“Stop the starboard. Stop the larboard. Set her back on both.”
The boat hesitated, halted, pressed her nose among the boughs a critical instant, then reluctantly began to back away.
“Stop the larboard. Come ahead on it. Stop the starboard. Come ahead on it. Point her for the bar.”
I sailed away as serenely as a summer’s morning. Mr. Bixby came in and said, with mock simplicity—
“When you have a hail, my boy, you ought to tap the big bell three times before you land, so that the engineers can get ready.”
I blushed under the sarcasm, and said I hadn’t had any hail.
“Ah! Then it was for wood, I suppose. The officer of the watch will tell you when he wants to wood up.”
I went on consuming, and said I wasn’t after wood.
“Indeed? Why, what could you want over here in the bend, then? Did you ever know of a boat following a bend upstream at this stage of the river?”
“No, sir—and
I
wasn’t trying to follow it. I was getting away from a bluff reef.”
“No, it wasn’t a bluff reef; there isn’t one within three miles of where you were.”
“But I saw it. It was as bluff as that one yonder.”
“Just about. Run over it!”
“Do you give it as an order?”
“Yes. Run over it.”
“If I don’t, I wish I may die.”
“All right; I am taking the responsibility.”
I was just as anxious to kill the boat, now, as I had been to save her before. I impressed my orders upon my memory, to be used at the inquest, and made a straight break for the reef. As it disappeared under our bows I held my breath: but we slid over it like oil.
“Now don’t you see the difference? It wasn’t anything but a
wind
reef. The wind does that.”
“So I see. But it is exactly like a bluff reef. How am I ever going to tell them apart?”
“I can’t tell you. It is an instinct. By and by you will just naturally
know
one from the other, but you never will be able to explain why or how you know them apart.”
It turned out to be true. The face of the water, in time, became a wonderful book—a book that was a dead language to the uneducated passenger, but which told its mind to me without reserve, delivering its most cherished secrets as clearly as if it uttered them with a voice. And it was not a book to be read once and thrown aside, for it had a new story to tell every day. Throughout the long twelve hundred miles there was never a page that was void of interest, never one that you could leave unread without loss, never one that you would want to skip, thinking you could find higher enjoyment in some other thing. There never was so wonderful a book written by man; never one whose interest was so absorbing, so unflagging, so sparklingly renewed with every reperusal. The passenger who could not read it was charmed with a peculiar sort of faint dimple on its surface (on the rare occasions when he did not overlook it altogether); but to the pilot that was an
italicized
passage; indeed, it was more than that, it was a legend of the largest capitals, with a string of shouting exclamation points at the end of it; for it meant that a wreck or a rock was buried there that could tear the life out of the strongest vessel that ever floated. It is the faintest and simplest expression the water ever makes, and the most hideous to a pilot’s eye. In truth, the passenger who could not read this book saw nothing but all manner of pretty pictures in it, painted by the sun and shaded by the clouds, whereas to the trained eye these were not pictures at all, but the grimmest and most dead-earnest of reading matter.
Now when I had mastered the language of this water and had come to know every trifling feature that bordered the great river as familiarly as I knew the letters of the alphabet, I had made a valuable acquisition. But I had lost something, too. I had lost something which could never be restored to me while I lived. All the grace, the beauty, the poetry had gone out of the majestic river! I still keep in mind a certain wonderful sunset which I witnessed when steamboating was new to me. A broad expanse of the river was turned to blood; in the middle distance the red hue brightened into gold, through which a solitary log came floating, black and conspicuous; in one place a long, slanting mark lay sparkling upon the water; in another the surface was broken by boiling, tumbling rings, that were as manytinted as an opal; where the ruddy flush was faintest, was a smooth spot that was covered with graceful circles and radiating lines, ever so delicately traced; the shore on our left was densely wooded, and the somber shadow that fell from this forest was broken in one place by a long, ruffled trail that shone like silver; and high above the forest wall a clean-stemmed dead tree waved a single leafy bough that glowed like a flame in the unobstructed splendor that was flowing from the sun. There were graceful curves, reflected images, woody heights, soft distances; and over the whole scene, far and near, the dissolving lights drifted steadily, enriching it, every passing moment, with new marvels of coloring.
I stood like one bewitched. I drank it in, in a speechless rapture. The world was new to me, and I had never seen anything like this at home. But as I have said, a day came when I began to cease from noting the glories and the charms which the moon and the sun and the twilight wrought upon the river’s face; another day came when I ceased altogether to note them. Then, if that sunset scene had been repeated, I should have looked upon it without rapture, and should have commented upon it, inwardly, after this fashion: This sun means that we are going to have wind tomorrow; that floating log means that the river is rising, small thanks to it; that slanting mark on the water refers to a bluff reef which is going to kill somebody’s steamboat one of these nights, if it keeps on stretching out like that; those tumbling “boils” show a dissolving bar and a changing channel there; the lines and circles in the slick water over yonder are a warning that that troublesome place is shoaling up dangerously; that silver streak in the shadow of the forest is the “break” from a new snag, and he has located himself in the very best place he could have found to fish for steamboats; that tall dead tree, with a single living branch, is not going to last long, and then how is a body ever going to get through this blind place at night without the friendly old landmark?
No, the romance and the beauty were all gone from the river. All the value any feature of it had for me now was the amount of usefulness it could furnish toward compassing the safe piloting of a steamboat. Since those days, I have pitied doctors from my heart. What does the lovely flush in a beauty’s cheek mean to a doctor but a “break” that ripples above some deadly disease? Are not all her visible charms sown thick with what are to him the signs and symbols of hidden decay? Does he ever see her beauty at all, or doesn’t he simply view her professionally, and comment upon her unwholesome condition all to himself? And doesn’t he sometimes wonder whether he has gained most or lost most by learning his trade?
CHAPTER X
Completing My Education
Whosoever has done me the courtesy to read my chapters which have preceded this may possibly wonder that I deal so minutely with piloting as a science. It was the prime purpose of those chapters; and I am not quite done yet. I wish to show, in the most patient and painstaking way, what a wonderful science it is. Ship channels are buoyed and lighted, and therefore it is a comparatively easy undertaking to learn to run them; clear-water rivers, with gravel bottoms, change their channels very gradually, and therefore one needs to learn them but once; but piloting becomes another matter when you apply it to vast streams like the Mississippi and the Missouri, whose alluvial banks cave and change constantly, whose snags are always hunting up new quarters, whose sand bars are never at rest, whose channels are forever dodging and shirking, and whose obstructions must be confronted in all nights and all weathers without the aid of a single lighthouse or a single buoy; for there is neither light nor buoy to be found anywhere in all this three or four thousand miles of villainous river.
8
I feel justified in enlarging upon this great science for the reason that I feel sure no one has ever yet written a paragraph about it who had piloted a steamboat himself, and so had a practical knowledge of the subject. If the theme were hackneyed, I should be obliged to deal gently with the reader; but since it is wholly new, I have felt at liberty to take up a considerable degree of room with it.
When I had learned the name and position of every visible feature of the river; when I had so mastered its shape that I could shut my eyes and trace it from St. Louis to New Orleans; when I had learned to read the face of the water as one would cull the news from the morning paper; and finally, when I had trained my dull memory to treasure up an endless array of soundings and crossing marks, and keep fast hold of them, I judged that my education was complete: so I got to tilting my cap to the side of my head, and wearing a toothpick in my mouth at the wheel. Mr. Bixby had his eye on these airs. One day he said—
“What is the height of that bank yonder, at Burgess’s?”
“How can I tell, sir? It is three quarters of a mile away.”
“Very poor eye—very poor. Take the glass.”
I took the glass, and presently said—
“I can’t tell. I suppose that that bank is about a foot and a half high.”
“Foot and a half! That’s a six-foot bank. How high was the bank along here last trip?”
“I don’t know; I never noticed.”
“You didn’t? Well, you must always do it hereafter.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll have to know a good many things that it tells you. For one thing, it tells you the stage of the river—tells you whether there’s more water or less in the river along here than there was last trip.”
“The leads tell me that.” I rather thought I had the advantage of him there.
“Yes, but suppose the leads lie? The bank would tell you so, and then you’d stir those leadsmen up a bit. There was a tenfoot bank here last trip, and there is only a six-foot bank now. What does that signify?”
“That the river is four feet higher than it was last trip.”
“Very good. Is the river rising or falling?”
“Rising.”
“No it ain’t.”
“I guess I am right, sir. Yonder is some driftwood floating down the stream.”
“A rise
starts
the driftwood, but then it keeps on floating a while after the river is done rising. Now the bank will tell you about this. Wait till you come to a place where it shelves a little. Now here; do you see this narrow belt of fine sediment? That was deposited while the water was higher. You see the driftwood begins to strand, too. The bank helps in other ways. Do you see that stump on the false point?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Well, the water is just up to the roots of it. You must make a note of that.”
“Why?”
“Because that means that there’s seven feet in the chute of 103.”
“But 103 is a long way up the river yet.”
“That’s where the benefit of the bank comes in. There is water enough in 103
now
, yet there may not be by the time we get there; but the bank will keep us posted all along. You don’t run close chutes on a falling river, upstream, and there are precious few of them that you are allowed to run at all downstream. There’s a law of the United States against it. The river may be rising by the time we get to 103, and in that case we’ll run it. We are drawing—how much?”
“Six feet aft—six and a half forward.”
“Well, you do seem to know something.”
“But what I particularly want to know is, if I have got to keep up an everlasting measuring of the banks of this river, twelve hundred miles, month in and month out?”
“Of course!”
My emotions were too deep for words for a while. Presently I said—
“And how about these chutes? Are there many of them?”
“I should say so. I fancy we shan’t run any of the river this trip as you’ve ever seen it run before—so to speak. If the river begins to rise again, we’ll go up behind bars that you’ve always seen standing out of the river, high and dry like the roof of a house; we’ll cut across low places that you’ve never noticed at all, right through the middle of bars that cover three hundred acres of river; we’ll creep through cracks where you’ve always thought was solid land; we’ll dart through the woods and leave twenty-five miles of river off to one side; we’ll see the hindside of every island between New Orleans and Cairo.”
“Then I’ve got to go to work and learn just as much more river as I already know.”
“Just about twice as much more, as near as you can come at it.”
“Well, one lives to find out. I think I was a fool when I went into this business.”
“Yes, that is true. And you are yet. But you’ll not be when you’ve learned it.”
“Ah, I never can learn it.”
“I will see that you
do
.”
By and by I ventured again:
“Have I got to learn all this thing just as I know the rest of the river—shapes and all—and so I can run it at night?”
“Yes. And you’ve got to have good fair marks from one end of the river to the other, that will help the bank tell you when there is water enough in each of these countless places,—like that stump, you know. When the river first begins to rise, you can run half a dozen of the deepest of them; when it rises a foot more you can run another dozen, the next foot will add a couple of dozen, and so on: so you see you have to know your banks and marks to a dead moral certainty, and never get them mixed; for when you start through one of those cracks, there’s no backing out again, as there is in the big river; you’ve got to go through, or stay there six months if you get caught on a falling river. There are about fifty of these cracks which you can’t run at all except when the river is brim full and over the banks.”