"Sam was always good-natured, and he had a natural taste for the river.
He had a fine memory and never forgot anything I told him."
Mark Twain himself records a different opinion of his memory, with the size of its appalling task. It can only be presented in his own words.
In the pages quoted he had mastered somewhat of the problem, and had begun to take on airs. His chief was a constant menace at such moments:
One day he turned on me suddenly with this settler:
"What is the shape of Walnut Bend?"
He might as well have asked me my grandmother"s opinion of protoplasm. I reflected respectfully, and then said I didn"t know it had any particular shape. My gun-powdery chief went off with a bang, of course, and then went on loading and firing until he was out of adjectives.... I waited. By and by he said:
"My boy, you"ve got to know the shape of the river perfectly. It is all there is left to steer by on a very dark night. Everything is blotted out and gone. But mind you, it hasn"t the same shape in the night that it has in the daytime."
"How on earth am I ever going to learn it, then?"
"How do you follow a hall at home in the dark? Because you know the shape of it. You can"t see it."
"Do you mean to say that I"ve got to know all the million trifling variations of shape in the banks of this interminable river as well as I know the shape of the front hall at home?"
"On my honor, you"ve got to know them better than any man ever did know the shapes of the halls in his own house."
"I wish I was dead!"
"Now, I don"t want to discourage you, but----"
"Well, pile it on me; I might as well have it now as another time."
"You see, this has got to be learned; there isn"t any getting around it. A clear starlight night throws such heavy shadows that, if you didn"t know the shape of a sh.o.r.e perfectly, you would claw away from every bunch of timber, because you would take the black shadow of it for a solid cape; and, you see, you would be getting scared to death every fifteen minutes by the watch. You would be fifty yards from sh.o.r.e all the time when you ought to be within fifty feet of it.
You can"t see a snag in one of those shadows, but you know exactly where it is, and the shape of the river tells you when you are coming to it. Then there"s your pitch-dark night; the river is a very different shape on a pitch-dark night from what it is on a starlight night. All sh.o.r.es seem to be straight lines, then, and mighty dim ones, too; and you"d run them for straight lines, only you know better. You boldly drive your boat right into what seems to be a solid, straight wall (you know very well that in reality there is a curve there), and that wall falls back and makes way for you. Then there"s your gray mist. You take a night when there"s one of these grisly, drizzly, gray mists, and then there isn"t any particular shape to a sh.o.r.e. A gray mist would tangle the head of the oldest man that ever lived. Well, then, different kinds of moonlight change the shape of the river in different ways.
You see----"
"Oh, don"t say any more, please! Have I got to learn the shape of the river according to all these five hundred thousand different ways? If I tried to carry all that cargo in my head it would make me stoop-shouldered."
"No! you only learn the shape of the river; and you learn it with such absolute certainty that you can always steer by the shape that"s in your head, and never mind the one that"s before your eyes."
"Very well, I"ll try it; but, after I have learned it, can I depend on it? Will it keep the same form, and not go fooling around?"
Before Mr. Bixby could answer, Mr. W. came in to take the watch, and he said:
"Bixby, you"ll have to look out for President"s island, and all that country clear away up above the Old Hen and Chickens. The banks are caving and the shape of the sh.o.r.es changing like everything. Why, you wouldn"t know the point about 40. You can go up inside the old sycamore snag now."
So that question was answered. Here were leagues of sh.o.r.e changing shape. My spirits were down in the mud again. Two things seemed pretty apparent to me. One was that in order to be a pilot a man had got to learn more than any one man ought to be allowed to know; and the other was that he must learn it all over again in a different way every twenty-four hours.
I went to work now to learn the shape of the river; and of all the eluding and ungraspable objects that ever I tried to get mind or hands on, that was the chief. I would fasten my eyes upon a sharp, wooded point that projected far into the river some miles ahead of me and go to laboriously photographing its shape upon my brain; and just as I was beginning to succeed to my satisfaction we would draw up to it, and the exasperating thing would begin to melt away and fold back into the bank!
It was plain that I had got to learn the shape of the river in all the different ways that could be thought of--upside down, wrong end first, inside out, fore-and-aft, and "thort-ships,"--and then know what to do on gray nights when it hadn"t any shape at all. So I set about it. In the course of time I began to get the best of this knotty lesson, and my self-complacency moved to the front once more.
Mr. Bixby was all fixed and ready to start it to the rear again. He opened on me after this fashion:
"How much water did we have in the middle crossing at Hole-in-The- Wall, trip before last?"
I considered this an outrage. I said:
"Every trip down and up the leadsmen are singing through that tangled place for three-quarters of an hour on a stretch. How do you reckon I can remember such a mess as that?"
"My boy, you"ve got to remember it. You"ve got to remember the exact spot and the exact marks the boat lay in when we had the shoalest water, in every one of the five hundred shoal places between St. Louis and New Orleans; and you mustn"t get the shoal soundings and marks of one trip mixed up with the shoal soundings and marks of another, either, for they"re not often twice alike.
You must keep them separate."
When I came to myself again, I said:
"When I get so that I can do that, I"ll be able to raise the dead, and then I won"t have to pilot a steamboat to make a living. I want to retire from this business. I want a slush-bucket and a brush; I"m only fit for a roustabout. I haven"t got brains enough to be a pilot; and if I had I wouldn"t have strength enough to carry them around, unless I went on crutches."
"Now drop that! When I say I"ll learn a man the river I mean it.
