Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

There is nothing which can roughhouse a little boat as shamefully as two big boats; from the government tug there came a fan-shaped stern-wave four feet high, rode under the _Mud Hen_, hoisted her nearly end on end, and let her down. Then the wash from the side-wheel steamboat met the tug’s stern-wave, rode over it like a petrel, and came aboard the _Mud Hen_ for a friendly call on the new owners.

Four hundred barrels of nice, wet Mississippi River water sat down in the laps of the terrified Tickfall quartet and embraced them lovingly.

Then this colored quartet sang a scale of ninety or one hundred assorted yells never before introduced in any musical composition. In fact, they put their souls in their voices with such surprising effect that it introduced them to sounds from their throats which they did not know up to that time they possessed.

The _Mud Hen_ turned completely around three times, tossed on the current like a match-box, stood on first one end and then the other, and pretty nearly straight down.

The experience was not dangerous, merely exciting; but the quartet did not know that, and when at last the river quieted, and they found themselves still afloat, they regarded it as a miracle wrought by the mercy of heaven.

It was five minutes before Skeeter Butts could recover his breath and crawl to the wheel. Five minutes more passed before he was able to speak a word. Then in a dry tone--the only dry thing about Skeeter--he said:

“I wus fixin’ to turn aroun’ at de bend, anyhow. I figger it’s ’bout time we wus gittin’ back to de automobile.”

The hour’s ride back to the Tickfall landing was free from conversation. Not even Vinegar Atts could think up anything to say. Each had bidden farewell to the world a few minutes before, and now in a sense of great deliverance, they were trying to repossess it.

As they approached the landing their courage slowly revived.

“Dem two boats sot us right behime death’s door, Skeeter,” Vinegar remarked in a weak voice.

“It squoze me up some in death’s door,” Skeeter chattered, slapping at his wet garments. “Dat expe’unce is done ruint me--I won’t never be de same agin.”

“I’se glad it happened,” Hitch Diamond growled. “It wus a powerful good try-out fer dis boat. I don’t believe nothing kin sink her now!”

“Ain’t it de trufe!” Figger Bush quacked. “I ain’t never gwine be skeart on dis _Mud Hen_ no mo’.”

“You look at dat glass water-tube an’ see is de b’iler got plenty water in it!” Skeeter barked. “Mebbe some spilt out when we wus mighty nigh upsot.”

Figger skipped to the water-gage and grinned triumphantly.

“She’s all right,” he yelped. “Is you keepin’ yo’ eye on dat ole steam-gage?”

Skeeter was.

In fact, he was gazing at that steam-gage with hypnotic fascination. He swallowed a succession of Adam’s apples like a string of smoked sausages before he could speak.

Skeeter knew precious little about machinery. Pipe Smash’s solemn and impressive warning about the steam-gage of the _Mud Hen_ had scared him. His experience on the river with the two big boats had fortunately not upset the _Mud Hen_, but it had considerably upset Skeeter’s mind and his judgment. What Skeeter thought he saw that steam-gage doing is a mechanical impossibility, but his announcement had a startling effect.

“Come here, fellers, an’ look at dis steam-gage!” he wailed. “Dat indicator is done gone plum’ aroun’ de face of dat clock five times an’--she’s--gwine--aroun’--again!”

“My Gawd!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “Dis _Mud Hen_ is gittin’ ready to bust! Jump! Jump fer yo’ lives!”

Four negroes went over the side into the middle of the river.

The _Mud Hen_, paddling busily, kept to the current and moved serenely down the river.

Then, while the four frightened negroes got the shore, frog-fashion, Pipe Smash climbed out from his hiding place in front of the engine, and laid his experienced hand upon the pilot-wheel of the _Mud Hen_.

He glanced at the steam-gage, and the indicator pointed steadily at sixty degrees of steam. Skeeter’s terrified eyes had played a trick on him!

“Gosh!” Pipe Smash exclaimed with a wicked grin. “I never had no idear dat steam-gage wus gwine skeer dem coons. I had a notion dey would leave dis boat when dey got kotch in de big wash of de steamboat gwine up de river. I wus plannin’ on dat.”

