Fishermen's tales--Skiff nomenclature--Green
River--Evansville--Henderson--Audubon and Rafinesque--Floating
trade--The Wabash.
Green River Towhead, Monday, June 4th.--We were shopping in Owensboro,
this morning, soon after seven o'clock. The business quarter was just
stirring into life; and the negroes who were lounging about on every
hand were still drowsy, as if they had passed the night there, and
were reluctant to be up and doing. There is a pretty court-house in
a green park, the streets are well paved, and the shops clean and
bright, with their wares mostly under the awnings on the sidewalk, for
people appear to live much out of doors here--and well they may,
with the temperature 73 deg. at this early hour, and every promise of
a scorching day.
I wonder if a fisherman could, if he tried, be exact in his
statements. One of them, below Owensboro, who kept us company for a
mile or two down stream, declared that at this stage of the water
he made forty and fifty dollars a week, "'n' I reck'n I ote to be
contint." A few miles farther on, another complained that when the
river was falling, the water was so muddy the fish would not bite; and
even in the best of seasons, a fisherman had "a hard pull uv it; hit
ain't no business fer a decent man!" The other day, when the river was
rising, a Cincinnati follower of the apostle's calling averred that
there was no use fishing when the water was coming up. As the variable
Ohio is like the ocean tide, ever rising or falling, it would seem
that the thousands in this valley who make fishing their livelihood
must be playing a losing game.
There are many beautiful islands on these lower reaches of the river.
We followed the narrow channel between Little Hurricane and the
Kentucky shore, a charming run of two or three miles, with both banks
a dense tangle of drift-wood, weeds and vines. Between Three-Mile
Island and Indiana, is another interesting cut-short, where the
shores are undisturbed by the work of the main stream, and trees and
undergrowth come down to the water's edge; the air is quivering with
the songs of birds, and resonant with sweet smells; while over
stumps, and dead and fallen trees, grape-vines luxuriantly festoon
and cluster. Near the pretty group of French Islands, two government
dredges, with their boarding barges, were moored to the Kentucky
shore--waiting for coal, we were told, before resuming operations in
the planting of a dike. I took a snap-shot at the fleet, and heard
one man shout to another, "Bill, did yer notice they've a photograph
gallery aboard?" They appear to be a jolly lot, these dredgers, and
inclined to take life easily, in accordance with the traditions of
government employ.
We frequently see skiffs hauled upon the beach, or moored between two
protecting posts, to prevent their being swamped by steamer wakes. The
names they bear interest us, as betokening, perhaps, the proclivities
of their owners. "Little Joe," "Little Jim," "Little Maggie," and
like diminutives, are common here, as upon the towing-tugs and steam
ferries of broader waters--and now and then we have, by contrast,
"Xerxes," "Achilles," "Hercules." Sometimes the skiff is named after
its owner's wife or sweetheart, as "Maggie G.," "Polly H.," or from
the rustic goddesses, "Pomona," "Flora," "Ceres;" on the Kentucky
shore, we have noted "Stonewall Jackson," and "Robert E. Lee," and one
Ohio boat was labeled "Little Phil." Literature we found represented
to-day, by "Octave Thanet"--the only case on record, for the
Ohio-River "cracker" is not greatly given to books. Slang claims for
its own, many of these knockabout craft--"U. Bet," "Git Thair," "Go
it, Eli," "Whoa, Emma!" and nondescripts, like "Two Doves," "Poker
Chip," and "Game Chicken," are not infrequent.
In these stately solitudes, towns are far between. Enterprise, Ind.
(755 miles), is an unpainted village with a dismal view--back of and
around it, wide bottom lands, with hills in the far distance; up and
down the river, precipitous banks of clay, with willow fringes on that
portion of the shore which is not being cut by the impinging current.
