OVERFLOWS OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER

 

By FLORENCE W. SILLERS

 

 

It is frequently stated that the Mississippi River annually overflows its banks, but statistics do not confirm this statement.

 

Judge Joseph McGuire, one of Bolivar County's earliest pioneers, personally examined the Spanish records at Vidalia, Louisiana, just opposite Natchez, Mississippi, and states in a record that he gave, a short time before his death, to the mother of J. V. Lobdell, of Rosedale, that there have been many years in which the river remained within its banks.

 

The Spanish records show high water for 1770, 1784, 1790, 1798, 1804, 1809, 1811, 1823, and 1828. Apparently there was no high water during the other years of the period from 1770 to 1828.

 

The history of the river for the year 1844 is exceptionally interesting. On the 10th of April of that year, the river was out of its banks; on the 27th of the same month, it had fallen 12 feet, but it began rising again on the 1st of May and rose rapidly until it reached the high water stage and never began to fall until the 14th of August.

 

In 1859, 1862, and 1865 the water was very high, but there was no very high water for the many years from 1844 to 1858; and in 1829 and 1839 the river never even covered the bars.

 

Records of the early floods of the Mississippi River are to be found in the "Report of the Mississippi River" by Generals Humphreys and Abbott of the United States engineers. The facts were collected from every available source and present surprising information to those who suppose there were no extraordinary overflows from the river in the period before levees and extensive wood cutting were known. Even when there were few levees, and almost the entire country was open so that the floods could flow over it without obstruction, the fact remains that the levees of that early period were periodically swept away and the plantations devastated. The fact remains, also, that from the earliest times, at irregular intervals, the Mississippi Valley has been subject to excessive visitations of water, and the same sort of thing goes on and will go on forever. There are drought years and flood years, no science can foretell their coming, so they must be endured to the best of human fortitude and met with all the courage and skill possible. The floods are destructive in proportion to the population affected. Some of the levees break, but others hold and protect great interests. Although much is lost when a crevasse occurs, much is saved by the levees which do not break.

 

In 1867 and 1874 the water was very high, and the levees broke, flooding the county. From above, it is clear that the river rises very high some years and remains within its banks or very little over them, in others. Though the 1874 high water followed a very cold winter, in 1882 the highest water ever known, up to that time, followed a mild winter.

 


Of course, these very high waters caused breaks in the small levees that were sufficient to keep out the ordinary flood waters of the river during normal conditions, but every few years terrific floods have come down the river, with most disastrous consequences.

 

In 1882, the entire line of levee in Bolivar County, about 85 miles, seemed to snap in a hundred places in one night, during a terrible storm on the night of February 28th, and the whole county was under water.

 

There were too many gaps in the levees to repair them all at once, and when a second big rise in the river came during the summer, a second overflow resulted, and the entire levee district south of Concordia was inundated for the second time in one year, and this time growing crops were -ruined. In 1884, there was another high water. The levee broke on what is known as the Hughes place, and although closed by Major Helm, chief engineer of the levee board, and his able assistant, Robert Somerville, it was too late to be of any great advantage to the farmers. The river was high in 1885, 1886, and 1887, but no breaks occurred in the levees. In 1890, another high water caused a break in the levee at Catfish Point, resulting in the abandoning of all the territory known under that name.

 

       In 1897, another overflow occurred as disastrous as that of 1882. The levee at the old Miles McGehee Sunnywild plantation broke on the night of the 31st of March. The river was in its banks on the 1st of March, but the rise each day thereafter was appalling, being at the rate of a foot in 24 hours towards the latter part of the month. An excerpt from the New Orleans Picayune of April 1, 1897, says: "The flood in the Mississippi River surpasses everything of the sort known since the government has made any systematic records and is the result of an extraordinary succession of rainfall and storms. There had been no extremely high water since 1893, but these extreme visitations are to be expected sometimes: The notion that the floods have been aggravated by the confining of the river by the levees is not supported by facts. Long before there were any considerable sections of leveed lands in the Mississippi Valley, and when there had been but little clearing off of the vast forest that once covered Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, West Pennsylvania and West Virginia, the region which is responsible for the great floods in the Mississippi River, there were seasons when the mighty waters covered the greater part of the Mississippi Valley."

