Life on the Mississippi. Марк Твен

a captain got hold of a pilot of particularly high reputation, he took pains to keep him. When wages were four hundred dollars a month on the Upper Mississippi, I have known a captain to keep such a pilot in idleness, under full pay, three months at a time, while the river was frozen up. And one must remember that in those cheap times four hundred dollars was a salary of almost inconceivable splendor. Few men on shore got such pay as that, and when they did they were mightily looked up to. When pilots from either end of the river wandered into our small Missouri village, they were sought by the best and the fairest, and treated with exalted respect. Lying in port under wages was a thing which many pilots greatly enjoyed and appreciated; 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’9 on de “Aleck Scott!”’

      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 for anything or anybody. Sometimes he called me “Johnny.” And he kept a fiddle, and a cat. He played execrably. This seemed to distress the cat, and so the cat would howl. Nobody could sleep where that man – and his family – was. And reckless. There never was anything like it. Now you may believe it or not, but as sure as I am sitting here, he brought my boat a-tilting down through those awful snags at Chicot under a rattling head of steam, and the wind a-blowing like the very nation, at that! My officers will tell you so. They saw it. And, sir, while he was a-tearing right down through those snags, and I a-shaking in my shoes and praying, I wish I may never speak again if he didn’t pucker up his mouth and go to whistling! Yes, sir; whistling “Buffalo gals, can’t you come out tonight, can’t you come out to-night, can’t you come out to-night;” and doing it as calmly as if we were attending a funeral and weren’t related to the corpse. And when I remonstrated with him about it, he smiled down on me as if I was his child, and told me to run in the house and try to be good, and not be meddling with my superiors!’

      Once a pretty mean captain caught Stephen in New Orleans out of work and as usual out of money. He laid steady siege to Stephen, who was in a very ‘close place,’ and finally persuaded him to hire with him at one hundred and twenty-five dollars per month, just half wages, the captain agreeing not to divulge the secret and so bring down the contempt of all the guild upon the poor fellow. But the boat was not more than a day out of New Orleans before Stephen discovered that the captain was boasting of his exploit, and that all the officers had been told. Stephen winced, but said nothing. About the middle of the afternoon the captain stepped out on the hurricane deck, cast his eye around, and looked a good deal surprised. He glanced inquiringly aloft at Stephen, but Stephen was whistling placidly, and attending to business. The captain stood around a while in evident discomfort, and once or twice seemed about to make a suggestion; but the etiquette of the river taught him to avoid that sort of rashness, and so he managed to hold his peace. He chafed and puzzled a few minutes longer, then retired to his apartments. But soon he was out again, and apparently more perplexed than ever. Presently he ventured to remark, with deference —

      ‘Pretty good stage of the river now, ain’t it, sir?’

      ‘Well, I should say so! Bank-full is a pretty liberal stage.’

      ‘Seems to be a good deal of current here.’

      ‘Good deal don’t describe it! It’s worse than a mill-race.’

      ‘Isn’t it easier in toward shore than it is out here in the middle?’

      ‘Yes, I reckon it is; but a body can’t be too careful with a steamboat. It’s pretty safe out here; can’t strike any bottom here, you can depend on that.’

      The captain departed, looking rueful enough. At this rate, he would probably die of old age before his boat got to St. Louis. Next day he appeared on deck and again found Stephen faithfully standing up the middle of the river, fighting the whole vast force of the Mississippi, and whistling the same placid tune. This thing was becoming serious. In by the shore was a slower boat clipping along in the easy water and gaining steadily; she began to make for an island chute; Stephen stuck to the middle of the river. Speech was wrung from the captain. He said —

      ‘Mr. W – , don’t that chute cut off a good deal of distance?’

      ‘I think it does, but I don’t know.’

      ‘Don’t know! Well, isn’t there water enough in it now to go through?’

      ‘I expect there is, but I am not certain.’

      ‘Upon my word this is odd! Why, those pilots on that boat yonder are going to try it. Do you mean to say that you don’t know as much as they do?’

      ‘They! Why, they are two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar

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Door