In his Mississippi book Mark Twain has given us a marvelous exposition
of the science of river-piloting, and of the colossal task of acquiring
and keeping a knowledge requisite for that work. He has not exaggerated
this part of the story of developments in any detail; he has set down a
simple confession.
Serenely enough he undertook the task of learning twelve hundred miles
of the great changing, shifting river as exactly and as surely by
daylight or darkness as one knows the way to his own features. As
already suggested, he had at least an inkling of what that undertaking
meant. His statement that he “supposed all that a pilot had to do was
to keep his boat in the river” is not to be accepted literally. Still he
could hardly have realized the full majesty of his task; nobody could do
that--not until afterward.
Horace Bixby was a “lightning” pilot with a method of instruction as
direct and forcible as it was effective. He was a small man, hot and
quick-firing, though kindly, too, and gentle when he had blown off.
After one rather pyrotechnic misunderstanding as to the manner of
imparting and acquiring information he said:
“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.”
So Sam Clemens got the little book, and presently it “fairly bristled”
with the names of towns, points, bars, islands, bends, and reaches, but
it made his heart ache to think that he had only half of the river set
down; for, as the “watches” were four hours off and four hours on, there
were long gaps during which he had slept.
The little note-book still exists--thin and faded, with black
water-proof covers--its neat, tiny, penciled notes still, telling, the
story of that first trip. Most of them are cryptographic abbreviations,
not readily deciphered now. Here and there is an easier line: