THE STATES AND THE AMERICA
The winter days had come again, and the year was fast drawing to its
close. Doctor Hissong had been elected to the Legislature, and was
making arrangements to leave for Frankfort the first of January. Shawn
was in school, growing into a handsome and athletic young man of
eighteen years, with the light of health glowing in his eyes, and with
an honest purpose in his heart.
One morning Mrs. Alden sent word to him to call at her home after the
school hour. Shawn went up there in the afternoon. The good woman
greeted him with a smile and bade him be seated by the library fire.
"Shawn, I have sent for you, purposely, to ask a great favor."
The black eyes beamed the sincere impulse of his heart, as he turned to
her and said, "Mrs. Alden, it would make me happy to do something for
you."
"I am going to Cincinnati on the boat to-night, Shawn. I am going there
to see a great specialist, and I would like very much for you to go with
me."
"It will give me pleasure to go," said Shawn.
Shawn met Mrs. Alden's carriage at the wharfboat, and exerted himself to
make her as comfortable as possible until the arrival of the up-stream
boat. At 8.30 o'clock the wharfmaster came into the little waiting-room
and said, "The America will soon be here."
In a short time the great steamer drew up to the wharf, and Shawn,
supporting Mrs. Alden's frail form with his strong arms, went up the
steps and into the cabin. The chambermaid placed Mrs. Alden's chair in
the ladies' cabin, and Shawn went off to select a convenient and
comfortable stateroom.
The cabin presented a scene of merriment. Under the gleaming lights
were a hundred happy couples, dancing away the gladsome hours. The
strains of music swelled and floated far out into the night, and the
joyous voices mingled with the changing melodies.
Shawn sat near Mrs. Alden, and together they gazed upon the gay throng
and enjoyed the inspiriting music. Far below, in the engine-room, the
lights glimmered over the polished machinery. The engineer glanced
occasionally at his steam-gauge and water-cocks. The negro firemen were
singing a plantation melody as they heaved shovels of coal into the
glaring furnace under the boilers. Roustabouts and deck-hands were
catching short rounds of sleep in their bunks back of the engine-room.
Sitting on either side of the boiler, were "deck passengers," those too
poor to engage passage in the cabin, and here and there, tired children
lay asleep across their mothers' knees.
In the pilot-house, Napolean Jenkins, the head pilot, stood with his
hand on the spokes of the wheel, gazing with the eyes of a night-bird
on the outlines of shore and hill. Mann Turpin, his steersman, stood at
the right of the wheel. Jenkins knocked the ashes from his cigar, and
the glow from the deep red circle of tobacco fire momentarily radiated
the gloom of the pilot-house. The night was serene and clear, the full
moon shining and shedding her dreamy light over the sleeping, snow-clad
valley, and the silvery rays filtered through the clustering branches of
the towering trees. As the great boat swung along past a farm-house,
Jenkins heard the shrill, alarming cry of a peacock. Strains of music
came floating upward from the cabin. The grim, black smoke-stacks were
breathing heavily, and the timbers of the Texas trembled as the boat
came up under the high pressure of steam.
The lights of Wansaw were just around the bend. Jenkins blew a long
blast for the little town. The sound echoed and re-echoed among the
wooded hills. The farmer in his bed on the silent shore turned on his
pillow as the deep, sonorous sound fell upon his ear--the sweet, weird
music of the stream.
Jenkins made the landing, and heading his boat for the middle of the
river, made a long crossing for the Indiana shore.
"It's a fine night," said Turpin.
"Beautiful," said Jenkins.
He turned and gazed toward the stern of his boat as she swung into the
clear and squared herself for the point of the bend. The moonbeams
glittered and danced on the waves in the wake of the steamer, and the
rays touched the snow on the hills with diamond sparks. The tall
sycamores on either side stood clearly outlined against the wintry sky,
and the white corn-shocks on the distant ridge were silhouetted like
Indian wigwams. Here and there a light glimmered from some cabin window,
and a dog barked defiance at the boat as it sped up stream.
"The States ought to be about due," said Turpin.
"I think I hear her now," said Jenkins.
