CHAPTER X.

STEAMBOAT NAVIGATION ON THE MISSOURI RIVER.

The Missouri River pilot was beyond question the most skillful representative of his profession. In no other kind of navigation were the qualities of quick perception, intuitive grasp of a situation, nerve to act boldly and promptly, coolness and judgment in times of danger, so important and so constantly in demand. Navigation on the ocean was child’s play in comparison. The Missouri represented in the highest degree the peculiar dangers characteristic of alluvial streams. Its current was swift, its channel full of snags, its surface nearly always ruffled by the prairie gale, and never for five minutes in succession in a condition which would permit the pilot to take his hand from the wheel or the engineer to let go of the throttle. The elaborate system of communication between the pilot-house and the engine room was always in service, and the tinkle of signal bells in the engineer’s ear was almost continuous. The position of pilot was responsible and exacting, and called for a high order of ability. And so it resulted that the better class of pilots were men of high standing and character, in whose care business men unhesitatingly intrusted their property and the lives of their families.

[Sidenote: THE TWO BARKS.]

The ever-shifting condition of the river channel[14] caused the pilot to seek all available information as to its latest position. When other boats were met there was an eager swapping of notes, for it was a common practice in later years for pilots to assist each other by keeping notes of the condition of the river over which they passed.[15] The pilots thus came to know the river by heart from its mouth to the head of navigation. The extraordinary knowledge of its topography and nomenclature which Captain La Barge retained to the end of his life was almost incredible. There was not a bend or rapid, a bed of snags, or other feature in all of its twenty-six hundred miles that was not as familiar to him as the rooms of his own house.

[Sidenote: THE FUEL PROBLEM.]

The most serious problem with which the Missouri navigator had to deal was that of procuring fuel. Wood alone was used, and this was obtained from the growths on the banks of the river. Cottonwood was the main reliance, because of its greater abundance, but it was not a first-class firewood. If green, it was next to impossible to maintain steam with it except by the aid of rosin. It was often found impracticable to carry the boat from one established wooding place to another, and it was then necessary to gather drift logs, or anything else that could be found. Whenever a trading post was abandoned its palisades and buildings quickly found their way into the steamboat furnaces, to the great, though transient, delight of the crew.

In the earlier years the fuel was cut by the crew itself as the boat proceeded on her voyage. But as the traffic became more regular, wood yards were established, either by the boat-owners or by others who cut wood for sale. The Indians themselves found the business a profitable one, and finally refused to let the whites cut wood at all. The sale of their wood thus became a source of considerable revenue to them. In later years, during the Sioux hostilities, the wooding of boats was a most perilous matter. Crews were attacked at the landings and only the most vigilant precaution prevented great loss of life at such times.[16] To reduce this danger as much as possible, Captain La Barge equipped one of his boats with a sawmill, and took along a yoke of oxen. When he had to have wood he swung out a large stage, drove the team ashore, and dragged several logs on board with the utmost speed. As soon as this was done the boat proceeded on her way and the crew then sawed up the wood.

The “wooding” of a boat was an interesting performance. The moment the boat touched the bank for this purpose the mate called out “woodpile,” and every available man leaped ashore, loaded himself with wood, and hastened back to the boat. In an incredibly short time the work was done and the boat was again on her way.

[Sidenote: STEAMBOAT HOURS.]

Steamboat hours were as long as the light of day would permit. It was not customary to run at night, unless there was ample moonlight and the business was extremely urgent. But every hour of daylight was improved. In the higher latitudes morning and evening twilight almost touched hands across the few hours of intervening darkness. Three o’clock A. M. was a common hour of starting, and 9 P. M. of stopping. The crew were divided into four watches, so that they could take turns in getting sleep during the day.

[Sidenote: EFFECT OF WIND.]

The early morning run was liable to be the most successful of the day, unless it were the late evening run. At both times the wind was generally low enough to form no serious drawback. The landscape likewise appeared at its best, and the sight of sunrise or sunset on the river was one to be remembered. The water was comparatively calm at those hours, particularly in the early morning. Later in the day the wind generally began to rise, and the pilot always viewed as an evil omen the first cloud of sand that he saw drifting over the valley. If the wind increased beyond a certain point he was compelled to make for the shore and wait for it to subside. The area of the boat exposed to the wind was so great that in narrow channels it was impossible to keep within them, and it was often necessary to lie at the bank for several hours. This enforced idleness was generally improved in cutting wood for present and future needs.

[Sidenote: SOUNDING THE CHANNEL.]

