by Mark Twain
“I will, sir, I will. Honest – but don’t leave us, please. It’s the – the- “
“Set her back, John, set her back!” says one. They backed water. “Confound it, the wind has just about pushed us into it. Your pap’s got the smallpox, don’t he – and you know precious well. Why didn’t you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?”
“Well,” says I, a-blubbering, “I’ve told everybody before, and they just go and leave us.”
“Poor devils! I don’t wonder why.”
“And my uncle Ray,” says I, just pointing in general to the stern of the raft, “my maw’s brother. He’s from England. He’s already died of the smallpox, and my pap couldn’t stand to take his head off in front of the twins, so he bound him and wrapped him up tight in canvas until he gets to somewhere more convenient, but now he just lays there and moans, and wriggles, and we’s all starting to get bad dreams.”
“Well, dang it, we don’t want the smallpox either, boy. Look here, I’ll tell you what to do. You float down about twenty miles, and you’ll come to a town on the left-side of the river. Put into a bank, and when you ask for help, tell them your folk are down with the chills and the fever; people will know what the matter is. Now, I reckon you folk are poor, and I’m bound to say in pretty hard times. Here. I’ll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and when it floats by, you grab it off. I feel right mean to leave you, but my kingdom! Smallpox! It won’t do for me to fool around with such a thing.”
“Hang on, Parker, “ says the other man. “Here’s another twenty to put on the board from me. Goodbye, boy. I hope you and them that survive will be alright.”
“Thank you, sirs,” I say.
“Yes, yes. If you see any runaway niggers, you get some help and nab them, and you’ll make some more money by it.”
“Goodbye, sirs,” says I. “I won’t let no owned folk get by me if I can help it.”
One of the men had a good chuckle. “Boy calls ‘em ‘owned folk!’ Did you ever!” Then off they paddled. I waved at them and didn’t stop till they was a speck on the river.
I got back on the raft and checked the wigwam, but Jim warn’t there. I looked all around; he warn’t anywhere. I says:
“Jim!”
“Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight? Don’t talk so loud.”
He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he came aboard.
“I was a-listenin’ to all de talk, and I slips into de water en was gwyne make fo’ de sho’ if they come aboard. But land, how you did fool ‘em, Huck! Dat wuz de smartes’ dodge evah! Ole Jim ain’ evah goin’ to forget how you save ole Jim – nevah!”
Then we shared up the two gold pieces – twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take passage of a steamboat now, and the money would last us all the way to the free states.
Toward daybreak we tied up, and Jim hid the raft good. The rest of the day he worked fixing things in bundles, as we was close to being done with rafting.
That night about ten, we hove in sight of the lights of a town down in a left-hand bend. I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out on the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and asks:
“Mister, is that town Cairo?”
“Cairo? No. You must be a blame’ fool.”
“What town is it, mister?”
“If you want to know, go ask them. Let me be, boy. I ain’t got time to fool with you.”
I paddled back to the raft, and Jim was awful disappointed, but I said no matter, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.
We passed another town before daylight, but it was on high ground aways off the river, and we knew that warn’t it. They weren’t no high ground around Cairo, Jim said. We laid up for the day on a towhead, and I began to have suspicions, and so did Jim. I says:
“Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night.”
Jim says:
“Doan’ le’s talk about it, Huck. I most suspected dat rattlesnake skin warn’t done wid us.”
“I wish I’d never seen that snake-skin, Jim.”
“Ain’t yo’ fault, honey. You didn’t know. Don’t you blame yo’self ‘bout it.”
When it was daylight, we went out of the wigwam, and here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy. We was well past Cairo.
We talked it over. It wouldn’t do to take to the shore, and we couldn’t take the raft back upstream, of course. There warn’t no way but to wait for dark and start back in the canoe and take our chances. So we slept the rest of the day amongst a cotton-wood thicket, so as to be fresh for the rest of the night, and when we went back to the raft about dark, the canoe was gone!
We didn’t either of us say a word for a good long while. There warn’t a thing to say. We both knowed well enough it was some more bad luck from the rattlesnake skin, so what was the sense of talking about it? By and by we talked about what we better do, and figured we had better just go along with the raft until we found a place that would sell us a canoe. We warn’t going to borrow one, the way pap would, for that might set people after us.
The place to buy a canoe is where you see a bunch of rafts layin’ up at shore, but we didn’t see such a place, and the night got all gray, and rather thick, which is the next meanest thing next to fog. It got to be very late and very still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit our lantern, and judged she would see us, but she didn’t seem to.
We could hear her pounding along, but didn’t see her good till she was too close. She aimed right at us. Often they do that, and try to see how close they can come without touching; and then the pilot sticks his head out of the wheelhouse and laughs, and thinks he’s right smart. Well, here she comes, straight on, and she didn’t look to be shearing off one bit. She was a big one, and was going along in a hurry, like a black storm cloud. There was a yelp of voices from somewhere onboard, a jingling of bells to stop the engines, and a whistling of steam, but she came smashing ahead, straight through the raft; Jim went overboard on one side, and I went on the other.
