Steamboat Seasons and Backwater Battles: A Riverboat Pilot On The Western Rivers In The Civil War A Historical Novel

By Kendall Gott

This is the story of a young man with the ambition to crawl his way up in Victorian society by leaving the farm and signing onto a steamboat. After becoming a certified pilot, he is quickly swept up in the war he does not understand that divides the country and threatens his goals. He witnesses the militarization of the steamboat trade and the coming rise of the railroads. When the boat is acquired by the War Department for conversion to a "tinclad" gunboat, he and other skilled men are contracted to the Navy and find themselves in the thick of the fighting on the western rivers. There, they must grapple with the moral complexities and the human and economic consequences of the war. The battles and locations are real, and the tale reveals the trials and tribulations of forming a navy on the western rivers. Such topics as boat acquisition, manning, and arming are presented in detail. Others such as leadership and race relations of the era are as well. This story is a unique and colorful over-the-shoulder look at steamboat life and the war on the rivers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645593744

Book preview

9781645593744_cover.jpg

Steamboat Seasons

and

Backwater Battles

A Riverboat Pilot on the Western Rivers in the Civil War

A Historical Novel

Kendall D. Gott

ISBN 978-1-64559-373-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64559-374-4 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Kendall D. Gott

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Maps

Foreword

Book 1

My Obsession

Steamboat Pilot

The War and St. Louis

Back on the River

Galena

The New Year

Our First Battles

Book 2

The Call to Arms

Plowshares to Swords

The Crew Is Assembled, Sir

Shakedown

First Patrol

Our First Battle

Change Is Afoot

Second Patrol

Pursuit Stopped at Harpeth Shoals

A New War for Us

Up the Tennessee

Book 3

Refit

Joining the Main Fleet

Memphis

Liberty

On Patrol

The Big Push

Back Upstream

Troubled Waters

Autumn on the Tennessee

Book 4

The New Year

Up the Cumberland

A Fool’s Errand

New Orleans

Big Changes Afoot

Return to the Trade

A New Season

Epilogue

About the Author

For Mom

Maps

All maps created by author. They are formatted for a typical book-sized publication.

Lower Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers

The Ohio River

Lower Mississippi and Red River

Upper Tennessee River

Foreword

This is the story of a young man with the ambition to crawl his way up in Victorian society by leaving the farm and signing onto a steamboat. He is quickly swept up in the war he does not understand that divides the country and threatens his goals. He witnesses the militarization of the steamboat trade and the coming rise of the railroads. When the boat is acquired by the War Department for conversion to a tinclad gunboat, he and other skilled men are contracted to the Navy and find themselves in the thick of the fighting on the western rivers. There, they must grapple with the moral complexities and the human and economic consequences of the war.

This tale reveals the trials and tribulations of forming a navy on the western rivers. Such topics as boat acquisition, manning, and arming are presented in detail. Others such as leadership and race relations of the era are as well. The men who served on the gunboats also had to adapt their tactics quickly as the conflict evolved into total war.

This story is a unique and colorful over the shoulder look at steamboat life and the war on the rivers. The battles and all the locations were real ones, as well as the characters with proper names. The boat and crew are simply inserted into the historical events to give the protagonist’s perspective. Although there is great historical accuracy the book is meant to be a good read. Enjoy.

KG

Book 1

My Obsession

So often it chances in particular men that they are content with their current status in life. Such men were few in this country. The United States was young and growing as people pushed westward seeking new opportunities. Cheap land and abundant resources combined with a passive government meant everything across the country was on the rise and spreading westward. Thousands of foreign immigrants sensed this too and journeyed across the Atlantic to seek their fortunes in this free and vast land. Well, somewhat free. In the South the institution of slavery meant that more than six million people worked in bondage and sectional animosities threatened on occasion to tear the country apart. Out in Kansas men were even killing each other over the matter. But to the average American that was just too remote to think too much about. Men of ability and drive instead looked to find their own way in this land of opportunity.