The danger from snags was always present and sometimes very great, and the passage of these obstructions was a matter of anxious solicitude on the part of both officers and passengers. Less dangerous, but not less annoying, was the passage of shallow bars where there was not sufficient depth to float the boat. This usually occurred at the “crossings,” or places where the channel, after having followed one side of the river-bed for a distance, crossed over to the other. In these places the channel generally split up into chutes, none of which might have the required depth of water. The pilot’s first step would be to select the most promising channel. If this failed, he retreated and tried another. Always at such times one of the deck hands was kept at the bow on the forecastle sounding the channel--a function most interesting and novel to one who had never witnessed it. On the shallow Missouri a pole was used instead of a lead line. A deck hand seized this pole and thrust it into the water every five seconds, at the same time calling out the depth in a drawling, sing-song voice. The Canadian boatmen would generally preface these calls with a snatch from some of their native songs, winding up with the required information as a sort of refrain. So novel was the performance to the uninitiated that an expert sounder would attract around him an audience of listeners.

[Sidenote: WALKING OVER SANDBARS.]

In case no channel was found by direct trial with the boat, the pilot sent the mate out in a yawl, or more generally went himself, and carefully sounded the entire river over the shallow portion. Having determined where the deepest water lay, he returned to the boat, and if the obstacle were not too great, at once proceeded to move the boat over it. Steaming in the proper direction, as determined from the sounding, he would run the boat as far as she would go. The crew then lowered the huge spars on either side, set them in the sand with the lower ends pointing downstream so that a pull on the lines would both lift the boat and crowd it ahead; then hauled taut the lines, threw them around the capstans, and proceeded to “walk” the boat over the bar. The process was often long and laborious, and instances were not uncommon where one or two days were consumed in this way. An occasional resource, which always puzzled the uninitiated, was to set the wheel going with a reverse motion, as if trying to back the boat. The object of this was to dam the river up slightly and relieve as much as possible the pressure on the bar. The water was sometimes backed in this way up to a height of four inches, and this meant a great deal. The backward power of the wheel was so much less than the forward power of the spars that it was not considered at all. This was one of the scientific aspects of Missouri River navigation.

[Sidenote: WARPING OVER RAPIDS.]

The few rapids on the river which were too steep for the boat to stem unaided were usually passed by the method of warping. As soon as the boat reached the foot of a rapid she made for the shore. The moment her prow touched the bank a dozen men leaped out and started on the run up along the water’s edge. The foremost carried a pick and spade and a few stakes, the second a stick of timber a little smaller than a railroad tie, and the rest at proper intervals a strong line which was rapidly uncoiled from the boat. Having arrived well beyond the head of the rapid the men proceeded to plant a “dead man”: that is, they dug a trench three or four feet deep in the hard prairie soil, large enough to receive the stick of timber, and with the long dimension at right angles to the river. The timber was then buried and firmly staked down, and the line fastened to it at its middle, while the crew on the boat threw their end of the line around the capstan, which was then slowly wound in under the power of steam. The operation was a very slow one, though less so as a general thing than sparring over sandbars.

Occasionally the pilots encountered genuine whirlpools of such magnitude that steamboats could not cross them. In 1867 the _Bishop_ was swamped in an eddy caused by a new cut-off on the river. The boat was caught at the point where the swift current of the cut-off entered the old channel. At about the same time the _Miner_ narrowly escaped disaster in a violent eddy not far below Sioux City, Ia. The whirl of the water was so swift that the center of the eddy was nearly twelve feet below its circumference. The boat was trying to pull itself by with a line when it was caught by the eddy, swung out into the stream, whirled violently around and careened over until the river flowed right across the lower deck. Wood and all other movable material were swept off, and two men were drowned. Only the mate’s presence of mind in slacking off the line saved the boat.

[Sidenote: DANGER FROM INDIANS.]

One of the most formidable perils of Missouri navigation during the period from 1860 to 1876 was the hostility of the Indians. The Sioux tribes in particular terrorized the boatmen all along the valley from the Niobrara to Milk River. Many were their actual attacks and many were the lives lost. It became necessary on some voyages to barricade the decks and staterooms, and the most careful vigilance night and day was required in order to avoid disaster.

[Sidenote: STEAMBOAT EXPLOSIONS.]

