STEAMBOAT NAVIGATION ON THE MISSOURI RIVER.
The Missouri River pilot was beyond question the most skillful
representative of his profession. In no other kind of navigation were
the qualities of quick perception, intuitive grasp of a situation,
nerve to act boldly and promptly, coolness and judgment in times of
danger, so important and so constantly in demand. Navigation on the
ocean was child’s play in comparison. The Missouri represented in the
highest degree the peculiar dangers characteristic of alluvial streams.
Its current was swift, its channel full of snags, its surface nearly
always ruffled by the prairie gale, and never for five minutes in
succession in a condition which would permit the pilot to take his hand
from the wheel or the engineer to let go of the throttle. The elaborate
system of communication between the pilot-house and the engine room was
always in service, and the tinkle of signal bells in the engineer’s
ear was almost continuous. The position of pilot was responsible and
exacting, and called for a high order of ability. And so it resulted
that the better class of pilots were men of high standing and
character, in whose care business men unhesitatingly intrusted their
property and the lives of their families.
[Sidenote: THE TWO BARKS.]
The ever-shifting condition of the river channel[14] caused the pilot
to seek all available information as to its latest position. When
other boats were met there was an eager swapping of notes, for it was
a common practice in later years for pilots to assist each other by
keeping notes of the condition of the river over which they passed.[15]
The pilots thus came to know the river by heart from its mouth to the
head of navigation. The extraordinary knowledge of its topography and
nomenclature which Captain La Barge retained to the end of his life was
almost incredible. There was not a bend or rapid, a bed of snags, or
other feature in all of its twenty-six hundred miles that was not as
familiar to him as the rooms of his own house.
[Sidenote: THE FUEL PROBLEM.]
The most serious problem with which the Missouri navigator had to
deal was that of procuring fuel. Wood alone was used, and this was
obtained from the growths on the banks of the river. Cottonwood was
the main reliance, because of its greater abundance, but it was
not a first-class firewood. If green, it was next to impossible to
maintain steam with it except by the aid of rosin. It was often found
impracticable to carry the boat from one established wooding place to
another, and it was then necessary to gather drift logs, or anything
else that could be found. Whenever a trading post was abandoned its
palisades and buildings quickly found their way into the steamboat
furnaces, to the great, though transient, delight of the crew.
In the earlier years the fuel was cut by the crew itself as the boat
proceeded on her voyage. But as the traffic became more regular, wood
yards were established, either by the boat-owners or by others who cut
wood for sale. The Indians themselves found the business a profitable
one, and finally refused to let the whites cut wood at all. The sale
of their wood thus became a source of considerable revenue to them.
In later years, during the Sioux hostilities, the wooding of boats
was a most perilous matter. Crews were attacked at the landings and
only the most vigilant precaution prevented great loss of life at such
times.[16] To reduce this danger as much as possible, Captain La Barge
equipped one of his boats with a sawmill, and took along a yoke of
oxen. When he had to have wood he swung out a large stage, drove the
team ashore, and dragged several logs on board with the utmost speed.
As soon as this was done the boat proceeded on her way and the crew
then sawed up the wood.
The “wooding” of a boat was an interesting performance. The moment the
boat touched the bank for this purpose the mate called out “woodpile,”
and every available man leaped ashore, loaded himself with wood, and
hastened back to the boat. In an incredibly short time the work was
done and the boat was again on her way.
[Sidenote: STEAMBOAT HOURS.]
Steamboat hours were as long as the light of day would permit. It was
not customary to run at night, unless there was ample moonlight and the
business was extremely urgent. But every hour of daylight was improved.
In the higher latitudes morning and evening twilight almost touched
hands across the few hours of intervening darkness. Three o’clock A. M.
was a common hour of starting, and 9 P. M. of stopping. The crew were
divided into four watches, so that they could take turns in getting
sleep during the day.
[Sidenote: EFFECT OF WIND.]
The early morning run was liable to be the most successful of the
day, unless it were the late evening run. At both times the wind
was generally low enough to form no serious drawback. The landscape
likewise appeared at its best, and the sight of sunrise or sunset on
the river was one to be remembered. The water was comparatively calm at
those hours, particularly in the early morning. Later in the day the
wind generally began to rise, and the pilot always viewed as an evil
omen the first cloud of sand that he saw drifting over the valley. If
the wind increased beyond a certain point he was compelled to make for
the shore and wait for it to subside. The area of the boat exposed to
the wind was so great that in narrow channels it was impossible to keep
within them, and it was often necessary to lie at the bank for several
hours. This enforced idleness was generally improved in cutting wood
for present and future needs.
[Sidenote: SOUNDING THE CHANNEL.]
The danger from snags was always present and sometimes very great, and
the passage of these obstructions was a matter of anxious solicitude
on the part of both officers and passengers. Less dangerous, but not
less annoying, was the passage of shallow bars where there was not
sufficient depth to float the boat. This usually occurred at the
“crossings,” or places where the channel, after having followed one
side of the river-bed for a distance, crossed over to the other. In
these places the channel generally split up into chutes, none of which
might have the required depth of water. The pilot’s first step would
be to select the most promising channel. If this failed, he retreated
and tried another. Always at such times one of the deck hands was kept
at the bow on the forecastle sounding the channel--a function most
interesting and novel to one who had never witnessed it. On the shallow
Missouri a pole was used instead of a lead line. A deck hand seized
this pole and thrust it into the water every five seconds, at the same
time calling out the depth in a drawling, sing-song voice. The Canadian
boatmen would generally preface these calls with a snatch from some of
their native songs, winding up with the required information as a sort
of refrain. So novel was the performance to the uninitiated that an
expert sounder would attract around him an audience of listeners.
[Sidenote: WALKING OVER SANDBARS.]
In case no channel was found by direct trial with the boat, the pilot
sent the mate out in a yawl, or more generally went himself, and
carefully sounded the entire river over the shallow portion. Having
determined where the deepest water lay, he returned to the boat, and
if the obstacle were not too great, at once proceeded to move the
boat over it. Steaming in the proper direction, as determined from
the sounding, he would run the boat as far as she would go. The crew
then lowered the huge spars on either side, set them in the sand with
the lower ends pointing downstream so that a pull on the lines would
both lift the boat and crowd it ahead; then hauled taut the lines,
threw them around the capstans, and proceeded to “walk” the boat over
the bar. The process was often long and laborious, and instances were
not uncommon where one or two days were consumed in this way. An
occasional resource, which always puzzled the uninitiated, was to set
the wheel going with a reverse motion, as if trying to back the boat.
The object of this was to dam the river up slightly and relieve as much
as possible the pressure on the bar. The water was sometimes backed in
this way up to a height of four inches, and this meant a great deal.
The backward power of the wheel was so much less than the forward power
of the spars that it was not considered at all. This was one of the
scientific aspects of Missouri River navigation.
[Sidenote: WARPING OVER RAPIDS.]
The few rapids on the river which were too steep for the boat to stem
unaided were usually passed by the method of warping. As soon as the
boat reached the foot of a rapid she made for the shore. The moment
her prow touched the bank a dozen men leaped out and started on the
run up along the water’s edge. The foremost carried a pick and spade
and a few stakes, the second a stick of timber a little smaller than a
railroad tie, and the rest at proper intervals a strong line which was
rapidly uncoiled from the boat. Having arrived well beyond the head of
the rapid the men proceeded to plant a “dead man”: that is, they dug a
trench three or four feet deep in the hard prairie soil, large enough
to receive the stick of timber, and with the long dimension at right
angles to the river. The timber was then buried and firmly staked down,
and the line fastened to it at its middle, while the crew on the boat
threw their end of the line around the capstan, which was then slowly
wound in under the power of steam. The operation was a very slow one,
though less so as a general thing than sparring over sandbars.
