Chapter XIV

_Early Pilots_

"How did the first steamboats find their way up the hundreds of miles

of water heretofore unbroken by steam-driven wheel?" No voice out of

the past will give an answer to this query. The imagination of the

trained pilot, however, needs no written page to solve the problem

of how it might have been done; and he can picture to himself the

satisfaction, akin to joy, of the man at the wheel, picking his way

amid the thousand islands and snag-infested channels innumerable,

guided only by his power to read the face of the water, and his

knowledge of the basic principles that govern the flow of all great

rivers. Standing thus at his wheel, with new vistas of stream and

wood and bluff opening to him as he rounded each successive bend,

choosing on the instant the path as yet uncharted; unhampered by

time-honored "landmarks", with "all the world to choose from",

none might be so envied as he. But we will never know who had this

pleasure all his own.

In thus picturing the passage of pioneer steamboats up the

Mississippi, there is danger that we may inject into the scene the

image of the modern floating palace, with her three decks, her

tall chimneys, her massive side-wheels, her "Texas", and her pilot

house, fully equipped with spars, gang planks, jack staff, and all

the paraphernalia of the beautiful and speedy "packets" of our day.

Upon no such craft, however, did the early navigators pick their

way into the solitudes of the upper river. Their boats were little

better than the keel boats which they superseded--in fact they were

keel boats operated by steam. The cargo-box afforded shelter for

passengers, merchandise, and machinery. There was no pilot house in

which to stand, fifty feet above the water, from that height to study

the river bottom. The steersman stood at the stern, and manipulated

his tiller by main strength and awkwardness, while the captain stood

at the bow and studied the river, and gave his orders to "port" or

"starboard", as the case required. As the boat drew less than three

feet of water, the necessity for fine judgment in choosing the

channel was not as necessary as in guiding a craft drawing twice as

much. Nevertheless, it did call for judgment and decision; and these

qualities were inherent in the men who made the navigation of Western

waters their occupation in the early decades of the nineteenth

century.

Long years before the advent of steam, the fur-traders of the upper

river were running their heavily-laden canoes, bateaux, and Mackinac

boats from St. Anthony Falls to Prairie du Chien, and thence up the

Wisconsin and down the Fox to Green Bay and Mackinac; or, farther

down the Mississippi to St. Louis. To guide these boats, with their

valuable cargoes of peltries, pilots were as necessary as on the

larger craft that later were to supersede them. A man standing in the

stern, with ready paddle in hand, was the forerunner of the pilot of

civilization. In his veins the blood of sunny France mingled with

that of a tawny mother from Huron, Chippewa, or Dakota wigwams. His

eye was quick to read the dimpling waters, and his arm strong to turn

the prow of his craft aside from threatening snag or sand-bar.

The transition from bateaux paddle and sweep to the steamboat wheel

was not great, and it followed that the names of the earliest

recorded members of the profession are such as to leave no room for

doubt as to nationality or pedigree. Louis DeMarah heads the list of

upper Mississippi River pilots who handled steamboats prior to 1836.

There were steamers running between St. Louis and Fort Snelling from

the year 1823, with more or less regularity. The "Virginia" (Captain

Crawford) was the first steamboat to reach Fort Snelling, May 10,

1823. While we have the name of the captain, we have no mention of

her pilots and engineers. It is probable that the master did his own

piloting. Nearly all historical references to the early navigation of

the upper Mississippi or Missouri Rivers speak of the master as also

the pilot of his craft. Occasionally, however, we read of a pilot,

but do not learn his name, his office being his only individuality.

Lumbering operations had already begun on the Black, Chippewa, and

St. Croix Rivers prior to 1836, and pilots were in demand to run the

timber rafts down the river. No doubt DeMarah began his professional

life in this trade, if not in the earlier life of the _voyageur_.

He is mentioned as being an old man in 1843, his home being then in

Prairie du Chien, where, in the census of Crawford County, in the new

Territory of Wisconsin, he is listed with a family of eight--probably

a Chippewa wife and seven "breeds" of varying attenuations. With the

phonetic freedom exercised by our forefathers, his name appears as

Louis "Demerer".

In connection with DeMarah's name there is associated in the earliest

annals of the river that of Louis Moro (or Morrow), evidently a

corruption of Moreau, a name not appearing on the census roll of

Crawford County. Evidently a _protégé_ of DeMarah's, he probably was

taught the science of piloting by the elder man, as the names are

nearly always spoken of in connection. Evidently they were partners,

so far as that was possible in the days when steamboats took but one

pilot, running only by day, and lying at the bank at night. Captain

Russell Blakeley, who began life on the river in the early '40's,

speaks of these men as the first who engaged in steamboat piloting as

a business.

It may only be an accidental coincidence of names, and yet it is more

than possible that Louis Moreau, of Prairie du Chien in 1836, was a

descendant of the Pierre Moreau, the noted _courier du bois_, and

adventurous trader who befriended Father Marquette, patron saint of

Wisconsin, as he lay sick, slowly dying, in his squalid hut on the

portage between the Chicago River and the Des Plaines, one hundred

and fifty years earlier, as recorded in the pages of Parkman's _La

Salle and the Discovery of the Great West_.

Another of the earliest pilots was Pleasant Cormack, also a Frenchman

with possibly a slight dash of Indian blood in his composition. He

is in the records as an intelligent, trustworthy pilot, and held the

wheels of many of the largest and finest of upper river boats during

the flush times between 1850 and 1862.

