DOWN THE BIG MUDDY.
It is more than six hundred miles from Leavenworth to St. Louis by the
river. And as the river is crooked exceedingly, a steamboat travelling
that route points her bow at every point of the compass, north, south,
east, and west, before the voyage is finished. The boys were impatient
to reach home, to be back in dear old Dixon, to see the mother and the
fireside once more. But they knew that days must pass before they
could reach St. Louis. The three lads settled themselves comfortably
in the narrow limits of their little stateroom; for they found that
their passage included quarters really more luxurious than they had
been accustomed to in their Kansas log-cabin.
"Not much army blanket and buffalo-robe about this," whispered Oscar,
pressing his toil-stained hand on the nice white spread of his berth.
"Say, wouldn't Younkins allow that this was rather comfortable-like,
if he was to see it and compare it with his deerskin coverlet that he
is so proud of?"
"Well, Younkins's deerskin coverlet is paid for, and this isn't," said
Charlie, grimly.
But the light-hearted younger boys borrowed no trouble on that score.
As Sandy said, laughingly, they were all fixed for the trip to St.
Louis, and what was the use of fretting about the passage money until
the time came to pay it?
When the lads, having exchanged their flannel shirts for white cotton
ones, saved up for this occasion, came out from their room, they saw
two long tables covered with snowy cloths set for the whole length of
the big saloon. They had scanned the list of meal hours hanging in
their stateroom, and were very well satisfied to find that there were
three meals served each day. It was nearly time for the two o'clock
dinner, and the colored servants were making ready the tables. The
boat was crowded with passengers, and it looked as if some of them
would be obliged to wait for the "second table." On board of a
steamboat, especially in those days of long voyages, the matter of
getting early to the table and having a good seat was of great concern
to the passengers. Men stood around, lining the walls of the saloon
and regarding with hungry expectation the movements of the waiters who
were making ready the tables. When the chairs were placed, every man
laid his hand on the top of the seat nearest him, prepared, as one of
the boys privately expressed it, to "make a grab."
"Well, if we don't make a grab, too, we shall get left," whispered
Sandy, and the boys bashfully filed down the saloon and stood ready
to take their seats when the gong should sound.
To eyes unused to the profuseness of living that then prevailed on the
best class of Western steamboats, the display on the dining-tables of
the "New Lucy" was very grand indeed. The waiters, all their movements
regulated by something like military discipline, filed in and out
bearing handsome dishes for the decoration of the board.
"Just look at those gorgeous flowers! Red, white, blue, purple,
yellow! My! aren't they fine?" said Sandy, under his breath.
Oscar giggled. "They are artificial, Sandy. How awfully green you
are!"
Sandy stoutly maintained that they were real flowers. He could smell
them. But when one of the waiters, having accidentally overturned one
of the vases and knocked a flaming bouquet on the carpeted floor of
the cabin, snatched it up and dusted it with his big black hand, Sandy
gave in, and murmured, "Tis true; they're false."
But the boys' eyes fairly stood out with wonder and admiration when a
procession of colored men came out of the pantry, bearing a grand
array of ornamental dishes. Pineapples, bananas, great baskets of
fancy cakes, and other dainties attracted their wonder-stricken gaze.
But most of all, numerous pyramids of macaroons, two or three feet
high, with silky veils of spun sugar falling down from summit to base,
fascinated their attention. They had never seen the like at a public
table; and the generous board of the "New Lucy" fairly groaned with
good things when the gong somewhat superfluously announced to the
waiting throng that dinner was served.
"No plates, knives, or forks," said Sandy, as, amid a great clatter
and rush, everybody sat down to the table. Just then a long procession
of colored waiters emerged from the pantry, the foremost man carrying
a pile of plates, and after him came another with a basket of knives,
after him another with a basket of forks, then another with spoons,
and so on, each man carrying a supply of some one article for the
table. With the same military precision that had marked all their
movements, six black hands were stretched at the same instant over the
shoulders of the sitting passengers, and six articles were noiselessly
dropped on the table; then, with a similar motion, the six black hands
went back to their respective owners, as the procession moved along
behind the guests, the white-sleeved arms and black hands waving in
the air and keeping exact time as the procession moved around the
table.
