Chapter XV

_Incidents of River Life_

Captain William Fisher, of Galena, Illinois, is probably the oldest

living pilot of the upper Mississippi. At the time of this writing

(1908), he is spending the closing years of his life in quiet comfort

in a spot where he can look down upon the waters of "Fevre" River,

once alive with steamboats, in the pilot houses of which he spent

over thirty years in hard and perilous service.

As a young man Captain Fisher had served five years on the Great

Lakes on a "square rigger", at a time when full-rigged ships

sailed the inland waters. Coming to Galena just as the great boom

in steamboating commenced, and following the opening of Minnesota

Territory to settlement, he naturally gravitated toward the life of

a steamboatman, taking his first lessons in piloting in 1852, on the

"Ben Campbell", under the tutelage of Captain M. W. Lodwick. The next

season (1853), he worked on the "War Eagle", under William White and

John King, two of the best pilots on the upper river. Under their

teaching he soon obtained his license, and henceforth for thirty

years he piloted many of the finest boats running between St. Louis

and St. Paul. His crowning achievement was the taking of the "City of

Quincy" from St. Louis to St. Paul, Captain Brock being his partner

for the trip. The "City of Quincy" was a New Orleans packet, that

had been chartered to take an excursion the length of the river. Of

sixteen hundred tons burden, with a length of three hundred feet and

fifty feet beam, she was the largest boat ever making the trip above

Keokuk Rapids.

Two or three incidents of his river life, among the many which he

relates, are of interest as showing the dangers of that life. One,

which he believes was an omen prophetic of the War of Secession, he

relates as follows:

"I'm going to tell you this just as it happened. I don't know whether

you will believe me or not. I don't say that I would believe it if

I had not seen it with my own eyes. If some one else had told it to

me, I might have set it down as a 'yarn'. If they have never had any

experiences on the river, some men would make yarns to order; it is a

mighty sight easier to make them than it is to live them--and safer.

"When this thing happened to me, I was entirely sober, and I was not

asleep. If you will take my word for it, I have never been anything

else but sober. If I had been otherwise, I would not be here now,

telling you this, and eighty-two years old.[D]

[D] This was told in 1903.

"Whiskey always gets 'em before they see the eighty mark. And you

know that a man can't run a steamboat while asleep--that is, very

long. Of course he can for a little while, but when she hits the bank

it wakes him up.

"This story ought to interest you, because I was on your favorite

boat when it happened. The "Fanny Harris" was sold in 1859, in May

or June, to go South. She came back right away, not going below St.

Louis, after all. I took her down to that port. Joseph Jones of

Galena had just bought the bar for the season when she was sold, and

lost thirty dollars in money by the boat being sold.[E]

[E] Observe the minuteness with which the Captain remembers the

small and insignificant details of this trip. It is a guarantee

that his memory is not playing any tricks in his narrative of

the more important happenings.

"Captain W. H. Gabbert was in command, and I was pilot. We left

Galena in the evening. It was between changes of the moon, and a

beautiful starlight night--as fine as I ever saw. By the time we

got down to Bellevue, the stars had all disappeared, and it had

become daylight, not twilight, but broad daylight, so bright that

you couldn't see even the brightest star, and from 11:30 to 12:30, a

full hour, it was as bright as any day you ever saw when the sun was

under a cloud. At midnight I was right opposite Savanna. Up to this

time Captain Gabbert had been asleep in the cabin, although he was on

watch. We were carrying neither passengers nor freight, for we were

just taking the boat down to deliver her to her new owners. He woke

up, or was called, and when he saw the broad daylight, yet saw by his

watch that it was just midnight, he was surprised, and maybe scared,

just as every one else was. He ran up on to the roof and called out:

'Mr. Fisher, land the boat, the world is coming to an end'!

"I told him that if the world were coming to an end we might as well

go in the middle of the river as at the bank, and I kept her going.

