The Pilot

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_ I

SOME STIRRING TALES OF THE SEA HEARD AT THE PILOTS' CLUB

OF all the clubs in New York, I know none where a man who values the real things of life may spend a pleasanter hour than at the Pilots' Club, far down on the lower water-front, looking out of lofty windows in one of those great structures that make the city, seen from the bay, a place of wonderful fairy towers.

Here on the walls are pictures that call up thrilling scenes, as this painting of pilot-boat No. 11 (they call her The Phantom), rescuing passengers from the Oregon, helpless in the great storm of 1886, sixty miles beyond Sandy Hook. We shall find men sitting about these rooms, smoking and reading, who can tell the story of that night in simple, rugged words that will make the water devils dance before us.

Look at them! These are the pilots of New York, greatest seaport in the world, with its tidy annual total of twenty-odd millions in tonnage entered and cleared, against fifteen millions for London. These are the boys (some of them nearing seventy) who bring the mighty liners in and take them out, who fight through any sea at a vessel's blue-light bidding, and climb her fortress sides by a slamming whip-lash ladder that shames the flying trapeze. And this in trim derby hat (sometimes a topper), with gloves and smart necktie, and some New-York "Heralds" tucked away in a coat-tail pocket.

Look at them! These are the boys who stay out when every other floating thing comes in, who face an Arctic rigor when masts are barrel big with ice, and ropes like trees, and when climbing to a steamer's deck is like skating up an iceberg. These are the boys who know, through fog and darkness, the call of the whistling buoy that sings at the mouth of Gedney's, and can say "Good morning" to every bobbing juniper-spar that marks the long ship lane (red lights on starboard buoys, as you come in, white lights on port buoys), who know the way even when the glass and iron lamp-frames are all but sunk with ice--west-northwest and a quarter west for a mile and a half, till the beacon lights of Waackaack and Point Comfort line out straight on the Jersey shore, then west by south until the Sandy Hook light lines with the old South Beacon, then a short way northwest by west and a quarter west until the Conover Beacon lines with Chapel Hill, and so on straight to the Narrows.

These are the boys who know every rock and shoal in this most treacherous bay, with its thirteen lighthouses, its two light-ships, and its eighty danger spots, marked by nun-buoys, bell-buoys, electric-light buoys, whistling buoys, all familiar to them as their own homes.

Great boys they are for story-telling, these pilots, and by the hour I have listened to their memories of the sea. Two things made deep impression on me (so do we of less heroic lives take note of weakness in the strong)--one, that many pilots cannot swim (the same is true of deep-sea divers), the other, that pilots, even after years at sea, may be victims of seasickness like any novice. Pilot Breed, for instance, as trusty a man as stands at a liner's wheel, assured me that every time he goes out for duty he goes out for torture, too. And he does his duty and he bears the torture, so that after all we must count this rather strength than weakness.

"How can you do your work," I asked, "if you are in such distress?"

"Because I have to," he answered, with a wistful smile. "You know sailors are often seasick, but they go aloft just the same and work--because they have to. You could do it yourself if you had to. And yet," he added, half shutting his eyes, "I've many a time been so bad when we've tossed and tossed for days and nights on the watch for vessels that I've come pretty near to dropping quietly overboard and ending it."

This he said without any special emphasis, yet one could see that it was true.

"Why don't you give up the life?" I suggested.

"Perhaps I would," said he, "if I could do as well at anything else. Besides--"

Then came the queerest reason. His father, it seems, a pilot before him, had suffered from seasickness for thirty-seven years, and then for thirty years more had been quite free from it. "Now," said Breed, "I've been a pilot for twenty-two years, so I figure if I stick to it fifteen years more I may be like my father after that, and have no more trouble."

Think of that for a scheme of life!

Presently another pilot joined us, and set forth a remarkable experience. "I was taking the steamer Lahn once," said he, "through a heavy fog, and the captain and I were both on the bridge, anxious to locate the light-ship. You know she lies eight miles off the Hook, and gives incoming vessels their first bearings for the channel. Of course we didn't expect to see her light--you couldn't see anything in such weather--but we listened for her fog-horn. How we did listen! And presently we heard it. You get accustomed to judging distances over water by the sound, and I put that light-ship at five miles away, or thereabouts, and I wasn't far wrong. Well, we headed straight for it, and heard the fog-horn all the time for about a mile. Then it suddenly stopped.

"'Hullo!' said I. 'What's up?'

"'Confound those light-ship people,' growled the captain. 'I'll make complaint against them for stopping their horn.'

"'Wait a little,' said I, and kept listening, listening for the horn to blow again, and all the time we were running nearer to the shoal. Pretty soon we slowed down, and went on a couple of miles, then another mile. It seemed as if we must have reached the light-ship, and the captain was in a state of mind.

"Then suddenly the fog-horn sounded again, not four lengths away, sir, and the queer thing is it had been sounding the whole blamed time--we got positive proof of it afterward--only we hadn't heard it. The explanation was that we had passed through two sound zones--that's what the scientific people call 'em--and I can tell you those sound zones make considerable trouble for pilots."

To this perplexing statement the others nodded grave assent, and Breed capped the tale with a sound-zone story of his own. It was just off quarantine, and he was turning a liner to bring her up to dock when another liner came along, also running in. Breed gave the signal three times for the other liner to port her helm, and she signaled back three times for him to port his. By good luck each vessel did the right thing, and they passed safely, but neither pilot heard the whistle of the other, and each made angry complaint that the other had failed to whistle: yet witnesses testified that both had whistled, and each one swore that he had.

