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Camp Fire and Cotton Field by Thomas W. Knox

T >> Thomas W. Knox >> Camp Fire and Cotton Field




The planter, who can look over his field in early spring, and find his
cotton "cleanly scraped" and his "stand" good, is fortunate; still,
the vicissitudes attending the cultivation of the crop have only
commenced. Many rows, from the operations of the "cut-worm," and from
multitudinous causes unknown, have to be replanted, and an unusually
late frost may destroy all his labors, and compel him to commence
again. But, if no untoward accident occurs, in two weeks after the
"scraping," another hoeing takes place, at which time the plow throws
the furrow _on to the roots_ of the now strengthening plant, and the
increasing heat of the sun also justifying the sinking of the roots
deeper in the earth. The pleasant month of May is now drawing to a
close, and vegetation of all kinds is struggling for precedence in
the fields. Grasses and weeds of every variety, with vines and wild
flowers, luxuriate in the newly-turned sod, and seem to be determined
to choke out of existence the useful and still delicately-grown
cotton.

It is a season of unusual industry on the cotton plantations, and woe
to the planter who is outstripped in his labors, and finds himself
"overtaken by the grass." The plow tears up the surplus vegetation,
and the hoe tops it off in its luxuriance. The race is a hard one, but
industry conquers; and when the third working-over of the crop takes
place, the cotton-plant, so much cherished and favored, begins to
overtop its rivals in the fields--begins to cast _a chilling shade of
superiority_ over its now intimidated groundlings, and commences to
reign supreme.

Through the month of July, the crop is wrought over for the last time;
the plant, heretofore of slow growth, now makes rapid advances toward
perfection. The plow and hoe are still in requisition. The "water
furrows" between the cotton-rows are deepened, leaving the cotton
growing as it were upon a slight ridge; this accomplished, the crop is
prepared for the "rainy season," should it ensue, and so far advanced
that it is, under any circumstances, beyond the control of art. Nature
must now have its sway.

The "cotton bloom," under the matured sun of July, begins to make
its appearance. The announcement of the "first blossom" of the
neighborhood is a matter of general interest; it is the unfailing sign
of the approach of the busy season of fall; it is the evidence that
soon the labor of man will, under a kind Providence, receive its
reward.

It should perhaps here be remarked, that the color of cotton in its
perfection is precisely that of the blossom--a beautiful light,
but warm cream-color. In buying cotton cloth, the "bleached" and
"unbleached" are perceptibly different qualities to the most casual
observer; but the dark hues and harsh look of the "unbleached
domestic" comes from the handling of the artisan and the soot of
machinery. If cotton, pure as it looks in the field, could be wrought
into fabrics, they would have a brilliancy and beauty never yet
accorded to any other material in its natural or artificial state.
There cannot be a doubt but that, in the robes of the ancient royal
Mexicans and Peruvians, this brilliant and natural gloss of cotton was
preserved, and hence the surpassing value it possessed in the eyes of
cavaliers accustomed to the fabrics of the splendid court of Ferdinand
and Isabella.

The cotton-blossom is exceedingly delicate in its organization. It is,
if in perfection, as we have stated, of a beautiful cream-color.
It unfolds in the night, remains in its glory through the morn--at
meridian it has begun to decay. The day following its birth it has
changed to a deep red, and ere the sun goes down, its petals have
fallen to the earth, leaving inclosed in the capacious calyx a
scarcely perceptible germ. This germ, in its incipient and early
stages, is called "a form;" in its more perfected state, "a boll."

The cotton-plant, like the orange, has often on one stalk every
possible growth; and often, on the same limb, may sometimes be seen
the first-opened blossom, and the bolls, from their first development
as "forms," through every size, until they have burst open and
scattered their rich contents to the ripening winds.

The appearance of a well-cultivated cotton-field, if it has escaped
the ravages of insects and the destruction of the elements, is of
singular beauty. Although it may be a mile in extent, still it is as
carefully wrought as is the mold of the limited garden of the coldest
climate. The cotton-leaf is of a delicate green, large and luxuriant;
the stalk indicates rapid growth, yet it has a healthy and firm look.
Viewed from a distance, the perfecting plant has a warm and glowing
expression. The size of the cotton-plant depends upon the accident
of climate and soil. The cotton of Tennessee bears very little
resemblance to the luxuriant growth of Alabama and Georgia; but even
in those favored States the cotton-plant is not everywhere the same,
for in the rich bottom-lands it grows to a commanding size, while in
the more barren regions it is an humble shrub. In the rich alluvium of
the Mississippi the cotton will tower beyond the reach of the tallest
"picker," and a single plant will contain hundreds of perfect "bolls;"
in the neighboring "piney-woods" it lifts its humble head scarcely
above the knee, and is proportionably meager in its produce of fruit.

The growing cotton is particularly liable to accidents, and suffers
immensely in "wet seasons" from the "rust" and "rot." The first
named affects the leaves, giving them a brown and deadened tinge, and
frequently causes them to crumble away. The "rot" attacks the "boll."

It commences by a black spot on the rind, which, increasing, seems to
produce fermentation and decay. Worms find their way to the roots; the
caterpillar eats into the "boll" and destroys the staple. It would be
almost impossible to enumerate all the evils the cotton-plant is heir
to, all of which, however, sink into nothingness compared with the
scourge of the "army-worm."

The moth that indicates the advent of the army-worm has a Quaker-like
simplicity in its light, chocolate-colored body and wings, and, from
its harmless appearance, would never be taken for the destroyer of
vast fields of luxuriant and useful vegetation.

The little, and, at first, scarcely to be perceived caterpillars that
follow the appearance of these moths, can absolutely be seen to grow
and swell beneath your eyes as they crawl from leaf to leaf. Day by
day you can see the vegetation of vast fields becoming thinner and
thinner, while the worm, constantly increasing in size, assumes at
last an unctuous appearance most disgusting to behold. Arrived at
maturity, a few hours only are necessary for these modern locusts
to eat up all living vegetation that comes in their way. Leaving
the localities of their birth, they will move from place to place,
spreading a desolation as consuming as fire in their path.

All efforts to arrest their progress or annihilate them prove
unavailing. They seem to spring out of the ground, and fall from
the clouds; and the more they are tormented and destroyed, the more
perceptible, seemingly, is their power. We once witnessed the
invasion of the army-worm, as it attempted to pass from a desolated
cotton-field to one untouched. Between these fields was a wide ditch,
which had been deepened, to prove a barrier to the onward march of
the worm. Down the perpendicular sides of the trench the caterpillars
rolled in untold millions, until its bottom, for nearly a mile in
extent, was a foot or two deep in a living mass of animal life. To an
immense piece of unhewn timber was attached a yoke of oxen, and, as
this heavy log was drawn through the ditch, it seemed absolutely to
float on a crushed mass of vegetable corruption. The following
day, under the heat of a tropical sun, the stench arising from this
decaying mass was perceptible the country round, giving a strange and
incomprehensible notion of the power and abundance of this destroyer
of the cotton crop.


The change that has been effected by the result of the Rebellion, will
not be confined to the social system alone. With the end of slavery
there will be a destruction of many former applications of labor.
Innovations have already been made, and their number will increase
under the management of enterprising men.

In Louisiana several planters were using a "drill" for depositing the
cotton-seed in the ground. The labor of planting is reduced more than
one-half, and that of "scraping" is much diminished. The saving
of seed is very great--the drill using about a tenth of the amount
required under the old system.

One man is endeavoring to construct a machine that will pick cotton
from the stalks, and is confident he will succeed. Should he do so,
his patent will be of the greatest value. Owners of plantations
have recently offered a present of ten thousand dollars to the first
patentee of a successful machine of this character.




CHAPTER XLIII.

THE MISSISSIPPI AND ITS PECULIARITIES.

Length of the Great River, and the Area it Drains.--How Itasca Lake
obtained its Name.--The Bends of the Mississippi.--Curious Effect upon
Titles to Real Estate.--A Story of Napoleon.--A Steamboat Thirty-five
Years under Water.--The Current and its Variations.--Navigating Cotton
and Corn Fields.--Reminiscences of the Islands.


As railways are to the East, so are the rivers to the West. The
Mississippi, with its tributaries, drains an immense region, traversed
in all directions by steamboats. From the Gulf of Mexico one can
travel, by water to the Rocky Mountains, or to the Alleghanies, at
pleasure. It is estimated there are twenty thousand miles of navigable
streams which find an outlet past the city of New Orleans. The
Mississippi Valley contains nearly a million and a quarter square
miles, and is one of the most fertile regions on the globe.

