 | XIII. The South-west |  |
13. XIII.
A sleepy porter—Cry of fire—Noises in the streets—A wild
scene at midnight—A splendid illumination—Steamers wrapped in
flames—A river on fire—Firemen—A lively scene—Floating cotton
—Boatmen—An ancient Portuguese Charon—A boat race—Pugilists—A
hero.
At the commendable hour of one in the morning,
as was hinted in my last letter, we safely arrived at
our hotel, and roused the slumbering porter from
his elysian dreams by the tinkling of a little bell
pendant over the private door for “single gentlemen,
—belated;” and ascended through dark passages
and darker stairways to our rooms, lighted by
the glimmer of a solitary candle fluttering and flickering
by his motion, in the fingers of the drowsy
“guardian of doors,” who preceded us.
We had finished our late supper, and, toasting
our bootless feet upon the burnished fender, were
quietly enjoying the agreeable warmth of the glowing
coals, and relishing, with that peculiar zest
which none but a smoker knows, a real Habana,—
when we were suddenly startled from our enjoyment
by the thrilling, fearful cry, of “Fire! fire!”
which, heard in the silence of midnight, makes a
man's heart leap into his throat, while he springs
from his couch, as if the cry “To arms—to arms!”
fire! fire!” rang in loud notes through the long
halls and corridors of the spacious hotel, startling
the affrighted sleepers from their beds, and at the
same instant a fierce, red glare flashed through our
curtained windows. The alarm was borne loudly
and wildly along the streets—the rapid clattering of
footsteps, as some individual hastened by to the
scene of the disaster, followed by another, and another,
was in a few seconds succeeded by the loud,
confused, and hurried tramping of many men, as
they rushed along shouting with hoarse voices the
quick note of alarm. We had already sprung to
the balcony upon which the window of our room
opened. For a moment our eyes were dazzled by
the fearful splendour of the scene which burst upon
us. The whole street,—lofty buildings, towers, and
cupolas — reflected a wild, red glare, flashed upon
them from a stupendous body of flame, as it rushed
and roared, and flung itself toward the skies, which,
black, lowering, and gloomy, hung threateningly
above. Two of those mammoth steamers which
float upon the mighty Mississippi, were, with nearly
two thousand bales of cotton on board, wrapped in
sheets of fire. They lay directly at the foot of
Canal-street; and as the flames shot now and then
high in the air, leaping from their decks as though
instinct with life, this broad street to its remotest
extremity in the distant forests, became lurid with
a fitful reddish glare, which disclosed every object
with the clearness of day. The balconies, galleries,
and windows, were filled with interested spectators;
hundreds, who thundered by toward the scene of
conflagration. I have a mania for going to fires.
I love their blood-stirring excitement; and, as in
an engagement, the greater the tumult and danger,
the greater is the enjoyment. I do not, however,
carry my “incendiary passion” so far as to be vexed
because an alarm that turns me out of a warm bed
proves to be only a “false alarm,” but when a fire
does come in my way, I heartily enjoy the excitement
necessarily attendant upon the exertions
made to extinguish it. You will not be surprised,
then, that although I had not had “sleep to my
eyes, nor slumber to my eyelids,” I should be unwilling
to remain a passive and distant spectator of
a scene so full of interest. Our hotel was a quarter
of a mile from the fire, and yet the heat was sensibly
felt at that distance. Leaving my companion
to take his rest, I descended to the street, and falling
into the tumultuous current setting toward the
burning vessels, a few moments brought me to the
spacious platform, or wharf, in front of the Levée,
which was crowded with human beings, gazing
passively upon the fire; while the ruddy glare reflected
from their faces, gave them the appearance,
so far as complexion was concerned, of so many
red men of the forest. As I elbowed my way
through this dense mass of people, who were shivering,
notwithstanding their proximity to the fire, in
the chilly morning air, with one side half roasted,
and the other half chilled—the ejaculations—
“Sacré diable!” “Carramba!” “Marie, mon
mighty waarm”—“Well now the way that ar' cotton
goes, is a sin to Crockett!”—fell upon the ear,
with a hundred more, in almost every patois and dialect,
whereof the chronicles of grammar have made
light or honourable mention.
As I gained the front of this mass of human beings,
that activity which most men possess, who
are not modelled after “fat Jack,” enabled me to
gain an elevation whence I had an unobstructed
view of the whole scene of conflagration. The
steamers were lying side by side at the Levée, and
one of them was enveloped in wreaths of flame,
bursting from a thousand cotton bales, which were
piled, tier above tier, upon her decks. The inside
boat, though having no cotton on board, was rapidly
consuming, as the huge streams of fire lapped and
twined around her. The night was perfectly calm,
but a strong whirlwind had been created by the
action of the heat upon the atmosphere, and now
and then it swept down in its invisible power, with
the “noise of a rushing mighty wind,” and as the
huge serpentine flames darted upward, the solid
cotton bales would be borne round the tremendous
vortex like feathers, and then—hurled away into the
air, blazing like giant meteors—would descend
heavily and rapidly into the dark bosom of the
river. The next moment they would rise and
float upon the surface, black unshapely masses of
tinder. As tier after tier, bursting with fire, fell in
upon the burning decks, the sweltering flames, for
a moment smothered, preceded by a volcanic discharge
gaping spectators, would break from their confinement,
and darting upward with multitudinous large
wads of cotton, shoot them away through the air,
filling the sky for a moment with a host of flaming
balls. Some of them were borne a great distance
through the air, and falling lightly upon the surface
of the water, floated, from their buoyancy, a long
time unextinguished. The river became studded
with fire, and as far as the eye could reach below
the city, it presented one of the most magnificent,
yet awful spectacles, I had ever beheld or imagined.
