CRUISE OF THE AURORA
CHAPTER XIX.
NIPPED IN THE ICE.
AS THE sun gilded the treetops on our island it
revealed to us the deep blue sea of sky unmarked by
even a single cloud, promising us a day of comfort.
Our camp had been made some distance from and above
the water, so that it was not until we were about our
preparations for breakfast that I went down to the
canoes for some article. Here my eyes rested on a
scene that caused me to stand transfixed with
amazement, and, for a moment, to doubt my sanity.
From our island to the Kentucky shore, and as far
up and down the stream as the eye could reach, was one
unbroken sheet of ice. That which we had been working
so long and hard to avoid had finally overtaken us,
and we were at last frozen in.
I am greatly concerned at this state of affairs,
but Barnacle takes it very coolly, and goes about his
culinary operations as though it were an everyday
occurrence to be frozen in on an uninhabited island
with but two days' provisions on hand.
North Pole
Expedients.
Having eaten our breakfast, Barnacle fills
and lights his pipe, and throwing himself back against
the log in front of which he had been sitting, says,
in the coolest possible manner:
"Well, what are we going to do?"
I suggest that we load the canoes, and then
launching them on the ice, while one walks along the
island shore and tows, the other, with a long pole,
could keep the canoe off, and in this way we could
reach the end of the island, where we could see there
was open water. But on testing the strength of the ice
we found that this would not do, as it was not
sufficiently strong to bear the weight of the loaded
canoes. Another suggestion is, that we take the duffle
to the open water, and then tow the canoes, which
being light would not break through the ice. But
Barnacle suggests the most feasible plan, and that is,
to load the canoes, and breaking the ice near the
shore, with heavy poles clear away enough space in
which to launch them, and then, inch by inch, foot by
foot, break a channel ahead until we reach the outer
edge of the field. Although there is little current,
there is enough to carry away the cakes of ice that we
break out and force beneath the field, leaving us the
clear space in which to launch.
Barnacle is the first to get to work after the
launch, and soon has a space the length of his canoe
broken; he then backs out, and the Aurora heads into
the canal, driven with all the force that I am capable
of, in the hope that she will mount the ice and slide
on its smooth surface a few inches at least, and thus
give me a longer reach with my pole. But she simply
cuts into the edge of the ice and there sticks. I now
beat the ice to pieces for a distance of eight or ten
feet and then back out, and the Comfort makes a dash
at it and succeeds in cutting about as far as the
Aurora had done. The Comfort's last dash shows that
the ice is thinner near the center of the stream, and
as the pieces have been carried beneath the surface,
our canal is clear. Getting a good start and under
strong headway, I go crashing into the icy field and
cut a passage through to open water, and with a shout
of triumph turn to witness the passage of the Comfort,
which is following me slowly, her few inches of extra
beam necessitating a little trimming of the edges of
the channel; but her skipper works manfully, losing
not a moment of time, for well he knows his danger. No
sooner had he got clear of the mouth of the canal than
the whole field let go its anchorages above and came
bodily down, completely closing the passage that we
had made. Had our beloved craft been within the
viselike grip, the termination of the canoe cruise
might have been recorded on the 3d of December instead
of the 3d of February following.
Within a stone's throw of the camp which we had
just left there was an enormous pile of driftwood of
many cords, so tumbled together by the action of the
flood that a fire once started would have a thorough
draft and consume the entire pile. As this wood is of
no use to any one, and in times of high water only
adds to the dangers of navigation, Barnacle concludes
that it had better be out of the way, and throwing
Barnacle's Big
Bonfire.
a brand into it, soon has the satisfaction of
seeing the flames mount higher and higher, while the
black smoke ascends in a spiral column into the pure
air of this cloudless Sunday morning. All the morning,
as we looked back, we could see the cloud of smoke
rising from Barnacle's bonfire.
CHAPTER XX.
IN WHICH WE PADDLE INTO THE MISSISSIPPI.