And you can depend on it, I"ll learn him or kill him."
We have quoted at length from this chapter because it seems of very positive importance here. It is one of the most luminous in the book so far as the mastery of the science of piloting is concerned, and shows better than could any other combination of words something of what is required of the learner. It does not cover the whole problem, by any means--Mark Twain himself could not present that; and even considering his old-time love of the river and the pilot"s trade, it is still incredible that a man of his temperament could have persisted, as he did, against such obstacles.
XXIV. THE RIVER CURRICULUM
He acquired other kinds of knowledge. As the streets of Hannibal in those early days, and the printing-offices of several cities, had taught him human nature in various unvarnished aspects, so the river furnished an added course to that vigorous education. Morally, its atmosphere could not be said to be an improvement on the others. Navigation in the West had begun with crafts of the flat-boat type--their navigators rude, hardy men, heavy drinkers, reckless fighters, barbaric in their sports, coa.r.s.e in their wit, profane in everything. Steam-boatmen were the natural successors of these pioneers--a shade less coa.r.s.e, a thought less profane, a veneer less barbaric. But these things were mainly "above stairs." You had but to scratch lightly a mate or a deck-hand to find the old keel-boatman savagery. Captains were overlords, and pilots kings in this estate; but they were not angels. In Life on the Mississippi Clemens refers to his chief"s explosive vocabulary and tells us how he envied the mate"s manner of giving an order. It was easier to acquire those things than piloting, and, on the whole, quicker. One could improve upon them, too, with imagination and wit and a natural gift for terms. That Samuel Clemens maintained his promise as to drink and cards during those apprentice days is something worth remembering; and if he did not always restrict his profanity to moments of severe pressure or sift the quality of his wit, we may also remember that he was an extreme example of a human being, in that formative stage which gathers all as grist, later to refine it for the uses and delights of men.
He acquired a vast knowledge of human character. He says:
In that brief, sharp schooling I got personally and familiarly acquainted with all the different types of human nature that are to be found in fiction, biography, or history. When I find a well- drawn character in fiction or biography, I generally take a warm personal interest in him, for the reason that I have, known him before--met him on the river.
Undoubtedly the river was a great school for the study of life"s broader philosophies and humors: philosophies that avoid vague circ.u.mlocution and aim at direct and sure results; humors of the rugged and vigorous sort that in Europe are known as "American" and in America are known as "Western." Let us be thankful that Mark Twain"s school was no less than it was--and no more.
The demands of the Missouri River trade took Horace Bixby away from the Mississippi, somewhat later, and he consigned his pupil, according to custom, to another pilot--it is not certain, now, to just which pilot, but probably to Zeb Leavenworth or Beck Jolly, of the John J. Roe. The Roe was a freight-boat, "as slow as an island and as comfortable as a farm." In fact, the Roe was owned and conducted by farmers, and Sam Clemens thought if John Quarles"s farm could be set afloat it would greatly resemble that craft in the matter of good-fellowship, hospitality, and speed. It was said of her that up-stream she could even beat an island, though down-stream she could never quite overtake the current, but was a "love of a steamboat" nevertheless. The Roe was not licensed to carry pa.s.sengers, but she always had a dozen "family guests"
aboard, and there was a big boiler-deck for dancing and moonlight frolics, also a piano in the cabin. The young pilot sometimes played on the piano and sang to his music songs relating to the "gra.s.shopper on the sweet-potato vine," or to an old horse by the name of Methusalem:
Took him down and sold him in Jerusalem, A long time ago.
There were forty-eight stanzas about this ancient horse, all pretty much alike; but the a.s.sembled company was not likely to be critical, and his efforts won him laurels. He had a heavenly time on the John J. Roe, and then came what seemed inferno by contrast. Bixby returned, made a trip or two, then left and transferred him again, this time to a man named Brown. Brown had a berth on the fine new steamer Pennsylvania, one of the handsomest boats on the river, and young Clemens had become a fine steersman, so it is not unlikely that both men at first were gratified by the arrangement.
But Brown was a fault-finding, tyrannical chief, ignorant, vulgar, and malicious. In the Mississippi book the author gives his first interview with Brown, also his last one. For good reasons these occasions were burned into his memory, and they may be accepted as substantially correct. Brown had an offensive manner. His first greeting was a surly question.
"Are you Horace Bigsby"s cub?"
"Bixby" was usually p.r.o.nounced "Bigsby" on the river, but Brown made it especially obnoxious and followed it up with questions and comments and orders still more odious. His subordinate soon learned to detest him thoroughly. It was necessary, however, to maintain a respectable deportment--custom, discipline, even the law, required that--but it must have been a hard winter and spring the young steersman put in during those early months of 1858, restraining himself from the gratification of slaying Brown. Time would bring revenge--a tragic revenge and at a fearful cost; but he could not guess that, and he put in his spare time planning punishments of his own.
I could imagine myself killing Brown; there was no law against that, and that was the thing I always used to do the moment I was abed.
Instead of going over my river in my mind, as was my duty, I threw business aside for pleasure and killed Brown. I killed Brown every night for a month; not in old, stale, commonplace ways, but in new and picturesque ones--ways that were sometimes surprising for freshness of design and ghastly for situation and environment.
Once when Brown had been more insulting than usual his subordinate went to bed and killed him in "seventeen different ways--all of them new."
He had made an effort at first to please Brown, but it was no use.