Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0137/01373.txt

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$Unique_ID{bob01373}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Life On The Mississippi
Chapter XIII}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Twain, Mark}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{memory
twain
pilot
bixby
river
half
crossing
first
how
new}
$Date{1917}
$Log{}
Title:       Life On The Mississippi
Author:      Twain, Mark
Date:        1917

Chapter XIII

A Pilot's Needs

     But I am wandering from what I was intending to do; that is, make plainer
than perhaps appears in the previous chapters some of the peculiar
requirements of the science of piloting.  First of all, there is one faculty
which a pilot must incessantly cultivate until he has brought it to absolute
perfection.  Nothing short of perfection will do.  That faculty is memory.  He
cannot stop with merely thinking a thing is so and so; he must know it; for
this is eminently one of the "exact" sciences. With what scorn a pilot was
looked upon, in the old times, if he ever ventured to deal in that feeble
phrase "I think," instead of the vigorous one, "I know!" One cannot easily
realize what a tremendous thing it is to know every trivial detail of twelve
hundred miles of river and know it with absolute exactness.  If you will take
the longest street in New York, and travel up and down it, conning its
features patiently until you know every house and window and lamppost and big
and little sign by heart, and know them so accurately that you can instantly
name the one you are abreast of when you are set down at random in that street
in the middle of an inky black night, you will then have a tolerable notion of
the amount and the exactness of a pilot's knowledge who carries the
Mississippi River in his head.  And then, if you will go on until you know
every street-crossing, the character, size, and position of the
crossing-stones, and the varying depth of mud in each of these numberless
places, you will have some idea of what the pilot must know in order to keep a
Mississippi steamer out of trouble.  Next, if you will take half of the signs
in that long street, and change their places once a month, and still manage to
know their new positions accurately on dark nights, and keep up with these
repeated changes without making any mistakes, you will understand what is
required of a pilot's peerless memory by the fickle Mississippi.

     I think a pilot's memory is about the most wonderful thing in the world.
To know the Old and New Testaments by heart, and be able to recite them
glibly, forward or backward, or begin at random anywhere in the book and
recite both ways and never trip or make a mistake, is no extravagant mass of
knowledge, and no marvelous facility, compared to a pilot's massed knowledge
of the Mississippi and his marvelous facility in the handling of it.  I make
this comparison deliberately, and believe I am not expanding the truth when I
do it.  Many will think my figure too strong, but pilots will not.

     And how easily and comfortably the pilot's memory does its work; how
placidly effortless is its way; how unconsciously it lays up its vast stores,
hour by hour, day by day, and never loses or mislays a single valuable package
of them all!  Take an instance.  Let a leadsman cry, "Half twain!  half twain!
half twain!  half twain!  half twain!" until it becomes as monotonous as the
ticking of a clock; let conversation be going on all the time, and the pilot
be doing his share of the talking, and no longer consciously listening to the
leadsman; and in the midst of this endless string of half twains let a single
"quarter twain!" be interjected, without emphasis, and then the half-twain cry
go on again, just as before: two or three weeks later that pilot can describe
with precision the boat's position in the river when that quarter twain was
uttered, and give you such a lot of head-marks, stern-marks, and side- marks
to guide you, that you ought to be able to take the boat there and put her in
that same spot again yourself!  The cry of "quarter twain" did not really take
his mind from his talk, but his trained faculties instantly photographed the
bearings, noted the change of depth, and laid up the important details for
future reference without requiring any assistance from him the matter.  If you
were walking and talking with a friend, and another friend at your side kept
up a monotonous repetition of the vowel sound A, for a couple of blocks, and
then in the midst interjected an R, thus, A, A, A, A, A, R, A, A, A, etc., and
gave the R no emphasis, you would not be able to state, two or three weeks
afterward, that the R had been put in, nor be able to tell what objects you
were passing at the moment it was done.  But you could if your memory had been
patiently and laboriously trained to do that sort of thing mechanically.

     Give a man a tolerably fair memory to start with, and piloting will
develop it into a very colossus of capability.  But only in the matters it is
daily drilled in.  A time would come when the man's faculties could not help
noticing landmarks and soundings, and his memory could not help holding on to
them with the grip of a vise; but if you asked that same man at noon what he
had had for breakfast, it would be ten chances to one that he could not tell
you.  Astonishing things can be done with the human memory if you will devote
it faithfully to one particular line of business.

     At the time that wages soared so high on the Missouri River, my chief,
Mr. Bixby, went up there and learned more than a thousand miles of that stream
with an ease and rapidity miles of that stream with an ease and rapidity that
were astonishing.  When he had seen each division once in the day-time and
once at night, his education was so nearly complete that he took out a
"daylight" license; a few trips later he took out a full license, and went to
piloting day and night - and he ranked A 1, too.

