In consequence of these eccentricities a safe site for a town is extremely rare upon the Lower Mississippi. There are but few points in the last five hundred miles of its course where natural elevations offer this advantage. The artificial embankment, known as the “Levee,” has in some measure remedied the deficiency, and rendered the towns and plantations comparatively secure.
As already stated, my hotel was somewhat out of the way. A boat might touch at the landing and be off again without my being warned of it. A down-river-boat, already laden, and not caring to obtain further freight, would not stop long; and in a “tavern” upon the Mississippi you must not confide in the punctuality of “Boots,” as you would in a London hotel. Your chances of being waked by Sambo, ten times sleepier than yourself, are scarcely one in a hundred.
I had ample experience of this; and, fearing that the boat might pass if I remained at the hotel, I came to the resolve to settle my affairs in that quarter and at once transport myself and my impedimenta to the landing.
I should not be entirely without shelter. There was no house; but an old steamboat, long since condemned as not “river-worthy,” lay at the landing. This hulk, moored by strong cables to the bank, formed an excellent floating wharf; while its spacious deck, cabins, and saloons, served as a storehouse for all sorts of merchandise. It was, in fact, used both as a landing and warehouse, and was known as the “wharf-boat.”
It was late,—nearly midnight,—as I stepped aboard the wharf-boat. Stragglers from the town, who may have had business there, had all gone away, and the owner of the store-boat was himself absent. A drowsy negro, his locum tenens, was the only human thing that offered itself to my eyes. The lower deck of the boat was tenanted by this individual, who sat behind a counter that enclosed one corner of the apartment. Upon this counter stood a pair of scales, with weights, a large ball of coarse twine, a rude knife, and such other implements as may be seen in a country “store;” and upon shelves at the back were ranged bottles of coloured liquors, glasses, boxes of hard biscuit, “Western reserve” cheeses, kegs of rancid butter, plugs of tobacco, and bundles of inferior cigars,—in short, all the etceteras of a regular “grocery.” The remaining portion of the ample room was littered with merchandise, packed in various forms. There were boxes, barrels, bags, and bales; some on their way up-stream, that had come by New Orleans from distant lands, while others were destined downward: the rich product of the soil, to be borne thousands of miles over the wide Atlantic. With these various packages every part of the floor was occupied, and I looked in vain for a spot on which to stretch myself. A better light might have enabled me to discover such a place; but the tallow candle, guttering down the sides of an empty champagne-bottle, but dimly lit up the confusion. It just sufficed to guide me to the only occupant of the place, upon whose sombre face the light faintly flickered.
“Asleep, uncle?” I said, approaching him.
A gruff reply from an American negro is indeed a rarity, and never given to a question politely put. The familiar style of my address touched a sympathetic chord in the bosom of the “darkie,” and a smile of satisfaction gleamed upon his features as he made answer. Of course he was not asleep. But my idle question was only meant as the prelude to further discourse.
“Ah, Gollys! it be massa Edward. Uncle Sam know’d you, massa Edward. You good to brack folk. Wat can do uncle Sam for massa?”
“I am going down to the city, and have come here to wait for a boat. Is it likely one will pass to-night?”
“Sure, massa—sure be a boat dis night. Bossy ’spect a boat from de Red ribber dis berry night—either de Houma or de Choctuma.”