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’
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