Growing up on a farm along the Illinois River, one could not resist the fascination of the steamboats plying the river. For me, to be part of the crew on one of the magnificent boats was an instant obsession for which there was no cure. The malady became worse with each row plowed and each crop harvested. All my work stopped when one of the great white boats appeared. Father had to bring me out of the trance with a shout to get back to work. He knew my obsession had but one cure, and it was not to be found on the farm. It was finally time to act after the harvest in my eighteenth year. After a tearful goodbye from mother and an understanding handshake from father, I began my quest to become a steamboat man. Father understood my wanderlust as he had had a bad case of it himself. He too had left his family in Hesse in his youth and came all the way to Illinois. That was even before the surge of Deutscher immigrants after the Revolution in 1848.

I made my way up to Peoria with just a satchel bag of essentials by walking and hitching rides. It is the biggest town in the area with broad streets parallel to the river named after the presidents. The city quickly gave up the practice when it grew faster than the country produced them. But this was where steamboats congregated. It is said that hundreds of boats visited there each year. Peoria is also famous as a big producer of liquor, on its way to becoming the world’s largest. Mother would not approve of me getting mixed up with that industry and I had made her a promise not to. With such temptations I had considered going down to Beardstown instead. There the Logan family owned a small stern wheel towboat for pulling grain barges and they held aspirations to build more. But my goal though was to be on a real steamboat. I had only a few dollars in my pocket and the need to find a spot on the boat quickly was great.

Peoria was, of course, the largest city I had seen to date. It had all the sights, sounds, and smells of an industrious place. Everything was amazing. It was a veritable beehive of activity and commerce. People of all classes went about their business with an eagerness I had never seen except for harvest time on the farm. Horses and mules pulled wagons of all sizes, but the animals were subjects of pity. A city is no place for them, and they looked malnourished and ill-kept. The ladies of means were adorned in brightly colored gowns and certainly caught my eye. They walked in pairs or were accompanied by their men. There were a few that were unescorted. Mother would not have approved and had given me warning to stay clear of that sort. My father had warned me to stay clear of the notorious Bunker Hill district, a den of whorehouses and saloons crammed between Washington and Water streets, bounded by Irving and Clay streets. I got a good look from a distance, but I had more pressing matters.

The riverfront did indeed contain steamboats and my stride increased to almost a run. Catching myself, I slowed to normal walk. I did not wish to be seen as some yokel straight off the farm.

I made my way to a glorious boat with the name Garden City emblazoned on the paddle box. A banner flying proudly from the tall staff on the bow proclaimed it belonged to the Illinois Packet Company. Taking a deep breath, I strode up the man who looked like he knew what he was doing. He looked just a year or two older than me.

What the hell do you want, boy?

A job on the boat, of course.

Go away, you cockchafer.

This was certainly not the reception I was expecting. I was so close to my dream I was not going to let this sodomite stand in my way.

"You’re certainly not in charge here, arschgeige. Who is?"

From behind a booming voice stopped our pleasant conversation.

You there! Get back to work! Who is that you are talking to?

Just some yokel who wants a job.

Send him up. He can take the darkie’s place that jumped the boat last night.

Elated, I brushed passed my antagonist and went aboard.

I was briefly introduced to the captain, Herman Price. He asked me questions of my background and my intentions in life. He correctly guessed I was a Methodist. He caught a hint of a Germanic accent in time. I recommend you try to get rid of that, son. The Dutch and all other foreigners ain’t much liked in this country. You won’t go very far talking like that. My impulse was to say it was pronounced "Deutsch instead of Dutch, but wisely thought better of it. I would have to be careful about letting on about my heritage and try to blend in. I signed the manifest with my name and became a part of the crew. The clerk was impressed that I did not have to make a mark like most of the men on board. Marks are pretty much useless for legal purposes. Is that a Dutch name?"

No sir. It’s American, like me.

