Four Months in a Sneak Box

N >> Nathaniel H. Bishop >> Four Months in a Sneak Box

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Mr. Walker then pointed to a long point of land some miles down the
river, upon which the fertile fields of a plantation lay like patches
of bright green velvet in the morning sun, and said: "Below that point
a neighbor of mine found one of your northern boatmen dying in his
boat. He rowed all the way from Philadelphia on a bet, and if he had
reached New Orleans would have won his five thousand dollars, but he
died when only ninety-five miles from the city, and was buried by
Adonis Le Blanc on that plantation."

I had heard the story before. It had been told me by the river
boatmen, and the newspapers of the country had also repeated it. The
common version of it was, that a poor man, desirous of supporting his
large family of children, had undertaken to row on a bet from
Philadelphia to New Orleans. If successful, he was to receive five
thousand dollars. The kind-hearted people along the river had shown
much sympathy for Mr. John C. Cloud in his praiseworthy attempts to
support his suffering family, and at any time during his voyage quite
a liberal sum of money might have been collected from these generous
men and women to aid him in his endeavor. There was, however,
something he preferred to money, and with which he was lavishly
supplied, as we shall see hereafter.

So much for rumor. Now let us examine facts. A short time before Mr.
Cloud's death, two reporters of a western paper attempted to row to
New Orleans in a small boat, but met with an untimely end, being run
down by a steamboat. Their fate and Mr. Cloud's were quoted as
precedents to all canoeists and boatmen, and quite a feeling against
this healthful exercise was growing among the people. Several editors
of popular newspapers added to the excitement by warnings and
forebodings. Believing that some imprudence had been the cause of Mr.
Cloud's death, and forming my opinion of him from the fact of his
undertaking such a voyage in August,--the season when the swamps are
full of malaria,--I took the trouble to investigate the case, and made
some discoveries which would have startled the sympathetic friends of
this unfortunate man.

One of the first things that came to light was the fact that Mr. Cloud
was not a married man. His family was a creation of his imagination,
and a most successful means of securing the sympathy and ready aid of
those he met during his voyage, though his daily progress shows that
neither sympathy nor money were what he craved, but that WHISKEY alone
would "fill the bill!"

Mr. Cloud had once been a sailor in the United States navy, but having
retired from the cruel sea, he became an actor in such plays as
"Black-eyed Susan" in one of the variety theatres in Philadelphia. Mr.
Charles D. Jones, of that city, who was connected with theatrical
enterprises, and knew Mr. Cloud well, was one day surprised by the
latter gentleman, who declared he had a "bright idea," and only wanted
a friend to stand by him to make it a sure thing. He proposed to row
from Philadelphia to New Orleans in a small boat. Mr. Jones was to act
as his travelling agent, going on in advance, and informing the people
of the coming of the great oarsman. When Mr. Cloud should arrive in
any populous river-town, a theatrical performance was to be given, the
boatman of course to be the "star." Mr. Jones was to furnish the
capital for all this, while Mr. Cloud was to share with his manager
the profits of the exhibitions.

A light Delaware River skiff, pointed at each end, was purchased, and
Mr. Cloud left Philadelphia in the month of August, promising his
friend to arrive in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in twelve or fourteen
days. After waiting a few days to enable Mr. Cloud to get fairly
started upon his voyage, which was to be made principally by canals to
the Alleghany River, the manager went to Pittsburgh with letters of
introduction to the editors of that busy city. The representatives of
the press kindly seconded Mr. Jones in advertising the coming of the
great oarsman. Mr. Cloud was expected to appear in front of Pittsburgh
on a certain day. A hall was engaged for his performance in the
evening. An immense amount of enthusiasm was worked up among the
people of the city and the neighboring towns. Having done his duty to
his colleague, Mr. Jones anxiously awaited the expected telegram from
Cloud, announcing his approach to the city. No word came from the
oarsman; and in vain the manager telegraphed to the various towns
along the route through which Mr. Cloud must have passed.

On the day that had been settled upon for the arrival of the boat
before Pittsburgh, a large concourse of visitors gathered along the
river-banks. Even the mayor of the city was present in his carriage
among the expectant crowd. The clock struck the hour of noon, but the
little Delaware skiff was nowhere to be seen; and, as the sun declined
from the zenith, the people gradually dispersed, muttering, "Another
humbug!"

