Four Days to Hannibal

By Thomas Christensen

It happened one spring day in Hannibal, Missouri, in 1866. Now, whether it is true or not, hardily matters, for it is how the story is told that counts.

Samuel Clemens is an up-and-coming writer. He likes to rise early in the morning because he doesn’t want to miss a thing. On this fine spring day, he feels like something is about to happen worth writing about. He sharpens pencils, gathers a few sketch books, places them in his leather pouch, and quickly drinks his coffee. To him, preparation, luck, and opportunity equal a successful day of writing.

As the sun rises over the horizon, Samuel heads towards Hannibal, to Hoag’s Tavern. He likes to frequent Hoag’s, as he often gets ideas to write about. He finds their customers fascinating as each has his own character.

Earlier that morning, two men, a father, and his son, are two miles from Hannibal with a herd of 25 head of cattle. They have driven them 28 miles in the last 3 days. The men are tired, dirty, thirsty, hungry, smelly of earthly things, and in need of a hot bath and a clean bed. They are excited about getting to Hannibal’s stockyard. The father had received word from a passerby that the going price is $6.50 per head. However, he decides to keep this news to himself. He wants to surprise his son with some seed money for his son’s new life in San Francisco.

The son is quite curious about the town since it is his first time there. He is thankful that today is their last day of the cattle drive. While eating his breakfast of hardtack and coffee, he dreams about his future, and how he wants to travel west over the mountains to the sea. Once there, he wants to find a job in San Francisco and settle down, eventually to raise a family. His thoughts are broken by his father’s voice, “Eli, come now. Let’s get the herd to Hannibal.”

As the two men get the last of their cattle into the stockyard, Samuel quickly walks past and glances at them, but gives them little thought. He is preoccupied with the hope that his favorite table in the dark corner of Hoag’s Tavern will be available.

When Samuel enters the tavern, it is almost midday with not a cloud in the sky. To his delight, his table is available. He situates himself facing everyone in the barroom and immediately starts to study the scene.

Meanwhile, across town, the two men finish their cattle business transaction, get a certified count, and cash out for $154.50, after an eight-dollar processing fee. The father is elated, as he didn’t anticipate such a high profit when he planned their trip. Smiling, he turns to his son with a fist full of money. He gives Eli $50.00 and says, “Here’s some seed money for your start of a new life. You can go and live your dream. Now let’s go drink a few beers. I believe we’ve earned them.”

Over at the tavern, boredom starts to set in for Samuel. He is ready to leave, when suddenly the louver doors swing wide open and the sunlight pours into the barroom, and temporally blinds everyone. Two men enter the tavern, and their shadows stretch out across the length of the floor, their silhouettes having a halo effect about them.

“Hmm, kind of a religious like experience,” Samuel says to himself. He gets out his sketch book and jots a note. “This just might get really interesting,” he says to himself.

Samuel tries to discern the strangers’ faces, thinking he has seen them before, but then decides he doesn’t recognize either one of them. However, he did notice upon their entry, the men removed their hats, as if entering a church. “Hmm, this is getting good,” he thinks and leans back in his chair, until its back presses against the wainscoting. He writes more notes. Then he takes out several pencils in anticipation, as he observes and listens intensely. Looking directly at the two strangers, he can tell they are not businessmen, rivermen, or dock workers. He notes that, and the fact that he doesn’t know them. “Why the heck would these two strange characters come to town?” he questions.

The two men make their way to the end of the bar. As they walk, Samuel notices how they are dressed in handstitched denim trousers and brown feed sack shirts with black suspenders. “Sure enough, these two fellows are rural men, perhaps farmers,” and he notes it.

The two men are about fifteen feet from where Samuel is sitting.  As they pass him, he gets a whiff of their odor, which quickly kicks his head back. “Son of a bitch!” he says, while he lights a cigar and puffs hard and fast. “Farmers for damn sure,” he thinks to himself, as he watches the dried-up manure and mud flakes fall off their knee-high boots. It confirms his thoughts. He scribbles more notes.

At the end of the bar, the bartender greets the two men, “Howdy, what will you all have?”

The older man orders, “Two beers, please.”

 “Coming right up,” the bartender replies.

“Thank you,” the older man says as he surveys the barroom’s patrons. He notices some of the men are chewing Gordon’s Hometown Chew.  He also sees at various places on the barroom floor, brass spittoons.

Samuel listens hard to detect a regional dialect but cannot tell a difference from Hannibal’s vernacular. However, he does notice how polite the older man is.  Then he jots, “Very polite and no cussing. Definitely not from around here.”