     Mr. Bixby placed me as steersman for a while under a pilot whose feats of
memory were a constant marvel to me.  However, his memory was born in him, I
think, not built.  For instance, somebody would mention a name.  Instantly Mr.
Brown would break in:

     "Oh, I knew him.  Sallow-faced, red-headed fellow, with a little scar on
the side of his throat, like a splinter under the flesh.  He was only in the
Southern trade six months.  That was thirteen years ago.  I made a trip with
him.  There was five feet in the upper river then; the Henry Blake grounded at
the foot of Tower Island drawing four and a half; the George Elliott unshipped
her rudder on the wreck of the Sunflower - "

     "Why, the Sunflower didn't sink until - "

     "I know when she sunk; it was three years before that, on the 2d of
December; Asa Hardy was captain of her, and his brother John was first clerk;
and it was his first trip in her, too; Tom Jones told me these things a week
afterward in New Orleans; he was first mate of the Sunflower.  Captain Hardy
stuck a nail in his foot the 6th of July of the next year, and died of the
lockjaw on the 15th.  His brother John died two years after - 3d of March -
erysipelas.  I never saw either of the Hardys - they were Alleghany River men
- but people who knew them told me all these things.  And they said Captain
Hardy wore yarn socks winter and summer just the same, and his first wife's
name was Jane Shook - she was from New England - and his second one died in a
lunatic asylum.  It was in the blood.  She was from Lexington, Kentucky.  Name
was Horton before she was married."

     And so on, by the hour, the man's tongue would go.  He could not forget
anything.  It was simply impossible.  The most trivial details remained as
distinct and luminous in his head, after they had lain there for years, as the
most memorable events.  His was not simply a pilot's memory; its grasp was
universal.  It he were talking about a trifling letter he had received seven
years before, he was pretty sure to deliver you the entire screed from memory.
And then, without observing that he was departing from the true line of his
talk, he was more than likely to hurl in a long-drawn parenthetical biography
of the writer of that letter; and you were lucky indeed if he did not take up
that writer's relatives, one by one, and give you their biographies, too.

     Such a memory as that is a great misfortune.  To it, all occurrences are
of the same size.  Its possessor cannot distinguish an interesting
circumstance from an uninteresting one.  As a talker, he is bound to clog his
narrative with tiresome details and make himself an insufferable bore.
Moreover, he cannot stick to his subject.  He picks up every little grain of
memory he discerns in his way, and so is led aside.  Mr. Brown would start out
with the honest intention of telling you a vastly funny anecdote about a dog.
He would be "so full of laugh" that he could hardly begin; then his memory
would start with the dog's breed and personal appearance; drift into a history
of his owner; of his owner's family, with descriptions of weddings and burials
that had occurred in it, together with recitals of congratulatory verses and
obituary poetry provoked by the same; then this memory would recollect that
one of these events occurred during the celebrated "hard winter" of
such-and-such a year, and a minute description of that winter would follow,
along with the names of people who were frozen to death, and statistics
showing the high figures which pork and hay went up to.  Pork and hay would
suggest corn and fodder; corn and fodder would suggest cows and horses; cows
and horses would suggest the circus and certain celebrated bare-back riders;
the transition from the circus to the menagerie was easy and natural; from the
elephant to equatorial Africa was but a step; then of course the heathen
savages would suggest religion; and at the end of three or four hours' tedious
jaw, the watch would change, and Brown would go out of the pilot-house
muttering extracts from sermons he had heard years before about the efficacy
of prayer as a means of grace.  And the original first mention would be all
you had learned about that dog, after all this waiting and hungering.

     A pilot must have a memory; but there are two higher qualities which he
must also have.  He must have good work and quick judgment and decision, and a
cool, calm courage that no peril can shake.  Give a man the merest trifle of
pluck to start with, and by the time he has become a pilot he cannot be
unmanned by any danger a steamboat can get into; but one cannot quite say the
same for judgment.  Judgment is a matter of brains, and a man must start with
a good stock of that article or he will never succeed as a pilot.

     The growth of courage in the pilot-house is steady all the time, but it
does not reach a high and satisfactory condition until some time after the
young pilot has been "standing his own watch" alone and under the staggering
weight of all the responsibilities connected with the position.  When the
apprentice has become pretty thoroughly acquainted with the river, he goes
clattering along so fearlessly with his steamboat, night or day, that he
presently begins to imagine that it is his courage that animates him; but the
first time the pilot steps out and leaves him to his own devices he finds out
it was the other man's.  He discovers that the article has been left out of
his own cargo altogether. The whole river is bristling with exigencies in a
moment; he is not prepared for them; he does not know how to meet them; all
his knowledge forsakes him; and within fifteen minutes he is as white as a
sheet and scared almost to death.  Therefore pilots wisely train these cubs by
various strategic tricks to look danger in the face a little more calmly. A
favorite way of theirs is to play a friendly swindle upon the candidate.