At noon we made a short halt and had some coffee
and a light dinner, and then on against the cold wind
that had put in an appearance about an hour before. No
sign of life had been met with during the day;
therefore it was with much pleasure that we sighted
the tall smokestacks of a steamer coming down the
river, and still more when we discovered that she was
towing ahead of her the flatboat of our friend, Capt.
Trotter. Why not take a tow and get out of this icy
region? No sooner said than we prepare to attempt the
hazardous feat of catching on to the tow while under
full headway. Quickly bending an extra line on the end
of the painter, in order that we might have a greater
amount of slack, it was coiled on the deck in front of
me. Signaling to the men on the flat that we wanted to
be taken in tow, Barnacle took one side of the flat
and I the other. The crew divided into two groups, one
to take the Comfort's line and the other that of the
Aurora. Slacking up with our paddling, we allowed the
canoes to drift until the bow of the flat was within a
hundred feet of us, when we paddled hard and got under
good headway as the blunt bow came abreast of us, when
I dropped my paddle and gave the line a toss.
A Perilous Feat.
It was caught by those on deck, and slackened
up gradually until the Aurora was lying by the side of
the flat, ahead of the steamer Grace Morris. Mounting
the deck, I found that the Comfort had been as
successful as the Aurora, and was moored alongside. We
modestly received the congratulations of the flatboat
crew on the successful issue of a hazardous
experiment. Had the painter of either canoe parted as
the strain was brought on it on catching on, craft and
skipper must have gone under the guards of the
steamer, and in all probability have been ground to
pieces by the huge wheel as it beat the waters.
I learned that Capt. Trotter, fearing that the
"cold snap" would freeze his boat in and ruin his
cargo of potatoes, had chartered the steamer to tow
him to Cairo, from whence, with the addition of the
current of the Mississippi, he would soon be enabled
to drift out of the reach of ice. Of course we
received an invitation to remain on board until we
reached Cairo, and we needed no urging to accept the
kind hospitality. With all hands at the ropes, the
canoes were soon hauled on board out of the danger of
being thrown against the side of the flat by the swell
of passing steamers. I now had a chance to examine
into the damage done by the ice in the morning's
struggle, and found that the Aurora had been cut
almost through her planking at the bow, just on the
waterline. Carefully drying the parts, I filled them
with beeswax, which remained impervious to water
during the remainder of the cruise. About the middle
of the afternoon we passed the mouth of the Wabash
River, and by the time the sun took his departure we
were passing Cave-in-Rock, a cavern sixty feet in
diameter, which about the year 1800 was the rendezvous
of a band of outlaws who plundered the passing boats
and not unfrequently murdered the crews. Had we not
been on the boat, I would have stopped long enough to
make an exploration of this famous retreat. We still
have the great State of Kentucky on our left, while on
the right the State of Illinois has its eastern
boundary.
Again I spread my blankets on the same plank which
a few nights ago had served me for a couch, and was
not awakened until long after daylight, which had been
retarded by the dark, leaden clouds that overspread
the sky and threatened rain before the day was far
advanced. As I went on deck to wash off some of the
charcoal that had blackened my hands through handling
the potatoes that had been baked in the ashes of the
forecastle stove the evening before, I noticed that we
were passing Mound City, which derives its name from
another of those relics of a prehistoric race.
Lighting the after-breakfast pipe, I ascended to the
pilothouse, from which I beheld in the distance the
city of Cairo, Ill., looking like a dot on the low
level prairie. The river had widened out so that it
resembled a lake for several miles, while its waters
had lost that clearness that had characterized them
for so many miles.
Into the
Mississippi.
I was told that this discoloration was caused
by the contribution of the Tennessee River. As we
approached the low point of land on which the city of
Cairo is situated, I got a glimpse of the Mississippi,
which, as the pilot remarked, "was so crooked that it
would break a northern eel's back to follow its
tortuous course." It was nearly ten o'clock when the
great wheel of the steamer ceased its whirling and the
lines of the flat were made fast to the trunk of a
large sycamore tree that lay stranded on the face of
the levee. This old fellow bore many scars, no doubt
received on the long voyage he had taken ere being
laid at length within sight of the great "Father Of
Waters."