DeMarah and Moreau were so far ahead of my generation on the river,

that I never saw either of them. My own acquaintance with the

half-breed pilot of tradition, was confined to the person of Joe

Guardapie, a St. Croix and Mississippi River raftsman. He filled

the bill completely, however, and having seen and known him the type

was fully identified. A lithe savage, about five feet ten inches in

height, and a hundred and sixty-five or seventy pounds in weight,

his color exhibited more of the traits of his Chippewa mother than

of his French father. In facial expression, however, the mercurial

disposition of his father's kindred supplanted the stolidity of his

Indian forbears. As quick as a panther, and as strong in nerve and

sinew, he could whip any member of his crew, single-handed. In case

of necessity he could put to rout a dozen of them--else he could not

have run a raft to St. Louis; in fact, had it been otherwise he could

not have started a raft from the landing at Prescott. Several times

he made the return trip from below on our boat, taking cabin passage

while his crew went "deck passage". He loafed in the pilot house

most of the time on the up trip, as was the custom of the craft, and

occasionally took a trick at the wheel to relieve the regular pilots.

I never heard of his doing regular steamboat work, however, his

tastes and education tying him to rafting.

It was interesting to listen to his broken English, freely mingled

with borderland French, the whole seasoned with unmistakable

Anglo-Saxon profanity. It is curious to note that the untutored

Indian has no profanity at all; and that of the Frenchman is of such

mild-mannered texture as to be quite innocuous. Any one acquainted

with modern polite literature must have observed that the French

brand of profanity is used to flavor popular novels treating of life

in high society, and the _mon Dieus_ and _sacres_ are not considered

at all harmful reading, even for boarding school misses. It follows

that the Frenchman who wishes to lay any emphasis upon his orders to

a mixed crew of all nationalities--English, Irish, Dutch, Yankee,

and Norwegian, with a sprinkling of French and Indian, must resort

to Anglo-Saxon for effective expressions. And even this must often

be backed with a ready fist or a heavy boot, properly to impress the

fellow to whom it is directed. Joe Guardapie had the whole arsenal

with him, all the time, largely accounting, I fancy, for his success

as a raft pilot.

Another old-time raftsman was Sandy McPhail. He piloted log and

lumber rafts from the Chippewa to Prairie du Chien, and further

down, in the days when Jefferson Davis, as a lieutenant in the

regular army, was a member of the garrison at Fort Crawford. Whether

"Sandy" was the name conferred upon him at the baptismal font, or

gratuitously bestowed by an appreciative following on account of the

color of his hair and beard, which were unmistakably red, will never

be known. He certainly had no other name on the river. He was a good

pilot, and a great handler of men, as well, which made him a model

raftsman. He never took to the milder lines of steamboat piloting, so

far as there is any record to be found.

Still another was Charles LaPointe, who ran rafts from the Chippewa

to lower river ports prior to 1845--how much earlier, it is now

impossible to learn. He also was of the typical French half-breed

_voyageur_ pioneers of the West, and handed down a record as a

competent navigator of rafts on the river when it was almost unknown

and entirely undeveloped.

When I was pantry boy on the "Kate Cassell", my first venture aboard,

we had a pilot picked up "above the lake", when we started out in the

spring, a raftsman named McCoy--J. B., I think he signed himself. He

was from Stillwater, and made but few trips on the steamer before

taking up his regular work in rafting. A Scotchman, very quiet and

reserved, so far as his deportment went while on the "Kate Cassell",

he had, nevertheless, the reputation of being exceedingly handy

with his fists when on his native sawlogs. This reputation led to

an impromptu prize fight, which was "pulled off" at a woodyard near

Hastings, Minnesota. A St. Louis bruiser named Parker, who had

fought several battles on Bloody Island, opposite that city, was on

board. Having heard of McCoy's reputation as a fighter, he lost no

opportunity to banter and insult him, especially when he (Parker) was

in liquor, which was most of the time. This lasted for several days,

from Galena to Hastings, where it reached a climax. McCoy told him

he would settle it with him at the next woodpile, so that they might

not go into St. Paul with the question in doubt. When the woodpile

was reached the officers of the boat, with most of the passengers,

and as many of the crew as could abandon their posts, adjourned to

the woods a few rods from the landing. A ring was roped off, seconds

were chosen, and bottle-holders and sponge-bearers detailed. The men

stripped to their trousers and went in. There was not as much science

exhibited, probably, as in some of our modern professional "mills",

but there was plenty of good, honest slugging. Both men were well

punished, especially about the head and face. So equally were they

matched, that neither suffered a knock-out, and when the bell struck

for starting they had to quit without either getting the decision.

This happened in the days when the Heenan-Sayre international bout

was one of the prime topics of public interest, and it was noticeable

that any number of our men were well enough posted in the rules of

the P. R. to serve as officials in all departments. McCoy lost no

caste among crew or passengers on account of this incident. There

were neither kid gloves nor silk stockings among the pioneers who

were pushing into Minnesota in 1856, and an incident of this sort was

diverting rather than deplorable.

Other pilots whose names appear very early in the annals of

steamboating on the upper river, and whose fame as masters of the art

will ever remain green among members of the craft so long as pilots

turn a wheel on the river, were William White, Sam Harlow, Rufus

Williams, George Nichols, Alex. Gody, and Hugh White, all of whom

appear to have been in service in 1850 or before. These were followed

by John Arnold, Joseph Armstrong, John King, Rufus Williams, Edward

A. West, E. V. Holcomb, Hiram Beadle, William Cupp, Jerome Smith,

William Fisher, Stephen Dalton, Jackson Harris, Henry Gilpatrick,

James Black, Thomas Burns, T. G. Dreming, Harry Tripp, William

Tibbles, Seth Moore, Stephen Hanks, Charley Manning, Thomas Cushing,

Peter Hall, and fifty others equally as good. All of those named,

served in the Minnesota Packet Company in the days of its prosperity,

some of them for many years. All were experts in their profession,

and some of them, as "Ned" West and John King, were entitled to the

highest encomium known on the river--that of being "lightning pilots".