CRUISE OF THE AURORA
CHAPTER XXVI.
IN WHICH I HAVE RECOURSE TO A MEPHISTOPHELEAN
RUSE.
The morning of our departure from "Execution Camp"
was mild and without a wind. Helena was reached at
noon, and leaving the canoes in charge of a
fishmonger, we walked across the low neck of land
between town and river, and entered the filthy, muddy
streets. Entering the post office, the polite clerk
handed us each a package of letters, saying, "I have
been looking for you for some days, so had your mail
ready." We return to the fishmonger's stand, where we
are shown a sample of the catfish peculiar to the
Mississippi River. This one weighed 80 pounds, and I
was told that they are frequently caught weighing as
high as 125 and 150 pounds. The head of the specimen
shown would fill a half bushel measure. Below Helena
we came to the site of Napoleon, Arkansas, which not
more than twenty years ago contained a population of
more than twelve thousand souls, and had flourishing
stores and warehouses and all the indications of
prosperity. The United States Government here
maintained a marine hospital in a large brick
building. Mr. Bishop, in his "Four Months in a
Sneakbox," says:
"Below the mouth of the Arkansas was the
town of Napoleon, with its deserted houses, the
most forlorn aspect that had yet met my eye. The
banks were caving into the river day by day. Houses
had fallen into the current, which was undermining
the town. Here and there chimneys were standing in
solitude, the buildings having been torn down and
removed to other localities to save them from the
insatiable maw of the river."
Again, Mr. Tyson, four years later, says, referring
to the above:
"All this was gone when I passed. I saw
nothing of the once busy Napoleon but six or seven
houses, mostly shabby and dilapidated."
I saw not even a chimney, not a trace of anything
to indicate that a town had ever been within miles of
the city; and I was told by the pilot of the steamer
Port Eads that the site of the large brick hospital
was now passed over by the steamers as they followed
the main channel.
On a bright, mild day we passed the mouth of the
Yazoo River, which was sending a flood of yellow water
into the Mississippi, laden with debris of all
descriptions, among which I noticed a hen coop, but as
it had probably passed many a negro cabin in its
course, I refrained from searching for the hen. A
short distance beyond we came in sight of Vicksburg,
and as we slowly approached it over the long reach of
broad water, I thought of the stirring scenes in 1863,
when the Union forces laid siege to the city, and of
its long and determined resistance; then the river ran
immediately in front of the city.
Grant's Cutoff.
To pass some gunboats to a point lower down,
Gen. Grant caused a canal to be cut across a low
peninsula from one bend of the river to another, in
the hope that the waters of the Mississippi might be
diverted through it, and thus open a channel through
which his boats might pass, out of the range of the
frowning batteries on the heights above the city. But
the Mississippi is its own engineer, and refused to be
led by the device of man; and to this day "Grant's
cutoff" has never been utilized, save as a grave for
many of the negroes who were engaged in its
construction. Since those days of grim war, the
whimsical river has chosen to cut for itself a new
channel, by which Vicksburg Landing is left at least a
mile inland. But with the philosophical character of
dwellers on this stream, they removed their wharfboats
a mile down the river to where the channel again cut
across and gave them depth of water sufficient to land
steamers.
The aspect of the country is more pleasing. There
is not that monotony of interminable cottonwood
thickets and low sand bars; the shores are more
uniform and the timber is of much larger growth.
Spanish moss is now quite frequently seen, giving to
the trees a fantastic effect, as it hangs in festoons
from branch to branch. Live oak trees of great
proportions are almost everywhere in view, the deep
green of their leaves in strong contrast to the light
gray of the moss.
About the middle of the afternoon we came upon the
wreck of the once splendid steamer Robert E Lee, which
a few weeks before had been burned; when forty of its
passengers and crew perished in the flames.
The sight of broad cotton fields is now of almost
hourly occurrence, and the humble cabin of the negro
has given place to the more pretentious habitation of
the planter of broad acres. This is the season for
shipping the cotton to market, and the sight of a
steamer with her nose pushed against the bank, while
negroes roll the cotton bales on board, is not an
unusual one, neither by day nor night. Odd-looking
indeed are these steamer landings to one who has been
accustomed to the well-built stone or timber piers of
the Northern rivers. Here, wherever there is a
sufficient depth of water, a steamer can make a
landing, and it is no unusual thing to see great tiers
of cotton bales on the high bank, waiting for the
coming of the craft that is to freight it to the more
southern market.
The weather has now become delightfully warm, and
every day we make a fair run, the light rain having
few terrors for us who can so effectually shut it out.