The truth was, according to the gentlemen who explain acoustic puzzles, that these two steamers happened to be placed there down the bay like two people in a whispering gallery, who cannot hear each other where they are, but would hear plainly if they moved further apart or drew closer together, so as to be in the foci of sound. Thus it was that distant vessels heard both sets of whistles, although there was a nearer region where these were inaudible.

Investigation has shown that these sound zones frequently establish themselves at sea (they vary in extent with wind and tide), so that the sound of horn or bell may be heard for a mile or two, and then become inaudible for, say, two miles, and then become audible again, almost as plainly as at first, for several miles more. The theory is that the sound-waves somehow go skipping over the sea, like a flat pebble over a mill-pond, in long jumps, and that a vessel under the highest part of one of these jumps is out of the sound influence, but will come into it again by going ahead a certain distance or going back a certain distance. Whether this explanation be the true one or not, the facts are abundantly vouched for, and are believed to explain various collisions and wrecks that have long been looked upon as mysteries.

"There are lots of queer things about our business," reflected an old pilot. "Now, you take steamers, they're just as different as people; each one has her own ways, and most likely her own partic'lar kind of crankiness. They talk about twin steamers, but there's no such thing. You can have 'em both made in the same yard, with every measurement alike, and they'll be as different, sir, as--as two violins. Why, I never saw a craft that'd sail the same on both tacks; they're always harder on one than the other. And as for compasses--well, I don't suppose there's ever two that came into this port with needles pointing just the same way. They all lean a shade one way or the other, same as watches."

"Lean a shade!" put in another man. "I've known 'em to lean a whole lot. I've known a steamer's compass to point plumb northeast instead of north. And that time we nearly went on the rocks by it. We were coming along past Fire Island, and the night was pretty thick. I felt something was queer and wouldn't go below, although the captain wanted me to. I kept looking up, looking up, searching for the north star, and pretty soon I made it out, or thought I did, through a rift in the blackness.

"'Hold on!' said I to the captain, 'something's the matter with your compass. There's the north star ahead of us, and it ought to be abaft the bridge.'

"'North star nothing,' said the captain. 'You're tired, man; you need a rest. Now, you just turn in for an hour, and I'll run her.'

"'You'll run her on the rocks,' said I, 'inside of fifteen minutes unless you pull her out of here. I tell you that compass is crazy.'

"Well, sir, he began to get scared when he saw me so positive, and a little later he pulled her out--just in time, too, for we were right on the breakers of Long Island, thanks to that lying compass. I've heard it's the magnetic sand at Shinnecock that devils compasses. You know there's acres and acres of it along there."

This led to a discussion of magnetic sand, and it was edifying to see how well informed these pilots are in the latest advances of science.

They set forth, for example, the clear advantage of literally pouring oil upon furious waters, and were all agreed that the foam of a spent wave, spreading around a life-boat, will often protect her against a succeeding wave. The foam seems to act like oil in preventing a driving wind from tossing up the surface--getting a hold on it, one might say.

"Taking it altogether," I asked, "do you men regard a pilot's life as very dangerous?"

It was Breed who answered: "Taking it altogether," said he, "I regard a pilot's life as about the most dangerous going. Here's a little thing to show you how fast they go, these lives of pilots. When I was received as apprentice there were eighteen other apprentices ahead of me, and the only way we could get to be pilots was through somebody dropping out, for there were never more than just so many licenses issued. Well, when I had been an apprentice for three years the whole eighteen had been received as pilots, and there were seven vacancies besides. That makes twenty-five dead pilots in three years, and most of 'em killed. Why, in the blizzard of 1888 alone ten of our boats were wrecked."

At this there was a solemn shaking of heads, then stories of the taking off of this or that gallant fellow. There was Van Pelt, one of the strongest men in the service--a pilot from a family of pilots--killed by the stroke of a tow-line--a big hawser that snapped across his body like a knife when the towing-bitts pulled out, and cut him clean in two.

Then there was that Norwegian apprentice, who was lost when they tried to send a small boat after Denny Reardon on the Massachusetts, in the storm of November, 1897. The Massachusetts was loaded with lions, tigers, and elephants--the whole Barnum & Bailey show--and Reardon had just got her safely over the bar. There was a fierce sea on that night, and Reardon waited at the steamer's side--waited and peered out at the flare-up light, while the boys on the New York tried to do the launching trick. And in one of the upsets this Norwegian chap was swept astern and churned to death in the screw-blades.

Then there was Harry Devere, a Brooklyn pilot, who happened to be out in the cyclone of 1894, miles from land, in the little pilot-schooner, with its jaunty "17" on the canvas. There they were, riding out the storm, as pilot-boats do (facing it, not running), when up loomed a big West Indian fruiter, burning a blue light forward, which meant she was in sore need of a man at the wheel who knew the dangers in these parts. The old ocean was killing mad that night, air and water straining in a death struggle, and already four pilots had been carried on by liners, carried on to Europe because there was no human way of putting them off.

To start for that vessel now was madness, and every man in the pilot-crew knew it, and so did Devere. But he started just the same. He said he would try, and he did--tried through a cyclone that was sweeping a whole heaven of snow down upon the bellowing sea as if to smother its fury. Down into this they went, three of them, and somehow, by a miracle of skill, got the yawl under the vessel's lea. Then smash they were hurled against the iron side, and Devere sprang for the rope ladder--a poor, fluttering thing. He caught it, held fast, and the next moment was torn away by a great wave that cast him back into the waste of waters. And so he perished.

You ought to hear them tell these stories!

