Old Times on the Upper Mississippi
was one of the prime topics of public interest, and it was noticeable
that any number of our men were well enough posted in the rules of
the P. R. to serve as officials in all departments. McCoy lost no
caste among crew or passengers on account of this incident. There
were neither kid gloves nor silk stockings among the pioneers who
were pushing into Minnesota in 1856, and an incident of this sort was
diverting rather than deplorable.
Other pilots whose names appear very early in the annals of
steamboating on the upper river, and whose fame as masters of the art
will ever remain green among members of the craft so long as pilots
turn a wheel on the river, were William White, Sam Harlow, Rufus
Williams, George Nichols, Alex. Gody, and Hugh White, all of whom
appear to have been in service in 1850 or before. These were followed
by John Arnold, Joseph Armstrong, John King, Rufus Williams, Edward
A. West, E. V. Holcomb, Hiram Beadle, William Cupp, Jerome Smith,
William Fisher, Stephen Dalton, Jackson Harris, Henry Gilpatrick,
James Black, Thomas Burns, T. G. Dreming, Harry Tripp, William
Tibbles, Seth Moore, Stephen Hanks, Charley Manning, Thomas Cushing,
Peter Hall, and fifty others equally as good. All of those named,
served in the Minnesota Packet Company in the days of its prosperity,
some of them for many years. All were experts in their profession,
and some of them, as "Ned" West and John King, were entitled to the
highest encomium known on the river--that of being "lightning pilots".
Chapter XV
_Incidents of River Life_
Captain William Fisher, of Galena, Illinois, is probably the oldest
living pilot of the upper Mississippi. At the time of this writing
(1908), he is spending the closing years of his life in quiet comfort
in a spot where he can look down upon the waters of "Fevre" River,
once alive with steamboats, in the pilot houses of which he spent
over thirty years in hard and perilous service.
As a young man Captain Fisher had served five years on the Great
Lakes on a "square rigger", at a time when full-rigged ships
sailed the inland waters. Coming to Galena just as the great boom
in steamboating commenced, and following the opening of Minnesota
Territory to settlement, he naturally gravitated toward the life of
a steamboatman, taking his first lessons in piloting in 1852, on the
"Ben Campbell", under the tutelage of Captain M. W. Lodwick. The next
season (1853), he worked on the "War Eagle", under William White and
John King, two of the best pilots on the upper river. Under their
teaching he soon obtained his license, and henceforth for thirty
years he piloted many of the finest boats running between St. Louis
and St. Paul. His crowning achievement was the taking of the "City of
Quincy" from St. Louis to St. Paul, Captain Brock being his partner
for the trip. The "City of Quincy" was a New Orleans packet, that
had been chartered to take an excursion the length of the river. Of
sixteen hundred tons burden, with a length of three hundred feet and
fifty feet beam, she was the largest boat ever making the trip above
Keokuk Rapids.
Two or three incidents of his river life, among the many which he
relates, are of interest as showing the dangers of that life. One,
which he believes was an omen prophetic of the War of Secession, he
relates as follows:
"I'm going to tell you this just as it happened. I don't know whether
you will believe me or not. I don't say that I would believe it if
I had not seen it with my own eyes. If some one else had told it to
me, I might have set it down as a 'yarn'. If they have never had any
experiences on the river, some men would make yarns to order; it is a
mighty sight easier to make them than it is to live them--and safer.
"When this thing happened to me, I was entirely sober, and I was not
asleep. If you will take my word for it, I have never been anything
else but sober. If I had been otherwise, I would not be here now,
telling you this, and eighty-two years old.[D]
[D] This was told in 1903.
"Whiskey always gets 'em before they see the eighty mark. And you
know that a man can't run a steamboat while asleep--that is, very
long. Of course he can for a little while, but when she hits the bank
it wakes him up.
"This story ought to interest you, because I was on your favorite
boat when it happened. The "Fanny Harris" was sold in 1859, in May
or June, to go South. She came back right away, not going below St.
Louis, after all. I took her down to that port. Joseph Jones of
Galena had just bought the bar for the season when she was sold, and
lost thirty dollars in money by the boat being sold.[E]
[E] Observe the minuteness with which the Captain remembers the
small and insignificant details of this trip. It is a guarantee
that his memory is not playing any tricks in his narrative of
the more important happenings.
"Captain W. H. Gabbert was in command, and I was pilot. We left
Galena in the evening. It was between changes of the moon, and a
beautiful starlight night--as fine as I ever saw. By the time we
got down to Bellevue, the stars had all disappeared, and it had
become daylight, not twilight, but broad daylight, so bright that
you couldn't see even the brightest star, and from 11:30 to 12:30, a
full hour, it was as bright as any day you ever saw when the sun was
under a cloud. At midnight I was right opposite Savanna. Up to this
time Captain Gabbert had been asleep in the cabin, although he was on
watch. We were carrying neither passengers nor freight, for we were
just taking the boat down to deliver her to her new owners. He woke
up, or was called, and when he saw the broad daylight, yet saw by his
watch that it was just midnight, he was surprised, and maybe scared,
just as every one else was. He ran up on to the roof and called out:
'Mr. Fisher, land the boat, the world is coming to an end'!
