THE NIGHTINGALE.
IN the course of my stay in Louisville, I had the pleasure of an
introduction to George D. Prentice, Esquire, the well-known editor of
the Louisville Journal; and I found him as agreeable and good-natured as
he is witty. He was engaged in writing a scathing article denunciatory
of Parson Brownlow, at the time my friend and I entered his sanctum, and
was in excellent spirits.
Perhaps no one of the many who have heard of the witty journalist, and
read his writings, but have never seen him, has ever formed any correct
impression of his personal appearance. He is quite homely, does not look
half as bright as he really is, is noble-hearted, kind, affable, polite,
and exhibits a partiality for grain products in a liquid form, at all
seasons of the year. But this is nobody’s business but his own.
About the middle of May, or a little later, perhaps, I took passage on
the steamer Nightingale, for Saint Louis. The steamer was a stern-wheel
one, pretty well loaded, and did not make very fast time; but the
weather was delightful, every thing on board was comfortable and
pleasant, and, as I was in no hurry, I could not have complained if the
journey had occupied a week.
Fellow passengers on board a steamer soon make themselves acquainted
with each other, and I had not been aboard twenty-four hours before the
faces of all were as familiar to me as though I had known them for
years. With but few exceptions they were agreeable persons. The captain
was a handsome man of twenty-eight or thirty, and one glance at him was
enough to convince any one that he was a true gentleman. All the
_attaches_ of the boat, including the bartender and porter, were just
what they should be.
Among the passengers was a fellow of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, who
called himself a Doctor. He told me he was from New York, and was going
to Saint Louis to establish a practice for himself.
“I don’t care,” said he, “whether I am successful at first or not. I
have five thousand dollars in my pocket, and that will keep me a year or
so without my doing much. By that time, I’ll get myself worked into a
practice, no doubt.”
“Certainly,” I agreed.
He was not a fine-looking man, but he was obviously a vain fool, and one
whom I thought I should not like to trust further than I could throw a
comet by the tail. Every one called him “Doctor,” and he seemed to like
it. I will say more of him by and by.
The sharer of my state-room—he occupied the lower berth—was a venerable
man of eighty years, a native of Missouri. He was a man of finished
education, and, by profession, a physician. He and I were so much
pleased with each other, that we have since corresponded; and I have
found his acquaintance truly edifying, as well as agreeable. His name
was Crele.
Dr. Crele told me a sad tale of his troubles in Missouri during the war.
He resided in Lafayette county, of that State, where old feuds held
carnival during the desolating civil war. He had taken no part in the
contest, in any way, he told me; and he said that his nearest and best
friend on earth had lately been an only son of thirty years—whom he
pictured to me as all that was manly, noble, pure, honorable, and worthy
of a parent’s fond affection. This son, he said, had studied for the
ministry, had acquired a rare education, and, like himself, had taken no
part in the war. But one bitter night, when he himself was seriously
ill, and his son was sitting by his bedside, a party of armed men,
headed by an old enemy of his family, abruptly burst into his house, and
shot down that son—the last prop of his old age. One of the reckless and
deluded men was going to shoot him, as he lay in bed, but another
interrupted him, saying:
“Never mind the old white-headed reprobate. It isn’t worth while. He’ll
soon die, anyhow.”
So, sparing him a few dim years of bitterness, they ransacked the house,
carried off all the valuables they could find, damaged much of the
furniture, set the building on fire, and departed. The flames were
extinguished by friendly neighbors, who came to his assistance, and who
lifted up from a pool of blood the lifeless form of his son.
There were tears in the old man’s eyes as he told me this; and no
wonder. His hair was white, his hand trembled, and his step was unsteady
with age. He must have felt alone in the world.
I will not state which cause the villains professed to be attached to,
who murdered the Doctor’s son, and left him a blank and desolate old
age. There were wrongs and outrages committed on both sides during the
war. No reasonable person will fail to admit this. A civil war gives a
horrible license to bad men; and God forbid that our land should ever be
blighted by another.