On the whole it seemed clear there is danger enough in this calling for the most extravagant taste. And the chief danger is not this boarding of vessels in storms, nor yet the dancing out of tempests in cockle-shell craft, where a steamer would scurry to shelter; neither of these, but the everlasting peril of being run down. That is a danger to break men's nerves, for always, night and day, the pilot-boats must lie in the swift track of the liners--right in the track, else they will pass unseen--and it must be known that this is a narrow track, a funnel for the ships of all the world, which pass ceaselessly, ceaselessly, converging from all ports, diverging to all ports, in storm, in fog, in darkness, and there the pilot-boats must lie, flying their square blue flags by day, burning their flare-up lights every fifteen minutes by night, waiting, waiting, in just such strained suspense as a man would feel before the rush of a silent locomotive, sure to kill him if he does not see it, before the rush of many silent locomotives which come while he sleeps, while he eats, perhaps while he prays.

And constantly in the pilot records is this laconic entry: "No. 8 run over and sunk; all hands lost." "No. 11 run over and sunk; one man saved, the rest lost." "Pilot-boat Columbia cut down by a liner; ten men lost." No chance for heroic struggle here, no death with dramatic setting and columns in the papers, but a stupid, blundering execution while the men rest helpless on weary bunks, lulled by the surging sea--"run over and sunk."

II

WHICH SHOWS HOW PILOTS ON THE ST. LAWRENCE FIGHT THE ICE-FLOES

NO study of pilot life can be complete without mention of the river pilot who has to face perils in the rapids not a whit less real than those faced by his brother pilot on the sea. I got my first glimpse of the river pilot, oddly enough, in frozen December time, when even that great waterway of northern America--I mean the St. Lawrence--was all but a solid bed of ice, not quite, however, and to that chance I owed a glimpse of Canadian boatmen at the hazard of their winter work, which is none the less interesting for being unfamiliar.

It was fifteen degrees below zero, just pleasant Christmas weather in Quebec, and the old river of saintly fame was grinding along with its gorge of ice, streaming along under a dazzle of sun, steaming up little clouds of frozen water-vapor, low-hanging and spreading over it like tumbled fleece in patches of shine and shadow, quite a balloon effect, I fancied, as I came down the cliff.

In a tug-boat office at the river's edge, chatting around a stove, yet bundled thickly as if no stove were there, I found some half dozen sharp-glancing men, who might have been actors in New York or noblemen in Russia (I judge by the fineness of their furs), but were pilots here, lower-river pilots who, as one of them assured me, are vastly more important than the upper-river kind.

I learned also from one who wore a coat of yellowish-gray skins with otter trimmings that they were a belated company, who would start shortly for Orleans Island across the ice. That was Orleans Island there to the left. No, it did not seem far, but I might find it far enough if I tried to get there. At this they all laughed.

Meekly I sat down, as was befitting, and listened to the talk. They conversed in bad French or worse English, and were most of them, strange to say, Scotchmen who had never seen Scotland and never would--Douglasses and Browns and McGregors, who couldn't pronounce their own names, but could take a liner to the gulf, day or night, through the reefs of Crane Island, past the menacing twin Pilgrims, by windings and dangers, safe down to sea.

I asked the man what they were going to Orleans Island for, and he explained that they lived there through the winter months--they and other pilots, many others. It was a pilot colony, set out in midstream. Yes, it was cut off from the land, quite cut off; they liked it so. Sometimes they didn't come ashore for weeks; it was not exactly fun fighting those ice-floes. And they all laughed again; well, not exactly!

Meantime several jolly little cutters, no higher than cradles, had jingled up with more men in furs and one woman. Also boxes and bundles.

"Pilots?" I asked.

The man nodded.

"And the woman?"

"Dees lady, pilot's wife. She been seek." And he went on in a jargon that is charming, but not for imitation, to explain that they would lay the sick lady in the bottom of the boat and pile coats over her and around her until it was tolerably sure she couldn't freeze. From the way he spoke one would fancy they were about to start for the North Pole, but I presently understood that this two-mile ice journey over the crackling St. Lawrence--the crackling comes from the ice-crust breaking as the tide drops under it--is about as hard a test of men's endurance as any Arctic performance.

They were all gathered now save one, whose cutter tarried still. He was a good pilot, but overfond of the convivial glass, and was no doubt this very moment in some uproarious company, forgetful that the start was to be sharp on the hour. Well, they would give him ten minutes more, say fifteen minutes, pauvre garcon.

Then they fell to discussing winter navigation, and whether it would ever come on the St. Lawrence as it had on rivers in Russia. A pilot in coon-skins was sure it would come; they would put on one of these new-fangled ice-crunching steamers to keep the main channel open, and, sacre bleu, there you are! That would save five months every year. But the others shook their heads; they didn't believe it, and didn't want it anyway. A pilot, sir, must have a certain time to smoke his pipe!

Then one man told what the ice did to a sailing-vessel he was taking down the river late one season. He hoped never to take another down so late. He had got out of his course one night in the dangerous ways off Crane Island, and finally dropped anchor to hold her against the crush of ice. But the anchor chain snapped like shoe-string under the ice pressure, and they were borne along on a glacier-field until they struck on a reef--just what he had feared. Now, the ice could neither break the reef nor drive them over it, but it ground its way right through the schooner's stern, ripping her wide open, so that the river poured in, and down they went until the yard-arms touched the hummocks, with pilot and crew left to scramble over the floe as best they could in the darkness, and wait for daylight on the frozen rocks.