I dived, and as soon as I hit the water I started thinking about the water Zum again, even though it was just an invention. I kept my eyes closed, and dove as deep as I could, for a thirty-foot wheel had to ride over me, and when I finally popped back up, I was nearly busting. Of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started up her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen. Soon she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I could still hear her.
I sung out for Jim several times, but I got no answer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me in the water, and struck out for shore, shoving the wood out ahead of me.
It was one of those long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so it was a good long time for me in the water getting over. My legs would graze against a thing in the water, and I had to say to myself there was no such things as what I was thinking they was. I made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. Soon I came across an old-fashioned double log house, and I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another inch.
Chapter Sixteen
The Grangerfords Take Me In
In about ten seconds, somebody leveled a gun out of a window without putting his head out, and says:
“Be done, boys! Who’s there?”
I says:
“It’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“George Jackson, sir.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won’t let me.”
“What are you doing lurking around here this time of night for? You’re either Zum or about to provide a meal for one.”
“I ain’t neither, sir. I was on a steamboat and fell overboard when I warn’t paying attenti
on.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. Raise your arms and turn around, boy. Slow. Let’s see if there’s blood and gore on ye, or wounds.”
I turned around, soaked through but whole.
“What did you say your name was?”
“George Jackson, sir. I’m only a boy.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. If you’re telling the truth ye needn’t be afraid. If you’re Zum trying to trick your way into the house, t’will be the last mistake you’ll ever make.”
“Yessir,” says I.
“Don’t you budge; stand right where you are. Rouse up Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns – ah, some more guns, I mean. George Jackson, is there anyone out there with you?”
“No sir, nobody.”
I heard the people striking around in the house now, and I see a light. The man sang out:
Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool – ain’t you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places.”
A few more guns appeared through the window.
“Now then, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?”
“No sir; I never heard of ‘em.”
“Well, that may be so, and it mayn’t. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind – come mighty slow. If there’s anyone else out there – well, if he shows himself he’ll likely be shot. Come along now. Slow. That’s it. Push the door open yourself – just enough to come in, d’you hear?”
I didn’t hurry; I don’t think I could if I’d a-wanted to. The dogs were not barking now, just sniffing at my hands and pants, and I hoped their quietness was a good sign that I didn’t smell of Zum made of bad meat. When I got to the log doorsteps, I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting, and I pushed the door open, easy and soft as can be.
There was a candle on the floor and they were all there, looking at me for about a minute: three men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two in their twenties – all of them fine and handsome – and way in back a sweet old gray-headed lady, and in back of her two ladies I couldn’t see well.
“Open your mouth and let’s see your teeth,” the old gentleman said in a low tone, and I did.
“Raise your shirt so we can judge your skin color.”
I did that too.
“Might as well just take it off and throw it to the floor. You’ll be warmer without it.”
And was he right about that. My teeth was chattering and I was cold to the bone besides being frightened for my life.
As soon as he could, the old gentleman locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and then they led me into a big parlor that was out of the range of the front windows. The old woman held a candle closer to me and took a good look at my face. She says:
“Why, he ain’t a Shepherdson at all – they ain’t any Shepherdson about him.”
Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn’t mind being searched for arms, because he meant no harm by it – it was only to make sure. I was thinking then that there still might be a Barlow knife in my pocket, but I needn’t’ve worried, cause the river pulled it all out and I had nothing. He told me to make myself easy and feel at home, and tell me about myself, but the old lady steps forward and puts a finger up in the air as to make a point.
“Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing’s as cold and wet as he could be. Zum wouldn’t be chattering like this,” and everyone has a little chuckle, and it seemed that her little joke relaxed everyone considerable. “I reckon he’s hungry, too.”
“True, Rachel. I’m sure you’re correct; and boys are always hungry, right George?”
I didn’t even have to answer, but shook my head, and that seemed answer enough.
The old woman called out “Betsy!” (this was one of their owned folk) “You fly to the kitchen and get him something to eat as quick as you can, and one of you girls go wake up Buck and tell him – oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and put him into some of yours that’s dry.”
Buck looked about my age – thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger and taller than me. He walked in with just a nightshirt on, very frowzy-headed with sleep. He came in yawning and digging a fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with him. He says:
“Ain’t no Shepherdsons around?”
They all said no, t’was a false alarm.
“Well,” he says, “that’s too bad. I reckeon I’d ‘a’ got one.”
They all laughed again, and Bob says:
“Why, Buck, they might have all scalped us by now, you’ve been so slow in coming.”
“Well, ain’t nobody came after me, and it ain’t right. I’m always kept down. I miss it all.”
“Never mind, Buck my boy,” says the old man. “You’ll have your chance, all in good time, don’t you fret about that. Go ‘long now, and do as your mother told.”
When we got unstairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a pair of pants, and I put them on. While I was at it, he asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a blue jay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he said he had been in a pasture once and seen several dozen Zum all buried at once in a common grave, ‘cept it was really more of a pit than a grave. Then he asked me some riddles that made no sense to me at all, and so he explained them and I kind of understood then, but they still warn’t very good. So I told him the joke my pap used to tell about the Zum businessman, the painted woman and the talking parrot, and he laughed and said it was just grand, but I probably shouldn’t tell anyone else in the family, and I told him I figured that.
Then we went down to the kitchen. Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef and buttermilk – that is what they had for me down there, and I never tasted a better meal in my life. Buck and his ma and the rest all smoked cob pipes, and they smoked, and talked, and I et and talked. They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family lived on a little farm down in Arkansas, and my sister Mary Ann run off with a suitor who was a lot older than she was, and we never heard of her no more, and Bill left one morning on the carriage, and we supposed he was et by the Zum, cause they found the carriage, and his hat, and some parts of him, and who else would do a thing like that, and Tom and Mort died of the smallpox, and pap had to take their heads off with a big ol’ axe cause it was the only thing he had to do it with, but it took the stuffings out of him and just trimmed him down to nothing after that, sitting in front of the fire, crying and crying; so when he died, I just left the body where it was, took what there was left in the house, nailed it shut from the outside, and poured a bucket of kerosene over the whole roof and set it ablaze, just like what pap did. Then I figured I would start upriver, and fell overboard; and that’s how I came to be here. I was glad they was all in the same room together, for I reckon if I had to tell the whole thing twice through, I would ‘a’ changed a few things to make it go better, but once seemed to be all they wanted, and they said I had a home there as long as I wanted it.
Then everybody went to bed, and I stayed with Buck, and when I waked up the next morning, drat it all, I had forgotten what my name was. So I laid there for about an hour, and came up with some good ones, but I knew I didn’t have it.
When Buck waked up, I says:
“Can you spell, Buck?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I bet you can’t spell my name.”
“I bet you I can,” says he.
“All right,” says I. “It’s a bet. Go ahead”
“G-e-o-r-g-e- J-a-x-o-n – there now,” he says, happy with himself.
“Well,” says I, “you done it, but I didn’t think you could.”
“Give me another word, and make it hard,” says he, and so we had a little spelling bee, but later, I set my name down in private, because someone might want
me to spell it next, and I wanted to be handy with it.
It was a mighty nice family and a mighty fine house, too. Next to the widow’s back home, it was the nicest one I’d ever seen, and had some of the same defenses. The front door had a little level slot you could stick a rifle through, and a metal slide to seal it up again. There was a fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and looking up the chimbly, they had rods of metal cemented in here and there so no enterprising Zum could slide down in the summer and catch them unawares. They had a big old clock in the parlor with a pendulum swinging behind a tall piece of glass, and it bonged every hour day and night, and it was beautiful whenever I was inside and heard it.
They had fancy crockery all about, and a big piece of cut glass on a fine table that was always filled with either fruit or vegetables, or just a bunch of flowers. The table had a cover made out of painted oil cloth, and the wood underneath was dark and beautiful and of a kind I had never seen before. There were books too, and a big bookcase that held a ton ‘a’ books and a few more plaster statues. One of the books was Pilgrim’s Progress, about a man who left his family. I looked at it considerable now and then. Another was Friendships Offering, full of nice, short messages and poetry; but I didn’t read the poetry. And then there was Dr Gunn’s Family Medicine, which told you what to do for a bee-sting, or a swollen tooth, or a baby with a wet cough, or what to do with a body once the life had gone out of it. There was a hymn-book and a lot of other books; some I opened, some I didn’t. All over the parlor, there was nice chairs to set on and look at these books.
They had a bunch of pictures hung on the wall – mainly Washington and Lafayette, and battles from that war, and one called “Routing the Zum Army” with soldiers and muskets on one side, and Zum and flames and mayhem on the other.
There was something that they called crayons, which was pictures, that one of the daughters which was dead had made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. They was all somber and sad, people grieving in a cemetery, a woman crying into a handkerchief and a dead bird laying on its back – its feet in the air – and they all had titles underneath the drawing, like “Never Shall I See Thee More Alas” and “When Ye Return I Shall Not Know Thee Alas”. The was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn’t take to them, cause if ever I was down a little I’d look at one and they’d give me the fan-tods. Everyone in the family was sorry she died, because she was young, and they said she had a wonderful soul and great talent, but I reckoned she was having a better time underneath the ground. She was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never had the chance. It was the picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off. She was looking up at the moon, and tears were running down her face, and one arm was out like she was trying to grab the moon, but to me it looked like she was playing with a yellow ball. But as I said, she died before she finished it, and now they kept the picture over the head of the bed in her room, and on her birthday they put flowers on it. Other times they kept the picture hid with a little curtain.