Springing ashore I mounted the railroad track that
stretches along the levee on the city front, and while
Barnacle gets the canoes ready for the launch, I go to
the post office and receive letters from my northern
home. The official here had been more attentive to the
notice on the envelope -- to be held until called for
-- than the one at Evansville, as he had held two of
the letters for more than two weeks. Laying in a stock
of provisions to last two weeks at least, we tumbled
them into the Aurora. Quickly divesting myself of my
shore toggery, my wee craft is launched and we rapidly
skim over the two miles between us and the debouchure
of the Ohio into the Mississippi. The steam whistles
and the ringing of bells in the mud-imbedded city
astern of us announces twelve o'clock as we shoot from
the waters of the Ohio into the rolling dark-yellow
waves of the mighty Mississippi as it sweeps off to
the left with many twists and whirls. We have now left
behind us the Ohio River down which we have paddled
many hundreds of miles, but we have made but little
more than two hundred miles of southing, and of
latitude but two and one-half degrees.
Heavy black clouds are rolling up from the
northwest, and I fancy now and then that I can hear
the mutterings of distant thunder. Notwithstanding we
have done but little paddling the past two days, a
feeling of ennui seems to have possession of us,
caused probably by the sudden change from the severe
cold to the uncomfortable warmth of today, and we
begin to look for an early camp site, but it is four
o'clock before we find one. The spot chosen was a
grayish blue clay bank, smooth and hard as a floor. As
we are on the concave side of the bend, we find but
little driftwood, scarcely enough to cook our supper,
but we need little, as the meal is hardly finished ere
we are driven to the shelter of the cabins of our
craft by a heavy downpour of rain, which is so dense
that we can scarcely see to the middle of the stream.
As the evening wears on the thunder and lightning
gradually diminish and pass away to the east, leaving
a light pattering rain, which lulls me into my first
sleep on this great river.
CHAPTER XXI.
WHICH FINDS US NEITHER AFLOAT NOR ASHORE.
"WELL, well, well! If this is to be the
kind of campground we are to have all the way down
this river, I don't know what we are to do."
It is morning and that's Barnacle talking out
there; but what on earth is the matter with the man?
Suck slap-suck slaa-ap, "did you ever see such mud?" I
was little more than half awake when the first words
were spoken, but a moment later I am listening
intently. Again that sound, resembling that which is
made by a person's foot when it is drawn slowly from
thick mud, is borne to my ears.
"Hello, Barnacle, what's up?"
"Nothing, only I guess we won't get breakfast
here."
Pulling my rubber shoes on over my canvas slippers,
I throw aside the tent flap and step out hurriedly.
Had the weather been cold I could have sworn that it
was ice that caused my feet to fly out from under me
so quickly and brought my helpless body into such
violent contact with the coaming of the canoe. But I
learned better the moment I attempted to gather myself
up, for my feet were held so fast that with all the
force I could muster I could scarcely move them from
the tenacious clay into which they had shot. Barnacle
was enjoying my predicament; he had been in the same
fix a few moments before, and now stood about ten feet
from me, his feet hidden from sight beneath the clay
and water. The rain had converted the smooth, hard
clay bank into a deep bed of a soft, mortar-like
consistency, in which it was almost impossible to move
about. Everything was smeared with the vile grayish
clay. My overshoes, being a size too large for my
slippers, had been left where my feet first struck,
and I was moving about in the clay up to my ankles. By
using much caution, I reached the water's edge and
succeeded in scraping off some of the slimy mud. Every
time I lifted my feet I brought up with them a great
weight of the river bottom that clung to the shoes
until I set them down, when it would give me the
sensation of falling as it yielded to my weight. I
managed to get the tent unfastened from the forward
part of the canoe, but was unable to reach the stern,
owing to the steep decline of the bank, a slip on
which would have shot me into the boiling waters. A
short distance below us we could make out what
appeared to be a sandy point, and to this we decided
to go and prepare our morning meal. I fished my
overshoes out of the depths with the end of my paddle,
and piled them, mud and all, on deck; then getting my
feet well braced, I pushed the Aurora with all my
might, but she would not budge an inch.
