IN my preceding chapters I have tried, by going into the minutiaeof the science of piloting, to carry the reader step by stepto a comprehension of what the science consists of; and atthe same time I have tried to show him that it is a very curiousand wonderful science, too, and very worthy of his attention.

If I have seemed to love my subject, it is no surprising thing,for I loved the profession far better than any I have followed since,and I took a measureless pride in it. The reason is plain:

a pilot, in those days, was the only unfettered andentirely independent human being that lived in the earth.

Kings are but the hampered servants of parliament and people;parliaments sit in chains forged by their constituency;the editor of a newspaper cannot be independent, but mustwork with one hand tied behind him by party and patrons,and be content to utter only half or two-thirds of his mind;no clergyman is a free man and may speak the whole truth,regardless of his parish's opinions; writers of all kinds aremanacled servants of the public. We write frankly and fearlessly,but then we 'modify' before we print. In truth, every man andwoman and child has a master, and worries and frets in servitude;but in the day I write of, the Mississippi pilot had none.

The captain could stand upon the hurricane deck, in the pompof a very brief authority, and give him five or six orders whilethe vessel backed into the stream, and then that skipper's reignwas over. The moment that the boat was under way in the river,she was under the sole and unquestioned control of the pilot.

He could do with her exactly as he pleased, run her when and whitherhe chose, and tie her up to the bank whenever his judgment saidthat that course was best. His movements were entirely free;he consulted no one, he received commands from nobody,he promptly resented even the merest suggestions. Indeed, the lawof the United States forbade him to listen to commandsor suggestions, rightly considering that the pilot necessarilyknew better how to handle the boat than anybody could tell him.

So here was the novelty of a king without a keeper, an absolute monarchwho was absolute in sober truth and not by a fiction of words.

I have seen a boy of eighteen taking a great steamer serenelyinto what seemed almost certain destruction, and the aged captainstanding mutely by, filled with apprehension but powerlessto interfere. His interference, in that particular instance,might have been an excellent thing, but to permit it wouldhave been to establish a most pernicious precedent. It willeasily be guessed, considering the pilot's boundless authority,that he was a great personage in the old steamboating days.

He was treated with marked courtesy by the captain and with markeddeference by all the officers and servants; and this deferentialspirit was quickly communicated to the passengers, too. I thinkpilots were about the only people I ever knew who failed to show,in some degree, embarrassment in the presence of travelingforeign princes. But then, people in one's own grade of lifeare not usually embarrassing objects.

By long habit, pilots came to put all their wishes in the form of commands.

It 'gravels' me, to this day, to put my will in the weak shape ofa request, instead of launching it in the crisp language of an order.

In those old days, to load a steamboat at St. Louis, take her to NewOrleans and back, and discharge cargo, consumed about twenty-five days,on an average. Seven or eight of these days the boat spent at the wharvesof St. Louis and New Orleans, and every soul on board was hard at work,except the two pilots; they did nothing but play gentleman up town,and receive the same wages for it as if they had been on duty.

The moment the boat touched the wharf at either city, they were ashore;and they were not likely to be seen again till the last bell was ringing andeverything in readiness for another voyage.

When a captain got hold of a pilot of particularly high reputation,he took pains to keep him. When wages were four hundred dollarsa month on the Upper Mississippi, I have known a captainto keep such a pilot in idleness, under full pay, three monthsat a time, while the river was frozen up. And one must rememberthat in those cheap times four hundred dollars was a salaryof almost inconceivable splendor. Few men on shore got such payas that, and when they did they were mightily looked up to.

When pilots from either end of the river wandered into our smallMissouri village, they were sought by the best and the fairest,and treated with exalted respect. Lying in port under wageswas a thing which many pilots greatly enjoyed and appreciated;especially if they belonged in the Missouri River in the heydayof that trade (Kansas times), and got nine hundred dollars a trip,which was equivalent to about eighteen hundred dollars a month.

Here is a conversation of that day. A chap out of the Illinois River,with a little stern-wheel tub, accosts a couple of ornate and gildedMissouri River pilots--'Gentlemen, I've got a pretty good trip for the upcountry,and shall want you about a month. How much will it be?'

'Eighteen hundred dollars apiece.'

'Heavens and earth! You take my boat, let me have your wages,and I'll divide!'

I will remark, in passing, that Mississippi steamboatmen wereimportant in landsmen's eyes (and in their own, too, in a degree)according to the dignity of the boat they were on.

For instance, it was a proud thing to be of the crew of suchstately craft as the 'Aleck Scott' or the 'Grand Turk.'

Negro firemen, deck hands, and barbers belonging to those boatswere distinguished personages in their grade of life, and they werewell aware of that fact too. A stalwart darkey once gave offenseat a negro ball in New Orleans by putting on a good many airs.

Finally one of the managers bustled up to him and said--'Who IS you, any way? Who is you? dat's what Iwants to know!'

The offender was not disconcerted in the least, but swelled himself upand threw that into his voice which showed that he knew he was not puttingon all those airs on a stinted capital.

'Who IS I? Who IS I? I let you know mighty quick who I is!

I want you niggers to understan' dat I fires de middle do'

[Door]> on de "Aleck Scott! " '

That was sufficient.

The barber of the 'Grand Turk' was a spruce young negro,who aired his importance with balmy comp............