THE PILOT
The boys went hurriedly back to Vevay. They had cargo enough and to
spare. Indeed, they feared they might have difficulty in bestowing it
all on their boat. And the rise in the river was coming even earlier and
faster than Phil had calculated. They must get the Vevay part of their
load on board and drop down to Craig’s Landing before the water should
reach their freight there, which lay near the river. So they hired a
farm hand to watch the goods at the landing and hastened to town.
There they worked like beavers, getting cargo aboard, for it was no part
of their plan to waste money hiring anybody to do for them anything that
they could do for themselves. They loaded the boat under Perry Raymond’s
supervision, for even the tightest and stiffest boat can be made to leak
like a sieve if badly loaded.
Finally, everything was ready. The town part of the cargo was well
bestowed. Ed Lowry had deposited his books on top of tiers of hay bales,
in between barrels, and in every other available space, for there was no
room for them in the little cabin at the stern, where the boys must
cook, eat, sleep, and live. The cabin wasn’t over twelve feet by ten in
dimensions, and a large part of its space was taken up by the six
sleeping-bunks. For besides themselves there was a pilot to be provided
for.
His name was Jim Hughes. Beyond that nobody knew anything about him. He
had come to Vevay, from nowhere in particular, only a few days before
the flatboat’s departure, and asked to be taken as pilot. He was willing
to go in that capacity without wages. He wanted “to get down the river,”
he said, and professed to know the channels fairly well.
“If he does,” said Ed Lowry, “he knows a good deal more than most of the
old-time flatboat pilots did. With the maps I’ve secured I think we can
float the boat down the river without much need of a pilot anyhow. But
as Hughes offers to go for his passage, we might as well take him
along. We may get into a situation where his knowledge of the river, if
he has any, will be of use to us.”
So Jim Hughes was shipped as pilot of _The Last of the Flatboats_.
When all was ready that gallant craft was cast loose at the Ferry street
landing, and as she drifted into the strong current, there was a cheer
from the boys on shore who had assembled to see their schoolmates off.
“She floats upon the bosom of the waters,” cried Irv Strong, “with all
the grace of a cow learning to dance the hornpipe.”
Irv was in exuberant spirits, as he always was in fact. He was like soda
water with all its fizz in it, no matter what the circumstances might
be, and just now the circumstances were altogether favorable.
“I say, boys,” he cried, “let’s have a little dance on deck! Tune up
your fiddle, Constant.”
Constant dived into the cabin and quickly returned with his violin,
playing a jig even as he emerged from the little trap-door at the top of
the steps.
Phil did not join in the dance, for he had discovered a cause of
anxiety. Their pilot was making a great show of activity where none
whatever was needed. From the Ferry street landing to “The Point” the
current ran swiftly in a straight line, and if let alone, the boat would
have gone in precisely the right direction. But Hughes was not letting
her alone. With long sweeps of his great steering-oar he was driving her
out dangerously near the head of the bar, now under water but still a
shoal.
Phil, who was observing closely, called out:--
“I say, Jim, you must run further inshore, or you’ll hit the head of the
bar.”
“Lem me alone,” said Jim. “I know the river.”
Just then the boat scraped bottom on the bar. Phil called out quickly:--
“All hands to the larboard oars! Give it to her hard!” and himself
seizing the steering oar, he managed by a hair’s breadth to swing the
great box--for that is all that a flatboat is--into the deep and rapid
channel near the Indiana shore.
As she drifted into safe water, Phil said:--
“That’s incident number one in the voyage.”
“Yes, and it came pretty near being chapter first and last in the
log-book of _The Last of the Flatboats_,” replied Irv Strong.
For several miles now there was nothing to do but float. But Phil was
closely watching Jim Hughes and observed that that worthy made three
visits to the hold,--as the cargo part of the boat is called,--going
down each time by the forward ladder and not by the stairs leading to
the cabin.
When the boat reached the big eddy about half a mile above Craig’s
Landing, it was necessary for all hands to go to the oars again in order
to make the landing.
Presently Phil observed that Hughes was steering wildly. His efforts
with the steering oar were throwing the boat far out into the river,
away from the shore on which they were to land, and directly toward the
head of a strong channel which at this stage of water ran like a
mill-race along the Kentucky shore on the farther side of Craig’s bar.
Should the boat be sucked into that channel, she would be carried many
miles down the stream before she could ever be landed even on the wrong
side of the river, and she could never come back to Craig’s Landing
unless towed back by a steamboat.
Phil, seeing the danger, asked: “Why don’t you keep her inshore?”
“None o’ yer business. I’m steerin’,” answered the pilot.
One quick, searching glance showed Phil the extent of the man’s
drunkenness,--or his pretence of drunkenness,--for Phil had doubts
of it. There were certain indications lacking. Yet if the fellow was
shamming, he was doing it exceedingly well. His tongue seemed thick, his
eyes glazed, and his walk across the deck appeared to be a mere stagger,
supported by the great oar that he was wielding to such mischievous
effect.
There was not a moment to be lost if the landing was to be made at all.
Phil called all the boys to the larboard sweep and went to take
possession of the steering-oar. Jim Hughes resisted violently. Phil,
with a quietude that nobody had ever before seen him display under
strong excitement, picked up a bit of board from the deck, and instantly
knocked the big hulking fellow down by a blow on the head.
The man did not get up again or indeed manifest consciousness in any
way. If this troubled the boy, as of course it must, he at least did
not let it interfere with his duty. He had a difficult task to do and he
must do it quickly. He gave his whole mind to that. The boys obeyed with
a will his shouted orders to “pull hard!” then for two of them to go to
the starboard oar and “back like killing snakes.” In a little while the
boat swung round, and Phil called to Will Moreraud to “take a line
ashore in the skiff and make it fast.” The youth did so, just in time to
prevent the boat from grounding in the shoal water below the landing.
When everything was secure and the strenuous work done, the boy sank
down upon the deck and called to his brother.
“See if I’ve killed him, won’t you, Ed? _I_ can’t.”
A very slight examination showed that, while the blow from the bit of
plank had brought some blood from the pilot’s head, it had done no
serious damage. His stupor, it was Ed’s opinion, was due to whiskey, not
to his chastisement.
Nevertheless it was a very bad beginning to the voyage, and Phil was
strongly disposed to discharge the fellow then and there, and trust, as
he put it, to “a good map, open eyes, and ordinary common sense, as
better pilots than a drunken lout who probably doesn’t know the river
even when he is sober.”
But the other boys dissuaded him. They thought that Jim’s intoxication
was the result of his joy at getting off; that they could find his jug
in its hiding-place and throw it overboard,--which presently they
did,--and that after he should get sober, Jim’s experience in
flat-boating might be of great advantage to them.
“You see,” said Ed Lowry, “we’ve taken a big responsibility. All this
freight, worth thousands of dollars, belongs to other people, and I
suppose half of it isn’t even insured because the rates on flatboats are
so high. Think if we should lose it for lack of a pilot!”
“Yes, think of that!” said two or three in a breath.
“Very well,” said Phil. “I yield to your judgment. But my own opinion is
that such a pilot is worse than none. I’ll keep him for the present. But
I’ll watch him, and if he gets any more whiskey or plays us any more
tricks, I’ll set him ashore once for all if it’s in the middle of an
Arkansas swamp.”
The river was rising now, more and more rapidly every hour. There was
three days’ work to do getting the rest of the cargo aboard and making
room for it in the crowded hold. But at Ed Lowry’s suggestion the boys
avoided overtaxing themselves. The energetic Swiss blood in the veins of
Constant Thiebaud and Will Moreraud prompted them to favor long hours
for work on the plea that they could make it up by rest while floating
down the river.
But under Ed’s advice Phil overruled them, and it was decided to
breakfast at six o’clock, work from seven to twelve, dine, rest for an
hour, and work again till five.