DESCENT OF THE MISSISSIPPI TO NEW ORLEANS
A FLATBOAT BOUND FOR TEXAS.-- A FLAT-MAN ON RIVER PHYSICS.-- ADRIFT
AND ASLEEP.-- SEEKING THE EARTH'S LITTLE MOON.-- VICKSBURGH.--
JEFFERSON DAVIS'S COTTON PLANTATION, AND ITS NEGRO OWNER.-- DYING IN
HIS BOAT.-- HOW TO CIVILIZE CHINESE.-- A SWIM OF ONE HUNDRED AND
TWENTY MILES ON THE MISSISSIPPI.-- TWENTY-FOUR HOURS IN THE WATER.--
ARRIVAL IN THE CRESCENT CITY.
DURING the afternoon, while rowing out of the cut-off behind an
island, I caught sight of a flatboat floating in the contour of a
distant bend. There was something familiar in her appearance, and, as
I drew nearer, I recognized the pile of nets, the rusty stove, and the
civil but silent crew. She was the same flat which had left Hickman,
Kentucky, the morning I had departed from that town with my basket of
pies. This time the crew seemed like old friends. River life makes all
men equal. A pleasant hail now greeted me, and the duck-boat was soon
moored to the side of the flat. As we floated along with the current,
sipping our coffee, the captain told me his history. The war had
reduced him from affluence to poverty, and in order to support his
family, he had built a scow and penetrated the weird waters of
Reelfoot Lake, from which he was able, for several years, to supply
the citizens of Hickman with excellent fish. The enterprise was a
novelty at that time, and there being no competition, he made four
thousand dollars the first year. After that others went into the
business, and it became profitless. His mind was now bent upon a new
field. Hearing that the people of northern Texas were destitute of a
regular fish-market, he had provisioned his flat for a winter's
campaign, and intended floating with his men down to the mouth of Red
River, where he would be towed by a steamer through the state of
Louisiana to the northeastern end of Texas. There entering Caddo Lake,
which is from fifty to sixty miles long, and where game, ducks, and
fish abound, he would camp upon the shores and set his nets. The
railroads which penetrated that section would afford means for the
rapid distribution of his fish.
The party, anxious to arrive at their scene of action, floated night
and day. The society of an educated man was so delightful at the time
that I remained beside the flat all night. A lantern was hung above
the bow of the boat to show the pilots of steamers our position.
Whenever one of these disturbers of our peace passed the flat, I was
obliged to cast off and pull into the stream, as the swash would
almost ingulf me if I remained tied to the side of the large boat. I
could only sleep by snatches, for just as I would be dropping off into
the land of Nod, the watch upon the flat would call out, "Here comes
another steamer," which was the signal for me to take to my oars.
The next day was Sunday, but the flat kept on her way. I cooked my
meals upon the rusty stove, and we floated side by side, conversing
hour after hour. The low banks of the river showed the presence of
levees, or artificial dikes, built to keep out the freshets. Upon
these dikes the grass was putting forth its tender blades, and the
willows were bursting into leaf. We passed White River and the
Arkansas, both of which pour their waters out of the great wilderness
of the state of Arkansas. Below the mouth of the last-named river was
the town of Napoleon, with its deserted houses, the most forlorn
aspect that had yet met my eye. The banks were caving into the river
day by day. Houses had fallen into the current, which was undermining
the town. Here and there chimneys were standing in solitude, the
buildings having been torn down and removed to other localities to
save them from the insatiable maw of the river. These pointed upward
like so many warning cenotaphs of the river's treachery, and
contrasted strongly in the mind's eye with the many happy family
circles which had once gathered at their bases around the cheerful
hearths.
About ten o'clock in the forenoon the proprietor of the flatboat
decided, as it was Sunday, to run into a bend of the river and tie up
for the day. That night the banks caved in so frequently that I was in
danger of being entombed in my sneak-box; and I rejoiced when morning
came and the dangerous quarters were left behind. My flatboat
companions made known to me a curious feature of river physics well
known to the great floating population of the western streams. If you
start with a flat-boat or raft of timber from any point on the Ohio or
Mississippi rivers at the moment a rise in the water takes place, and
continue floating night and day without interruption, you will in a
few days overrun the effects of the rise, or freshet, and get below
it. A little later you will discover, at some point a few hundred
miles down-stream, that the river is just commencing to swell, as the
result of the freshet upon which you originally started.
During Tuesday and Wednesday of January 11 and 12, I was at times with
the flat, and at times miles away from it. Near Skipwith Landing,
Mississippi, we passed large and well-cultivated cotton-plantations,
but the river country in its vicinity was almost a wilderness.
My sleep had been much broken by night-travelling, and about nine
o'clock on Wednesday evening I fastened my boat to the flat, and
determined to have two or three hours of refreshing slumber. An hour's
peaceful rest followed, and then a snorting, screeching stern-wheel
steamer crossed the river with its tow of barges, and demoralized all
my surroundings, driving me against the flat, and shooting water over
the deck of my craft. Only half awake, I cast off from the flat, and
thought that I was rowing down-river as usual; but I had dropped back
into my nest just for one moment, and was in the land of Nod. I felt
in my sleep that I was floating down the Mississippi. I was conscious
that I had left the flatboat, and that steamers, snags, and eddies
must be looked out for, or disaster would come quickly upon me.
I knew I was asleep, and tried to rouse myself. I seemed to be
watching the moon, which shone with silver glory upon the glistening
waters, and made the dark forests, rising wall-like on the banks, even
darker by comparison. Then I seemed to enter the fields of astronomy,
moving through the atmosphere still pulling at my oars. My mental
vision stretched across the Atlantic, and enveloped the old
astronomical observatory of the French city of Toulouse. It was the
hour of sunset, and the learned Director Petit was at his post
carefully adjusting his telescope, eager with the hope of identifying
an undiscovered meteorite, the presence of which had been suggested by
certain disturbances among the celestial bodies. The savant carefully
pointed his instrument to the neighboring regions of the setting sun,
when suddenly I saw him start, and heard him mutter, like a
philosopher of old, "Eureka, I have found it!" Only a ray of light had
flashed across the field of his telescope as an asteroid shot into the
gloam of the sun. Its movements were so rapid, its disappearance so
sudden, that it was impossible to obtain another glimpse of the
unknown body. The god of day had enveloped the satellite in curtains
of powerful light, so that no eye but that of its Creator could gaze
again that night upon the little stranger which had been seen for the
first time by man.