At midnight Mr. Jones retired in anything but an amiable mood. His
professional honor had been wounded, and his industrious labors lost.
Where was Cloud? Had the poor fellow been murdered? What was his fate,
and why did he not come up to time? Revolving these questions in his
mind, the manager fell asleep; but he was roused before five o'clock
in the morning by a servant knocking at his door to inform him that
his "star" was in Alleghany City, opposite Pittsburgh. Mr. Jones went
to look up his man, and found him in a state of intoxication in a
drinking-saloon. A hard-looking set of fellows were perambulating the
streets, bawling at the top of their voices, "Arrival of John C.
Cloud, the great oarsman! Photographs for sale! only twenty-five
cents!"

When the intoxicated boatman had returned to a conversational state of
mind, he explained that he had actually rowed as far as Harrisburgh,
Pennsylvania, where he had been most generously entertained at the
liquor saloons, and had been so fortunate as to make the acquaintance
of some "good fellows" who had engaged to travel in advance of his
boat, and sell his photographs, sharing with him in the profits of
such sales. He had made his voyage from Harrisburgh to Alleghany City
by rail, his boat being safely stowed in a car, and tenderly watched
over by the red-shirted "good fellows" who had so generously taken him
under their wing. The "great oarsman" had, in fact, rowed just about
one-third of the distance between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.

The disgusted manager left his man in charge of the new managers, and
going at once to the editors, explained how he had been duped, and
begged to be "let down gently" before the public. These gentlemen not
only acceded to the request, but even offered to get up a "benefit"
for Mr. Jones, who declined the honor, and waited only long enough in
the city to see Mr. Cloud with his boat and whiskey fade out of sight
down the Ohio, when he returned to Philadelphia considerably lighter
in pocket, having provided funds for purchasing the boat and other
necessaries, and full of righteous indignation against Mr. Cloud and
his "bright idea."

The little skiff went on its way down the Ohio, and was met with
enthusiasm at each landing. The citizens of Hickman, Kentucky,
described the voyage of Mr. Cloud as one continuous ovation. Five
thousand people gathered along the banks below that town to welcome
"the poor northern man who was rowing to New Orleans on a five-
thousand-dollar bet, hoping to win his wager that he might have means
to support his large family of children." One old gentleman seemed to
have his doubts about the truth of this statement, "for," said he,
"when the celebrated oarsman appeared, and landed, he repaired
immediately to a low drinking-saloon, and announced that he was the
greatest oarsman in America," &c.

The "boys" about the town subscribed a fund, and invested it in five
gallons of whiskey, which Cloud took aboard his skiff when he
departed. He plainly stated that the conditions of the bet prevented
his sleeping under a roof while on his way; so he curled himself up in
his blankets and slept on the veranda floors. The man must have had
great powers of endurance, or he could not have rowed so long in the
hot sun at that malarious season of the year. His chief sustenance was
whiskey; and at one town, near Cairo, I was assured by the best
authority, ten gallons of that fiery liquor were stowed away in his
skiff. Such disregard of nature's laws soon told upon the plucky
fellow, and his voyage came to an end when almost in sight of his
goal. The malaria he was breathing and the whiskey he was drinking set
fire to his blood, and the fatal congestive chills were the inevitable
result.

The papers of New Orleans had announced the approach of the great
oarsman, and the planters were ready to give him a cordial welcome,
when one day a man who was walking near the shore of the Mississippi,
in the parish of Iberville, and looking out upon the river, saw a boat
of a peculiar model whirling around in the eddies. He at once launched
his boat and pushed out to the object which had excited his curiosity.
Stretched upon the bottom of the strange craft was a man dressed in
the garb of a northern boatman. At first he appeared to be dead; but a
careful examination showed that life was not yet extinct. The unknown
man was carried to the nearest plantation, and there, among strangers
whose hearts beat kindly for the unfortunate boatman, John C. Cloud
expired without uttering one word. The coroner,

[Dying in his boat.]
Mr. Adonis Le Blanc, found upon the person of the dead man a
memorandum-book which told of the distances made each day upon the
river, while the entries of the closing days showed how the keeper of
the log had suffered from the "heavy shakes" occasioned by the malaria
and his own imprudence. The story of the cruise was recorded on the
boat. Men and women had written their names inside the frail shell,
with the dates of her arrival at different localities along the route.
I afterwards examined the boat at Biloxi, on the Gulf of Mexico, where
it was kept as a curiosity in the boat-house of a citizen of New
Orleans.

