It appealed a heap. Traveling along with the church Jim and me will blend right in and not be a boy and nigger on their own. I had my mind made up on it faster than a kingfisher scoops his lunch.
“Mr. McSween,” says I, “it’s a handsome offer and me and Samson is proud to join up with you.”
We shook hands all over again and Ma beamed and the Reverend Mordecai’s lip give a twitch to show he approved.
The seven virtues gathered in a mountain of brush and I give Jim a hand with the shoveling, then we filled the trenches with it and McSween whipped up the horses and out come the wagon with a sucking and a squelching. The seven virtues give a cheer and patted me on the head and one or three even kissed me. They was all passing pretty but one, which is Chastity, and she’s a pinhead without hardly room enough in her pointy little skull for a brain which accounts for her ways, jumping up and down and goo-gooing like an overgrowed baby. It’s sad to see but I reckon she’s happy in spite of it.
The whole tribe portioned theirselfs out among the first four wagons and Jim and me got to drive the last one with our mules unsaddled and tied on behind. Then we set off, bumping and bouncing along. There’s a little window behind the seat and Jim peeked inside the wagon and says it’s full of canvas and poles and ropes, so it’s their meeting tent like most Bible-thumpers use everywhere.
When evening come the lead wagon pulled off the road and the rest followed and got arranged in a square. Jim and me unhitched the teams and got them tethered to a rope between the trees and fed and watered them and give them a rubdown and last of all put a blanket over each. It was hard work but when we finished Ma McSween and the girls had food ready over a campfire and it was cheery to stand around watching the flames and eating plenty. The girls ain’t hardly shy at all and wanted to know all kinds of things about me, so I had to lie fast and free to keep up.
The Reverend et his food and went off somewheres and Faith or Hope, or maybe it’s Charity tells me Mordecai ain’t sociable like the rest and prefers to keep himself to himself. He’s a holy roller and don’t like to mix too much with ordinary folks in case some of his holiness rubs off and makes him impure. He don’t even sleep under a roof at night even in winter, just makes up a bed of brush for himself on the ground with a blanket for cover and a stone for a pillow. He done it for the mortification of his soul and to keep him in mind of how puny and weak he is in the sight of the Lord, only a human being after all, and God is partial to the humblest kind. I figured he’s a truly religious man or else a fool.
“Daughters,” says McSween, “why don’t we fire up the calliope and have us a rehearsal.”
. They scampered about with a will fetching armloads of kindling, and McSween got me and Jim to give him a hand with one of the wagons. It’s got walls that unbolt and can be lifted down and there she is, a steam calliope. There’s a whole forest of tall pipes with valves up and down them that little tin angels open and shut when you hit the keys, all covered in silver and gold and mighty pleasing to the eye. There’s a firebox underneath in the wagon bed that you feed from behind through a little door and a chimney for the smoke.
McSween stoked her up and pretty soon she’s hissing away like a bag of snakes and little wispy puffs of steam come leaking out here and there among the angels. He topped up the water tank from a barrel with a hand pump then sat himself down on a velvet stool and brung his gloves down hard on the keys. All them chubby angels flung back their arms and out come a blast of steam and sound from holes all over the pipes. He done it a few more times, clearing the tubes he calls it, then starts to play, and can’t he just! Them gloves fairly flew along the ivories like little animals, jumping and landing and leaping away again, galloping along up one end then turning around and haring back down to the other. The angels batted their arms in and out like they’re trying to fly and let free music that swooped and rolled like it’s alive, the thrillingest thing I ever heard. I reckon he could of played in one of them big sympathy orchestras.
Then he settled down some and done a regular church song, “Bringing in the Sheaves” and the seven virtues except Chastity started singing along, and their voices was sweet and harmonial and a treat to listen to. They followed up with “Rock of Ages” then “Come to Jesus” and finally let rip with “How Blessed Is Thy Face.” It’s just perfect the way they done it and McSween looked mighty pleased with the show.
