The recent death of an old Saint Louis and New Orleans pilot has brought the following strange story to light. I shall not attempt, by any word of my own, to secure the reader’s belief in it, but I will merely relate the simple facts in the case, as they fell from the lips of a dying man, and leave him to form his own opinion. Fictitious names, however, will be used throughout the narrative, in accordance with the wishes of certain actors in the mysterious drama who are still living.
Joseph Millard, the pilot referred to, was a master of his profession, a good man, and a truthful man; and this tale, coming from his lips, while in a perfectly sound state of mind, and stretched upon his death-bed, leaves but a small field for the cavilings of the incredulous. Until that hour the whole thing had been kept a profound secret by himself and the other witnesses of the horrible affair. And now for the facts.
A number of years ago, a Saint Louis and New Orleans packet, which I will call the “Boreas,” was on her way up the river, and at about ten o’clock at night, the sky, which had before been clear, suddenly became overcast, and snow commenced falling soon afterwards. The boat was near the head of Dog Tooth Bend at the time. The Captain stepped out of the “Texas,” and said to the pilot on watch:
“Well, I reckon Goose Island would n’t be a very safe place for the Boreas to-night, Mr. Jones. So, if it keeps on snowing at this rate, I reckon you had better bring her to at the first wood-pile you come across near the head of Dog Tooth or Buffalo Island.”
The little narrow bend around Goose Island is called the “Grave-Yard,” because of the numerous wrecks of steamboats that have found a tomb in it. Besides these obstructions, a great many large snags stood directly in the way at the time I speak of, and the narrow channel being very “shoal” also, the best of piloting was necessary in order to “run” Goose Island in safety, even in daylight.
Mr. Jones passed the wood-yards in silence, and held his way up the river through the driving rain; for that very day he had declared that Goose Island “had no terrors for him, on any kind of night,” and had been laughed at by several other pilots, who jestingly called him the “King of Pilots.” He was still angry and sullen, and occasionally, as he thought of the jest, he would grate his teeth and mutter that “he would show them that he was the king of pilots in reality.”
At about half past eleven the other pilot came up, having been called too soon, through a mistake on the part of the watchman, and noticing that the boat was approaching the foot of Goose Island, he said:
“Why, Jones, surely you are not going to run this place on such a night as this?”
“I’ll take her through, if the Devil seizes me for it in five minutes afterwards!”
And through those hidden dangers,—and shrouded in that Egyptian darkness—the steamer plowed her way, watched by an unerring eye and guided by a master hand, whose nerves trembled not for a single instant! And snags and wrecks remained untouched.
“Now, who is king of pilots!”
And those were the last words of William Jones, pilot.
Then he gave up the wheel and left the pilot house, and when the four o’clock watch was called, he could not be found. There was blood upon the “nosing” of the starboard guard, and a fireman said, the next day, that a man fell from the boiler deck in the night, and he thought his head struck that place, but that the watchman only laughed at him when he mentioned it, and said he had a fertile imagination.
When the Boreas arrived at Saint Louis she was sold, and lay idle the balance of the summer, and fall, and finally left for New Orleans in the dead of winter, with an entirely new set of officers—Joe Millard and Ben. Reubens, pilots.
One cold, raw night, as the boat was approaching Goose Island, snow commenced falling, and it soon became almost too dark to run. This reminded Joe of the almost forgotten Jones; and he determined to try and get the boat up into the little bend as far as the “Shingle Pile,” and lay up till morning, as he preferred having the balance of Goose Island in daylight.
He had just gained the foot of the bend when the snow commenced falling so densely that he could see nothing at all—not even the trees on the shore at his side. He stopped the engines, of course.
At that moment he felt conscious that he was not alone—that some one was in the pilot house with him—although he had bolted the door on the inside, to keep it from blowing open, and that was the only mode of ingress! Yes, he was sure he could distinguish the dim outline of a human figure standing on the opposite side of the wheel. A moment after, he heard the bell lines pulled—heard the handles strike the frame as they fell back to their places, and then the faint tinkle of the answering bells came up from below. In an instant the wheel was jerked out of his hands, and a sudden gleam of light from a crack in the stove pipe revealed the ghastly features of William Jones, with a great piece of skin, ragged and bloody, torn loose from his forehead and dangling and flapping over his left eye—the other eye dead and fixed and lustreless—hair wet and disordered, and the whole body bent and shapeless, like that of a drowned man, and apparently rigid as marble, except the hands and arms, which seemed alone endued with life and motion!
Joseph Millard’s blood curdled in his veins, and he trembled in every limb at the horrid vision. And yet he was a brave man, and held no superstitious notions. He would have left the accursed place, but he seemed bound with bands of iron. He tried to call for help, but his tongue refused its office; he caught the sound of the watchman’s heavy tramp on the hurricane deck—would no signal draw his attention?—but the trial was vain—he could neither move nor speak,—and aid and comfort almost in a whisper’s reach of him. Then the footsteps died away and the desperate man was left alone with his fearful company.
Riveted to the spot he listened to the clashing engines and the moaning of the frosty wind, while that ghostly pilot steered the vessel through darkness such as no human eye could penetrate. Millard expected every moment to hear the timbers crashing against wreck or snag, but he was deceived. Through every danger that infested the way the dead man steered in safety, turning the wheel from one side to the other calmly and quietly as if it had been noonday.
It seemed to Millard as if an age had passed over his head, when he heard something fall on the floor with a slight clatter on the other side of the wheel; he did not know what it was—he only shuddered, and wondered what it meant. Soon after, by the faint light from the crack in the stove-pipe he saw his ghostly comrade moving silently towards the door—saw him lean against it for a moment, open it, and disappear.
Millard mustered strength enough to stop the engines, and at the same moment he heard the voice of his partner at the door. He stepped back to open it, and found that it was still bolted on the inside!
Poor Millard was now utterly confounded. He felt qualified to swear that he had seen the shape—no matter what it was—man or ghost or devil—go out at that very door—and yet it was still bolted! and so securely too that he hardly had strength enough left to unfasten it. But when the feat was at last accomplished, he sank down exhausted, and trembling from head to foot like a man with the palsy.
“Why how is this, Joe?—out in such a snow-storm, when one can’t see the chimneys, let alone the derricks and jackstaff! You’re beating Jones himself, Joe. Where are we, man?—where are we?”
“God only knows! Land her, Ben, for Heaven’s sake, if you can ever find the shore.”
During a momentary lull in the storm, Ben felt his way to shore, and rounded to under Philadelphia Point. And then he proceeded to question Joe.
“Swear that you will never mention the matter during my life, and I will tell you what I have seen this night; but on no other terms will I open my lips—for if the story should get abroad, Joseph Millard would become the laughing stock of the whole river, Ben.”
Reubens wondered much at Millard’s strange conduct; his curiosity was raised, however, and he took the oath. And quaking and shuddering, his comrade told the fearful tale.
Reubens was silent for a moment, after Millard had finished.
“You spoke of something that fell and rattled on the floor, Joe—what do you suppose it was?”
“It startled me when it fell, but I have no idea what it was, Ben.”
“Well, I’ll go after a lantern, and we’ll soon find out.”
“What! and leave me here by myself! I would n’t stay here alone five minutes for a dozen steamboats.”
So they both went, and soon returned with a light. Near the foot-board, on the starboard side of the wheel, they saw a glittering object, which proved to be a silver watch, lying open, with the crystal detached and broken in half. The break seemed recent. Neatly engraved, on the back of the watch, were these words.
“WILLIAM JONES—PRESENTED BY HIS FATHER.”
c. January–June 1861