Life on the Mississippi. Марк Твен
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here to the fire, and less see what you’re up to here,’ says Davy. ‘Now set down there and give an account of yourself. How long have you been aboard here?’
‘Not over a quarter of a minute, sir,’ says I.
‘How did you get dry so quick?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’m always that way, mostly.’
‘Oh, you are, are you. What’s your name?’
I warn’t going to tell my name. I didn’t know what to say, so I just says —
‘Charles William Allbright, sir.’
Then they roared – the whole crowd; and I was mighty glad I said that, because maybe laughing would get them in a better humor.
When they got done laughing, Davy says —
‘It won’t hardly do, Charles William. You couldn’t have growed this much in five year, and you was a baby when you come out of the bar’l, you know, and dead at that. Come, now, tell a straight story, and nobody’ll hurt you, if you ain’t up to anything wrong. What is your name?’
‘Aleck Hopkins, sir. Aleck James Hopkins.’
‘Well, Aleck, where did you come from, here?’
‘From a trading scow. She lays up the bend yonder. I was born on her. Pap has traded up and down here all his life; and he told me to swim off here, because when you went by he said he would like to get some of you to speak to a Mr. Jonas Turner, in Cairo, and tell him – ’
‘Oh, come!’
‘Yes, sir; it’s as true as the world; Pap he says – ’
‘Oh, your grandmother!’
They all laughed, and I tried again to talk, but they broke in on me and stopped me.
‘Now, looky-here,’ says Davy; ‘you’re scared, and so you talk wild. Honest, now, do you live in a scow, or is it a lie?’
‘Yes, sir, in a trading scow. She lays up at the head of the bend. But I warn’t born in her. It’s our first trip.’
‘Now you’re talking! What did you come aboard here, for? To steal?’
‘No, sir, I didn’t. – It was only to get a ride on the raft. All boys does that.’
‘Well, I know that. But what did you hide for?’
‘Sometimes they drive the boys off.’
‘So they do. They might steal. Looky-here; if we let you off this time, will you keep out of these kind of scrapes hereafter?’
‘’Deed I will, boss. You try me.’
‘All right, then. You ain’t but little ways from shore. Overboard with you, and don’t you make a fool of yourself another time this way. – Blast it, boy, some raftsmen would rawhide you till you were black and blue!’
I didn’t wait to kiss good-bye, but went overboard and broke for shore. When Jim come along by and by, the big raft was away out of sight around the point. I swum out and got aboard, and was mighty glad to see home again.
The boy did not get the information he was after, but his adventure has furnished the glimpse of the departed raftsman and keelboatman which I desire to offer in this place.
I now come to a phase of the Mississippi River life of the flush times of steamboating, which seems to me to warrant full examination – the marvelous science of piloting, as displayed there. I believe there has been nothing like it elsewhere in the world.
Chapter 4
The Boys’ Ambition
WHEN I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my comrades in our village1 on the west bank of the Mississippi River. That was, to be a steamboatman. We had transient ambitions of other sorts, but they were only transient. When a circus came and went, it left us all burning to become clowns; the first negro minstrel show that came to our section left us all suffering to try that kind of life; now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates. These ambitions faded out, each in its turn; but the ambition to be a steamboatman always remained.
Once a day a cheap, gaudy packet arrived upward from St. Louis, and another downward from Keokuk. Before these events, the day was glorious with expectancy; after them, the day was a dead and empty thing. Not only the boys, but the whole village, felt this. After all these years I can picture that old time to myself now, just as it was then: the white town drowsing in the sunshine of a summer’s morning; the streets empty, or pretty nearly so; one or two clerks sitting in front of the Water Street stores, with their splint-bottomed chairs tilted back against the wall, chins on breasts, hats slouched over their faces, asleep – with shingle-shavings enough around to show what broke them down; a sow and a litter of pigs loafing along the sidewalk, doing a good business in watermelon rinds and seeds; two or three lonely little freight piles scattered about the ‘levee;’ a pile of ‘skids’ on the slope of the stone-paved wharf, and the fragrant town drunkard asleep in the shadow of them; two or three wood flats at the head of the wharf, but nobody to listen to the peaceful lapping of the wavelets against them; the great Mississippi, the majestic, the magnificent Mississippi, rolling its mile-wide tide along, shining in the sun; the dense forest away on the other side; the ‘point’ above the town, and the ‘point’ below, bounding the river-glimpse and turning it into a sort of sea, and withal a very still and brilliant and lonely one. Presently a film of dark smoke appears above one of those remote ‘points;’ instantly a negro drayman, famous for his quick eye and prodigious voice, lifts up the cry, ‘S-t-e-a-m-boat a-comin’!’ and the scene changes! The town drunkard stirs, the clerks wake up, a furious clatter of drays follows, every house and store pours out a human contribution, and all in a twinkling the dead town is alive and moving.
Drays, carts, men, boys, all go hurrying from many quarters to a common center, the wharf. Assembled there, the people fasten their eyes upon the coming boat as upon a wonder they are seeing for the first time. And the boat is rather a handsome sight, too. She is long and sharp and trim and pretty; she has two tall, fancy-topped chimneys, with a gilded device of some kind swung between them; a fanciful pilot-house, a glass and ‘gingerbread’, perched on top of the ‘texas’ deck behind them; the paddle-boxes are gorgeous with a picture or with gilded rays above the boat’s name; the boiler deck, the hurricane deck, and the texas deck are fenced and ornamented with clean white railings; there is a flag gallantly flying from the jack-staff; the furnace doors are open and the fires glaring bravely; the upper decks are black with passengers; the captain stands by the big bell, calm, imposing, the envy of all; great volumes of the blackest smoke are rolling and tumbling out of the chimneys – a husbanded grandeur created with a bit of pitch pine just before arriving at a town; the crew are grouped on the forecastle; the broad stage is run far out over the port bow, and an envied deckhand stands picturesquely on the end of it with a coil of rope in his hand; the pent steam is screaming through the gauge-cocks, the captain lifts his hand, a bell rings, the wheels stop; then they turn back, churning the water to foam, and the steamer is at rest. Then such a scramble as there is to get aboard, and to get ashore, and to take in freight and to discharge freight, all at one and the same time; and such a yelling and cursing as the mates facilitate it all with! Ten minutes later the steamer is under way again, with no flag on the jack-staff and no black smoke issuing from the chimneys. After ten more minutes the town is dead again, and the town drunkard asleep by the skids once more.
My father was a justice of the peace, and I supposed he possessed the power of life and death over all men and could hang anybody that offended him. This was distinction enough for me as a general thing; but the desire to be a steamboatman kept intruding, nevertheless. I first wanted to be a cabin-boy, so that I could come out with a white apron on and shake a tablecloth over the side, where all my old comrades could see me; later I thought I would rather be the deckhand who stood on the end of the stage-plank with the coil of rope in his hand, because he was particularly conspicuous. But these were only day-dreams, – they were too heavenly to be contemplated as real possibilities. By and by one of
Hannibal, Missouri