Then the girls went and got a fiddle and harmonica and squeezebox and set to with more music and singing, not religious, the kind they play whenever folks want to dance and have a high old time. They played them insterments like a real music band, as good as McSween on the calliope, and right lively tunes they hammered out too, “Skip to My Lou” and such, and Ma and Pa McSween clapped hands along with it and Chastity too, only she kept getting it wrong, going too fast or slow, but nobody minded. Then Mercy or Hope or one of them grabbed ahold of me.
“Dance, Tom Sawyer,” she says, and I done it, bashful and clumsy at first, then the others joined in and flung me back and forth between them like niggers loading flour sacks, back and forth and spinning around till I don’t know which way is which and things is swirling around me and the blood goes rushing through my head with a roar and I staggered off away from them still spinning like a top and fell down in a tangled heap. They played on, faster and faster, and Jim all of a sudden jumped into the firelight and kicked up his heels and danced like he’s barefoot over hot coals. Them that warn’t playing danced around Jim with their skirts and hair flying they’re so frantic and fast, then even Jim got tuckered out and had to lean against a wagon. The McSween girls just went on flying around the fire till Grace or Hope or Constance went leaping over the flames with her petticoats showing and the rest followed on, laughing and whooping and landing nimble-footed and dancing on till they one by one give out and stood with their breath heaving in and out, enough to set a blacksmith’s forge aglow.
“Now then, daughters,” says McSween, “it’s time for bed. Say goodnight to Tom.”
They all sung out goodnight and I give it back to them and they trooped off into the wagons. Me and Jim and McSween bolted the walls back on the calliope, then he says to me:
“Young man, you will sleep in the tent wagon. Samson can do the same or sleep underneath if that’s your preference. Goodnight to you.”
“Goodnight, Mr. McSween, sir.”
Ma and Pa shared a wagon with Chastity on account of she’s still a baby in spite of being full growed, and the Reverend flung himself down on some brush all opened to the stars so’s he can talk personal to God. Jim and me clumb in among the canvas and spread ourselfs out on it for a mattress, lumpy but not too bad, and got wrapped up in our blankets snug and warm. Jim says:
“Huck, I’se mighty glad we run inter dese folks. Dey sure knows how to have fun. I ain’t felt dis good since befo’ de widder’s house burn down.”
“Me too, Jim. Our luck’s holding true.”
But there’s a voice inside of me that says our luck ain’t going to hold if the McSweens hear about Huck Finn the murderer. Jim started snoring right off but I lay there all restless and worried till I wore myself out with it and slid off into dreams. But even that never give me peace because here’s Pap stood over me with his hair hanging in his face and his tobacco breath stinking and he leers all crooked at me and says:
“You’re thinkin’ you seen the last of me, but it ain’t so. I reckon I’ll get you yet, same as I done the widow and the judge. They figured they was might clever, but I showed them who’s smart.”
“Please, Pap,” says I, “go away and let me be. I never done you no harm.”
“No harm!” he thunders. “Only made me look small in front of folks with your prissy ways and book learnin’! You ain’t no Finn, you’re the widow’s boy, and I made a vow I’d take my revenge on her kin, and it’s you. You better be watchin’ over your shoulder at night, boy.”
And he cackles and takes a swig from his bottle and vanishes. It warn’t the
pleasantest dream I ever had.
Next morning McSween hammered on the door to wake us. Breakfast got dished up, hot and plenty of it, and afterwards the girls sung stretches of song while they tidied up the place. I never come across such a happy crowd in one family, except for the Reverend who never spoke a word nor tested his face with a change of look now and then. Proberly the happiest was the pinhead, chasing around after birds that come down for scraps, but birds is hard to catch and she tripped and started blubbing till Ma give her a pat on her pointy head and a biscuit to chew.
I seen Reverend Mordecai watching me close, staring direct with his eyes, the kind that bore right through you. It made me nervous and edgy the way he done it, just standing and staring, and I wonder if God told him I’m wanted for murder.
