Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (15 page)

Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right; and was going to start for the raft; but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:

“Oh, please don‘t, boys; I swear I won’t ever tell!”

Another voice said, pretty loud:

“It’s a lie, Jim Turner. You’ve acted this way before. You always want more’n your share of the truck, and you’ve always got it, too, because you’ve swore ’t if you didn’t you’d tell. But this time you’ve said it jest one time too many. You’re the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country.”

By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn’t back out now, and so I won’t either; I’m agoing to see what’s going on here. So I dropped on my hands and knees, in the little passage, and crept aft
^bp
in the dark, till there warn’t but about one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. Then, in there I see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one kept pointing the pistol at the man’s head on the floor and saying—

“I’d like to! And I orter, too, a mean skunk!”

The man on the floor would shrivel up, and say: “Oh, please don‘t, Bill—I hain’t ever goin’ to tell.”

And every time he said that, the man with the lantern would laugh, and say:

“ ‘Deed you
ain’t!
You never said no truer thing ’n that, you bet you.” And once he said: “Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn’t got the best of him and tied him, he’d a killed us both. And what
for?
Jist for noth’n. Jist because we stood on our
rights
—that’s what for. But I lay you ain’t agoin’ to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put
up
that pistol, Bill.”

Bill says:

“I don’t want to, Jake Packard. I’m for killin’ him—and didn’t he kill old Hatfield jist the same way—and don’t he deserve it?”

“But I don’t
want
him killed, and I’ve got my reasons for it.”

“Bless yo’ heart for them words, Jake Packard! I’ll never forgit you, long’s I live!” says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering.

Packard didn’t take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail, and started towards where I was, there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I crawfished
^bq
as fast as I could, about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn’t make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man come a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says:

“Here—come in here.”

And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in, I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn’t see them, but I could tell where they was, by the whisky they’d been having. I was glad I didn’t drink whisky; but it wouldn’t made much difference, anyway, because most of the time they couldn’t a treed me because I didn’t breathe. I was too scared. And besides, a body
couldn’t
breathe, and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:

“He’s said he’ll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him
now,
it wouldn’t make no difference after the row, and the way we’ve served him. Shore’s you’re born, he’ll turn State’s evidence; now you hear
me.
I’m for putting him out of his troubles.”

“So’m I,” says Packard, very quiet.

“Blame it, I’d sorter begun to think you wasn’t. Well, then, that’s all right. Les’ go and do it.”

“Hold on a minute; I hain’t had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting’s good, but there’s quieter ways if the thing’s got to be done. But what
I
say, is this; it ain’t good sense to go court’n around after a halter,
^br
if you can git at what you’re up to in some way that’s jist as good and at the same time don’t bring you into no resks. Ain’t that so?”

“You bet it is. But how you goin’ to manage it this time?”

“Well, my idea is this: we’ll rustle around and gether up whatever pickins we’ve overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we’ll wait. Now I say it ain’t agoin’ to be more ’n two hours befo’ this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He’ll be drownded, and won’t have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that’s a considerble sight better’n killin’ of him. I’m unfavorable to killin’ a man as long as you can git around it; it ain’t good sense, it ain’t good morals. Ain’t I right?”

‘“Yes—I reck’n you are. But s’pose she
don’t
break up and wash off?”

“Well, we can wait the two hours anyway, and see, can’t we?”

“All right, then; come along.”

So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said in a kind of a coarse whisper, “Jim!” and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says:

“Quick, Jim, it ain’t no time for fooling around and moaning; there’s a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don’t hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can’t get away from the wreck, there’s one of ‘em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put
all
of ’em in a bad fix—for the Sheriff ’ll get ‘em. Quick—hurry! I’ll hunt the labboard
^bs
side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and—”

“Oh, my lordy, lordy!
Raf?
Dey ain’ no raf’ no mo‘, she done broke loose en gone!—’en here we is!”

W
ell, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn’t no time to be senti mentering.
^bt
We’d
got
to find that boat, now—had to have it for ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too—seemed a week before we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn’t believe he could go any further—so scared he hadn’t hardly any strength left, he said. But I said come on, if we get left on this wreck, we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled, again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door, there was the skiff, sure enough
^!
I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her; but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out, only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:

“Heave that blame lantern out o’ sight, Bill!”

He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself, and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill
he
come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice:

“All ready—shove off!”

I couldn’t hardly hang onto the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says:

“Hold on—’d you go through him?”

“No. Didn’t you?”

“No. So he’s got his share o’ the cash, yet.”

“Well, then, come along—no use to take truck and leave money.”

“Say—won’t he suspicion what we’re up to?”

“Maybe he won’t. But we got to have it anyway. Come along.” So they got out and went in.

The door slammed to, because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim come a tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!

We didn’t touch an oar, and we didn’t speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it.

When we was three or four hundred yards down stream, we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door, for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble, now, as Jim Turner was.

Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry about the men—I reckon I hadn’t had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain’t no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself, yet, and then how would
I
like it? So says I to Jim:

“The first light we see, we’ll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it’s a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then I’ll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes.”

But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds staid, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by-and-by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it.

It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We seen a light, now, away down to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole, there on the wreck. We hustled it onto the raft in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards it, three or four more showed—up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above the shore-light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by, I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff
^bu
of a double-hull ferry-boat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by-and-by I found him roosting on the bitts, forward, with his head down between his knees. I give his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry.

He stirred up, in a kind of a startlish way; when he see it was only me, he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says:

“Hello, what’s up? Don’t cry, bub. What’s the trouble?”

I says:

“Pap, and mam, and sis, and—”

Then I broke down. He says:

“Oh, dang it, now,
don’t
take on so, we all has to have our troubles and this’n ’ll come out all right. What’s the matter with ‘em?”

“They‘re—they’re—are you the watchman of the boat?”

“Yes,” he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. “I’m the captain and the owner, and the mate, and the pilot, and watchman, and head deck-hand; and sometimes I’m the freight and passengers. I ain’t as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can’t be so blame’ generous and good to Tom, Dick and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but I’ve told him a many a time’t I wouldn’t trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor’s life’s the life for me, and I’m derned if
I’d
live two mile out o’ town, where there ain’t nothing ever goin’ on, not for all his spondulicks
^bv
and as much more on top of it. Says I—”

I broke in and says:

“They’re in an awful peck
^bw
of trouble, and—”

“Who
is?”

“Why, pap, and mam, and sis, and Miss Hooker; and if you’d take your ferry-boat and go up there—”

“Up where? Where are they?”

“On the wreck.”

“What wreck?”

“Why, there ain’t but one.”

“What, you don’t mean the
Walter Scott?”

“Yes.”

“Good land! what are they doin’
there,
for gracious sakes?”

“Well, they didn’t go there a-purpose.”

“I bet they didn‘t! Why, great goodness, there ain’t no chance for ’em if they don’t git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?”

“Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting, up there to the town—”

“Yes, Booth’s Landing—go on.”

“She was a-visiting, there at Booth’s Landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry, to stay all night at her friend’s house, Miss What-you-may-call-her, I disremember her name, and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, sternfirst, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed
^bx
on the wreck, and the ferry man and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark, we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn’t notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so
we
saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple—and oh, he
was
the best cretur!—I most wish’t it had been me, I do.”

“My George! It’s the beatenest thing I ever struck. And
then
what did you all do?”

“Well, we hollered and took on, but it’s so wide there, we couldn’t make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn’t strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he’d fix the thing. I made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they said, ‘What, in such a night and such a current? there ain’t no sense in it; go for the steam-ferry.’ Now if you’ll go, and—”

“By Jackson, I’d
like
to, and blame it I don’t know but I will; but who in the dingnation‘s
^by
agoin’ to
pay
for it? Do you reckon your pap—”