The foreman put me to work immediately assigning me to a gang loading cargo. I thanked God that my antagonist was in another. We were running liquor and grain up to LaSalle. Mother would haltingly approve, as it was legal commerce and providing that I wasn’t drinking any of it.

For the first time in my life I saw a black man. In fact, there were at least ten of them on board. I stared in wonder until slapped on the back and told to get back to work. Ah, your first one, eh? Don’t worry, they don’t bite too hard. Just treat them like anyone else or leave them be. What monstrous abilities they possessed was left to my active imagination. My plan was to observe them for a time before engaging in any conversation.

We had several stops along the way up river to our final destination, but we deckhands were not allowed the time to explore. Instead, we unloaded and loaded freight at each port and while underway we were put to work keeping the deck clean, tending the hawsers, and just about any job you could think of. We had no beds and found places to sleep among the barrels, crates, and boxes. Most of the hands brought food with them. I was not so prepared and took meals from the boat’s kitchen or from one of the concessions. My few dollars were quickly depleted. The purser allowed a line of credit until I was paid off.

I got along with the men in the gang and was eventually accepted by the rest of the crew. Even my antagonist in Peoria warmed up a bit. They were a tough lot and many carried knives. Rivermen were rough-and-tumble by nature and thievery was commonplace. The law kept a sharp eye on rivermen. In fact, most men thrown into the cold and silent calabooses along the river came from the boats or the docks. I learned the trick was to do what was asked without backtalk and not to work too much harder than the other fellows. That would make them look bad and they would be most displeased with me. If the foreman wasn’t yelling at you, you were working just hard enough.

Hey! All you shut up. We need to hear the bells. You know the rules. Now get to work you sons of strumpets or I will fix your flint!

The boat was fascinating. I had yet to ascend onto the decks above as we were not welcome there unless summoned for some reason. We were on the main deck, where most of the cargo and all the machinery resided. Four massive boilers were laid in the center, and the firebox running their width looked like the gates of hell. Behind, two great engines powered the paddlewheels. There were pipes beyond description that carried steam to where it was needed. A gang of men led by the engineer tended to all the machinery’s needs like acolytes. The whole contraption was painted black and was a wonder of modern science. The scene conjured an image of a great mythical monster. The marvel of it all.

The river too was full of wonder. It was nearly alive with trade scows, coal barges, fishing skiffs, and, of course, the majestic steamers. Fish leapt from the water, eagles soared, and the fields beyond teemed with cattle, deer, and nature’s creatures. The bluffs, hills, and valleys of the upper Illinois were a sight to behold in autumn. One could not doubt the six days of divine creation after seeing those sights.

We unloaded the freight of beans, corn, wheat, oats, pork, wheat, and passengers at LaSalle on schedule, a feat all packets strive for. The men were sad to see the large barrels of rye whiskey from Cole’s New Distillery depart our company. The freight was destined for transfer to other craft transiting the new Illinois and Michigan Canal on up to Chicago. We took on fuel from freight wagons emblazoned with LaSalle Coal Mining Company. The mules were quite relieved of their loads, but our job had just begun. This coal was transferred to the boat by using shovels, scuttles, and backbreaking labor. Everyone on the main deck pitched in, and some deck passengers helped as well in exchange for a partial refund on their fare. We were to have the boat ready for departure by morning and would not be able rest until then. Captain Price checked on our progress on occasion. For a gentleman he knew a lot of swear words and used them freely.

We pulled away on time much to satisfaction of the Illinois Packet Company. Our destination was St. Louis, but of course we had to make the scheduled stops along the way. I was able to send a letter to the family while back in Peoria letting them know of my fate. No one was visible as we passed by the farm on our way downstream, but I waved and hollered anyway. Passing Beardstown, I was gratified to see work progressing on the plank road toward Bluff Springs. The famers had been clamoring for such a road over the sandy ridges and marshes for their heavy wagons.