The astronomer moved away from his instrument and the wonderful
machinery that had guided it in its search for the asteroid, slowly
muttering. "The sun robbed me of a second sight of my discovery, yet
only at this hour can I hope to get a glimpse of it. The difficulties
attending this observation are the tremendous velocity with which it
travels, its very small mass, and the rapidity with which, at the hour
of sunset, it passes into the shadow of the earth. I will, however,
calculate its orbit, and search for it again; for I have this evening
seen what no human eye has ever beheld, I HAVE SEEN THE EARTH'S LITTLE
MOON." While I watched, entranced, the astronomer, aided by his
assistants, labored over multitudes of figures hour after hour, day
after day; and from these computations an orbit was constructed for
the Little Moon.
Their work was finished; and as they left the observatory, a shadow,
which had thrown its dark outlines here and there about the professor
during his investigations, assumed the proportions of a man; and I saw
for an instant the brilliant French writer, Jules Verne, while a voice
in the musical language of France fell upon my ear: "Ah, Monsieur, it
IS true, then, and we have a second moon, which must revolve round our
planet once in three hours and twenty minutes, at a distance of only
four thousand six hundred and fifty miles from our terrestrial
abiding-place!"
Then the professor and his figures faded out of my vision; and I
seemed to be observing a little moon revolving with lightning rapidity
round the earth, while I felt that I had, in some way, been sucked
into its orbit, and was whirling around with it. Suddenly, with a keen
sense of danger pervading my whole nervous system, I awoke. Yes, it
was a dream! I was in my boat, gazing up into the serene heavens,
where the larger moon was tranquilly following her orbit, while I was
being whirled round in a strong eddy under a high bank of the river,
with the giant trees frowning down upon me as though rebuking a
careless boatman for being caught napping. And where was the flat? I
gazed across the wide river into the quiet atmosphere now full of the
bright light of the moon,--but no boat could be seen; and from the
wild forest alone came back an echo to my shouts of "Flatboat, ahoy!"
For hours I rowed in search of my compagnon de voyage.
As I hurried along the reaches of the river, every island cut-off,
every tow-head, and every nigger-head, was inspected. I even peered
into the mouths of dark bayous, thinking the party might have tied up
to await my arrival, as the larger and deeper craft floated faster
than my little boat. All search, however, proved fruitless. No flat
could be seen. My endeavors to find my quondam friends had been so
absorbing that things above my line of vision were not observed, when
suddenly the bright moonlight revealed to my astonished eyes a lofty
city apparently suspended in the heavens. By the aid of a candle and
my map I discovered that the city and fortifications of Vicksburgh
were close at hand, and that it was four o'clock in the morning.
My first view of Vicksburgh was over a long, low point of land, across
the base of which was excavated, during the investment of the city by
United States troops in the late war, "General Grant's Cut-off." By
using this cut-off, light-draught gunboats could ascend or descend the
river without passing near the batteries of the fortified city. This
point, or peninsula, which the Union forces held, is on the Louisiana
shore, opposite Vicksburgh. A year or two after I passed that
interesting locality, a Natchez newspaper, in describing the change
made in the channel of the Mississippi River, said that "St. Joseph
and Rodney have been left inland; Vicksburgh is left on a lake; Delta
will soon be washed away; a cut-off has been made at Grand Gulf, and
by another season Port Gibson and Claiborne County will have no
landing."
Floating quietly in my little boat, and gazing at the city upon the
heights, I thought of the bloody scenes there enacted, and of the
statement made that "three hundred tons of lead, mostly bullets, had
been collected in and around the town since the close of the war."
This lead, it has been asserted, would make nine million six hundred
thousand ounce-balls. Of course, in this statement there is no mention
of the lead buried deep in the earth, and that lost in the river.
Entering a great bend, the swift current swept me so rapidly past
Vicksburgh that a few moments later I was among the islands and tow-
heads of the river. At noon the plantation of Mr. Jefferson Davis was
passed. It was situated twenty-five miles below Vicksburgh, and prior
to February, 1867, was on a long peninsula with the estate of Colonel
Joseph E. Davis and one belonging to Messrs. Quitman and Farrar. Then
came the overwhelming river, sweeping across a narrow neck of land,
and transforming the cotton-plantations into an island territory. In
the old days of slavery, Colonel Joseph E. Davis, brother of the ex-
president of the late Confederate States, had a body-servant named Ben
Montgomery. He was the manager of his master's estates while a slave,
and was so industrious and honest in all his dealings, and so
successful in business, that after the war he was able to purchase his
master's plantation for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in
gold.
While I lingered in the Davis cut-off to lunch, a boat-load of white
men passed me on their way to the plantation of Jefferson Davis, which
they said had also been purchased by Ben Montgomery of its former
owner, who then resided in Memphis. One of the men said: "Mr. Davis
will convey the property to Ben Montgomery as soon as he makes one
more payment, and Ben told me he was about ready to close the
transaction."
Montgomery was described as being fairly educated, and possessing the
presence and address of a gentleman. His neighbors credited him with
being "a right smart good nigger." It is a singular fact that these
large landed estates should have become the property of the former
slave so soon after the war. Ben Montgomery died recently, leaving an
example to his colored brethren worthy of their imitation.
From Davis's Cut-off I followed Big Black Island Bend and Hard Times
Bend, past the now silent batteries of Grand Gulf, down to the town of
Rodney. I went ashore near the old plantation of an ex-president
(General Taylor) of the United States, being attracted by a lot of dry
drift-wood which promised a blazing fire. While cooking my rice and
slowly developing an omelet, I calculated upon the chances of finding
the lost flatboat. It was now evident that she was behind, not in
advance of me. It was about four o'clock, and I determined to await
her arrival. At half-past six o'clock clouds had obscured the sky, and
it was impossible to see across the water, but I continued to watch
and listen for the flat. The current was strongest on my side of the
river, and I felt certain the boat would follow it and pass close to
my camp. Her lantern and blazing stove-pipe would reveal her presence.