To a person born and reared in the East, the Mississippi presents many
striking features. Above its junction with the Missouri, its water
is clear and its banks are broken and picturesque. After it joins the
Missouri the scene changes. The latter stream is of a chocolate hue,
and its current is very rapid. All its characteristics are imparted
to the combined stream. The Mississippi becomes a rapid, tortuous,
seething torrent. It loses its blue, transparent water, and takes the
complexion of the Missouri. Thus "it goes unvexed to the sea."

There is a story concerning the origin of the name given to the source
of the Mississippi, which I do not remember to have seen in print.
A certain lake, which had long been considered the head of the Great
River, was ascertained by an exploring party to have no claim to that
honor. A new and smaller lake was discovered, in which the Mississippi
took its rise. The explorers wished to give it an appropriate name. An
old _voyageur_ suggested that they make a name, by coining a word.

"Will some of you learned ones tell me," said he, "what is the Latin
word for _true_?"

"_Veritas_," was the response.

"Well, now, what is the Latin for _head_"

"_Caput_, of course."

"Now," suggested the _voyageur_, "write the two words together, by
syllables."

A strip of birch bark was the tablet on which "_ver-i-tas-ca-put_" was
traced.

"Read it out," was his next request.

The five syllables were read.

"Now, drop the first and last syllables, and you have a name for this
lake."

In the Indian vernacular, "Mississippi" is said to signify "Great
Water." "Missouri," according to some authorities, is the Indian for
"Mud River," a most felicitous appellation. It should properly belong
to the entire river from St. Louis to the Gulf, as that stream carries
down many thousand tons of mud every year. During the many centuries
that the Mississippi has been sweeping on its course, it has formed
that long point of land known as the Delta, and shallowed the water in
the Gulf of Mexico for more than two hundred miles.

Flowing from north to south, the river passes through all the
varieties of climate. The furs from the Rocky Mountains and the
cereals of Wisconsin and Minnesota are carried on its bosom to the
great city which stands in the midst of orange groves and inhales
the fragrance of the magnolia. From January to June the floods of
its tributaries follow in regular succession, as the opening spring
loosens the snows that line their banks.

The events of the war have made the Mississippi historic, and
familiarized the public with some of its peculiarities. Its tortuosity
is well known. The great bend opposite Vicksburg will be long
remembered by thousands who have never seen it. This bend is eclipsed
by many others. At "Terrapin Neck" the river flows twenty-one
miles, and gains only three hundred yards. At "Raccourci Bend" was
a peninsula twenty-eight miles around and only half a mile across.
Several years ago a "cut-off" was made across this peninsula, for the
purpose of shortening the course of the river. A small ditch was cut,
and opened when the flood was highest.

An old steamboat-man once told me that he passed the upper end of this
ditch just as the water was let in. Four hours later, as he passed the
lower end, an immense torrent was rushing through the channel, and the
tall trees were falling like stalks of grain before a sickle.

Within a week the new channel became the regular route for steamboats.

Similar "cut-offs" have been made at various points along the river,
some of them by artificial aid, and others entirely by the action of
the water. The channel of the Mississippi is the dividing line of
the States between which it flows, and the action of the river often
changes the location of real estate. There is sometimes a material
difference in the laws of States that lie opposite each other.
The transfer of property on account of a change in the channel
occasionally makes serious work with titles.

I once heard of a case where the heirs to an estate lost their title,
in consequence of the property being transferred from Mississippi to
Louisiana, by reason of the course of the river being changed. In the
former State they were heirs beyond dispute. In the latter their claim
vanished into thin air.

Once, while passing up the Mississippi, above Cairo, a
fellow-passenger called my attention to a fine plantation, situated
on a peninsula in Missouri. The river, in its last flood, had broken
across the neck of the peninsula. It was certain the next freshet
would establish the channel in that locality, thus throwing the
plantation into Illinois. Unless the negroes should be removed before
this event they would become free.

"You see, sir," said my informant, "that this great river is an
Abolitionist."

The alluvial soil through which the Mississippi runs easily yields to
the action of the fierce current. The land worn away at one point
is often deposited, in the form of a bar or tongue of land, in the
concave of the next bend. The area thus added becomes the property
of whoever owns the river front. Many a man has seen his plantation
steadily falling into the Mississippi, year by year, while a
plantation, a dozen miles below, would annually find its area
increased. Real estate on the banks of the Mississippi, unless upon
the bluffs, has no absolute certainty of permanence. In several
places, the river now flows where there were fine plantations ten or
twenty years ago.

