The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks Page 7

Crouched in the thick brush of Wolf Island, the Indian braves were as frozen as petrified wood. They had paddled their canoes out to the island before the first shock of the earthquake. When the worst of the tremors struck, their resolve was only strengthened. The Penelore was wreaking havoc across their land, and it needed to be killed. Straining to hear, the chief caught a faint unknown sound coming from upstream. With a series of hand signals, he motioned for his braves to climb into their canoes for the attack.

  * * *

  Lydia rushed to the pilothouse and stuck her head in the door. “The baby has started to cry, and Tiger is whining up a storm.”

  Roosevelt turned to Jack. “That’s the signal another shock is coming. Keep to the main channel to give yourself as much leeway as possible.”

  Jack pointed through the pilothouse front window. “An island coming up.”

  Roosevelt scanned through The Navigator, the chart book of the river written by Zadoc Cramer. “A lot of this has changed since the earthquake,” he said, “but if I had to guess, I’d say it was Wolf Island.”

  “Which side is the best channel?” asked Jack.

  “The left channel has the deepest water.”

  “The left channel it is.”

  “How long before the next shock?” Roosevelt asked Lydia.

  “Judging by Tiger’s howls, not long.”

  * * *

  A ghastly sound reached the ears of the Sioux braves hidden on Wolf Island. The grinding of metal, the hissing of steam, the thumping of the walking beam. The great beast grew larger as it neared. The beast was blue like the sky — but this was nothing that came from the heavens. An ugly, pointed nose gave way to two waterwheels halfway down the trunk of the beast. Just behind them were a pair of black tubes where the smoke from the fires of hell spewed forth.

  A few white men walked on the decks — dark lords of this evil creature.

  First they would kill the white men. Then they would run the beast onto land and put the fire to her skin. When the Penelore was twenty yards upstream, their leader gave the signal, and the braves rose as one. With a war cry, they ran for the water.

  The Mississippi River running underground added more much-needed lubricant to the jumble of opposing plates. Once again the earth let loose in a spasm. This tremor would last longer.

  At the same instant that the Sioux braves were sprinting to the water, the ground nearby opened up as if it had been pierced by a thousand spears. Funnel-shaped holes in the earth spewed hot jets of water, and the jets formed an arc nearly one hundred feet overhead. Larger craters opened up in the ground, then spewed forth all manners of woody material: trees, branches, coal. It was a bizarre sight.

  “Indians approaching from the island!” Roosevelt shouted.

  Jack glanced toward Wolf Island and saw a group of braves carrying canoes racing toward the water. Wearing full head-dress, they carried bows on their backs.

  Then, all at once, the downstream end of the island collapsed into the water.

  The screams from the Sioux braves filled the air. Scalded by the hot water shooting from the ground, they let go of their canoes and stumbled into the cool water for relief. Twenty of them managed to launch a few canoes unscathed and began paddling into the river with every ounce of their strength, determined to destroy the monster they believed was the cause of the tempest.

  They began to close the gap, gaining on New Orleans.

  “Pour on the steam!” Roosevelt shouted to Baker. “They mean to have our scalps.”

  Baker and his stokers began throwing wood in the firebox like madmen, building up to a full head of steam. Slowly, New Orleans began increasing speed. But the Indians were gaining. Putting their backs into it, they could paddle their canoes at a rapid pace.

  One canoe slowed as its occupants dropped their paddles, took up their bows, and shot a flight of arrows at the riverboat. Several arrows struck the rear cabin, giving it the look of a porcupine. Tiger ignored the threat and stood on the stem, barking at the attackers.

  The first canoe was only twenty feet behind the stern now. Roosevelt and three of his crew loaded their flintlock muskets and prepared to fire point-blank when the Indians came alongside.

  The boarding assault never came. Baker had the steam pressure wavering at the red line, and New Orleans began to pull away, black smoke pouring from her funnel. Seeing the frustrated Indians falling behind, he couldn’t resist adding to Tiger’s barking with a series of shrieks through the steam whistle.

