay in a dead calm, and helpless. We could not get away from the squid’s neighborhood. But I was obliged to have some sleep, and I took it. I took all I could get, which was six hours. Then young Phillips came and turned me out and said there were signs that the spirit of mutiny was abroad again and that the captain was going to call the men aft and talk to them. Phillips thought I would not want to miss it.

  He was right. We had private theatricals, we had concerts, and the other usual time-passers customary on long voyages; but a speech from the captain was the best entertainment the ship’s talent could furnish. There was character back of his oratory. He was all sailor. He was sixty years old, and had known no life but sea life. He had no gray hairs, his beard was full and black and shiny; he wore no mustache, therefore his lips were exposed to view; they fitted together like box and lid, and expressed the pluck and resolution that were in him. He had bright black eyes in his old bronze face and they eloquently interpreted all his moods, and his moods were many: for at times he was the youngest man in the ship, and the most cheerful and vivacious and skittish; at times he was the best-natured man in the ship, and he was always the most lovable; sometimes he was sarcastic, sometimes he was serious even to solemnity, sometimes he was stern, sometimes he was as sentimental as a school-girl; sometimes he was silent, quiet, withdrawn within himself, sometimes he was talkative and argumentative; he was remarkably and sincerely and persistently pious, and marvelously and sc
ientifically profane; he was much the strongest man in the ship, and he was also the largest, excepting that plotting, malicious and fearless devil, Stephen Bradshaw the carpenter; he could smile as sweetly as a girl, and it was a pleasure to see him do it. He was entirely self-educated, and had made a vast and picturesque job of it. He was an affectionate creature, and in his family relations he was beautiful; in the eyes of his daughters he was omniscient, omnipotent, a mixed sun-god and storm-god, and they feared him and adored him accordingly. He was fond of oratory, and thought he had the gift of it; and so he practiced it now and then, upon occasion, and did it with easy confidence. He was a charming man and a manly man, with a right heart and a fine and daring spirit.

  Phillips and I slipped out and moved aft. Things had an unusual and startling aspect. There were flushes of light here and there and yonder; the captain stood in one of them, the officers stood a little way back of him.

  “How do matters stand, Phillips?”

  “You notice that the battle-lanterns are lit, all the way forward?”

  “Yes. The gun-watches are at their posts; I see that. The captain means business, I reckon.”

  “The gun-watches are mutineers!”

  I steadied my voice as well as I could, but there was still a quaver in it when I said—

  “Then they’ve sprung a trap on us, and we are at their mercy, of course.”

  “It has the look of it. They’ve caught the old man napping, and we are in a close place this time.”

  We joined the officers, and just then we heard the measured tramp of the men in the distance. They were coming down from forward. Soon they came into view and moved toward us until they were within three or four paces of the captain.

  “Halt!”

  They had a leader this time, and it was he that gave the command—Stephen Bradshaw, the carpenter. He had a revolver in his hand. There was a pause, then the captain drew himself up, put on his dignity, and prepared to transact business in a properly impressive and theatrical way. He cleared his voice and said, in a fatherly tone—

  “Men, this is your spokesman, duly appointed by you?”

  Several responded timidly—

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have a grievance, and you desire to have it redressed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He is not here to represent himself, lads, but only you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Your complaint shall be heard, and treated with justice.” (Murmur of approbation from the men.) Then the captain’s soft manner hardened a little, and he said to the carpenter, “Go on.”

  Bradshaw was eager to begin, and he flung out his words with aggressive confidence—

  “Captain Davis, in the first place this crew wants to know where they are. Next, they want this ship put about and pointed for home—straight off, and no fooling. They are tired of this blind voyage, and they ain’t going to have any more of it—and that’s the word with the bark on it.” He paused a moment, for his temper was rising and obstructing his breath; then he continued in a raised and insolent voice and with a showy flourish of his revolver. “Before, they’ve had no leader, and you talked them down and cowed them; but that ain’t going to happen this time. And they hadn’t any plans, and warn’t fixed for business; but it’s different, now.” He grew exultant. “Do you see this?”—his revolver. “And do you see that?” He pointed to the gatlings. “We’ve got the guns; we are boss of the ship. Put her about! That’s the order, and it’s going to be obeyed.”

  There was an admiring murmur from the men. After a pause the captain said, with dignity—

  “Apparently you are through. Stand aside.”

  “Stand aside, is it? Not till I have heard what answer you—”

  The captain’s face darkened and an evil light began to flicker in his eyes, and his hands to twitch. The carpenter glanced at him, then stepped a pace aside, shaking his head and grumbling. “Say your say, then, and cut it short, for I’ve got something more to say when you’re done, if it ain’t satisfactory.”

  The captain’s manner at once grew sweet, and even tender, and he turned toward the men with his most genial and winning smile on his face, and proceeded to take them into his confidence.

