‘Labboard lead, there! Stabboard lead!’
The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance,
and were gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.
‘M-a-r-k three!…. M-a-r-k three!…. Quarter-less three! …. Half
twain! …. Quarter twain! …. M-a-r-k twain! …. Quarter-less–‘
Mr. Bixby pulled two bell-ropes, and was answered by faint
jinglings far below in the engine room, and our speed slackened.
The steam began to whistle through the gauge-cocks. The cries of
the leadsmen went on–and it is a weird sound, always, in the night.
Every pilot in the lot was watching now, with fixed eyes, and talking
under his breath. Nobody was calm and easy but Mr. Bixby.
He would put his wheel down and stand on a spoke, and as the steamer
swung into her (to me) utterly invisible marks–for we seemed to be in
the midst of a wide and gloomy sea–he would meet and fasten her there.
Out of the murmur of half-audible talk, one caught a coherent sentence
now and then–such as–
‘There; she’s over the first reef all right!’
After a pause, another subdued voice–
‘Her stern’s coming down just exactly right, by George!’
‘Now she’s in the marks; over she goes!’
Somebody else muttered–
‘Oh, it was done beautiful–BEAUTIFUL!’
Now the engines were stopped altogether, and we drifted
with the current. Not that I could see the boat drift,
for I could not, the stars being all gone by this time.
This drifting was the dismalest work; it held one’s heart still.
Presently I discovered a blacker gloom than that which surrounded us.
It was the head of the island. We were closing right down upon it.
We entered its deeper shadow, and so imminent seemed the peril
that I was likely to suffocate; and I had the strongest
impulse to do SOMETHING, anything, to save the vessel.
But still Mr. Bixby stood by his wheel, silent, intent as a cat,
and all the pilots stood shoulder to shoulder at his back.
‘She’ll not make it!’ somebody whispered.
The water grew shoaler and shoaler, by the leadsman’s cries,
till it was down to–
‘Eight-and-a-half!…. E-i-g-h-t feet!…. E-i-g-h-t feet!…. Seven-and–‘
Mr. Bixby said warningly through his speaking tube to the engineer–
‘Stand by, now!’
‘Aye-aye, sir!’
‘Seven-and-a-half! Seven feet! Six-and–‘
We touched bottom! Instantly Mr. Bixby set a lot of bells ringing,
shouted through the tube, ‘NOW, let her have it–every ounce you’ve got!’
then to his partner, ‘Put her hard down! snatch her! snatch her!’
The boat rasped and ground her way through the sand, hung upon the apex
of disaster a single tremendous instant, and then over she went!
And such a shout as went up at Mr. Bixby’s back never loosened the roof of
a pilot-house before!
There was no more trouble after that. Mr. Bixby was a hero that night;
and it was some little time, too, before his exploit ceased to be talked
about by river men.
Fully to realize the marvelous precision required in laying
the great steamer in her marks in that murky waste of water,
one should know that not only must she pick her intricate
way through snags and blind reefs, and then shave the head
of the island so closely as to brush the overhanging foliage
with her stern, but at one place she must pass almost within
arm’s reach of a sunken and invisible wreck that would snatch
the hull timbers from under her if she should strike it,
and destroy a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of steam-boat
and cargo in five minutes, and maybe a hundred and fifty human
lives into the bargain.
The last remark I heard that night was a compliment to Mr. Bixby,
uttered in soliloquy and with unction by one of our guests. He said–
‘By the Shadow of Death, but he’s a lightning pilot!’
Chapter 8
Perplexing Lessons
At the end of what seemed a tedious while, I had managed to pack my head
full of islands, towns, bars, ‘points,’ and bends; and a curiously
inanimate mass of lumber it was, too. However, inasmuch as I
could shut my eyes and reel off a good long string of these names
without leaving out more than ten miles of river in every fifty,