Mud and Mire.
I couldn't even rock her from side to side. I
looked back of me to see how Barnacle was making out.
There he stood, ankle deep in the mud, his hands and
clothing smeared full of the gritless clay. He had
been no more successful than I, and protested that he
"couldn't get his canoe off, and would have to wait
until a rise in the river floated her." I prepared to
make one more attempt to float the Aurora, and placing
the mainmast under my feet, I got a low hold on the
canoe, and then gave a lift that caused my back to
ache for days after. Away she went down the slippery
bank and plunged into the water. But where was I?
Stretched at full length on my stomach in the nasty,
glutinous mass. Words fail me with which to describe
my feelings or appearance as I finally gave up all
hope of ever appearing like myself again. Barnacle
sees me in this humiliating position, but, for a
wonder, doesn't laugh; he is too mad for that -- you
couldn't provoke a smile on his angular features at
this time with one of the funniest of funny sayings. I
went to his assistance, and we seized hold of the
Comfort and swung her around so that she might be slid
down the same incline which the Aurora had left clear.
As I am fishing the mast out of the mire Barnacle
takes the stern painter of his canoe in hand and gives
her a haul with all his might; but she doesn't budge
-- it is her skipper that makes a sudden move and is
now in the same position in the mud that I was a short
time back. On the edge of my cockpit coaming I laugh
until my sides ache.
"Do you want any help? Shall I come to
you?" I ask.
"Help?" Thunder, no. Haven't I got all I can do
to take care of myself without hauling you
around?"
"All right, old man;" and I draw the Aurora to me
and clamber on board, smearing deck, cushions and tent
with the slimy river deposit. I am now afloat, and
have a chance to watch Barnacle as I scrape the
tenacious clay from my hands and clothing. He follows
my example, and soon there are two of us scraping, and
thankful that there is now a prospect of breakfast.
The point to which we are bound is but a few hundred
yards below us, but it required a greater length of
time to paddle it than a like distance had ever done
before. The cause is explained as we haul out on the
fair, sandy point and find not less than one hundred
and fifty pounds of clay hanging along the keel of
each canoe. Some of this remained in the joints of my
boat's bottom until after leaving Memphis; even the
friction of the water over this long distance failed
to dislodge it, and many days elapsed before we rid
our clothing and impedimenta of traces of the mud; in
fact, as I write I can see some of it on the sail
which is now laid by as a souvenir of the voyage.
CHAPTER XXII.
SOME GLIMPSES OF MISSISSIPPI RIVER LIFE.
WHILE we are eating our rather late breakfast a
shantyboat passes, on which is a sign in large
letters, "Sewing Machines Repaired and Fixtures for
Sale." We afterward saw this boat moored at Mrs.
French's Landing, about three miles below Hickman, Ky.
Although I had no sewing machine to be repaired, I
called at the floating shop, where I met the wife of
the itinerant, who said her "man had gone back into
the country on business and to buy some stores and a
new caliker dress." She told me that he made a good
living. In the spring they would be down on the lower
Mississippi, and there would get a steamer to tow them
up to the higher settlements, where they would again
commence their floating journey downstream. "He has
his regular customers, he has, and they allers wait
for him to come round," said she.
The current of the Mississippi here attains a speed
of about four miles per hour, and as we are quite
fresh, we make a good run under paddle until we reach
a point one mile above Columbus, Ky. Here we catch a
breeze from the northwest that warrants us in making
sail, and we almost fly past the town. Following the
course of the channel, we are led to the left into a
deep bend under the high chalk bluffs and opposite
Island No.5. A moment later I discover that the
current has increased almost to a millrace speed.