Gambling was not allowed on board the Nightingale, but there was a good
deal of euchre-playing, for amusement, during the voyage. At Evansville,
Indiana, a flourishing town of eight thousand inhabitants, we landed for
half-an-hour, and, while there, several passengers came aboard; among
them was a well-dressed young man, with what I considered a bad
countenance. He had cold, gray, almost expressionless “windows” for his
“soul,” to look out at, a smooth, beardless face, and a mouth with an
unusually crescent-like shape.
This person had not been aboard very long—in fact, the boat had barely
backed away from the landing and begun to move on down the river, when
he suggested to a green-looking fellow that they should get up “a little
four-handed game of euchre—just for amusement.” Mr. Greeney assented;
and inducing two other passengers to join them, they began to while away
the time, as we glided down the river, “passing,” “taking it up,”
“turning it down,” “ordering it up,” “assisting”, “making it,” “going it
alone,” and the like. If I remember correctly, Mr. Greeney and Mr.
Sharper—I take the liberty of providing these names for them—were
“partners.”
Well, a game was played through, pleasantly enough, and another
commenced: and, by and by, it was Mr. Sharper’s deal, for the third
time. There is something magical about that number _three_. “The third
time is the charm,” it is said. The third time a man does any particular
thing, something unusual is sure to happen. This was no exception.
“My hand would be a good one if we were playing poker,” observed Mr.
Sharper, carelessly, as he took up his cards.
I chanced to be standing behind Mr. Greeney at the moment, and lo! as he
picked up his cards, he, too, held no trifling poker hand: four kings
and a seven spot.
“I myself,” said Mr. Greeney, “haven’t a bad hand on poker.”
“A pity we’re not playing it then,” Mr. Sharper lazily rejoined. “Well,
what will you do?” He addressed this pointed inquiry to the player on
his left.
“I pass,” replied the latter.
“I pass.” said Mr. Greeney.
“I pass,” repeated the player on Mr. Greeney’s left and Mr. Sharper’s
right.
“I turn it down,” said Mr. Sharper, adroitly whirling the face of the
trump card downward. “Who will make it?”
“I won’t,” said the player on his left.
“I won’t,” said Mr. Greeney. “But—but—”
“Well, what is it?” said Mr. Sharper, in a tone barely tinged with
impatience.
“Why,” rejoined Mr. Greeney, with a frankness that spoke better for his
heart than his head, “I just wish it was poker!”
“Why?” asked Mr. Sharper.
“Because, I’d bet some—”
“Well,” suggested Mr. Sharper, with a careless yawn, “we might get up a
little bet on our hands, anyhow, just to pass away the time. I’ve felt
dull for the last half-hour, I’d risk something on my hand, if I were
_sure_ of losing. But I warn you, it is not a bad hand. Have you all any
thing like poker hands? Come: a pair of deuces——”
“I haven’t,” said his left-hand man, interrupting him.
“Nor I,” said his left-hand-man’s partner, who sat on his right.
“Well, darned if _I_ haven’t, though,” said Mr. Greeney.
“Have you, really?” responded Mr. Sharper. “Well, I’ll bet five dollars
on my hand, win or lose.” And he carelessly threw upon the table a
crumpled five-dollar bill, which he took from his vest pocket.
Mr. Greeney got a little excited at this demonstration, laid his cards
on the table, faces downwards, of course, thrust his hand deep into his
right-hand trousers pocket, and nervously drew forth his pocketbook.
“I’ll cover your five dollars, and go five dollars better,” he said,
with firmness, as he laid down a ten-dollar bill.
Who wouldn’t have ventured something on four kings—next to the best hand
in the pack—that had thus come out by chance, while playing euchre for
amusement?
“You do?” said Mr. Sharper, glancing up and down the cabin. “Now, the
captain wouldn’t allow—however, he isn’t about. I didn’t think of
risking more than five dollars, but I guess you are trying to bluff me.
I’ll not back out. Here’s fifteen dollars more, and that makes the bet
twenty.” And he produced the amount specified.
“Ten dollars better still,” said Mr. Greeney, promptly, as he laid down
twenty dollars. It was quite clear he had played poker before.
