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The Great South - Down the Mississippi
East St. Louis - The Journey Starts
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"O, starboard side.”
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"Oo-le-oo-le-oo!"
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"Nudder one down dar!"
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St. Mary's Landing |
THE roustabouts were
loading sacks of corn from one of the
immense elevators at East St. Louis into the recesses of that mammoth
steamboat the "Great Republic,” and singing at their toil. Very lustily had
they worked, these grimy and uncouth men and boys, clad in soiled and ragged
garments, from early morning, and it was full midnight as we stood listening
to their song. In their voices, and in the characteristic wail with which
each refrain ended, there was a kind of grim passion, not unmixed with
religious fervor. The singers’ tones seemed to sink into a lament, as if in
despair at faulty expression. But the music kept them steadily at their
work—tugging at the coarse, heavy sacks, while the rain poured down in
torrents. The “torch—baskets" sent forth their cheery light and crackle, and
the heat lightning so terrible in Missouri, now and then disclosed to
those of us who were still awake the slumbering city, with its myriad lights
and its sloping hills packed with dark, smoke-discolored houses beyond the
river.
Towards morning, the great steamer turned swiftly
round, the very spray from the boiling water seeming crowded with oaths, as
the officers drove the negroes to their several tasks; and the “Great
Republic‘‘ glided slowly, and with scarcely a perceptible motion, down the
stream. The blinking lights of the ferries behind us faded into distance. We
passed tug-boats fuming a and growling like monsters, drawing after them
mysterious trains of barges; and finally entered upon the solitude which one
finds so impressive upon the Mississippi.
A journey of twelve hundred miles by water was before
us. We were sailing from t h e treacherous, transition weather of
Missourian March to meet loveliest summer robed in green, and garlanded with
fairest blooms. The thought was inspiring. Eight days of this restful
sailing on the gently throbbing current, and we should see the lowlands, the
Cherokee rose, the jessamine, the orange tree. Wakeful and pacing the
deck,—across which swept a chill breeze,—with my Ulster close about me, I
pondered upon my journey and the journey’s end.
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