It took just as long to get dark again as it took to get light--about

half an hour. It began to get light at half-past eleven, and at

twelve (midnight) it was broad daylight; then in another half hour it

was all gone, and the stars had come out one by one, just as you see

them at sunset--the big, bright ones first, and then the whole field

of little ones. I looked for all the stars I knew by sight, and as

they came back, one by one, I began to feel more confidence in the

reality of things. I couldn't tell at all where the light came from;

but it grew absolutely broad daylight. That one hour's experience

had more to do with turning my hair white than anything that ever

occurred to me, for it certainly did seem a strange phenomenon."

"Was it worse than going into battle?" I asked.

"Yes, a hundred times worse, because it was different. When you go

into battle you know just what the danger is, and you nerve yourself

up to meet it. It is just the same as bracing up to meet any known

danger in your work--wind, lightning, storm. You know what to expect,

and if you have any nerve you just hold yourself in and let it come.

This was different. You didn't know what was coming next; but I guess

we all thought just as the Captain did, that it was the end of the

world.

"I confess that I was scared, but I had the boat to look out for, and

until the world really did come to an end I was responsible for her,

and so stood by, and you know that helps to keep your nerves where

they belong. I just hung on to the wheel and kept her in the river,

but I kept one eye on the eastern sky to see what was coming next. I

hope when my time comes I shall not be scared to death, and I don't

believe I shall be. It will come in a natural way, and there won't be

anything to scare a man. It is the unknown and the mysterious that

shakes him, and this midnight marvel was too much for any of us.

We had a great many signs before the war came, and I believe this

marvel on the night in question, was one of them, only we didn't know

how to read it."

"How about the narrow escapes, Captain?"

"Well, I have had a number of them. In 1871 I was running a towboat

with coal barges. Twelve miles below Rock Island, we were struck by

a cyclone. It took the cabin clean off the boat, and of course the

pilot house went with it. My partner was with me in the pilot house,

having seen the storm coming up, with heavy wind, so he came up to

help me keep her in the river. At this time we were pushing a lumber

raft downstream. Both of us were blown into the river. My partner

got hold of the raft and pulled himself out, but I went under it. I

thought that it was the end of piloting; but Providence was with me.

I came up through an aperture where four cribs of lumber cornered--a

little hole not over three feet square. My partner saw me and ran and

pulled me out, and we both got back on the dismantled hull of our

boat. I could not have helped myself, as I was too near strangled.

The force of the cyclone must have stopped the current of the river

for the time or I would never have come up where I did. The shock and

the wetting laid me up for six weeks.

"When I was able to resume work, Dan Rice happened to come along with

his circus boat. He wanted a pilot to take his craft not only up

the great river, but also, so far as possible, up such tributaries

as were navigable, he wishing to give exhibitions at all the towns

alongshore. I shipped with him for $300 a month and had an easy time

during the rest of the season, running nights, mostly, and laying up

daytimes while the show was exhibiting.

"The next year I was engaged on the "Alex. Mitchell." We had left

St. Paul at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, on Saturday, May 6, 1872.

I am particular about this day and date, for the point of this

story hinges on the day of the week (Sunday). In trying to run the

Hastings bridge we were struck by a squall that threw us against the

abutment, tearing off a portion of our starboard guard. We arrived

at La Crosse, Sunday morning, and took on two hundred excursionists

for Lansing. They wanted to dance, but it being Sunday Captain

Laughton hesitated for some time about giving them permission, as

it was contrary to the known wishes, if not the rules, of Commodore

Davidson to have dancing or games on board of his boats on Sunday.

The passengers were persistent, however, and at last Captain Laughton

yielded, saying that he couldn't help it! Of course he might have

helped it. What is a captain for, if not to run his boat, no matter

if everybody else is against him? That was where he was weak. He

finally yielded, however, and they danced all the way to Lansing.

When we arrived there it was raining, and the excursionists chartered

the boat for a run back to Victory, about ten miles, and they were

dancing all the time.

"Leaving them at Victory we proceeded on our way down the river. When

about twelve miles above Dubuque, a little below Wells's Landing,

at three o'clock Monday morning, we were struck by a cyclone. We

lost both chimneys, the pilot house was unroofed, and part of the

hurricane deck on the port side was blown off. Mr. Trudell, the mate,

was on watch, and standing on the roof by the big bell. He was blown

off, and landed on shore a quarter of a mile away, but sustained

no serious injuries. The port lifeboat was blown a mile and a half

into the country. Following so soon after the Sunday dancing, I have

always felt that there was some connection between the two."

Captain Fisher is a very conscientious man--a religious man, and he

believes in observing Sunday--that is, keeping it as nearly as is

possible on a steamboat running seven days in the week. The dancing

was wholly unnecessary, if not in itself immoral, and its permission

by Captain Laughton was in direct contravention of the known wishes

if not orders of the owners. Hence the conclusion that Providence

took a hand in the matter and meted out swift punishment for the

misdoing. I did not argue the matter with the Captain; but I could

not reconcile the unroofing of Commodore Davidson's steamboat, or the

blowing away of Mr. Trudell, who had no voice in granting license

to the ungodly dancers, with the ordinary conception of the eternal

fitness of things. If it had blown Captain Laughton a mile and a half

into the country, as it did the port lifeboat, or even a quarter of

a mile, as it did Mr. Trudell, and had left Commodore Davidson's

steamboat intact, the hand of Providence would have appeared more

plainly in the case. As it was, Captain Laughton slept serenely in

his berth while Mr. Trudell and the lifeboat were sailing into space,

and he did not get out until all was over. It is pleasant to be able

to relate that although Providence appears to have miscarried in

dealing out retribution, Commodore Davidson did not. Captain Davis

was put in charge of the "Alex. Mitchell" as soon as she struck the

levee at St. Louis.

William F. Davidson--"Commodore", from the fact that he was at

the head of the greatest of upper river packet lines--had been

converted after many years of strenuous river life. He was as strong

a man, affirmatively, after he began living religiously, as he

had been negatively before that time. He abolished all bars from

his steamboats, at great pecuniary loss to himself and the other

stockholders; forbade Sunday dancing and other forms of Sunday

desecration; stopped all gambling, and instituted other reforms which

tended to make his steamboats as clean and reputable as the most

refined ladies or gentlemen could wish. The promptitude with which

he cashiered Captain Laughton, on account of the foregoing incident,

was in keeping with his character as a man and as a manager. It was

an evidence that he meant all that he said or ordered in the ethical

conduct of his steamboats.

The Commodore had a brother, Payton S. Davidson, who had the

well-earned reputation of being one of the best steamboatmen on the

Mississippi. Superintendent of the Northwestern Line, he prided

himself upon the regularity with which his boats arrived at or

departed from landings on schedule time. He was a driver, and the

captains and pilots who could not "make time" under any and all

conditions of navigation, were _persona non grata_ to "Pate", and

when they reached this stage they went ashore with scant notice. In

other ways he was equally efficient.

One of the Northwestern Line, the "Centennial", was caught in the

great ice gorge at St. Louis, in 1876. She was a new boat, costing

$65,000, just off the ways, and a beauty. She was stove and sank, as

did a dozen other boats at the same time. All the others were turned

over to the underwriters as they lay, and were a total loss. Not so

the "Centennial". Superintendent Payton S. Davidson was on hand and

declared that the beautiful new boat could and should be raised.

Putting on a force of men--divers, wreckers, and other experts--under

his personal supervision and direction, he did get her afloat,

although in a badly damaged condition, and that at a cost of only

$5,000. Twice she sank, after being brought to the surface; but the

indomitable energy of Davidson, who worked night and day, sometimes

in the water up to his middle, and in floating ice, finally saved

the steamer. She was one of the finest boats that ever plied the

upper river. Payton S. was famous for his pugnacity as well as his

pertinacity, and there is no record of his repentance or conversion.

He lived and died a typical steamboat captain of the olden time.

[Illustration: STEAMER "WAR EAGLE," 1852; 296 tons.]

[Illustration: STEAMER "MILWAUKEE," 1856; 550 tons.]