CHAPTER 14

Rank and Dignity of Piloting

IN my preceding chapters I have tried, by going into the minutiae of the

science of piloting, to carry the reader step by step to a comprehension

of what the science consists of; and at the same time I have tried to

show him that it is a very curious and wonderful science, too, and very

worthy of his attention. If I have seemed to love my subject, it is no

surprising thing, for I loved the profession far better than any I have

followed since, and I took a measureless pride in it. The reason is

plain: a pilot, in those days, was the only unfettered and entirely

independent human being that lived in the earth. Kings are but the

hampered servants of parliament and people; parliaments sit in chains

forged by their constituency; the editor of a newspaper cannot be

independent, but must work with one hand tied behind him by party and

patrons, and be content to utter only half or two-thirds of his mind; no

clergyman is a free man and may speak the whole truth, regardless of

his parish's opinions; writers of all kinds are manacled servants of the

public. We write frankly and fearlessly, but then we 'modify' before we

print. In truth, every man and woman and child has a master, and worries

and frets in servitude; but in the day I write of, the Mississippi pilot

had none. The captain could stand upon the hurricane deck, in the pomp

of a very brief authority, and give him five or six orders while the

vessel backed into the stream, and then that skipper's reign was over.

The moment that the boat was under way in the river, she was under the

sole and unquestioned control of the pilot. He could do with her exactly

as he pleased, run her when and whither he chose, and tie her up to the

bank whenever his judgment said that that course was best. His movements

were entirely free; he consulted no one, he received commands from

nobody, he promptly resented even the merest suggestions. Indeed,

the law of the United States forbade him to listen to commands or

suggestions, rightly considering that the pilot necessarily knew better

how to handle the boat than anybody could tell him. So here was the

novelty of a king without a keeper, an absolute monarch who was absolute

in sober truth and not by a fiction of words. I have seen a boy of

eighteen taking a great steamer serenely into what seemed almost certain

destruction, and the aged captain standing mutely by, filled with

apprehension but powerless to interfere. His interference, in that

particular instance, might have been an excellent thing, but to permit

it would have been to establish a most pernicious precedent. It will

easily be guessed, considering the pilot's boundless authority, that he

was a great personage in the old steamboating days. He was treated with

marked courtesy by the captain and with marked deference by all

the officers and servants; and this deferential spirit was quickly

communicated to the passengers, too. I think pilots were about the only

people I ever knew who failed to show, in some degree, embarrassment in

the presence of traveling foreign princes. But then, people in one's own

grade of life are not usually embarrassing objects.

By long habit, pilots came to put all their wishes in the form of

commands. It 'gravels' me, to this day, to put my will in the weak shape

of a request, instead of launching it in the crisp language of an order.

In those old days, to load a steamboat at St. Louis, take her to New

Orleans and back, and discharge cargo, consumed about twenty-five

days, on an average. Seven or eight of these days the boat spent at the

wharves of St. Louis and New Orleans, and every soul on board was hard

at work, except the two pilots; they did nothing but play gentleman up

town, and receive the same wages for it as if they had been on duty. The

moment the boat touched the wharf at either city, they were ashore; and

they were not likely to be seen again till the last bell was ringing and

everything in readiness for another voyage.

When a captain got hold of a pilot of particularly high reputation, he

took pains to keep him. When wages were four hundred dollars a month on

the Upper Mississippi, I have known a captain to keep such a pilot in

idleness, under full pay, three months at a time, while the river was

frozen up. And one must remember that in those cheap times four hundred

dollars was a salary of almost inconceivable splendor. Few men on shore

got such pay as that, and when they did they were mightily looked up

to. When pilots from either end of the river wandered into our small

Missouri village, they were sought by the best and the fairest, and

treated with exalted respect. Lying in port under wages was a thing

which many pilots greatly enjoyed and appreciated; especially if they

belonged in the Missouri River in the heyday of that trade (Kansas

times), and got nine hundred dollars a trip, which was equivalent to

about eighteen hundred dollars a month. Here is a conversation of that

day. A chap out of the Illinois River, with a little stern-wheel tub,

accosts a couple of ornate and gilded Missouri River pilots--

'Gentlemen, I've got a pretty good trip for the upcountry, and shall

want you about a month. How much will it be?'

'Eighteen hundred dollars apiece.'

'Heavens and earth! You take my boat, let me have your wages, and I'll

divide!'

I will remark, in passing, that Mississippi steamboatmen were important

in landsmen's eyes (and in their own, too, in a degree) according to the

dignity of the boat they were on. For instance, it was a proud thing to

be of the crew of such stately craft as the 'Aleck Scott' or the 'Grand

Turk.' Negro firemen, deck hands, and barbers belonging to those boats

were distinguished personages in their grade of life, and they were well

aware of that fact too. A stalwart darkey once gave offense at a negro

ball in New Orleans by putting on a good many airs. Finally one of the

managers bustled up to him and said--

'Who _is_ you, any way? Who is you? dat's what I wants to know!'

The offender was not disconcerted in the least, but swelled himself

up and threw that into his voice which showed that he knew he was not

putting on all those airs on a stinted capital.

'Who _is_ I? Who _is _I? I let you know mighty quick who I is! I want

you niggers to understan' dat I fires de middle do'{footnote [Door]} on

de “Aleck Scott!”'

That was sufficient.