At this the others, taking up the cue of thrilling happenings, told stories of dangers on the river one after another until the tardy pilot, who had jingled up meanwhile unnoticed, was in his turn forced to wait for them.

"I was just putting off one night," began a tall man, who spoke better English than the rest, "just putting off from this very place--"

"Thash nothing," interrupted the later comer, "I shaw sh-sword fish clashe a wh-whale once off Saguenay River, an wh-whale--an sh-sword fish--" then he mumbled to himself and dozed by the stove.

The tall man went on with his tale, which described how, on the night in question, he was about to board a down-coming steamer of the Leyland line (he was to take the place of the Montreal pilot), when she crashed into a tramp steamer coming up in a head-on collision, and two sailors sleeping in their bunks were instantly killed. He described the panic that ensued, and told what they did, and wound up with a queer theory (which he declared perfectly sound, and the others agreed with him) that the growth of cities along the river is every year increasing the danger of such night collisions through the dazzle of lights.

Presently we started for the boats. A burly line, with caps reaching down, and collars reaching up, until everything was covered--ears, forehead, chin, everything but a peeping place for nose and eyes. I can still hear the squeak and crunch of snow under foot, and see the glare of it. We passed a snow-field, where the river-buoys are left through winter, spar-buoys, gas-buoys, and bell-buoys ranged along now like great red tops numbed by the cold to sleep.

Then they put off in the boats--three open boats--that are sleds as well, with runners on the flat bottoms and ends turned up in an easy slant, so that when the broken ice gets too thick for paddling they may be hauled up to slide over it. This queer method of transit is practised on the St. Lawrence, by those who dare, during certain weeks of winter when the river is no longer open nor yet frozen into a solid ice-bridge, but partly open and partly solid. So it was now.

The first rule of the boats is that every man lay hand to paddle and work. There are no passengers here but the sick, and they are rarely taken. Not that the pilots would mind paddling other men across, but the other men would almost certainly freeze if they sat still. There is no safety against the blasts that sweep this river, when the glass says twenty below, but in vigorous, ceaseless exertion.

So there they go through the ice-choked river, swinging their paddles lustily, every pilot of them, heads nodding under black astrakhan caps, shoulders heaving, off for home. Now they strike the first solid place, and the men forward climb out carefully and heave up the boat's nose a couple of feet to see if the ice will hold her. Then all climb out, and with dragging and pushing get ahead for a hundred feet or so. See, now they stop and swing their arms! Already the pitiless wind is biting through their furs. And think of that poor woman!

Presently they reach an open spot some dozen yards across, and all but one take places in the boat, the stern man standing behind on the ice to push off, and then, with nicely judged effort, spring aboard as he gives the last impulse that shoots her into the river.

From the open space they paddle into a jam of grinding ice-blocks that hold hard against them, but are scarce solid enough to bear the sledges. They must work through somehow, poling and fending, to yonder heaped-up ledge, where up they go again on a great rough raft of ice that will test their muscles and their skill before they get across, and drift them a quarter of a mile or so up-stream while they are doing it.

Up-stream, did I say? Yes, for there is this odd thing about the St. Lawrence, even at Quebec, that its current streams up and down, up and down, as the tide changes. For seven hours the river conquers the tide, and the water runs down to sea. Then for five hours the tide conquers the river, and the water runs up from the sea. So now, after all their toiling, they are actually further from home than when they started. They should have set out just before the turn of tide (that was their plan), but they waited until just after the turn, and will pay for the delay and their yarn spinning with an hour more of this ice-fighting than they need have had--and an hour out there is a long, long time.

Even here, on the bank, much less than an hour is enough of time. The cold grows piercing. The day is drawing to a close. The sky is dull. The river grinds on with its grayish burden. On the heights of Levis, opposite, some lights of early evening break out. There also pilots live, Indians come from an Indian village down the river, where they make the peerless birch canoes. All along this grand St. Lawrence live men whose business it is to face unusual perils, whose nerve fails them not, whether paddling some frail bark through furious rapids or guiding a steamboat down a raging torrent, with many lives in their keeping.

We must see more of these men, and watch them at their work. We must see the Iroquois pilots at their reservation near Montreal, the lads Lord Wolseley took with him up the Nile to brave its cataracts, when the English set out, in 1884, to bring relief to Gordon. We must see "Big John," famous now for years as wheelsman of the great excursion boats that shoot the rage of waters at Lachine. We must see the raftsmen, too, and--ah, but it is cold here!--let us climb the cliff again and find some shelter.

III

NOW WE WATCH THE MEN WHO SHOOT THE FURIOUS RAPIDS AT LACHINE

WOULD you see the most skilful pilots in the world, men who know all the tricks with ocean liners and the Indian tricks as well, who fight the rush of seventy-foot tides in the Bay of Fundy, or drive their frail canoes through furious gorges, or coolly turn the nose of a thousand-ton steamboat into the white jaws of rock-split rapids where a yard either way or a second's doubt would mean destruction, or hitch long hawsers to a log raft big as a city block (the lumber in a single raft may be worth a hundred thousand dollars), and swing her down a tumbling waterway hundreds of miles, with a peril in every one, and land her safe? If you would see all this, go to the wonderful St. Lawrence, which sweeps in wide and troubled reaches from the Great Lakes to the sea.

Of course I do not mean that any one man can do all these things,--that would be asking too much,--but each in his own line, half-breed or Indian or fur-bundled voyageur, has such quickness of eye, such surety of hand, that you will be glad to watch the rafters on their rafts, and ask no more of them, or the canoeists at their paddles, or the big-craft pilots at their wheels.