Literally spangled with flame, those burning fragments
in the distance being diminished to specks of
light, it had the appearance, though far more dazzling
and brilliant, of the starry firmament. There
were but two miserable engines to play with this
gambolling monster, which, one moment lifting itself
to a great height in the air, in huge spiral
wreaths, like some immense snake, at the next
would contract itself within its glowing furnace, or
coil and dart along the decks like troops of fiery
serpents, and with the roaring noise of a volcano.
There are but few “fires” in New-Orleans, compared
with the great number that annually occur in
northern cities. This is owing, not wholly to the
universally prevalent style of building with brick,
but in a great measure to the very few fires requisite
for a dwelling house in a climate so warm as
this. Consequently there is much less interest
taken by the citizens in providing against accidents
of this kind, than would be felt were conflagrations
now acting at intervals upon the fire, presented a
very true exemplification of the general apathy.
To a New-Yorker or Bostonian, accustomed to the
activity, energy, and military precision of their deservedly
celebrated fire companies, the mob-like
disorder of those who pretended to work the engines
at this fire, would create a smile, and suggest something
like the idea of a caricature.
After an hour's toil by the undisciplined firemen,
assisted by those who felt disposed to aid in extinguishing
the flame, the fire was got under, but
not before one of the boats was wholly consumed,
with its valuable cargo. The inner boat was saved
from total destruction by the great exertions of
some few individuals, “who fought on their own
hook.”
The next morning I visited the scene of the disaster.
Thousands were gathered around, looking
as steadily and curiously upon the smouldering
ruins as if they had possessed some very peculiar
and interesting attraction. The river presented a
most lively scene. A hundred skiffs, wherries,
punts, dug-outs, and other non-descript craft, with
equally euphonic denominations, were darting about
in all directions, each propelled by one or two individuals,
who were gathering up the half saturated
masses of cotton, that whitened the surface of the
river as far as the eye could reach. Several unlucky
wights, in their ambitious eagerness to obtain
the largest piles of this “snow-drift,” would lose
their equilibrium, and tumble headlong with their
however, were drowned, their mishaps rather exciting
the merriment of their companions and of the
crowds of amused spectators on shore, than creating
any apprehensions for their safety.
The misfortune of one shrivelled-up old Portuguese,
who had been very active in securing a due
proportion of the cotton, occasioned no little laughter
among the crowd on the Levée. After much
fighting, quarreling, and snarling, he had filled his
little boat so completely, that his thin, black, hatchet-face,
could only be seen protruding above the snowy
mass in which he was imbedded. Seizing his oars
in his long bony hands, he began to pull for the
shore with his prize, when a light wreath of blue
smoke rose from the cotton and curled very ominously
over his head. All unconscious, he rowed
on, and before he gained the shore, the fire burst in
a dozen places at once from his combustible cargo,
and instantly enveloped the little man and his boat
in a bright sheet of flame; with a terrific yell he
threw himself into the water, and in a few moments
emerged close by the Levée, where he was picked
up, with no other personal detriment than the loss
of the little forelock of gray hair which time had
charitably spared him.
In one instance, two skiffs, with a single individual
in each, attracted attention by racing for a
large tempting float of cotton, which drifted along
at some distance in the stream. Shouts of encouragement
rose from the multitude as they watched
the competitors, with the interest similar to that felt
water like arrows on the wing. They arrived at
the same instant at the object of contest, one on
either side, and the occupants, seizing it simultaneously,
and without checking the speed of their
boats, bore the mass of cotton through the water
between them, ploughing and tossing the spray in
showers over their heads. Gradually the boats
stopped, and a contest of another kind began. Neither
would resign his prize. After they had remained
leaning over the sides of their boats for a
moment, grasping it and fiercely eyeing each other,
some words were apparently exchanged between
them, for they mutually released their hold upon
the cotton, brought their boats together and secured
them; then, stripping off their roundabouts, placed
themselves on the thwarts of their boats in a pugilistic
attitude, and prepared to decide the ownership
of the prize, by an appeal to the “law of arms.”
The other cotton-hunters desisted from their employment,
and seizing their oars, pulled with shouts
to the scene of contest. Before they reached it,
the case had been decided, and the foremost of the
approaching boatmen had the merit of picking from
the water the conquered hero, who, after gallantly
giving and taking a dozen fine rounds, received an
unlucky “settler” under the left ear, whereupon he
tumbled over the side, and was fast sinking, when
he was taken out, amid the shouts of the gratified
spectators, with his hot blood effectually cooled,
though not otherwise injured. The more fortunate
victor deliberately lifted the prize into the boat, and
upright, and rowed to shore amid the cheers and
congratulations of his fellows, who now assembling
in a fleet around him, escorted him in triumph.
| XIII. The South-west | |