When the first frost threatens to come,the planters snatch off their crops in a hurry.When they have finished grinding the cane,they form the refuse of the stalks (which they call BAGASSE)into great piles and set fire to them,though in other sugar countries the bagasse is used for fuel in the furnaces of the sugar mills.
Now the piles of damp bagasse burn slowly,and smoke like Satan's own kitchen.
An embankment ten or fifteen feet high guards both banks of the Mississippi all the way down that lower end of the river,and this embankment is set back from the edge of the shore from ten to perhaps a hundred feet,according to circumstances;say thirty or forty feet,as a general thing.
Fill that whole region with an impenetrable gloom of smoke from a hundred miles of burning bagasse piles,when the river is over the banks,and turn a steamboat loose along there at midnight and see how she will feel.
And see how you will feel,too!You find yourself away out in the midst of a vague dim sea that is shoreless,that fades out and loses itself in the murky distances;for you cannot discern the thin rib of embankment,and you are always imagining you see a straggling tree when you don't.The plantations themselves are transformed by the smoke,and look like a part of the sea.All through your watch you are tortured with the exquisite misery of uncertainty.You hope you are keeping in the river,but you do not know.
All that you are sure about is that you are likely to be within six feet of the bank and destruction,when you think you are a good half-mile from shore.
And you are sure,also,that if you chance suddenly to fetch up against the embankment and topple your chimneys overboard,you will have the small comfort of knowing that it is about what you were expecting to do.
One of the great Vicksburg packets darted out into a sugar plantation one night,at such a time,and had to stay there a week.But there was no novelty about it;it had often been done before.
I thought I had finished this chapter,but I wish to add a curious thing,while it is in my mind.
It is only relevant in that it is connected with piloting.
There used to be an excellent pilot on the river,a Mr.X.,who was a somnambulist.It was said that if his mind was troubled about a bad piece of river,he was pretty sure to get up and walk in his sleep and do strange things.
He was once fellow-pilot for a trip or two with George Ealer,on a great New Orleans passenger packet.During a considerable part of the first trip George was uneasy,but got over it by and by,as X.seemed content to stay in his bed when asleep.
Late one night the boat was approaching Helena,Arkansas;the water was low,and the crossing above the town in a very blind and tangled condition.X.had seen the crossing since Ealer had,and as the night was particularly drizzly,sullen,and dark,Ealer was considering whether he had not better have X.called to assist in running the place,when the door opened and X.walked in.
Now on very dark nights,light is a deadly enemy to piloting;you are aware that if you stand in a lighted room,on such a night,you cannot see things in the street to any purpose;but if you put out the lights and stand in the gloom you can make out objects in the street pretty well.So,on very dark nights,pilots do not smoke;they allow no fire in the pilot-house stove if there is a crack which can allow the least ray to escape;they order the furnaces to be curtained with huge tarpaulins and the sky-lights to be closely blinded.
Then no light whatever issues from the boat.The undefinable shape that now entered the pilot-house had Mr.X.'s voice.