They buried the unfortunate man upon the plantation, and Mr. Clay
Gourrier took charge of his effects. The most remarkable thing about
this rowing match was the credulity of the people along the route.
They accepted Cloud's statement without stopping to consider that if
there were any truth in it, the other side, with their five thousand
dollars at stake, would surely take some interest in the matter, and
have men posted along the route to see that the bet was fairly won.
The fact that no bet had been made never seemed to dawn upon them;
but, like too many, they sympathized without reasoning.

Being forced to abandon all hopes of taking the Bayou Manchac and the
interesting country of the Acadians in my route southward, I rowed
down the river, past the curious old town of Plaquemine, and by four
o'clock in the afternoon commenced to search for an island or creek
where a good camping-ground for Sunday might be found. The buildings
of White Castle Plantation soon arose on the right bank, and as I
approached the little cooperage-shop of the large estate, which was
near the water, a kindly hail came from the master-cooper and his
assistant. Acceding to their desire "to look at the boat," I let the
two men drag her ashore, and while they examined the craft, I studied
the representatives of two very different types of laboring-men. One
was from Madison, Indiana; the other belonged to the poor white class
of the south. We built a fire near the boat, and passed half the night
in conversation.

These men gave me much valuable information about Louisiana. The
southern cooper had lived much among the bayous and swamps of that
region of the state subjected to overflow. He was an original
character, and never so happy as when living a Robinson Crusoe life in
the woods. His favorite expression seemed to be, "Oh, shucks!" and his
yarns were so interlarded with this exclamation, that in giving one of
his stories I must ask the reader to imagine that expressive utterance
about every other word. Affectionately hugging his knee, and
generously expectorating as he made a transfer of his quid from one
side of his mouth to the other, he said:

"A fellow don't always want company in the woods. If you have a
pardner, he ort to be jes like yourself, or you'll be sartin to fall
out. I was riving out shingles and coopers' stock once with a pardner,
and times got mighty hard, sowe turned fishermen. There was some piles
standing in Plaquemine Bayou, and the drift stuff collected round them
and made a sort of little island. Me and Bill Bates went to work and
rived out some lengths of cypress, and built a snug shanty on top of
the piles. As it wasn't real estate we was on, nobody couldn't drive
us off; so we fished for the Plaquemine folks.

"By-and-by a king-snake swimmed over to our island, and tuck up his
abode in a hole in a log. The cuss got kind of affectionate, and after
a while crawled right into our hut to catch flies and other varmin. At
last he got so tame he'd let me scratch his back. Then he tuck to our
moss bed, and used up a considerable portion of his time there. Bill
Bates hadn't the manners of a hog, and he kept a-droppin' hints to me,
every few days, that he'd 'drap into that snake some night and squeeze
the life out of him.' This made me mad, and I nat'rally tuck the
snake's part, particularly as he would gobble up and crush the neck of
every water-snake that cum ashore on our island. One thing led to
another, till Bill Bates swore he'd kill my snake. Sez I to him,
'Billum,' (I always called him Billum when I MEANT BIZNESS,) 'ef you
hurt a hair of the head of my snake, I'll hop on to you.' That settled
our pardnership. Bill Bates knowed what I meant, and he gathered up
his traps and skedaddled.

"Then I went to New Orleans, and out to Lake Pontchartrain, to fish
for market. A lot of cussed Chinese was in the bizness, and when they
found COARSE fish in their nets, they'd kill 'em and heave 'em
overboard. Now, no man's got a rite to waste anything, so we fishermen
begun to pay sum attention to the opium-smokers in good arnest."

Here I interrupted the speaker to ask him if it would be safe for me
to travel alone through the fishing-grounds of these Chinese.

"Oh, shucks! safe enuf now," he answered. "Once they was a bad set;
but a change has cum over 'em--they're CIVILIZED now."

A vision of schools and earnest missionary work was before me while I
asked HOW their civilization had been accomplished.