Let us stand on the long iron bridge that spans the St. Lawrence just above Montreal, the very place to study the river as it narrows and runs swifter for its smashing plunge through yonder rapids to the east, the dreaded Lachine Rapids, whose snarling teeth flash white in the sun. Look down into the greenish rush, and see how the waters hurl past these good stone piers, sharp-pointed up-stream against the tearing of winter ice! Here goes the torrent of Niagara and the inland ocean of Superior and Erie and Ontario, all crushed into a funnel of land by this big island at the left that blocks the flow, and gorged by the in-pour of the Ottawa a few miles back that brings down the floods of southern Canada. As fast as a horse can gallop runs the river here, and faster and faster it goes as the long slant takes it, ten, twelve, fourteen miles an hour (which is something for a river), until a dozen islands strewn across the funnel's lower end goad the rapids to their greatest rage. Here is where they kill. Then suddenly all is quiet, and the river, spreading to a triple width, rests, after its madness, in Montreal's placid harbor.

Standing here, I think of my first experience in shooting these rapids (it was on one of the large river boats), and I must confess that it gave me no very thrilling sense of danger. There were two or three plunges, to be sure, at the steepest part, and a little swaying or lurching, but, so far as movement goes, nothing to disturb one accustomed to the vicissitudes of, say, ordinary trolley-car navigation. However, when I came to the reason of this fairly smooth descent, and saw what it means to stand at the wheel through that treacherous channel, I found my wonder growing. I thought of the lion-tamer, whose skill is shown not so much by what happens while he is in the cage as by what does not happen. A hundred ways there are of doing the wrong thing with one of these boats, and only a single way of doing the right thing. For four miles the pilot must race along a squirming, twisting, plunging thread of water, that leaps ahead like a greyhound, and changes its crookedness somewhat from day to day with wind and tide. In that thread alone is safety; elsewhere is ruin and wreck. Instantly he must read the message of a boiling eddy or the menace of a beckoning reef, and take it this way or that instantly, for there are the hungry rocks on either hand. He must know things without seeing them; must feel the pulse of the rapids, as it were, so that when a mist clouds his view, or the shine of a low-hung rainbow dazzles him, he may still go right. It is a fact that with all the pilots in this pilot-land, and all the hardy watermen born and brought up on the St. Lawrence, there are not ten--perhaps not six--men in Canada to-day, French or English or Indian, who would dare this peril. For all other rapids of the route, the Gallop Rapids, the Split-rock Rapids, the Cascades, and the rest, there are pilots in plenty; but not for those of Lachine. And, to use the same simile again, I saw that the shooting of these Lachine Rapids is like the taming of a particularly fierce lion; it is a business by itself that few men care to undertake.

So it came that I sought out one of these few, Fred Ouillette, pilot and son of a pilot, an idol in the company's eyes, a hero to the boys of Montreal, a figure to be stared at always by anxious passengers as he peers through the window atop the forward deck, a man whom people point to as he passes: "There's the fellow that took us through the rapids. That's Ouillette." This unsought notoriety has made him shy. He does not like to talk about his work or tell you how it feels to do this thing. A dash of Indian blood is in him, with some of the silent, stoic, Indian nature. Yet certain facts he vouchsafed, when I went to his home, that help one to an understanding of the pilot's life.

He emphasized this, for instance, as essential in a man who would face that fury of waters, he must not be afraid. One would say that the rapids feel where the mastery is, whether with them or with the pilot, and woe to him if pounding heart or wavering hand betray him. The rapids will have no mercy. And there are pilots, it appears, who know the Lachine Rapids, every foot of them, and could do Ouillette's work perfectly if Ouillette were standing near, yet would fail utterly if left alone. Every danger they can overcome but the one that lies in themselves. They cannot brave their own fear. He cited the case of a pilot's son who had worked in the Lachine Rapids for years, helping his father, and learned the river as well as a man can know it. At the old man's death, this son announced that he would take his father's place, and shoot the rapids as they always had done; yet a season passed, then a second season, and always he postponed beginning, and, with one excuse or another, took his boats through the Lachine Canal, a safe but tame short cut, not likely to draw tourists.

"Not start heem right, that fadder," said Ouillette. "Now too late. Now nevair he can learn heem right."

"Why, how should he have started him?" I asked.

"Same way like my fadder start me." And then, in his jerky Canadian speech, he explained how this was.

Ouillette went back to his own young manhood, to the years when he, too, stood by his father's side and watched him take the big boats down. What a picture he drew in his queer, rugged phrases! I could see the old pilot braced at the six-foot wheel, with three men in oilskins standing by to help him put her over, Fred one of the three. And it was "Hip!" "Bas!" "Hip!" "Bas!" ("Up!" "Down!" "Up!" "Down!") until the increasing roar of the cataract drowned all words, and then it was a jerk of shoulders or head, this way or that, while the men strained at the spokes. Never once was the wheel at rest after they entered the rapids, but spinning, spinning always, while the boat shot like a snake through black rocks and churning chasms.

They used to take the boats--as Ouillette takes them still--at Cornwall, sixty miles up the river, and, before coming to Lachine, they would shoot the swift Coteau Rapids, where many a life has gone, then the terrifying Cedar Rapids, which seem the most dangerous of all, and finally, the Split-rock Rapids, which some say are the most dangerous. And each year, as the season opened, Fred would ask his father to let him take the wheel some day when the river was high and the rocks well covered, and the boat lightly laden, wishing thus to try the easiest rapids under easiest conditions. But his father would look at him and say: "Do you know the river, my son? Are you sure you know the river?" And Fred would answer: "Father, I think I do." For how could he be sure until he had stood the test?