Hello, what is this? Over goes the boom, and the canoe
gives a lurch and is almost immediately headed up
stream, then as quickly is on her downward course, the
boom just grazing the top of my head as it flies over
to port. Not more than fifty feet are run, when she
goes through almost the same maneuver again. I am
thoroughly bewildered now, and lose no time in getting
the canvas off her I look inshore, and there is the
Comfort swinging round in a circle, her skipper making
frantic efforts to head her in some direction, and yet
both canoes are making good time down stream. I
afterward learned that the Columbus Whirlpools had
always been considered dangerous to very small
craft.
The river now broadens into lake-like proportions,
and the wind sweeps across the low Mississippi shore
with such force that it kicks up a choppy sea which is
very dampening to our decks and sails. Still we carry
a full spread for a couple of miles, until the channel
takes a turn to the Missouri shore and we are
compelled to run close-hauled, when the wind comes
down with such force that it can best be described as
a canoe gale. As I have no way of reefing, I am forced
to take off my mainsail, and while so engaged the
Comfort passes me, the short seas sending the spray
flying all over her skipper.
The Hardest Paddle
Yet.
Whew! What a blast that was! Hello! there
goes something off the Comfort's deck -- two articles,
but both together. What can they be? Ha, ha! Barnacle
got a drenching that time, and his mast bent like a
reed. He has let go his halliard now, and down comes
his sail. I am chasing him with my mizzen set forward.
"Hello, Barnacle, what was that I saw fly
off your after deck?"
He looks behind him, and discovers that his rubber
shoes, which he had laid there to dry, have gone on an
independent voyage toward the great Gulf.
The gale had now become so severe and the short
choppy seas so vicious, we made a landing on a
gravelly point on the Kentucky shore, but as no
driftwood was handy we made all things snug in the
canoes, and put out under paddle for the Missouri
shore, where the dense forest growth and high bank
would afford us shelter from the gale, which came in
cutting blasts. I have said, somewhere in this book,
"this was the hardest paddle I ever had," but that was
no comparison to this trip across the Mississippi
against a wind that fairly picked the water up and
dashed it against us in sheets. Had it not been that
the powerful current was setting us to the shore, we
would have been forced to retreat to the point from
which we started. Almost exhausted we reached a
favorable point for a camp beneath a high
forest-crowned bank. All about us there was an
abundance of driftwood in the shape of fence rails,
many of them of fine black walnut, slabs and cordwood,
and now and then a railroad tie. As we had not
protected ourselves with oilskins while on the river
during the blow, we came ashore in rather a moist
condition; so, contrary to our custom, we immediately
built a fire and made some coffee before attending to
anything else. With the decline of the sun, the wind
drops and the temperature becomes much milder as the
evening advances. The large tent is pitched close
under the bank, parallel with the river. In front of
it, not more than ten feet away, we have a roaring
fire, which sends not only light but heat through the
open front of the tent, where Barnacle is lying on his
back enjoying a snoring solo.
I threw a broad board down in front of a large log
beside the fire, and on it spread my rug and cushions.
On this comfortable seat I reclined and made up my log
for the day, and then enjoyed the pipe of kinnickinnic
as I built castles in the bed of glowing coals before
me. The cracking of a stick and rustling of the dry
leaves on the bank above startled me from my reverie.
Instinctively I reached in the tent for my revolver
and carried my hand to my right hip to make sure that
my stout belt knife was in its accustomed place.
Instantly I was hailed from above with:
"Fo' de Lawd, massa, doan ye shoot! we
jiss wants to git warm by de fiah."
Looking up to the top of the bank, I could now make
out the forms of four darkies. I immediately invited
them to come down. Their story was that they had been
employed as roustabouts on one of the St. Louis and
New Orleans packets, and one of them, having had a
dispute with the mate of the boat, was receiving a
sound thrashing, when the other three pitched in and
turned the tide of battle.