"Looks like a white-legged centipede," muttered Sandy, under his
breath. But more evolutions were coming. These preliminaries having
been finished, the solemn procession went back to the kitchen regions,
and presently came forth again, bearing a glittering array of shining
metal covered dishes. At the tap of the pompous head-waiter's bell,
every man stood at "present arms," as Oscar said. Then, at another
tap, each dish was projected over the white cloth to the spot for
which it was designed, and held an inch or two above the table.
Another tap, and every dish dropped into its place with a sound as of
one soft blow. The pompous head-waiter struck his bell again, and
every dish-cover was touched by a black hand. One more jingle, and,
with magical swiftness and deftness, each dish-cover was lifted, and a
delightful perfume of savory viands gushed forth amidst the
half-suppressed "Ahs" of the assembled and hungry diners. Then the
procession of dark-skinned waiters, bearing the dish-covers, filed
back to the pantry, and the real business of the day began. This was
the way that dinners were served on all the first-rate steamboats on
Western rivers in those days.
To hungry, hearty boys, used of late to the rough fare of the
frontier, and just from a hard trip in an ox-wagon, with very short
rations indeed, this profusion of good things was a real delight.
Sandy's mouth watered, but he gently sighed to himself, "'Most takes
away my appetite." The polite, even servile, waiters pressed the lads
with the best of everything on the generous board; and Sandy's cup of
happiness was full when a jolly darky, his ebony face shining with
good-nature, brought him some frosted cake, charlotte russe, and spun
sugar and macaroons from one of the shattered pyramids.
"D'ye s'pose they break those up every day?" whispered Sandy to the
more dignified Charlie.
"Suttinly, suh," replied the colored man, overhearing the question;
"suttinly, suh. Dis yere boat is de fastest and de finest on de Big
Muddy, young gent; an' dere's nuttin' in dis yere worl' that the 'New
Lucy' doan have on her table; an' doan yer fergit it, young mas'r," he
added, with respectful pride in his voice.
"My! what a tuck-out! I've ate and ate until I'm fairly fit to bust,"
said Sandy, as the three boys, their dinner over, sauntered out into
the open air and beheld the banks of the river swiftly slipping by as
they glided down the stream.
Just then, glancing around, his eye caught the amused smile of a tall
and lovely lady who was standing near by, chatting with two or three
rather superior-looking young people whom the lad had first noticed
when the question of having the baggage brought on board at
Leavenworth was under discussion. Sandy's brown cheek flushed; but the
pretty lady, extending her hand, said: "Pardon my smiling, my boy; but
I have a dear lad at home in Baltimore who always says just that after
his Christmas dinner, and sometimes on other occasions, perhaps; and
his name is Sandy, too. I think I heard your brother call you Sandy?
This is your brother, is it not?" And the lady turned towards
Charlie.
The lad explained the relationship of the little party, and the lady
from Baltimore introduced the members of her party. They had been far
up the river to Fort Benton, where they had spent some weeks with
friends who were in the military garrison at that post. The young men,
of whom there were three in the party, had been out hunting for
buffalo, elk, and other big game. Had the boys ever killed any
buffalo? The pleasant-faced young gentleman who asked the question had
noticed that they had a full supply of guns when they came aboard at
Leavenworth.
Yes, they had killed buffalo; at least, Sandy had; and the youngster's
exploit on the bluff of the Republican Fork was glowingly narrated by
the generous and manly Charlie. This story broke the ice with the
newly met voyagers and, before the gong sounded for supper, the
Whittier boys, as they still called themselves, were quite as well
acquainted with the party from Baltimore, as they thought, as they
would have been if they had been neighbors and friends on the banks of
the Republican.
The boys looked in at the supper-table. They only looked; for although
the short autumnal afternoon had fled swiftly by while they were
chatting with their new friends or exploring the steamboat, they felt
that they could not possibly take another repast so soon after their
first real "tuck-out" on the "New Lucy." The overloaded table,
shining with handsome glass and china and decked with fancy cakes,
preserves, and sweetmeats, had no present attractions for the boys.