Occasionally the pilots encountered genuine whirlpools of such
magnitude that steamboats could not cross them. In 1867 the _Bishop_
was swamped in an eddy caused by a new cut-off on the river. The boat
was caught at the point where the swift current of the cut-off entered
the old channel. At about the same time the _Miner_ narrowly escaped
disaster in a violent eddy not far below Sioux City, Ia. The whirl of
the water was so swift that the center of the eddy was nearly twelve
feet below its circumference. The boat was trying to pull itself by
with a line when it was caught by the eddy, swung out into the stream,
whirled violently around and careened over until the river flowed right
across the lower deck. Wood and all other movable material were swept
off, and two men were drowned. Only the mate’s presence of mind in
slacking off the line saved the boat.
[Sidenote: DANGER FROM INDIANS.]
One of the most formidable perils of Missouri navigation during the
period from 1860 to 1876 was the hostility of the Indians. The Sioux
tribes in particular terrorized the boatmen all along the valley from
the Niobrara to Milk River. Many were their actual attacks and many
were the lives lost. It became necessary on some voyages to barricade
the decks and staterooms, and the most careful vigilance night and day
was required in order to avoid disaster.
[Sidenote: STEAMBOAT EXPLOSIONS.]
An exciting and often dangerous pastime indulged in by the river boats
was racing. This was particularly true of the period about 1858,
when the boating business was rather overdone and there was great
competition in the trade. Racing on the Missouri was very risky in
any case, owing to the uncertainty of the channel and the abundance
of shags; but the chief danger arose from the temptation to raise
the steam pressure above a safe limit. Of all classes of steamboat
disasters, the most dreadful were those caused by boiler explosions.
There were six of these wrecks in the history of the river, although
it is not known that they were all caused by racing. In 1842 the _Edna_
was destroyed at the mouth of the Missouri, and forty-two German
emigrants were killed. The most terrible accident was that of the
_Saluda_, April 9, 1852, at Lexington, Mo. The boat was a sidewheeler,
with two large boilers, and was on her way up the river with a load of
merchandise and many Mormon passengers. The river was very high and
the current so strong that the boat could not round the point just
above town. After waiting several days without any improvement of the
situation, the captain, Francis F. Belt, ordered another trial. Going
into the engine room, he inquired how much steam was being carried.
The engineer replied that he was carrying every pound that the boilers
could stand. The captain recklessly ordered more steam to be made, and
declared with an oath that he would round the bend or blow the boat to
pieces. He then went above, rang the bell, and ordered the lines cast
off. The boat swung into the stream; the engines made but one or two
revolutions when the boilers burst with a terrific explosion that blew
the boat into splinters and scattered them far and wide. Nearly all the
officers were killed, among them the pilot, Charles La Barge, Captain
La Barge’s brother, and the second pilot, Louis Guerette, Mrs. La
Barge’s brother. It is said that over one hundred bodies were found.
Several children who escaped, but had lost their parents, were adopted
by the people of Lexington and grew up to be citizens of Missouri
instead of Mormon residents of the future State of Utah. The bell of
this boat was blown out on the bank while yet it was ringing under
the hand of Captain Belt. It was purchased with other wreckage by a
resident of Lexington, who sold it to the Christian Church in Savannah,
Mo., where it has done duty for the past fifty years.
[Sidenote: HUNTERS FOR THE BOATS.]
After the time when the boats began to carry passengers in considerable
numbers, much more attention was paid to the table fare than in the
days when the passenger list was made up almost entirely of men going
to service with the fur companies. In those days pork, lyed corn, and
navy beans made up the substance of the bill of fare. It was always a
rule, when in the Indian country, to rely on game for meat. For this
purpose hunters were regularly employed on the various boats, selected
for their skill, and never called upon for any other work. The hunter’s
custom was to leave the boat about midnight, some three or four hours
before she was to start, and to scour the bank of the river, keeping
well ahead. Whenever any animal was killed it was hung up in some
conspicuous place, and was brought in by the steamboat yawl as the boat
came along.
Captain La Barge had many of these hunters in his employ during his
career. Henry Chatillon, the same who appears in Francis Parkman’s
“Oregon Trail,” was one. He was a fine man, an excellent hunter, and
sensible and gentlemanly in all his relations. The Captain’s favorite
hunter, however, was Louis Dauphin, who was more fearless than
Chatillon and equally skillful as a hunter. He had a very long career
on the Missouri River. He seemed to delight in danger, and was never
afraid of the Indians; but his lack of prudence at last cost him his
life, and he was killed by the Sioux near the mouth of Milk River in
1865.
[Sidenote: PASSENGERS AND CARGO.]
Such are some of the peculiar features of Missouri River navigation
as it existed fifty years ago. To bring back more of the reality of
what has now become only a reminiscence, let us follow one of these
steamboats on a typical voyage up the river. The principal event on
the annual trip was the embarkation at St. Louis. The cargo consisted
of a heterogeneous assortment of goods, designed for the Indian trade
and for the equipment of hunting and trapping parties. It frequently
included also the government annuities for the various tribes, and
stores for the Indian agencies and military posts. The passengers
composed an even more heterogeneous mixture than the cargo itself.
There were, first, the regular boat crew, numbering from thirty to
forty. Very likely there were several Indians returning home from
St. Louis, or even from Washington. Then there were recruits for the
various trading companies, consisting of hunters, trappers, voyageurs,
and mountaineers, and possibly a company of soldiers for some military
service. Nearly always there were passengers distinguished for wealth
or scientific attainment, who were making the journey for pleasure or
research. Government exploring parties generally traveled by boat to
the initial point of their expeditions. In all there were from one
hundred to two hundred people on board, with sufficient variety to
insure vivacity and interest, however monotonous the journey might
otherwise be.
[Sidenote: DEPARTURE FROM PORT.]
The departure from port was always attended with more or less carousing
and revelry, particularly in the keelboat and early steamboat days,
when a trip up the river might mean years of absence. The kind of
farewell that captured the fancy of the average voyageur was a general
debauch, which often disqualified him from being ready when the hour
of departure arrived. Sometimes these delinquents who failed to appear
hied themselves across the country to St. Charles, and joined the boat
there. In order to protect itself from loss, the American Fur Company
made all its payments to the men conditional upon a certain amount
of service. It made an allowance of clothing and blankets, but never
delivered them until the men were on board and out of port. Wages were
never advanced except to trusted employees.
As the boat swung out into the stream a running salute of musketry was
kept up by the mountaineers and others until it was out of hearing.
The roll was then called, and the engagés were given their parcels of
clothing. Next began the work of putting the boat deck in order for the
trip. The bales of goods, which were strewn about in disorderly heaps,
were carefully stowed away, and before night the boat was reduced to
the appearance which it would wear during the remainder of the trip.
[Sidenote: SETTLING CHAMPIONSHIP.]
There still remained to be settled a final preliminary to a successful
and harmonious voyage--the championship for physical prowess among the
engagés on the boat. As in a herd of cattle, so here, someone must be
recognized as the strongest--able to whip anybody else in open contest.
The crew being largely strangers to each other in starting, there were
more or less friction and bickering until a settlement by fist force
was reached. Usually the contest would settle down to a small number in
a short time. It was a favorite pastime with that veteran mountaineer,
Etienne Provost, who was often sent up in charge of recruits, to
compel an early settlement which would determine all blustering and
quarreling. He would form a ring on the forecastle and compel every
braggart to make good his claims before the assembled passengers and
crew. One after another would succumb, until one man would emerge from
the contest victorious over all the others. He would then be awarded
the championship, and receive a red belt in token thereof.
[Sidenote: YANKEE JACK.]
Captain La Barge recalled an interesting incident of this kind in
which he himself had a hand. It was on the _Robert Campbell_, in
1863. He had on board a large quota of Irish engagés, in fact they
were mostly of this nationality; but there was one well-built, quiet,
rawboned American, whose full name he had forgotten, but who was
commonly known as Yankee Jack. In modern slang, the Irishmen “had it
in” for this Yankee, and made his life as uncomfortable as possible.
