Old Times on the Upper Mississippi
with the preconceived notion of what transpired on the upper reaches.
While there were many so-called steamboat races, these were, for
the most part, desultory and unpremeditated. On the upper river,
there never was such a race as that between the "Robert E. Lee" and
the "Natchez", where both boats were stripped and tuned for the
trial, and where neither passengers nor freight were taken on board
to hinder or encumber in the long twelve hundred miles between New
Orleans and St. Louis, which constituted the running track.
It is true, however, that whenever two boats happened to come
together, going in the same direction, there was always a spurt that
developed the best speed of both boats, with the result that the
speediest boat quickly passed her slower rival, and out-footed her
so rapidly as soon to leave her out of sight behind some point, not
to be seen again, unless a long delay at some landing or woodyard
enabled her to catch up. These little spurts were in no sense races,
such as the historic runs on the lower waters. They were in most
cases a business venture, rather than a sporting event, as the first
boat at a landing usually secured the passengers and freight in
waiting. Another boat, following so soon after, would find nothing to
add to the profits of the voyage.
Racing, as racing, was an expensive if not a risky business. Unless
the boats were owned by their commanders, and thus absolutely under
their control, there was little chance that permission would be
obtained for racing on such a magnificent and spectacular scale as
that usually depicted in fiction.
The one contest that has been cited by every writer on upper river
topics, that has ever come under my observation, was the one between
the "Grey Eagle" (Captain D. Smith Harris), and the "Itasca" (Captain
David Whitten); and that was not a race at all. It is manifestly
unfair to so denominate it, when one of the captains did not know
that he was supposed to be racing with another boat until he saw the
other steamer round a point just behind him. Recognizing his rival as
following him far ahead of her regular time, he realized that she was
doing something out of the ordinary. He came to the conclusion that
Captain Harris was attempting to beat him into St. Paul, in order to
be the first to deliver certain important news of which he also was
the bearer. When this revelation was made, both boats were within a
few miles of their destination, St. Paul.
Here are the details. In 1856, the first telegraphic message was
flashed under the sea by the Atlantic cable--a greeting from Queen
Victoria to President Buchanan. Captain D. Smith Harris had, the
year before, brought out the "Grey Eagle", which had been built at
Cincinnati at a cost of $60,000. He had built this boat with his own
money, or at least a controlling interest was in his name. He had
intended her to be the fastest boat on the upper river, and she was
easily that. As her captain and practically her owner, he was at
liberty to gratify any whim that might come into his head. In this
case it occurred to him that he would like to deliver in St. Paul the
Queen's message to the President ahead of any one else.
There was at that time no telegraph line into St. Paul. Lines ran to
Dunleith, where the "Grey Eagle" was taking in cargo for St. Paul,
and also to Prairie du Chien, where the "Itasca" was loading. Both
boats were to leave at six o'clock in the evening. Captain Harris had
sixty-one miles farther to run than had Captain Whitten. But Harris
knew that he was racing, and Whitten did not, which made all the
difference in the world.
Whitten soldiered along at his usual gait, stopping at every landing,
putting off all cargo at each place, and taking on all that offered,
and probably delayed to pass the compliments of the day with agents
and other friends, as well as discuss the great message that he was
bearing. The "Grey Eagle", on the contrary, stopped at only a few
of the principal landings, and took on no freight after leaving
Dunleith. She did not even put off freight that she was carrying,
but took it through to St. Paul and delivered it on her return trip.
She carried the mail, but in delivering it a man stood on the end of
one of the long stages run out from the bow, from which he threw the
sacks ashore, the boat in the meantime running along parallel with
the levee, and not stopping completely at any landing. Running far
ahead of her time, there were no mail sacks ready for her, and there
was no reason for stopping. The "Grey Eagle" had the best of soft
coal, reinforced by sundry barrels of pitch, from which the fires
were fed whenever they showed any signs of failing. With all these
points in her favor, in addition to the prime fact that she was by
far the swiftest steamboat that ever turned a wheel on the upper
river, it was possible for her to overtake the slower and totally
unconcerned "Itasca", when only a few miles from St. Paul.
The race proper began when Whitten sighted the "Gray Eagle" and
realized that Harris was trying to beat him into St. Paul in order
to be the first to deliver the Queen's message. Then the "Itasca"
did all that was in her to do, and was beaten by less than a length,
Harris throwing the message ashore from the roof, attached to a piece
of coal, and thus winning the race by a handbreadth.
The time of the "Grey Eagle" from Dunleith, was eighteen hours; the
distance, two hundred and ninety miles; speed per hour, 16 1/9 miles.
The "Itasca", ran from Prairie du Chien to St. Paul in eighteen
hours; distance, two hundred and twenty-nine miles; speed, 12 2/3
miles per hour.
The "Itasca" was far from being a slow boat, and had Whitten known
that Harris was "racing" with him, the "Grey Eagle" would not have
come within several hours of catching her.
