From 'Life on the Mississippi': copyright 1883, by James R.
Osgood and Company
Next morning I felt pretty rusty and low-spirited. We went booming
along, taking a good many chances, for we were anxious to "get out of
the river" (as getting out to Cairo was called) before night should
overtake us. But Mr. Bixby's partner, the other pilot, presently
grounded the boat, and we lost so much time getting her off that it was
plain the darkness would overtake us a good long way above the mouth.
This was a great misfortune; especially to certain of our visiting
pilots, whose boats would have to wait for their return, no matter how
long that might be. It sobered the pilot-house talk a good deal. Coming
up-stream, pilots did not mind low water or any kind of darkness;
nothing stopped them but fog. But down-stream work was different; a boat
was too nearly helpless, with a stiff current pushing behind her; so it
was not customary to run down-stream at night in low water.
There seemed to be one small hope, however: if we could get through the
intricate and dangerous Hat Island crossing before night, we could
venture the rest, for we would have plainer sailing and better water.
But it would be insanity to attempt Hat Island at night. So there was a
deal of looking at watches all the rest of the day, and a constant
ciphering upon the speed we were making; Hat Island was the eternal
subject; sometimes hope was high, and sometimes we were delayed in a bad
crossing, and down it went again. For hours all hands lay under the
burden of this suppressed excitement; it was even communicated to me,
and I got to feeling so solicitous about Hat Island, and under such an
awful pressure of responsibility, that I wished I might have five
minutes on shore to draw a good full relieving breath, and start over
again. We were standing no regular watches. Each of our pilots ran such
portions of the river as he had run when coming up-stream, because of
his greater familiarity with it; but both remained in the pilot-house
constantly.
An hour before sunset, Mr. Bixby took the wheel and Mr. W---- stepped
aside. For the next thirty minutes every man held his watch in his hand
and was restless, silent, and uneasy. At last somebody said with a
doomful sigh:--
"Well, yonder's Hat Island--and we can't make it."
All the watches closed with a snap, everybody sighed and muttered
something about its being "too bad, too bad--ah, if we could _only_ have
got here half an hour sooner!" and the place was thick with the
atmosphere of disappointment. Some started to go out, but loitered,
hearing no bell-tap to land. The sun dipped behind the horizon, the boat
went on. Inquiring looks passed from one guest to another; and one who
had his hand on the door-knob and had turned it, waited, then presently
took away his hand and let the knob turn back again. We bore steadily
down the bend. More looks were exchanged, and nods of surprised
admiration--but no words. Insensibly the men drew together behind Mr.
Bixby, as the sky darkened and one or two dim stars came out. The dead
silence and sense of waiting became oppressive. Mr. Bixby pulled the
cord, and two deep mellow notes from the big bell floated off on the
night. Then a pause, and one more note was struck. The watchman's voice
followed, from the hurricane deck:--
"Labboard lead, there! Stabboard lead!"
The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance, and were
gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.
"M-a-r-k three!... M-a-r-k three!... Quarter-less-three!... Half
twain!... Quarter twain!... M-a-r-k twain!... Quarter-less--"
Mr. Bixby pulled two bell-ropes, and was answered by faint jinglings far
below in the engine-room, and our speed slackened. The steam began to
whistle through the gauge-cocks. The cries of the leadsmen went on--and
it is a weird sound always in the night. Every pilot in the lot was
watching now, with fixed eyes, and talking under his breath. Nobody was
calm and easy but Mr. Bixby. He would put his wheel down and stand on a
spoke, and as the steamer swung into her (to me) utterly invisible
marks--for we seemed to be in the midst of a wide and gloomy sea--he
would meet and fasten her there. Out of the murmur of half-audible talk
one caught a coherent sentence now and then, such as:--
"There; she's over the first reef all right!"