When the bartender delivers their beers, each man grabs his mug with his right hand, and wraps it around the mug’s circumference, instead of putting their hands through the handles. Samuel immediately notices this trait as “cowboy–do’ins.” He writes some notes and underlines that. Then Samuel says to himself, “Something I ain’t seen in Hannibal in a while.”

The bartender checks on the two men and asks, “Do you men need another beer?”

“Yes, please,” replies the older man without hesitation. “And also, we want some chewin’ tobaccie, too.”

The bartender leans on the bartop and asks, “Which you prefer, Sharky Red or Gordon’s Homegrown Chew?”

The older man replies, “Sharky Red, it’s the best. We want two pouches, one for me and one for my son, Eli.” Then he winks at his son and points at the patrons at the bar, each one of them with a pouch of Gordon’s Homegrown Chew. Samuel sees this and makes a note of it, “They are father and son. The son’s name is Eli.”

The bartender states, “Coming right up, two beers and two Sharky Reds.”

“Thanks,” the father says.

Then Samuel busies himself and draws their images in another sketch book. Suddenly, a stream of consciousness enters his mind; “Why are you spending so much time on these two pecker woods? You should be writing about a jumping frog.” Samuel asks himself, “Where in the hell did that come from?”

Samuel makes an observation after looking at the father and son. He notes, “The father does all the talking and directs his son’s attention to things with his facial and hand gestures.”  Samuel is suspicious. “What are they scheming?” he asks himself.

The bartender returns with the beers and chewing tobaccie. He leans on the bar and says, “You gentlemen sure are thirsty. You must have traveled quite a distance.”

The father replies, “We’ve traveled far enough.” He then takes a pouch of the Sharky Red into his left hand and hands the other pouch to his son. Both of them take a large swig of their beer at the same time.

“Why isn’t the young man speaking?” Samuel questions softly, out loud.

The grandfather clock in the opposite corner strikes one o’clock, as Samuel’s mind entertains another stream of consciousness; “You should change your writer’s name to Mark Twain. Bullshit, why would I want to do that?” he thought.

Meanwhile, the bartender is well into a conversation with the father. He learns that they have come from the southwest territory and sold their 25 head of cattle after traveling 30 miles in 4 days.

The bartender says, “You two sure pushed hard to do that,” then returns to his other patrons.

“Yep,” the father said as he puts a big wad of Sharky Red into his mouth, pulling the strings with his front teeth on the pouch, tight. He nudges Eli to do the same. Soon, both are chewing. Once the father is satisfied with his wad of tobaccie, he spits the dark tobaccie juice out onto the floor. Eli watches carefully as his father leans to the left, and lines his left shoulder and left foot in line with a brass spittoon about 15 feet away. He takes a deep breath and spits. The wad’s trajectory is a perfect arch, and it lands directly in the middle of the spittoon, with a thud. He turns to his son and says softly, “See how it’s done. Just like we practiced.” His son nods in agreement.

Samuel writes as fast as he can, but there is too much information. He now only jots key words down; “Lean left, left shoulder and foot, face spittoon, deep breath, spit, practice.”

The father tells Eli to give it a try. He takes his position, remembers the code his father taught him, ppfbs; proper position, focus on spittoon, breathe deeply, and spit. He presses down hard on the Sharky Red between his tongue and front teeth, then releases the dark tobaccie juice onto the floor. Then he executes his spit wad. It is an unsuccessful try, as the wad hits the side of the spittoon with a splat. The father consoles his son, as Eli’s head drops, and he leans back onto the bar.

Samuel watches carefully, as a stream of thoughts enter his mind: “Distort the facts - twist the truth - remember that in all lies there is some truth – but make it credible.” Then he thinks, “Every once in a while, I have a great idea.” He then jots that pearl of wisdom down.

The bartender goes back to check on them and asks, “Need a couple more beers here?”

“Sure, but these will be our last ones,” says the father.        

 “Say, I hear they are paying $6.50 a head. That true?” the bartender asks.

“Yep, and that made our trip up the old Hannibal Trail worth all the effort. We are very appreciative. We’re out of debt now,” the father replies. Then, the father winks at Eli, who smiles widely.

Samuel finds this conversation confusing. Quite a turnaround from the tight-lipped man from an hour ago. He makes a note of the change with a couple of side notes: “Perhaps, all those beers loosened him up. What’s up with the winking to his son?”