  Soon the Penelore had disappeared around the next bend, and there was no way for the Sioux to catch the beast.

  The series of unforeseen dangers past, Jack glanced to the river ahead. The sun looked like a smoking copper plate framed by a purplish haze of atmosphere. Jack glanced at the shoreline ahead. The earthen hills alongside the great river were tumbling down like sand castles in a tsunami. Large chunks of peaty soil floated on the water, along with downed trees, part of a house, and what looked like a floating casket wrested free from the earth.

  “The channel’s shifting,” Roosevelt said easily. “I’d steer to starboard now.”

  New Orleans would be miles downstream before the quaking stopped. Amazingly, she made it through the holocaust with minimal damage.

  * * *

  In Mississippi you can sweat even in January. Particularly if you are dressed in a wool band uniform left over from the Revolutionary War and are carrying a tuba. Cletus Fayette and the rest of the makeshift band hurried toward the waterfront.

  A tuba, a single large drum, and a fiddle — not really a band, more of a trio.

  Word of the dramatic voyage of New Orleans had reached Natchez three days before. The mayor had wasted no time assembling a suitable welcome. Along with the band, Titus Baird, the mayor, was planning to give Roosevelt the key to the city. Two city councilmen were pressed into service for the obligatory speeches. Several of the local girls had been rounded up to present flowers to the brave women aboard. A banquet would follow in the evening.

  Nearly a hundred citizens stood on the hill and glanced upriver for sign of the steamboat.

  * * *

  “Yes,” Nicholas said, “we’ll be in Natchez at least a week.”

  “I’ll bank the fires, then. The boilers need a break.”

  “Fine,” Roosevelt said, “we should have sufficient steam to reach the dock.”

  Nicholas climbed from the engine pit and glanced at the scenery. The virgin forest of the upper Ohio River, the falls near Louisville, the terrible cataclysm of weeks of earthquakes and aftershocks were still a vivid memory. His ship and crew had survived the trials with courage and conviction. He and Lydia had grown closer, and Engineer Baker still planned to marry Maggie Markum when they reached New Orleans. Andrew Jack had started to exhibit a hidden sense of humor.

  New Orleans rounded the last bend, and Roosevelt glanced toward Natchez.

  Baird signaled for the band to begin playing as soon as the steamboat came into sight. The band kept repeating the only song they knew, a crude rendition of “God Save the Queen,” but, for some reason, the steamboat stayed away.

  Mayor Baird watched as the ship began a turn to make its way to the dock, then began to drift with the downstream current.

  “I don’t have enough steam to make the dock,” Jack said.

  Nicholas Roosevelt could only laugh. The steamboat had successfully navigated a thousand miles of toil and trouble. With salvation only yards away, they had run out of steam. The situation was so ludicrous it was humorous. Baker walked into the pilothouse. He was already dressed in a clean white shirt, and his hands and face looked freshly washed. The grimace on his face was barely hidden.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said quietly.

  * * *

  Cletus Fayette’s head was spinning. A man could play a tuba only so long before he needed a break and a cigar. Fayette had reached his limit.

  “We need to take a break, Mayor Baird,” he shouted.

  “Okay, Cletu
s,” Baird said, “but hurry up. Smoke is coming from the stacks again.”

  Fifteen minutes later, New Orleans was tied to the dock in Natchez. The weary crew walked down the gangplank and made their way through the reception committee to a local hotel and a hero’s welcome. The remainder of the journey would be a cakewalk.

  In the dead of winter, the trees in the forests surrounding Natchez were devoid of leaves. From the bluff outside town, Nicholas Baker looked north. He could see where the river made a giant loop before passing the city and flowing downstream. A stiff wind blew west, bringing the smell of fields in Alabama being cleared with fire.

  “I made arrangements with a preacher in town,” Baker said eagerly. “We can be married this afternoon — if you still want me, that is.”

  “Of course,” Markum said, “but what brought this on?”

  “I just don’t want to wait any longer,” Baker said.

  “Have you told the Roosevelts?” Markum asked.

  “No,” Baker admitted, “but I thought we could both tell them right now.”

