At Cairo, where the Ohio river empties into the Mississippi, we landed, and laid for a couple of hours before proceeding up the broad Mississippi; and Mr. Sharper promptly left us.
Cairo is a city of about twelve thousand inhabitants, and but for the unhealthy nature of the low country surrounding, it would eventually become one of the greatest cities of the Mississippi Valley. Its geographic location is one of the best in the country, being, as it is, at the junction of two noble rivers. But in that vicinity, the land is so low that it becomes inundated for many miles around; so that the air, especially in the summer season, becomes fraught with miasma. Cairo itself is built on very low ground, and but for the high levee, that stands as a perpetual sentinel before the gates of the city, the river would be continually staring in at all the doors and windows in the place. Even the levee is overflowed sometimes, and the streets become navigable for boats of moderate size.
I went up to a periodical store, on the principal street, and purchased several newspapers of a late date. Among them was a Louisville Journal; and, on casting my eye over it, what was my astonishment to run across a very flattering notice of myself, which Mr. Prentice had inserted. It stated that “J. Smith, Esquire, the celebrated author and poet, who had lost a limb in the civil war, was making a tour of the Western States; had honored both him and the Mammoth Cave with a visit, and had just departed for Saint Louis, on board the steamer Nightingale!!!”
This really alarmed me, and I fancied that every one who looked at me recognized me as the redoubtable John Smith, the “celebrated author and poet,” who was “making a tour of the Western States.”
Fearing that some enthusiastic demonstration might be made by the citizens of Cairo, who had probably read of my approach, and that I might be called upon for a speech—and I hadn’t as much as the framework of one ready—I hastily returned to the boat, and shut myself up in my stateroom, and did not sally forth again till the Nightingale was steaming gallantly up the Mississippi.
Nothing worthy of note occurred during our voyage up the river, except that the mosquitoes tormented us in a style entirely new to me. They were about the first crop of the season, fresh and vigorous, and they attacked the boat in numbers amounting to millions of millions. O, the misery of that night! How the little fiends tormented me! Warm as it was, I shut myself up almost air-tight in my stateroom and tried to defy them. I thought I would rather be smothered to death than eaten up alive. But even there, they found me. They came in through the keyhole, in two ranks, military order, and at once began the attack. I fought bravely, but it was of no use. Faster than I could cut them down, they received reinforcements through the keyhole—while, to utterly dishearten me, and drive me to despair, I could hear myriads of them still without, knocking at the door, and impatiently waiting their respective turns to file in at the key-hole and drink some of me.
I could not stand it. I opened the back door and fled—fled to the cabin deck—to the hurricane deck—to the boiler deck—up stairs and down—and down and up—and back and forth, and forth and back half crazed—I knew not, cared not, where! I had half a mind to jump into the river, and take refuge from these and my other woes in the bosom of the Father of Waters—but didn’t.
They pursued me everywhere; some of them, I believe, went in advance of me, to be ready to meet me at any new point I should flee to. My eyes, ears, mouth, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, hands and wrists were covered with them; and, while thus tormenting me, they sang musically in my ears, even as Nero played “Hail Columbia, happy land!” on a banjo, while Rome was burning. O, the agonies of that night! The thundering cannon of battle, the shrieking shell, the hissing bullet, and glistening bayonet, are mere toys compared with these fiendish tormentors! How I ever got through the night I cannot remember distinctly. It seems like a kind of long-continued dream to me. I have a vague recollection of standing at the bar and asking the bar-tender if he had “anything calculated to keep the mosquitoes away?” This scene recurs to me as having been repeated several times that night; but I think it only originated in the imagery of delirium—for I must have grown delirious.
The next night, for some reason, they “let up” on us a little, and I got some sleep; and early on the second morning after leaving Cairo, we arrived at the “Mound City,” Saint Louis, the chief city of the Mississippi Valley. It was a charming morning, not too warm, and leaving my trunk on board, I walked up into the city for the purpose of securing lodgings for a month. Before I did so, the passengers had all bid each other good-by, and were beginning to go their different ways, wondering if any two of us should ever meet again.
My aged companion bade me a cordial farewell, and took passage on the steamer “Post Boy,” bound up the Missouri river.