When they got up to the point of the bend where they could see up the
river, they saw the States coming down. From her forward smoke-stacks
were the signal lights of emerald green and ruby red, trembling in
delicate brilliancy against the background of silvery sky. The splash of
her ponderous wheels as they churned the water, seemed to vibrate into a
song of gathering power. When the two boats were about eight hundred
yards apart, Jenkins turned to Turpin and said, "Blow two blasts; I'll
take the left side." Turpin sounded the blasts, and Jenkins headed for
the Indiana shore. Jacob Remlin, the pilot on the States, blew one blast
of his whistle just as Turpin sounded the first signal on the America.
Jenkins on the America, did not hear Remlin's one signal, because it
sounded at the same time of the first signal from the America. Remlin on
the States, heard the last one of the signals from the America, taking
it for an answer to his own signal, and he also headed his boat for the
Indiana shore. Both men violated the rules of signals. Remlin should
not have blown any signal until he heard from the up-stream boat, and
Jenkins, not hearing any signal from the States, should have stopped his
boat. Jenkins was standing on the starboard side, that placing him
behind the chimney, and he did not see the States until she came out
across his bow.
"My God!" shouted Turpin, as he saw the States bearing down upon them
like some ferocious monster, "We're lost!"
The boats came together with a fearful crash. The smoke-stacks groaned
and hissed, and great clouds of smoke rolled over the scene. The first
shock of the collision brought a sudden check to the dancing on the
America, throwing many to the floor and mixing up the whole assembly
into a confused mass. Heads were peering through the transoms of the
staterooms and voices excitedly calling, "What's the matter?" John
Briscoe, the watchman, came hurriedly through the cabin and said, "The
States and the America have run into each other!"
The strains of music had ceased giving way to anxious inquiries on
every side. The officers of the boat were running to and fro, giving
orders, the negro cabin-boys adding to the chaos of the scene by loud
and far-reaching cries.
On the roof, the Captain was giving orders to Jenkins: "Come ahead,
outside!" Jenkins pulled the bell-rope and the brave engineer responded
to the order. The boats had swung a short distance apart, the States
rapidly sinking. Jenkins put the America up between the States and the
shore. The States was carrying, as freight, a lot of barrels of coal-oil
and gasoline, and in the collision these were smashed and the gasoline
caught fire and in a few moments the sinking boat was all ablaze
forward.
Jenkins groaned as he saw the fire, for the flames had already swept
over upon the America, and he saw that his boat was also doomed. The bow
of the America was almost touching the gravel, and believing that he had
his boat safely on shore, Jenkins hurriedly left the pilot-house.
Charles Ditman, the other head pilot of the America, off watch, ran up
into the pilot-house and catching the wheel, rang for reversed engines,
and backed the boat out into the river, away from the States, but his
action was miscalculated, for fire had broken out on the America, and
great sheets of flame were leaping from her forward decks and guards.
Had the boat held the position in which Jenkins had placed her, all the
passengers might have escaped. Officers and crew were cutting away
timbers with axes and dashing water upon the fire, but the great
crackling tongue of flame licked up everything in its pathway. The
heavens shone like a great, golden mirror under the spreading blaze. The
burning oil flowed out over the water and flamed up across every avenue
of escape. From out the black clouds of smoke, great sheets of flame
burst through, rolled heavenward, and leaped down again like some
devouring demon.
In such a transformation from pleasure to horror, who can discern the
turning impulses within the human breast--of fear, of hope or of heroic
self-control? To some, such a moment brings hopeless despair, or frantic
terror, which will crush women and children and crowd them from places
of safety, and oftimes in such an hour there comes to those of otherwise
timid dispositions, a grandeur of heroism never evidencing itself
before; some latent, slumbering power of soul that can only be awakened
by some fearful test of human tragedy.
From the burning boats came wild cries, shrieks and screams. Some were
kneeling in prayer, others cursing and bemoaning their plight. Dr.
Fannastock, a millionaire manufacturer from Philadelphia, clasped his
beautiful daughter in his arms and cried, "I will give one hundred
thousand dollars to the one who saves my child!" Both were lost. Ole
Bull, the famous violinist, who had taken passage at Louisville, stood
quietly holding his violin case, calmly endeavoring to reassure the
frightened women and children. The fire was fast approaching the rear
cabin.
Shawn stood by Mrs. Alden's side, buckling a life-preserver around her
body. "I'm trusting in God, Shawn," said the good woman, as a ghastly
pallor overspread her face.