So it went on from year to year, and Ouillette was almost despairing of a chance to show himself worthy of his father's teaching, when, suddenly, the chance came in a way never to be forgotten. It was late in the summer, and the rapids, being low, were at their very worst, since the rocks were nearer the surface. Besides that, on this particular day they were carrying a heavy load, and the wind was southeast, blowing hard--the very wind to make trouble at the bad places. They had shot through all the rapids but the last, and were well below the Lachine bridge when the elder Ouillette asked the boy, "My son, do you know the river?"

And Fred answered as usual, without any thought of what was coming next, "Father, I think I do."

They were just at the danger-point now, and all the straining waters were sucking them down to the first plunge.

"Then take her through," said the old man, stepping back; "there is the wheel."

"My fadder he make terreeble thing for me--too much terreeble thing," said Ouillette, shaking his head at the memory.

But he took her through somehow, half blinded by the swirl of water and the shock. At the wheel he stood, and with a touch of his father's hand now and then to help him, he brought the boat down safely. There was a kind of Spartan philosophy in the old man's action. His idea was that, could he once make his son face the worst of this business and come out unharmed, then never would the boy know fear again, for all the rest would be easier than what he had already done. And certainly his plan worked well, for Fred Ouillette has been fearless in the rapids ever since.

"Have you lost any lives?" I asked, reaching out for thrilling stories.

"Nevair," said he.

"Ever come near it?"

He looked at me a moment, and then said quietly: "Always, sair, we come near it."

Then he told of cases where at the last moment he had seen some mad risk in going down, and had turned his steamer in the very throat of the torrent, and, with groaning wheels and straining timbers, fought his way back foot by foot to safety. Once a fog dropped about them suddenly, and once the starboard rudder-chain broke. This last was all but a disaster, for they were down so far that the river must surely have conquered the engines had they tried to head up-stream. Ouillette saw there was only one way to save his boat and the lives she carried, and, putting the wheel hard aport, for the port chain held, he ran her on the rocks. And there she lay, the good steamboat Spartan, all that night, with passengers in an anguish of excitement, while Indian pilots from Caughnawaga made it quite clear what they were good for--put off swiftly in their little barks straight into that reeling flood, straight out to the helpless boat, then back to shore, each bearing two or three of the fear-struck company. Then out again and back again until darkness came. Then out again and back again when darkness had fallen. Think of that! Hour after hour, with paddles alone, these dauntless sons of Iroquois braves fought the rapids, triumphed over the rapids, and brought to land through the night and the rage of waters every soul on that imperiled vessel!

Another instance he gave, showing the admirable alertness of these Indians, as well as their skill with the canoe. It was in the summer of 1900, late of an afternoon, and so heavy was the August heat that even on the river the passengers were gasping for air. Shortly after they entered the cataract several persons saw a large man climb to the top of a water-tank on the hurricane-deck, and seat himself there in one of the folding deck-chairs. The man's purpose was, evidently, to seek a cooler spot than he had found below, and the boat was running so steadily that no one thought of danger. Indeed, there would have been no danger had not the gentleman fallen into a comfortable doze just as Ouillette steadied the boat for her first downward leap and then brought her over to starboard with a jerk, which jerk so effectually disturbed the large man's slumbers that the first thing he knew he was shot off his rickety chair, over the side of the water-tank, clean over the steamboat's decks, down, splash! into the St. Lawrence at a point where it is not good for any man to be. He was right in the main sweep of the river, where one may live for twenty minutes if he can keep afloat so long, but scarcely longer, since twenty minutes will bring him to the last rush of rapids, where swimmers do not live.

What happened after this I have from an eye-witness, who rushed back with others at the cry, "Man overboard!" and joined in a reckless throwing over of chairs, boxes, and life-preservers that profited little, for the man was left far behind by the steamboat, which could do nothing--and Ouillette could do nothing--but whistle a hoarse danger-warning and go its way. A magnificent swimmer he must have been, this rudely awakened tourist, for the passengers, crowded astern, could follow the black speck that was his head bobbing along steadily, undisturbed, one would say, by dangers, apparently going up-stream as the steamboat gained on him--really coming down-stream with the full force of the current, and yielding to it entirely, all strength saved for steering. Not a man on the boat believed that the swimmer would come out alive, and, helpless to save, they stood there in sickening fascination, watching him sweep down to his death.

Then suddenly rang out a cry: "Look! There! A canoe!" And out from the shadows and shallows off-shore shot a slender prow with a figure in bow and stern. The Indians were coming to the rescue! They must have started even as the man fell,--such a thing it is to be an Indian!--and, with a knowledge of the rapids that is theirs alone, they had aimed the swift craft in a long slant that would let them overtake the swimmer just here, at this very place where now they were about to overtake him, at this very place where presently they did overtake him and draw him up, all but exhausted, from as close to the brink of the Great Rapids as ever he will get until he passes over them. Then they paddled back.

IV

WHAT CANADIAN PILOTS DID IN THE CATARACTS OF THE NILE

AND now suppose we follow these Indians to their reservation at Caughnawaga, where the government has given them land and civic rights and encouragement to peaceful ways. The surest time of year to find the pilots at home is the winter season; for then, with navigation frozen up, they have weeks to spend drifting along in the sleepy village life, waiting for the spring. There, in many a hearth-fire circle,--only, alas! the hearth is a commonplace shiny stove more often than not,--we may listen to tales without end of rapids and river, while the men smoke solemnly, and the women do beadwork and moccasins for the next year's peddling. We may hear "Big Baptiste" tell for what exploits of the paddle his head came to be on the ten-dollar bills of Canada, set in dignity and feathers; and hear "Big John," famous for years as a steamboat pilot, describe his annual shooting of the Lachine Rapids at the opening of navigation, when, first of all the pilots, he goes down in his canoe,--this is a time-honored custom,--so that the others may be sure that it is safe to follow.