  “You want to know where you are, boys. It is reasonable; it is natural. If we don’t know where we are—if we are lost—who is worst off, you or me? You have no children in this ship—I have. If we are in danger have I put us there intentionally? Would I have done it purposely—with my children aboard? Come, what do you think?”

  There was a stir among the men, and an approving nodding of heads which conceded that the point was well taken.

  “Don’t I know my trade, or am I only an apprentice to it? Have I sailed the seas for sixty years and commanded ships for thirty to be taught what to do in a difficulty by—by a damned carpenter?”

  He was talking in such a pleading way, such an earnest, and moving and appealing way that the men were not prepared for the close of his remark, and it caught them out and made some of them laugh. He had scored one—and he knew it. The carpenter’s back was turned—he was playing indifference. He whirled around and covered the captain with his revolver. Everybody shrank together and caught his breath, except the captain, who said gently—

  “Don’t be afraid—pull the trigger; it isn’t loaded.”

  The carpenter pulled—twice, thrice, and threw the pistol away. Then he shouted—

  “Fall back, men—out of the way!” They surged apart, and he fell back himself. The captain and the officers stood alone in the circle of light. “Gun 4, fire!” The officers threw themselves on their faces on the deck, but the captain remained in his place. The gunner spun the windlass around—there was no result. “Gun 3, fire!” The same thing happened again. The captain said—

  “Come back to your places, men.” They obeyed, looking puzzled, surprised, and a good deal demoralized. The officers got up, looking astonished and rather ashamed. “Carpenter, come back to your place.” He did it, but reluctantly, and swearing to himself. It was easy to see that the captain was contented with his dramatic effects. He resumed his speech, in his pleasantest manner—

  “You have mutinied two or three times, boys. It is all right—up to now. I would have done it myself in my common-seaman days, I reckon, if my ship was bewitched and I didn’t know where I was. Now then, can you be trusted with the facts? Are we rational men, manly men, men who can stand up and face hard luck and a big difficulty that has been brought about by nobody’s fault, and say live or die, survive or perish, we are in for it, for good or bad, and we’ll stand by the ship if she goes to hell!” (The men let go a tol[erably] hearty cheer.) “Are we men—grown men—salt-sea men—men nursed upon dangers and cradled in storms—men made in the image of God and ready to do when He commands and die when He calls—or are we just sneaks and curs and carpenters!” (This brought both cheers and laughter, and the captain was happy.) “There—that’s the kind. And so I’ll tell you how the thing stands. I don’t know where this ship is, but she’s in the hands of God, and that’s enough for me, it’s enough for you, and it’s enough for anybody but a carpenter. If it is God’s will that we pull through, we pull through—otherwise not. We haven’t had an observation for four months, but we are going ahead, and do our best to fetch up somewhere.”

  CAPTAIN STORMFIELD’S VISIT TO HEAVEN

  CHAPTER I

  I WAS DYING, and knew it. I was making gasps, with long spaces between, and they were standing around the bed, quiet and still, waiting for me to go. Now and then they spoke; and what they said got dimmer and dimmer, and further and further away. I heard it all, though. The mate said—

  “He’s going out with the tide.”

  Chips the carpenter said—

  “How do you know? No tide out here in the middle of the ocean.”

  “Yes there is. And anyway, they always do.”

  It was still again, a while—only the heaving and creakin
g, and the dull lanterns swinging this way and that, and the wind wheezing and piping, far off. Then I heard a voice, away off—

  “Eight bells, sir.”

  “Make it so,” said the mate.

  “Ay-ay, sir.”

  Another voice—

  “Freshening up, sir—coming on to blow.”

  “Sheet home,” says the mate. “Reef tops’ls and sky-scrapers, and stand by.”

  “Ay-ay, sir.”

  By and by the mate says—

  “How’s it now?”

  “He’s cold, up to his ribs,” says the doctor. “Give him ten minutes.”

  “Everything ready, Chips?”

  “Canvas, cannon balls and all, sir.”

  “Bible and burial service?”

  “All handy, sir.”

  Quiet again, for a while—wind so vague it sounded like dream-wind. Then the doctor’s voice—

  “Is he prepared for the change, do you think?”

  “To hell? Oh, I guess so.”

  “I reckon there ain’t any doubt.”

  It was Chips said it; kind of mournful, too.

  “Doubt?” said the mate. “Hadn’t any himself, if that’s any sign.”

  “No,” says Chips, “he always said he judged he was booked for there.”

  Long, long stillness. Then the doctor’s voice, so far off and dim it sounded like it was down a deep well—

  “There—it’s over! Just at 12:14!”

  Dark? Oh, pitch dark—all in a second! I was dead, and knew it.

  I felt myself make a plunge, and recognized that I was flashing through the air like a bird. I had a quick, dim glimpse of the sea and the ship, then everything was black darkness, and nothing visible, and I went whizzing through it. I said to myself, “I’m all here, clothes and all, nothing missing; they’ll sink a counterfeit in the sea; it’s not me, I’m all here.”