Some of the towns along the Lower Mississippi are now, or soon
will be, towns no more. At Waterproof, Louisiana, nearly the entire
town-site, as originally laid out, has been washed away. In the
four months I was in its vicinity, more than forty feet of its
front disappeared. Eighteen hundred and seventy will probably find
Waterproof at the bottom of the Mississippi. Napoleon, Arkansas, is
following in the wake of Waterproof. If the distance between them
were not so great, their sands might mingle. In view of the character
Napoleon has long enjoyed, the friends of morality will hardly regret
its loss.

The steamboat captains have a story that a quiet clergyman from New
England landed at Napoleon, one morning, and made his way to the
hotel. He found the proprietor superintending the efforts of a negro,
who was sweeping the bar-room floor. Noticing several objects of a
spherical form among the _debris_ of the bar-room, the stranger asked
their character.

"Them round things? them's _eyes_. The boys amused themselves a little
last night. Reckon there's 'bout a pint-cup full of eyes this mornin'.
Sometimes we gets a quart or so, when business is good."

Curious people were those natives of Arkansas, ten or twenty years
ago. Schools were rare, and children grew up with little or no
education. If there was a "barbarous civilization" anywhere in the
United States, it was in Arkansas. In 1860, a man was hung at
Napoleon for reading _The Tribune_. It is an open question whether the
character of the paper or the man's ability to read was the reason for
inflicting the death penalty.

The current of the Mississippi causes islands to be destroyed in some
localities and formed in others. A large object settling at the
bottom of the stream creates an eddy, in which the floating sand is
deposited. Under favorable circumstances an island will form in such
an eddy, sometimes of considerable extent.

About the year 1820, a steamboat, laden with lead, was sunk in
mid-channel several miles below St. Louis. An island formed over this
steamer, and a growth of cotton-wood trees soon covered it. These
trees grew to a goodly size, and were cut for fuel. The island was
cleared, and for several successive years produced fine crops of corn.
About 1855, there was a change in the channel of the river, and the
island disappeared. After much search the location of the sunken
steamer was ascertained. By means of a diving-bell, its cargo of lead,
which had been lying thirty-five years under earth and under water,
was brought to light. The entire cargo was raised, together with a
portion of the engines. The lead was uninjured, but the engines were
utterly worthless after their long burial.

The numerous bends of the Mississippi are of service in rendering the
river navigable. If the channel were a straight line from Cairo to New
Orleans, the current would be so strong that no boat could stem it.
In several instances, where "cut-offs" have been made, the current
at their outlets is so greatly increased that the opposite banks are
washed away. New bends are thus formed that may, in time, be as large
as those overcome. Distances have been shortened by "cut-offs," but
the Mississippi displays a decided unwillingness to have its length
curtailed.

From St. Louis to the Red River the current of the Mississippi is
about three miles an hour. It does not flow in a steady, unbroken
volume. The surface is constantly ruffled by eddies and little
whirlpools, caused by the inequalities of the bottom of the river, and
the reflection of the current from the opposite banks. As one gazes
upon the stream, it half appears as if heated by concealed fires,
and ready to break into violent ebullition. The less the depth, the
greater the disturbance of the current. So general is this rule,
that the pilots judge of the amount of water by the appearance of the
surface. Exceptions occur where the bottom, below the deep water, is
particularly uneven.

From its source to the mouth of Red River, the Mississippi is fed
by tributaries. Below that point, it throws off several streams that
discharge no small portion of its waters into the Gulf of Mexico.
These streams, or "bayous," are narrow and tortuous, but generally
deep, and navigable for ordinary steamboats. The "Atchafalaya" is the
first, and enters the Gulf of Mexico at the bay of the same name. At
one time it was feared the Mississippi might leave its present bed,
and follow the course of this bayou. Steps were taken to prevent such
an occurrence. Bayou Plaquemine, Bayou Sara, Bayou La Fourche, Bayou
Goula, and Bayou Teche, are among the streams that drain the great
river.

These bayous form a wonderful net-work of navigable waters, throughout
Western Louisiana. If we have reason to be thankful that "great
rivers run near large cities in all parts of the world," the people
of Louisiana should be especially grateful for the numerous natural
canals in that State. These streams are as frequent and run in nearly
as many directions as railways in Massachusetts.