He will give us the story, too, amid nods of approval, of shooting these same rapids for a wager on a certain New Year's Day, and coming down safely, ice and all. There, sir, is the paddle he used, if you doubt the tale, and the canoe lies out in the snow.

And be sure we shall not have been long in Caughnawaga without hearing of the proud part these Indians took in the British expedition up the Nile in 1884 to relieve Khartum. Treasured in more than one household are these words of Lord Wolseley, written to the governor-general of Canada: "I desire to place on record not only my own opinion, but that of every officer connected with the management of the boat columns, that the services of these voyageurs has been of the greatest possible value.... They have on many occasions shown not only great skill but also great courage in navigating their boats through difficult and dangerous waters."

"How many men did Caughnawaga send on this expedition?" I inquired.

"Fifty-five men besides Louis Jackson," said one of the Indians.

"Oh," said I; "and--and who is Louis Jackson?"

The Indian's face showed plain disgust that there should be any one who did not know all about Louis Jackson.

"Louis Jackson was the leader. He is our chief man. He lives over there."

It resulted in my calling on Mr. Jackson, a big, powerful man, fully meriting, I should say, the high opinion in which he is held. If there is any Indian strain in him it must be very slight; he would pass, rather, for an uncommonly energetic Englishman, with such a fund of adventure to his credit, and so entertaining a way of drawing upon it, that one would listen for hours while he talks.

Jackson made clear to me what important duty was given the Canadian voyageurs in this Nile campaign. By their success or failure in taking heavy-laden boats up the cataracts Lord Wolseley proposed to decide whether the troops for Gordon's relief should go straight up the Nile or around by the Red Sea and the desert. It was the river if they succeeded; it was the desert if they failed: and twenty thousand soldiers waited at Alexandria in a fever of impatience while Jackson and his band, with some hundreds of voyageurs from other provinces, let it be seen if their training on the St. Lawrence would serve against river perils in ancient Egypt. Lord Wolseley was confident it would, for during the Riel rebellion he had found out what stuff was in these men. Still he dared not start his army until it was certain those formidable cataracts could be surmounted. And that meant a month, let the men strain as they might at paddles and hauling-lines--a month to wait, a month for Gordon to wait.

"Oh," said Jackson, gloomily, "if Lord Wolseley had only trusted us without any trial! Why, there was nothing, sir, in that Nile River we hadn't tackled a hundred times as boys right here in the St. Lawrence. When you talk of cataracts it sounds big, but we've got rapids all around here, just plain every-day rapids, that will make their cataracts look sick. Of course we did it--did it easy; but when we got up to the top of the whole business, where was our army? Back in Alexandria, sir! And it makes a man sad to know that those boys in Khartum were dying just then; it makes a man mighty sad to know that!"

One sees what ground there may be for such lament on turning up the dates of this unhappy Nile expedition, and the heart aches at the sight of those dumb figures. Think of it! the relief-party reached Khartum about February 1, 1885--too late by less than a week. Khartum had fallen; Khartum, sore-stricken, lay in fresh-smoking ruins. And when at last British gunboats, firing as they came, steamed into view of the tortured city that had hoped for them so long, there was no General Gordon within walls to thrill with joy. General Gordon was dead, cut down ruthlessly by the Arabs a few days before--killed on January 27, with his countrymen so near, so short a distance down the river, that their camp might almost have been made out with field-glasses. What a difference here a little more hurrying would have made, a very little more hurrying!

It would be interesting indeed if we might hear the whole story of these months spent in fighting a river, in battling with cataract after cataract, in rowing and steering and sailing and hauling a fleet of boats and supplies for an army up, up, up into unknown rapids, through a burning desert, such a long, long way. It would be an inspiration could we know in detail what these pilots did and suffered, what perils they defied, and how some of them perished--in short, what problems of the river they went at and how they fared in solving them. That would make a book by itself.

A few things we may know, however. This, for instance: that, while the maps put down six cataracts in the Nile between Cairo and Khartum, say fifteen hundred miles, there are, in truth, many more than six. Between the second and third alone there are more than six, and some of them bad. Also that the river beyond the third cataract curves away in a great rambling S, so that Lord Wolseley planned to send an expedition, as he actually did, straight on from that point by a short cut across the desert. The important thing then, and the difficult thing, was to reach the third cataract, and upon this all the skill of the voyageurs was concentrated.

The first cataract, about five hundred miles above Cairo, is fairly easy of ascent; the second cataract, some two hundred and fifty miles farther on, is perhaps the most dangerous of all, and resembles its rival at Lachine in this, that the Nile here strains through myriad foam-lashed islands strewn in the channel for a length of seven miles, like teeth of a crooked comb. A balloonist hovering here would see the river streaming through these islands in countless channels that wind and twist in a maze of silver threads. But to lads in the boats these silver threads were so many plunging foes, torrents behind torrents, sweeping down roaring streets of rock, boiling through jagged lanes of rock; and up that seven-mile way the pilots had to go and keep their craft afloat.