As a race against time, however, the run of the "Grey Eagle" was
really something remarkable. A sustained speed of over sixteen
miles an hour for a distance of three hundred miles, upstream, is
a wonderful record for an inland steamboat anywhere, upper river
or lower river; and the pride which Captain Harris had in his
beautiful boat was fully justified. A few years later, she struck
the Rock Island Bridge and sank in less than five minutes, a total
loss. It was pitiful to see the old Captain leaving the wreck,
a broken-hearted man, weeping over the loss of his darling, and
returning to his Galena home, never again to command a steamboat. He
had, during his eventful life on the upper river, built, owned, or
commanded scores of steamboats; and this was the end.
The "Northerner", of the St. Louis Line, was a fast boat, and an
active contestant for the "broom". The boat that could, and did
run away from, or pass under way, all other boats, signalized her
championship by carrying a big broom on her pilot house. When a
better boat passed her under way, the ethics of the river demanded
that she pull the broom down and retire into seclusion until she in
turn should pass the champion and thus regain her title. The struggle
on the upper river lay between the "Northerner" and the "Key City".
The "Grey Eagle" was in a class by herself, and none other disputed
her claims, while actively disputing those of all others of the
Minnesota Packet Company, of which the "Key City" was the champion
and defender.
The two rivals got together at Hudson, twenty miles up Lake St.
Croix--whether by accident or agreement it is impossible to say,
but probably by agreement. They had twenty miles of deep water, two
miles wide, with only four close places to run. It was a fair field
for a race, and they ran a fair and a fine one. For miles they were
side by side. Sometimes a spurt would put one a little ahead; and
again the other would get a trifle the most steam and the deepest
water, and so creep ahead a little. When they came into Prescott, at
the foot of the lake, the "Key City" was a clear length ahead, her
engineers having saved a barrel or two of resin for the home stretch.
With this lead she had the right of way to turn the point and head up
the river. Ned West was at the wheel, with an assistant to "pull her
down" for him, and he made a beautiful turn with his long and narrow
craft; while the "Northerner" had to slow down and wait a minute
or two before making the turn. In the meantime the "Key City's"
whistles were blowing, her bell ringing, and her passengers and crew
cheering, while a man climbed to the roof of the pilot house and
lashed the broom to the finial at the top, the crown of laurels for
the victor.
The lower river stern-wheel steamer "Messenger" was also a very fast
boat. On one occasion she came very near wresting the broom from
the "Key City", in a race through Lake Pepin, where also there was
plenty of water and sea room. The "Key City" had a barge in tow and
thus was handicapped. The "Messenger" seemed, therefore, likely to
win the race, as she had passed the former under way. Within four
miles of the head of the lake, Captain Worden of the "Key City"
ordered the barge cast adrift, having placed a few men on board of
it, with an anchor and cable to use in case of necessity. Thus freed
from the encumbrance, he put on steam and passed his rival before
reaching Wacouta, in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part
of the latter to retain her lead. Running far enough ahead of the
"Messenger" to render the maneuver safe, Worden crossed her bow, and
circling around her ran back and picked up his barge.
In this race, it was said by passengers who were on board the two
boats, that the flames actually blazed from the tops of the tall
chimneys on both craft; and on both, men were stationed on the
roof playing streams of water from lines of hose on the chimney
breechings, to prevent the decks from igniting. Under such conditions
it is easy to see how a boat might catch fire and burn. And yet the
passengers liked it. Had they been the owners of casks of hams,
as legend relates of a passenger on a lower river boat under like
circumstances, there is no doubt they would have made an oblation of
them to the gods of heat and steam, rather than have the other boat
win.
The earliest recorded race run on the upper river was that between
the "Nominee", owned and commanded by Captain Orren Smith, and the
"West Newton" (Captain Daniel Smith Harris), in 1852. In this event
but one boat actually ran, for Harris had no confidence in the
ability of his boat to win, and not possessing the temper that would
brook defeat, he declined to start. The "Nominee" completed the run
from Galena to St. Paul and return, a distance of seven hundred
miles, making all landings and handling all freight and passengers,
in fifty-five hours and forty-nine minutes, an average rate of speed
of 12-1/2 miles an hour, half of it against and half with the
current. This was good running, for the boats of that time. As there
was no other boat to compete for the honor, the "Nominee" carried the
broom until she sank at Britt's Landing, below La Crosse, in 1854.
Bunnell, in his very interesting _History of Winona_, says:
"Captain Orren Smith was a very devout man; and while he might
indulge in racing, for the honor of his boat, he believed in
keeping the Sabbath; and as long as he owned the boats which
he commanded he would not run a minute after twelve o'clock
Saturday night, but would tie his boat to the bank, wherever
it might be, and remain at rest until the night following at
twelve o'clock, when he would resume the onward course of his
trip. If a landing could be made near a village or settlement
where religious services could be held, the people were invited
on board on Sunday, and if no minister of the gospel was at
hand, the zealous Captain would lead in such service as suited