During its lowest stages, the Mississippi is often forty feet "within
its banks;" in other words, the surface is forty feet below the level
of the land which borders the river. It rises with the freshets, and,
when "bank full," is level with the surrounding lowland.

It does not always stop at this point; sometimes it rises two, four,
six, or even ten feet above its banks. The levees, erected at immense
cost, are designed to prevent the overflowing of the country on such
occasions. When the levees become broken from any cause, immense areas
of country are covered with water. Plantations, swamps, forests, all
are submerged. During the present year (1865) thousands of square
miles have been flooded, hundreds of houses swept away, and large
amounts of property destroyed.

During the freshet of '63, General Grant opened the levee at
Providence, Louisiana, in the hope of reaching Bayou Mason, and thence
taking his boats to Red River. After the levee was cut an immense
volume of water rushed through the break. Anywhere else it would have
been a goodly-sized river, but it was of little moment by the side of
the Mississippi. A steamboat was sent to explore the flooded region. I
saw its captain soon after his return.

"I took my boat through the cut," said he, "without any trouble. We
drew nearly three feet, but there was plenty of water. We ran two
miles over a cotton-field, and could see the stalks as our wheels tore
them up. Then I struck the plank road, and found a good stage of water
for four miles, which took me to the bayou. I followed this several
miles, until I was stopped by fallen trees, when I turned about and
came back. Coming back, I tried a cornfield, but found it wasn't as
good to steam in as the cotton-field."

A farmer in the Eastern or Middle States would, doubtless, be much
astonished at seeing a steamboat paddling at will in his fields and
along his roads. A similar occurrence in Louisiana does not astonish
the natives. Steamers have repeatedly passed over regions where corn
or cotton had been growing six months before. At St. Louis, in 1844,
small boats found no difficulty in running from East St. Louis to
Caseyville, nine miles distant. In making these excursions they passed
over many excellent farms, and stopped at houses whose owners had been
driven to the upper rooms by the water.

Above Cairo, the islands in the Mississippi are designated by names
generally received from the early settlers. From Cairo to New Orleans
the islands are numbered, the one nearest the former point being
"One," and that nearest New Orleans "One Hundred and Thirty-one."
Island Number Ten is historic, being the first and the last island in
the great river that the Rebels attempted to fortify. Island Number
Twenty-eight was the scene of several attacks by guerrillas upon
unarmed transports. Other islands have an equally dishonorable
reputation. Fifty years ago several islands were noted as the resorts
of robbers, who conducted an extensive and systematic business. Island
Number Sixty-five (if I remember correctly) was the rendezvous of the
notorious John A. Murrell and his gang of desperadoes.




CHAPTER XLIV.

STEAMBOATING ON THE MISSISSIPPI IN PEACE AND WAR.

Attempts to Obstruct the Great River.--Chains, Booms, and
Batteries.--A Novelty in Piloting.--Travel in the Days Before the
Rebellion.--Trials of Speed.--The Great Race.--Travel During the
War.--Running a Rebel Battery on the Lower Mississippi.--Incidents of
the Occasion.--Comments on the Situation.


No engineer has been able to dam the Mississippi, except by the easy
process which John Phenix adopted on the Yuma River. General Pillow
stretched a chain from Columbus, Kentucky, to the opposite shore, in
order to prevent the passage of our gun-boats. The chain broke soon
after being placed in position.

Near Forts Jackson and Philip, below New Orleans, the Rebels
constructed a boom to oppose the progress of Farragut's fleet. A large
number of heavy anchors, with the strongest cables, were fixed in the
river. For a time the boom answered the desired purpose. But the river
rose, drift-wood accumulated, and the boom at length went the way of
all things Confederate. Farragut passed the forts, and appeared before
New Orleans; "Picayune Butler came to town," and the great city of the
South fell into the hands of the all-conquering Yankees.

Before steam power was applied to the propulsion of boats, the ascent
of the Mississippi was very difficult.

From New Orleans to St. Louis, a boat consumed from two to four
months' time. Sails, oars, poles, and ropes attached to trees,
were the various means of stemming the powerful current. Long after
steamboats were introduced, many flat-boats, loaded with products
of the Northern States, floated down the river to a market. At New
Orleans, boats and cargoes were sold, and the boatmen made their way
home on foot. Until twenty years ago, the boatmen of the Mississippi
were almost a distinct race. At present they are nearly extinct.