don’t walk around with the likes of those Throckmorton boys unless you’re planning to get into trouble. Keep your distance from that crew, Wentworth. I saw you move in to protect me, back there in the auditorium, and it made my heart glad to see it—not that I was in much real danger with that many people around, but it’s good to know that somebody’s looking out for you when things get chancy.
“But you watch out for those Throckmorton brothers. I mean it, Wentworth. There’s no such thing as a fair fight with the likes of them. I’ll bet you fifty dollars American money to a plugged Mexican peso that Alligator Throckmorton carries a knife. You’re likely to find him whittling away at your back while you’re trying to stop his big brother from biting your nose off. He’d do it, too—bite it off before you could cry foul. I’ve seen backwoods boys like that; grew up with them in Missouri, saw them in Nevada and San Francisco, too. They’d like nothing better than to take apart an eastern dandy like you, just for the pure sport of it, and that’d leave me with a secretary I had to carry around in a bushel basket.”
I nodded. “I’m certainly not looking for any fights, Mr. Clemens. But I don’t imagine it’s likely we’ll see them again. We leave town tomorrow morning, after all.”
He shook his head slowly. “I hope you’re right about that, Wentworth. But Slippery Ed and his like thrive on a big crowd—it’s the next thing to heaven for pickpockets, confidence men, cardsharps, and other such two-legged vermin. And the one thing he can be sure of if he follows me is a crowd; a new one in every town, fresh suckers to be robbed. It’s like vultures following an army. I thought I had enough trouble with that damned Berrigan. But by jumping Jesus, Wentworth, the time may come when I’m actually glad to have a detective on my tail.”
The next morning was Sunday, and I woke to the sound of rain. My watch read 8:20. I put my head under the pillow and dozed a while longer, then roused myself enough to bathe, shave, and dress. A glance out the curtained window revealed a steady drizzle. Hearing no sound through the adjoining door to Mr. Clemens’s room, I wandered down to the dining room and breakfasted on coffee and sweet rolls, then (mindful of a promise made to my mother) headed for the hotel desk to determine if there was a church within walking distance.
“I beg your pardon, young man,” came an unfamiliar voice at my elbow. I turned to see the tall, gray-haired gentleman I had noticed on the train from New York and again at Mr. Clemens’s lecture the previous evening. He gave a little bow and said, “Please forgive the intrusion, but I believe you are traveling with Mr. Mark Twain?” His voice was deep and resonant, in keeping with his exemplary posture and slightly old-fashioned dress, vaguely military in its cut.
“Why, yes,” I said, “I am his secretary. And to whom do I have the honor. . . ?”
“Major Roy Demayne, formerly of the Twenty-fifth New Jersey, sir.” He gave another little bow. “It is I who will have the honor, in that I am to be one of the passengers on the literary Mississippi river cruise which Mr. Twain will be conducting.”
“Ah, I am not surprised. I saw you on the train, and then again at Mr. Clemens’s lecture last night. How can I be of service?”
“Well,” he said, spreading his hands. “I don’t mean to impose, especially on someone as busy as Mr. Twain—and I’m sure his secretary is no less busy. But I myself am an author, a poet to be precise, and I need the advice of an experienced literary man. As I am sure you know all too well, even an intimate familiarity with the muse does not guarantee one’s ability to navigate safely through the pitfalls of publication. But I understand that Mr. Twain, in consequence of his stature as one of the foremost literary lights of the age, is familiar with all the publishers on both sides of the Atlantic.”
“That may well be,” I said. “But I’m afraid I’ve been with Mr. Clemens—Mr. Twain—only a short while, and I am not yet completely familiar with his affairs. I am sure that he is well acquainted with the leading publishers, but I don’t know how I can help you.”
“Well,” he said again, with the same gesture. “I’m not sure this is within your purview, but I believe that a tête à tête with your employer might be of the utmost value in opening doors at the publishers. I have with me samples of my work, including selections from my heroic epic on several sanguinary engagements of the late war, in which it was my honor to lead men into battle in the service of the Union.”
“Indeed, sir,” I said, my interest piqued. “Which battles were you in?” I had always half regretted being born in peaceful times, when society showered its rewards upon the cautious and the reliable rather than the brave and adventuresome. The ritual combats of the football field were but tame substitutes for what men of the previous generation had seen at first hand.
“Well,” said Major Demayne, rubbing his lower lip, “we fought the Secesh all up and down the country, from First Bull Run to the Peninsular campaign. We weren’t always in the thick of it, but we were always mighty close to it. Some good men didn’t come home to tell about it.”
He shook his head pensively. “I have taken it upon myself to erect some small memorial in verse to their great patriotic sacrifice. I thought that perhaps Mr. Twain could spare the time to offer some words of advice to a fellow author.”
“Perhaps he could, although I really don’t know whether he has any interest in verse.”
“Why, surely he does; he has even included original verse in some of his novels. But perhaps it would be presumptuous for an amateur such as myself to impose on a man of his accomplishment. His free time is undoubtedly precious. That is why I approached you, Mr. . . . your pardon, I don’t believe I caught the name.”
I laughed and introduced myself, and we shook hands. “I’m afraid I can’t make promises for Mr. Clemens’s free time today or tomorrow; we’ll be traveling to St. Paul to board the steamboat. I assume you’re on the same timetable, since you’re traveling downriver with us. But perhaps once we’re on the boat, and things have settled down, he’ll have time to talk with you. I suspect there’ll be more than one aspiring writer with us—I’m planning to become a travel writer myself.”
Major Demayne’s face lit up like a freshly ignited gas lamp. “Ah, a fellow supplicant to the muse! You know, Mr. Cabot, I have often felt that prose is but a shoddy medium for the depiction of the marvels one sees in traveling. Give me Lord Byron, or someone equally inspired, for mountains or the sea! These modern fellows could learn something about turning a verse from him, or from Sir Walter Scott, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose they could,” I said. Not entirely certain I could recite a single line of either Byron or Scott, I was in no position to say much more; but the Major paid me no heed and continued with a full head of enthusiasm.
“I call to mind a passage in my canto on the great Battle of Antietam—which the rebs called Sharpsburg, after the town—that shows what a well-conceived metaphor can do for an ordinary scene. If you can spare a moment, I believe I have it with me.” He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a thick sheaf of papers, which he tucked under his arm while he fished in the opposite pocket for a pair of spectacles. Then he propped the glasses on the end of his nose and began leafing through his papers.
I had my mouth open to plead other engagements—true enough, if I intended to make my appearance in church this morning—when he glanced over my shoulder and folded his manuscript. “Well, perhaps this isn’t the time or place for a reading. But remind me to show you my verses when we are aboard the Horace Greeley, Mr. Cabot—and