He stooped and threw a shovelful of coal into the furnace, and chuckled aloud:

“I fergot to tell Skeeter dat de furnace of dis engine wus so little dat nobody cain’t git up mo’ dan sixty pounds of steam--’tain’t no danger of dis engine bustin’ onless de b’iler runs dry. Excusin’ dat, dis here indicator cain’t slip aroun’ five times like Skeeter said it done--after it gits past dat biggest number on de gage, it hits a peg! I figger dat Skeeter was skeart!”

Pipe walked to the stem of the boat and shading his eyes looked up the river to the Tickfall landing. He waved his hat in the air and whooped, making more noise than his steamboat whistle.

Standing upon the shore, dripping puddles from their water-soaked garments, the Tickfall quartet heard that ironical whoop.

Broken-hearted and disconsolate, they watched their boat move serenely around the lower bend and pass out of sight in the gold and purple haze of the setting sun.

Returning to Tickfall in the automobile, the four negroes made much talk over the loss of the _Mud Hen_.

“We bought dat boat good an’ hones’ wid real money,” Skeeter mourned. “Pipe Smash stole it from us.”

“Mebbe so,” Vinegar Atts growled. “But it ’pears to me like we left dat boat in de middle of de river, an’ dat’s jes de same as givin’ it to any nigger dat’s willin’ to ketch holt.”

“Dat’s de way I felt when I left her,” Figger Bush cackled. “I warn’t needin’ no steamboat jes’ den. Skeeter said dat steam-gage wus a cuttin’ up! I tuck his word fer it ’thout lookin’.”

“Us, too!” Hitch and Vinegar agreed.

“Nothin’ didn’t ail dat steam-gage,” Skeeter snapped. “Dat boat didn’t bust-she never would ’a’ busted. My eyes wus kinder jiggerty an’ I couldn’t look real good.”

“You didn’t talk that way on de boat,” Vinegar Atts growled. “I done loss my twenty-five dollars because you didn’t hab sense enough to watch yo’ bizziness!”

“My hind-sight is always better’n my eye-sight,” Skeeter Butts replied in piteous accents.

“I must hab got started wrong end foremost in dis worl’, for I never sees nothin’ till I gits past it.”

“Stop blimblammin’, niggers!” Commodore Hitch Diamond ordered. “Mebbe we’ll git back to Tickfall in time to see de fire-works.”

“Dat reminds my mind!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed. “Marse Tom Gaitskill tole us to git back from de river in time to he’p him shoot ’em off!”

The Fourth of July in Tickfall was a Gaitskill institution.

In the month of May, 1865, Tom Gaitskill returned to Tickfall in the tattered gray of a Confederate soldier--a colonel at nineteen years of age.

He cast off the past with his worn-out garments, married a beautiful girl, and started with her, hand in hand, along the paths of peace.

Two months later, on the Fourth of July, he dragged the only cannon Tickfall possessed to the top of the hill in front of his house, invited every white child and every negro piccaninny to his home to witness the celebration, and with his own hands fired one shot from the cannon for every year of independence in the United States of America.

As the years passed, the Gaitskill Fourth of July celebration grew and developed and became a social institution, until finally, when wealth flowed in upon Gaitskill in a golden stream, he made it a practice to entertain the whole population of the village on that night.

The fiftieth celebration was now in progress.

On Gaitskill’s spacious lawn in front of his house, all the white people, men, women, and children, had assembled; in a large horse-lot by the side of the house, all the negroes had congregated; across the street in a large pasture was an immense accumulation of fire-works.

Fifty years had performed gracious offices for Tom Gaitskill and his wife. The beauty and nobility of honorable old age was theirs, as they stood beside the white colonial columns of their home and welcomed their guests, white and black. The two presented a picture which a man sees once in a lifetime--then remembers it forever more.

Suddenly “Old Sneezer,” the venerable Tickfall cannon, boomed!

“Come on, Skeeter!” Hitch Diamond growled. “We better go over in de pasture an’ he’p de white folks shoot off de works!”