Mr. Sharper hesitated. “Thirty dollars,” said he. “I—no, confound
it!—I’ll put fifty on the top of it, and that’s all I _will_
risk!—No—or, yes; I’ve said it now, and will stick to it. It won’t make
me a bankrupt, if I _do_ lose.” Thereupon, he produced three
twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the table—making the bet eighty
dollars.
“I call you,” said Mr. Greeney, eagerly, as he counted out five
ten-dollar bills and threw them down upon the table.
“_Four aces_,” said Mr. Sharper, as he smilingly displayed the hateful
four that can’t be beat. “What have _you_?”
What could he have, in a case of that kind?
“Only four kings! Darn the luck!” poor Mr. Greeney exclaimed, in
unfeigned vexation. Then he said, “Pshaw!” “The deuce on it!” “I’ll
be!——” and several other words, better and worse; while Mr. Sharper,
with a calmness, complacence and benignity that one could not but
admire, raked down the “pile,” and stowed it away in his pocket.
“Well, whose deal is it?” said Mr. Sharper, who seemed to devote no
further thought to the trifle he had won.
They finished that game of euchre—for amusement—then Mr. Greeney, with a
most extraordinary expression of countenance, arose from his seat at the
table, and, in a rather husky voice, said he believed he wouldn’t play
any more: he seemed to have lost all interest in the game: and he walked
away _whistling_.
Whistling? Yes. But, O, what a dull, dry sort of a whistle he made of
it! The sudden loss of eighty dollars is not very elevating to the
spirits of a person in moderate circumstances; and who can say what the
poor dupe suffered? Notwithstanding all his attempts to appear
unconcerned, and to emit a forced whistle, it was plain that he was
suffering no ordinary mental torture.
How remarkable it is, that when a man feels right bad, and don’t want
the fact made public, he tries to turn it off with _whistling_! There
seems to be something soothing in a strain or two of this species of
music, if only executed with any skill; but a man who is suffering
inward “pangs” can rarely get the right “pucker” on his lips. Poor Mr.
Greeney made a miserable whistle of it, and if he had wept aloud for his
lost cash, he could not have more clearly exhibited his anguish to the
unsympathizing spectators.
The game being ended, Mr. Sharper purchased a good cigar at the bar,
lighted it, and, taking an armchair out upon the cabin deck, seated
himself, rested his polished boots on the railing, and laid back in his
chair, quietly smoking, and at the same time regarding the picturesque
shores of the river, with a calmness and self-satisfaction that must
have been agonizing for poor Mr. Greeney to look at.
When the Captain learned what had happened in the cabin, he went to Mr.
Sharper, and told him he must leave the boat at Cairo, as soon as a
landing could be conveniently effected, as he could not tolerate a
gambler on his boat.
Mr. Sharper coolly replied that he had not intended to go further than
Cairo, anyhow; but, if he had——
The Captain interrupted him with a friendly warning against any thing
bordering on defiance or insolence. He remarked that he had not picked a
blackleg or thief up by the neck and heels, and pitched him into the
river, for nearly a year, and that he was beginning to feel marvelously
like taking a bit of such exercise; and that he would assuredly do so,
if so much as one more articulate sound should escape him (Mr. Sharper).
The latter appreciated the warning, and during the remainder of his stay
on board the Nightingale, maintained a commendable silence.
At Cairo, where the Ohio river empties into the Mississippi, we landed,
and laid for a couple of hours before proceeding up the broad
Mississippi; and Mr. Sharper promptly left us.
Cairo is a city of about twelve thousand inhabitants, and but for the
unhealthy nature of the low country surrounding, it would eventually
become one of the greatest cities of the Mississippi Valley. Its
geographic location is one of the best in the country, being, as it is,
at the junction of two noble rivers. But in that vicinity, the land is
so low that it becomes inundated for many miles around; so that the air,
especially in the summer season, becomes fraught with miasma. Cairo
itself is built on very low ground, and but for the high levee, that
stands as a perpetual sentinel before the gates of the city, the river
would be continually staring in at all the doors and windows in the
place. Even the levee is overflowed sometimes, and the streets become
navigable for boats of moderate size.