"It's just like after Thanksgiving dinner," said Oscar. "Only we are
far from home," he added, rather soberly. And when the lads crawled
into their bunks, as Sandy insisted upon calling their berths, it
would not surprise one if "thoughts of home and sighs disturbed the
sleeper's long-drawn breath."
Time and again, in the night-watches, the steamer stopped at some
landing by the river-side. Now it would be a mere wood-pile, and the
boat would be moored to a cottonwood tree that overhung the stream.
Torches of light-wood burning in iron frames at the end of a staff
stuck into the ground or lashed to the steamer rail shed a wild, weird
glare on the hurrying scene as the roustabouts, or deck-hands, nimbly
lugged the wood on board, or carried the cargo ashore, singing
plaintive melodies as they worked. Then again, the steamer would be
made fast to a wharf-boat by some small town, or to the levee of a
larger landing-place, and goods went ashore, passengers flitted on and
off, baggage was transferred, the gang-plank was hauled in with
prodigious clatter, the engineer's bell tinkled, and, with a great
snort from her engines, the "New Lucy" resumed her way down the river.
Few passengers but those who were to go ashore could be seen on the
upper deck viewing the strange sights of making a night-landing. And
through the whole racket and din, three lads slept the sleep of the
young and the innocent in room Number 56. "Just the number of the year
with the eighteen knocked off," Sandy had said when they were assigned
to it.
When the boys had asked in Leavenworth how long the trip to St. Louis
would be, they were told, "Three or four days, if the water holds."
This they thought rather vague information, and they had only a dim
idea of what the man meant by the water holding. They soon learned.
The season had been dry for the time of year. Although it was now
November, little or no autumnal rains had fallen. Passengers from Fort
Benton said that the lands on the Upper Missouri were parched for want
of water, and the sluggish currents of the Big Muddy were "as slow as
cold molasses," as one of the deck-hands said to Sandy, when he was
peering about the lower deck of the steamboat. It began to look as if
the water would not hold.
On the second afternoon out of Leavenworth, as the "New Lucy" was
gallantly sweeping around Prairie Bend, where any boat going down
stream is headed almost due north, the turn in the river revealed no
less than four other steamers hard and fast on the shoals that now
plentifully appeared above the surface of the yellow water. Cautiously
feeling her way along through these treacherous bars and sands, the
"New Lucy," with slackened speed, moved bravely down upon the stranded
fleet. Anxious passengers clustered on the forward part of the
steamer, watching the course of events. With many a cough and many a
sigh, the boat swung to the right or left, obedient to her helm, the
cry of the man heaving the lead for soundings telling them how fast
the water shoaled or deepened as they moved down stream.
"We are bound to get aground," said Oscar, as he scanned the wide
river, apparently almost bare to its bed. "I suppose there is a
channel, and I suppose that pilot up there in the pilot-house knows
where it is, but I don't see any." Just then the water before them
suddenly shoaled, there was a soft, grating sound, a thud, and the
boat stopped, hard and fast aground. The "New Lucy" had joined the
fleet of belated steamers on the shoals of Prairie Bend.
The order was given for all passengers to go aft; and while the lads
were wondering what they were so peremptorily sent astern for, they
saw two tall spars that had been carried upright at the bow of the
boat rigged into the shape of a V upside down, and set on either side
of the craft, the lower ends resting on the sand-bar each side of her.
A big block and tackle were rigged at the point where the spars
crossed each other over the bow of the boat, and from these a stout
cable was made fast to the steamer's "nose," as the boys heard
somebody call the extreme point of the bow.
"They are actually going to hoist this boat over the sand-bar," said
Sandy, excitedly, as they viewed these preparations from the rear of
the boat.
"That is exactly what they are going to do," said the pleasant-faced
young man from Baltimore. "Now, then!" he added, with the air of
one encouraging another, as the crew, laying hold of the tackle, and
singing with a queer, jerky way, began to hoist. This would not
avail. The nose of the boat was jammed deep into the sand, and so the
cable was led back to a windlass, around which it was carried.