An exciting and often dangerous pastime indulged in by the river boats was racing. This was particularly true of the period about 1858, when the boating business was rather overdone and there was great competition in the trade. Racing on the Missouri was very risky in any case, owing to the uncertainty of the channel and the abundance of shags; but the chief danger arose from the temptation to raise the steam pressure above a safe limit. Of all classes of steamboat disasters, the most dreadful were those caused by boiler explosions. There were six of these wrecks in the history of the river, although it is not known that they were all caused by racing. In 1842 the _Edna_ was destroyed at the mouth of the Missouri, and forty-two German emigrants were killed. The most terrible accident was that of the _Saluda_, April 9, 1852, at Lexington, Mo. The boat was a sidewheeler, with two large boilers, and was on her way up the river with a load of merchandise and many Mormon passengers. The river was very high and the current so strong that the boat could not round the point just above town. After waiting several days without any improvement of the situation, the captain, Francis F. Belt, ordered another trial. Going into the engine room, he inquired how much steam was being carried. The engineer replied that he was carrying every pound that the boilers could stand. The captain recklessly ordered more steam to be made, and declared with an oath that he would round the bend or blow the boat to pieces. He then went above, rang the bell, and ordered the lines cast off. The boat swung into the stream; the engines made but one or two revolutions when the boilers burst with a terrific explosion that blew the boat into splinters and scattered them far and wide. Nearly all the officers were killed, among them the pilot, Charles La Barge, Captain La Barge’s brother, and the second pilot, Louis Guerette, Mrs. La Barge’s brother. It is said that over one hundred bodies were found. Several children who escaped, but had lost their parents, were adopted by the people of Lexington and grew up to be citizens of Missouri instead of Mormon residents of the future State of Utah. The bell of this boat was blown out on the bank while yet it was ringing under the hand of Captain Belt. It was purchased with other wreckage by a resident of Lexington, who sold it to the Christian Church in Savannah, Mo., where it has done duty for the past fifty years.

[Sidenote: HUNTERS FOR THE BOATS.]

After the time when the boats began to carry passengers in considerable numbers, much more attention was paid to the table fare than in the days when the passenger list was made up almost entirely of men going to service with the fur companies. In those days pork, lyed corn, and navy beans made up the substance of the bill of fare. It was always a rule, when in the Indian country, to rely on game for meat. For this purpose hunters were regularly employed on the various boats, selected for their skill, and never called upon for any other work. The hunter’s custom was to leave the boat about midnight, some three or four hours before she was to start, and to scour the bank of the river, keeping well ahead. Whenever any animal was killed it was hung up in some conspicuous place, and was brought in by the steamboat yawl as the boat came along.

Captain La Barge had many of these hunters in his employ during his career. Henry Chatillon, the same who appears in Francis Parkman’s “Oregon Trail,” was one. He was a fine man, an excellent hunter, and sensible and gentlemanly in all his relations. The Captain’s favorite hunter, however, was Louis Dauphin, who was more fearless than Chatillon and equally skillful as a hunter. He had a very long career on the Missouri River. He seemed to delight in danger, and was never afraid of the Indians; but his lack of prudence at last cost him his life, and he was killed by the Sioux near the mouth of Milk River in 1865.

[Sidenote: PASSENGERS AND CARGO.]

Such are some of the peculiar features of Missouri River navigation as it existed fifty years ago. To bring back more of the reality of what has now become only a reminiscence, let us follow one of these steamboats on a typical voyage up the river. The principal event on the annual trip was the embarkation at St. Louis. The cargo consisted of a heterogeneous assortment of goods, designed for the Indian trade and for the equipment of hunting and trapping parties. It frequently included also the government annuities for the various tribes, and stores for the Indian agencies and military posts. The passengers composed an even more heterogeneous mixture than the cargo itself. There were, first, the regular boat crew, numbering from thirty to forty. Very likely there were several Indians returning home from St. Louis, or even from Washington. Then there were recruits for the various trading companies, consisting of hunters, trappers, voyageurs, and mountaineers, and possibly a company of soldiers for some military service. Nearly always there were passengers distinguished for wealth or scientific attainment, who were making the journey for pleasure or research. Government exploring parties generally traveled by boat to the initial point of their expeditions. In all there were from one hundred to two hundred people on board, with sufficient variety to insure vivacity and interest, however monotonous the journey might otherwise be.

[Sidenote: DEPARTURE FROM PORT.]

The departure from port was always attended with more or less carousing and revelry, particularly in the keelboat and early steamboat days, when a trip up the river might mean years of absence. The kind of farewell that captured the fancy of the average voyageur was a general debauch, which often disqualified him from being ready when the hour of departure arrived. Sometimes these delinquents who failed to appear hied themselves across the country to St. Charles, and joined the boat there. In order to protect itself from loss, the American Fur Company made all its payments to the men conditional upon a certain amount of service. It made an allowance of clothing and blankets, but never delivered them until the men were on board and out of port. Wages were never advanced except to trusted employees.

As the boat swung out into the stream a running salute of musketry was kept up by the mountaineers and others until it was out of hearing. The roll was then called, and the engagés were given their parcels of clothing. Next began the work of putting the boat deck in order for the trip. The bales of goods, which were strewn about in disorderly heaps, were carefully stowed away, and before night the boat was reduced to the appearance which it would wear during the remainder of the trip.

[Sidenote: SETTLING CHAMPIONSHIP.]