The experienced men said we made St. Louis in good time. But it did not beat the record time the boat was so proud of. I took in the wonder of the now largest city I had seen. Much of it had burned in ’49, but it was impossible for me to tell. Three- and five-story brick buildings now lined the water front on which dozens of steamers were loading and unloading. There were boats of all description. Packets, tug boats, a fireboat, snag boats. The great New Orleans boats were the queens of the river and shone brightly above the rest. I was now a seasoned riverman in my mind and I wanted to explore this great city. Time did not allow that though. During the season a boat man’s life was non-stop. He could rest when the waters were too low for travel and the boat laid up for refit and much needed maintenance.

With each run, my confidence and knowledge grew. The little free time given allowed me on occasion to inquire about the machinery and the art of sounding the river. Two men were often dispatched to the bow of the boat to determine the depth of the river and the nature of the bottom. Armed with a marked pole or line with a lead device attached, the men had to quickly make their measurements and shout their findings up to the captain in the wheelhouse three decks above. The job required quick reflexes, a little horse sense, and a loud voice. There were six calls for various depths and the best call was Mark Twain! Out here on the rivers it meant there was plenty of water under the boat and the captain could go where he wished. I was put to work at it after expressing interest in the job. I still had other deck duties, but when the bell rang, I was to drop what I was doing and get to it.

With the coming of winter and end of the season, I made my way back home until the river season began anew.

My sweetheart of youth, Ann, was as radiant as ever and acquired an even more womanly figure. She was enthralled with my tales of high adventure on the river and the big cities along its length. Yet, when I wanted to talk of our future she went dark as like snuffing out a candle. Not one to mince words I blurted out the question on my mind.

What ails you, Ann?

My, what a charmer you are. Well, it seems this life you have chosen will keep us apart most of the time.

But the money is good, and I can provide.

That’s not enough. Did you hear James Simpson is clerking at the bank up in Havana? He says he will be its president in a few years.

Well, good for him.

We saw each other a few times at church but never walked alone together again. It seems life on the river might be a lonely one. It made me think of how few on my gang were family men. Those that were worried constantly about departures, arrivals, and how long we would be gone. The officers were said to be married, but they earned a princely sum. Yes, the life of a riverman must be a lonely one.

It was good to be home, but I yearned to return to the river and be away from Ann and her bank clerk in Havana. It was good to see the family but increasingly awkward. Men who left to find their fortunes seldom returned for such a long time. My departure was a tearful one, again, but it came none too soon for me. Maybe when I came back again, I would return with the means to buy that bank in Havana.

Life on the steamboat was a good reflection of life ashore. The working man was at the bottom. The rich were on the boiler deck above. Why it was called that is a mystery to me, as the boilers were down here. Above that was the hurricane deck, where the captain and boat officers slept. The building on that deck was called a Texas on some boats but we never did. It was just called the hurricane deck by us. Lording over all was the wheelhouse, atop the Texas if you were one of those to call it that, where the captain held court and directed where his kingdom went. There were two ways to become a captain. Be rich already and buy a boat. The other was to become a pilot, the man behind the wheel. Many of them earned enough to buy their own boats or at least a big enough piece of one to become the captain. I set my sights on that. I would inquire with Captain Price of my new aspiration at the next opportunity and let my folks know in my next letter. We had cargo and passengers to deliver in the meantime. This time it meant New Orleans!

The rivers were high enough in January of ’55 to make an early run. We had a load of flour, lard, and oats bound for New Orleans which would then go on to Boston by ship. Fancy men and women filled the boiler deck cabins to capacity. The Negro stewards would be busy with that persnickety crowd. I wondered if their five-dollar fare was worth the company’s trouble. Many of the hands had been to the fabled Crescent City and we all looked forward to the visit. Adventure awaited.

Along the way we leadsmen were constantly called to sound the river. More times than can be remembered. There were many snags and the boat often had to slow to get around dangerous bends in the river. Up until recently I hadn’t given it much thought, but now I dreamed of being the pilot behind the wheel. I had instead spent more time worrying when the boilers over yonder would blow up, as they often did on steamboats. The tomfoolery and general horseplay by the engineer men were hardly reassuring.