A little way down the bar, a large man, at least six feet tall or better and 280 pounds, listens in on their talk. His name is Alan Brutman, but everyone in town knows him as Brutus. He is known to be braggadocious and considered a bit of a bully by many of the townfolk. He is often at Hoag’s Tavern, as he doesn’t work every day, being a dock worker. He is single with no prospects. Samuel figures it is because of his rough personality and his condescending ways with people.

Now the father and son are competing in a chewin’ tobaccie contest with each other. The father has hit 7 of 7 and his son is 5 for 7, when Brutus shouts out, “Let’s have a friendly contest. Best out of 10 for $25.00. Who’s in?” he asks.

O’Connor, a dock worker and the town drunk, slips off his bar stool and slurs, “I do.”

Jenkins, a riverman with excellent eyesight, is a kind soul and not very athletic. He elects to enter the contest, as he is always trying to prove his manliness.

Brutus yells, “Who else wants in?”

Eli’s father exclaims, “I won’t enter. You all saw my accuracy. So, I will sit out, but my son, Eli, will join in.”

Samuel gets a hankerin’ that these two country men are going to out slick these townies. He notes it in his sketch book.

Brutus takes four wooden matches and breaks one of them short. He hands them to the bartender who has each man select one. Whoever picks the short stick is up next. Turns out Eli is first to spit. Then it will be Jenkins, O’Connor, and Brutus, in that order. “You up boy!” Brutus says loudly.

Samuel thinks, “What a condescending remark, but that’s no surprise coming from him.” He jots a note down with the word “boy” in parentheses.

Eli takes his position and spits a perfect shot into the center of the spittoon. His father pats him on his right shoulder and winks at him. Then Jenkins spits and misses, as does O’Connor. Brutus starts off with a litany of how damn great he is at spitting chew. He ends in telling of his greatest moment, the county contest, where he hit 20 of 20. “Ain’t no son of a bitch come close to that mark. The closest was 13 of 20 and that only happened one damn time,” he proudly boasts.

Samuel thinks, “Anyone who has to compliment himself is an asshole.” He writes it down.

The rounds continue with everyone making their shots until the seventh round when Jenkins and O’Connor miss. Both, now at 5 for 7, drop out of the contest. Each of them lay twenty-five dollars on the bar as Brutus makes his seventh shot in a row. He looks at Eli and says, “Come on boy, let’s make this a real contest. Let’s up the ante to $45.00.” Eli looks back at his father, who nods his head, winks, and says, “Alright then, it’s a done deal.”

Eli shakes Brutus’s large hand. Then Eli takes his position, breathing deeply then slowly exhaling, spits his tobaccie wad with a higher trajectory than before. There is tension and silence in the bar as everyone watches the tobaccie wad as it flies through the air. Thud! The wad lands into the center of the spittoon.

Samuel notes Eli can talk and writes: “Why, I think this ‘boy’ is going to win. He softly says to himself, “I’m going to call this story, Brutus’s Defeat.”

Both men make their ninth shot and are tied at 9 for 9, with Eli up next.

Brutus decides to rattle Eli and says, “You know boy, this is when most spitters choke. Their damn nerves get to them and their saliva dries up. How you doin’ boy? Ready to lose?”

“Remember the code,” Eli’s father whispers into Eli’s left ear as he takes his position. Eli closes his eyes, not realizing that the barroom is in a state of total silence; he opens his eyes and spits a perfect shot.

The pressure is on Brutus as he takes his position, but he can’t keep his mouth shut and says to Eli, “Boy! I’m going to match your damn shot. I’m going to show you what a damn great champion I am.”

Samuel hopes Brutus will miss and thinks to himself, “God sure ruined a perfect asshole when he put teeth into that mouth.” He writes it down with a grin.

Brutus carefully takes his position, leans left with his left shoulder and left foot in line with the spittoon. He spits and just misses.

 Eli is the winner with a record of 10 of 10. Brutus hands him the $45.00 reluctantly along with the other monies. He then asks him, “What are you going to do with your winnings, Eli?”

Samuel writes in his sketch book, “Brutus will never live this down.”

Eli proudly states, “I’m going west to fulfill my dream of a new life in San Francisco. Find myself a job, a wife and settle down with a family and eventually buy a home.”

Samuel then writes on the last page, “Time and circumstance are what make a man, and this ‘boy’ just did it.”  He closes his sketch book, laying his pencil across it as he watches the proud father and his son leave Hoag’s Tavern.

Brutus yells out, “Anyone want to challenge me in a tobaccie spittin’ contest?”