  “Now?” Markum said.

  “Yes, now,” Jack said, “if you want them at the service.”

  A little over an hour later, on the deck of New Orleans, moored just off Natchez, Nicholas Baker stood next to Nicholas Roosevelt. Lydia Roosevelt, holding Henry the baby, wrapped in a clean white blanket, stood next to Maggie.

  “Do you, Maggie Markum,” the preacher said solemnly, “take Nicholas Baker to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  A yes and a kiss sealed the deal.

  The first marriage on a steamboat turned out to be brief.

  A few days later, the first cargo of cotton was loaded aboard New Orleans. Once the bales were secured on deck and the wood for the boiler secured in the hold, there was little else to do. They left for New Orleans on the seventh day of January 1812.

  * * *

  Dawn came like a lamb on January 12, 1812. A clear sky greeted Nicholas Roosevelt as he sat alone on top of the aft cabin. The air was dry, with only occasional small gusts of wind that rippled the placid surface of the river. After all that had transpired, it seemed odd that New Orleans would arrive so calmly in the city for which she was named. Nicholas stared to the west. A flock of pelicans, three dozen in all, flew overhead from west to east. The flock was headed for Lake Pontchartrain, some three miles distant. The city of New Orleans was only two miles farther.

  “What are you- thinking?” Lydia said, as she climbed up onto the roof.

  Nicholas smiled and sat quietly for a moment before answering.

  “I was wondering what will happen to this old girl in the future,” he added.

  “New Orleans has faced down the devil,” Lydia said. “She’ll be on this river long after we’re gone, dear.”

  “I hope so,” Roosevelt said.

  “After all she’s been through,” Lydia said, “it would really take a lot to hurt her.”

  Just then Andrew Jack shouted, “New Orleans!”

  But Lydia Roosevelt would be proved wrong. New Orleans sank thirty months later. After numerous weekly profitable journeys between Natchez and New Orleans and her brief service transporting men and supplies downriver for Andrew Jackson’s army during the Battle of New Orleans, the evening of July 14, 1814, found her on the west side of the Mississippi across from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, at a place called Clay’s Landing.

  John Clay had the wood cut, stacked, and waiting as usual. Ten cords in total; ten dollars would be his payment. Clay waited out of the rain under a nearby tree as New Orleans pulled close to the dock leading from shore. He watched as a deckhand tossed a line over one of the poles set deep in the Mississippi River mud. Then he waited until he saw the captain poke his head out of the pilothouse.

  “John,” the captain shouted. “Got my wood?”

  “All cut and stacked.” Clay started from under the tree just as a bolt of lightning struck another tree thirty yards upstream. His hair shot out from his scalp at the static electricity, and he huddled back under the tree.

  The captain nodded to the deckhands milling around on the deck. “We still have three hours of daylight left. Let’s get the wood loaded on board.” Then he turned to Clay.

  “Come into my cabin,” the captain said, “and I’ll pay for the wood.”

  Clay followed the captain to his cabin and waited as he counted out the French gold dauphins. After placing the coins in a leather pouch, John pulled the drawstring tight, then slid the rawhide rope around his head.

  “Want a drink?” the captain asked.

  “I’m a little chilled,” Clay admitted.

  So they had a drink and waited together while the wood was loaded.

  A short time later, Clay stepped onto the dock and the captain, who followed, stared up at the sky.

  “We get your wood on board tonight, we can get an early start in the morning.”

  “Makes sense,” Clay said, as he started up the dock. “The river will be choked with debris from the big rain.”

  “Good night,” the captain shouted after the retreating woodsman.

  “Watch for the falling water,” Clay shouted back.

  But the captain was already inside, and he never heard the warning.

  Before the Mississippi River was controlled by dikes and spillways, the water level could quickly drop by feet following a big rain. As the rain-swollen tributaries spilled into the river and the highest point of depth was reached, the water would then race downstream, actually sucking the level lower. After a half-day or so, the level would usually return to normal. The next morning, at first light, the captain ordered New Orleans put into reverse to back away from the dock — but she was hung fast on a sunken stump. A few back-and-forth motions and the bottom of her hull was holed.