We had just passed what I later learned was Napoleon, Arkansas, near the confluence of the Arkansas River. Since my watch was over and I had curled up with a bag of oats for warmth and a bit of privacy.

Fire!

Smoke was pouring from the coal bunker just forward of the firebox. Buckets of water were fetched from the river and engineers scrambled to attach a hose to a boiler connection. The efforts were in vain. Flames appeared from the cracks in the deck and the smell of burning wood signaled that the boat itself was on fire. I did what I could to help but even I thought the cause was a lost one. The captain appeared and the look on his face confirmed my fears were indeed true.

The captain pointed the boat to the bank of Beulah Bend and beached her there. We quickly positioned the loading plank to allow people forward of the fire to quickly reach dry ground. Those aft would have to take their chances with the river.

By some miracle we got everyone off. Passengers on the boiler deck were even able to bring off their trunks and luggage. I wondered how many lives were risked for that. Surely, they were rich enough to eat their laying hens and could replace their travel possessions. We gathered a short distance away and watched the proud Garden City burn. Only the lower hull and the mass of machinery were left. The metal frames of the great paddlewheels warped and bent from the heat. It was a truly sad sight to see.

We were eventually picked up by an upbound boat and deposited in St. Louis. The Illinois Packet Company still had fifteen boats on the river, but none were due here for days. With no work for us, we were paid off and let go to fend for ourselves. I had the presence of mind to track down Captain Price and ask for his advice and help with my new aspiration.

I walked along the riverfront looking for an opportunity. This was America, and those were to be found everywhere.

Steamboat Pilot

I found a steamboat office near the foot of Market Street. The stout brick building and gold leaf lettering on the windows showed the world it was a successful enterprise. The company’s gilded ship’s wheel was emblazoned on the sign, and below a Negro opened the door for my entrance. This doorman wore a red waistcoat and black silk hat. On his lapel was a pin with the same wheel that was on the sign above him. My guess was that he was a freeman, but sometimes it was hard to tell.

Where might I apply for a position?

Youse take a right, go down the hallway, and sees the clerk. It says that on his door.

Obliged.

I did as the kindly Negro told me and found I should have turned left. My education on the boat included the fact that the Negroes were not prone to biting and I feared them not, but they would take any advantage of you that they could get away with. The atmosphere inside the company office was almost churchlike. There was no hustle and bustle but instead a calm and deliberate demeanor. Clerks carried bundles of paper to some unseen office. Gentlemen calmly conversed about business with their cigars and pipes. The company personnel all were dressed in black or a very dark blue and sported the company pins on their lapels.

The bespectacled clerk, who I finally located, was not impressed with me. I had combed my hair but had no chance to clean up. My workman clothes betrayed my status.

"I am just off the Garden City. Captain Price wrote a letter of introduction on my behalf."

The clerk warmed up a bit and carefully read the letter.

Terrible loss. I see you must have lost everything. Captain Sulloway happens to be here in the building. Maybe he would be willing to take you on as a cub pilot. Let me introduce you.

We found this Captain Sulloway in the parlor smoking a cigar and lovingly holding a glass of brown liquor. At this early hour my first impression was that he probably got drunk more often than was necessary. He was a big man and stout with the effects of good living that men of means enjoyed. I surmised he enjoyed it quite frequently. He wore what seemed to be the company boat officer uniform, a frock coat with a gold stripe on the cuff. All in all, he fit the description of an old Whig. One who takes his whiskey often and votes the Democrat ticket occasionally. He had removed his cap and it was lying upside down on the small table beside him.

After introductions he motioned me to a chair with his liquor hand. He spoke around the cigar in his mouth.

"What a loss the Garden City is. Were you on the famous run she made all the way from here up to LaSalle?

Yes sir. Three hundred and two miles in twenty-one hours and fifty-five minutes. That record will stand for all time.

