CHAPTER XIX.
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 putin the time. ?It was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mileand a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon asnight was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly alwaysin the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods andwillows, and hid the raft with them. ?Then we set out the lines. ?Nextwe slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cooloff; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about kneedeep, and watched the daylight come. ?Not a sound anywheres--perfectlystill--just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogsa-cluttering, maybe. ?The first thing to see, looking away over thewater, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; youcouldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then morepaleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, andwarn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spotsdrifting along ever so far away--trading scows, and such things; andlong black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; orjumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by andby you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of thestreak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on itand makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up offof the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out alog-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side ofthe river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you canthrow a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, andcomes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smellon account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way,because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and theydo get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everythingsmiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish offof the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. ?And afterwards we would watchthe lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and bylazy off to sleep. ?Wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, andmaybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards theother side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she wasa stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't benothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. ?Nextyou'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on itchopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see theaxe flash and come down--you don't hear nothing; you see that axe goup 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 wewould put in the day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. ?Oncethere was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beatingtin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. ?A scow or araft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing andlaughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it madeyou 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 themiddle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wantedher to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, andtalked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night,whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes Buck's folks madefor me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go much onclothes, nohow.
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longesttime. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybea spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the wateryou could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybeyou 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 speckledwith stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, anddiscuss about whether they was made or only just happened. ?Jim heallowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it wouldhave 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 nothingagainst it, because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course itcould be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see themstreak down. ?Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of thenest.
Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in thedark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up outof her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awfulpretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out andher powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by herwaves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle theraft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn'ttell how long, except maybe frogs or something.
After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two orthree hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows.?These sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meantmorning 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 tothe main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mileup a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't get someberries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossedthe crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight asthey could foot it. ?I thought I was a goner, for whenever anybody wasafter anybody I judged it was _me_--or maybe Jim. ?I was about to dig outfrom there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sungout and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doingnothing, and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogsa-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 timeto crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then youtake to the water and wade down to me and get in--that'll throw the dogsoff 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'tsee them; they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then, as we gotfurther and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them atall; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck theriver, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hidin the cottonwoods and was safe.
One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald headand very gray whiskers. ?He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, anda greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffedinto his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. ?He hadan old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung overhis arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. ?Afterbreakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come outwas 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--andit does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but Istayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the actof sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, andyou told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. ?SoI 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' itmighty warm for the rummies, I _tell_ you, and takin' as much as fiveor six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and nig
gers free--andbusiness a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little reportgot around last night that I had a way of puttin' in my time with aprivate jug on the sly. ?A nigger rousted me out this mornin', and toldme the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, andthey'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 tarand feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. ?I didn't wait for nobreakfast--I warn't hungry."
"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team ittogether; 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 phrenologywhen there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change;sling a lecture sometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most anything thatcomes 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 Ik'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find outthe 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 sighand says:
"Alas!"
"What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-head.
"To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degradeddown into such company." ?And he begun to wipe the corner of his eyewith a rag.
"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says thebaldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
"Yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for whofetched 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 itall. ?Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know--there's a gravesomewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always done, and takeeverything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't takethat. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor brokenheart will be at rest." ?He went on a-wiping.
"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heavingyour 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 broughtmyself down--yes, I did it myself. ?It's right I should suffer--perfectlyright--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--'tisno 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, fledto this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pureair of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own fatherdying about the same time. ?The second son of the late duke seized thetitles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. ?I am the linealdescendant of that infant--I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; andhere am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despisedby the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to thecompanionship of felons on a raft!"
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, buthe said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if wewas a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than mostanything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. ?He said weought 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; andone of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing forhim he wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. ?All through dinner Jim stoodaround and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have some o' dis orsome o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing tohim.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, anddidn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going onaround that duke. ?He seemed to have something on his mind. ?So, alongin the afternoon, he says:
"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but youain'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 downwrongfully 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 momenton the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy theSixteen and Marry Antonette."
"You! ?At your age! ?No! ?You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you mustbe six or seven hundred years old, at the very least."
"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brungthese gray hairs and this premature balditude. ?Yes, gentlemen, yousee 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 todo, 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 donewith it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feeleasier and better for a while if people treated him according to hisrights, 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 downin 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 hetold us we might set down. ?This done him heaps of good, and so hegot cheerful and comfortable. ?But the duke kind of soured on him, anddidn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still,the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke'sgreat-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a gooddeal thought of by _his_ father, and was allowed to come to the palaceconsiderable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by theking says:
"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yerraft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? ?It 'll onlymake 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 easylife--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 tookaway all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, becauseit would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on theraft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybodyto 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 nokings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. ?But Inever 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 theywanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long asit would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to
tell Jim, soI didn't tell him. ?If I never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learntthat the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let themhave their own way.