The territory of Iowa was still disputed for by squatters and Indians. These latter, who exceeded the whites in number, belonged to a great tribe, both turbulent and warlike, the Saxes and the Foxes. They were at peace with the Government at the time I speak of, but a deputation of their chiefs, numbering thirty or forty, came on board our boat, on their way to Washington, where they desired to lay their grievances before the President. They arrived on board in full war paint, their faces painted half red and half yellow, and their heads dressed, like a cuirassier's helmet, with horsehair and big feathers, their bodies naked, but hung about with baubles, their legs thrust into leather breeches, and big blankets over all. Their squaws were with them. They were ugly, but the men were splendid, with the most resolute and impassive countenances. They behaved with the greatest dignity while on board, and never showed any excitement except just as we were passing by the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi. Whether it was some superstitious feeling that attached itself to that spot, or the impression made on them by the grandeur of the scene, the meeting of the two great rivers forming a sort of lake, lighted up by a splendid sunset, I know not, but they all assembled in the stern of the boat, and repeated a sort of invocatory prayer. It was a perfect picture.
I did no more than pass through St. Louis, already a large town and the capital of Ohio. An accident happened to us as we were going up the Ohio ("La Belle Riviere" of our forefathers), such as does not occur nowadays, when the Federal Government has caused the engineer regiments, which add to their other functions those of our "ponts et chaussees," a simple and economical plan, worthy of general imitation, to clear the rivers of their different obstructions. We were snagged.
Herewith I explain the expression and the fact. As a consequence of inundations and falling in of banks and such like, many big trees had, from time immemorial, been carried down the American rivers. Many of these trees had ended by catching in the river beds by their roots. Stripped of their branches, and sharpened to a point by the action of the water, and bent sloping by the current, they formed, as it were, huge invisible subaqueous chevaux de frise, on which steamers going up stream frequently impaled themselves, and this often to the destruction of the ship and great loss of life. We ran against one of these trees, somewhat sideways luckily for us, but it stood up on end, and amid a frightful noise, and a little momentary consternation, carried away one paddle box and wheel. A snag is only one of the numerous sources of accident in American river navigation. But one soon gets accustomed to the carelessness of danger which characterises the Americans, and on the whole travelling on their river steamers is very pleasant. The sleeping cabins are invariably clean and comfortable. On certain boats some are very elegant. I have seen wedding cabins, that is to say cabins decorated all over with mirrors and brilliantly lighted up, intended for couples on their wedding journey. And truth compels me to state that the strict regularity of these honeymoon couples is not too severely inquired into.
At Cincinnati, the city of porkers, I took to the stage, at Pittsburg to the canal. Across the Alleghanies I travelled in a coach crammed with passengers of both sexes. It was a merry journey, during which I was ceaselessly haunted by memories of the little Danaids, and Pere Lournois and his forty sons-in-law, getting out of the Auxerre coach to the sound of the chimes of Dunkirk. "Tutu … tutu … mon pere." At New York I found the Belle-Poule done up as good as new, thanks to the excellent care of my second in command, M. Charner. But before setting sail I had to get through a certain number of banquets, followed by toasts, and even to go to Boston for a great ball in the old town hall, called the Faneuil Hall, the cradle of American Independence. I made my entry at that ball preceded and surrounded by an army of solemn stewards, wearing huge wigs, and with rather a good-looking woman, whom nobody knew, on my arm. She called herself America Vespuccia, and she began to swear like any heathen when somebody spilt a glass of lemonade over her fine velvet gown.
The Belle-Poule weighed anchor at last, but before we got past Sandy Hook a snowstorm came on. We could not see a yard ahead, and in a few minutes we had a foot of snow on deck. The rest of our return voyage was to match, in other words, it was awful. We ran, during its course, one of those totally unforeseen risks of which a sailor's life is full, and which, once past, constitutes one of its chief charms. Let my readers try the following experiment:—Put two small bits of paper in a basin of water, and disturb the liquid. By what learned men call capillary attraction the two scraps of paper draw nearer to each other and finally join together. It was this same capillary attraction which nearly lost me my frigate and another battleship, the Cassard, which was our consort. A violent south-easterly squall had come down on us, and the sea was very heavy. All at once, just as night fell, over a sky as black as ink and an angry-looking sea, the wind suddenly dropped. The Cassard, driven by the last puff of wind, and drawn too by capillary attraction, had got very near us, and soon this nearness became alarming. We could not get about, for there was not a breath stirring. We could not launch boats in such a sea to try and tow the ships apart. Soon the frigate and her consort were tossing convulsively in the heavy sea, with only the breadth of one wave between them. In another moment they must crash into each other, and that at night, in mid-ocean, far from any succour. It was a solemn moment. Although one watch had been sent to turn in, nobody had cared to stay below. All were on deck, men and officers alike, with serious faces. The only sound to be heard was the noise of the sails flapping wildly against the masts and my voice as I gave the other ship's captain his orders in case a puff of wind should come from this quarter or that. Night had come on, and in our heart of hearts we were both of us beginning to despair, when the longed-for breath of wind came, and the ships drew apart. Two hours later we were at the mercy of another gale, a north-westerly one this time, with a bitter frost, which would not have left a timber of the Belle-Poule and the Cassard if they had been in collision, but which gave me occasion once more to admire our brave sailors' courage and devotion. We had to set all sail so as to catch the first puffs of wind. When the gale came on it became necessary to furl them again. But having been soaked by the rain of the south-easterly storm, they had turned under the action of the frost into perfect icicles. They cracked like glass, cutting the men's fingers and tearing out their nails. It was a frightfully difficult job to take in the maintop sail—a very heavy hempen one—which I had kept out as long as possible, and which had to be furled just when the storm was at its worst. I watched my poor fellows clinging to the yard for over half an hour, shaken by the terrible gusts, and still not able to manage it.
At midnight, when the watch changed, fearing that with limbs benumbed by the cold as theirs were, they would not be able even to continue holding on, I sent them orders to come on deck and let fresh men take their places. But no! they would not! and slowly, surely, they finished their work. Only when they got down from aloft they came on to the quarterdeck cap in hand, with bleeding, swollen hands and faces, saying, "Captain, we have taken the maintop sail in," with that indefinable but touching look that a man has who has done his duty to the very end in spite of danger.
My brave sailors, I could have kissed them! But I did what they appreciated more than that! I had good hot mulled wine ready for them, and sent them to bed on it! Some days afterwards, in another gale, between two snow-showers, I saw that rare electric phenomenon called St. Elmo's fire—jets of electric fire appearing at the points of all the ship's masts and yards. A spontaneous, unexpected, and most effective illumination.
And then we entered Toulon harbour, where we saluted the flag of Admiral Hugon, commanding the squadron to which the Belle-Poule was about to be attached.
CHAPTER IX
1842