Everything got packed away and the teams hitched and the wagons rolled out. There was more people on the road with us, all heading west in wagons and buckboards and light rigs, some just on horseback and others on foot, and we never needed to get told why they was all on the move; each and every one was headed for California. A man on horseback went along a little way with Jim and me, just jawing casual, and he wants to know if we’re going to California too.
“No, sir,” says I. “We’re the McSween Traveling Church of Christ the Lamb.”
“Don’t you want to get rich?” he says. “All you need to do is get to California and the hard work’s done. You just sit down on a rock to catch your breath after crossing the mountains, then when you’re rested up you just turn that rock over and there’s your gold waiting to be picked up. You can make a million dollars in a month, they say. I can’t hardly wait to get there and start turning them rocks over.”
He whipped his horse up and galloped on down the road and I seen he’s the foolishest kind of person that don’t know beans from bacon. Says I:
“There goes a prime idiot, Jim, and I bet he ain’t the only one, but it’s all to the good far as you and me’s concerned. Why, if there’s thousands of folk heading along the same route we’ll just slide in among them and get lost in the crowd.”
“You figure we goin’ to be safe when we gets past St. Joe, Huck?”
“I’m counting on it, Jim. They say there ain’t no law once you cross the Missouri. It’s just wide-open country and every man has to carry a notion of what’s right and wrong inside of him, and if you get in trouble you just have to get yourself out of it again. It’s total and positive freedom, which is good or bad depending on who you are and who’s along with you.”
“You an’ me gets along jest fine, Huck.”
“That’s true, but you got to take into account all them that’s alongside you, so we got to pick and choose who we let come with us. It’s a long way to California and poor company makes a journey longer. I wish the McSweens was going west. They’re about the finest company you could want.”
“You right ’bout dat, Huck.”
I warn’t at all, but that revelation come later.
Soon it come on to rain and poured down till the snow by the roadside got turned to slush. Even out in the fields it’s melting away fast, just patches left now. One of the virtues come back with rain slickers for us so it warn’t so bad seated out in the wet. A body’s face and hands got cold but it ain’t unbearable. Jim says:
“Is dere niggers out west, Huck?”
“I reckon not, just redskins.”
“How dat come to be?”
“On account of Missouri’s the westernest slave state. The country beyond that don’t belong to no one unless it’s the Injuns.”
“Ain’t dere no slaves?”
“Nary a one, Jim. You don’t need slaves where there ain’t no farms.”
He pondered on that awhile then says:
“Huck, I’se a free nigger. Miz Watson done it befo’ she died, an’ you paid de cash to get my fambly outer slavery too, an’ I reckon I bragged on it some at de time. Dat freedom got a powe’ful strong taste. But den it come to me I still ain’t free. I walk down de street an’ folks lookit me same as always. Freedom don’ make you white, an’ lessen you white you ain’t goin’ to get no respec’ from folks. So I still ain’t free. I’se hopin’ when we ain’t in Missouri no mo’ I’se goin’ to get a new kinder taste, real an’ true freedom, even if I’se de only nigger das aroun’ to taste her.”
Jim’s a nigger with high hopes all right.
Around noon we stopped and et and McSween come up to me and says:
“Tom, I’m going to trust you with a task of importance. Slocombe is only ten miles away now but the wagons will not reach there before night. What I want you to do is ride ahead on your mule and go see Mr. Trask that owns a farm on the north edge of town and tell him we’re on our way and can we have the same field as last year. If he says yes you give him this.” And he handed over two ten-dollar coins. “Then you ride into town and start nailing up these here posters anywhere there’s a wall, but first you have to pencil in ‘Trask’s Field, 8 P.M. Friday’ in the space at the bottom. Can you write?”
“Yessir, I write real good.”
He give me a canvas bag with a shoulder strap and inside there’s dozens of printed paper sheets and a hammer and twist of nails and a pencil. He made me repeat what I got to do then says:
“I’m giving you my trust, Tom. Don’t you go sliding off with my twenty dollars now. Remember, your nigger’s still back here with us.”
