of outlandish adventure! I realized when I was back on the raft that he had borrowed it from the Baton Rouge Public Library. I’m ashamed to say, it is long overdue. I’ve read the story many times since then and never fail to picture the Time Traveler as Tom himself, how he looked on the skiff, coming toward me from the General Sumter.
Yes, I’d been taught to read haltingly, in Hannibal by Miss Watson and the Widow Douglas as part of their campaign to civilize me.
I thought the book was a sign—not a bad omen, but a harbinger of good fortune; that it was a guarantee of safe conduct through the streets of Baton Rouge, which Tom had consecrated by having lived there and having also died there (which the more powerful juju, I could not know). My ideas were hazy and unformed about the meaning of Jim’s and my journey downriver, but I guessed it had something to do with time travel. If not, why was Tom an old man while I was still a boy?
What year was it?
Nineteen hundred and three. April. The sixteenth day of April, in the year 1903. What day could have been more auspicious? The beginning of spring, of new life, the dawn of a new century. A new age. Charmed! And I supposed that the enchanted life Jim and I had on the raft was joined by a benevolent hand to the place where Tom and I met for the last time. I sensed (a raw boy could not have articulated it) that I stood at the convergence of two currents,two electrified rails—two “mystic chords of memory,” as Mr. Lincoln said—and the rare, scarcely possible occasion of their meeting would protect Jim and me. I nearly called to Jim in my mind, with the intention of urging him telepathically to join me in a send-off Tom missed by too promptly dying. I felt he was owed an incomparable escapade, a grand bust-up, a rambunctious carouse. I wanted to run outside, into the streets of Baton Rouge, and commit high jinks and devilry in honor of our friendship. I was young, remember. My imagination was of a heroic cast and did not yet encompass low boozing and sex. I went through Tom’s pockets but discovered nothing except an ancient letter from Becky Thatcher, a yellowed and brittle greeting from Jeff Davis, and some silver money—none of which had any value for me. (We had no use for money in those days. God Almighty, I’d whistle a different tune once I was off the river for good and understood that it is the universal balm and nothing whatsoever can be done without it!) I arranged Tom’s hands as I had seen people do in Hannibal and pulled the sheet over his face. Then I snuffed out the candle, closed the door, tiptoed down three flights of stairs, and stepped out into the street with a sense of ecstatic relief that I had the power in me to escape the gravity of the deathbed. I was already forgetting Tom—so dismal is the idea of oblivion, so strong the attraction of life, even for someone like me who has kept his distance from it.
Darkness reigned, but not oppressively. The stars seemed hospitable fires in the April night, the moon smiled like a simpleton, and people milled noisily in streets made cheerful by electric light. I walked slowly toward the river, reluctant to enter the blacked-out stage of our little raft. I was sick to death of loneliness—of the absurdity of our journey.I felt like Hamlet when he was delivering his “To be, or not to be” soliloquy, which I’d heard the Duke rehearse years and years before. I cursed myself for a fool because I hadn’t sense enough to turn back when I could. I was homesick for dry land and an ordinary life where a boy can be counted on to grow up and die, which is the natural way of things. Maybe I was feeling no more than the restlessness of youth, which would will itself into adult life if it were able. Whatever the cause, I felt discouraged and forlorn. I put off returning to the raft awhile; I went to find myself some cheerful noise and light and people, no matter that I was already tending toward misanthropy.
Yes, I’d been taught to read haltingly, in Hannibal by Miss Watson and the Widow Douglas as part of their campaign to civilize me.
I thought the book was a sign—not a bad omen, but a harbinger of good fortune; that it was a guarantee of safe conduct through the streets of Baton Rouge, which Tom had consecrated by having lived there and having also died there (which the more powerful juju, I could not know). My ideas were hazy and unformed about the meaning of Jim’s and my journey downriver, but I guessed it had something to do with time travel. If not, why was Tom an old man while I was still a boy?
What year was it?
Nineteen hundred and three. April. The sixteenth day of April, in the year 1903. What day could have been more auspicious? The beginning of spring, of new life, the dawn of a new century. A new age. Charmed! And I supposed that the enchanted life Jim and I had on the raft was joined by a benevolent hand to the place where Tom and I met for the last time. I sensed (a raw boy could not have articulated it) that I stood at the convergence of two currents,two electrified rails—two “mystic chords of memory,” as Mr. Lincoln said—and the rare, scarcely possible occasion of their meeting would protect Jim and me. I nearly called to Jim in my mind, with the intention of urging him telepathically to join me in a send-off Tom missed by too promptly dying. I felt he was owed an incomparable escapade, a grand bust-up, a rambunctious carouse. I wanted to run outside, into the streets of Baton Rouge, and commit high jinks and devilry in honor of our friendship. I was young, remember. My imagination was of a heroic cast and did not yet encompass low boozing and sex. I went through Tom’s pockets but discovered nothing except an ancient letter from Becky Thatcher, a yellowed and brittle greeting from Jeff Davis, and some silver money—none of which had any value for me. (We had no use for money in those days. God Almighty, I’d whistle a different tune once I was off the river for good and understood that it is the universal balm and nothing whatsoever can be done without it!) I arranged Tom’s hands as I had seen people do in Hannibal and pulled the sheet over his face. Then I snuffed out the candle, closed the door, tiptoed down three flights of stairs, and stepped out into the street with a sense of ecstatic relief that I had the power in me to escape the gravity of the deathbed. I was already forgetting Tom—so dismal is the idea of oblivion, so strong the attraction of life, even for someone like me who has kept his distance from it.
Darkness reigned, but not oppressively. The stars seemed hospitable fires in the April night, the moon smiled like a simpleton, and people milled noisily in streets made cheerful by electric light. I walked slowly toward the river, reluctant to enter the blacked-out stage of our little raft. I was sick to death of loneliness—of the absurdity of our journey.I felt like Hamlet when he was delivering his “To be, or not to be” soliloquy, which I’d heard the Duke rehearse years and years before. I cursed myself for a fool because I hadn’t sense enough to turn back when I could. I was homesick for dry land and an ordinary life where a boy can be counted on to grow up and die, which is the natural way of things. Maybe I was feeling no more than the restlessness of youth, which would will itself into adult life if it were able. Whatever the cause, I felt discouraged and forlorn. I put off returning to the raft awhile; I went to find myself some cheerful noise and light and people, no matter that I was already tending toward misanthropy.
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