by Mark Twain
Tom squared his accounts, and resolved to keep to the very letter of his reform, and never to put that will in jeopardy again. He had three hundred dollars left. According to his mother’s plan, he was to put that safely away, and add her half of his pension to it monthly. In one year this fund would buy her free again.
For a whole week he was not able to sleep well, so much the villainy which he had played upon his trusting mother preyed upon his rag of a conscience; but after that he began to get comfortable again, and was presently able to sleep like any other miscreant.
The boat bore Roxy away from St. Louis at four in the afternoon, and she stood on the lower guard abaft the paddle-box and watched Tom through a blur of tears until he melted into the throng of people and disappeared; then she looked no more, but sat there on a coil of cable crying till far into the night. When she went to her foul steerage-bunk at last, between the clashing engines, it was not to sleep but only to wait for the morning, and, waiting, grieve.
It had been imagined that she would not know‘, and would think she was travelling up stream. She! Why, she had been steamboating for years. At dawn she got up and went listlessly and sat down on the cable-coil again. She passed many a snag whose ‘break’ could have told her a thing to break her heart, for it showed a current moving in the same direction that the boat was going; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and she did not notice. But at last the roar of a bigger and nearer break than usual brought her out of her torpor, and she looked up, and her practised eye fell upon that tell-tale rush of water. For one moment her petrified gaze fixed itself there. Then her head dropped upon her breast, and she said:
‘Oh, de good Lord God have mercy on po’ sinful me—Is sole down de river!
CHAPTER 17
Even popularity can be overdone. In Rome, along at first, you are full of regrets that Michelangelo died; but by-and-by you only regret that you didn’t see him do it.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
July 4.—Statistics show that we lose more fools on this day than in all the other days of the year put together. This proves, by the number left in stock, that one Fourth of July per year is now inadequate, the country has grown so.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
The summer weeks dragged by, and then the political campaign opened—opened in pretty warm fashion, and waxed hotter and hotter daily. The twins threw themselves into it with their whole heart, for their self-love was engaged. Their popularity, so general at first, had suffered afterward; mainly because they had been too popular, and so a natural reaction had followed. Besides, it had been diligently whispered around that it was curious—indeed, very curious—that that wonderful knife of theirs did not turn up—if it was so valuable, or if it had ever existed. And with the whisperings went chucklings and nudgings and winks, and such things have an effect. The twins considered that success in the election would reinstate them, and that defeat would work them irreparable damage. Therefore they worked hard, but not harder than Judge Driscoll and Tom worked against them in the closing days of the canvas. Tom’s conduct had remained so letter-perfect during two whole months now that his uncle not only trusted him with money with which to persuade voters, but trusted him to go and get it himself out of the safe in the private sitting-room.
The closing speech of the campaign was made by Judge Driscoll, and he made it against both of the foreigners. It was disastrously effective. He poured out rivers of ridicule upon them, and forced the big mass-meeting to laugh and applaud. He scoffed at them as adventurers, mountebanks, side-show riff-raff, dime-museum freaks; he assailed their showy titles with measureless derision; he said they were back-alley barbers disguised as nobilities, pea-nut peddlers masquerading as gentlemen, organ-grinders bereft of their brother-monkey. At last he stopped and stood still. He waited until the place had become absolutely silent and expectant, then he delivered his deadliest shot; delivered it with ice-cold seriousness and deliberation, with a significant emphasis upon the closing words: he said he believed that the reward offered for the lost knife was humbug and buncombe, and that its owner would know where to find it whenever he should have occasion to assassinate somebody.
Then he stepped from the stand, leaving a startled and impressive hush behind him instead of the customary explosion of cheers and party cries.
The strange remark flew far and wide over the town and made an extraordinary sensation. Everybody was asking, ‘What could he mean by that?’ And everybody went on asking that question, but in vain; for the Judge only said he knew what he was talking about, and stopped there; Tom said he hadn’t any idea what his uncle meant, and Wilson, whenever he was asked what he thought it meant, parried the question by asking the questioner what he thought it meant.
Wilson was elected, the twins were defeated—crushed, in fact, and left forlorn and substantially friendless. Tom went back to St. Louis happy.