"Shucks! WE dun it--WE WHITE FISHERMEN civilized 'em," was the
emphatic reply; "and not a bit too soon either, for the wasteful
cusses got so bad they wasn't satisfied with chucking dead fish
overboard, but would go on to the prairies, and after using the grass
cabins we WHITE fishermen had built to go into in bad weather, the
bloody furiners would burn them up to bother us. They thort they'd
drive us teetotally out of the diggins; so we thort it was time to
CIVILIZE 'em. We hid in the long grass fur a few nights and watched
the cusses. One morning a Chinaman was found dead in a cabin. Pretty
soon after, one or two others was found floatin' round loose, in the
same way; and after that lesson or two the fellers got CIVILIZED; and
you needn't fear goin' among 'em now, fur they're harmless as kittens.
They don't kill coarse fish now fur the fun of it. Oh, shucks! there's
nothin' like a little healthy CIVILIZATION fur Chinamen and Injuns.
They both needs it, and, any way, this is a WHITE MAN'S country."

"And what of negroes?" I asked.

"Oh, the niggers is good enuf, ef you let 'em alone. The Carpet-
baggers from up north has filled their heads with all kinds of stuff,
so now they think, nat'rally enuf, that they ought to be office-
holders, when they can't read or write no more than I can. I'd like to
take a hand CIVILIZING some of them Carpet-baggers! They needs it more
than the Chinamen or Injuns."

During part of the evening, Mr. Sewall, the nephew of the owner of the
plantation, was with us round our camp-fire. We spoke of Longfellow's
Evangeline, the bay-tree, and Atchafalaya River, which he assured me
was slowly widening its current, and would in time, perhaps, become
the main river of the basin, and finally deprive the Mississippi of a
large portion of its waters. From his boyhood he had watched the
falling in of the banks with the widening and increasing of the
strength of the current of the Atchafalaya Bayou. Once it was
impassable for steamers; but a little dredging opened the way, while
the Mississippi and Red rivers had both contributed to its volume of
water until it had deepened sufficiently for United States gunboats to
ascend it during the late war. It follows the shortest course from the
mouth of Red River to the Gulf of Mexico.

I left White Castle Plantation early on Monday morning, when I
discovered a lot of fine sweet-potatoes stowed away in the hold of my
boat. The northern cooper had purchased them during the night, and
having too much delicacy to speak of his gift, secreted them in the
boat. I fully appreciated this kind act, knowing it to be a mark of
the poor man's sympathy for his northern countryman. The levee for
miles was lined with negroes and white men gathering a harvest of
firewood from the drift stuff. One old negro, catching sight of my
boat, called out to his companion, "Randal, look at dat boat! De
longer we libs, de mor you sees. What sort o' queer boat is she?"

Twenty miles below White Castle Plantation is the valuable sugar
estate called Houmas, the property of General Wade Hampton and Colonel
J. T. Preston. General Hampton does not reside upon his plantation,
but makes Georgia his home. Beyond Houmas the parish of St. James
skirts the river for twenty miles. Three miles back from the river, on
the left side of the Mississippi, and fifty-five miles from New
Orleans, is the little settlement of Grand Point, the place most famed
in St. James for perique tobacco. The first settler who had the
hardihood to enter these solitudes was named Maximilian Roussel. He
purchased a small tract of land from the government, and in the year
1824 shouldered his axe and camping-utensils, and started for his new
domain. He soon built a hut, and at once began the laborious task of
clearing his land, which was located in a dense cypress swamp, alive
with wild beasts and alligators. A rough house was completed at the
end of a year, and into it Roussel moved his family, consisting of a
wife and four children. Here "he lived till he died," as it has been
expressively said.

Octave and Louis, two of his sons, and both now grandfathers, still
live on the old place, and are highly respected. Only a few years ago
the old homestead echoed to the voices of five of Roussel's sons, with
their families; but death has taken two, one has removed, and two only
now remain to relate the history of the almost unimaginable hardships
encountered by the old and hardy pioneer.

There are at present nineteen families in the settlement, and they are
all engaged in the cultivation of perique tobacco. An average farm on
Grant Point consists of eight acres, and the average yield of
manufactured tobacco is four hundred pounds to the acre. These simple-
hearted people seem to be very happy and content. They have no saloons
or stores of any kind, but their place is well filled with a neat
Catholic church and a substantial school-house. Every man, woman, and
child is a devout Roman Catholic, and in their daily intercourse with
each other the stranger among them hears a patois something like the
French language. The whole of the land cultivated by these people
would not make more than an average farm in the north, while compared
with the vast sugar estates on every side of it the dimensions are
infinitesimal.

Villages were now picturesquely grouped along the shores, the most
conspicuous feature in each being the large Catholic church, showing
the religious belief of the people. Curious little stores were perched
behind the now high banks of the levee. The signs over the doors bore
such inscriptions as, "The Red Store," "The White Store," "St. John's
Store," "Poor Family Store," &c. Busy life was seen on every side, but
here, as elsewhere in the south, men seemed always to have time to
give a civil answer to any necessary inquiries.

Only a month after I had descended this part of the river, Captain
Boyton, clothed in his famous swimming-suit, paddled his way down the
current from Bayou Goula to New Orleans, a distance of one hundred
miles. The incidents of this curious voyage are now a part of the
river's history, and this seems the place for the brave captain to
tell his story. He says:

"I arrived at Bayou Goula on the 'Bismarck,' about six o'clock on
Thursday morning; and, after considerable delay, succeeded in
obtaining quarters at the Buena Vista Hotel in that village. At that
point I engaged the services of a colored man named Brown, to pilot me
down the river. At ten o'clock I took a breakfast, consisting of five
eggs, bread, and a glass of beer, and ate nothing else during the day.
At five o'clock precisely I took to the water and began my trip down
to the city of New Orleans--a trip which proved to be a much more
arduous one than I had anticipated, in consequence of the want of
buoyancy in the water, the terrible counter-currents, and the large
amount of drift-wood. It was some time before I could master the
difficulty about the drift-wood, and at one time I was so annoyed and
bruised by the floating debris, that I became somewhat apprehensive
about the success of my enterprise. In some of the strong eddies
particularly the logs played such fantastic tricks, rolling over and
over with their jagged limbs and again standing upon their ends, that
I feared I must either be carried under, or have my dress stripped
completely off. By constant watching, however, I was enabled to steer
out of harm's way and to keep steadily moving down the stream.

"Above Donaldsonville I was met by a fleet of boats filled with
spectators, who accompanied me down to that point, which I reached
about eight o'clock in the evening. The town was illuminated, and the
citizens tendered me a polite invitation to land and take supper; but
of course I was obliged to decline, accepting in lieu a drink and a
sandwich. Of the sandwich I ate only the bread.

[Boyton descending the Mississippi.]

"Below Donaldsonville I was caught in the great eddy. It was about
four o'clock in the morning when I got into it, and it was good
daylight before I succeeded in getting out again into the down-stream
current. It was a singular sensation, this going round and round over
the same ground, so to speak, and for the life of me I could not
understand how I seemed now and then to be passing the same
plantation-houses and familiar landmarks. The skiff which accompanied
me was also in the same predicament, sometimes pulling up and
sometimes pulling down stream. I tried to guide myself by the north
star, but before I was aware of it that luminary, which ought to have
kept directly in my front, would pop up, as it were, behind me, and
destroy all my calculations. When daylight came, however, and the fog
lifted sufficiently, I was able to paddle out into the middle of the
stream, and keep down it once again.

"Early in the morning, above Bonnet Carre, I asked several persons on
shore for some coffee, but most of them seemed too much excited to
attend to this pressing want of mine. At last a gentleman who spoke
French got his wife to go and get me a cup of coffee, after drinking
which I felt greatly refreshed. The sandwich and drink at
Donaldsonville, and this cup of coffee next morning, were the only
things in the shape of refreshments which I took during the twenty-
four hours' voyage. At times I was almost certain I was being attacked
by alligators, and thought I should have to use the knife with which I
always go armed, but it only proved to be the annoying drift-wood in
which I would become fearfully entangled. I only suffered from the
cold in my feet. These I warmed, however, after the sun came out, by
inflating the lower part of my dress, and holding them up out of the
water.

"The banks all along the way were crowded with people to see me pass
down. At one point, when I had allowed the air to escape from the
lower part of my dress, and was going along rapidly, with nothing
showing above water but my head and my paddle, I met a skiff, which
contained a negro man and woman, who were crossing the river. The
woman became fearfully alarmed, and her screams could have been heard
for miles away. The man pulled for dear life, the woman in the stern
acting the cockswain, and urging the boat forward in the funniest
manner possible.

"While in the great eddy I drifted into an immense flock of ducks, and
but for the noise made by those in the skiff I could easily have
caught several of them, as they were not at all disturbed by my
presence, but swam leisurely all about me.

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