The crew worked hard enough to rescue all, and to them be every credit for their exertions; but the indifference exhibited by those who had been snatched from the jaws of death was absolutely appalling. The moment they escaped, they found their way to the bar and the stove, and there they were smoking, drinking, and passing the ribald jest, even before the wreck had gone to pieces, or the fate of one-half of their companions been ascertained. Yet there was a scene before their eyes sufficient, one would have imagined, to have softened the hardest heart and made the most thoughtless think. There, among them, at the very stove round which they were gathered, stood one with a haggard eye and vacant gaze, and at his feet clung two half-naked infants; a quarter of an hour before he was a hale man, a husband, with five children; now, he was an idiot and a widower, with two. No tear dimmed his eye, no trace of grief was to be read in his countenance; though the two pledges of the love of one now no more hung helplessly round his legs, he heeded them not; they sought a father's smile—they found an idiot's stare. They cried: was it for their mother's embrace, or did they miss their brother and sisters? Not even the piteous cry of motherless infancy could light one spark of emotion in the widowed husband's breast—all was one awful blank of idiocy. A wife and three children, buried beneath piles of freight, had found a wretched grave; his heart and his reason had fled after them—never, apparently, to return.
Surely this was a scene pre-eminently calculated to excite in those who wore, by their very escape, living monuments of God's mercy, the deepest feelings of gratitude and commiseration; yet, there stood the poor idiot, as if he had not been; and the jest, the glass, and cigar went on with as much indifference as if the party had just come out of a theatre, instead of having providentially escaped from a struggle between life and death. A more perfect exhibition of heartlessness cannot be conceived, nor do I believe any other part of the world could produce its equal.
The immediate cause of the wreck was the steamer "H.R.W. Hill" running into us, owing to misunderstanding the bell signal; most providentially she caught alongside of us after striking; if she had not done so, God alone knows who could have been saved. As far as I could ascertain, all the first-class passengers were saved. Do not stare at the word first-class, for although in this country of so-called equality no difference of classes is acknowledged, poor helpless emigrants are taken as deck-passengers, and, as freight is the great object, no space is set apart for them; they are stowed away among the cargo as best they can be, with no avenue of escape in case of accidents, and with the additional prospect of being buried beneath bales and barrels. I believe fifteen passengers perished in this way: one poor English-woman among the deck-passengers fought her way through the freight, and, after being nearly drowned and trampled to death under the hoofs of the cattle, succeeded in escaping. A slave-merchant with a dozen negroes managed to save all of them, inasmuch as, being valuable, he had them stowed away in a better place. The moment the wreck was completed, we proceeded up the river, wasting no time in trying to save any part of the cargo or luggage. My own position was anything but a pleasant one, though I trust I was truly thankful for my preservation. I found I had managed to throw my desk between the two steamers, and it was therefore irrecoverably lost, with all my papers, letters of credit, journal, &c. I had also lost everything else except what T had on,—rifle, guns, clothes,—all were gone. A few things, such as money, watch, note-book, which I always kept in my pockets, were all my stock in trade. Fortunately, my friend had saved his papers, and thus our identity could be established at New Orleans. In the course of a few hours we saw a fine steamer coming down the river, in which we embarked, and again pursued our journey south.
In the afternoon we passed several pieces of the wreck: the shores were covered with the casks of pork and mustang liniment which had formed a great part of our freight. At one place, a large portion of the wreck, was made fast ashore, and being plundered by the settlers on the bank; boxes and trunks were all broken open and cleaned out; little boats were flying across the river full of pork and other prizes: it was an universal scramble in all directions, and appeared to be considered as lawful plunder by them as if they had been Cornish wreckers. It was hopeless to try and recover anything, so we continued our journey, and left our goods to the tender mercies of the landsharks on the banks. Having lost all my papers, I was obliged to forego the pleasure I had anticipated from a visit to Natchez, or rather to the gentlemen and plantations in the neighbourhood.
As you approach the lower part of the river, signs of human life become more frequent; the forest recedes, the banks of the river are leveed up, and legions of Uncle Tom's Cabins stud the banks; some, clustered near the more luxurious but still simple building wherein dwells the proprietor, surrounded by orange groves and the rich flowers and foliage of southern climes. These little spots appear like bright oases in the otherwise dreary, uninteresting flats, which extend from the banks on either side; yet it is only as a scene they are uninteresting; as a reality, they have a peculiar interest. On these Hats the negro slave expends his labour and closes his life, and from the bitter of his career the white man draws the sweet luxury of his own. How few reflect upon this, even for as many seconds as it takes to melt the clarified lump in the smoking bohea. But here we are at La Fayette, which is the upper or American end of New Orleans, where steamers always stop if there are any cattle on board, which being our case, we preferred landing and taking an omnibus, to waiting for the discharge of the live-stock. Half an hour brought us to the St. Louis Hotel, and there you may sit down a minute or two while I make some observations on the steaming in Western rivers.
The whole system and management is a most grievous reproach to the American nation. I speak not of the architecture, which is good, nor of the absurd inconsistency in uniting such palatial appearance with such absolute discomfort, which perhaps, with their institutions and ideas, it would be very difficult to remedy. My observations refer more to that by which human life is endangered, and the valuable produce of human labour recklessly destroyed. The following extract from a Louisville paper will more than justify any animadversions which I may make:—
DISASTERS ON WESTERN RIVERS.—The Louisville Courier has published a
list of disasters on Western waters during the year 1852. It is a
formidable one, embracing 78 steam-boats, 4 barges, 73 coal-boats, 3
salt-boats, and 4 others, flat-boats. It appears that 47 boats were