confronted in all nights and all weathers without the aid of a single
light-house or a single buoy; for there is neither light nor buoy to be
found anywhere in all this three or four thousand miles of villainous
river.
feel justified in enlarging upon this great science for the reason that I
feel sure no one has ever yet written a paragraph about it who had piloted
a steamboat himself, and so had a practical knowledge of the subject.
If the theme were hackneyed, I should be obliged to deal gently with
the reader; but since it is wholly new, I have felt at liberty to take up
a considerable degree of room with it.
When I had learned the name and position of every visible
feature of the river; when I had so mastered its shape that I
could shut my eyes and trace it from St. Louis to New Orleans;
when I had learned to read the face of the water as one would
cull the news from the morning paper; and finally, when I
had trained my dull memory to treasure up an endless array
of soundings and crossing-marks, and keep fast hold of them,
I judged that my education was complete: so I got to tilting
my cap to the side of my head, and wearing a tooth-pick in my
mouth at the wheel. Mr. Bixby had his eye on these airs.
One day he said–
‘What is the height of that bank yonder, at Burgess’s?’
‘How can I tell, sir. It is three-quarters of a mile away.’
‘Very poor eye–very poor. Take the glass.’
I took the glass, and presently said–‘I can’t tell.
I suppose that that bank is about a foot and a half high.’
‘Foot and a half! That’s a six-foot bank. How high was the bank
along here last trip?’
‘I don’t know; I never noticed.’
‘You didn’t? Well, you must always do it hereafter.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ll have to know a good many things that it tells you.
For one thing, it tells you the stage of the river–tells you whether
there’s more water or less in the river along here than there
was last trip.’
‘The leads tell me that.’ I rather thought I had the advantage
of him there.
‘Yes, but suppose the leads lie? The bank would tell you so,
and then you’d stir those leadsmen up a bit. There was a ten-foot
bank here last trip, and there is only a six-foot bank now.
What does that signify?’
‘That the river is four feet higher than it was last trip.’
‘Very good. Is the river rising or falling?’
‘Rising.’
‘No it ain’t.’
‘I guess I am right, sir. Yonder is some drift-wood floating
down the stream.’
‘A rise starts the drift-wood, but then it keeps on floating a while after
the river is done rising. Now the bank will tell you about this. Wait till
you come to a place where it shelves a little. Now here; do you see this
narrow belt of fine sediment That was deposited while the water was higher.
You see the driftwood begins to strand, too. The bank helps in other ways.
Do you see that stump on the false point?’
‘Ay, ay, sir.’
‘Well, the water is just up to the roots of it.
You must make a note of that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that means that there’s seven feet in the chute of 103.’
‘But 103 is a long way up the river yet.’
‘That’s where the benefit of the bank comes in. There is water
enough in 103 NOW, yet there may not be by the time we get there;
but the bank will keep us posted all along. You don’t run close
chutes on a falling river, up-stream, and there are precious few
of them that you are allowed to run at all down-stream. There’s
a law of the United States against it. The river may be rising
by the time we get to 103, and in that case we’ll run it.
We are drawing–how much?’
‘Six feet aft,–six and a half forward.’
‘Well, you do seem to know something.’