Then, the windlass being worked by steam, the hull of the steamer
rose very slightly, and the bottom of the bow was released from the
river-bottom. The pilot rang his bell, the engine puffed and
clattered, and the boat crept ahead for a few feet, and then came to
rest again. That was all that could be done until the spars were
reset further forward or deep water was reached. It was discouraging,
for with all their pulling and hauling, that had lasted for more than
an hour, they had made only four or five feet of headway.
"At the rate of five feet an hour, how long will it take us to spar
our way down to St. Louis?" asked Charlie, quizzically.
"Oh, Charlie," cried Sandy, "I know now why the clerk said that there
were plenty of fellows who had to spar their way on the river. It is
hard work to pull this steamer over the sand-bars and shoals, and when
a man is busted and has to work his way along, he's like a steamboat
in a fix, like this one is. See? That's the reason why they say he is
sparring his way, isn't it?"
"You are quite correct, youngster," said the young man from Baltimore,
regarding Sandy's bright face with pleasure. "Correct you are. But I
never knew what the slang meant until I came out here. And, for that
matter, I don't know that I ever heard the slang before. But it is the
jargon of the river men."
By this time, even sparring was of very little use, for the spars only
sank deep and deeper into the soft river-bottom, and there was no
chance to raise the bow of the boat from its oozy bed. The case for
the present was hopeless; but the crew were kept constantly busy until
nightfall, pulling and hauling. Some were sent ashore in a skiff, with
a big hawser, which was made fast to a tree, and then all the power of
the boat, men and steam, was put upon it to twist her nose off from
the shoal into which it was stuck. All sorts of devices were resorted
to, and a small gain was made once in a while; but it looked very much
as if the calculation of Charlie, five feet in an hour, was too
liberal an allowance for the progress towards St. Louis.
Just then, from the boat furthest down the river rose a cloud of
steam, and the astonished lads heard a most extraordinary sound like
that of a gigantic organ. More or less wheezy, but still easily to be
understood, the well-known notes of "Oh, Susannah!" came floating up
the river to them. Everybody paused to listen, even the tired and
tugging roustabouts smiling at the unwonted music.
"Is it really music?" asked Oscar, whose artistic ear was somewhat
offended by this strange roar of sounds. The young man from Baltimore
assured him that this was called music; the music of a steam-organ or
calliope, then a new invention on the Western rivers. He explained
that it was an instrument made of a series of steam-whistles so
arranged that a man, sitting where he could handle them all very
rapidly, could play a tune on them. The player had only to know the
key to which each whistle was pitched, and, with a simple arrangement
of notes before him, he could make a gigantic melody that could be
heard for many miles away.
"You are a musician, are you not?" asked the young man from Baltimore.
"Didn't I hear you playing a violin in your room last night? Or was it
one of your brothers?"
Oscar, having blushingly acknowledged that he was playing his violin
for the benefit of his cousins, as he explained, his new-found
acquaintance said, "I play the flute a little, and we might try some
pieces together some time, if you are willing."
As they were making ready for bed that night, the pleasant-faced young
man from Baltimore, who had been playing whist with his mother and
sister, and the "military man," as the boys had privately named one
of the party, came to their door with his flute. The two musicians
were fast friends at once. Flute and violin made delicious harmony, in
the midst of which Sandy, who had slipped into his bunk, drifted off
into the land of dreams with confused notions of a giant band
somewhere up in the sky playing "Oh, Susannah!" "Love's Last
Greeting," and "How Can I Leave Thee?" with occasional suggestions of
the "Song of the Kansas Emigrants."
Another morning came on, cold, damp, and raw. The sky was overcast and
there were signs of rain. "There's been rain to the nor'rard," said
Captain Bulger, meditatively. Now Captain Bulger was the skipper of
the "New Lucy," and when he said those oracular words, they were
reported about the steamboat, to the great comfort of all on board.
Still the five boats stuck on the shoals; their crews were still hard
at work at all the devices that could be thought of for their
liberation. The "War Eagle"--for they had found out the name of the
musical steamer far down stream--enlivened the tedious day with her
occasional strains of martial and popular music, if the steam-organ
could be called musical.
