Old Times on the Upper Mississippi
three times, and his music appeals to me yet, through all the years
that lie between. The witchery and the pathos of "Home, Sweet Home",
"Annie Laurie", the "White Squall", and selections from operas of
which I had then never even heard the names, cast such a spell that
the boat on which he travelled was crowded every trip. Pity 'tis
that one so gifted should fall into a slavery from which there was
no redemption. He died in St. Louis, poor and neglected, a wreck
infinitely more pitiable than that of the finest steamboat ever cast
away on the Great River.
One of the boats on which I served employed a sextet of negro
firemen, whose duty, in addition to firing, was to sing to attract
custom at the landings. This was not only a unique performance,
but it was likewise good music--that is, good of its kind. There
was nothing classic about it, but it was naturally artistic. They
sang plantation melodies--real negro melodies; not the witless and
unmusical inanities which under the name of "coon songs" pass with
the present generation for negro minstrelsy. Of course these darkies
were picked for their musical ability, and were paid extra wages for
singing.
The leader, Sam Marshall, received more than the others, because he
was an artist. This term does not do him justice. In addition to a
voice of rare sweetness and power, Sam was a born _improvisatore_.
It was his part of the entertainment to stand on the capstan-head,
with his chorus gathered about him, as the boat neared the landing.
If at night, the torch fed with fatwood and resin threw a red glow
upon his shining black face, as he lifted up his strong, melodious
voice, and lined out his improvised songs, which recited the speed
and elegance of this particular boat, the suavity and skill of its
captain, the dexterity of its pilots, the manfulness of its mate, and
the loveliness of Chloe, its black chambermaid. This latter reference
always "brought down the house", as Chloe usually placed herself in a
conspicuous place on the guards to hear the music, and incidentally
the flatteries of her coal-black lover. As each line was sung by the
leader the chorus would take up the refrain:
De Captain stands on de upper deck;
(Ah ha-a-a-ah! Oh ho-o-o-o-ho!)
You nebber see 'nudder such gentlehem, _I_ 'spec;
(Ah ha-a-a-ah, Oh ho-o-o-ho.)
and then would follow, as an interlude, the refrain of some old
plantation melody in the same key and meter, the six darkies singing
their parts in perfect time and accord, and with a melody that cannot
be bettered in all the world of music.
De pilot he twisses he big roun' wheel;
(Ah ha-a-a-ah, Oh ho-o-o-oh.)
He sings, and he whissels, and he dance Virginia reel,
(Ah ha-a-a-ah, Oh ho-o-o-ho),--
an undoubted reference to Tom Cushing, who, before his promotion to
the pilot house was said to have been a tenor in grand opera in New
York. He was a beautiful singer at any rate; could whistle like a New
York newsboy, and dance like a coryphée. The "Old Man" would have
been willing to take his oath that Cushing could and did do all three
at the same time, in the most untimely hours of the morning watch, at
the same time steering his steamboat in the most approved fashion.
The next stanza was:
"'Gineer in the engin' room listenn' fo' de bell;
He boun' to beat dat oder boat or bus' 'em up to--_heb'n_,"
was accepted as a distinct reference to Billy Hamilton, as the manner
of stating his intention to win out in a race was peculiar to the
junior engineer, and the proposition was accepted without debate.
"De Debbel he come in the middle of de night;
Sam, dere, he scairt so he tuhn _mos'_ white--Jes like dat
white man out dere on de lebbee",
pointing at some one whom he deemed it safe to poke fun at, and of
course raising a laugh at the expense of the individual so honored.
"Des _look_ at dem white fokses standin' on de sho';
Dey la-a-aff, and dey la-a-aff, till dey cain't laff no
mo'--ha-ha-ha-ha-ha",
and Sam would throw back his head and laugh a regular contagion into
the whole crowd--on the boat and "on de sho", opening a mouth which
one of the darkies asserted was "de biggest mouf dis nigger ebber saw
on any human bein' 'cept a aligator"; or, as the mate expressed it:
"It was like the opening of navigation."
"Dish yer nigger he fire at the middle do';
Shake 'em up libely for to make de boat go",
was a somewhat ornate description of Mr. Marshall's own duties on
board the boat. As a matter of fact he did very little firing,
personally, although when a race was on he could shovel coal or pitch
four-foot wood into the middle door with the best of them, at the
same time, singing at the top of his voice. Upon ordinary occasions
he let the other darkies pitch the cord wood while he exercised a
general supervision over them, as became an acknowledged leader.
To hear these darkies sing the real slave music, which was older than
the singers, older than the plantation, as old as Africa itself,
wherein the ancestors of some of them at least, might have been kings
and princes as well as freemen, was better than the fo'c'sle comedies
enacted for the amusement of the passengers. These minor chords
carried a strain of heartbreak, as in the lines:
"De night is dark, de day is long
And we are far fum home,
Weep, my brudders, weep!"
