tap! tap!” (to signify “Lay in the leads”)
And away she went, flying up the willow shore, with the whole silver sea of the Mississippi stretching abroad on every hand.
No Amaranth in sight!
“Ha-ha, boys, we took a couple of tricks that time!” said the captain.
And just at that moment a red glare appeared in the head of the chute and the Amaranth came springing after them!
“Well, I swear!”
“Jim, what is the meaning of that?”
“I’ll tell you what’s the meaning of it. That hail we had at Napoleon was Wash Hastings, wanting to come to Cairo—and we didn’t stop. He’s in that pilot house, now, showing those mud turtles how to hunt for easy water.”
“That’s it! I thought it wasn’t any slouch that was running that middle bar in Hog-eye Bend. If it’s Wash Hastings—well, what he don’t know about the river ain’t worth knowing—a regular gold-leaf, kid-glove, diamond breastpin pilot Wash Hastings is. We won’t take any tricks off of him, old man!”
“I wish I’d a stopped for him, that’s all.”
The Amaranth was within three hundred yards of the Boreas, and still gaining. The “old man” spoke through the tube:
“What is she-carrying now?”
“A hundred and sixty-five, sir!”
“How’s your wood?”
“Pine all out-cypress half gone-eating up cotton-wood like pie!”
“Break into that rosin on the main deck-pile it in, the boat can pay for it!”
Soon the boat was plunging and quivering and screaming more madly than ever. But the Amaranth’s head was almost abreast the Boreas’s stern:
“How’s your steam, now, Harry?”
“Hundred and eighty-two, sir!”
“Break up the casks of bacon in the forrard hold! Pile it in! Levy on that turpentine in the fantail-drench every stick of wood with it!”
The boat was a moving earthquake by this time:
“How is she now?”
“A hundred and ninety-six and still a-swelling!—water, below the middle gauge-cocks!—carrying every pound she can stand!—nigger roosting on the safety-valve!”
“Good! How’s your draft?”
“Bully! Every time a nigger heaves a stick of wood into the furnace he goes out the chimney, with it!”
The Amaranth drew steadily up till her jack-staff breasted the Boreas’s wheel-house—climbed along inch by inch till her chimneys breasted it—crept along, further and further, till the boats were wheel to wheel—and then they closed up with a heavy jolt and locked together tight and fast in the middle of the big river under the flooding moonlight! A roar and a hurrah went up from the crowded decks of both steamers—all hands rushed to the guards to look and shout and gesticulate—the weight careened the vessels over toward each other—officers flew hither and thither cursing and storming, trying to drive the people amidships—both captains were leaning over their railings shaking their fists, swearing and threatening—black volumes of smoke rolled up and canopied the scene—delivering a rain of sparks upon the vessels—two pistol shots rang out, and both captains dodged unhurt and the packed masses of passengers surged back and fell apart while the shrieks of women and children soared above the intolerable din——
And then there was a booming roar, a thundering crash, and the riddled Amaranth dropped loose from her hold and drifted helplessly away!
Instantly the fire-doors of the Boreas were thrown open and the men began dashing buckets of water into the furnaces—for it would have been death and destruction to stop the engines with such a head of steam on.
As soon as possible the Boreas dropped down to the floating wreck and took off the dead, the wounded and the unhurt—at least all that could be got at, for the whole forward half of the boat was a shapeless ruin, with the great chimneys lying crossed on top of it, and underneath were a dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing for help. While men with axes worked with might and main to free these poor fellows, the Boreas’s boats went about, picking up stragglers from the river.
And now a new horror presented itself. The wreck took fire from the dismantled furnaces! Never did men work with a heartier will than did those stalwart braves with the axes. But it was of no use. The fire ate its way steadily, despising the bucket brigade that fought it. It scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of the axemen—it drove them back, foot by foot—inch by inch—they wavered, struck a final blow in the teeth of the enemy, and surrendered. And as they fell back they heard prisoned voices saying:
“Don’t leave us! Don’t desert us! Don’t, don’t do it!”
And one poor fellow said:
“I am Henry Worley, striker of the Amaranth! My mother lives in St. Louis. Tell her a lie for a poor devil’s sake, please. Say I was killed in an instant and never knew what hurt me—though God knows I’ve neither scratch nor bruise this moment! It’s hard to burn up in a coop like this with the whole wide world so near. Good-bye boys—we’ve all got to come to it at last, anyway!”
The Boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission. A shriek at intervals told of a captive that had met his doom. The wreck lodged upon a sandbar, and when the Boreas turned the next point on her upward journey it was still burning with scarcely abated fury.
When the boys came down into the main saloon of the Boreas, they saw a pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful sounds. Eleven poor creatures lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or pleading or screaming, while a score of Good Samaritans moved among them doing what they could to relieve their sufferings; bathing their chinless faces and bodies with linseed oil and lime water and covering the places with bulging masses of raw cotton that gave to every face and form a dreadful and unhuman aspect.
A little wee French midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but never uttered a sound till a physician of Memphis was about to dress his hurts. Then he said:
“Can I get well? You need not be afraid to tell me.”
“No—I—I am afraid you can not.”
“Then do not waste your time with me—help