The barber of the 'Grand Turk' was a spruce young negro, who aired his

importance with balmy complacency, and was greatly courted by the circle

in which he moved. The young colored population of New Orleans were much

given to flirting, at twilight, on the banquettes of the back streets.

Somebody saw and heard something like the following, one evening, in

one of those localities. A middle-aged negro woman projected her head

through a broken pane and shouted (very willing that the neighbors

should hear and envy), 'You Mary Ann, come in de house dis minute!

Stannin' out dah foolin' 'long wid dat low trash, an' heah's de barber

offn de “Gran' Turk” wants to conwerse wid you!'

My reference, a moment ago, to the fact that a pilot's peculiar official

position placed him out of the reach of criticism or command, brings

Stephen W---- naturally to my mind. He was a gifted pilot, a good

fellow, a tireless talker, and had both wit and humor in him. He had a

most irreverent independence, too, and was deliciously easy-going and

comfortable in the presence of age, official dignity, and even the most

august wealth. He always had work, he never saved a penny, he was a most

persuasive borrower, he was in debt to every pilot on the river, and to

the majority of the captains. He could throw a sort of splendor around

a bit of harum-scarum, devil-may-care piloting, that made it almost

fascinating--but not to everybody. He made a trip with good old Captain

Y----once, and was 'relieved' from duty when the boat got to New

Orleans. Somebody expressed surprise at the discharge. Captain Y----

shuddered at the mere mention of Stephen. Then his poor, thin old voice

piped out something like this:--

'Why, bless me! I wouldn't have such a wild creature on my boat for the

world--not for the whole world! He swears, he sings, he whistles, he

yells--I never saw such an Injun to yell. All times of the night--it

never made any difference to him. He would just yell that way, not for

anything in particular, but merely on account of a kind of devilish

comfort he got out of it. I never could get into a sound sleep but

he would fetch me out of bed, all in a cold sweat, with one of those

dreadful war-whoops. A queer being--very queer being; no respect for

anything or anybody. Sometimes he called me “Johnny.” And he kept a

fiddle, and a cat. He played execrably. This seemed to distress the cat,

and so the cat would howl. Nobody could sleep where that man--and his

family--was. And reckless. There never was anything like it. Now you may

believe it or not, but as sure as I am sitting here, he brought my boat

a-tilting down through those awful snags at Chicot under a rattling

head of steam, and the wind a-blowing like the very nation, at that! My

officers will tell you so. They saw it. And, sir, while he was a-tearing

right down through those snags, and I a-shaking in my shoes and praying,

I wish I may never speak again if he didn't pucker up his mouth and go

to _whistling_! Yes, sir; whistling “Buffalo gals, can't you come out

tonight, can't you come out to-night, can't you come out to-night;” and

doing it as calmly as if we were attending a funeral and weren't related

to the corpse. And when I remonstrated with him about it, he smiled down

on me as if I was his child, and told me to run in the house and try to

be good, and not be meddling with my superiors!'

Once a pretty mean captain caught Stephen in New Orleans out of work

and as usual out of money. He laid steady siege to Stephen, who was in

a very 'close place,' and finally persuaded him to hire with him at one

hundred and twenty-five dollars per month, just half wages, the captain

agreeing not to divulge the secret and so bring down the contempt of all

the guild upon the poor fellow. But the boat was not more than a day out

of New Orleans before Stephen discovered that the captain was boasting

of his exploit, and that all the officers had been told. Stephen winced,

but said nothing. About the middle of the afternoon the captain stepped

out on the hurricane deck, cast his eye around, and looked a good deal

surprised. He glanced inquiringly aloft at Stephen, but Stephen was

whistling placidly, and attending to business. The captain stood around

a while in evident discomfort, and once or twice seemed about to make a

suggestion; but the etiquette of the river taught him to avoid that sort

of rashness, and so he managed to hold his peace. He chafed and puzzled

a few minutes longer, then retired to his apartments. But soon he

was out again, and apparently more perplexed than ever. Presently he

ventured to remark, with deference--

'Pretty good stage of the river now, ain't it, sir?'

'Well, I should say so! Bank-full _is_ a pretty liberal stage.'

'Seems to be a good deal of current here.'

'Good deal don't describe it! It's worse than a mill-race.'

'Isn't it easier in toward shore than it is out here in the middle?'

'Yes, I reckon it is; but a body can't be too careful with a steamboat.

It's pretty safe out here; can't strike any bottom here, you can depend

on that.'

The captain departed, looking rueful enough. At this rate, he would

probably die of old age before his boat got to St. Louis. Next day he

appeared on deck and again found Stephen faithfully standing up the

middle of the river, fighting the whole vast force of the Mississippi,

and whistling the same placid tune. This thing was becoming serious.

In by the shore was a slower boat clipping along in the easy water and

gaining steadily; she began to make for an island chute; Stephen stuck

to the middle of the river. Speech was _wrung _from the captain. He

said--

'Mr. W----, don't that chute cut off a good deal of distance?'

'I think it does, but I don't know.'

'Don't know! Well, isn't there water enough in it now to go through?'

'I expect there is, but I am not certain.'

'Upon my word this is odd! Why, those pilots on that boat yonder are

going to try it. Do you mean to say that you don't know as much as they

do?'

'_They_! Why, _they _are two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pilots! But

don't you be uneasy; I know as much as any man can afford to know for a

hundred and twenty-five!'

The captain surrendered.

Five minutes later Stephen was bowling through the chute and showing the

rival boat a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of heels.