“Hitch,” Skeeter answered pitifully, “I feels powerful sick. It ’pears like I cain’t git dat steamboat offen my mind. You an’ Vinegar an’ Figger go over an’ he’p de white folks an’ let me set an’ ponder a while.”

“All right!” Hitch growled. “But ef Marse Tom ketches you cuttin’ out wuck, he’ll kick you all over dis hoss-lot!”

Old Sneezer boomed again!

Then for two hours the population of Tickfall sat entranced.

Numberless roman candles shot their balls high in the air with a graceful curve, countless sky-rockets burst above their heads in a shower of sparks, an artillery fire of bombs burst into stars over them, cataracts of red, white, and blue fire flowed in a tumbling stream, horses, bicycles, automobiles, and whole strings of railroad cars traveled across the pasture, while through it all sounded the boom! boom! boom! of old Sneezer, the cannon, counting the number of years of our national independence!

In the midst of this celebration, Skeeter Butts was suddenly galvanized into action by a great idea. He went racing across the street into the pasture, and drew Hitch Diamond and Figger Bush to one side.

“Listen, niggers!” he panted. “Rake off some of dese here fireworks! Marse Tom is got a heap mo’ dan he needs! Swipe out a few!”

Following his own suggestion, Skeeter seized a keg of calcium powder and ran across the pasture, setting it in the corner of the fence. He was followed shortly by Hitch Diamond and Figger Bush, one bringing an unopened package of roman candles and the other a package of sky-rockets.

“Dat’s plenty of dis kind of truck, fellers!” Skeeter cackled. “Go back an’ rake off de bigges’ cannon pop-crackers you kin find!”

From that moment Skeeter became an active assistant in the celebration, and when the old cannon boomed for the last time and the fire-works ended with a final set-piece which revealed the American Flag, twenty feet high and nearly forty feet long, the populace of Tickfall roared their hearty approbation to the skies.

Ten minutes later a procession of negroes marched down the hill from the Gaitskill home, their glorious, pipe-organ voices chanting the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

“Glory! Glory! Halleluiah!
Our God is marching on!”

At midnight the marching column of singing negroes disbanded.

“Vinegar,” Skeeter said, “me an’ Figger an’ Hitch is decided to go to Kerlerac in de automobile an’ git in on de nigger dance at dat place.”

“I ain’t gwine!” Vinegar answered. “’Tain’t fitten fer a nigger preacher to dance. Excusin’ dat, I’s too fat an’ de women folks step on my foots.”

“You got to go!” Skeeter wailed. “You got to he’p Hitch Diamond push de auto through de sand!”

“Dat’s right,” Vinegar acceded. “You can’t trabbel nowhere widout my muscle. I’ll tag along wid you-alls!”

When they got to the automobile Vinegar found certain mysterious bundles piled up in the machine.

“Whut is dis?” he demanded.

“Fire-works!” Skeeter snickered. “We raked off a few so we could go to Kerlerac an’ surprise dem niggers!”

“I’s glad I’s gwine!” Vinegar chuckled. “I bet us will hab plenty big doin’s!”

Three hours later Skeeter stopped his machine at the foot of the Mississippi protection levee at Kerlerac. The town was asleep. There were no electric lights and the river fog concealed the stars, making total darkness.

“Vinegar,” Skeeter said, “does you still mourn de loss of dat stove-pipe preachin’ hat whut you drapped in de river to-day?”

“I suttinly do!” Vinegar growled.

“Would you wish to earn another good silk hat by a little wuck?” Skeeter inquired next.

“Shorely.”

“I’ll make you a present of a ten-dollar silk hat, white silk linin’ on de inside an’ slick, shiny fur on de outside wid a red silk handkercher to slick it up wid, ef you’ll take my auto back to Tickfall to-night an’ meet me at de Tickfall landin’ on de river to-morrow mawnin’,” Skeeter Butts said.

“Whut--whut----”

“Don’t ax no ’terrogations!” Skeeter snapped.

“I’ll do it!” Vinegar howled.

Hitch Diamond lifted out the bundles, and Vinegar sat down at the wheel, turned the machine, and roared his farewell to the men.