Scuffletown, Ky. (767 miles), is uninviting. Newburgh, on the edge of
a bluff, across the river in Indiana, is a ragged little place that
has seen better days; but the backward view of Newburgh, from below
Three-Mile Island, made a pretty picture, the whites and reds of the
town standing out in sharp relief against the dark background of the
hill.
Green River (775 miles), a gentle, rustic stream, enters through
the wide bottoms of Kentucky. We had difficulty in finding it in the
wilderness of willows--might not have succeeded, indeed, had not the
red smokestack of a small steamer suddenly appeared above the
bushes. Soon, the puffing craft debouched upon the Ohio, and, quickly
overtaking us, passed down toward Evansville.
Green River Towhead, two miles below, claimed us for the night. There
is a shanty, midway on the island, and at the lower end the landing
of a railway-transfer. We have our camp at the upper end, in a bed
of spotless white sand, thick grown to dwarf willows. Entangled
drift-wood lies about in monster heaps, lodged in depressions of the
land, or against stout tree-trunks; a low bar of gravel connects our
home with Green River Island, lying close against the Indiana bank;
sand-flies freely joined us at dinner, and I hear, as I write, the
drone of a solitary mosquito,--the first in many days; while upon the
bar, at sunset, a score of turkey-buzzards held silent council, some
of them occasionally rising and wheeling about in mid-air, then slowly
lighting and stretching their necks, and flapping their wings most
solemnly, before rejoining the conference.
* * * * *
Cypress Bend, Tuesday, 5th.--The temperature had materially fallen
during the night, and the morning opened gray and hazy. Evansville,
Ind. (783 miles), made a charming Turneresque study, as her steeples
and factory chimneys developed through the mist. It is a fine,
well-built town, of some fifty thousand inhabitants, with a beautiful
little postoffice in the Gothic style--a refutation, this, of the
well-worn assertion that there are no creditable government buildings
in our small American cities. A railway bridge here crosses the Ohio,
numerous sawmills line the bank; altogether, there is business bustle,
the like of which we have not seen since leaving Louisville.
Henderson (795 miles) is a substantial Kentucky town of nine thousand
souls, with large tobacco interests, we are told, ranking next to
Louisville in this regard. Through the morning, the mist had been
thickening. While we were passing beneath the railway bridge at
Henderson, thunder sounded, and the western sky suddenly blackened.
Pulling rapidly in to the town shore, shelter was found beneath the
overhanging deck of a deserted wharf-boat. We had just completed
preparations with the rubber blankets and ponchos, when the deluge
came. But the sheltering deck was not water-tight; soon the rain came
pouring in upon us through the uncaulked cracks, and we were nearly as
badly off in our close-smelling quarters as in the open. However, we
were a merry party under there, with the Doctor giving us a touch of
"Br'er Rabbit," and the boy relating a fantastic dream he had had on
the Towhead last night; while I told them the story of Audubon, whose
name will ever be associated with Henderson.
The great naturalist was in business at Louisville, early in the
century; but in 1812, he failed in this venture, and moved to
Henderson, where his neighbors thought him a trifle daft,--and
certainly he was a ne'er-do-well, wandering around the woods, with
hair hanging down on his shoulders, a far-away look in his eyes, and
communing with the birds. In 1818, the botanist Rafinesque, on the
first of his several tramps down the Ohio valley,--he had a
favorite saying, that the only way for a botanist to travel, was to
walk,--stopped over at Henderson to visit this crazy fellow of whom
he had heard. Rafinesque had a hope that Audubon might buy some of his
colored drawings; but when he saw the wonderful pictures which
Audubon had made, he acknowledged that his own were inferior--a sore
confession for Rafinesque, who was an egotist of the first water.
Audubon had but humble quarters, for it was hard work in those days
for him to keep the wolf from the door; nevertheless, he entertained
the distinguished traveler, whom he was himself destined to far
eclipse. One night, a bat flew into Rafinesque's bedroom, and in
driving it out he used his host's fine Cremona as a club, thus making
kindling-wood of it. Two years later, still steeped in poverty,
Audubon left Henderson. It was 1826 before he became known to the
world of science, when little of his life was left in which to enjoy
the fame at last awarded him.