In the afternoon, Oscar and the amiable young man from Baltimore shut
themselves in their stateroom and played the flute and violin. The
lovely lady who had made Sandy's acquaintance early in the voyage
asked him if he could make one at a game of whist. Sandy replied that
he could play "a very little." The thought of playing cards here on a
steamboat, in public, as he said to himself, was rather frightful. He
was not sure if his mother would like to have him do that. He looked
uneasily around to see what Charlie would say about it. But Charlie
was nowhere in sight. He was wandering around, like an uneasy ghost,
watching for signs of the rising of the river, now confidently
predicted by the knowing ones among the passengers.
"My boys all play whist," said the lady, kindly; "but if you do not
like to play, I will not urge you. We lack one of making up a party."
Sandy had been told that he was an uncommonly good player for one so
young. He liked the game; there would be no stakes, of course. With
his ready habit of making up his mind, he brightly said, "I'll play if
you like, but you must know that I am only a youngster and not a
first-rate player." So they sat down, the lovely lady from Baltimore
being Sandy's partner, and the military gentleman and the young
daughter of the lady from Baltimore being their opponents. Sandy had
great good luck. The very best cards fell to him continually, and he
thought he had never played so well. He caught occasional strains of
music from room Number 56, and he was glad that Oscar was enjoying
himself. From time to time the lovely lady who was his partner smiled
approvingly at him, and once in a while, while the cards were being
dealt, she said, "How divinely those dear boys are playing!"
The afternoon sped on delightfully, and Sandy's spirits rose. He
thought it would be fine if the "New Lucy" should stay stuck on a
sand-bar for days and days, and he should have such a good game of
whist, with the lovely lady from Baltimore for a partner. But the
military gentleman grew tired. His luck was very poor, and when the
servants began to rattle dishes on the supper-table, he suggested that
it would be just as well perhaps if they did not play too much now;
they would enjoy the game better later on. They agreed to stop with
the next game.
When they had first taken their places at the card-table, the military
gentleman had asked Sandy if he had any cards, and when he replied
that he had none, the military gentleman, with a very lordly air, sent
one of the cabin waiters to the bar for a pack of cards. Now that they
were through with the game, Sandy supposed that the military gentleman
would put the cards into his pocket and pay for them. Instead of that
he said, "Now, my little man, we will saw off to see who shall pay for
the cards."
"Saw off?" asked Sandy, faintly, with a dim notion of what was meant.
"Yes, my lad," said the military gentleman. "We will play one hand of
Old Sledge to see who shall pay for the cards and keep them."
With a sinking heart, but with a brave face, Sandy took up the cards
dealt to him and began to play. It was soon over. Sandy won one point
in the hand; the military gentleman had the other three.
"Take care of your cards, my son," said the military gentleman; "we
may want them again. They charge the extravagant price of six bits for
them on this boat, and these will last us to St. Louis."
Six bits! Seventy-five cents! And poor Sandy had only twenty-five
cents in his pocket. That silver quarter represented the entire
capital of the Boy Settlers from Kansas. Looking up, he saw Charlie
regarding him with reproachful eyes from a corner of the saloon. With
great carefulness, he gathered up his cards and rose, revolving in his
mind the awful problem of paying for seventy-five cents' worth of
cards with twenty-five cents.
"Well, you've got yourself into a nice scrape," tragically whispered
Charlie, in his ear, as soon as the two boys were out of earshot of
the others. "What are you going to do now? You can spar your way down
to St. Louis, but you can't spar your way with that barkeeper for a
pack of cards."
"Let me alone, Charlie," said Sandy, testily. "You haven't got to pay
for these cards. I'll manage it somehow. Don't you worry yourself the
least bit."
"Serves you right for gambling. What would mother say if she knew it?
If you hadn't been so ready to show off your whist-playing before
these strangers, you wouldn't have got into such a box."
"I didn't gamble," replied Sandy, hotly. "It isn't gambling to play a
hand to see who shall pay for the cards. All men do that. I have seen
daddy roll a game of tenpins to see who should pay for the alley."
