CRUISE OF THE AURORA
CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH WE HAVE A SWELL TIME.
AS WE brought Aurora, Indiana, into view, a fine
breeze sprang up directly aft. Immediately the word
was passed to make sail. Paddling close under the
shore to avoid the current the Aurora spreads her
wings, and filling away, bounds along with delight to
her skipper. But what is the matter with the Comfort?
There she lies close in shore; her skipper standing in
her cockpit with arms akimbo, while he seems lost in a
brown study. I jibe and run up to him.
"What's the matter, Barnacle ?"
"Well, if you must know, I've come away from
Cincinnati without my mast."
As we have had no use for the sails since leaving
the Queen City, Barnacle's carelessness has remained
undiscovered until now. Of course, he can't sail
without a mast, and we paddle into the town of Aurora,
where a new mast is made and within three hours we set
sail and are off again, but with the wind very light.
Our day's run has been a short one; when we build our
camp on a beautiful smooth gravel beach beneath high,
overhanging, tree-crowned banks on the convex side of
a very abrupt bend in the river.
The Wrath of the
Waters.
Barnacle wishes to make some alterations in
his canoe, so we pitch the large tent and decide to
remain in camp the following day. The Comfort is
unloaded of all her duffle, which is piled in a heap
about ten feet from the tent, which fronts the water.
Between the tent and dunnage we built our fire, and
spread about it are our mess chests and their
accompanying cooking utensils. The Aurora lies near
the water, her hatches securely covered with the
hatch-cloth, while the Comfort has been carried to a
convenient spot for working back of the tent.
Comfortably wrapped in our blankets, we lie on the
soft bed of leaves watching the cheerful blaze of the
fire before us. "Chu-chu, chu-chu," I heard her say,
as a huge steamer came down with the flood, belching
forth volumes of steam from her great wide-mouthed
pipes, and quicker than I can write it she was abreast
of the camp, drawing the water down so low that it
seemed as though she had sucked it all into her huge
hull. Then came the reaction, and with one mighty rush
the huge billows came sweeping along shore, picking
the Aurora up in its strong embrace and flinging her
against the tent, while it put out the fire and washed
away and mixed together the pile of dunnage, mess
chests and cooking utensils. Springing from my bed
with the onward rush of water, I succeeded in saving
my blankets from a wetting. With the fire out and wood
wet, we are left in darkness, which seems all the more
intense, with the thought that most of Barnacle's
dunnage has been swept away, together with much of our
stock of canned goods. A protracted search rewards us
with the recovery of nearly all the articles, and with
daylight we succeed in finding the balance. Again
turning into our blankets, I resolve never to make
camp again within the reach of a steamer's swell if I
can help myself.
The weather is daily growing cooler, admonishing us
that we must make good use of all the time we have,
that we may not be overtaken by the fields of ice that
are liable at any day to come down upon us from the
upper waters. Such a condition of affairs would be
very discouraging, as it would necessitate a camp
until the run of ice had passed, for our frail canoes
would soon succumb to its grinding influences if we
should undertake to force a passage through it.
As we round a sharp bend a mile or two above
Patriot, Indiana, the wind, which has been almost in
our faces, comes out dead aft. Quickly making sail we
shoot up to the wharfboat and intrust some letters to
the pleasant man in charge, and then on at a lively
speed. The air is decidedly cold, and as we sail along
I add a heavy overshirt to the two that I already have
on, while I wrap my feet in a thick rug and pull my
soft hat snugly down about my ears, and cover my hands
with a pair of stout gloves. At times the wind comes
down the gullies in the high hills in such force as to
tax my utmost skill in keeping the Aurora's keel down
without reefing the mainsail or furling the mizzen.
About the middle of the afternoon we came upon a
flatboat photographer's establishment moored to the
Kentucky shore, and I fancy the itinerant was doing a
good business from the number of heads poked into view
as we quickly passed his floating gallery.
Eighteen-Mile
Island.
A short distance beyond we met a small
steamer coming upstream. Heading directly for her, we
pass within thirty feet. From one of her port windows
could be seen the broad, full-moon face of her darky
steward, his mouth wide open and his rows of ivories
shining while he laughed in surprise and called out,
"Yah-yah, jist see dem little boats go; deys gwine ter
git dare, sartin sho."
