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 daytimes;
soon as night was most gone we
stopped navigating and tied up
-- nearly always in the dead
water under a towhead; and then
cut young cottonwoods 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
bullfrogs 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 woodyard, 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 a 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
galoot on it chopping, because
they're most 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 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 scow 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 powwow 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 daybreak
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 cowpath
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
towhead, 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 towhead and hid in the
cottonwoods 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 woollen
shirt, and ragged old blue jeans
britches stuffed into his boot-tops,
and home-knit galluses -- 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.
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
stayed 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-running' 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," said 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
by trade; do a little in patent
medicines;
theater-actor -- tragedy, you
know; take a turn to mesmerism
and phrenology 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
considerble 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 it's 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 titles
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 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 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 stayed 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 le's 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 humbugs 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. |