We had lunch on Henderson Island, three miles down, and for warmth
walked briskly about on the strand, among the willow clumps. It rained
again, after we had taken our seats in the boat, and the head-wind
which sprang up was not unwelcome, for it necessitated a right lively
pull to make headway. W---- and the Boy, in the stern-sheets, were
not uncomfortable when swathed to the chin in the blankets which
ordinarily serve us as cushions.
Ten miles below Henderson, was a little fleet of houseboats, lying
in a thicket of willows along the Indiana beach. We stopped at one of
them, and bought a small catfish for dinner. The fishermen seemed
a happy company, in this isolated spot. The women were engaged in
household work, but the men were spending the afternoon collected in
the cabin of one of their number, who had recently arrived from
Green River. While waiting for the fish to be caught in a live-box,
I visited with the little band. It was a comfortable room, furnished
rather better than the average shore cabin, and the Green River man's
family of half-a-dozen were well-kept, pleasant-faced, and polite.
Altogether it was a much more respectable houseboat company than any
we have yet seen on the river. But the fish-stories which that Green
River man tells, with an honest-like, open-eyed sobriety, would do
credit to Munchausen.
The rain, at first spasmodic, became at last persistent. Two miles
farther down, at Cypress Bend (806 miles), we ran into an Indiana
hill, where on a steep slope of yellow shale, all strewn with rocks,
our tent was hurriedly pitched. There was no driving of pegs into
this stony base, so we weighted down the canvas with round-heads, and
fastened our guys to bushes and boulders as best we might. Huddled
around the little stove, under the fly, the crew dined sumptuously
_en course_, from canned soup down to strawberries for dessert,--for
Evansville is a good market. It is not always, we pilgrims fare thus
high--the resources of Rome, Thebes, Bethlehem, Herculaneum, and the
other classic towns with which the Ohio's banks are dotted, being none
of the best. Some days, we are fortunate to have aught in our larder.
* * * * *
Brown's Island, Wednesday, 6th.--This morning's camp-fire was welcome
for its warmth. The sky has been clear, but a sharp, cold wind has
prevailed throughout the day, quite counteracting the sun's rays;
we noticed townsfolk going about in overcoats, their hands in their
pockets. In the ox-bow curves, the breeze came in turn from every
quarter, sometimes dead ahead and again pushing us swiftly on. In
seeking the lee shore, Pilgrim pursued a zigzag course, back and
forth between the States,--now under the brow of towering clay banks,
corrugated by the flood, and honeycombed by swallows, which in flocks
screamed and circled over our heads; again, closely brushing the
fringe of willows and sycamores and maples on low-lying shores. Thus
did we for the most part paddle in placid water, while above us the
wind whistled in the tree-tops, rustled the blooming elders and
the tall grasses of the plain, and, out in the open river, caused
white-caps to dance right merrily.
We met at intervals to-day, several houseboats, the most of them
bearing the inscription prescribed by the new Kentucky license
law, which is now being enforced, the essential features of which
inscription are the home and name of the owner, and the date at which
the license expires. The standard of education among houseboaters is
evinced by the legend borne by a trader's craft which we boarded near
Slim Island: "Lisens exp.rs Maye the 24 1895." The young woman in
charge, a slender creature in a brilliant red calico gown, with blue
ribbons at the corsage, had been but recently married to her lord,
who was back in the country stirring up trade. She had few notions of
business, and allowed us to put our own prices on such articles as
we purchased. The stock was a curious medley--a few staple groceries,
bacon and dried beef, candies, crockery, hardware, tobacco, a small
line of patent medicines, in which blood-purifiers chiefly prevailed,
bitters, ginger beer, and a glass case in which were displayed two or
three women's straw hats, gaudily-trimmed. The woman said their custom
was, to tie up to some convenient shore and "buy a little stuff o' the
farmers, 'n' in that way trade springs up," and thus become known. Two
or three weeks would exhaust any neighborhood, whereupon they would
move on for a dozen miles or so. Late in the autumn, they select a
comfortable beach, and lie by for the winter.
