The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Complete
furiously, even if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest
rose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its
fastenings and went winging away on the blast. The boys seized each
others’ hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter
of a great oak that stood upon the riverbank. Now the battle was at its
highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed
in the skies, everything below stood out in cleancut and shadowless
distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the
driving spray of spumeflakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on
the other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloudrack and the slanting
veil of rain. Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight
and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging
thunderpeals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp,
and unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in one matchless effort
that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to
the treetops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one
and the same moment. It was a wild night for homeless young heads to be
out in.
But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and
weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The
boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still
something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter
of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were
not under it when the catastrophe happened.
Everything in camp was drenched, the campfire as well; for they were but
heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against
rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and
chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently
discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had
been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from
the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they
patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under
sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they
piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were
gladhearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast,
and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their
midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep
on, anywhere around.
As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over
them, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got
scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After
the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once
more. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as
he could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or
anything. He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of
cheer. While it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This was
to knock off being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change.
They were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were
stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many
zebras—all of them chiefs, of course—and then they went tearing through
the woods to attack an English settlement.
By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each
other from ambush with dreadful warwhoops, and killed and scalped each
other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an extremely
satisfactory one.
They assembled in camp toward suppertime, hungry and happy; but now
a difficulty arose—hostile Indians could not break the bread of
hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple
impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other
process that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished
they had remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with such
show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and
took their whiff as it passed, in due form.
And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had
gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without
having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to
be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high
promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper,
with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were
prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been
in the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to
smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at
present.
CHAPTER XVII
But there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday
afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly’s family, were being put into
mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed
the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.
The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked
little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to
the children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them
up.
In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing
there to comfort her. She soliloquized:
“Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven’t got
anything now to remember him by.” And she choked back a little sob.
Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
“It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn’t say
that—I wouldn’t say it for the whole world. But he’s gone now; I’ll
never, never, never see him any more.”
This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling
down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls—playmates of Tom’s
and Joe’s—came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking
in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw
him, and how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful
prophecy, as they could easily see now!)—and each speaker pointed out
the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added
something like “and I was a-standing just so—just as I am now, and as if
you was him—I was as close as that—and he smiled, just this way—and then
something seemed to go all over me, like—awful, you know—and I never
thought what it meant, of course, but I can see now!”
Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or
less tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided
who _did_ see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them,
the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance,
and were gaped at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had
no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the
remembrance:
“Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once.”
But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,
and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away,
still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell
began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still
Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush
that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment
in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there
was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses
as the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None
could remember when the little church had been so full before. There
was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly
entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in
deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.
There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled
sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving
hymn was sung, and the text followed: “I am the Resurrection and the
Life.”
As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the
graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that
every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang
in remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always
before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor
boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the
departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the
people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes
were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had
seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation
became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last
the whole company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus
of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and
crying in the pulpit.
There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later
the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above
his handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then another pair
of eyes followed the minister’s, and then almost with one impulse the
congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up
the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags,
sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery
listening to their own funeral sermon!
Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored
ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while
poor Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what
to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and
started to slink away, but Tom seized him and said:
“Aunt Polly, it ain’t fair. Somebody’s got to be glad to see Huck.”
“And so they shall. I’m glad to see him, poor motherless thing!” And
the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing
capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: “Praise God from
whom all blessings flow—_sing_!—and put your hearts in it!”
And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and
while it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the
envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the
proudest moment of his life.
As the “sold” congregation trooped out they said they would almost be
willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that
once more.
Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day—according to Aunt Polly’s varying
moods—than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which
expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.
CHAPTER XVIII
That was Tom’s great secret—the scheme to return home with his brother
pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the
Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles
below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town
till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys
and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of
invalided benches.