If I have seemed to love my subject, it is no surprising thing,for I loved the profession far better than any I have followed since,and I took a measureless pride in it. The reason is plain:
a pilot, in those days, was the only unfettered andentirely independent human being that lived in the earth.
Kings are but the hampered servants of parliament and people;parliaments sit in chains forged by their constituency;the editor of a newspaper cannot be independent, but mustwork with one hand tied behind him by party and patrons,and be content to utter only half or two-thirds of his mind;no clergyman is a free man and may speak the whole truth,regardless of his parish's opinions; writers of all kinds aremanacled servants of the public. We write frankly and fearlessly,but then we 'modify' before we print. In truth, every man andwoman and child has a master, and worries and frets in servitude;but in the day I write of, the Mississippi pilot had none.
The captain could stand upon the hurricane deck, in the pompof a very brief authority, and give him five or six orders whilethe vessel backed into the stream, and then that skipper's reignwas over. The moment that the boat was under way in the river,she was under the sole and unquestioned control of the pilot.
He could do with her exactly as he pleased, run her when and whitherhe chose, and tie her up to the bank whenever his judgment saidthat that course was best. His movements were entirely free;he consulted no one, he received commands from nobody,he promptly resented even the merest suggestions. Indeed, the lawof the United States forbade him to listen to commandsor suggestions, rightly considering that the pilot necessarilyknew better how to handle the boat than anybody could tell him.
So here was the novelty of a king without a keeper, an absolute monarchwho was absolute in sober truth and not by a fiction of words.
I have seen a boy of eighteen taking a great steamer serenelyinto what seemed almost certain destruction, and the aged captainstanding mutely by, filled with apprehension but powerlessto interfere. His interference, in that particular instance,might have been an excellent thing, but to permit it wouldhave been to establish a most pernicious precedent. It willeasily be guessed, considering the pilot's boundless authority,that he was a great personage in the old steamboating days.
He was treated with marked courtesy by the captain and with markeddeference by all the officers and servants; and this deferentialspirit was quickly communicated to the passengers, too. I thinkpilots were about the only people I ever knew who failed to show,in some degree, embarrassment in the presence of travelingforeign princes. But then, people in one's own grade of lifeare not usually embarrassing objects.
By long habit, pilots came to put all their wishes in the form of commands.
It 'gravels' me, to this day, to put my will in the weak shape ofa request, instead of launching it in the crisp language of an order.
In those old days, to load a steamboat at St. Louis, take her to NewOrleans and back, and discharge cargo, consumed about twenty-five days,on an average. Seven or eight of these days the boat spent at the wharvesof St. Louis and New Orleans, and every soul on board was hard at work,except the two pilots; they did nothing but play gentleman up town,and receive the same wages for it as if they had been on duty.
The moment the boat touched the wharf at either city, they were ashore;and they were not likely to be seen again till the last bell was ringing andeverything in readiness for another voyage.
When a captain got hold of a pilot of particularly high reputation,he took pains to keep him. When wages were four hundred dollarsa month on the Upper Mississippi, I have known a captainto keep such a pilot in idleness, under full pay, three monthsat a time, while the river was frozen up. And one must rememberthat in those cheap times four hundred dollars was a salaryof almost inconceivable splendor. Few men on shore got such payas that, and when they did they were mightily looked up to.
When pilots from either end of the river wandered into our smallMissouri village, they were sought by the best and the fairest,and treated with exalted respect. Lying in port under wageswas a thing which many pilots greatly enjoyed and appreciated;especially if they belonged in the Missouri River in the heydayof that trade (Kansas times), and got nine hundred dollars a trip,which was equivalent to about eighteen hundred dollars a month.
Here is a conversation of that day. A chap out of the Illinois River,with a little stern-wheel tub, accosts a couple of ornate and gildedMissouri River pilots--'Gentlemen, I've got a pretty good trip for the upcountry,and shall want you about a month. How much will it be?'
'Eighteen hundred dollars apiece.'
'Heavens and earth! You take my boat, let me have your wages,and I'll divide!'
I will remark, in passing, that Mississippi steamboatmen wereimportant in landsmen's eyes (and in their own, too, in a degree)according to the dignity of the boat they were on.
For instance, it was a proud thing to be of the crew of suchstately craft as the 'Aleck Scott' or the 'Grand Turk.'
Negro firemen, deck hands, and barbers belonging to those boatswere distinguished personages in their grade of life, and they werewell aware of that fact too. A stalwart darkey once gave offenseat a negro ball in New Orleans by putting on a good many airs.
Finally one of the managers bustled up to him and said--'Who IS you, any way? Who is you? dat's what Iwants to know!'
The offender was not disconcerted in the least, but swelled himself upand threw that into his voice which showed that he knew he was not puttingon all those airs on a stinted capital.
'Who IS I? Who IS I? I let you know mighty quick who I is!
I want you niggers to understan' dat I fires de middle do'
[Door]> on de "Aleck Scott! " '
That was sufficient.
The barber of the 'Grand Turk' was a spruce young negro,who aired his importance with balmy complacency,and was greatly courted by the circle in which he moved.
The young colored population of New Orleans were much givento flirting, at twilight, on the banquettes of the back streets.