The river has broadened, and the banks are so much
lower that we are enabled to see much further back
from the shore over the long expanse of cotton fields.
Natchez is passed in the early morning. We do not run
close to the city, but keep out in the strength of the
current. Natchez has a more imposing aspect than any
city we have yet seen on the trip.
We are enjoying our snug little camp after the
fatigues of the day.
Dusky Surroundings.
I am busy having a general "clearin' up" of
the canoe and its duffle, when I am surprised by a
female voice saying, "Good evenin', sah." On looking
up I behold four negro women; the eldest, apparently,
stepped forward and said:
"Boss, has yer got any dry goods? I wants
to buy a caliker dress."
I assure her that I am not in that line of
business.
"Oh! I done thought you was peddlin'."
Then followed a multitude of questions from the
quartet, ending in my telling them of the nature of
the expedition. Oh, fatal mistake. I wish that I could
recall my words. Ere the sun had set, our camp was
besieged by an army of blacks, from the gray-headed
old Uncle and Aunty down to the pickaninny carried in
the arms of a child. They gathered about, plying us
with all manner of questions, and examining the canoes
and belongings. I had answered the same set of
questions many times, and finally grew tired of them.
I wanted to eat my supper in peace, but they persisted
in remaining about us, notwithstanding I had
repeatedly asked what time they eat their supper. They
all seemed to be of the opinion that it was after
supper time, but this was a sort of picnic for them,
and it mattered not when they got supper, if at all.
We were in for it and must do the best we could.
Barnacle prepared the evening meal, and we sat down
to it surrounded by our dusky admirers. They were well
behaved, and gave us not the slightest excuse for
driving them off. Having finished my supper, I
proceeded to arrange the Aurora for sleeping in. I
thought they would take the hint and betake themselves
off. No such good luck. My skill as a chambermaid
amused and interested them exceedingly, and as I
spread my blankets on the cushions, one old darky
suggested that "he done get his coffin ready, saatin
sho," but when I finally had the tent buttoned down, I
quietly stepped inside and drew the flaps together,
when a general yah-yah-yah followed from the whole
gang. Some one remarked, "he done make his little boat
into a house, sho nuf." I had, stowed away in my
medicine chest, a box of brilliant red fire, such as
is used to illuminate a theatrical stage. Emerging
from the canoe with box in hand I told them that I was
going to make my night cakes and then go to bed.
"Doan know what yo' mean boss, what fo'
kind ob cake am dat?"
"Well, I will show you;" and as the crowd gathered
round me, packing closer and closer, I poured a large
quantity of the powder into a pannikin and touched it
with a match, at the same time setting up the most
fiendish yells of which I was capable, and danced
about like a maniac. In an instant the whole crowd
were yelling, running and tumbling over one another
through the bushes and fallen timber, and nothing was
seen of them again that night. My ruse had been
successful and I enjoyed a night of thorough
comfort.
The next morning an old bent darky put in an
appearance, and after the usual salutations had been
exchanged, he said:
"Foah de Lord, Massa, what was dat ar las'
night? done most skaad de life out ob dis chile,
fo' saatin shoa."
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CRESCENT CITY.
WE are now approaching New Orleans, and as we run
along the "Sugar Coast," as this section is called, we
see the interminable fields of cane stretching away in
the distance. The stately homes of the planters are
surrounded by the neat cabins of the negroes, and here
and there the sugar-houses. One day we met a character
whose floating house was moored in a secluded nook. He
was introduced as Capt. Pete Hall, or "the old man in
the shantyboat." He was apparently about seventy years
of age, tall and angular, with a sallow complexion, a
good head of almost white hair falling low on his
shoulders, and a gray beard covering his breast. His
habitation was neat and clean, its walls covered with
illustrations cut from many of the pictorial papers
and magazines of the country.
"Gentlemen, I am a geologist traveling in
the interests of the Davenport Academy of Sciences;
there is not a more finely educated man in the
State of Mississippi today than he who stands
before you."
Poor fellow; "much learning had made him mad."
It is Christmas Eve, and from my comfortable
quarters can be seen bright bonfires along the shores,
while rockets and Roman candles are constantly
shooting heavenward. The people of these States
combine the Fourth of July and Christmas festivities,
for the intense heat of July holds out very slight
inducements for a jollification on the anniversary of
Independence Day. The levee that extends along the
river has a broad summit, on which horsemen and
footmen are constantly passing to and fro, and from
whom salutations in English, French and Spanish are
received. Here and there on the broad surface of the
river we see the rakish luggers, with their
Chinese-looking sails. At each of the landings there
are from one to a half dozen of these moored to the
bank, their dark-visaged "Dago" captains busily
engaged in selling the cargo of fruits and vegetables
brought from the Gulf ports. As we approached the
Crescent City very little life was seen except on the
river, the shore presenting a long stretch of treeless
fields. Along the upper front of the city all the
indications of prosperity were apparent; long lines of
coal flats lined the shores, while on the banks were
mills and factories. Along the lower front of the city
were the masts and spars of ocean sailing craft, while
the black smoke from the steamers was ascending high
into the clouds, which are now threatening to pour out
their aqueous contents.
On arrival at the foot of Julia street at an early
hour on Christmas morning there were very few people
about. Leaving the canoes in charge of the
wharfmaster, we proceeded to the post office, where my
eyes were gladdened by the sight of letters.
New Orleans.
I had written to a brother canoeist resident
in the city that I expected to reach the end of the
river trip on Christmas Day, but for him not to look
for me until I reported at his office. On my way
thither I met his bright and smiling face and received
a most hearty welcome. Under his guidance the services
of a truckman were secured, not, however, until I had
promised the owner of the sorry-looking team of mules
that he should receive an extra amount of compensation
for his services. Even with this assurance, it was a
difficult matter to induce him to transport our little
craft the short distance to the head of the West End
Canal. A holiday is looked on by the average
Southerner as robbed of half its pleasures if one
performs the slightest amount of labor from the rising
to the setting of the sun. Launching the canoes on the
black, foul-smelling waters of the canal, through
which the drainage of the city is conducted, we dipped
our paddles, and the canoes shot forward as the
floodgates of heaven opened and the east wind blew
strongly in our faces. My friend had engaged to meet
us at the outlet of the canal, saying at parting:
"While you are paddling the six miles
against this wind I will attend to some business,
and then take the cars out to the boathouse, and
probably arrive there ahead of you at that."
Sure enough, as we came in sight of the handsome
boathouse of the St. Johns Rowing Club he stood on its
broad veranda, surrounded by several members of the
club, who had kindly placed the freedom of the house
at our disposal. Our little craft were in a few
moments beneath shelter, surrounded by the many
beautiful boats of the club. A few minutes by rail
carried us into the city, where the ear was greeted by
the blare of trumpets and the crash of brass bands
heading processions. The populace lined the sidewalks
and cheered them as they passed, while cannon bombs,
crackers and firearms were exploding in all
directions.
During the afternoon we paid a visit to the water
front, where were lying a fleet of vessels
representing nearly all the nationalities of the
world. Some were discharging their cargoes of foreign
products, while others were being laden with the
products of the soil of the Southern States, cotton,
sugar, rice and tobacco; and still others into whose
hulls was being poured thousands of bushels of wheat
from the great Northwest. Leaving the forest of masts
and spars, we strolled higher up, where are moored the
steamers that ply the different watercourses of the
Mississippi system. Two had just come in from St.
Louis, Mo., one having in tow nine grain barges
containing seven thousand tons of wheat, while another
was piled high with hundreds of bales of cotton, which
was already being transferred to an English bark for
transportation to the mills of England. Probably the
most interesting sight, to a Northern man, in this
great Southern city is the old French market, in which
I spent several hours among the quaint market people,
now stopping at the stall of the French woman for a
cup of the delicious black coffee which none but the
French know how to make, now pausing at the stand of
the Sicilian long enough to eat of delicious fruits,
and then on to the bench of the fish dealer, where I
tickle the palate with a "dozen raw" from the oyster
beds of Mississippi Sound.
Lake Pontchartrain.
Friday, the 29th of December, the heavily
laden canoes are launched from the float of the St.
