Life on The Mississippi (25 page)

Presently I ascended to the hurricane deck and cast a longing glance toward the pilothouse.

After a close study of the face of the pilot on watch, I was satisfied that I had never seen him before; so I went up there. The pilot inspected me; I reinspected the pilot. These customary preliminaries over, I sat down on the high bench, and he faced about and went on with his work. Every detail of the pilothouse was familiar to me, with one exception—a large-mouthed tube under the breast-board. I puzzled over that thing a considerable time; then gave up and asked what it was for.

“To hear the engine bells through.”

It was another good contrivance which ought to have been invented half a century sooner. So I was thinking, when the pilot asked—

“Do you know what this rope is for?”

I managed to get around this question, without committing myself.

“Is this the first time you were ever in a pilothouse?”

I crept under that one.

“Where are you from?”

“New England.”

“First time you have ever been West?”

I climbed over this one.

“If you take an interest in such things, I can tell you what all these things are for.”

I said I should like it.

“This,” putting his hand on a backing-bell rope, “is to sound the fire alarm; this,” putting his hand on a go-ahead bell, “is to call the texas tender; this one,” indicating the whistle lever, “is to call the captain”—and so he went on, touching one object after another, and reeling off his tranquil spool of lies.

I had never felt so like a passenger before. I thanked him, with emotion, for each new fact, and wrote it down in my notebook. The pilot warmed to his opportunity, and proceeded to load me up in the good old-fashioned way. At times I was afraid he was going to rupture his invention; but it always stood the strain, and he pulled through all right. He drifted, by easy stages, into revealments of the river’s marvelous eccentricities of one sort and another, and backed them up with some pretty gigantic illustrations. For instance—

“Do you see that little boulder sticking out of the water yonder? Well, when I first came on the river, that was a solid ridge of rock, over sixty feet high and two miles long. All washed away but that.” [This with a sigh.]

I had a mighty impulse to destroy him, but it seemed to me that killing, in any ordinary way, would be too good for him.

Once, when an odd-looking craft, with a vast coal scuttle slanting aloft on the end of a beam, was steaming by in the distance he indifferently drew attention to it, as one might to an object grown wearisome through familiarity, and observed that it was an “alligator boat.”

“An alligator boat! What’s it for?”

“To dredge out alligators with.”

“Are they so thick as to be troublesome?”

“Well, not now, because the government keeps them down. But they used to be. Not everywhere; but in favorite places, here and there, where the river is wide and shoal—like Plum Point, and Stack Island, and so on—places they call alligator beds.”

“Did they actually impede navigation?”

“Years ago, yes, in very low water; there was hardly a trip, then, that we didn’t get aground on alligators.”

It seemed to me that I should certainly have to get out my tomahawk. However, I restrained myself and said—

“It must have been dreadful.”

“Yes, it was one of the main difficulties about piloting. It was so hard to tell anything about the water; the damned things shift around so—never lie still five minutes at a time. You can tell a wind reef, straight off, by the look of it; you can tell a break; you can tell a sand reef—that’s all easy; but an alligator reef doesn’t show up, worth anything. Nine times in ten you can’t tell where the water is; and when you
do
see where it is, like as not it ain’t there when
you
get there, the devils have swapped around so, meantime. Of course there were some few pilots that could judge of alligator water nearly as well as they could of any other kind, but they had to have natural talent for it; it wasn’t a thing a body could
learn
, you had to be born with it. Let me see: there was Ben Thornburg, and Beck Jolly, and Squire Bell, and Horace Bixby, and Major Downing, and John Stevenson, and Billy Gordon, and Jim Brady, and George Ealer, and Billy Youngblood—all A-1 alligator pilots.
They
could tell alligator water as far as another Christian could tell whisky. Read it? Ah,
couldn’t
they, though! I only wish I had as many dollars as they could read alligator water a mile and a half off. Yes, and it paid them to do it, too. A good alligator pilot could always get fifteen hundred dollars a month. Nights, other people had to lay up for alligators, but those fellows never laid up for alligators; they never laid up for anything but fog. They could
smell
the best alligator water—so it was said; I don’t know whether it was so or not, and I think a body’s got his hands full enough if he sticks to just what he knows himself, without going around backing up other people’s say-so’s, though there’s a plenty that ain’t backward about doing it, as long as they can roust out something wonderful to tell. Which is not the style of Robert Styles, by as much as three fathom—maybe quarter
less
.”