There still remained to be settled a final preliminary to a successful and harmonious voyage--the championship for physical prowess among the engagés on the boat. As in a herd of cattle, so here, someone must be recognized as the strongest--able to whip anybody else in open contest. The crew being largely strangers to each other in starting, there were more or less friction and bickering until a settlement by fist force was reached. Usually the contest would settle down to a small number in a short time. It was a favorite pastime with that veteran mountaineer, Etienne Provost, who was often sent up in charge of recruits, to compel an early settlement which would determine all blustering and quarreling. He would form a ring on the forecastle and compel every braggart to make good his claims before the assembled passengers and crew. One after another would succumb, until one man would emerge from the contest victorious over all the others. He would then be awarded the championship, and receive a red belt in token thereof.

[Sidenote: YANKEE JACK.]

Captain La Barge recalled an interesting incident of this kind in which he himself had a hand. It was on the _Robert Campbell_, in 1863. He had on board a large quota of Irish engagés, in fact they were mostly of this nationality; but there was one well-built, quiet, rawboned American, whose full name he had forgotten, but who was commonly known as Yankee Jack. In modern slang, the Irishmen “had it in” for this Yankee, and made his life as uncomfortable as possible. Two men in particular made it a point to harass and annoy him in every conceivable way, until the Captain finally asked Jack why he did not resent their conduct. Jack, who had a higher respect for authority than his persecutors, had not felt at liberty to take the matter up on the boat, but now told the Captain that, if he would permit it, he would settle the matter once for all very promptly. The Captain told him to go ahead, and himself arranged the preliminaries, and told the Irishmen that they would have to stand up and “take their medicine.” With a good deal of contempt for the Yankee they made ready for the fray. A place was cleared on the deck and one of the men stepped out before Yankee Jack, and the battle began; but before the Irishman knew “where he was at” he lay sprawling upon the floor totally _hors de combat_. The next man stepped up and was led to the slaughter with as little ceremony as the other. For the rest of the voyage the Yankee was unmolested.

[Sidenote: INTERESTING DIVERSIONS.]

While the officers and crew were kept alert and active the livelong day in getting their boat up the troublesome stream, the passengers whiled away their time as best they could. Games of all practicable sorts were indulged in. It was a common pastime to stand on the forecastle or boiler deck and shoot at geese and ducks on the river. Now and then the sight of deer and other animals enlivened the moment, and occasionally the appearance of Indians on the bank caused a flutter of excitement. To relieve the tedium of the voyage it was a common thing, when there was no danger from the Indians, to land at the beginning of extensive bends, and ramble across the country to the other side, rejoining the boat when it came along.

[Sidenote: THE PILOT’S STORIES.]

The pilot-house was the favorite resort on the boat when the condition of navigation would permit the passengers to be there. The pilot was always an interesting personage to get acquainted with. When in the proper mood and sailing along some easy stretch of river, he would unloosen his tongue and entertain his listeners with tales of _his_ adventurous experiences, in reality the accumulated stories of many years, but as new to the tenderfoot as if told for the first time. Here he would point out a dry sand waste where the channel ran the year before and where now a fine crop of willows was shooting vigorously upward. The high bank yonder, with a grove of cottonwoods close to the water’s edge, was where the boat was attacked by Indians a few years before and two of the crew killed. The holes where bullets tore through the pilot-house were still visible as tragic reminders of a hairbreadth escape. A little further on was where the boat once had to stop to let a herd of buffalo cross the river, for it would not do to try to run through the herd lest their huge bodies become entangled in the wheels and cripple it altogether. Sometimes these delays amounted to several hours. In another place the Captain would point out the grave of some Indian chief reposing in the arms of a tree, where it had been placed by his people years before, and the sight would suggest many thrilling experiences, and even tragedies, which marked the intercourse of these primitive people with the navigators of the river. The recital of these traditions appealed to the imagination of the traveler, and helped allay the monotony of the voyage. If the landscape might often be likened to the “uniform view of the vacant ocean,” there were nevertheless a thousand features on every trip which the most interesting ocean voyage lacks.

[Sidenote: ARRIVAL AT TRADING POST.]

Among the important events of every voyage were the arrivals at the various trading posts. To the occupants of these remote stations, buried in the depths of the wilderness, shut out for months from any glimpse of the world outside, the coming of the annual boat was an event of even greater interest than to the passengers themselves. Generally the person in charge of the post, with some of the employees, would drop down the river two or three days’ ride and meet the boat. When she drew near the post, salutes would be exchanged, the colors displayed, and the passengers would throng the deck to greet the crowd which lined the bank. The exigencies of navigation never left much time for celebration and conviviality. The exchange of cargo was carried on with the utmost dispatch, and the moment the business was completed the boat proceeded on her way.

These are some of the typical features of steamboat life as it used to exist on the Missouri River. In later years, when the gold discoveries in Montana gave the business such an astonishing impetus, other features of interest developed. The business was always a romantic one, and will stand in American frontier history as one of its most picturesque and delightful memories.