Chapter 5 I Want to be a Cub-pilot

MONTHS afterward the hope within me struggled to a reluctant death, and

I found myself without an ambition. But I was ashamed to go home. I was

in Cincinnati, and I set to work to map out a new career. I had been

reading about the recent exploration of the river Amazon by an

expedition sent out by our government. It was said that the expedition,

owing to difficulties, had not thoroughly explored a part of the country

lying about the head-waters, some four thousand miles from the mouth of

the river. It was only about fifteen hundred miles from Cincinnati to

New Orleans, where I could doubtless get a ship. I had thirty dollars

left; I would go and complete the exploration of the Amazon. This was

all the thought I gave to the subject. I never was great in matters of

detail. I packed my valise, and took passage on an ancient tub called

the 'Paul Jones,' for New Orleans. For the sum of sixteen dollars I had

the scarred and tarnished splendors of 'her' main saloon principally to

myself, for she was not a creature to attract the eye of wiser

travelers.

When we presently got under way and went poking down the broad Ohio, I

became a new being, and the subject of my own admiration. I was a

traveler! A word never had tasted so good in my mouth before. I had an

exultant sense of being bound for mysterious lands and distant climes

which I never have felt in so uplifting a degree since. I was in such a

glorified condition that all ignoble feelings departed out of me, and I

was able to look down and pity the untraveled with a compassion that had

hardly a trace of contempt in it. Still, when we stopped at villages and

wood-yards, I could not help lolling carelessly upon the railings of the

boiler deck to enjoy the envy of the country boys on the bank. If they

did not seem to discover me, I presently sneezed to attract their

attention, or moved to a position where they could not help seeing me.

And as soon as I knew they saw me I gaped and stretched, and gave other

signs of being mightily bored with traveling.

I kept my hat off all the time, and stayed where the wind and the sun

could strike me, because I wanted to get the bronzed and weather-beaten

look of an old traveler. Before the second day was half gone I

experienced a joy which filled me with the purest gratitude; for I saw

that the skin had begun to blister and peel off my face and neck. I

wished that the boys and girls at home could see me now.

We reached Louisville in time--at least the neighborhood of it. We stuck

hard and fast on the rocks in the middle of the river, and lay there

four days. I was now beginning to feel a strong sense of being a part

of the boat's family, a sort of infant son to the captain and younger

brother to the officers. There is no estimating the pride I took in this

grandeur, or the affection that began to swell and grow in me for those

people. I could not know how the lordly steamboatman scorns that sort

of presumption in a mere landsman. I particularly longed to acquire the

least trifle of notice from the big stormy mate, and I was on the alert

for an opportunity to do him a service to that end. It came at last.

The riotous powwow of setting a spar was going on down on the

forecastle, and I went down there and stood around in the way--or mostly

skipping out of it--till the mate suddenly roared a general order for

somebody to bring him a capstan bar. I sprang to his side and said:

'Tell me where it is--I'll fetch it!'

If a rag-picker had offered to do a diplomatic service for the Emperor

of Russia, the monarch could not have been more astounded than the mate

was. He even stopped swearing. He stood and stared down at me. It took

him ten seconds to scrape his disjointed remains together again. Then he

said impressively: 'Well, if this don't beat hell!' and turned to his

work with the air of a man who had been confronted with a problem too

abstruse for solution.

I crept away, and courted solitude for the rest of the day. I did not go

to dinner; I stayed away from supper until everybody else had finished.

I did not feel so much like a member of the boat's family now as before.

However, my spirits returned, in installments, as we pursued our way

down the river. I was sorry I hated the mate so, because it was not in

(young) human nature not to admire him. He was huge and muscular, his

face was bearded and whiskered all over; he had a red woman and a blue

woman tattooed on his right arm,--one on each side of a blue anchor with

a red rope to it; and in the matter of profanity he was sublime. When

he was getting out cargo at a landing, I was always where I could see

and hear. He felt all the majesty of his great position, and made the

world feel it, too. When he gave even the simplest order, he discharged

it like a blast of lightning, and sent a long, reverberating peal of

profanity thundering after it. I could not help contrasting the way in

which the average landsman would give an order, with the mate's way of

doing it. If the landsman should wish the gang-plank moved a foot

farther forward, he would probably say: 'James, or William, one of you

push that plank forward, please;' but put the mate in his place and he

would roar out: 'Here, now, start that gang-plank for'ard! Lively, now!

WHAT're you about! Snatch it! SNATCH it! There! there! Aft again! aft

again! don't you hear me. Dash it to dash! are you going to SLEEP over

it! 'VAST heaving. 'Vast heaving, I tell you! Going to heave it clear

astern? WHERE're you going with that barrel! FOR'ARD with it 'fore I

make you swallow it, you dash-dash-dash-DASHED split between a tired

mud-turtle and a crippled hearse-horse!'

I wished I could talk like that.

When the soreness of my adventure with the mate had somewhat worn off, I

began timidly to make up to the humblest official connected with the

boat--the night watchman. He snubbed my advances at first, but I

presently ventured to offer him a new chalk pipe; and that softened him.

So he allowed me to sit with him by the big bell on the hurricane deck,

and in time he melted into conversation. He could not well have helped

it, I hung with such homage on his words and so plainly showed that I

felt honored by his notice. He told me the names of dim capes and

shadowy islands as we glided by them in the solemnity of the night,

under the winking stars, and by and by got to talking about himself. He

seemed over-sentimental for a man whose salary was six dollars a week--

or rather he might have seemed so to an older person than I. But I drank

in his words hungrily, and with a faith that might have moved mountains

if it had been applied judiciously. What was it to me that he was soiled

and seedy and fragrant with gin? What was it to me that his grammar was

bad, his construction worse, and his profanity so void of art that it

was an element of weakness rather than strength in his conversation? He

was a wronged man, a man who had seen trouble, and that was enough for

me. As he mellowed into his plaintive history his tears dripped upon the

lantern in his lap, and I cried, too, from sympathy. He said he was the

son of an English nobleman--either an earl or an alderman, he could not

remember which, but believed was both; his father, the nobleman, loved

him, but his mother hated him from the cradle; and so while he was still

a little boy he was sent to 'one of them old, ancient colleges'--he

couldn't remember which; and by and by his father died and his mother

seized the property and 'shook' him as he phrased it. After his mother

shook him, members of the nobility with whom he was acquainted used

their influence to get him the position of 'loblolly-boy in a ship;' and

from that point my watchman threw off all trammels of date and locality

and branched out into a narrative that bristled all along with

incredible adventures; a narrative that was so reeking with bloodshed

and so crammed with hair-breadth escapes and the most engaging and

unconscious personal villainies, that I sat speechless, enjoying,

shuddering, wondering, worshipping.

It was a sore blight to find out afterwards that he was a low, vulgar,

ignorant, sentimental, half-witted humbug, an untraveled native of the

wilds of Illinois, who had absorbed wildcat literature and appropriated

its marvels, until in time he had woven odds and ends of the mess into

this yarn, and then gone on telling it to fledglings like me, until he

had come to believe it himself.

Life on the Mississippi, Part 1. · 第 5 / 5 章