[My! Was this Rob Styles? This mustached and stately figure? A slim enough cub, in my time. How he has improved in comeliness in five and twenty years—and in the noble art of inflating his facts.] After these musings, I said aloud—

“I should think that dredging out the alligators wouldn’t have done much good, because they could come back again right away.”

“If you had had as much experience of alligators as I have, you wouldn’t talk like that. You dredge an alligator once and he’s
convinced
. It’s the last you hear of
him
. He wouldn’t come back for pie. If there’s one thing that an alligator is more down on than another, it’s being dredged. Besides, they were not simply shoved out of the way; the most of the scoopful were scooped aboard; they emptied them into the hold; and when they had got a trip, they took them to Orleans to the Government works.”

“What for?”

“Why, to make soldier shoes out of their hides. All the Government shoes are made of alligator hide. It makes the best shoes in the world. They last five years, and they won’t absorb water. The alligator fishery is a Government monopoly. All the alligators are Government property—just like the live oaks. You cut down a live oak, and Government fines you fifty dollars; you kill an alligator, and up you go for misprision of treason—lucky duck if they don’t hang you, too. And they will, if you’re a Democrat. The buzzard is the sacred bird of the South, and you can’t touch him; the alligator is the sacred bird of the Government, and you’ve got to let him alone.”

“Do you ever get aground on the alligators now?”

“Oh, no! It hasn’t happened for years.”

“Well, then, why do they still keep the alligator boats in service?”

“Just for police duty—nothing more. They merely go up and down now and then. The present generation of alligators know them as easy as a burglar knows a roundsman; when they see one coming, they break camp and go for the woods.”

After rounding out and finishing up and polishing off the alligator business, he dropped easily and comfortably into the historical vein, and told of some tremendous feats of half a dozen old-time steamboats of his acquaintance, dwelling at a special length upon a certain extraordinary performance of his chief favorite among this distinguished fleet—and then adding:

“That boat was the
Cyclone
—last trip she ever made—she sunk, that very trip—captain was Tom Ballou, the most immortal liar that ever I struck. He couldn’t ever seem to tell the truth, in
any
kind of weather. Why, he would make you fairly shudder. He
was
the most scandalous liar! I left him, finally; I couldn’t stand it. The proverb says, ‘Like master, like man’; and if you stay with that kind of a man, you’ll come under suspicion by and by, just as sure as you live. He paid first-class wages; but said I, What’s wages when your reputation’s in danger? So I let the wages go, and froze to my reputation. And I’ve never regretted it. Reputation’s worth everything, ain’t it? That’s the way I look at it. He had more selfish organs than any seven men in the world—all packed in the stern-sheets of his skull, of course, where they belonged. They weighed down the back of his head so that it made his nose tilt up in the air. People thought it was vanity, but it wasn’t, it was malice. If you only saw his foot, you’d take him to be nineteen feet high, but he wasn’t; it was because his foot was out of drawing. He was intended to be nineteen feet high, no doubt, if his foot was made first, but he didn’t get there, he was only five feet ten. That’s what he was, and that’s what he is. You take the lies out of him, and he’ll shrink to the size of your hat; you take the malice out of him, and he’ll disappear. That
Cyclone
was a rattler to go, and the sweetest thing to steer that ever walked the waters. Set her amidships, in a big river, and just let her go; it was all you had to do. She would hold herself on a star all night, if you let her alone. You couldn’t ever feel her rudder. It wasn’t any more labor to steer her than it is to count the Republican vote in a South Carolina election. One morning, just at daybreak, the last trip she ever made, they took her rudder aboard to mend it; I didn’t know anything about it; I backed her out from the woodyard and went a-weaving down the river all serene. When I had gone about twenty-three miles, and made four horribly crooked crossings—”

“Without any rudder?”