“I’d never let Samson go for just twenty dollars, Mr. McSween. He’d fetch eight hundred for sure.”
“Well that’s all right then. You saddle your mule and get along, and may the Lord go with you.”
I put the money in my left pocket to keep it apart from my own small change which is in the right, then got the mule ready. I slung the bag over my shoulder and cantered off, giving the wagons a wave when I passed. All the girls and Ma and Pa give me a wave and a cheer except Mordecai, who just stared. I could feel them eyes in my back till I rounded a bend. That man give me the uncomfortablest feeling.
A mule don’t want to gallop as a rule, but he’ll do it if you switch his rump with a stick and dig your heels considerable, which is what I done.
Slocombe is a big town compared to some, and I asked around for directions and pretty soon I’m knocking on Trask’s front door. It’s a rundown farm and I figure he’ll need that twenty dollars. A skinny woman opens the door and wants to know my business.
“I’m here for the McSween Traveling Church of Christ the Lamb, ma’am, and wanting to see Mr. Trask.”
Her face opened up a little and she says:
“Come in and I’ll fetch him directly. You can wait in the kitchen.”
I took a chair and she went out back hollering for him. It’s the miserablest kitchen I ever sat in but I never had to tolerate it long before Trask come stamping up the back steps. He come in and says:
“Where’s McSween?”
“He sent me along, Mr. Trask, sir. The wagons is too slow.”
“He tell you about the arrangement we got?”
“Yessir. Is it the same place as last year?”
“Tell him yes. You brung the money I hope.”
“Yessir, I did.”
I fished in my left pocket and there ain’t nothing there but a hole. McSween’s twenty dollars is lost in the mud somewhere along ten miles of road. I done some fast figuring and say:
“Excuse me, Mr. Trask, sir, could I make a visit to the outhouse?”
“It’s out back,” he says, and I went out there and sat on the board awhile then opened my shirt and hooked two ten-dollar bills out of my money belt. Then I went back inside and handed them over.
“There it is. I reckon I’ll be going now.”
“Wait awhile,” says Mrs. Trask. “Don’t you want a cup of coffee and a bite of food? You look mighty cold.”
Trask went out again and she fixed coffee and started in to fry eggs. I took out all the sheets and penciled in what McSween told me, still worried about them coins. If Trask lets on
I paid in bills he’ll smell a rat, definite. Mrs. Trask dished up and watched me chew and swaller.
“What’s your name?” she says.
“Tom Sawyer, ma’am.”
“You wasn’t with the church last year, was you?”
“No, ma’am. I just joined up a little while back. They’re real nice people.”
“Yes,” she says, but half-hearted, and there’s a worried look on her face. Then she says:
“So you ain’t acquainted with the running of things.”
“No, ma’am. I reckon I’ll see how it works tomorrow when they put on a show.”
“Don’t you let Mr. McSween hear you calling it a show. It’s a meeting.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll remember it.”
She’s quiet for a spell, then says:
“How old are you, Tom?”
“I was thirteen or fourteen last year, ma’am, so I figure I’m fourteen or fifteen this’n.”
“Well I’m going to give you some advice. Tomorrow night when the meeting’s on you go straight to bed after the singing stops.”
“Why, ma’am?”
“Never you mind, you just do it.”
“Yes, ma’am. A body gets up easier in the morning if he’s rested longer.”
“I can see you’re a sensible boy, Tom Sawyer. You mind my words and you’ll be the better for it. Do you want more coffee?”
“No thank you, ma’am. I’ll just finish the penciling and go. These all got to be nailed up around town before dark.”
“It’s gratifying to see a boy take his duties serious,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The way she talks is considerable mystifying, but I’m too minded about the money to try and figure it, and pretty soon I’m back in town and hammering away on walls everywhere. If it was wood and stood up straight it got a poster, sometimes two. They was eye-catchers all right, with big printed words that say: