Transcriber's note: Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
Please see the end of this book for further notes.
Old Times on the
Upper Mississippi
[Illustration: MOUTH OF THE WISCONSIN RIVER. The ancient highway
between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi. This scene gives some
idea of the multitude of islands which diversify both the Wisconsin
and the Mississippi Rivers.]
Old Times on the
Upper Mississippi
The Recollections of a Steamboat Pilot
from 1854 to 1863
By
George Byron Merrick
[Illustration]
Cleveland, Ohio
The Arthur H. Clark Company
1909
Copyright 1908
George Byron Merrick
All rights reserved
Dedicated to the Memory of My Chiefs
William H. Hamilton, Engineer, Charles G. Hargus, Clerk, Thomas
Burns, Pilot, masters in their several professions. From each of them
I learned something that has made life better worth living, the sum
of which makes possible these reminiscences of a "cub" pilot.
Contents
Prelude 13
Chapter I
EARLY IMPRESSIONS 15
Chapter II
INDIANS, DUGOUTS, AND WOLVES 20
Chapter III
ON THE LEVEE AT PRESCOTT 29
Chapter IV
IN THE ENGINE-ROOM 38
Chapter V
THE ENGINEER 46
Chapter VI
THE "MUD" CLERK--COMPARATIVE HONORS 52
Chapter VII
WOODING UP 59
Chapter VIII
THE MATE 64
Chapter IX
THE "OLD MAN" 71
Chapter X
THE PILOTS AND THEIR WORK 78
Chapter XI
KNOWING THE RIVER 92
Chapter XII
THE ART OF STEERING 100
Chapter XIII
AN INITIATION 106
Chapter XIV
EARLY PILOTS 111
Chapter XV
INCIDENTS OF RIVER LIFE 117
Chapter XVI
MISSISSIPPI MENUS 126
Chapter XVII
BARS AND BARKEEPERS 132
Chapter XVIII
GAMBLERS AND GAMBLING 138
Chapter XIX
STEAMBOAT RACING 143
Chapter XX
MUSIC AND ART 152
Chapter XXI
STEAMBOAT BONANZAS 161
Chapter XXII
WILD-CAT MONEY AND TOWN-SITES 174
Chapter XXIII
A PIONEER STEAMBOATMAN 184
Chapter XXIV
A VERSATILE COMMANDER; A WRECK 190
Chapter XXV
A STRAY NOBLEMAN 196
Chapter XXVI
IN WAR TIME 206
Chapter XXVII
AT FORT RIDGELEY 212
Chapter XXVIII
IMPROVING THE RIVER 221
Chapter XXIX
KILLING STEAMBOATS 229
Chapter XXX
LIVING IT OVER AGAIN 240
Appendix
A. LIST OF STEAMBOATS ON THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI
RIVER, 1823-1863 257
B. OPENING OF NAVIGATION AT ST. PAUL, 1844-1862 295
C. TABLE OF DISTANCES FROM ST. LOUIS 296
D. IMPROVEMENT OF THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI,
1866-1876 299
E. INDIAN NOMENCLATURE AND LEGENDS 300
Index 305
Illustrations
MOUTH OF THE WISCONSIN RIVER. The ancient highway
between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi.
This scene gives some idea of the multitude of islands
which diversify both the Wisconsin and the Mississippi
Rivers Frontispiece
PRESCOTT LEVEE IN 1876. Showing Steamer "Centennial"
and the little Hastings ferry, "Plough Boy." The double
warehouse, showing five windows in the second story
and four in the third, was the building in which the author
lived when a boy 32
PRESCOTT LEVEE IN 1908. But one business building, one
of the old Merrick warehouses, left intact. Dunbar's
Hall gutted by fire recently. The large steamboat
warehouse next to it destroyed some years ago. All the
shipping business gone to the railroad, which runs just
back of the buildings shown 32
ALMA, WISCONSIN. A typical river town in the fifties 54
ABOVE TREMPEALEAU, WISCONSIN. In the middle foreground,
at the head of the slough, is the site of the winter
camp of Nicolas Perrot, in the winter of 1684-5, as identified
in 1888 by Hon. B. F. Heuston and Dr. Reuben Gold Thwaites
of the Wisconsin State Historical Society 68
DANIEL SMITH HARRIS. Steamboat Captain, 1833-1861 82
CAPTAIN THOMAS BURNS. Pilot on the Upper Mississippi
River from 1856 to 1889. Inspector of Steamboats
under President Cleveland and President McKinley 82
CHARLES G. HARGUS. Chief Clerk on the "Royal Arch,"
"Golden State," "Fanny Harris," "Kate Cassell" and
many other fine steamers on the Upper Mississippi 82
GEORGE B. MERRICK. "Cub" Pilot, 1862 82
TYPICAL PORTION OF THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI. Map of the
river between Cassville, Wis., and Guttenberg, Iowa,
showing the characteristic winding of the stream 98
STEAMER "WAR EAGLE," 1852; 296 TONS 120
STEAMER "MILWAUKEE," 1856; 550 TONS 120
WINONA, MINNESOTA. The Levee in 1862 134
THE LEVEE AT ST. PAUL, 1859. Showing the Steamer
"Grey Eagle" (1857; 673 tons), Capt. Daniel Smith
Harris, the fastest and best boat on the Upper River,
together with the "Jeanette Roberts" (1857; 146 tons),
and the "Time and Tide" (1853; 131 tons), two Minnesota
River boats belonging to Captain Jean Robert, an
eccentric Frenchman and successful steamboatman. (Reproduced
from an old negative in possession of Mr. Edward Bromley
of Minneapolis, Minn.) 146
STEAMER "KEY CITY," 1857; 560 TONS 154
STEAMER "NORTHERN LIGHT," 1856; 740 TONS 154
FACSIMILES OF EARLY TICKETS AND BUSINESS CARD 166
MCGREGOR, IOWA. Looking north, up the river 178
ALTON, ILLINOIS. Looking down the river _facing p._ 188
RED WING, MINNESOTA. Showing Barn Bluff in the background,
with a glimpse of the river on the left 198
BAD AXE (NOW GENOA), WISCONSIN. Scene of the last
battle between the United States forces and the Indians
under Chief Black Hawk, August 21, 1832. The steamer
"Warrior," Captain Joseph Throckmorton, with soldiers
and artillery from Fort Crawford, Prairie du
Chien, took an active and important part in this battle 218
REED'S LANDING, MINNESOTA. At the foot of Lake Pepin.
During the ice blockade in the Lake, in the spring of
each year before the advent of railroads to St. Paul;
all freight was unloaded at Reed's Landing, hauled
by team to Wacouta, at the head of the Lake, where it
was reloaded upon another steamboat for transportation
to St. Paul and other ports above the Lake 236
STEAMER "MARY MORTON," 1876; 456 TONS. Lying
at the levee, La Crosse, Wisconsin. (From a negative
made in 1881.) 244
STEAMER "ARKANSAS," 1868; 549 TONS. With tow of
four barges, capable of transporting 18,000 sacks--36,000
bushels of wheat per trip. The usual manner of carrying
wheat in the early days, before the river traffic was
destroyed by railroad competition 244
MAP OF THE MISSISSIPPI BETWEEN ST. LOUIS AND ST.
PAUL _facing p._ 304
Prelude
The majesty and glory of the Great River have departed; its glamour
remains, fresh and undying, in the memories of those who, with mind's
eye, still can see it as it was a half-century ago. Its majesty
was apparent in the mighty flood which then flowed throughout the
season, scarcely diminished by the summer heat; its glory, in the
great commerce which floated upon its bosom, the beginnings of mighty
commonwealths yet to be. Its glamour is that indefinable witchery
with which memory clothes the commonplace of long ago, transfiguring
the labors, cares, responsibilities, and dangers of steamboat life
as it really was, into a Midsummer Night's Dream of care-free,
exhilarating experiences, and glorified achievement.
Of the river itself it may be said, that like the wild tribes which
peopled its banks sixty years ago, civilization has been its undoing.
The primeval forests which spread for hundreds of miles on either
side, then caught and held the melting snows and falling rains
of spring within spongy mosses which carpeted the earth; slowly,
throughout the summer, were distilled the waters from myriad springs,
and these, filling brooks and smaller rivers, feeders of the Great
River, maintained a mighty volume of water the season through. Upon
the disappearance of the forests, the melting snows and early rains
having no holding grounds, are carried quickly to the river, which as
quickly rises to an abnormal stage in the early part of the season,
to be followed by a dearth which later reduces the Mississippi to the
dimensions of a second-rate stream, whereon navigation is impossible
for great steamers, and arduous, disheartening and unprofitable for
boats of any class.
To most men of our day, the life of those who manned the steamers
of that once mighty fleet is legendary, almost mythical. Its story
is unwritten. To the few participants who yet remain, it is but a
memory. The boats themselves have disappeared, leaving no token. The
masters and the mates, the pilots and the clerks, the engineers and
the men of humbler station have likewise gone. Of the thousands who
contributed to give life and direction to the vessels themselves, a
meager score of short biographies is all that history vouchsafes.
The aim of the present volume is to tell something of these men, and
of the boats that they made sentient by their knowledge and power;
to relate something of the incidents of river life as seen by a
boy during eight years of residence by the riverside, or in active
service on the river itself. While it may not literally be claimed,
"All of which I saw," it is with satisfaction, not unmixed with
pride, that the writer can truthfully assert, "A part of which I was."
G. B. M.
The several quotations from "Mark Twain" which herein appear are from
_Life on the Mississippi_ (copyright, 1903), by Samuel L. Clemens,
permission for the use of which is kindly granted for the present
purpose by the publishers, Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York.
Chapter I
_Early Impressions_
Descent from an ancestry whose members built and sailed ships from
Salem, Newburyport, and Nantucket two hundred years ago, and even
down to the early days of the nineteenth century, ought to give an
hereditary bias toward a sailor's life, on waters either salt or
fresh. A score-and-a-half of men of my name have "died with their
boots on" at sea, from the port of Nantucket alone. They went for
whales, and the whales got them. Perhaps their fate should have
discouraged the sea-going instinct, but perversely it had the
opposite effect. A hundred men are lost out of Gloucester every year,
yet their boys are on the "Banks" before they are fairly weaned.
I was born at Niles, Michigan, on the historic St. Joseph River,
which in those days was of considerable importance commercially.
Scores of keel boats plied between South Bend and the mouth of the
river at St. Joseph, on Lake Michigan. Keel boats drifted down the
river, and after unloading were towed back by little steamboats,
about eighty feet long by eighteen feet beam. These were propelled by
side wheels attached to a single shaft, driven by a horizontal engine
of indifferent power. These steamers towed four "keels" upstream at
the rate of five or six miles an hour. The former had no upper cabin
answering to the "boiler deck" of the Mississippi River boats--only
a roof covering the main deck, with the passenger cabin aft, and the
quarters of the crew forward of the boiler and engine.
It was, I suppose, a quarter of a mile from my birthplace to the
river bank where we boys of the neighborhood went to see the
steamboats pass. In the opposite direction, around a sharp bend and
across the low-lying, alluvial land, which comprised the home farm,
the river was discernible a mile away. When a boat was seen coming up
river, the alarm was given, and we little shavers of the neighborhood
raced for the nearest point of view, a high bank of blue clay, rising
probably seventy-five feet above the river. We used to think it was
as many hundreds of feet; and what I now know as the quarter mile,
then stretched away into interminable distances as it was measured
by the stubby yet sturdy little legs of six-year-old runners. On the
edge of this blue-clay bank, I received my first impressions in river
piloting.
My teacher in these matters was a man whom I greatly envied. Kimball
Lyon lived in a house three times as large as that in which I was
born. His father had left a big farm and a bank account of fabulous
dimensions. We knew it was large, because "Kim" never worked as other
young men of twenty-five or thirty years did in those days. His
mother always kept a "hired man", while Kim toiled not; but he spun.
It was not his riches, however, nor his immunity from toil, that
common lot of other men, which excited the envy of the six-year-olds.
He could, and did, play on the accordion. Lying on his back in the
shade and resting one corner of his instrument upon his bosom, with
irresistible power and pathos he sang and played
"A life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep."
It appealed to all the natural impulses of our being, and the dormant
instincts inherited from generations of whale-hunting ancestors were
aroused by the power of music, reinforced by the suggestive words of
the song itself; and then and there we vowed that when we were men
like Kimball Lyon, we too would own and play upon accordions, and
do all else that he had done; for marvelous tales he told, of his
experiences in great storms at sea and of deeds of aquatic prowess.
We learned in after years that "Kim" once sailed from St. Joseph
to Chicago in a sawed-off lumber hooker, when the wind was west
nor'west, down the lake, and that he did actually lie on the deck,
but not on his back, and that it was not music which he emitted, and
that the sailors railed at him, and that he came back from Chicago by
stage coach to Niles. But we didn't know this when he was awakening
our viking instincts, as we lay on the banks of the old St. Joe in
the sunny summer days of long ago.
"Kim" Lyon knew all about steamboats, as well as about deep sea
ships, and when we asked questions he could answer out of the
fullness of his knowledge. We wondered what made the wheels go
'round, and he told us. I have forgotten _what_ made them go 'round,
but my recollection is that it was a peculiar mechanical process
of which I have never seen the like in any other service on river,
lake or ocean. His answer to the query as to "what is the man in the
little house on top of the boat doing?" I have never forgotten, as it
afterward came more in my line of business. The man was twisting the
wheel as all pilots before and since that time twist it, a spoke or
two to port, a half dozen to starboard, hard up and hard down, there
being a shallow piece of river just there, beset with big boulders
and reefs of gravel, through which he was cautiously worming his boat
and its kite-tail of keels.
"That man," said Kimball, "is drawing water from a well in the bottom
of the boat and emptying it into the boiler, just as your father
draws water from his well with a rope, a bucket and a crank. If he
should stop for a minute the boiler would burst for want of water,
the boat would blow up, and we should all be killed by the explosion."
This definition at once gave us a personal interest in the work of
the man at the wheel; we all felt that our lives depended upon this
man's devotion to his duty. Had he struck a piece of "easy water" at
that time, and centred his wheel, there is no doubt that we would
have scurried for home before the inevitable explosion should occur.
That was my first lesson in piloting. Perhaps this childish concern
that the man "drawing water for the boilers" should faithfully
perform his duty, was but a prefigurement of the interest with which
the writer, and hundreds of others, in later years, have watched the
pilot work his boat through a tangled piece of river, knowing that
the safety of all depended upon the knowledge and faithfulness of the
"man at the wheel."
The steamboats plying on the St. Joe were crude little affairs, and
there were but four or five of them, all alike. I remember the name
of but one, the "Algoma"; the others are quite forgotten. Doubtless
they were commonplace, and did not appeal to the poetic side of the
boy. But "Algoma"! The word has a rhythmical measure, and conjures up
visions of wigwams, council fires, dusky maidens, and painted braves.
An Indian name would stick when all the saints in the calendar were
forgotten. The "Algoma" and her consorts have gone the way of all
steamboats. The railroad came and killed their business, just as a
few years later, it did on the Great River.
A few years later I saw the Mississippi River for the first time,
at Rock Island, Illinois; and through the kindness of another
well-posted bystander to whom the then twelve-year-old boy appealed,
I received my first impressions of a stern-wheel boat. There were two
steamboats lying at the levee--the "Minnesota Belle", a side-wheeler,
upon which we had taken passage, while just above lay the "Luella",
a stern-wheeler. I knew about the former variety from observation on
the St. Joe, but I had never seen even a picture of one of the latter
sort, so it was a novelty. I wasn't certain that it was a steamboat
at all, and after referring the matter to my stranger friend, I
learned definitely that it wasn't. The "Luella's" wheel was slowly
turning over as she lay at the levee, and as I did not comprehend the
mechanical details of that kind of craft I began asking questions.
My mentor assured me that the "Luella" was not a steamboat at all,
but a water power sawmill. The big wheel then moving was driven by
the current, and it in turn operated the sawmill machinery on the
inside of the boat. As I could not figure any other use for a wheel
out in the open, at the end of the boat, instead of on the side where
it ought to be, and as I had no reason to doubt the statement of my
informant, I readily accepted the sawmill explanation, and hastened
to confide my newly-acquired knowledge to my brother and other
members of the family. A few hours later both boats pulled out for
St. Paul. After she had rounded the first point, ahead of us, we saw
nothing more of the "Luella" until we met her coming down the river
on her return trip. She was a heavily-powered boat, and showed her
heels to the larger and slower "Minnesota Belle". The sight of the
"Luella" kicking her way upstream at the rate of two miles to our
one, not only dissipated the sawmill impression, but taught me not
to accept at face value all information communicated by glib-tongued
and plausible strangers.
That steamboat trip from Rock Island to Prescott was one long holiday
excursion for us two small and lively boys from Michigan. There was
so much to see and in so many different directions at once, that it
was impossible to grasp it all, although we scampered over the deck
to get differing view points. We met dozens of boats, going back to
St. Louis or Galena after further loads of immigrants and freight;
and there were other boats which came up behind us, gaining slowly
but surely, and finally passing the deeply-laden "Belle". There were
landings to be made, and freight and passengers to be disembarked.
There were strange Indians to be seen--we were familiar enough with
Michigan tribesmen, having been born within a mile or two of old
Pokagon's tribal village. There were boys with fish for sale, fish
larger than any inhabiting the waters of Michigan streams, sturgeons
only excepted, and this promised well for the fun in store when we
should reach our journey's end.
Finally, on a bright June day in the year 1854, the writer, then a
boy of twelve, with his brother, three years younger, were fully
transplanted from their Michigan birthplace to the row of stores
and warehouses which fronted on the "levee" at Prescott, Wisconsin,
where the waters of St. Croix River and Lake join the Mississippi.
The town was then a typical frontier settlement. Two hundred white
people were planted among five hundred Chippewa Indians; with as many
more Sioux, of the Red Wing band, across the river in Minnesota, a
few miles lower down the river. The not infrequent outbreaks of the
hereditary enmity existing between these ancient foes, would expend
itself on the streets of the town in war whoops, gunpowder, and
scalping knives, enlivening the experience of the average citizen as
he dodged behind the nearest cover to avoid stray bullets; while the
city marshal was given an opportunity to earn his salary, by driving
out both bands of hostiles at the point of his revolver.