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    Chapter 6

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    Chapter 7
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    Chapter 6
    A Cub-pilot's Experience

    WHAT with lying on the rocks four days at Louisville, and some
    other delays, the poor old 'Paul Jones' fooled away about two
    weeks in making the voyage from Cincinnati to New Orleans.
    This gave me a chance to get acquainted with one of the pilots,
    and he taught me how to steer the boat, and thus made the fascination
    of river life more potent than ever for me.

    It also gave me a chance to get acquainted with a youth who had taken
    deck passage--more's the pity; for he easily borrowed six dollars of me
    on a promise to return to the boat and pay it back to me the day after
    we should arrive. But he probably died or forgot, for he never came.
    It was doubtless the former, since he had said his parents were wealthy,
    and he only traveled deck passage because it was cooler.'Deck' Passage, i.e. steerage passage.]>

    I soon discovered two things. One was that a vessel would not be
    likely to sail for the mouth of the Amazon under ten or twelve years;
    and the other was that the nine or ten dollars still left
    in my pocket would not suffice for so imposing an exploration
    as I had planned, even if I could afford to wait for a ship.
    Therefore it followed that I must contrive a new career.
    The 'Paul Jones' was now bound for St. Louis. I planned a siege
    against my pilot, and at the end of three hard days he surrendered.
    He agreed to teach me the Mississippi River from New Orleans
    to St. Louis for five hundred dollars, payable out of the first
    wages I should receive after graduating. I entered upon the small
    enterprise of 'learning' twelve or thirteen hundred miles of the great
    Mississippi River with the easy confidence of my time of life.
    If I had really known what I was about to require of my faculties,
    I should not have had the courage to begin. I supposed
    that all a pilot had to do was to keep his boat in the river,
    and I did not consider that that could be much of a trick,
    since it was so wide.

    The boat backed out from New Orleans at four in the afternoon,
    and it was 'our watch' until eight. Mr. Bixby, my chief,
    'straightened her up,' plowed her along past the sterns of the other
    boats that lay at the Levee, and then said, 'Here, take her;
    shave those steamships as close as you'd peel an apple.'
    I took the wheel, and my heart-beat fluttered up into
    the hundreds; for it seemed to me that we were about to scrape
    the side off every ship in the line, we were so close.
    I held my breath and began to claw the boat away from the danger;
    and I had my own opinion of the pilot who had known no better
    than to get us into such peril, but I was too wise to express it.
    In half a minute I had a wide margin of safety intervening
    between the 'Paul Jones' and the ships; and within ten seconds
    more I was set aside in disgrace, and Mr. Bixby was going into
    danger again and flaying me alive with abuse of my cowardice.
    I was stung, but I was obliged to admire the easy confidence with
    which my chief loafed from side to side of his wheel, and trimmed
    the ships so closely that disaster seemed ceaselessly imminent.
    When he had cooled a little he told me that the easy water
    was close ashore and the current outside, and therefore we must
    hug the bank, up-stream, to get the benefit of the former,
    and stay well out, down-stream, to take advantage of the latter.
    In my own mind I resolved to be a down-stream pilot and leave
    the up-streaming to people dead to prudence.

    Now and then Mr. Bixby called my attention to certain things.
    Said he, 'This is Six-Mile Point.' I assented. It was pleasant
    enough information, but I could not see the bearing of it.
    I was not conscious that it was a matter of any interest to me.
    Another time he said, 'This is Nine-Mile Point.'
    Later he said, 'This is Twelve-Mile Point.' They were
    all about level with the water's edge; they all looked
    about alike to me; they were monotonously unpicturesque.
    I hoped Mr. Bixby would change the subject. But no; he would
    crowd up around a point, hugging the shore with affection,
    and then say: 'The slack water ends here, abreast this bunch
    of China-trees; now we cross over.' So he crossed over.
    He gave me the wheel once or twice, but I had no luck.
    I either came near chipping off the edge of a sugar plantation,
    or I yawed too far from shore, and so dropped back into disgrace again
    and got abused.

    The watch was ended at last, and we took supper and went to bed.
    At midnight the glare of a lantern shone in my eyes, and the
    night watchman said--

    'Come! turn out!'

    And then he left. I could not understand this extraordinary procedure;
    so I presently gave up trying to, and dozed off to sleep.
    Pretty soon the watchman was back again, and this time he was gruff.
    I was annoyed. I said:--

    'What do you want to come bothering around here in the middle of
    the night for. Now as like as not I'll not get to sleep again to-night.'

    The watchman said--

    'Well, if this an't good, I'm blest.'

    The 'off-watch' was just turning in, and I heard some brutal
    laughter from them, and such remarks as 'Hello, watchman!
    an't the new cub turned out yet? He's delicate, likely.
    Give him some sugar in a rag and send for the chambermaid to sing
    rock-a-by-baby to him.'

    About this time Mr. Bixby appeared on the scene.
    Something like a minute later I was climbing the pilot-house
    steps with some of my clothes on and the rest in my arms.
    Mr. Bixby was close behind, commenting. Here was something fresh--
    this thing of getting up in the middle of the night to go to work.
    It was a detail in piloting that had never occurred to me at all.
    I knew that boats ran all night, but somehow I had never happened
    to reflect that somebody had to get up out of a warm bed to run them.
    I began to fear that piloting was not quite so romantic as I
    had imagined it was; there was something very real and work-like
    about this new phase of it.

    It was a rather dingy night, although a fair number of stars were out.
    The big mate was at the wheel, and he had the old tub pointed at
    a star and was holding her straight up the middle of the river.
    The shores on either hand were not much more than half a mile apart,
    but they seemed wonderfully far away and ever so vague and indistinct.
    The mate said:--

    'We've got to land at Jones's plantation, sir.'

    The vengeful spirit in me exulted. I said to myself,
    I wish you joy of your job, Mr. Bixby; you'll have a good
    time finding Mr. Jones's plantation such a night as this;
    and I hope you never WILL find it as long as you live.

    Mr. Bixby said to the mate:--

    'Upper end of the plantation, or the lower.?'


    'I can't do it. The stumps there are out of water at this stage:
    It's no great distance to the lower, and you'll have to get
    along with that.'

    'All right, sir. If Jones don't like it he'll have to lump it,
    I reckon.'

    And then the mate left. My exultation began to cool and my wonder
    to come up. Here was a man who not only proposed to find this
    plantation on such a night, but to find either end of it you preferred.
    I dreadfully wanted to ask a question, but I was carrying about as many
    short answers as my cargo-room would admit of, so I held my peace.
    All I desired to ask Mr. Bixby was the simple question whether he was
    ass enough to really imagine he was going to find that plantation on
    a night when all plantations were exactly alike and all the same color.
    But I held in. I used to have fine inspirations of prudence
    in those days.

    Mr. Bixby made for the shore and soon was scraping it, just the same as if it
    had been daylight. And not only that, but singing--

    'Father in heaven, the day is declining,' etc."

    It seemed to me that I had put my life in the keeping of a peculiarly
    reckless outcast. Presently he turned on me and said:--

    'What's the name of the first point above New Orleans?'

    I was gratified to be able to answer promptly, and I did.
    I said I didn't know.

    'Don't KNOW?'

    This manner jolted me. I was down at the foot again, in a moment.
    But I had to say just what I had said before.

    'Well, you're a smart one,' said Mr. Bixby. 'What's the name
    of the NEXT point?'

    Once more I didn't know.

    'Well, this beats anything. Tell me the name of ANY point or place
    I told you.'

    I studied a while and decided that I couldn't.

    'Look here! What do you start out from, above Twelve-Mile Point,
    to cross over?'

    'I--I-- don't know.'

    'You--you--don't know?' mimicking my drawling manner of speech.
    'What DO you know?'

    'I--I-- nothing, for certain.'

    'By the great Caesar's ghost, I believe you! You're the stupidest
    dunderhead I ever saw or ever heard of, so help me Moses!
    The idea of you being a pilot--you! Why, you don't know enough
    to pilot a cow down a lane.'

    Oh, but his wrath was up! He was a nervous man, and he shuffled
    from one side of his wheel to the other as if the floor was hot.
    He would boil a while to himself, and then overflow and scald me again.

    'Look here! What do you suppose I told you the names of those points for?'

    I tremblingly considered a moment, and then the devil of temptation
    provoked me to say:--

    'Well--to--to--be entertaining, I thought.'

    This was a red rag to the bull. He raged and stormed so (he was
    crossing the river at the time) that I judge it made him blind,
    because he ran over the steering-oar of a trading-scow. Of
    course the traders sent up a volley of red-hot profanity.
    Never was a man so grateful as Mr. Bixby was:
    because he was brim full, and here were subjects who would
    TALK BACK. He threw open a window, thrust his head out,
    and such an irruption followed as I never had heard before.
    The fainter and farther away the scowmen's curses drifted,
    the higher Mr. Bixby lifted his voice and the weightier his
    adjectives grew. When he closed the window he was empty.
    You could have drawn a seine through his system and not caught curses
    enough to disturb your mother with. Presently he said to me in
    the gentlest way--

    'My boy, you must get a little memorandum book, and every time I
    tell you a thing, put it down right away. There's only one way
    to be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart.
    You have to know it just like A B C.'

    That was a dismal revelation to me; for my memory was never
    loaded with anything but blank cartridges. However, I did
    not feel discouraged long. I judged that it was best to make
    some allowances, for doubtless Mr. Bixby was 'stretching.'
    Presently he pulled a rope and struck a few strokes on the big bell.
    The stars were all gone now, and the night was as black as ink.
    I could hear the wheels churn along the bank, but I was not entirely
    certain that I could see the shore. The voice of the invisible
    watchman called up from the hurricane deck--

    'What's this, sir?'

    'Jones's plantation.'

    I said to myself, I wish I might venture to offer a small bet
    that it isn't. But I did not chirp. I only waited to see.
    Mr. Bixby handled the engine bells, and in due time the boat's
    nose came to the land, a torch glowed from the forecastle,
    a man skipped ashore, a darky's voice on the bank said,
    'Gimme de k'yarpet-bag, Mars' Jones,' and the next moment we
    were standing up the river again, all serene. I reflected
    deeply awhile, and then said--but not aloud--'Well, the finding
    of that plantation was the luckiest accident that ever happened;
    but it couldn't happen again in a hundred years.' And I fully
    believed it was an accident, too.

    By the time we had gone seven or eight hundred miles up the river,
    I had learned to be a tolerably plucky up-stream steersman,
    in daylight, and before we reached St. Louis I had made
    a trifle of progress in night-work, but only a trifle.
    I had a note-book that fairly bristled with the names of towns,
    'points,' bars, islands, bends, reaches, etc.; but the information
    was to be found only in the notebook--none of it was in my head.
    It made my heart ache to think I had only got half of the river
    set down; for as our watch was four hours off and four hours on,
    day and night, there was a long four-hour gap in my book for every
    time I had slept since the voyage began.

    My chief was presently hired to go on a big New Orleans boat, and I packed
    my satchel and went with him. She was a grand affair. When I stood
    in her pilot-house I was so far above the water that I seemed perched on
    a mountain; and her decks stretched so far away, fore and aft, below me,
    that I wondered how I could ever have considered the little 'Paul Jones'
    a large craft. There were other differences, too. The 'Paul Jones's'
    pilot-house was a cheap, dingy, battered rattle-trap, cramped for room:
    but here was a sumptuous glass temple; room enough to have a dance in;
    showy red and gold window-curtains; an imposing sofa; leather cushions
    and a back to the high bench where visiting pilots sit, to spin yarns
    and 'look at the river;' bright, fanciful 'cuspadores' instead of a
    broad wooden box filled with sawdust; nice new oil-cloth on the floor;
    a hospitable big stove for winter; a wheel as high as my head,
    costly with inlaid work; a wire tiller-rope; bright brass knobs
    for the bells; and a tidy, white-aproned, black 'texas-tender,' to
    bring up tarts and ices and coffee during mid-watch, day and night.
    Now this was 'something like,' and so I began to take heart once more
    to believe that piloting was a romantic sort of occupation after all.
    The moment we were under way I began to prowl about the great steamer
    and fill myself with joy. She was as clean and as dainty as a drawing-room;
    when I looked down her long, gilded saloon, it was like gazing through
    a splendid tunnel; she had an oil-picture, by some gifted sign-painter,
    on every stateroom door; she glittered with no end of prism-fringed
    chandeliers; the clerk's office was elegant, the bar was marvelous,
    and the bar-keeper had been barbered and upholstered at incredible cost.
    The boiler deck (i.e. the second story of the boat, so to speak)
    was as spacious as a church, it seemed to me; so with the forecastle;
    and there was no pitiful handful of deckhands, firemen, and roustabouts
    down there, but a whole battalion of men. The fires were fiercely glaring
    from a long row of furnaces, and over them were eight huge boilers!
    This was unutterable pomp. The mighty engines--but enough of this.
    I had never felt so fine before. And when I found that the regiment
    of natty servants respectfully 'sir'd' me, my satisfaction was complete.
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    Chapter 7
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