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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 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 *** 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 *** 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
bald-head.
"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.