Johns Rowing Club, and with a "bon voyage" from my
friend, who has spared no effort to make my visit to
the Crescent City a pleasant one, we paddled out on to
the choppy surface of Lake Pontchartrain, and face our
old enemy, the head wind. We make camp at the mouth of
Bayou De John, under the shelter of some tall
reeds. While gathering wood for our fire, I came upon
a pile of bituminous coal lying at the water's edge,
evidently washed ashore from a wreck that lay about
two hundred feet off. I suggest to Barnacle that we
have a coal fire, but he doubts my ability to make it
burn, saying, "You have no way of making a grate for
it, and without one it will not burn." Nevertheless I
determine to try the experiment, and converting my
sou'wester into a hod, I soon have a good stock of the
coal at the tent. Building a fire of wood, I pile the
coal on it, and as the black smoke rolls up I call to
Barnacle that here is a fire over which he can cook
our supper, but he disdains the use of coal for his
galley, and insists on using his wood fire. I add fuel
to my fire until I have a mass of glowing coals fully
three feet in diameter and two high. Making a soft
couch of the tall grass of which there is an abundance
about us, I enjoy the hours of the evening as I lie
toasting my feet. As the Aurora is heavily laden, and
innumerable small articles stowed in the cockpit, I do
not follow my custom of sleeping in her, but share the
tent with Barnacle, and fall asleep with the waters of
the lake rippling on the sands not ten feet away. On
awaking at an early hour, I first direct my attention
to my fire, and am much pleased to find that it is
still alive. With the addition of fuel and a little
bellows work from my lungs, I soon have it again under
way.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH WE HAVE A SKIRMISH WITH THE UNITED STATES
ARMY.
By half past nine o'clock we were afloat, and
following the western shore for about five miles, made
sail and soon after were abreast of the lighthouse at
Point aux Herbes. Here the attentive keeper gave us
the course east by north half north to the lighthouse,
at the entrance to the Rigolet, eight miles distant.
Setting the mariner's compass on deck before him,
Barnacle led the way, and we sped merrily on out over
the swelling blue waters of the lake, every stitch of
our sails drawing, while the graceful craft rose and
fell on the heaving brackish waters that parted from
their bows. Far to the northeast we could make out the
long line of shore, with its glittering sands backed
by the dark green of the grove of live oaks, while to
the southwest could be seen the dark cloud of smoke
that hung over the Crescent City. To the south, as far
as the eye could reach, was a continuation of marshes
and lakelets, until it rested on the broad surface of
Lake Borgne.
With the favoring breeze we made the run across to
the Rigolet's Lighthouse in one hour and a half, and
received a hearty welcome from the polite keeper.
While looking over the light tower and the keeper's
quarters, I was very much surprised to find a
beautiful Christmas tree standing in one corner the
room, laden with confections, fruits and gifts.
Notwithstanding that the keeper gave us a very urgent
invitation to stop over night with him, saying he
could both "eat and sleep us," I could not see that he
had more than room enough for his family and as I
understood that the sergeant in charge of Fort Pike
had an abundance of room, I concluded to ask shelter
of him that we might not be under the necessity of
camping on the low, sedgy shore. On our approach to
the fort, not more than a mile distant from the
lighthouse, we were greeted by the barking of several
vicious-looking dogs and the squealing of numerous
pigs, which seemed to have possession of the premises.
My past experience with dogs on this cruise caused me
to be very cautious as to how near I allowed these
canines to approach before menacing them with the mast
which held in my hand as I stepped out of the canoe.
Their continued barking, however, attracted the
attention of the son of the Emerald Isle in charge who
ordered me to re-embark, saying that he "Could not
allow any one on the premises." Night was falling, and
this petty officer had plenty of room to spare, if not
in his own quarters, in the great barns of barracks,
and I determined to make a fight of what I thought I
had a perfect right to.
A Warm Welcome.
I knew very well that he had no orders that
our sleeping in the barracks would conflict with.
"Why didn't you stay at the lighthouse?"
he asked. "Just like that dirty Dutchman, to send
all the fellows that come down from the city for me
to take care of."
I explained who we were and why I asked the
privilege I did but he seemed bent on either forcing
us to retrace our course to the lighthouse or take the
only other alternative and sleep on the low marshes.
However, after some little further palaver, I gained
his consent to occupy the kitchen of the barrack in
which the men of the Health Department are quartered
during the prevalence of yellow fever in New Orleans
and the surrounding country. Although we had logged
but a few miles, we were rather fatigued with the
day's exertions, and the drowsy god took possession of
us at an early hour. The sun was just peeping above
the live oak hamaks and low sand dunes beyond the
marsh lands as I turned out the following morning, and
I was much surprised to find a heavy coat of frost.
The air was not cold, but had that crispiness about it
that one experiences on a cool but clear April morning
in the Northern States. There was no wind, and the
waters were as smooth as possible. As I stood watching
a saucy-looking lugger as her dark-skinned Dago crew
worked her against the current with long sweeps, a
flock of ducks pitched down between the rows of
barracks with a velocity and whistling that startled
me.
When we were about to eat our breakfast we received
a hearty "Good morning, gentlemen," and in walked the
representative of "Uncle Sam," bearing in his hands a
server covered with a snow-white napkin.
"Gentlemen, it was so dark when you
arrived last night that I couldn't see your faces,
and took you to be some fishermen. Had I known who
you were I might have given you quarters a trifle
more comfortable. My wife has sent you some
breakfast, which she hopes will be to your liking.
When you get ready, I will be pleased to see you at
my quarters in the fort."
Passing over a short stretch of marsh that divided
the fort from the barracks, we crossed the drawbridge
spanning the moat, and entering through the sallyport,
found ourselves in the center of the fortification on
the neatly-kept gravel parade. Here we were joined by
the sergeant, who conducted us through the neatly
whitewashed underground works, where he exhibited some
very ancient gun carriages and artillery equipments
which form part of the first armament of this rather
ancient work. On reaching the highest point of the
wall we had a fine view of our course for several
miles the south and eastward, and were able to locate
several points of value to us while traversing the
devious thoroughfares between us and the open Gulf.
Looking down from the parapet to the broad moat
beneath my attention was attracted to a peculiar log
lying partly submerged in the slimy water. My surprise
may be fancied when the sergeant, tossing a piece of
brick on it, the log moved slowly off to a more
secluded spot, where he might lie in saurian ease and
bask in the sun unmolested. Having made the tour of
the works, we were introduced into the quarters of the
commandant, where before a blazing fire on the hearth
we smoked the "pipe of peace" and drank to the health
of our entertainer in a bumper of native wine.
Reconciliation.
On looking about these comfortable quarters
my eye rested on a small telegraphic instrument on a
stand beneath one of the windows. The sergeant has a
son of about the same age as the eldest boy at the
lighthouse, and for amusement and mutual improvement
they have constructed a line connecting the two
localities. On this instrument stand I made a
discovery -- there lay a copy of the New Orleans
Times-Democrat, which I knew contained an account of
our departure from that city. The contribution to our
breakfast was undoubtedly the result of the sergeant's
search after news, subsequent to his ungracious
reception of us the evening before. As the sun
advanced toward the zenith it sent down its rays with
more power than I had felt from it for many weeks, and
it was in recognition of the rare treat that I stepped
into my canoe with arms bared to the elbows, and said
goodbye to Sergeant Thomas Cooney, U.S.A. We were off
just in time to catch the last of the flood tide, and
the day was so fine that I had little inclination to
work hard, add to which, it was Sunday and should be a
day of rest.
About five miles below the fort, at the mouth of
Pearl River, we found a small schooner fast on the bar
that lies close to the mouth of the bayou. On "laying
alongside," the only person on board informs me that
he is the skipper, and has been aground since early
morning, having got fast in the darkness.
"I done sent de boy wid de yal up to de
village to git de boys to come down an' help me
off. He done promised tat come right straight back,
but I reckon he done got long wid some oh dem
wenches up dar an' de Lord only knows when he come
back now."
Barnacle, the ever-ready in an emergency, now
speaks up and asks him why he doesn't do so and so,
but the darky seems to have very little idea of the
meaning of the nautical phrases that are made use of,
and says, "I dunno what de gemman means."
"Well, I'll show you," says Barnacle.
"What do you say, Doctor, shall we get him off?"
Of course, I am ready to lend a helping hand, and
springing on board, Barnacle overhauls the lines that
lie tangled on the deck, reeves them through blocks,
and directing the skipper to bring his small boat
around to the stern, we lower the anchor into it, and
he pulls out to the end of the line and casts anchor.
Now, we all take hold and haul away with all our
might. She doesn't move, but instead, the anchor
drags. Again it is taken out an cast in another place,
and again we haul away, but all we get to move is the
anchor. Barnacle now sends the negro down into the
forward hold, and following him, they shift some of
the freight a trifle further aft, and again we go
through the operation of warping and away she goes and
is afloat before the messenger for help arrives. We
assist the skipper in making sail, and soon have the
gratification of seeing his craft go speeding up the
river before a gentle breeze. His gratitude was so
deep, that before we left him he insisted on our
accepting a couple of bottles of strained honey.
Dark Gratitude.
The last I heard of him was:
"Yab, yah, golly, I'll sprize dem fellas
up dar, wen da see me comin' dey'll spect de debbil
help me fo' sho."
Passing through a short bayou we made sail, and as
the sun sank like a ball of gold behind the low sand
dunes, we had reached the little settlement of English
Lookout. The evening was delightfully passed in
company with the custom house officer of the port.
© 2000 Craig O'Donnell
May not be reproduced without my
permission.
|