CHAPTER XIV

Tom woke up to find himself unsure of his location. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, taking in his surroundings until everything became clear. The cool gray dawn cast a serene calm over the deep silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred or a sound broke Nature’s meditative quiet. Dewdrops glittered on leaves and grasses while a thin layer of ashes covered their fire, with blue wisps of smoke rising gently.

Joe and Huck were still asleep. As the morning light grew stronger, sounds gradually returned to life. The forest came alive: birds chirped, a woodpecker hammered in the distance, and creatures like ants scurried about their tasks. A small worm crawled nearby, lifting parts of its body as it measured distances. When it eventually made contact with Tom’s leg, his heart swelled with excitement, anticipating pirate clothes.

Various insects appeared: an ant carrying a large spider, a ladybug climbing a blade of grass, and a tumblebug rolling its ball across the ground. The birds were in full song; a catbird imitated others nearby while a jay perched close by, eyeing Tom and his friends with curiosity. Squirrels scampered around, unsure whether to approach or flee.

All nature was awake now, sunlight filtering through the trees as butterflies fluttered into view. Stirring their fellow pirates awake, they all shouted in excitement and soon raced towards a nearby river bar. They jumped in the cool water, splashing each other joyfully—far more appealing than returning to their sleepy village across the river.

A gentle current had swept away their raft; rather than a loss, it felt like cutting ties with civilization. Refreshed by their swim and bathed in sunlight, they returned to camp invigorated.

Huck found a clear spring for water, and the boys made makeshift cups from leaves to drink. As Joe sliced bacon for breakfast, Tom and Huck went fishing, quickly returning with bass, sun-perch, and catfish. They fried these alongside the bacon—never before had fish tasted so delicious.

After their hearty meal, they lounged in the shade while Huck smoked a pipe. They set off into the woods to explore, moving through decaying logs and tangled underbrush beneath towering trees draped with grapevines. They found cozy spots carpeted with grass and flowers but nothing truly astonishing.

They discovered that the island was three miles long and about a quarter-mile wide, separated from the closest shore by a narrow channel barely two hundred yards across. After several swims to cool off, it was late afternoon when they returned to camp. Too hungry for more fishing, they feasted on cold ham and relaxed in the shade.

Their conversation waned, replaced by the woods’ solemnity and a creeping loneliness. The boys grew quiet, each lost in thought. Homesickness began to dawn on them; even Huck longed for home.

A distant sound had been noticeable before—like clock ticking—but now it became distinct: a deep boom resonated through the stillness. “What is that?” Joe murmured under his breath.

“I’m not sure,” Tom whispered, straining to listen.

“It’s not thunder,” said Huck in awe, “because thunder—”

“Listen!” Tom interrupted. They all paused, ears tuned to the silence before it was broken by another muted boom.

“We should go and see,” they decided, rushing toward the riverbank. Peering out over the water, they spotted a ferryboat a mile below, crowded with people. A plume of white smoke soon erupted from its side as it drifted downstream, followed by that same deep rumble echoing across the waters.

“I know now!” Tom exclaimed. “Someone has drowned!”

“Yeah,” Huck agreed, recalling last summer’s tragedy when Bill Turner had drowned. “They shoot a cannon over the water to bring him up and set loaves of bread with mercury in them afloat; they float right where someone’s drowning.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” Joe added. “I wonder what makes the bread do it?”

“It’s not just the bread,” Tom explained. “It must be something said over them before setting off.”

“But nobody says anything aloud,” Huck countered.

“Maybe it’s in their minds,” Tom suggested. “Of course they would.”

The boys agreed that a mere loaf couldn’t navigate such tasks without guidance—perhaps an incantation of sorts.

“I wish I was there now,” Joe admitted.

“So do I,” Huck said. “I’d give anything to know who it is.”

They listened and watched as the ferryboat returned to its route, and skiffs vanished with the twilight. The pirates went back to camp, buoyed by their imagined celebrity—missed, mourned, the subject of village gossip.

As night fell, they caught fish, cooked supper, and ate heartily. They spent time speculating on what the townsfolk were saying about them; their imaginations painted vivid scenes of public distress over their supposed fates.

Yet as darkness closed in, conversation waned. Tom and Joe began to reflect on home, feeling a growing pang of homesickness. Huck nodded off first, then Joe followed suit. Tom lay awake, watching his companions with a mix of concern and nostalgia. Eventually, he got up quietly and searched among the grass for thin white sycamore bark. He carefully inscribed messages on two pieces using red chalk.

He rolled one into a cylinder, pocketing it, while placing the other in Joe’s hat along with some treasured school items—a piece of chalk, an eraser, fishhooks, marbles—all valuable to any kid. He then hid them away and stealthily made his way towards the sandbar.