  A passenger on board wrote of the sad event in the Louisiana Gazette of July 26, 1814:

  On Sunday 10th July, left New Orleans. On Wednesday the 13th, arrived at Baton Rouge — landed some cargo. And in the evening departed and arrived at Mr. Clay’s Landing, two miles above on the opposite shore, the usual place of taking in wood. The night being dark and rainy, the Capt. considered it most prudent to secure the boat for the night… Early in the morning, preparations were made for departing, and at daylight the engine was put in motion, but the vessel could only swing around, and could not be forced forward by steam. The water had fallen during the night 16 to 18 inches — the Capt. then concluded she had lodged on a stump, and endeavored to push her off with spars against the bank, but without effect. He immediately satisfied himself it was a stump, and found it by feeling with an oar 15 or 20 feet abaft the wheel on the larboard side. He then ordered the wood thrown overboard, and got an anchor off the starboard quarter, and with the steam capstan hover her off, when she immediately sprung a leak, which increased so rapidly that time was only allowed to make fast again to shore, the passengers to escape with their baggage, and the crew with assistance from the shore, saved a great part of the cargo, when she sank alongside the bank.

  So ended the saga of the first steamboat on the western rivers.

  II

  Where Did It Go? 1986, 1995

  I can’t recall when I read my first book about steamboats on the Mississippi River, though I suspect it was when I had to give a book report on Tom Sawyer in the fifth grade. When my parents went to town on Saturday night, they always parked me at the old Alhambra Public Library. It was there my imagination took hold and I dreamed about floating down the great river with Tom, Huck Finn, and their pals.

  For reasons unknown to me, I have always felt a deep attraction to the South. It must sound strange for someone who has no relatives, ancestors, or roots south of the Mason-Dixon line. I arrived in the world in Aurora, Illinois, and grew up in Southern California. My father came from Germany, and my mother’s grandfathers were farmers in Iowa who fought in the Union army.

  Still, I have to have chicory in my coffee. I insist on grits, redeye gravy, and biscuits for breakfast
, and pecan pie for dessert. Maybe we as a people are as much about who we were or who we want to be. It’s food for thought, anyway.

  There is no more visible symbol of the South than a paddle-wheel steamboat, tooting its whistle as it comes round the bend. Except for a few excursion boats, the image of steamboats belching black smoke, paddle wheels churning the muddy water, and the decks piled high with cotton bales is but a dim memory of the past, like steam locomotives, rumble seats, and running boards.

  There are many famous steamboats in American history. One can’t help but know about the classic race between the Natchez and the Robert E. Lee. Then there was Robert Fulton’s Clermont, the first steamboat in America to go into passenger service on the Hudson River. Another was the Yellowstone, the first steamboat to journey far up the Missouri River before heading down the Mississippi to the Gulf, where it evacuated the new president of the Republic of Texas, Sam Houston, and his Congress ahead of the advancing armies of Santa Anna. The first session in the new republic’s history was actually held on the Yellowstone. The boat then went on to transport a wounded Sam Houston from the battle of San Jacinto to New Orleans for medical care.

  I have tried very hard to dig out the final chapter of the Yellowstone, but with no success. She was heard of passing through the locks on the Ohio River in 1838. From there she was most likely sold and her name changed, and she may have ended up a derelict tied to a tree along the riverbank, her incredible history ignored and forgotten.

  But there was one steamboat whose history no fiction writer could have matched. The saga of the New Orleans’s voyage down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers past the rapids and through the New Madrid earthquake, her escape from hostile Indians, the baby born on board, the comet that streaked above her, all seemed too unbelievable to be true. Yet it was chronicled and her final end described in detail.

  During the summer of 1986, unable to resist hunting for such a fabulous boat (any vessel that sails the inland waterways is always called a boat, never a ship), I began researching into a newspaper account of her loss. A passenger on board the morning she hung up on a snag and sank reported the event for a local newspaper. What is most important is that he mentioned almost the exact spot where she came to grief: