FootNote
The new kid on the block, FootNote is known for digitizing historical
documents... many of which are genealogical gems. With naturalizations,
city directories, war records, newspapers, town records, etc... this new
kid is quickly being recognized as an alternative to Ancestry.
While we know our northern friends may not feel it, in the South, Spring is
here. So we thought we'd share a few of our gardening sites appropriate
for this time of the year. Along with gardening, there's grilling, and getting
ready to diet so that you can fit back into that bathing suit this summer!
At eight o'clock, on the
evening of the third day of the passage, the
lights of another steamer were seen in the
distance, and apparently coming up very
fast. This was the signal for a general
commotion on board the Patriot, and
everything indicated that a steamboat race
was at hand. Nothing can exceed the
excitement attendant upon the racing of
steamers on the Mississippi.
By the time the boats had reached Memphis
they were side by side, and each exerting
itself to get in advance of the other. The
night was clear, the moon shining brightly,
and the boats so near to each other that the
passengers were within speaking distance. On
board the Patriot the firemen were using
oil, lard, butter, and even bacon, with
wood, for the purpose of raising the steam
to its highest pitch. The blaze mingled with
the black smoke that issued from the pipes
of the other boat, which showed that she
also was burning something more combustible
than wood.
The firemen of both boats, who were slaves,
were singing songs such as can only be heard
on board a Southern steamer. The boats now
came abreast of each other, and nearer and
nearer, until they were locked so that men
could pass from one to the other. The
wildest excitement prevailed among the men
employed on the steamers, in which the
passengers freely participated.
The Patriot now stopped to take in
passengers, but still no steam was permitted
to escape. On the starting of the boat
again, cold water was forced into the
boilers by the feed pumps, and, as might
have been expected, one of the boilers
exploded with terrific force, carrying away
the boiler deck and tearing to pieces much
of the machinery. One dense fog of steam
filled every part of the vessel, while
shrieks, groans, and cries were heard on
every side. Men were running hither and
thither looking for their wives, and women
were flying about in the wildest confusion
seeking for their husbands. Dismay appeared
on every countenance.
The saloons and cabins soon looked more like
hospitals than anything else; but by this
time the Patriot had drifted to the shore,
and the other steamer had come alongside to
render assistance to the disabled boat. The
killed and wounded (nineteen in number) were
put on shore, and the Patriot, taken in tow
by the Washington, was once more on her
journey.
It was half past twelve, and the passengers,
instead of retiring to their berths, once
more assembled at the gambling tables. The
practice of gambling on the western waters
has long been a source of annoyance to the
more moral persons who travel on our great
rivers. Thousands of dollars often change
owners during a passage from St. Louis or
Louisville to New Orleans, on a Mississippi
steamer. Many men are completely ruined on
such occasions, and duels are often the
consequence.
"Go call my boy, steward," said Mr. Jones,
as he took his cards one by one from the
table.
In a few minutes a fine looking, bright eyed
mulatto boy, apparently about sixteen years
of age, was standing by his master's side at
the table.
"I am broke, all but my boy," said Jones, as
he ran his fingers through his cards; "but
he is worth a thousand dollars, and I will
bet the half of him."
"I will call you," said Thompson, as he laid
five hundred dollars at the feet of the boy,
who was standing on the table, and at the
same time throwing down his cards before his
adversary.
"You have beaten me," said Jones; and a roar
of laughter followed from the other
gentleman as poor Joe stepped down from the
table.
"Well, I suppose I owe you half the nigger,"
said Thompson, as he took hold of Joe and
began examining his limbs.
"Yes," replied Jones, "he is half yours. Let
me have five hundred dollars, and I will
give you a bill of sale of the boy."
"Go back to your bed," said Thompson to his
chattel, "and remember that you now belong
to me."
The poor slave wiped the tears from his
eyes, as, in obedience, he turned to leave
the table.
"My father gave me that boy," said Jones, as
he took the money, "and I hope, Mr.
Thompson, that you will allow me to redeem
him."
"Most certainly, sir," replied Thompson.
"Whenever you hand over the cool thousand
the Negro is yours."
Next morning, as the passengers were
assembling in the cabin and on deck, and
while the slaves were running about waiting
on or looking for their masters, poor Joe
was seen entering his new master's
stateroom, boots in hand.
"Who do you belong to?" inquired a gentleman
of an old Negro, who passed along leading a
fine Newfoundland dog which he had been
feeding.
"When I went to sleep las' night," replied
the slave, "I 'longed to Massa Carr; but he
bin gamblin' all night, an' I don't know who
I 'longs to dis mornin'."
Such is the uncertainty of a slave's life.
He goes to bed at night the pampered servant
of his young master, with whom he has played
in childhood, and who would not see his
slave abused under any consideration, and
gets up in the morning the property of a man
whom he has never before seen.
To behold five or six tables in the saloon
of a steamer, with half a dozen men playing
cards at each, with money, pistols, and
bowie knives spread in splendid confusion
before them, is an ordinary thing on the
Mississippi River.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale
of the Southern States
