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A yes and a kiss sealed the deal.
The first marriage on a steamboat turned out to be brief.
A few days later, the first cargo of cotton was loaded aboard New Orleans. Once the bales were secured on deck and the wood for the boiler secured in the hold, there was little else to do. They left for New Orleans on the seventh day of January 1812.
Dawn came like a lamb on January 12, 1812. A clear sky greeted Nicholas Roosevelt as he sat alone on top of the aft cabin. The air was dry, with only occasional small gusts of wind that rippled the placid surface of the river. After all that had transpired, it seemed odd that New Orleans would arrive so calmly in the city for which she was named. Nicholas stared to the west. A flock of pelicans, three dozen in all, flew overhead from west to east. The flock was headed for Lake Pontchartrain, some three miles distant. The city of New Orleans was only two miles farther.
“What are you- thinking?” Lydia said, as she climbed up onto the roof.
Nicholas smiled and sat quietly for a moment before answering.
“I was wondering what will happen to this old girl in the future,” he added.
“New Orleans has faced down the devil,” Lydia said. “She’ll be on this river long after we’re gone, dear.”
“I hope so,” Roosevelt said.
“After all she’s been through,” Lydia said, “it would really take a lot to hurt her.”
Just then Andrew Jack shouted, “New Orleans!”
But Lydia Roosevelt would be proved wrong. New Orleans sank thirty months later. After numerous weekly profitable journeys between Natchez and New Orleans and her brief service transporting men and supplies downriver for Andrew Jackson’s army during the Battle of New Orleans, the evening of July 14, 1814, found her on the west side of the Mississippi across from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, at a place called Clay’s Landing.
John Clay had the wood cut, stacked, and waiting as usual. Ten cords in total; ten dollars would be his payment. Clay waited out of the rain under a nearby tree as New Orleans pulled close to the dock leading from shore. He watched as a deckhand tossed a line over one of the poles set deep in the Mississippi River mud. Then he waited until he saw the captain poke his head out of the pilothouse.
“John,” the captain shouted. “Got my wood?”
“All cut and stacked.” Clay started from under the tree just as a bolt of lightning struck another tree thirty yards upstream. His hair shot out from his scalp at the static electricity, and he huddled back under the tree.
The captain nodded to the deckhands milling around on the deck. “We still have three hours of daylight left. Let’s get the wood loaded on board.” Then he turned to Clay.
“Come into my cabin,” the captain said, “and I’ll pay for the wood.”
Clay followed the captain to his cabin and waited as he counted out the French gold dauphins. After placing the coins in a leather pouch, John pulled the drawstring tight, then slid the rawhide rope around his head.
“Want a drink?” the captain asked.
“I’m a little chilled,” Clay admitted.
So they had a drink and waited together while the wood was loaded.
A short time later, Clay stepped onto the dock and the captain, who followed, stared up at the sky.
“We get your wood on board tonight, we can get an early start in the morning.”
“Makes sense,” Clay said, as he started up the dock. “The river will be choked with debris from the big rain.”
“Good night,” the captain shouted after the retreating woodsman.
“Watch for the falling water,” Clay shouted back.
But the captain was already inside, and he never heard the warning.
Before the Mississippi River was controlled by dikes and spillways, the water level could quickly drop by feet following a big rain. As the rain-swollen tributaries spilled into the river and the highest point of depth was reached, the water would then race downstream, actually sucking the level lower. After a half-day or so, the level would usually return to normal. The next morning, at first light, the captain ordered New Orleans put into reverse to back away from the dock — but she was hung fast on a sunken stump. A few back-and-forth motions and the bottom of her hull was holed.
A passenger on board wrote of the sad event in the Louisiana Gazette of July 26, 1814:
On Sunday 10th July, left New Orleans. On Wednesday the 13th, arrived at Baton Rouge — landed some cargo. And in the evening departed and arrived at Mr. Clay’s Landing, two miles above on the opposite shore, the usual place of taking in wood. The night being dark and rainy, the Capt. considered it most prudent to secure the boat for the night… Early in the morning, preparations were made for departing, and at daylight the engine was put in motion, but the vessel could only swing around, and could not be forced forward by steam. The water had fallen during the night 16 to 18 inches — the Capt. then concluded she had lodged on a stump, and endeavored to push her off with spars against the bank, but without effect. He immediately satisfied himself it was a stump, and found it by feeling with an oar 15 or 20 feet abaft the wheel on the larboard side. He then ordered the wood thrown overboard, and got an anchor off the starboard quarter, and with the steam capstan hover her off, when she immediately sprung a leak, which increased so rapidly that time was only allowed to make fast again to shore, the passengers to escape with their baggage, and the crew with assistance from the shore, saved a great part of the cargo, when she sank alongside the bank.
So ended the saga of the first steamboat on the western rivers.
II
Where Did It Go? 1986, 1995
I can’t recall when I read my first book about steamboats on the Mississippi River, though I suspect it was when I had to give a book report on Tom Sawyer in the fifth grade. When my parents went to town on Saturday night, they always parked me at the old Alhambra Public Library. It was there my imagination took hold and I dreamed about floating down the great river with Tom, Huck Fi
For reasons unknown to me, I have always felt a deep attraction to the South. It must sound strange for someone who has no relatives, ancestors, or roots south of the Mason-Dixon line. I arrived in the world in Aurora, Illinois, and grew up in Southern California. My father came from Germany, and my mother’s grandfathers were farmers in Iowa who fought in the Union army.
Still, I have to have chicory in my coffee. I insist on grits, redeye gravy, and biscuits for breakfast, and pecan pie for dessert. Maybe we as a people are as much about who we were or who we want to be. It’s food for thought, anyway.
There is no more visible symbol of the South than a paddle-wheel steamboat, tooting its whistle as it comes round the bend. Except for a few excursion boats, the image of steamboats belching black smoke, paddle wheels churning the muddy water, and the decks piled high with cotton bales is but a dim memory of the past, like steam locomotives, rumble seats, and ru
There are many famous steamboats in American history. One can’t help but know about the classic race between the Natchez and the Robert E. Lee. Then there was Robert Fulton’s Clermont, the first steamboat in America to go into passenger service on the Hudson River. Another was the Yellowstone, the first steamboat to journey far up the Missouri River before heading down the Mississippi to the Gulf, where it evacuated the new president of the Republic of Texas, Sam Houston, and his Congress ahead of the advancing armies of Santa A