Somebody saw and heard something like the following,one evening, in one of those localities. A middle-aged negrowoman projected her head through a broken pane and shouted(very willing that the neighbors should hear and envy), 'YouMary Ann, come in de house dis minute! Stannin' out dah foolin'
'long wid dat low trash, an' heah's de barber offn de "Gran' Turk"wants to conwerse wid you! '
My reference, a moment ago, to the fact that a pilot's peculiarofficial position placed him out of the reach of criticism or command,brings Stephen W---- naturally to my mind. He was a gifted pilot,a good fellow, a tireless talker, and had both wit and humor in him.
He had a most irreverent independence, too, and was deliciouslyeasy-going and comfortable in the presence of age, official dignity,and even the most august wealth. He always had work, he neversaved a penny, he was a most persuasive borrower, he was in debtto every pilot on the river, and to the majority of the captains.
He could throw a sort of splendor around a bit of harum-scarum,devil-may-care piloting, that made it almost fascinating--but not to everybody. He made a trip with good old Captain Y----once, and was 'relieved' from duty when the boat got to New Orleans.
Somebody expressed surprise at the discharge. Captain Y----shuddered at the mere mention of Stephen. Then his poor, thin oldvoice piped out something like this:--'Why, bless me! I wouldn't have such a wild creature on my boatfor the world--not for the whole world! He swears, he sings,he whistles, he yells--I never saw such an Injun to yell.
All times of the night--it never made any difference to him.
He would just yell that way, not for anything in particular,but merely on account of a kind of devilish comfort he got out of it.
I never could get into a sound sleep but he would fetch meout of bed, all in a cold sweat, with one of those dreadfulwar-whoops. A queer being--very queer being; no respectfor anything or anybody. Sometimes he called me "Johnny."And he kept a fiddle, and a cat. He played execrably.
This seemed to distress the cat, and so the cat would howl.
Nobody could sleep where that man--and his family--was.
And reckless. There never was anything like it.
Now you may believe it or not, but as sure as I am sitting here,he brought my boat a-tilting down through those awful snagsat Chicot under a rattling head of steam, and the wind a-blowinglike the very nation, at that! My officers will tell you so.
They saw it. And, sir, while he was a-tearing right downthrough those snags, and I a-shaking in my shoes and praying,I wish I may never speak again if he didn't pucker up his mouthand go to WHISTLING! Yes, sir; whistling "Buffalo gals,can't you come out tonight, can't you come out to-night,can't you come out to-night;" and doing it as calmly as if wewere attending a funeral and weren't related to the corpse.
And when I remonstrated with him about it, he smiled down on meas if I was his child, and told me to run in the house and tryto be good, and not be meddling with my superiors!"Once a pretty mean captain caught Stephen in New Orleans out of workand as usual out of money. He laid steady siege to Stephen, who wasin a very 'close place,' and finally persuaded him to hire with himat one hundred and twenty-five dollars per month, just half wages,the captain agreeing not to divulge the secret and so bring down the contemptof all the guild upon the poor fellow. But the boat was not more thana day out of New Orleans before Stephen discovered that the captainwas boasting of his exploit, and that all the officers had been told.
Stephen winced, but said nothing. About the middle of the afternoonthe captain stepped out on the hurricane deck, cast his eye around,and looked a good deal surprised. He glanced inquiringly aloft at Stephen,but Stephen was whistling placidly, and attending to business.
The captain stood around a while in evident discomfort, and once or twiceseemed about to make a suggestion; but the etiquette of the river taughthim to avoid that sort of rashness, and so he managed to hold his peace.
He chafed and puzzled a few minutes longer, then retired to his apartments.
But soon he was out again, and apparently more perplexed than ever.
Presently he ventured to remark, with deference--'Pretty good stage of the river now, ain't it, sir?'
'Well, I should say so! Bank-full IS a pretty liberal stage.'
'Seems to be a good deal of current here.'
'Good deal don't describe it! It's worse than a mill-race.'
'Isn't it easier in toward shore than it is out here in the middle?'
'Yes, I reckon it is; but a body can't be too careful with a steamboat.
It's pretty safe out here; can't strike any bottom here, you candepend on that.'
The captain departed, looking rueful enough. At this rate,he would probably die of old age before his boat got to St. Louis.
Next day he appeared on deck and again found Stephen faithfullystanding up the middle of the river, fighting the whole vastforce of the Mississippi, and whistling the same placid tune.
This thing was becoming serious. In by the shore was a slower boatclipping along in the easy water and gaining steadily; she beganto make for an island chute; Stephen stuck to the middle of the river.
Speech was WRUNG from the captain. He said--'Mr. W----, don't that chute cut off a good deal of distance?'
'I think it does, but I don't know.'
'Don't know! Well, isn't there water enough in it now to go through?'
'I expect there is, but I am not certain.'
'Upon my word this is odd! Why, those pilots on that boat yonder are goingto try it. Do you mean to say that you don't know as much as they do?'
'THEY! Why, THEY are two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pilots!
But don't you be uneasy; I know as much as any man can affordto know for a hundred and twenty-five!'
The captain surrendered.
Five minutes later Stephen was bowling through the chute and showingthe rival boat a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of heels.
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