And the closing lines:
"De night is past, de long day done,
An' we are going home,
Shout, my brudders, shout!"
were a prophecy of that day of freedom and rest, after centuries of
toil and bondage, the dawn of which was even then discernible to
those who, like Abraham Lincoln, were wise to read in the political
heavens the signs of its coming.
Chapter XXI
_Steamboat Bonanzas_
How it was possible to derive any profit from an investment of from
$20,000 to $40,000, the principal of which had an average tenure
of life of but five years, has puzzled a great many conservative
business men from "down east", where "plants" lasted a lifetime,
and the profits from which may have been sure, but were certain to
be small. A man educated in such an atmosphere would hesitate long,
before investing $25,000 in a steamboat that was foreordained to the
scrap pile at the end of five summers; or where one out of every
two was as certainly predestined to go up in smoke or down into the
mud of the river bottom at the end of four years--these periods
representing the ordinary life of a Mississippi River steamboat.
From 1849 to 1862 the shipyards of the Ohio, where nine out of ten
Western boats were built, could not keep up with the orders. Every
available shipwright was employed, and on some boats gangs worked
at night by the light of torches at double wages, so great was the
demand. Every iron foundry was likewise driven to the limit to turn
out engines, boilers, and other machinery with which to give life to
the hulls that were growing as if by magic in every shipyard.
If there had not been profit in the business, the captains and other
river men who gave orders for these craft would not have given
them. By far the greater number of boats were built for individual
owners--practical river men who navigated the boats, and who knew
just what they were about. Many of the orders were given to replace
vessels that had been snagged or burned within the past twenty-four
hours--for time was money, and a man could not afford to be without
a steamboat many weeks, when twenty weeks or less represented a new
boat in net earnings. These men knew from actual experience that if
they could keep their craft afloat for two years they could build a
new boat from the profits made with her, even if she sank or burned
at the end of that time. If she kept afloat for four years, they
could buy or build two or three new ones from the profits, even
without the aid of insurance. As a matter of fact the boats carrying
insurance in those days were the exceptions. It came high, and owners
preferred to take their own chances rather than indulge to any great
extent in that luxury. How such profits were earned and such results
obtained, it will be the object of this chapter to disclose.
In those days every boat made money. A big and fast one made a
great deal; those small and slow made little as compared with their
larger rivals, but plenty as compared with their own cost. Perhaps
most vessel owners began on a small scale. A little boat might cost
$5,000. She would run on some tributary of the Great River, and in
the absence of any railroads might control all the traffic she was
capable of handling, and at her own rates. In the course of two or
three years her owner was able to build a bigger and a better boat.
By combining with some other river man, the two might build one
costing $25,000, and carrying from a hundred and fifty to two hundred
tons of freight, and passengers in proportion. With such an equipment
there was a fortune in sight at any time between 1849 and 1862,
provided always that the boat was not snagged or burned on her first
trip.
The doctrine (or science) of averages, is peculiar. In order to get
an average of four years for a steamboat's life, it is necessary to
keep some of them afloat for nine or ten; while on the other hand you
are certain to "kill" a lot of them within a year after they touch
water. When the latter happens, the investment is lost and the owner
is probably ruined.
For purposes of illustration we will take as a sample one from the
best class of money-makers on the upper river, in the flush times of
1857. Minnesota was organized as a territory in 1849, and admitted
as a state in 1858. From 1852 to 1857 there were not boats enough to
carry the people who were flocking into this newly-opened farmers'
and lumbermen's paradise. There were over a hundred and twenty-five
different steamboats registered at St. Paul in the latter year.
The boats carrying good cargoes all through the season were the
money-makers. Some of the larger ones were unable to get over the
sand-bars after the midsummer droughts began. The stern-wheel boat
of two hundred to three hundred tons was the one that could handle
a good cargo on little water, and represented the highest type of
profit-earning craft.
Such a boat would be about 200 feet long, 30 feet beam, and five
feet depth of hold. She would have three large iron boilers (steel
not having entered largely into boiler construction at that time),
and fairly large engines, giving her good speed without an excessive
expenditure for fuel. She would cost from $25,000 to $30,000, and
accommodate two hundred cabin passengers comfortably, with a hundred
second-class people on deck.
With such a boat furnished and ready for business, it is the duty
of the captain to go out and hire his crew, and fit her out for a
month's work. Such an investment in 1857, on the upper river, would
approximate the following figures:
_Per month_
Captain $ 300.00
Chief clerk 200.00
Second clerk 100.00
Chief mate 200.00
Second mate 100.00
Pilots (2 at $500.00) 1,000.00
Chief engineer 200.00
Second engineer 150.00
Firemen (8 at $50.00) 400.00
Steward 200.00
Carpenter 150.00