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.
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