THE ATCHAFALAYA.
By lunch time we reached the mouth of the Red River, and found a rapid
current running into it from the Mississippi. We landed on the bar and
sent to town for mail, but found the postoffice had been moved to
Torrasdale, several miles away--and after walking up there found no
letters. At 3 p. m. we started up the Red, rapid, crooked, much in need
of the services of a snag boat; weather so warm the invalid came out on
deck for an hour or more. Turned into the Atchafalaya about 5 p. m., a
deep stream, said to be never less than 50 feet deep. The same shelving
banks as the great river, formed by the continual caving. We found a bed
of pebbles at the mouth of the Red and really they were like old
friends. Stone is a rarity here.
We tied up a little way beyond Elmwood Landing. Henceforth we have
neither charts nor lights, but we have a born pilot in Jake, and he will
pull us through. A bad day for the asthma, in spite of the warmth.
[Illustration: RED RIVER.]
* * * * *
Jan. 12, 1904.--If solitude exists along the Atchafalaya it is not here.
The left bank is leveed and roofs appear about every 100 yards. The
right bank is lined with little trees growing down to and into the
water. At Denson's Landing, or Simmesport, the right bank begins a
levee; there is the inevitable gas launch, a tug, and numerous other
craft, with a fish market. The wind blows dead ahead, and raises waves
nearly as big as in the big river. Pretty bum houseboats, apparently
occupied by blacks. Some noble trees with festoons of Spanish moss. No
nibbles on the trotline last night, but a huge fish heaved his side out
of the water just now. Alligator gar.
Pleasant traveling now. All day long we have voyaged along the
Atchafalaya with a wind from--where? It requires a compass to determine
directions here. In fact the uncertainty of things usually regarded as
sure is singular. Now up north we know just where the sun is going to
rise; but here the only certainty about it is its uncertainty. Now it
comes up in the east--that is, over the east bank of the river; but next
day it may appear in the west, north or south.
The wind was against us all morning, but since lunch--which we had at
Woodside--it has been back of us or sideways, and has driven us along.
Fine levees line the banks. Just now we are passing a camp at work. It
is a noble river, wide and deep, with a current about as swift as the
great river. Even now, when the Barbre gauge shows 6¾ feet above low
water only, there is no obstruction to navigation by as large steamers
as plow the Mississippi. Now and then a little spire or black stack
peeping above the levee shows the presence of a village. Temperature
hovers about 62. Only a solitary brace of ducks seen in this river as
yet.
All afternoon we have been pursuing Melville. At 3 p. m. it was four
miles away; an hour later it was five miles off, and at 5 we had gotten
within three miles of the elusive town. We concluded to stop, in hopes
it might get over its fear and settle down; so tied up. We ascended the
levee, and a boy told us the town was within half a mile. The river is
lonely, not a steamer since leaving the mouth of Red, where the _Little
Rufus_ came down and out, politely slowing up as she neared the cabin
boat, to avoid rocking us. An occasional skiff is all we see, though
the landing is common, but no cotton or seed, nothing but lumber.
We were correct as to our estimate of the visitors we had the other
night--river pirates. Their method is to come on rainy nights when the
dogs are under cover. By some plausible story they gain admittance to
the cabin and then--? Have the windows guarded by stout wire screens,
the doors fitted with bars, and a chain. Any visitor to a cabin boat
after night is a thief, and on occasion a murderer. If he desires
admittance after being told you are not a trader or whisky boat, open
the chain and when he tries to enter shoot him at once. It is the
sheerest folly to let one of those fellows have the first chance. No
jury in the world would fail to congratulate you for ridding the river
of such a character. There are no circumstances that can be imagined in
which an honest man would act in the way these men did. If they wanted
shelter from the rain the shore was handy. If they mistook the boat for
friends, the mistake was apparent and they knew very well they had no
business to continue their visit.
* * * * *
Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1904.--Made a good start. We got under way about
8:30, and Melville bridge soon came in view. The day is clear and warm,
water smooth as glass, with no perceptible current, and the engine
starts off as if nothing ever ruffled her temper.