I went up to a periodical store, on the principal street, and purchased
several newspapers of a late date. Among them was a Louisville Journal;
and, on casting my eye over it, what was my astonishment to run across a
very flattering notice of myself, which Mr. Prentice had inserted. It
stated that “J. Smith, Esquire, the celebrated author and poet, who had
lost a limb in the civil war, was making a tour of the Western States;
had honored both him and the Mammoth Cave with a visit, and had just
departed for Saint Louis, on board the steamer Nightingale!!!”
This really alarmed me, and I fancied that every one who looked at me
recognized me as the redoubtable John Smith, the “celebrated author and
poet,” who was “making a tour of the Western States.”
Fearing that some enthusiastic demonstration might be made by the
citizens of Cairo, who had probably read of my approach, and that I
might be called upon for a speech—and I hadn’t as much as the framework
of one ready—I hastily returned to the boat, and shut myself up in my
stateroom, and did not sally forth again till the Nightingale was
steaming gallantly up the Mississippi.
Nothing worthy of note occurred during our voyage up the river, except
that the mosquitoes tormented us in a style entirely new to me. They
were about the first crop of the season, fresh and vigorous, and they
attacked the boat in numbers amounting to millions of millions. O, the
misery of that night! How the little fiends tormented me! Warm as it
was, I shut myself up almost air-tight in my stateroom and tried to defy
them. I thought I would rather be smothered to death than eaten up
alive. But even there, they found me. They came in through the keyhole,
in two ranks, military order, and at once began the attack. I fought
bravely, but it was of no use. Faster than I could cut them down, they
received reinforcements through the keyhole—while, to utterly dishearten
me, and drive me to despair, I could hear myriads of them still without,
knocking at the door, and impatiently waiting their respective turns to
file in at the key-hole and drink some of me.
I could not stand it. I opened the back door and fled—fled to the cabin
deck—to the hurricane deck—to the boiler deck—up stairs and down—and
down and up—and back and forth, and forth and back half crazed—I knew
not, cared not, where! I had half a mind to jump into the river, and
take refuge from these and my other woes in the bosom of the Father of
Waters—but didn’t.
They pursued me everywhere; some of them, I believe, went in advance of
me, to be ready to meet me at any new point I should flee to. My eyes,
ears, mouth, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, hands and wrists were covered
with them; and, while thus tormenting me, they sang musically in my
ears, even as Nero played “Hail Columbia, happy land!” on a banjo, while
Rome was burning. O, the agonies of that night! The thundering cannon of
battle, the shrieking shell, the hissing bullet, and glistening bayonet,
are mere toys compared with these fiendish tormentors! How I ever got
through the night I cannot remember distinctly. It seems like a kind of
long-continued dream to me. I have a vague recollection of standing at
the bar and asking the bar-tender if he had “anything calculated to keep
the mosquitoes away?” This scene recurs to me as having been repeated
several times that night; but I think it only originated in the imagery
of delirium—for I must have grown delirious.
The next night, for some reason, they “let up” on us a little, and I got
some sleep; and early on the second morning after leaving Cairo, we
arrived at the “Mound City,” Saint Louis, the chief city of the
Mississippi Valley. It was a charming morning, not too warm, and leaving
my trunk on board, I walked up into the city for the purpose of securing
lodgings for a month. Before I did so, the passengers had all bid each
other good-by, and were beginning to go their different ways, wondering
if any two of us should ever meet again.
My aged companion bade me a cordial farewell, and took passage on the
steamer “Post Boy,” bound up the Missouri river.
The vain _young_ “Doctor,” whom I have mentioned, went to the Southern
Hotel—one of the grandest and most aristocratic in the country—and
registered his name, stating that he would remain a couple of weeks.
That I may not be troubled to speak again of so worthless a fellow, I
will here state, that, a week after, I met another fellow-passenger in
Saint Louis, who told me that the “Doctor” had stayed four days at the
Southern Hotel, and then absconded without paying his bill. This most
pretentious and presumptuous of the passengers of the Nightingale,
proved to be an unworthy loafer and a base fraud. Such is life!