Two men in particular made it a point to harass and annoy him in every
conceivable way, until the Captain finally asked Jack why he did not
resent their conduct. Jack, who had a higher respect for authority than
his persecutors, had not felt at liberty to take the matter up on the
boat, but now told the Captain that, if he would permit it, he would
settle the matter once for all very promptly. The Captain told him to
go ahead, and himself arranged the preliminaries, and told the Irishmen
that they would have to stand up and “take their medicine.” With a good
deal of contempt for the Yankee they made ready for the fray. A place
was cleared on the deck and one of the men stepped out before Yankee
Jack, and the battle began; but before the Irishman knew “where he was
at” he lay sprawling upon the floor totally _hors de combat_. The next
man stepped up and was led to the slaughter with as little ceremony as
the other. For the rest of the voyage the Yankee was unmolested.
[Sidenote: INTERESTING DIVERSIONS.]
While the officers and crew were kept alert and active the livelong day
in getting their boat up the troublesome stream, the passengers whiled
away their time as best they could. Games of all practicable sorts were
indulged in. It was a common pastime to stand on the forecastle or
boiler deck and shoot at geese and ducks on the river. Now and then the
sight of deer and other animals enlivened the moment, and occasionally
the appearance of Indians on the bank caused a flutter of excitement.
To relieve the tedium of the voyage it was a common thing, when there
was no danger from the Indians, to land at the beginning of extensive
bends, and ramble across the country to the other side, rejoining the
boat when it came along.
[Sidenote: THE PILOT’S STORIES.]
The pilot-house was the favorite resort on the boat when the condition
of navigation would permit the passengers to be there. The pilot was
always an interesting personage to get acquainted with. When in the
proper mood and sailing along some easy stretch of river, he would
unloosen his tongue and entertain his listeners with tales of _his_
adventurous experiences, in reality the accumulated stories of many
years, but as new to the tenderfoot as if told for the first time. Here
he would point out a dry sand waste where the channel ran the year
before and where now a fine crop of willows was shooting vigorously
upward. The high bank yonder, with a grove of cottonwoods close to the
water’s edge, was where the boat was attacked by Indians a few years
before and two of the crew killed. The holes where bullets tore through
the pilot-house were still visible as tragic reminders of a hairbreadth
escape. A little further on was where the boat once had to stop to
let a herd of buffalo cross the river, for it would not do to try to
run through the herd lest their huge bodies become entangled in the
wheels and cripple it altogether. Sometimes these delays amounted to
several hours. In another place the Captain would point out the grave
of some Indian chief reposing in the arms of a tree, where it had been
placed by his people years before, and the sight would suggest many
thrilling experiences, and even tragedies, which marked the intercourse
of these primitive people with the navigators of the river. The recital
of these traditions appealed to the imagination of the traveler,
and helped allay the monotony of the voyage. If the landscape might
often be likened to the “uniform view of the vacant ocean,” there
were nevertheless a thousand features on every trip which the most
interesting ocean voyage lacks.
[Sidenote: ARRIVAL AT TRADING POST.]
Among the important events of every voyage were the arrivals at the
various trading posts. To the occupants of these remote stations,
buried in the depths of the wilderness, shut out for months from any
glimpse of the world outside, the coming of the annual boat was an
event of even greater interest than to the passengers themselves.
Generally the person in charge of the post, with some of the employees,
would drop down the river two or three days’ ride and meet the boat.
When she drew near the post, salutes would be exchanged, the colors
displayed, and the passengers would throng the deck to greet the crowd
which lined the bank. The exigencies of navigation never left much time
for celebration and conviviality. The exchange of cargo was carried on
with the utmost dispatch, and the moment the business was completed the
boat proceeded on her way.
These are some of the typical features of steamboat life as it used to
exist on the Missouri River. In later years, when the gold discoveries
in Montana gave the business such an astonishing impetus, other
features of interest developed. The business was always a romantic
one, and will stand in American frontier history as one of its most
picturesque and delightful memories.