"I don't care for that. It is gambling to play for the leastest thing
as a stake. Nice fellow you are, sitting down to play a hand of
seven-up for the price of a pack of cards! Six bits at that!"
"A nice brotherly brother you are to nag me about those confounded
cards, instead of helping a fellow out when he is down on his luck."
Charlie, a little conscience-stricken, held his peace, while Sandy
broke away from him, and rushed out into the chilly air of the
after-deck. There was no sympathy in the dark and murky river, none in
the forlorn shore, where rows of straggling cottonwoods leaned over
and swept their muddy arms in the muddy water. Looking around for a
ray of hope, a bright idea struck him. He could but try one chance.
The bar of the "New Lucy" was a very respectable-looking affair, as
bars go. It opened into the saloon cabin of the steamer on its inner
side, but in the rear was a small window where the deck passengers
sneaked up, from time to time, and bought whatever they wanted, and
then quietly slipped away again, unseen by the more "high-toned"
passengers in the cabin. Summoning all his courage and assurance, the
boy stepped briskly to this outside opening, and, leaning his arms
jauntily on the window-ledge, said, "See here, cap, I owe you for a
pack of cards."
"Yep," replied the barkeeper, holding a bottle between his eye and the
light, and measuring its contents.
This was not encouraging. Sandy, with a little effort, went on: "You
see we fellows, three of us, are sparring our way down to St. Louis.
We have got trusted for our passage. We've friends in St. Louis, and
when we get there we shall be in funds. Our luggage is in pawn for our
passage money. When we come down to get our luggage, I will pay you
the six bits I owe you for the cards. Is that all right?"
"Yep," said the barkeeper, and he set the bottle down. As the lad went
away from the window, with a great load lifted from his heart, the
barkeeper put his head out of the opening, looked after him, smiled,
and said, "That boy'll do."
When Sandy joined his brother, who was wistfully watching for him, he
said, a little less boastfully than might have been expected of him,
"That's all right, Charlie. The barkeeper says he will trust me until
we get to St. Louis and come aboard to get the luggage. He's a good
fellow, even if he did say 'yep' instead of 'yes' when I asked him."
In reply to Charlie's eager questions, Sandy related all that had
happened, and Charlie, with secret admiration for his small brother's
knack of "cheeking it through," as he expressed it, forbore any
further remarks.
"I do believe the water is really rising!" exclaimed the irrepressible
youngster, who, now that his latest trouble was fairly over, was
already thinking of something else. "Look at that log. When I came out
here just after breakfast, this morning, it was high and dry on that
shoal. Now one end of it is afloat. See it bob up and down?"
Full of the good news, the lads went hurriedly forward to find Oscar,
who, with his friend from Baltimore, was regarding the darkening scene
from the other part of the boat.
"She's moving!" excitedly cried Oscar, pointing his finger at the "War
Eagle"; and, as he spoke, that steamer slid slowly off the sand-bar,
and with her steam-organ playing triumphantly "Oh, aren't you glad
you're out of the Wilderness!" a well-known air in those days, she
steamed steadily down stream. From all the other boats, still stranded
though they were, loud cheers greeted the first to be released from
the long embargo. Presently another, the "Thomas H. Benton," slid off,
and churning the water with her wheels like a mad thing, took her way
down the river. All these boats were flat-bottomed and, as the saying
was, "could go anywhere if the ground was a little damp." A rise of a
very few inches of water was sufficient to float any one of them. And,
in the course of a half-hour, the "New Lucy," to the great joy of her
passengers, with one more hoist on her forward spars, was once more in
motion, and she too went gayly steaming down the river, her less
fortunate companions who were still aground cheering her as she glided
along the tortuous channel.
"Well, that was worth waiting some day or two to see," said Oscar,
drawing a long breath. "Just listen to that snorting calliope, playing
'Home, Sweet Home' as they go prancing down the Big Muddy. I shall
never forget her playing that 'Out of the Wilderness' as she tore out
of those shoals. It's a pretty good tune, after all, and the
steam-organ is not so bad now that you hear it at a distance."