Jackson described the boats used in this hazardous undertaking. There were, first, the ordinary whale-boats, about twenty-five feet long and five feet high, with a crew of ten Dongolese at the oars, and two or three sails to catch the helpful northerly winds. Overhead was an awning stretched against the scorching sun, and around the sides were boxes and bags of provisions and ammunition,--five or six tons to a boat,--piled high for shelter against bullets, for no one could tell when a band of Arabs, lurking at some vantage-point, might fall to picking off the men. At a cataract the crew would go ashore, save two, a voyageur in the stern to steer and another in the bow to fend off rocks, or, in case of need, give one swift, severing hatchet-stroke on the hauling-rope. For, of course, the ascending power came from a line of Dongolese, black fellows, with backs and muscles to delight a prize-fighter, who, by sheer strength of body, would drag the boat, cargo and all (or sometimes lightened of her cargo by the land-carriers), up, up, with grunting and heaving, against the down-rush of the river.

And woe to the boat if her hatchet-man fails to cut the rope at the very second of danger! So long as the craft can live his arm must stay uplifted; yet he must cut instantly when it is plain she can live no longer. And here one marvels; for how can anything be plain in a blinding, deafening cataract? And how shall the man decide, as they rise on a glassy sweep and hang for an instant over some rock-gulf beaten into by tons of water, whether they can go through it or not? Truly this is no place for wavering nerve or halting judgment. The man must know and act, know and act, because he is that kind of a man; and, even so, in hard places above the second cataract two Indians from Caughnawaga, Morris and Capitan, fine pilots both, held back their blades too long, or, striking as the boat plunged, missed the rope, and paid for the error with their lives.

And even with hauling-line cut in time, the pilots have only changed from peril to peril, for now they are adrift in the cataract, and must shoot down unknown rapids, chancing everything, swinging into shore as soon as may be with the help of paddle and sail. Then is all to be done over again--the line made fast, the black men harnessed on, and the risk of a new channel encountered as before. Thus days or weeks would pass in getting the whale-boats up a single cataract.

And sometimes they would face the still more formidable task of dragging a whole steamboat up the rapids, with troops aboard and stores to last for weeks. Then how the hauling-men would swarm at the lines, and shout queer African words, and strain at the ropes, when the order came, until knees and shoulders scraped the ground! This was no problem for untutored minds, but took the best wits of Royal Engineers and gentlemen from the schools, who knew the ways of hitching tackle to things so as to make pulley-blocks work miracles. At least, it seemed a miracle the day they started the big side-wheeler Nassif-Kheir up the second cataract with five hawsers on her, three spreading from her bow and two checking her swing on either quarter, and her own steam helping her.

There stood five hundred Dongolese ready to haul, and there was the whole floating population--pilots, soldiers, and camp-followers--gathered on the banks to wonder and to criticize the job which nobody understood but half a dozen straight little men in white helmets, who stood about on rocks and snapped things out in English that were straightway yelled down the lines in vigorous Dongolese. It was Trigonometry speaking, and the law of component forces, and "Confound those niggers! Tell 'em to slack away on that starboard hawser. Tell 'em to slack away!"

It was respectfully presented to Mathematics, Esq., that the "niggers" in question couldn't slack away any more without letting the hawser go or tumbling into the rapids, for they were on one of the little islands, on the brink of it, holding the steamer back while the land-lines hauled against them.

"Then in they go," ordered Trigonometry. "Tell 'em to get over to that next island. Tell 'em to get over quick!"

And over they went, the whole black line of them, right through the rapids, swimming and struggling in the buffeting surge, getting across somehow, hawser and all, where white men must have perished. And the steamboat had gained a hundred feet.

Then one of the front lines of haulers in turn had to move forward to an island, to swim for it with six hundred feet of hawser slapping the river as they dragged it. What a picture here as these naked men leaped in, fearless, each with a flashing bayonet thrust in his thick white turban! Mathematics, Esq., had no notion of trying this sort of thing when he changed islands, vastly preferring his pulley-blocks, and would presently be hauled across on a rope trolley, as passengers are swung ashore from wrecks by the life-saving men. That made a picture, too!

Thus, slowly and with infinite pains, they worked the patient steamboat, length by length, island by island, torrent by torrent, up through the Great Gate (Bab-el-Kebir), up to the very head waters of the second cataract; and there, with victory in their grasp, saw the forward hawser snap suddenly with the noise of a gun, and the old side-wheeler swing out helpless into the main rush of the river, swing clean around as the side-lines held, and then start down. Whereupon it was: "Cut hawsers, everybody!" and drop these pulley-blocks and tackle-fixings, useless now, and let her go, let her go, since there is no stopping her, and Heaven help the boys on board! Then, amid shouts of dismay, the big boat Nassif-Kheir plunged forward to her destruction, while the mathematical gentlemen stared in horror--then stared in amazement. For look! She keeps to the channel! She is running true! Wonder of wonders, she is shooting the rapids, shooting the greatest cataract of the Nile, where boats of her tonnage never passed before!

The Nassif-Kheir was saved, and every man aboard her, and every box of stores. She was saved by an humble Canadian pilot, who had never studied trigonometry, but who stepped to the wheel when he saw the peril, and steered her down those furious rapids as he had steered other boats down other rapids on the old St. Lawrence. After that, when the expedition found itself in trouble in the upper cataracts, say those of Tangoor or Akashe or Ambigole or Dal, and when the Royal Engineers had drawn up some neat plan with compasses and squares for doing a certain thing with a boat, and had proved by the books that it could be done, and agreed that it should be done forthwith, then some one would usually say, just at the last, as by an afterthought:

"I suppose we might as well have in one of those voyageur chaps, just to see what he thinks of it!"

And they usually had him in. _

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