CHAPTER XIII

Tom was resolute now. He felt gloomy and desperate. He saw himself as an abandoned boy with no friends; it seemed like nobody loved him. When they realized what had driven him here, maybe they’d regret their actions. He had tried to do right and get along, but no one would let him. Since they wanted nothing more than to be rid of him, he decided to embrace a life of crime—there was no other choice.

By this point, Tom was far down Meadow Lane when the school bell chimed faintly in his ear. Tears welled up as he realized it might be the last time he’d hear that old familiar sound. It hurt deeply, but he felt forced into this new reality. Since they had cast him out into the harsh world, submission seemed inevitable—but he forgave them anyway. His sobs grew louder and more frequent.

At this moment, Tom encountered his closest friend, Joe Harper. Joe’s eyes were hard, and it was clear there was a grave purpose in his heart. It seemed like “two souls with but a single thought.” Tom wiped his eyes and began to blubber about resolving to escape the harsh treatment and lack of support at home by wandering off into the wide world never to return. He hoped Joe would remember him.

But it turned out that Joe had been planning to ask Tom for exactly this same thing—Joe’s mother had whipped him unjustly, claiming he drank cream he hadn’t touched. It was clear she wanted him gone; if she felt that way, there was nothing left but to leave and hope she’d be content without him.

As they walked along sorrowfully, they made a new pact: they would stand by each other as brothers until death freed them from their troubles. Then they began planning. Joe initially thought about being a hermit, living off the land in solitude. But after listening to Tom, he saw some appealing aspects of a life of crime and agreed to become a pirate.

Three miles below St. Petersburg, where the Mississippi River was over a mile wide, there lay a long, narrow island with a shallow bar at its head—a perfect meeting place. The uninhabited island, hidden in the dense forest, became their chosen spot: Jackson’s Island. They hadn’t yet considered who would be the targets of their “piracies.”

Next, they sought out Huckleberry Finn, who joined them without hesitation; he was indifferent to career choices and eager for adventure. They agreed to meet at a secluded spot on the riverbank two miles above the village at midnight. There, they planned to capture a small log raft. Each would bring whatever tools or food they could steal in secret, adding to their outlaw allure.

By afternoon, all three had managed to spread rumors that the town should “hear something” soon. Any hint of this vague news was met with warnings to stay silent and wait for more developments.

At midnight, Tom arrived with a boiled ham and some small items, stopping in dense undergrowth on a bluff overlooking their meeting place. It was starlit and eerily still. The mighty river lay calm, resembling an ocean at rest. Tom listened briefly but heard nothing. Then he gave a low whistle, which was answered from below the bluff. After two more signals were exchanged, a guarded voice asked:

“Who goes there?”

“Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main. Name your names.”

“Huck Finn the Red-Handed and Joe Harper the Terror of the Seas.” Tom had come up with these grand titles from his favorite stories.

“It is well. Give the countersign.”

Both whispered “Blood!” in unison to the night, their voices hoarse but determined.

Tom then dropped his ham over the bluff, sliding down after it, tearing both skin and clothes. They took an easier path along the shore under the bluff, though they valued the difficulty and danger of pirate adventures more highly.

The Terror had brought a side of bacon and was exhausted from carrying it. Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a skillet and some half-cured leaf tobacco, along with corn cobs to make pipes. But none but himself smoked or chewed—Tom believed they shouldn’t start without fire, for matches were rare at that time.

They spotted a smoldering fire on a large raft nearby, stealthily approached it, and took a chunk of wood. They made it into an adventure, whispering “Hist!” now and then, halting with fingers on lips, moving as if holding imaginary daggers, giving orders in hushed voices that should the “foe” stir, they’d strike to the hilt because “dead men tell no tales.” Though they knew well enough that the raftsmen were all in the village, it was still an exciting way for outlaws.

Finally, they set off with Tom at the helm, Huck at the back oar and Joe forward. Tom stood amidships, his expression stern, giving orders in a low whisper:

“Luff, and bring her to the wind!”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

“Steady, steady-y-y-y!”

“Steady it is, sir!”

They steadily drove their makeshift raft toward mid-stream. It was understood these commands were just for style, not meant to mean anything specific.

“What sail’s she carrying?”

“Courses, tops’ls, and flying-jib, sir.”

“Send the r’yals up! Lay out aloft there—foretopmaststuns’l! Lively, now!”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

“Shake out that maintogalans’l! Sheets and braces! Now my hearties!”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

“Helm-a-lee—hard a port! Stand by to meet her when she comes! Port, port! Now, men! With a will! Steady-y-y-y!”

“Steady it is, sir!”

The raft reached the middle of the river; then they pointed its head back and rested. The current wasn’t strong, so it was only about two or three miles per hour. For nearly an hour no one spoke. As their makeshift vessel passed by the distant town, the few glimmering lights showed where it lay peacefully, unaware of the great adventure happening in its wake.

Tom stood still, arms folded, gazing longingly at what was once his home and recent troubles. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine Jackson’s Island far from view; he took one last look with a heavy heart. The other pirates did so too—so long that they nearly drifted out of range of the island. But they noticed in time and corrected their course.

Around two in the morning, they grounded on the bar above the island’s head, wading until they had landed all their gear. Among it was an old sail, which they spread over some bushes for shelter. They planned to sleep under the open sky, true outlaws.

They built a fire against a log deep in the forest and cooked bacon for supper, using up half their corn pone supply. It felt thrilling to feast so freely in that wild, untouched place, far from civilization. They decided they’d never return to such life.

The fire’s glow illuminated their faces and threw red light on the tree trunks of their forest temple. The boys lay down contentedly after eating, despite there being cooler spots nearby—they enjoyed the romantic allure of the roasting campfire.

“It’s amazing,” said Joe.

“It is!” replied Tom. “What would others say if they saw us?”

“Say? They’d want to be here—Huck!”

“I reckon so,” Huck agreed. “I’m happy like this; I don’t get enough to eat at home, and no one picks on me.”

“This life suits me perfectly,” said Tom. “You don’t have to wake up early or attend school, wash, or deal with all that nonsense. A pirate doesn’t have much to do when ashore—except for a hermit, who has to pray and can’t enjoy himself alone.”

“Yes, I see that now,” Joe agreed. “I’d rather be a pirate than a hermit.”

“You know, hermits aren’t as popular these days as they were in old times—but pirates are always respected,” said Tom. “Hermits have to sleep on the hardest ground and wear sackcloth with ashes on their heads, even stand out in the rain.”

“Why do they put sackcloth and ashes on their heads?” asked Huck.

“I don’t know, but they’ve got to. You’d have to do it too if you were a hermit.”

“Then I wouldn’t,” said Huck firmly.

“What would you do?”

“I don’t know. But I won’t do that,” Huck insisted.

“Huck, you’d be a poor sort of hermit; it would be a disgrace.”

The Red-Handed made no reply; he was too busy enjoying his pipe, having finished making one from a cob and a weed stem. The others envied him this luxury and resolved to learn soon.

Eventually, their conversation died down as sleep overtook them. Huck’s pipe fell as he drifted off, conscience-free. The Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger struggled more with falling asleep; they recited prayers inwardly without kneeling aloud. They feared not praying would invite divine punishment. As sleep approached, they felt guilty about running away and remembered the stolen meat.

They tried to justify it by recalling all the times they had taken sweets in the past—though this did little to appease their conscience. In the end, they recognized that taking sweets was minor compared to stealing substantial items like bacon or hams—and there was a command against that in the Bible. So they resolved that if they remained pirates, their misdeeds wouldn’t include such thefts again. Conscience relented, and these conflicted pirates finally fell asleep peacefully.