“Yes—old Capt. Tom appeared on the roof and began to find fault with me for running such a dark night—”

“Such a
dark night?
—Why, you said—”

“Never mind what I said—’twas as dark as Egypt
now
, though pretty soon the moon began to rise, and—”

“You mean the
sun
—because you started out just at break of—look here! Was this
before
you quitted the captain on account of his lying, or—”

“It was before—oh, a long time before. And as I was saying, he—”

“But was this the trip she sunk, or was—”

“Oh, no! Months afterward. And so the old man, he—”

“Then she made
two
last trips, because you said—”

He stepped back from the wheel, swabbing away his perspiration, and said—

“Here!” (calling me by name), “
you
take her and lie a while—you’re handier at it than I am. Trying to play yourself for a stranger and an innocent! Why, I knew you before you had spoken seven words; and I made up my mind to find out what was your little game. It was to
draw me out
. Well, I let you, didn’t I? Now take the wheel and finish the watch; and next time play fair, and you won’t have to work for passage.”

Thus ended the fictitious-name business. And not six hours out from St. Louis! But I had gained a privilege, anyway, for I had been itching to get my hands on the wheel, from the beginning. I seemed to have forgotten the river, but I hadn’t forgotten how to steer a steamboat, nor how to enjoy it, either.

The scenery, from St. Louis to Cairo—two hundred miles—is varied and beautiful. The hills were clothed in the fresh foliage of spring now, and were a gracious and worthy setting for the broad river flowing between. Our trip began auspiciously, with a perfect day, as to breeze and sunshine, and our boat threw the miles out behind her with satisfactory dispatch.

We found a railway intruding at Chester, Illinois; Chester has also a penitentiary now, and is otherwise marching on. At Grand Tower, too, there was a railway; and another at Cape Girardeau. The former town gets its name from a huge, squat pillar of rock, which stands up out of the water on the Missouri side of the river—a piece of nature’s fanciful handiwork—and is one of the most picturesque features of the scenery of that region. For nearer or remoter neighbors, the Tower has the Devil’s Bake Oven—so called, perhaps, because it does not powerfully resemble anybody else’s bake oven; and the Devil’s Tea Table—this latter a great smooth-surfaced mass of rock, with diminishing wineglass stem, perched some fifty or sixty feet above the river, beside a beflowered and garlanded precipice, and sufficiently like a tea table to answer for anybody, Devil or Christian. Away down the river we have the Devil’s Elbow and the Devil’s Race Course, and lots of other property of his which I cannot now call to mind.

The town of Grand Tower was evidently a busier place than it had been in old times, but it seemed to need some repairs here and there, and a new coat of whitewash all over. Still, it was pleasant to me to see the old coat once more. “Uncle” Mumford, our second officer, said the place had been suffering from high water and consequently was not looking its best now. But he said it was not strange that it didn’t waste whitewash on itself, for more lime was made there, and of a better quality, than anywhere in the West; and added, “On a dairy farm you never can get any milk for your coffee, nor any sugar for it on a sugar plantation; and it is against sense to go to a lime town to hunt for whitewash.” In my own experience I knew the first two items to be true; and also that people who sell candy don’t care for candy; therefore there was plausibility in Uncle Mumford’s final observation that “people who make lime run more to religion than whitewash.” Uncle Mumford said, further, that Grand Tower was a great coaling center and a prospering place.

Cape Girardeau is situated on a hillside, and makes a handsome appearance. There is a great Jesuit school for boys at the foot of the town by the river. Uncle Mumford said it had as high a reputation for thoroughness as any similar institution in Missouri. There was another college higher up on an airy summit—a bright new edifice, picturesquely and peculiarly towered and pinnacled—a sort of gigantic casters, with the cruets all complete. Uncle Mumford said that Cape Girardeau was the Athens of Missouri, and contained several colleges besides those already mentioned; and all of them on a religious basis of one kind or another. He directed my attention to what he called the “strong and pervasive religious look of the town,” but I could not see that it looked more religious than the other hill towns with the same slope and built of the same kind of bricks. Partialities often make people see more than really exists.