Castaway
Roustabouts.
The captain ran the steamer ashore, drove the
quartet up the bank, and left them to shift for
themselves, supperless and penniless. Seeing the light
of our fire, they had made their way cautiously to it,
and now begged that they might be allowed to remain
until daylight, when they would continue their
difficult tramp through the cane and brier thickets
until they could find some one who would set them
across the river to the Kentucky shore, whence they
would work their way to Columbus. Notwithstanding
their penniless condition, they seemed to be in a
merry mood, and spent the hours until long past
midnight in singing plantation melodies and cracking
jokes at one another's expense. The bass and tenor
were excellent, but the rich falsetto of the largest
fellow of the party astonished me with its softness.
Two of them had made a sort of bunk out of rails
beside the fire, where they were stretched at full
length, while the other two had perched themselves
among the branching roots of a large stump that
projected from the bank almost over the fire. They
were a fine, hardy-looking set of fellows, and from
their youthful appearance I judged that they were all
born free, but on questioning them they assured me
that they had been born in slavery. Many were the
laughable stories they told of plantation life,
especially those that occurred during the war. On
viewing the canoes, one of them observed that the
Aurora, with hatches covering the cockpit, looked "jis
like dat ar coffin ole massa war toted to de
burin'-groun' in." The big darky exclaimed:
"Golly, guess it wouldn't pay for nigger
to steal dat ar little boat; she'd dun roll ober
an' drown him sartin sho."
His remark about stealing reminded me that it would
be well for us to keep a close eye on our guests, or
on their departure we might miss some article of which
we stood most in need. At one o'clock I step into the
tent and awaken Barnacle, telling him that it is now
his watch. The "darks" have not seen Barnacle, and as
his six feet two inches are at length revealed, I can
see their white eyeballs roll from one to the other.
Daybreak sees all hands at work, the negroes piling
wood on the fire, while Barnacle finds a piece of
bacon for each of my dark-skinned guests, to which we
add a half dozen crackers each and a cup of coffee.
They seem very grateful for the light breakfast, and
with a shake of the hand all around they disappear
into the dense thicket, while we clean up and pack the
canoes for an early start.
After being out but a short time we sighted an
upriver bound passenger steamer. I had on one
occasion, while on the Ohio River, witnessed the
manner in which flatboatmen procure papers from the
steamers; and as we have been without the morning
paper at the breakfast table for some time, I
determine to attempt getting one, flatboatman fashion.
Paddling directly for the steamer, I came within
hailing distance, and began calling out at the top of
my voice, "Plee-a-s-e th-r-o-w me a pa-a-a-per,"
drawling the words out in a sing-song sort of
manner.
News from the World.
When this had been repeated and I had gone
through the pantomime of reading a paper, both the
officers and passengers seemed to vie with one another
to see who would be first to get a paper into my
hands. I paddled close to the steamer's guards and
caught two folded papers, while Barnacle picked up a
third that had gone overboard. We swung our caps in
response to the waving of handkerchiefs from the deck
of the City of Natchez and paddled on, I with a copy
of the New Orleans Times-Democrat twelve days old,
spread out on the hatch before me, while Barnacle had
a Vicksburg daily four days old. We had time simply to
glance at the contents and learn of the terrible storm
on the Atlantic coast, the heavy snow storms in the
Northern and Eastern States and the intensely cold
weather throughout the entire country, when the wind
came off the Missouri shore and gave us a favorable
breeze, under which we ran until about mid-day, when
it left us as suddenly as it had come. The atmosphere
is unusually mild, and I paddle with my head, arms and
chest bare, and have concluded that we are out of the
region of chilling blasts. The thought of entering the
sunny South was indeed welcome to men who had fought
wind and wave, amid snow and ice, for so many days.
© 2000 Craig O'Donnell
May not be reproduced without my
permission.
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