I imagine that Captain Price is taking the loss hard.

"Yes sir. I tried to console him all the way back here. Looks like he will retire to a farm in Magnolia, Illinois.

I stretched the truth as far as I dared. The fast run was made weeks before my arrival, but I had naturally heard all about it many times. Captain Price had rarely spoken to me, and it was usually a Get back to work! The only reason he produced a letter for me was because he was still in a state of shock. His recollecting of me at all was probably in jeopardy. I feared this Captain Sulloway would track him down and have a conversation.

Well, if Captain Price thought so highly of you, I will take a chance on you. My fee for a license is two hundred and fifty dollars. I need to formally clear this with the Pilots Benevolent Association, but that should not be a problem. I was a board member for a few years and stepped down in good standing.

I only have forty.

No surprise there. I will take twenty now. The rest will be paid up along the way. Use ten of what you have left to get you some decent clothes—black trousers, white linens, a cravat, and an overcoat. Buy shoes and something for the rain if you have enough left. We’ll take care of the frock coat, vest, and cap. If you measure up on this trial run, we’ll draw up a formal agreement. We will also have to garnish your first payoff to pay the initiation fee to the association and for your uniform. You won’t have much spending money for a while. Oh, and lose the knife. In this company, boat officers never carry one and only men who work with lines are allowed. Too much chance for trouble.

Yes sir, uh, Captain.

Working on the main deck I imagine you already know how to swear. Do you smoke or drink?

No, Captain.

We’ll fix that.

I left the building after all other arrangements made. My job now was to make my purchases and report to the boat at six o’clock in the morning.

I acquired all the goods on the list before the shops closed for the evening. With my appearance the storekeepers were not always eager to help. With each purchase my outfit became more complete and the reception of the storekeepers warmer. The man at the accoutrement emporium was kind enough to teach the basics of tying a cravat. There was not enough money for a Mackintosh raincoat like the Captain Sulloway recommended. I chose instead to buy a pair of brogan shoes and pray for fair weather. I wasn’t sure if I should spend any of the ten dollars left, as the captain seemed so precise in his directions. I took a chance and procured some horehound candy and hub wafers from a confectionary for something sweet. My final purchase was a meal at a tavern. There was no spare money for a room for the night and with such fine clothes I was now a target for ruffians. Avoiding the riverfront was a very good idea. This meant wandering the streets for the night and avoiding everyone. My excitement would have kept sleep away no matter how soft the bed was. With no pocket watch I had to rely on the peals of the basilica’s bells. It was a long night.

I found the boat with ease and was there a half hour early. The deck hands living ashore were arriving singly and in small groups. The foreman had not begun his shouting just yet. An officer was sitting on the covered gallery that looped around the boiler deck saloons. He was drinking from a tankard and smoking a cigar. I made my way up to him. It turned out that he was a pilot, one of two on this trip.

So, you’re the new cub pilot, eh? Let’s take your bag to your cabin.

I was elated that I would have a cabin and wondered how many fellows would be sharing it with me. We went up to the hurricane deck, where I had only seen from below. The structure on that deck was about forty feet long and split down the middle by a corridor lined with cabins. The captain’s cabin claimed the entire width and the forward view. The aft third was called the coon pen, and the Negro help was berthed there. The companionway stairs that led to the wheelhouse atop this structure were within. To my delight my berth was my own, but it had room for just a folding field cot, a plain wooden chair, and a wash basin. A line of nails on the wall were for hanging things. The water pitcher was empty.

Drop your kit bag here. On the cot you will find your vest, frock coat, and cap. Put those on and meet me in the wheelhouse. Oh, and bring that notebook and pencil with you.

In my excitement I wanted to piss, but I wanted to be right on the pilot’s heels. No time to go to the deck below and to the nearest facilities. A quick check confirmed there was no chamber pot. The pitcher would have to do. The dark blue frock coat was an ordinary one, except there was a thin gold band on each cuff. The billed cap was of the type many riverboat officers wear and it had the company ship’s wheel insignia at the peak. There was no pilot badge insignia like my new colleague had on his. That distinction was earned.

The ascension up the causeway stairs to the wheelhouse felt as though as St. Peter would be there to meet me. My knees shook fiercely.

Well, that was quick. I thought you would need to wash up and piss or something. All right. Let me tell you a few of the basics before Captain Sulloway arrives. Most importantly do not sit in his chair, ever.

He pointed to a luxurious padded chair next to the stove. Its opulence was found normally in the halls of the Vatican by my reckoning. The sight of the deep imprint of his buttocks made me smile.

The second most important task for a new cub pilot is to make sure there is plenty of coffee. Draw the beans and water from the kitchen and the coal from the engineer. There is the scuttle. Don’t let the deck crew talk you into taking their boiler coffee. The captain will throw you overboard without a second thought.

Boiler coffee was made by venting scalding water directly from the boilers from one of the gauge cocks. It required no brewing but tasted like the river bottom. I had had it several times and it did have ample power to vent the bowels of those not accustomed to it.

The captain will be your professor. It may not sound like normal procedure, but he is a first-rate pilot himself. We pilots will not interfere with your instruction but will instead aspire to be a shining beacon of good examples to emulate. Captain Sulloway runs the boat and comes up here as well. It is a marvel the amount of whiskey he can put down but don’t ever bring it up, and don’t talk politics. Write everything down that he tells you. Let me show you some things while we wait. Maybe you won’t seem like a total mudsill to him. With your plain looks you don’t look like a lady’s man. Forget about them for a while anyway and learn your trade. Piloting is all you will have room in your noggin for anyway.

Uh, thanks for the advice, sir.

You can buy me a drink or two sometime. Oh, and let me tell of our engineer, Thomas. A few years ago, he was close witness to a boiler mishap of some sort. Some say he was lucky to survive but I wouldn’t. The steam jet caught him off the aft quarter and seared him like an Independence Day ham. He lost an ear but kept his eyes and nose. Can’t hardly smell or taste his food though from breathing in the hot vapor. He looks like the devil himself and will take some getting used to. Just remember that there is a man under all that misery and a good one too. If you don’t treat him that way his crew will have something to say about it. The captain too.

My God in heaven. The poor devil, I mean fellow.

The wheelhouse, or pilothouse as many call it, sits atop the highest point on the boat. Except for the big black smoke stacks the view is unobstructed. The great wheel commands one’s attention. At seven feet in diameter it extends into the floor, but there was still enough room for dancing. Along with the captain’s throne there was a long bench and two chairs. I wondered what kind of coronations they held here.

These are the handles to ring the bells. The one on this wall is for the right engine and over there is the one for the left. The main bell is operated by that one. The treadles on the floor there are for the three whistles we have on board. It’s quite a dance when things get moving. You have worked on a boat before and I assume you know the standard signals.

Yes sir. I believe I do.

Good. You may not be as dumb as you look. You are in advance of most cubs I’ve seen. Don’t let that go to your head though.

No sir.

So, you served with Captain Price. How was he?

He ran a good boat, I suppose. He did come down on main deck to check on things on occasion. I lost some respect for him when we banked some freight and offloaded passengers to lighten the boat to get over a sandbar. Once over the bar he did not stop to retrieve them.

What an ass. How much coffee is left in the pot?

Captain Sulloway entered the wheelhouse in mid-slug from his flask. With a grunt of acknowledgment to us, he hung his greatcoat on a hook and filled his tankard with coffee. He seemed momentarily surprised the pot and scuttle were full and eased his frame into his chair.

Ah, our new cub. Welcome aboard. I see you are dressed and ready to go. Where did you get those shoes?

At a shop owed by S. P. Carpenter, Captain. I didn’t catch his first name. Just remembered the sign.

You paid too much, whatever it was.

Formal instruction began as soon as boilers were up to steam. The captain explained the bell and whistle signals and he was somewhat surprised