Dawson’s Landing had a week of repose now, and it needed it. But it was in an expectant state, for the air was full of rumours of a new duel. Judge Driscoll’s election labours had prostrated him, but it was said that as soon as he was well enough to entertain a challenge he would get one from Count Luigi.
The brothers withdrew entirely from society, and nursed their humiliation in privacy. They avoided the people, and went out for exercise only late at night, when the streets were deserted.
CHAPTER 18
Gratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of the same procession. You have seen all of it that is worth staying for when the band and the gaudy officials have gone by.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
Thanksgiving Day—Let all give humble, hearty, and sincere thanks, now, but the turkeys. In the island of Fiji they do not use turkeys, they use plumbers. It does not become you and me to sneer at Fiji.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
The Friday after the election was a rainy one in St. Louis. It rained all day long, and rained hard, apparently trying its best to wash that soot-blackened town white, but of course not succeeding. Toward midnight Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings from the theatre in the heavy downpour, and closed his umbrella and let himself in; but when he would have shut the door, he found that there was another person entering—doubtless another lodger; this person closed the door and tramped upstairs behind Tom. Tom found his door in the dark, and entered it and turned up the gas. When he faced about, lightly whistling, he saw the back of a man. The man was closing and locking his door for him. His whistle faded out and he felt uneasy. The man turned round, a wreck of shabby old clothes sodden with rain and all a-drip, and showed a black face under an old slouch hat. Tom was frightened. He tried to order the man out but the words refused to come, and the other man got the start. He said, in a low voice:
‘Keep still—Is yo’ mother!’
Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out:
‘It was mean of me, and base—I know it; but I meant it for the best, I did indeed—I can swear it.’
Roxana stood awhile looking mutely down on him while he writhed in shame and went on incoherently babbling self-accusations mixed with pitiful attempts at explanation and palliation of his crime; then she seated herself and took off her hat, and her unkempt masses of long brown hair tumbled down about her shoulders.
‘It ain’t no fault o’ yo’n dat dat ain’t grey,’ she said sadly, noticing the hair.
‘I know it, I know it! I’m a scoundrel. But I swear I meant it for the best. It was a mistake, of course, but I thought it was for the best, I truly did.’
Roxy began to cry softly, and presently words began to find their way out between her sobs. They were uttered lamentingly, rather than angrily—
‘Sell a pusson down de river—down de river!—for de bes’! I wouldn’t treat a dog so! I is all broke down en wore out, now, en so I reckon it ain’t in me to storm aroun’ no mo‘, like I used to when I ‘uz trompled on en ‘bused. I don’t know—but maybe it’s so. Leastways, I’s suffered so much dat mournin’ seem to come mo’ handy to me now den st
ormin’.’
These words should have touched Tom Driscoll, but if they did, that effect was obliterated by a stronger one—one which removed the heavy weight of fear which lay upon him, and gave his crushed spirit a most grateful rebound, and filled all his small soul with a deep sense of relief. But he kept prudently still, and ventured no comment. There was a voiceless interval of some duration, now, in which no sounds were heard but the beating of the rain upon the panes, the sighing and complaining of the winds, and now and then a muffled sob from Roxana. The sobs became more and more infrequent, and at last ceased. Then the refugee began to talk again.
‘Shet down dat light a little. More. More yit. A pusson dat is hunted don’t like de light. Dah—dat’ll do. I kin see whah you is, en dat’s enough. I’s gwyne to tell you de tale, en cut it jes’ as short as I kin, en den I’ll tell you what you’s got to do. Dat man dat bought me ain’t a bad man, he’s good enough, as planters goes; en if he could a had his way I’d a ben a house servant in his fambly en ben comfortable ; but his wife she was a Yank, en not right down good-lookin’, en she riz up ag‘in me straight off; so den dey sent me out to de quarter ‘mongst de common fiel’ han’s. Dat woman warn’t satisfied, even wid dat, but she worked up de overseer ag‘in me, she ‘uz dat jealous en hateful; so de overseer he had me out befo’ day in de mawnins en worked me de whole long day as long as dey ‘uz any light to see by; en many’s de lashins I got ’case I couldn’t come up to de work o’ de stronges’. Dat overseer wuz a Yank, too, outen New Englan‘, en anybody down South kin tell you what dat mean. Dey knows how to work a nigger to death, en dey knows how to whale ’em, too—whale ‘em till dey backs is welted like a washboard. ’Long at fust my marster say de good word for me to de overseer, but dat ‘uz bad for me; for de mistis she fine it out, an’ arter dat I jes’ ketched it at every turn—dey warn’t no mercy for me no mo’.’
Tom’s heart was fired—with fury against the planter’s wife; and he said to himself, ‘But for that meddlesome fool, everything would have gone all right.’ He added a deep and bitter curse against her.
The expression of this sentiment was fiercely written in his face, and stood thus revealed to Roxana by a white glare of lightning which turned the sombre dusk of the room into dazzling day at that moment. She was pleased—pleased and grateful; for did not that expression show that her child was capable of grieving for his mother’s wrongs and of feeling resentment toward her persecutors?—a thing which she had been doubting. But her flash of happiness was but a flash, and went out again and left her spirit dark; for she said to herself, ‘He sole me down de river—he can’t feel for a body long; dis’ll pass en go.’ Then she took up her tale again.
“Bout ten days ago I ‘uz sayin’ to myself dat I could not las’ many mo’ weeks I ’uz so wore out wid de awful work en de lashins, en so down-hearted en misable. En I didn’t care no mo‘, nuther—life warn’t wuth noth’n to me if I got to go on like dat. Well, when a body is in a frame o’ mine like dat, what do a body care what a body do? Dey was a little sickly nigger wench ’bout ten year ole dat ‘uz good to me, en hadn’t no mammy, po’ thing, en I loved her en she loved me; en she come out whah I ’uz workin’ en she had a roasted tater, en tried to slip it to me—robbin herself, you see, ‘ca’se she knowed de overseer didn’t gimme enough to eat—en he ketched her at it, en give her a lick acrost de back wid his stick which ‘uz as thick as a broomhandle, en she drop’ screamin’ on de groun’, en squirmin’ en wallerin’ aroun’ in de dust like a spider dat’s got crippled. I couldn’t stan’ it. All de hell-fire dat ‘uz ever in my heart flame’ up, en I snatch de stick outen his han’ en laid him flat. He laid dah moanin’ en cussin’, en all out of his head, you know, en de niggers ‘uz plum sk’y-erd to death. Dey gathered ‘roun’ him to he’p him, en I jumped on his hoss en took out for de river as tight as I could go. I knowed what dey would do wid me. Soon as he got well he would start en work me to death if marster let him; en if dey didn’t do dat they’d sell me furder down de river, en dat’s de same thing. So I ‘lowed to drown myself en git out o’ my troubles. It ’uz gitt’n toward dark. I ‘uz at de river in two minutes. Den I see a canoe, en I says dey ain’t no use to drown myself tell I got to; so I ties de hoss in de edge o’ de timber en shove out down de river, keepin’ in under de shelter o’ de bluff bank en prayin’ for de dark to shet down quick. I had a pow’ful good start, ‘ca’se de big house ‘uz three mile back fum de river en on’y de work-mules to ride dah on, en on‘y niggers to ride ’em, en dey warn’t gwyne to hurry—dey’d gimme all de chance dey could. Befo’ a body could go to de house en back it would be long pas’ dark, en dey couldn’t track de hoss en fine out which way I went tell mawnin‘, en de niggers would tell ’em all de lies dey could ’bout it.
‘Well, de dark come, en I went on a-spinnin’ down de river. I paddled mo’n two hours, den I warn’t worried no mo’, so I quit paddlin‘, en floated down de current, considerin’ what I ’uz gwyne to do if I didn’t have to drown myself. I made up some plans, en floated along, turnin’ ‘em over in my mind. Well, when it ’uz a little pas’ midnight as I reckoned, en I had come fifteen or twenty mile, I see de lights o’ a steamboat layin’ at de bank, whah dey warn’t no town en no woodyard, en putty soon I ketched de shape o’ de chimbly-tops ag‘in de stars, en den good gracious me, I most jumped out o’ my skin for joy! It ’uz de Gran‘Mogul-I ’uz chambermaid on her for eight seasons in de Cincinnati en Orleans trade. I slid ‘long pas’—don’t see nobody stirrin’ nowhah—hear ‘em a-hammerin’ away in de engine-room, den I knowed what de matter was—some o’ de machinery’s broke. I got asho’ below de boat and turn’ de canoe loose, den I goes ’long up, en dey‘uz jes’ one plank out, en I step’ board de boat. It ’uz pow‘ful hot, deckhan’s en roustabouts ’uz sprawled aroun’ asleep on de fo‘cas’1’; de second mate, Jim Bangs, he sot dah on the bitts wid his head down, asleep—‘case dat’s de way de second mate stan’ de cap’n’s watch!—en de ole watchman, Billy Hatch, he ‘uz a-noddin’ on de companion way;—en I knowed ’em all; en, lan‘, but dey did look good! I says to myself, I wisht old marster’d come along now en try to take me—bless yo’ heart, I’s ’mong frien‘s, I is. So I tromped right along ’mongst ‘em, en went up on de biler deck en ’way back aft to de ladies’ cabin guard, en sot down dah in de same cheer dat I’d sot in mos’ a hund’d million times, I reckon; en it ’uz jist home agin, I tell you!
‘In ’bout an hour I heard de ready-bell jingle, en den de racket begin. Putty soon I hear de gong strike. “Set her back on de outside,” I says to myself—“I reckon I knows dat music!” I hear de gong ag‘in. “Come ahead on de inside,” I says. Gong ag’in. “Stop de outside.” Gong ag‘in. “Come ahead on de outside—now we’s pinted for Sent Louis, en I’s outer de woods en ain’t got to drown myself at all.” I knowed de Mogul’uz in de Sent Louis trade now, you see. It‘uz jes’ fair daylight when we passed our plantation, en I seed a gang o’ niggers en white folks huntin’ up en down de sho’, en troublin’ deyselves a good deal ‘bout me; but I warn’t troublin’ myself none ’bout dem.
“Bout dat time Sally Jackson, dat used to be my second chambermaid, en ‘uz head chambermaid now, she come out on de guard, en ‘uz pow‘ful glad to see me, en so ’uz all de officers; en I tole ‘em I’d got kidnapped en sole down de river, en dey made me up twenty dollahs en give it to me, en Sally she rigged me out wid good clo’es, en when I got here I went straight to whah you used to wuz, en den I come to dis house en dey say you’s away, but ‘spected back every day; so I didn’t dast to go down de river to Dawson’s, ’ca’se I might miss you.
‘Well, las’ Monday I ’uz pass’n by one o’ dem places in Fourth street whah dey sticks up runaway-nigger bills,8 en he‘ps to ketch ’em, en I seed my marster! I ‘most flopped down on de groun’, I felt so gone. He had his back to me, en ‘uz talkin’ to de man en givin’ him some bills—nigger-bills, I reckon, en I’s de nigger. He’s offerin’ a reward—dat’s it
. Ain’t I right, don’t you reckon?’
Tom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror, and he said to himself, now, ‘I’m lost, no matter what turns things take! This man has said to me that he thinks there was something suspicious about that sale. He said he had a letter from a passenger on the Grand Mogul saying that Roxy came here on that boat and that everybody on board knew all about the case; so he says that her coming here instead of flying to a free state looks bad for me, and that if I don’t find her for him, and that pretty soon, he will make trouble for me. I never believed that story; I couldn’t believe she would be so dead to all motherly instincts as to come here, knowing the risk she would run of getting me into irremediable trouble. And after all, here she is! And I stupidly swore I would help him find her, thinking it was a perfectly safe thing to promise. If I venture to deliver her up, she—she—but how can I help myself? I’ve got to do that or pay the money, and where’s the money to come from? I—I—well, I should think that if he would swear to treat her kindly hereafter—and she says, herself, that he is a good man—and if he would swear to never allow her to be overworked, or ill fed, or—’