Suddenly a man coughed within a few rods of the shore, and out of the
gloom appeared the dark outlines of the fisherman's craft, but like a
phantom ship, it instantly disappeared. It was but the work of a
moment to embark and follow the vanishing flat. I soon overhauled it,
and received a warm welcome from its occupants, who had supposed that
after the steamer had driven me from them I had sought refuge in a
creek to make up my lost hours of sleep. We floated side by side all
night, disturbed but once, and then by the powerful steamer Robert
Lee, which unceremoniously threw about a pail of water over me,
gratuitously washing my blankets.
The next day, January 13, we passed Natchez, Mississippi, about four
o'clock A. M. This city, founded by D'Iberville in 1700, is
geographically divided into two parts. "Natchez on the Hill" is
situated on a bluff two hundred feet above the river, while "Natchez
under the Hill " is at the base of the cliff, and from its levee
vessels sail for foreign as well as for American ports. Its inland and
foreign trade is extensive, though it has a population of only ten or
twelve thousand. The aspect of the country was changing as we
approached New Orleans. Fine plantations, protected by levees, now
lined the river-banks, while the forests of dense green, heavily
draped with Spanish moss, threw dark shadows on the watery path.
We arrived at the mouth of the Red River about dark, and my companions
were fortunate enough to find a steamer at the landing, the captain of
which promised to take them in tow to their distant goal. We parted
like old friends; and as I rowed in darkness down the Mississippi I
heard the shrill whistle of the steamer which was dragging my
companions up the current of Red River into the high lands of
Louisiana.
Up Red River, three miles from its mouth, a stream branches off to the
south, and empties into the Gulf of Mexico. This is the Atchafalaya
Bayou. At Plaquemine, about one hundred and thirty miles below Red
River, and on the west bank of the Mississippi, another bayou conducts
a portion of the water from the main stream into Grand River, which,
with other western Louisiana watercourses, empties into the Gulf of
Mexico. There is a third western outlet from the parent stream at
Donaldsonville, eighty-one miles above New Orleans, known as the Bayou
La Fourche, which flows through one of the richest sugar-producing
sections of the state. Dotted here and there along the shores of this
bayou are the picturesque homes of the planters, made more attractive
by the semi-tropical vegetation, the clustering vines, blooming roses,
and bright green turf than they could ever be from mere architectural
beauty, while their continuous course along the shore gives the idea
of a long and prosperous village.
The guide-books of the Mississippi describe the Bayou Manchac as an
outlet to the Mississippi on the left, or east bank, below Baton
Rouge, and the statement is repeatedly made that steamboats can go
through this bayou into the Amite River, and down that river to Lake
Pontchartrain and the Gulf of Mexico, leaving, by this route, the city
of New Orleans to the west. This is, however, far from the truth, as I
shall presently show, for it had been my intention to descend the
Bayou Manchac, and follow D'Iberville's ancient route to the sea. I
soon found that the accomplishment of my plan was impossible, as the
dry bottom of the bayou was FIFTEEN FEET ABOVE the water of the
Mississippi.
Pursuing my solitary way, I rowed across the Mississippi, and skirted
the shore in search of a camp where I could sleep until the moon
arose, which would be soon after midnight. During the afternoon I had
crossed the southern boundary of the state of Mississippi, and now the
river ran through the state of Louisiana all the way to the sea.
About nine o'clock I found a little bayou in the dark woods, and
moored my boat to a snag which protruded its head above the still
waters of the tarn. The old trees that closely encircled my nocturnal
quarters were fringed with the inevitable Spanish moss, and gave a
most funereal aspect to the surroundings. The mournful hootings of the
owls added to the doleful and weird character of the place. I was,
however, too sleepy to waste much sentiment upon the gloomy walls of
my apartment, and was soon lost to all sublunary things. These dark
pockets of the swamps, these earthly Hades, are famous resting-places
for those who know the untenable nature of ghosts, and who have become
the possessors of healthy nerves by avoiding the poisonous influences
of coal-gas in furnace-heated houses, the vitiated air of crowded
rooms, and other detrimental effects of a city life. In such a camp
the voyager need fear no intrusion upon his privacy, for the
superstitions rife among men will prevent even Paul Pry from
penetrating such recesses during the wee sma' hours. Of course such a
camp would be safe only during the winter months, as at other seasons
the invidious foe, malaria, would inevitably mark for its victim the
man who slept beneath such deadly shades.
At midnight the light of the moon illuminated my dark quarters, and I
stole noiselessly out of the bayou into the river, rowing until
sunrise, when the small port of Bayou Sara was passed. It was soon
left in the dim distance, and the little white boat floated ten miles
down a nearly straight reach in the river to the frowning heights of
Port Hudson, a place that figured prominently during the late war.
The country round Port Hudson is thickly settled by descendants of the
old Acadians, who came down the great rivers from Canada in the early
days of Louisiana's history. Entering the mouth of the False River, on
the west bank of the Mississippi, the traveller will penetrate the
heart of an old and interesting Acadian settlement. If his mind be
full of poetic fancies, and his eyes in search of Gabriels and
Evangelines as he travels along this part of the Mississippi, his ears
will be startled by the unmistakable Yankee names that are given him
as representing the proprietors of the various estates he passes. Here
and there the old French names appear; but in almost every such
instance its possessor is a bachelor, and with him its musical accents
will die away. Searching into the cause of this patent fact, I
discovered that the creole women, descendants of the old Acadians,
appreciated the sterling qualities of the Anglo-Saxon race, and found
in them their ideals, leaving in a state of single blessedness the
more indolent, and perhaps less persuasive, creole gentlemen. The
results of these marriages are the gradual extinction of old family
names; and in the not very far future the romance connected with these
people will be a thing of the past, and the traveller, instead of
thinking--
"This is the little village famed of yore,
with meadows rich in flocks, and plenteous grain,
whose peasants knelt beside each vine-clad door,
As the sweet Angelus rose over the plain,"
will be introduced to Mrs. Hezekiah Skinner, and partake of her baked
beans.
My informant in these matters was an educated creole gentleman, and I
must have the honesty to give his remarks in regard to these
persistent "Yankees," who, he said, "were always successful with the
fair maidens, but invariably selected those who owned fine
plantations, having in love, as well as in war, an eye to the main
chance."
