4. CHAPTER IV.
THE BOAT-RACE.
At eight o'clock, on the evening of the third day of the passage, the
lights of another steamer were seen in the distance, and apparently
coming up very fast. This was the signal for a general commotion on
board the Patriot, and everything indicated that a steamboat-race was
at hand. Nothing can exceed the excitement attendant upon the racing
of steamers on the Mississippi.
By the time the boats had reached Memphis they were side by side,
and each exerting itself to get in advance of the other. The night was
clear, the moon shining brightly, and the boats so near to each other
that the passengers were within speaking distance. On board the Patriot
the firemen were using oil, lard, butter, and even bacon, with wood,
for the purpose of raising the steam to its highest pitch. The blaze
mingled with the black smoke that issued from the pipes of the other
boat, which showed that she also was burning something more combustible
than wood.
The firemen of both boats, who were slaves, were singing songs such
as can only be heard on board a Southern steamer. The boats now
came abreast of each other, and nearer and nearer, until they were
docked so that men could pass from one to the other. The wildest excitement
prevailed among the men employed on the steamers, in which
the passengers freely participated.
The Patriot now stopped to take in passengers, but still no steam was
permitted to escape. On the starting of the boat again, cold water was
forced into the boilers by the feed-pumps, and, as might have been expected,
one of the boilers exploded with terrific force, carrying away
the boiler-deck and tearing to pieces much of the machinery. One
dense fog of steam filled every part of the vessel, while shrieks, groans,
and cries were heard on every side. Men were running hither and
thither looking for their wives, and women were flying about in the
wildest confusion seeking for their husbands. Dismay appeared on
every countenance.
The saloons and cabins soon looked more like hospitals than anything
else; but by this time the Patriot had drifted to the shore, and the
other steamer had come alongside to render assistance to the disabled
boat. The killed and wounded (nineteen in number) were put on
shore, and the Patriot, taken in tow by the Washington, was once more
on her journey.
It was half-past twelve, and the passengers, instead of retiring to
their berths, once more assembled at the gambling-tables. The practice
of gambling on the western waters has long been a source of annoyance
to the more moral persons who travel on our great rivers. Thousands
of dollars often change owners during a passage from St. Louis or Louisville
to New Orleans, on a Mississippi steamer. Many men are completely
ruined on such occasions, and duels are often the consequence.
“Go call my boy, steward,” said Mr. Jones, as he took his cards one
by one from the table.
In a few minutes a fine-looking, bright-eyed mulatto boy, apparently
about sixteen years of age, was standing by his master's side at the
table.
“I am broke, all but my boy,” said Jones, as he ran his fingers
through his cards; “but he is worth a thousand dollars, and I will bet
the half of him.”
“I will call you,” said Thompson, as he laid five hundred dollars at
the feet of the boy, who was standing on the table, and at the same
time throwing down his cards before his adversary.
“You have beaten me,” said Jones; and a roar of laughter followed
from the other gentleman as poor Joe stepped down from the table.
“Well, I suppose I owe you half the nigger,” said Thompson, as he
took hold of Joe and began examining his limbs.
“Yes,” replied Jones, “he is half yours. Let me have five hundred
dollars, and I will give you a bill of sale of the boy.”
“Go back to your bed,” said Thompson to his chattel, “and remember
that you now belong to me.”
The poor slave wiped the tears from his eyes, as, in obedience, he
turned to leave the table.
“My father gave me that boy,” said Jones, as he took the money,
“and I hope, Mr. Thompson, that you will allow me to redeem him.”
“Most certainly, sir,” replied Thompson. “Whenever you hand over
the cool thousand the negro is yours.”
Next morning, as the passengers were assembling in the cabin and on
deck, and while the slaves were running about waiting on or looking for
their masters, poor Joe was seen entering his new master's stateroom,
boots in hand.
“Who do you belong to?” inquired a gentleman of an old negro,
who passed along leading a fine Newfoundland dog which he had been
feeding.
“When I went to sleep las' night,” replied the slave, “I 'longed to
Massa Carr; but he bin gamblin' all night, an' I don't know who I
'longs to dis mornin'.”
Such is the uncertainty of a slave's life. He goes to bed at night the
pampered servant of his young master, with whom he has played in
childhood, and who would not see his slave abused under any consideration,
and gets up in the morning the property of a man whom he has
never before seen.
To behold five or six tables in the saloon of a steamer, with half a
dozen men playing cards at each, with money, pistols, and bowie-knives
spread in splendid confusion before then, is an ordinary thing on the
Mississippi River.
