CHAPTER 19
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 put in the time. It was a
monstrous big river down there—sometimes a mile and a half wide; we
run nights, and laid up and hid day-times; soon as night was most
gone, we stopped navigating and tied up—nearly always in the dead
water under a tow-head; and then cut young cotton-woods and willows
and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid
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 bull-frogs a-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’t make nothing else out;
then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around;
then the river softened up, away off, and warn’t black any more,
but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever so
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 a streak on the water which you know by the
look of the streak that there’s a snag there in a swift current
which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see
the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the
river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away
on the bank on t’other side of the river, being a wood-yard,
likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it
anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you
from over there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account
of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because
they’ve left dead fish laying around, gars, and such, and they do
get pretty rank; and next you’ve got the full day, and everything
smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!
A little smoke couldn’t be noticed, now, so we
would take some fish off of the lines, and cook up a hot breakfast.
And afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and
kind of lazy along, and by-and-by lazy off to sleep. Wake up,
by-and-by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat,
coughing along up stream, so far off towards the other side you
couldn’t tell nothing about her only whether she was stern-wheel or
side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn’t be nothing to
hear nor nothing to see—just solid lonesomeness. Next you’d see a
raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galootcq on it
chopping, because they’re most always doing it on a raft; you’d see
the ax flash, and come down—you don’t hear nothing; you see that ax
go up again, and by the time it’s above the man’s head, then you
hear the k‘chunk! it had took all that time to come over the
water. So we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the
stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things
that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn’t run
over them. A scowcr or a
raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and
laughing—heard them plain; but we couldn’t see no sign of them; it
made you feel crawly, it was like spirits carrying 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 the middle, we let her alone, and let her float
wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and
dangled our legs in the water and talked about all kinds of
things—we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes
would let us—the new clothes Buck’s folks made for me was too good
to be comfortable, and besides I didn’t go much on clothes,
nohow.
Sometimes we’d have that whole river all to
ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the
islands, across the water; and maybe a spark—which was a candle in
a cabin window—and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or
two—on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you 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 speckled with
stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and
discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened—Jim he
allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it
would have 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. Jim allowed 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 the dark, and now and then she would belch a
whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain
down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a
corner and her lights would wink out and her pow-wow shut off and
leave the river still again; and by-and-by her waves would get to
us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and
after that you wouldn’t hear nothing for you couldn’t tell how
long, except maybe frogs or something.
After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and
then for two or three hours the shores was black—no more sparks in
the cabin windows. These sparks was our clock—the first one that
showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide
and tie up, right away.
One morning about day-break, I found a canoe and
crossed over a chute to the main shore—it was only two hundred
yards—and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress
woods, to see if I couldn’t get some berries. Just as I was passing
a place where a kind of a cow-path crossed the crick, here comes a
couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I
thought I was a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody I
judged it was me-or maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from
there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung
out and 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. They wanted to jump right in, but I says—
“Don’t you do it. I don’t hear the dogs and horses
yet; you’ve got time to crowd through the brush and get up the
crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me
and get in—that’ll throw the dogs off the scent.”
They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out
for our tow head, and in 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 see them; they seemed to stop and
fool around a while; then, as we got further and further away all
the time, we couldn’t hardly hear them at all; by the time we had
left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was
quiet, and we paddled over to the tow-head and hid in the
cotton-woods and was safe.
One of these fellows was about seventy, or upwards,
and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an old
battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt, and
ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot tops, and
home-knit gallusescs—no,
he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with
slick brass buttons, flung over his arm, and both of them had big
fat ratty-looking carpet-bags.24
The other fellow was about thirty and dressed about
as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the
first thing that come out was 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—and it does take it off, too, and generly the
enamel along with it—but I staid about one night longer than I
ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across
you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were
coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I told 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-runnin’ a little temperance
revival thar, ‘bout a week, and was the pet of the women-folks, big
and little, for I was makin’ it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell
you, and takin’ as much as five or six dollars a night—ten cents a
head, children and niggers free—and business a growin’ all the
time; when somehow or another a little report got around, last
night, that I had a way of puttin’ in my time with a private jug,
on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin’, and told me the
people was getherin’ on the quiet, with their dogs and horses, and
they’d be along pretty soon and give me ‘bout half an hour’s start,
and then run me down, if they could; and if they got me they’d tar
and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn’t wait for no
breakfast—I warn’t hungry.”
“Old man,” says the young one, “I reckon we might
double-team it together; what do you think?”
“I ain’t undisposed. What’s your
line—mainly?”
“Jour printer,ct by
trade; do a little in patent medicines; theatre-actor—tragedy, you
know; take a turn at mesmerism and phrenology25 when
there’s a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change;
sling a lecture, sometimes—oh, I do lots of things—most anything
that comes handy, so it ain’t work. What’s your lay?”
“I’ve done considerable in the doctoring way in my
time. Layin’ on o’ hands is my best holt—for cancer, and paralysis,
and sich things; and I k’n tell a fortune pretty good, when I’ve
got somebody along to find out the 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 sigh and says—
“Alas!”
“What’re you alassin’ about?” says the
baldhead.
“To think I should have lived to be leading such a
life, and be degraded down into such company.” And he begun to wipe
the corner of his eye with a rag.
“Dern your skin, ain’t the company good enough for
you?” says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
“Yes, it is good enough for me; it’s as good as I
deserve; for who fetched 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. Let the cold world do its
worst; one thing I know—there’s a grave somewhere for me. The world
may go on just as its always done, and take everything from
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 heart
will be at rest.” He went on a-wiping.
“Drot your pore broken heart,” says the baldhead;
“what are you heaving your 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 brought myself down—yes, I did it myself. It’s right I
should suffer—perfectly right—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, fled to this country about the end of the last
century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and
died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The
second son of the late duke seized the title and estates—the infant
real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant—I
am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn
from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world,
ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companionship of
felons on a raft!”
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried
to comfort him, but he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t be much
comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do
him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he
would tell us how. He said we ought to bow, when we spoke to him,
and say “Your Grace,” or “My Lord,” or “Your Lordship”—and he
wouldn’t mind it if we called him plain “Bridgewater,” which he
said was a title, anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to
wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted
done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through
dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, “Will yo’
Grace have some o’ dis, or some o’ dat?” and so on, and a body
could see it was mighty pleasing to him.
But the old man got pretty silent, by-and-by—didn’t
have much to say, and didn’t look pretty comfortable over all that
petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have
something on his mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says:
“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation
sorry for you, but you ain’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 down wrongfully out’n a high place.”
“Alas!”
“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret
of his birth.” And by jing, 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, “The 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 moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy
the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette.”
“You! At your age! No! You mean you’re the late
Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the
very least.”
“Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done
it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature
balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before 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 to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and
proud we’d got him with us, too. So we 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 all could do him any
good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a
while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down
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
presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him,
and doing this and that and t‘other for him, and standing up till
he told us we might set down. This done him heaps of good, and so
he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on
him, and didn’t look a bit satisfied with the way things was going;
still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the
duke’s great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was
a good deal thought of by his father and was allowed to come
to the palace considerable; but the duke staid huffy a 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 make things oncomfortable. It ain’t my fault
I warn’t born a duke, it ain’t your fault you warn’t born a king—so
what’s the use to worry? Make the best o’ things the way you find
‘em, says I—that’s my motto. This ain’t no bad thing that we’ve
struck here—plenty grub and an easy life—come, give us your hand,
Duke, and less all be friends.”
The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to
see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness, and we felt mighty
good over it, because it would 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 be satisfied, and feel right
and kind towards the others.
It didn’t take me long to make up my mind that
these liars warn’t no kings nor dukes, at all, but just low-down
humbugscu and
frauds. But I never 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 they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I
hadn’t no objections, ‘long as it would keep peace in the family;
and it warn’t no use to tell Jim, so I didn’t tell him. If I never
learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get
along with his kind of people is to let them have their own
way.