About the middle of the afternoon I ran the sneak-box on to the
sloping levee of Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana; and, locking
the hatch, went to the post-office for letters, and to the stores for
provisions. Returning to the levee, I found a good-natured crowd had
taken possession of my boat, and at once availed myself of the local
information in regard to the chances of a passage through Bayou
Manchac, which was only fifteen miles below the town. Each told a
different story. One gentleman said, "You will have to get four
niggers to lift your boat over the levee of Mr. Walker's plantation,
and put it into Bayou Manchac, which is about one hundred yards from
the banks of the Mississippi. Its mouth was filled up a long time ago,
but when once in the bayou you can float down to the Amite River, and
so on to the Gulf." Another voice contradicted this statement,
exclaiming, "Why, the bayou is dried up for a distance of at least
eight miles from its head." At this point a well-dressed gentleman
advanced, and quietly said: "I live on the Bayou Manchac, and can
assure you that after you have hauled your boat through the Woodstock
Plantation of the Walker family, you will find water enough in the
bayou to float down upon to the Amite River."
The crowd now became fully alive to the discussion of the geography of
their locality. Each man who favored me with an opinion on the Manchac
question contradicted his neighbor; which was only a renewal of old
experiences, for I always found LOCAL knowledge of geography and
distances of little value. As the debate ran high, I thought of
D'Iberville, who had thoroughly explored the short bayou several
generations before, and who might now have enlightened these people in
regard to a stream that ran through their own lands. D'Iberville was,
however, born in Canada, and probably had more time to look into such
matters, or he would not have travelled several thousand miles to
explore Louisiana.
I thanked the company for their interest in the discussion, which,
like the questions before a debating society, had ended only in
opinions. I promised to let them know the truth of the matter if I
visited Baton Rouge again, and pushing out into the current, pulled
towards Woodstock Plantation, where I arrived soon after dark; but
fearing to land on account of the dogs, whose reception of a stranger
in the dark was, to say the least, unceremonious, I tied up to a high
bank, and "turned in" for the night.
Having left the wilderness and its protecting creeks and islands, I
was destined to feel all the annoyances attending a camper in a
cultivated and settled region. The steamboats tossed me about all
night, so that morning was indeed welcome, and having refreshed myself
with a dip and a djener, I climbed the bank, and was rewarded with
the sight of a noble mansion, with its gardens of blooming roses, and
lawns of bright green grass. This was the Woodstock Plantation, of
which I had heard so much. I leisurely approached the large
establishment, breathing an atmosphere laden with the fragrance of
roses and orange-blossoms, which seemed to grow sweeter with every
step. Finding an old negro, I sent my card to his master, with the
request for information in regard to the Bayou Manchac. The young
proprietor soon appeared with the "Report of the Secretary of War,"
27th Congress, 3d session, page 21. December 30, 1842. This pamphlet
informed me that the bayou was filled up at its mouth by order of the
government, in answer to a petition from the planters of the lower
country along the bayou and Amite River, to prevent the overflow of
their cane-fields during freshets in the Mississippi River. We walked
to a shallow depression near the house. It was dry, and carpeted with
short grass. "This," said Mr. Walker, "is the Bayou Manchac which
D'Iberville descended in his boat after having explored the
Mississippi probably as far as Red River. The bed of the bayou is now
fifteen feet above the present stage of water in the Mississippi." A
field-hand was then called, who was said to be the best geographer in
those parts, white or black.
"Tell this gentleman what you know of the Bayou Manchac," said Mr.
Walker, addressing the negro.
"Well, sah!" the darky replied, "I jus hab looked at yer boat. Four ob
us can hf him ober de levee, an' put him on de cart. Den wees mus done
cart him FOURTEEN miles 'long de Bayou Manchac to get to whar de
warter is plenty fur him to float in. Dar is some places nearer dan
dat, 'bout twelve miles off whar dar is SOME warter, but de warter am
in little spots, an' den you go on furder, an' dar is no warter fur de
boat. Den all de way dar is trees dat falls across de bayou. Boss, you
mus go all de fourteen miles to get to de warter, sure sartin."
Mr. Walker informed me that for fourteen miles down the bayou the fall
was six feet to the mile. At that distance from the Mississippi, sloop
navigation commenced at a point called Hampton's Landing, from which
it was about six miles to the Amite River. The Amite River was
navigated by light-draught vessels from Lake Pontchartrain. The region
about the Amite River possesses rich bottom-lands, and many of the
descendants of the original French settlers of Louisiana own
plantations along its banks.
Mr. Walker then pointed to a long point of land some miles down the
river, upon which the fertile fields of a plantation lay like patches
of bright green velvet in the morning sun, and said: "Below that point
a neighbor of mine found one of your northern boatmen dying in his
boat. He rowed all the way from Philadelphia on a bet, and if he had
reached New Orleans would have won his five thousand dollars, but he
died when only ninety-five miles from the city, and was buried by
Adonis Le Blanc on that plantation."
I had heard the story before. It had been told me by the river
boatmen, and the newspapers of the country had also repeated it. The
common version of it was, that a poor man, desirous of supporting his
large family of children, had undertaken to row on a bet from
Philadelphia to New Orleans. If successful, he was to receive five
thousand dollars. The kind-hearted people along the river had shown
much sympathy for Mr. John C. Cloud in his praiseworthy attempts to
support his suffering family, and at any time during his voyage quite
a liberal sum of money might have been collected from these generous
men and women to aid him in his endeavor. There was, however,
something he preferred to money, and with which he was lavishly
supplied, as we shall see hereafter.
So much for rumor. Now let us examine facts. A short time before Mr.
Cloud's death, two reporters of a western paper attempted to row to
New Orleans in a small boat, but met with an untimely end, being run
down by a steamboat. Their fate and Mr. Cloud's were quoted as
precedents to all canoeists and boatmen, and quite a feeling against
this healthful exercise was growing among the people. Several editors
of popular newspapers added to the excitement by warnings and
forebodings. Believing that some imprudence had been the cause of Mr.
Cloud's death, and forming my opinion of him from the fact of his
undertaking such a voyage in August,--the season when the swamps are
full of malaria,--I took the trouble to investigate the case, and made
some discoveries which would have startled the sympathetic friends of
this unfortunate man.
One of the first things that came to light was the fact that Mr. Cloud
was not a married man. His family was a creation of his imagination,
and a most successful means of securing the sympathy and ready aid of
those he met during his voyage, though his daily progress shows that
neither sympathy nor money were what he craved, but that WHISKEY alone
would "fill the bill!"
Mr. Cloud had once been a sailor in the United States navy, but having
retired from the cruel sea, he became an actor in such plays as
"Black-eyed Susan" in one of the variety theatres in Philadelphia. Mr.
Charles D. Jones, of that city, who was connected with theatrical
enterprises, and knew Mr. Cloud well, was one day surprised by the
latter gentleman, who declared he had a "bright idea," and only wanted
a friend to stand by him to make it a sure thing. He proposed to row
from Philadelphia to New Orleans in a small boat. Mr. Jones was to act
as his travelling agent, going on in advance, and informing the people
of the coming of the great oarsman. When Mr. Cloud should arrive in
any populous river-town, a theatrical performance was to be given, the
boatman of course to be the "star." Mr. Jones was to furnish the
capital for all this, while Mr. Cloud was to share with his manager
the profits of the exhibitions.
A light Delaware River skiff, pointed at each end, was purchased, and
Mr. Cloud left Philadelphia in the month of August, promising his
friend to arrive in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in twelve or fourteen
days. After waiting a few days to enable Mr. Cloud to get fairly
started upon his voyage, which was to be made principally by canals to
the Alleghany River, the manager went to Pittsburgh with letters of
introduction to the editors of that busy city. The representatives of
the press kindly seconded Mr. Jones in advertising the coming of the
great oarsman. Mr. Cloud was expected to appear in front of Pittsburgh
on a certain day. A hall was engaged for his performance in the
evening. An immense amount of enthusiasm was worked up among the
people of the city and the neighboring towns. Having done his duty to
his colleague, Mr. Jones anxiously awaited the expected telegram from
Cloud, announcing his approach to the city. No word came from the
oarsman; and in vain the manager telegraphed to the various towns
along the route through which Mr. Cloud must have passed.
On the day that had been settled upon for the arrival of the boat
before Pittsburgh, a large concourse of visitors gathered along the
river-banks. Even the mayor of the city was present in his carriage
among the expectant crowd. The clock struck the hour of noon, but the
little Delaware skiff was nowhere to be seen; and, as the sun declined
from the zenith, the people gradually dispersed, muttering, "Another
humbug!"
At midnight Mr. Jones retired in anything but an amiable mood. His
professional honor had been wounded, and his industrious labors lost.
Where was Cloud? Had the poor fellow been murdered? What was his fate,
and why did he not come up to time? Revolving these questions in his
mind, the manager fell asleep; but he was roused before five o'clock
in the morning by a servant knocking at his door to inform him that
his "star" was in Alleghany City, opposite Pittsburgh. Mr. Jones went
to look up his man, and found him in a state of intoxication in a
drinking-saloon. A hard-looking set of fellows were perambulating the
streets, bawling at the top of their voices, "Arrival of John C.
Cloud, the great oarsman! Photographs for sale! only twenty-five
cents!"
When the intoxicated boatman had returned to a conversational state of
mind, he explained that he had actually rowed as far as Harrisburgh,
Pennsylvania, where he had been most generously entertained at the
liquor saloons, and had been so fortunate as to make the acquaintance
of some "good fellows" who had engaged to travel in advance of his
boat, and sell his photographs, sharing with him in the profits of
such sales. He had made his voyage from Harrisburgh to Alleghany City
by rail, his boat being safely stowed in a car, and tenderly watched
over by the red-shirted "good fellows" who had so generously taken him
under their wing. The "great oarsman" had, in fact, rowed just about
one-third of the distance between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.
The disgusted manager left his man in charge of the new managers, and
going at once to the editors, explained how he had been duped, and
begged to be "let down gently" before the public. These gentlemen not
only acceded to the request, but even offered to get up a "benefit"
for Mr. Jones, who declined the honor, and waited only long enough in
the city to see Mr. Cloud with his boat and whiskey fade out of sight
down the Ohio, when he returned to Philadelphia considerably lighter
in pocket, having provided funds for purchasing the boat and other
necessaries, and full of righteous indignation against Mr. Cloud and
his "bright idea."
The little skiff went on its way down the Ohio, and was met with
enthusiasm at each landing. The citizens of Hickman, Kentucky,
described the voyage of Mr. Cloud as one continuous ovation. Five
thousand people gathered along the banks below that town to welcome
"the poor northern man who was rowing to New Orleans on a five-
thousand-dollar bet, hoping to win his wager that he might have means
to support his large family of children." One old gentleman seemed to
have his doubts about the truth of this statement, "for," said he,
"when the celebrated oarsman appeared, and landed, he repaired
immediately to a low drinking-saloon, and announced that he was the
greatest oarsman in America," &c.
The "boys" about the town subscribed a fund, and invested it in five
gallons of whiskey, which Cloud took aboard his skiff when he
departed. He plainly stated that the conditions of the bet prevented
his sleeping under a roof while on his way; so he curled himself up in
his blankets and slept on the veranda floors. The man must have had
great powers of endurance, or he could not have rowed so long in the
hot sun at that malarious season of the year. His chief sustenance was
whiskey; and at one town, near Cairo, I was assured by the best
authority, ten gallons of that fiery liquor were stowed away in his
skiff. Such disregard of nature's laws soon told upon the plucky
fellow, and his voyage came to an end when almost in sight of his
goal. The malaria he was breathing and the whiskey he was drinking set
fire to his blood, and the fatal congestive chills were the inevitable
result.
The papers of New Orleans had announced the approach of the great
oarsman, and the planters were ready to give him a cordial welcome,
when one day a man who was walking near the shore of the Mississippi,
in the parish of Iberville, and looking out upon the river, saw a boat
of a peculiar model whirling around in the eddies. He at once launched
his boat and pushed out to the object which had excited his curiosity.
Stretched upon the bottom of the strange craft was a man dressed in
the garb of a northern boatman. At first he appeared to be dead; but a
careful examination showed that life was not yet extinct. The unknown
man was carried to the nearest plantation, and there, among strangers
whose hearts beat kindly for the unfortunate boatman, John C. Cloud
expired without uttering one word. The coroner,
[Dying in his boat.]
Mr. Adonis Le Blanc, found upon the person of the dead man a
memorandum-book which told of the distances made each day upon the
river, while the entries of the closing days showed how the keeper of
the log had suffered from the "heavy shakes" occasioned by the malaria
and his own imprudence. The story of the cruise was recorded on the
boat. Men and women had written their names inside the frail shell,
with the dates of her arrival at different localities along the route.
I afterwards examined the boat at Biloxi, on the Gulf of Mexico, where
it was kept as a curiosity in the boat-house of a citizen of New
Orleans.
They buried the unfortunate man upon the plantation, and Mr. Clay
Gourrier took charge of his effects. The most remarkable thing about
this rowing match was the credulity of the people along the route.
They accepted Cloud's statement without stopping to consider that if
there were any truth in it, the other side, with their five thousand
dollars at stake, would surely take some interest in the matter, and
have men posted along the route to see that the bet was fairly won.
The fact that no bet had been made never seemed to dawn upon them;
but, like too many, they sympathized without reasoning.
Being forced to abandon all hopes of taking the Bayou Manchac and the
interesting country of the Acadians in my route southward, I rowed
down the river, past the curious old town of Plaquemine, and by four
o'clock in the afternoon commenced to search for an island or creek
where a good camping-ground for Sunday might be found. The buildings
of White Castle Plantation soon arose on the right bank, and as I
approached the little cooperage-shop of the large estate, which was
near the water, a kindly hail came from the master-cooper and his
assistant. Acceding to their desire "to look at the boat," I let the
two men drag her ashore, and while they examined the craft, I studied
the representatives of two very different types of laboring-men. One
was from Madison, Indiana; the other belonged to the poor white class
of the south. We built a fire near the boat, and passed half the night
in conversation.
These men gave me much valuable information about Louisiana. The
southern cooper had lived much among the bayous and swamps of that
region of the state subjected to overflow. He was an original
character, and never so happy as when living a Robinson Crusoe life in
the woods. His favorite expression seemed to be, "Oh, shucks!" and his
yarns were so interlarded with this exclamation, that in giving one of
his stories I must ask the reader to imagine that expressive utterance
about every other word. Affectionately hugging his knee, and
generously expectorating as he made a transfer of his quid from one
side of his mouth to the other, he said:
"A fellow don't always want company in the woods. If you have a
pardner, he ort to be jes like yourself, or you'll be sartin to fall
out. I was riving out shingles and coopers' stock once with a pardner,
and times got mighty hard, sowe turned fishermen. There was some piles
standing in Plaquemine Bayou, and the drift stuff collected round them
and made a sort of little island. Me and Bill Bates went to work and
rived out some lengths of cypress, and built a snug shanty on top of
the piles. As it wasn't real estate we was on, nobody couldn't drive
us off; so we fished for the Plaquemine folks.
"By-and-by a king-snake swimmed over to our island, and tuck up his
abode in a hole in a log. The cuss got kind of affectionate, and after
a while crawled right into our hut to catch flies and other varmin. At
last he got so tame he'd let me scratch his back. Then he tuck to our
moss bed, and used up a considerable portion of his time there. Bill
Bates hadn't the manners of a hog, and he kept a-droppin' hints to me,
every few days, that he'd 'drap into that snake some night and squeeze
the life out of him.' This made me mad, and I nat'rally tuck the
snake's part, particularly as he would gobble up and crush the neck of
every water-snake that cum ashore on our island. One thing led to
another, till Bill Bates swore he'd kill my snake. Sez I to him,
'Billum,' (I always called him Billum when I MEANT BIZNESS,) 'ef you
hurt a hair of the head of my snake, I'll hop on to you.' That settled
our pardnership. Bill Bates knowed what I meant, and he gathered up
his traps and skedaddled.
"Then I went to New Orleans, and out to Lake Pontchartrain, to fish
for market. A lot of cussed Chinese was in the bizness, and when they
found COARSE fish in their nets, they'd kill 'em and heave 'em
overboard. Now, no man's got a rite to waste anything, so we fishermen
begun to pay sum attention to the opium-smokers in good arnest."
Here I interrupted the speaker to ask him if it would be safe for me
to travel alone through the fishing-grounds of these Chinese.
"Oh, shucks! safe enuf now," he answered. "Once they was a bad set;
but a change has cum over 'em--they're CIVILIZED now."
A vision of schools and earnest missionary work was before me while I
asked HOW their civilization had been accomplished.
"Shucks! WE dun it--WE WHITE FISHERMEN civilized 'em," was the
emphatic reply; "and not a bit too soon either, for the wasteful
cusses got so bad they wasn't satisfied with chucking dead fish
overboard, but would go on to the prairies, and after using the grass
cabins we WHITE fishermen had built to go into in bad weather, the
bloody furiners would burn them up to bother us. They thort they'd
drive us teetotally out of the diggins; so we thort it was time to
CIVILIZE 'em. We hid in the long grass fur a few nights and watched
the cusses. One morning a Chinaman was found dead in a cabin. Pretty
soon after, one or two others was found floatin' round loose, in the
same way; and after that lesson or two the fellers got CIVILIZED; and
you needn't fear goin' among 'em now, fur they're harmless as kittens.
They don't kill coarse fish now fur the fun of it. Oh, shucks! there's
nothin' like a little healthy CIVILIZATION fur Chinamen and Injuns.
They both needs it, and, any way, this is a WHITE MAN'S country."
"And what of negroes?" I asked.
"Oh, the niggers is good enuf, ef you let 'em alone. The Carpet-
baggers from up north has filled their heads with all kinds of stuff,
so now they think, nat'rally enuf, that they ought to be office-
holders, when they can't read or write no more than I can. I'd like to
take a hand CIVILIZING some of them Carpet-baggers! They needs it more
than the Chinamen or Injuns."
During part of the evening, Mr. Sewall, the nephew of the owner of the
plantation, was with us round our camp-fire. We spoke of Longfellow's
Evangeline, the bay-tree, and Atchafalaya River, which he assured me
was slowly widening its current, and would in time, perhaps, become
the main river of the basin, and finally deprive the Mississippi of a
large portion of its waters. From his boyhood he had watched the
falling in of the banks with the widening and increasing of the
strength of the current of the Atchafalaya Bayou. Once it was
impassable for steamers; but a little dredging opened the way, while
the Mississippi and Red rivers had both contributed to its volume of
water until it had deepened sufficiently for United States gunboats to
ascend it during the late war. It follows the shortest course from the
mouth of Red River to the Gulf of Mexico.
I left White Castle Plantation early on Monday morning, when I
discovered a lot of fine sweet-potatoes stowed away in the hold of my
boat. The northern cooper had purchased them during the night, and
having too much delicacy to speak of his gift, secreted them in the
boat. I fully appreciated this kind act, knowing it to be a mark of
the poor man's sympathy for his northern countryman. The levee for
miles was lined with negroes and white men gathering a harvest of
firewood from the drift stuff. One old negro, catching sight of my
boat, called out to his companion, "Randal, look at dat boat! De
longer we libs, de mor you sees. What sort o' queer boat is she?"
Twenty miles below White Castle Plantation is the valuable sugar
estate called Houmas, the property of General Wade Hampton and Colonel
J. T. Preston. General Hampton does not reside upon his plantation,
but makes Georgia his home. Beyond Houmas the parish of St. James
skirts the river for twenty miles. Three miles back from the river, on
the left side of the Mississippi, and fifty-five miles from New
Orleans, is the little settlement of Grand Point, the place most famed
in St. James for perique tobacco. The first settler who had the
hardihood to enter these solitudes was named Maximilian Roussel. He
purchased a small tract of land from the government, and in the year
1824 shouldered his axe and camping-utensils, and started for his new
domain. He soon built a hut, and at once began the laborious task of
clearing his land, which was located in a dense cypress swamp, alive
with wild beasts and alligators. A rough house was completed at the
end of a year, and into it Roussel moved his family, consisting of a
wife and four children. Here "he lived till he died," as it has been
expressively said.
Octave and Louis, two of his sons, and both now grandfathers, still
live on the old place, and are highly respected. Only a few years ago
the old homestead echoed to the voices of five of Roussel's sons, with
their families; but death has taken two, one has removed, and two only
now remain to relate the history of the almost unimaginable hardships
encountered by the old and hardy pioneer.
There are at present nineteen families in the settlement, and they are
all engaged in the cultivation of perique tobacco. An average farm on
Grant Point consists of eight acres, and the average yield of
manufactured tobacco is four hundred pounds to the acre. These simple-
hearted people seem to be very happy and content. They have no saloons
or stores of any kind, but their place is well filled with a neat
Catholic church and a substantial school-house. Every man, woman, and
child is a devout Roman Catholic, and in their daily intercourse with
each other the stranger among them hears a patois something like the
French language. The whole of the land cultivated by these people
would not make more than an average farm in the north, while compared
with the vast sugar estates on every side of it the dimensions are
infinitesimal.
Villages were now picturesquely grouped along the shores, the most
conspicuous feature in each being the large Catholic church, showing
the religious belief of the people. Curious little stores were perched
behind the now high banks of the levee. The signs over the doors bore
such inscriptions as, "The Red Store," "The White Store," "St. John's
Store," "Poor Family Store," &c. Busy life was seen on every side, but
here, as elsewhere in the south, men seemed always to have time to
give a civil answer to any necessary inquiries.
Only a month after I had descended this part of the river, Captain
Boyton, clothed in his famous swimming-suit, paddled his way down the
current from Bayou Goula to New Orleans, a distance of one hundred
miles. The incidents of this curious voyage are now a part of the
river's history, and this seems the place for the brave captain to
tell his story. He says:
"I arrived at Bayou Goula on the 'Bismarck,' about six o'clock on
Thursday morning; and, after considerable delay, succeeded in
obtaining quarters at the Buena Vista Hotel in that village. At that
point I engaged the services of a colored man named Brown, to pilot me
down the river. At ten o'clock I took a breakfast, consisting of five
eggs, bread, and a glass of beer, and ate nothing else during the day.
At five o'clock precisely I took to the water and began my trip down
to the city of New Orleans--a trip which proved to be a much more
arduous one than I had anticipated, in consequence of the want of
buoyancy in the water, the terrible counter-currents, and the large
amount of drift-wood. It was some time before I could master the
difficulty about the drift-wood, and at one time I was so annoyed and
bruised by the floating debris, that I became somewhat apprehensive
about the success of my enterprise. In some of the strong eddies
particularly the logs played such fantastic tricks, rolling over and
over with their jagged limbs and again standing upon their ends, that
I feared I must either be carried under, or have my dress stripped
completely off. By constant watching, however, I was enabled to steer
out of harm's way and to keep steadily moving down the stream.
"Above Donaldsonville I was met by a fleet of boats filled with
spectators, who accompanied me down to that point, which I reached
about eight o'clock in the evening. The town was illuminated, and the
citizens tendered me a polite invitation to land and take supper; but
of course I was obliged to decline, accepting in lieu a drink and a
sandwich. Of the sandwich I ate only the bread.
[Boyton descending the Mississippi.]
"Below Donaldsonville I was caught in the great eddy. It was about
four o'clock in the morning when I got into it, and it was good
daylight before I succeeded in getting out again into the down-stream
current. It was a singular sensation, this going round and round over
the same ground, so to speak, and for the life of me I could not
understand how I seemed now and then to be passing the same
plantation-houses and familiar landmarks. The skiff which accompanied
me was also in the same predicament, sometimes pulling up and
sometimes pulling down stream. I tried to guide myself by the north
star, but before I was aware of it that luminary, which ought to have
kept directly in my front, would pop up, as it were, behind me, and
destroy all my calculations. When daylight came, however, and the fog
lifted sufficiently, I was able to paddle out into the middle of the
stream, and keep down it once again.
"Early in the morning, above Bonnet Carre, I asked several persons on
shore for some coffee, but most of them seemed too much excited to
attend to this pressing want of mine. At last a gentleman who spoke
French got his wife to go and get me a cup of coffee, after drinking
which I felt greatly refreshed. The sandwich and drink at
Donaldsonville, and this cup of coffee next morning, were the only
things in the shape of refreshments which I took during the twenty-
four hours' voyage. At times I was almost certain I was being attacked
by alligators, and thought I should have to use the knife with which I
always go armed, but it only proved to be the annoying drift-wood in
which I would become fearfully entangled. I only suffered from the
cold in my feet. These I warmed, however, after the sun came out, by
inflating the lower part of my dress, and holding them up out of the
water.
"The banks all along the way were crowded with people to see me pass
down. At one point, when I had allowed the air to escape from the
lower part of my dress, and was going along rapidly, with nothing
showing above water but my head and my paddle, I met a skiff, which
contained a negro man and woman, who were crossing the river. The
woman became fearfully alarmed, and her screams could have been heard
for miles away. The man pulled for dear life, the woman in the stern
acting the cockswain, and urging the boat forward in the funniest
manner possible.
"While in the great eddy I drifted into an immense flock of ducks, and
but for the noise made by those in the skiff I could easily have
caught several of them, as they were not at all disturbed by my
presence, but swam leisurely all about me.
"At the Red Church, the wind blowing up against the current kicked up
a nasty sea, which gave me a great deal of trouble. By sinking down
very low, however, and allowing only my head above water, and taking
the shower-bath as it came upon me continuously, I was enabled to keep
up my headway down stream. When at my best speed I easily kept ahead
of the boats, going sometimes at the rate of seven miles an hour
without difficulty.
"This feat was a much more arduous one than my trip across the English
Channel. Then I only slept two hours, and was up again, feeling all
right; but when this thing was over I slept all night, had a
refreshing bath, and still suffered from fatigue, to say nothing of my
swollen wrists and neck-glands."
Having finished his remarkable voyage successfully, Captain Boyton
concluded that his life-saving dress had been fully tested in America,
and determined to rest on his laurels, and avoid Mississippi debris in
future. In consequence of being caught in the eddy below
Donaldsonville, this great swimmer estimated the distance he traversed
from Bayou Goula to New Orleans as fully one hundred and twenty miles.
[* footnote: Since this voyage ended, Captain Boyton has, in the same
manner, successfully descended the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers
from Cairo to New Orleans.]
About dusk I rowed into a grove of young willows, on the left bank of
the river, on the Shepard Plantation. My boat was soon securely
fastened to a tree, and having partaken of my frugal meal I retired. A
comfortable night's rest was, however, out of the question, for the
passing steamers tossed me about in a most unceremonious manner,
seeming to me in my dreams to be chanting for their lullaby, "Rock-a-
by baby on the tree-top." Indeed, the baby on the tree-top was in an
enviable position compared with my kaleidoscopic movements among the
swashy seas. Many visions were before me that night, of the numerous
little sufferers who are daily slung backwards and forwards in those
pernicious instruments of torture called cradles.
Memory brought also another picture I hoped it had been my good
fortune to forget. It was a scene on the veranda of a country house.
Five sisters, all pretty girls, whose grace arid vivacity I had often
admired, were there, each in her rocking-chair, and each swinging to
and fro, as though perpetual motion had been discovered. Why must an
American woman have a rocking-chair? In no other country in the world,
excepting among the creoles of South America, is this awkward piece of
furniture so popular. Burn the cradles and taboo the graceless
rocking-chair, and our children will have steadier heads and our women
learn the attractive grace of quiet ease.
The following day I struggled against head winds and swashy seas,
until their combined forces proved too much for me, and succumbing as
amiably as possible under the circumstances, the little white boat was
run ashore on the Picou Plantation, where the coast was fortunately
low. The rain and wind held me prisoner there until midnight, when,
with a rising moon to cheer me, I forced a passage through the
blockade of driftwood, and being once more on the river, waved an
adieu to my last camp on the Mississippi.
I was now only thirty-seven miles from New Orleans. Rowing rapidly
down the broad river, now shrouded in gloom, with the fleecy scuds
flying overhead in the stormy firmament, I fully realized that I was
soon to leave the noble stream which had borne me so long and so
safely upon its bosom. A thunder-shower rose in the west--its massive
blackness lighted by the vivid flashes which played over its surface.
The houses of the planters along the river's bank were enveloped in
foliage, and the air was so redolent with the fragrance of flowers
that I seemed to be floating through an Eden. The wind and the clouds
disappeared together, and a glorious sunrise gave promise of a perfect
day. With the light came life. Where all had been silent and restful,
man and beast now made known their presence. The rising sun seemed to
be the signal for taking hold where they had let go the night before.
The crowing of cocks, the cries of plantation hands, the hungry neigh
of horses, the hundred and one sounds of this work-a-day world,
greeted my ears, while my eyes, taking a rapid survey of the
surrounding steamers, coal-arks, and barges of every description,
carried quickly to my brain the intelligence that I was near the
Crescent City of the Gulf. Soon forests of masts rose upon the
horizon, for there were vessels of all nations ranged along the levee
of this once prosperous city.
Anxious to escape the officious kindness always encountered about the
docks of southern cities, I peered about, hoping to find some quiet
corner in which to moor my floating home. Near the foot of Louisiana
Avenue I saw the fine boat-house of the "Southern Boat Club," and
being pleasantly hailed by one of its members, hove to, and told him
of my perplexity. With the ever ready hospitality of a southerner, he
assured me that the boat-house was at my disposal; and calling a
friend to assist, we easily hauled the duck-boat out of the water, up
the inclined plane, into her new quarters.
The row upon the Mississippi from its junction with the Ohio down to
New Orleans, including many stoppages, had occupied nineteen days, and
had been accelerated by considerable night voyaging. The flow of the
Mississippi was about one third faster than that of the Ohio. Lloyd's
River Map gives the distance from the mouth of the Ohio to the centre
of New Orleans as ten hundred and fifty-five miles, but the surveys of
the United States Engineer Corps make this crooked route ten hundred
and twenty miles only.
My floating home being now in good hands, its captain turned his back
on the water, and took a turn on land, leaving the river bounded by
its narrow horizon, but teeming with a strange, nomadic life, the
various types of which afforded a field where much gleaning would end
in but a scanty harvest of good. Already my ears caught, in fancy, the
sound of the restless waves of the briny waters of the Gulf of Mexico,
and my spirits rose at the prospect of the broader experiences about
to be encountered.