"Put a little of that trust in me," said Shawn as he bore her in his
arms to the aft guards. Hurriedly passing down the back stairs, he went
through the engine-room to the rear end of the boat. They were lowering
the trailing-yawl, which swung on a level with the floor of the lower
cabin. As the yawl touched the water, a score of roustabouts started to
leap into it.
"Stand back there!" shouted Shawn. "These women and children must go
first."
Shawn lowered himself into the yawl, and catching Mrs. Alden with both
hands, placed her on a seat in the stern of the boat. The fire was
gaining headway and black volumes of smoke were rolling from the
engine-room. Ole Bull, with a countenance pale, but noble in its
expression of high courage, tenderly lowered the women and children
into the boat. Shawn took each one and placed them as closely as
possible on the seats.
"Get aboard," he said to the musician. Shawn pushed the yawl away from
the burning boat, and seating himself with the oars, began the fight for
the shore. Great sparks from the burning timbers fell about them. The
cabin of the America toppled and fell with a crash, and as the burning
portions struck the water the waves seemed to hiss as if seeking some
struggling soul. The clamor had become deafening; men were leaping into
the water and hoarse cries rang out above the flames.
Shawn was bending to the oars, his long boating practice now standing
him in good stead. The fumes from the burning oil were almost
unbearable, threatening to suffocate the occupants of the yawl. Thirty
yards away was the shore. The muscles in Shawn's arms were straining to
their utmost. The heavily laden boat was almost dipping water.
[Illustration: The Cabin of the America fell with a crash.]
"Sit steady, everybody!" cried Shawn. He turned and gazed toward the
shore, and then put all his strength into the oars and ran the boat upon
the shore. The occupants leaped out, giving joyful expressions for their
safety. Shawn wrapped Mrs. Alden in his coat and carried her from the
boat. On the bank was a log-cabin, from which a light shone. Hastening
thither, he found the door open and a wood-fire burning in the
fireplace, the family having gone to the scene of the disaster. Shawn
placed Mrs. Alden in a chair and said, "Try to make the best of it until
I return; I'm going back to save all I can."
"May God watch over you," sobbed Mrs. Alden.
Shawn sprang into the yawl and pushed out into the stream, and the work
he did that night in saving struggling beings, is still talked about
along that river. The boats were burning to the water's edge, and along
the shore were sobs and groans from those who had reached land; cries of
anguish from those who had lost their loved ones. Oh, the suffering of
that winter night! Children with blistered limbs, crying for mothers
whose voices were hushed beneath the stream; old men writhing in cruel
pain, moaning in piteous tones; young men with folded arms hearing again
the last sad cries of sweethearts as they were torn from them.
Shawn went back to the log-house and found Mrs. Alden in tears.
"Oh, my dear boy, if I were only strong enough to go among those
suffering ones. God has been kind to give me strength to pass through
this ordeal, but I am helpless to aid others."
Shawn stood by her chair; the frost had coated his dark hair, his cheeks
seemed aflame from the exertion through which he had passed.
The news of the disaster traveled fast.
The Alice Lee, coming up from Madison, stopped at all of the villages
and took aboard doctors and those volunteering to help. At midnight they
arrived at the scene of the terrible catastrophe. One of the first
passengers to step ashore was Doctor Hissong, Brad Jackson just behind
him. The old doctor had his saddle-bags and instrument case, and Brad
carried a roll of bandages.
"I wonder if they're still alive, Brad?" said Doctor Hissong. Old Brad's
heart was heavy with forebodings, but suddenly he gave vent to a yell
that nearly upset the nerves of Doctor Hissong: "Fo' Gawd, doctah,
yondah's Shawn!"
Shawn came up, and the old doctor threw his arms around him and cried
for joy. "Is Mrs. Alden alive, Shawn?"
"All right," said Shawn, as he pointed toward the cabin. Doctor Hissong
hastened to the cabin, and when he came up to Mrs. Alden he bent over
her hand and kissed it with a beautiful reverence.
"Thank God for saving you," he said.
"And Shawn," gently added Mrs. Alden.
The survivors went aboard the Alice Lee and the injured and the dead
were also taken on board. Doctor Hissong and the other doctors gave all
their time toward alleviating the sufferings of the unfortunate ones.
When the boat reached Skarrow, it found Mrs. Alden's carriage at the
wharf. Shawn and Brad carried her to it. She turned to Doctor Hissong
and said, "Bring as many of the injured as you can to my home, and those
in need of clothes or assistance in any way."