"I told him that if the world were coming to an end we might as well
go in the middle of the river as at the bank, and I kept her going.
It took just as long to get dark again as it took to get light--about
half an hour. It began to get light at half-past eleven, and at
twelve (midnight) it was broad daylight; then in another half hour it
was all gone, and the stars had come out one by one, just as you see
them at sunset--the big, bright ones first, and then the whole field
of little ones. I looked for all the stars I knew by sight, and as
they came back, one by one, I began to feel more confidence in the
reality of things. I couldn't tell at all where the light came from;
but it grew absolutely broad daylight. That one hour's experience
had more to do with turning my hair white than anything that ever
occurred to me, for it certainly did seem a strange phenomenon."
"Was it worse than going into battle?" I asked.
"Yes, a hundred times worse, because it was different. When you go
into battle you know just what the danger is, and you nerve yourself
up to meet it. It is just the same as bracing up to meet any known
danger in your work--wind, lightning, storm. You know what to expect,
and if you have any nerve you just hold yourself in and let it come.
This was different. You didn't know what was coming next; but I guess
we all thought just as the Captain did, that it was the end of the
world.
"I confess that I was scared, but I had the boat to look out for, and
until the world really did come to an end I was responsible for her,
and so stood by, and you know that helps to keep your nerves where
they belong. I just hung on to the wheel and kept her in the river,
but I kept one eye on the eastern sky to see what was coming next. I
hope when my time comes I shall not be scared to death, and I don't
believe I shall be. It will come in a natural way, and there won't be
anything to scare a man. It is the unknown and the mysterious that
shakes him, and this midnight marvel was too much for any of us.
We had a great many signs before the war came, and I believe this
marvel on the night in question, was one of them, only we didn't know
how to read it."
"How about the narrow escapes, Captain?"
"Well, I have had a number of them. In 1871 I was running a towboat
with coal barges. Twelve miles below Rock Island, we were struck by
a cyclone. It took the cabin clean off the boat, and of course the
pilot house went with it. My partner was with me in the pilot house,
having seen the storm coming up, with heavy wind, so he came up to
help me keep her in the river. At this time we were pushing a lumber
raft downstream. Both of us were blown into the river. My partner
got hold of the raft and pulled himself out, but I went under it. I
thought that it was the end of piloting; but Providence was with me.
I came up through an aperture where four cribs of lumber cornered--a
little hole not over three feet square. My partner saw me and ran and
pulled me out, and we both got back on the dismantled hull of our
boat. I could not have helped myself, as I was too near strangled.
The force of the cyclone must have stopped the current of the river
for the time or I would never have come up where I did. The shock and
the wetting laid me up for six weeks.
"When I was able to resume work, Dan Rice happened to come along with
his circus boat. He wanted a pilot to take his craft not only up
the great river, but also, so far as possible, up such tributaries
as were navigable, he wishing to give exhibitions at all the towns
alongshore. I shipped with him for $300 a month and had an easy time
during the rest of the season, running nights, mostly, and laying up
daytimes while the show was exhibiting.
"The next year I was engaged on the "Alex. Mitchell." We had left
St. Paul at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, on Saturday, May 6, 1872.
I am particular about this day and date, for the point of this
story hinges on the day of the week (Sunday). In trying to run the
Hastings bridge we were struck by a squall that threw us against the
abutment, tearing off a portion of our starboard guard. We arrived
at La Crosse, Sunday morning, and took on two hundred excursionists
for Lansing. They wanted to dance, but it being Sunday Captain
Laughton hesitated for some time about giving them permission, as
it was contrary to the known wishes, if not the rules, of Commodore
Davidson to have dancing or games on board of his boats on Sunday.
The passengers were persistent, however, and at last Captain Laughton
yielded, saying that he couldn't help it! Of course he might have
helped it. What is a captain for, if not to run his boat, no matter
if everybody else is against him? That was where he was weak. He
finally yielded, however, and they danced all the way to Lansing.
When we arrived there it was raining, and the excursionists chartered
the boat for a run back to Victory, about ten miles, and they were
dancing all the time.
"Leaving them at Victory we proceeded on our way down the river. When
about twelve miles above Dubuque, a little below Wells's Landing,
at three o'clock Monday morning, we were struck by a cyclone. We
lost both chimneys, the pilot house was unroofed, and part of the
hurricane deck on the port side was blown off. Mr. Trudell, the mate,
was on watch, and standing on the roof by the big bell. He was blown
off, and landed on shore a quarter of a mile away, but sustained
no serious injuries. The port lifeboat was blown a mile and a half
into the country. Following so soon after the Sunday dancing, I have
always felt that there was some connection between the two."
Captain Fisher is a very conscientious man--a religious man, and he
believes in observing Sunday--that is, keeping it as nearly as is
possible on a steamboat running seven days in the week. The dancing
was wholly unnecessary, if not in itself immoral, and its permission