     Mr. Bixby served me in this fashion once, and for years afterward I used
to blush, even in my sleep, when I thought of it.  I had become a good
steersman; so good, indeed, that I had all the work to do on our watch, night
and day.  Mr. Bixby seldom made a suggestion to me; all he ever did was to
take the wheel on particularly bad nights or in particularly bad crossings,
land the boat when she needed to be landed, play gentleman of leisure
nine-tenths of the watch, and collect the wages.  The lower river was about
bank-full, and if anybody had questioned my ability to run any crossing
between Cairo and New Orleans without help or instruction, I should have felt
irreparably hurt.  The idea of being afraid of any crossing in the lot, in the
daytime, was a thing too preposterous for contemplation.  Well, one matchless
summer's day I was bowling down the bend above Island 66, brimful of
self-conceit and carrying my nose as high as a giraffe's, when Mr. Bixby said:

     "I am going below awhile.  I suppose you know the next crossing?"

     This was almost an affront.  It was about the plainest and simplest
crossing in the whole river.  One couldn't come to any harm, whether he ran it
right or not; and as for depth, there never had been any bottom there.  I knew
all this, perfectly well.

"     "Know how to run it?  Why, I can run it with my eyes shut."

     "How much water is there in it?"

     "Well, that is an odd question.  I couldn't get bottom there with a
church steeple."

     "You think so, do you?"

     The very tone of the question shook my confidence.  That was what Mr.
Bixby was expecting.  He left, without saying anything more.  I began to
imagine all sorts of things.  Mr. Bixby, unknown to me, of course, sent
somebody down to the forecastle with some mysterious instructions to the
leadsmen, another messenger was sent to whisper among the officers, and then
Mr. Bixby went into hiding behind a smoke-stack where he could observe
results.  Presently the captain stepped out on the hurricane- deck; next the
chief mate appeared; then a clerk.  Every moment or two a straggler was added
to my audience; and before I got to the head of the island I had fifteen or
twenty people assembled down there under my nose. I began to wonder what the
trouble was.  As I started across, the captain glanced aloft at me and said,
with a sham uneasiness in his voice:

     "Where is Mr. Bixby?"

     "Gone below, sir."

     But that did the business for me.  My imagination began to construct
dangers out of nothing, and they multiplied faster than I could keep the run
of them.  All at once I imagined I saw shoal water ahead!  The wave of coward
agony that surged through me then came near dislocating every joint in me.
All my confidence in that crossing vanished.  I seized the bell-rope; dropped
it, ashamed; seized it again; dropped it once more; clutched it tremblingly
once again, and pulled it so feebly that I could hardly hear the stroke
myself.  Captain and mate sang out instantly, and both together:

     "Starboard lead there!  and quick about it!"

     This was another shock.  I began to climb the wheel like a squirrel; but
I would hardly get the boat started to port before I would see new dangers on
that side, and away I would spin to the other; only to find perils
accumulating to starboard, and be crazy to get to port again. Then came the
leadsman's sepulchral cry:

     "D-e-e-p four!"

     Deep four in a bottomless crossing!  The terror of it took my breath
away.

     "M-a-r-k three!  M-a-r-k three!  Quarter-less-three!  Half twain!"

     This was frightful!  I seized the bell-ropes and stopped the engines.

     "Quarter twain!  Quarter twain!  Mark twain!"

     I was helpless.  I did not know what in the world to do.  I was quaking
from head to foot, and I could have hung my hat on my eyes, they stuck out so
far.

     "Quarter-less-twain!  Nine-and-a-half!"

     We were drawing nine!  My hands were in a nerveless flutter.  I could not
ring a bell intelligibly with them.  I flew to the speaking- tube and shouted
to the engineer:

     "Oh, Ben, if you love me, back her!  Quick, Ben!  Oh, back the immortal
soul out of her!"

     I heard the door close gently.  I looked around, and there stood Mr.
Bixby, smiling a bland, sweet smile.  Then the audience on the hurricane- deck
sent up a thundergust of humiliating laughter.  I saw it all, now, and I felt
meaner than the meanest man in human history.  I laid in the lead, set the
boat in her marks, came ahead on the engines, and said:

     "It was a fine trick to play on an orphan, wasn't it?  It suppose I'll
never hear the last of how I was ass enough to heave the lead at the head of
66."

     "Well, no, you won't, maybe.  In fact I hope you won't; for I want you to
learn something by that experience.  Didn't you know there was no bottom in
that crossing?"

     "Yes, sir, I did."

     "Very well, then.  You shouldn't have allowed me or anybody else to shake
your confidence in that knowledge.  Try to remember that.  And another thing:
when you get into a dangerous place, don't turn coward. That isn't going to
help matters any."

     It was a good enough lesson, but pretty hardly learned.  Yet about the
hardest part of it was that for months I so often had to hear a phrase which I
had conceived a particular distaste for.  It was, "Oh, Ben, if you love me,
back her!"