By four o'clock the wind had died out and we ran
ashore, made some coffee and eat a hearty lunch and
then paddled on, passing Madison, Ind., as the
Cincinnati packet was swinging out of her berth into
the stream. Four miles below we landed, and building a
rousing campfire, rolled in our blankets and lay with
feet to the fire, first having noted the day's run of
forty-seven miles. The crisp, frost-laden air of the
next morning caused us to be very active in our
preparations for the hearty breakfast which we eat as
a fortification against the heavy twenty-mile to
windward paddle that followed, ending on Eighteen Mile
Island, so called from its distance above Louisville,
Ky. Our heavy, restful sleep was not broken until long
after the sun was glinting upon us through the
trees.
CHAPTER XVI.
WE RUN THE FALLS OF THE OHIO.
THE afternoon of November 22 saw us paddling
against a strong head wind as we approached
Louisville, where are located the Falls of the Ohio
River, that great barrier to uninterrupted navigation
on this long water course. Before leaving Cincinnati,
my friend, Judge Longworth, of the Supreme Court of
Ohio, took me by the hand and said:
"There is one thing I want you to promise -- don't
attempt to run the Falls at Louisville. I have stood
on the bridge and wished that I might be able to go
down them in a canoe, but it is too dangerous."
I promised not to undertake it, unless I thought
there was a fair prospect of getting out alive, and
now the time had arrived to solve the problem.
Paddling up to the float of a pretentious-looking boat
house, we were welcomed to the quarters of the
Louisville Rowing Club. Leaving Barnacle with the
canoes, I made a short call in the city, my mind all
the time filled with thoughts of how I was to get
reliable information about the Falls. By the advice of
a friend of Mr. Lucien Wilson, of Cincinnati, I called
at the Life Saving Station.
Heroes of the Falls.
So great are the dangers to life and property
of the Falls at this point, that the Government has
established and maintains one of the life saving
stations here, and has placed in command the brave,
warmhearted William M. Devau. The story of these men,
Capt. Devau and his two comrades, John Tully and John
Gilhooly, is well known.
"They were," says a recent issue of the
Louisville Commercial, "all plain simple men,
living on the river front, whom long years of
experience had made expert oarsmen. They knew every
current and rock on the Falls, and whenever they
saw a boat going over, they would put out and save
the occupants. They rescued all kinds of people --
tradesmen, boys and women; and they took them from
above the dam, over the Falls below the bridge, and
on the dam. All this was done without the least
hope of reward. Their deeds became noised abroad,
and the State presented them with magnificent
medals. Their fame reached Washington, and after
they had saved fifty-eight lives, a station was
located at Louisville Nov. 3, 1881. William Devau
was made Captain, and among the crew were his
gallant associates, Tully and Gilhooly. Since the
station has been started the crew has saved one
hundred and seventy-five people, of all ages and
both sexes."
Calling on this man, in his neat station, I told
him of my wish to run the Falls, and asked him if he
thought there was a chance of getting through right
side up. Said he:
"The waters of the river are now at a very
low stage, consequently the dangers of the Falls
are much greater than at any other stage. Come up
into the lookout and I can show you the least
dangerous course."
There, in the distance, I could see the angry,
boiling water, as it churned itself into foam about
and over the huge rocks in its course.
"Now the principal danger is in getting into the
reaction and being drawn back under the Falls. If
that should happen, nothing but certain death
awaits you."
I decided to go. After looking our craft over and
being assured that we both have had some experience in
running fast water, he said: "I believe it would be
consistent with my duty to take the lifeboat and crew
and pilot you through."
In fifteen minutes the lifeboat, with its crew of
four brawny men, was launched from the house and led
the way, closely followed by the Aurora, with the
Comfort bringing up the rear. In single file, we went
over to the Indiana shore, and there turning slowly
off to the left, we rapidly got into the powerful
current and were shot past the end of the huge stone
dam, whereon had assembled a crowd of spectators, who
lustily cheered us and shouted words of encouragement
as we went flying down the boiling, seething cataract,
now buried beneath and anon tossed on the summit of
the foam-crested waves. There is no time to look
about, scarcely time for thought, even, as we bound
along, the lifeboat ahead, the Aurora closely
following, while the Comfort is some distance astern.
In this order we reach the foot of the angry, roaring
flood, where our kind friends are to part from us and
return to the station by the canal through which the
steamers and other vessels pass around the Falls.
Smooth Sailing
Again.
As the boat's crew peak their oars, the
Aurora rounds up to them, and I grasp each one by the
hand in grateful acknowledgment of their kindness.
© 2000 Craig O'Donnell
May not be reproduced without my
permission.
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