Picking up the bundles, Skeeter led his friends down the levee for a short distance, stopping when he saw a black shape on the water.

Taking an electric flashlight from his pocket, Skeeter sent the glare across to the bulky object looming in the darkness.

“Look at dat!” Hitch Diamond growled. “Dar’s our boat! Dat’s shore de _Mud Hen_.”

Skeeter reflected the light upon the water beside the boat until it rested upon a canoe.

“Pipe Smash is on dat boat now!” Figger Bush whispered. “I bet he got drunk at de nigger dance an’ is sound asleep!”

“Now, fellers,” Skeeter began, “you listen to me----”

Skeeter talked like a grape-juice orator for five minutes, and his audience of two listened with breathless attention.

After that Skeeter went aboard the boat, climbing the rope hand over hand, and paddled the canoe back for his bundles and his friends.

Pipe Smash lay in a drunken slumber on the deck with his head toward the warm furnace of the engine.

Skeeter untied the boat from a stump, paddled to the _Mud Hen_, climbed aboard, and let the steamboat drift slowly out into the current.

When they had floated about two miles below Kerlerac, where the heavy woods lay upon each side of the river, Skeeter crawled upon his hands and knees, and from the keg which he had stolen from Gaitskill laid a heavy trail of calcium powder all around the boat.

Hitch opened the furnace door and laid twenty-four large sky-rockets on the hot ashes, and left the door open.

Figger Bush opened a package of roman-candles, scooped up a shovel of live coals from the furnace, and laid it beside the package.

Skeeter lighted the fuses of half a dozen immense cannon-crackers and dropped them carelessly near the sleeping form of Pipe Smash.

Then the three hid themselves where they could see without being seen.

The cannon-crackers exploded with a detonation which reverberated from the immense woods, shook every piece of wood in the fragile boat, and sounded like a little war.

Pipe Smash awoke from his deep dream of peace with a loud yelp. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering what had happened.

Instantly a trail of red fire, started by Skeeter Butts, changing to blue, yellow, green, and white, spun like a flaming snake around the deck of the boat, and Pipe Smash lay back on the deck, whirling over and over like a worm on a hot griddle, whooping like a siren.

From out of the furnace door twenty-four skyrockets roared, shot out over Pipe’s head, struck the deck with a hiss changing to a loud screech, ricochetted around the boat, and burst into ten thousand stars against the puny smoke-stack and the fragile roof.

In a split second Pipe Smash was as crazy as a bug with fright.

He spun around that boat-deck like a cat in a fit, squalled and spat and screeched and scratched, rolled and tumbled, jumped to his feet and kicked, fell flat on his back, rolled over, crawled on all fours, and performed every stunt within the range of physical activity.

To his terrified vision, the _Mud Hen_ was aglow with fire, the dense woods along the river were ablaze, the water was a glowing coal-ember, and the river fog twisted and turned and folded back upon itself and became great glowing blankets of flame. Earth and sky and water were wrapped in one horrible red conflagration, while from every part of the boat the tongues of flame leaped out, licking at his cringing flesh!

Pipe Smash shrieked and went over the side.

Keeping carefully concealed, Skeeter, Hitch, and Figger seized their roman-candles, lighted them by thrusting them in the hot embers in the shovel, and peppered the water around the struggling, shrieking, diving, choking, swimming negro as far as they could see him.

Then Skeeter dropped a live coal into the keg of calcium powder, and the boat was enveloped in a red glow of smoke and fire.

Running through the deep woods on the bank of the river, Pipe Smash glanced behind him and saw his steamboat blazing to the heavens, and bade it good-by forever.

Then followed darkness and great silence while the _Mud Hen_ drifted on the current.

Early that morning, as the _Mud Hen_, in the proud possession of her rightful owners, clucked noisily up to the Tickfall landing, the reverent Vinegar Atts climbed out of the automobile, stood up on the levee, belled his gorilla-like hands around his mouth, and in true orthodox, camp-meeting tones, gave the negro’s universal shout of happiness and victory:

“Bless Gawd!”

Two Sorry Sons of Sorrow.