Mt. Vernon, Ind. (819 miles), is on a high, rolling plain, with a
rather pretty little court-house set in a park of grass, some good
business buildings, and huge flouring-mills, which appear to be the
leading industry. Another flouring-mill town, with the addition of the
characteristic Kentucky distillery, is Uniontown (833 miles), on
the southern shore--a bright, neat little city, backed by smooth,
picturesque green hills.
The feature of the day was the entrance, through a dreary stretch of
clay banks, of the Wabash River (838 miles), which divides Indiana
from Illinois. Three hundred and sixty yards wide at the mouth, about
half the width of the Ohio, it is the most important of the latter's
northern affluents, and pours into the main stream a swift-rushing
body of clear, green water, which at first boldly pushes over to the
heavily-willowed Kentucky shore the roily mess of the Ohio, and for
several miles exerts a considerable influence in clarification. The
Lower Wabash, flowing through a soft clay bottom, runs an erratic
course, and its mouth is a variable location, so that the bounds of
Illinois and Indiana, hereabout, fluctuate east and west according to
the exigencies of the floods. The far-reaching bottom itself, however,
is apparently of slight value, giving evidence, in the dreary clumps
of dead timber, of being frequently inundated.
An interesting stream is the Wabash, from an historical point of view.
La Salle knew of it in 1677, and was planning to prosecute his fur
trade over the Maumee and the Wabash; but the Iroquois held the
portage, and for nearly forty years thereafter forbade its use by
whites. Joliet thought the Wabash the headwaters of what we know as
the Lower Ohio, and in his map (1673) styled the latter the Wabash,
down to its mouth. Vincennes, an old Wabash town, was one of the
posts captured so heroically for the Americans by George Rogers Clark,
during the Revolutionary War. In 1814, there was established at New
Harmony, also on the Wabash, the communistic seat of the Harmonists,
who had moved thither from Pennsylvania, to which, dissatisfied with
the West, they returned ten years later.
Numerous islands have to-day beautified the Ohio. Despite their
inartistic names, Diamond and Slim are tipped at head and foot with
charming banks and willowed sand, and each center is clothed in a
luxurious forest, rimmed by a gravelly beach piled high with drift
and gnarled roots: the whole, with startling clearness, inversely
reflected in the mirrored flood. Wabash Island, opposite the mouth of
the great tributary, is an insular woodland several miles in length.
Among the prettiest of these jewels studding our silvery path, is the
upmost of the little group known as Brown's Islands, on which we are
passing the night. It was an easy landing on the hard sand, and a
comfortable carry to a level opening in the willows, where we have
a model camp with a great round sycamore block for a table; an
Evansville newspaper does duty as a tablecloth, and two logs rolled
alongside make seats. Four miles below, the smoke of Shawneetown (848
miles) rises lazily above the dark level line of woods; while across
the river, in Kentucky, there is an unbroken forest fringe, without
sign of life as far as the eye can reach. A long glistening bar of
sand connects our little island home with the Illinois mainland;
upon it was being held, in the long twilight, that evening council
of turkey-buzzards, which we so often witness when in an island camp.
Sand-pipers went fearlessly about among them, bobbing their little
tails with nervous vehemence; redbirds trilled their good-nights in
the tree-tops; and, daintily wading in the sandy shallows, object
lessons in patience, were great blue herons, carefully peering for the
prey which never seems to be found. As night closed in upon us, owls
dismally hooted in the mainland woods, buzzards betook themselves to
inland roosts, herons winged their stately flight to I know not where,
and over on the Kentucky shore could faintly be heard the barking
of dogs at the little "cracker" farmsteads hid deep in the lowland
forest.