 

This unparalleled flood came; and every effort known to the people was used to save the levees - organized forces of every able-bodied man available worked on the levees day and night. Walter Sillers was in charge of the levees from Waxhaw to Lake Vermillion. Signals were used to notify the people where the dangerous places developed, and the danger points seemed to be everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

The Walter Sillers home

 


 

Excitement was intense. Merchants scaffolded their goods above the height of the water they expected to come in at any time, and in every home all household furnishings were placed on these scaffolds. Many families left the country, temporarily, for higher places, the men remaining to help on the levees. The men of Rosedale patrolled the levee below and above the town, from Waxhaw, 4 miles above, to Riverton, 4 miles to the south, riding by day, when any danger could be seen from horseback, and walking at night, carrying lanterns to watch every foot of the way. Many alarms were given before the end came. The signals of danger were: "If the Methodist Church bell rings, the danger is south, and help is needed there; if the Episcopal Church bell rings, all must go north. If both bells ring together, the levee is broken somewhere, so save yourselves."

 

Both bells rang at about 9 o'clock, P. M., on the 31st of March. The scene in Rosedale was indescribable and was the same everywhere in the path of the water. The stir and tumult of the frightened people trying to save their lives and property from the rush of water; the shouts of men, neighing of horses, lowing of cattle, barking of dogs, cackling and crowing of chickens in alarm, the nailing and hammering of axe and hammer, -all suddenly came upon the stillness of the night and proved to be an experience seldom equalled in ordinary life.

 

The terror and excitement of the danger to life and property, the "unknown quantity" in this danger, as well as the terrible certainty of it, the helplessness of the people who were not prepared, and the desperate effort to save what they could can never be understood by those who did not see and hear it; it can only be likened to the panic caused by the approach of the invading enemy in times of war. This break in the levee was 8 miles above the town of Rosedale. The water reached the town, from every direction, it seemed, about 7 A. M. the next day. Many people went out to see it come in - that wall of cold, muddy water rushing down over the land, covering everything as it came, carrying away all fences and small buildings. Before they could finish putting their possessions safely out of the reach of the water, these same people were wading knee-deep in it in their homes.

 

Only three homes in Rosedale escaped the flood. Every other house had from three inches to five feet of water. In the two-story homes the families lived in the second story, fastening their boats in the lower hall. The writer's home was one of the three into which the water did not come, and we had many guests who were not so fortunate, a total of 36 in our household. It was six weeks before the water even began to fall, and June before it was out of the town.

 

The people of the Delta are courageous and high-spirited, and they began to enjoy the novelty of our new Venice. They procured


every kind of boat or water craft that could be found, and the young people rowed and serenaded in the moonlight, danced, had swimming parties, and went to church in the courthouse on Sunday. Merchants sold goods from their scaffolds to customers in skiffs inside the store buildings. The whole town turned out to meet the Kate Adams, to see new faces and buy supplies-anything from whiskey to bananas.

 

To cleanse the buildings of the mud and silt as the water receded was a strenuous job, requiring skill, patience, and work. Much sickness attended the flood and followed it, with loss of property of all kinds, from fences to live stock. Fortunately, an ideal cotton season followed the 1897 overflow, and a fine crop of cotton was made.

 

The floods of 1912 and 1913 were even more exciting and destructive than those of 1897. The levees were higher, larger, and stronger, but the flood tide was also many feet higher. The water was 18 inches higher than the levee all along the Rosedale front, and was kept back by a double line of earth-filled sacks laid on the top of the levee. A man in a skiff in the river, at its highest, was on a level with the second story of the courthouse; this means that there was a solid wall of water against the levees more than 20 feet high. A break anywhere on this front would have swept the town away in less than an hour. Constant and heroic work saved this levee, and miles and miles of similar work was done everywhere on the levee line.

 

'        Yet on April 17, at 9 P. M., the Vermillion Lake levee gave way and nine persons were drowned in the direct path of the rushing torrent of water. The force of the current through a break in the levees of the present day is terrific. Where this break of 1912 occurred, there is now a body of water from 50 to 100 feet deep over an area of 83 acres. These currents carry and deposit quantities of sand over the lands adjacent to the break, and these lands become a veritable Desert of Sahara.

 

The rescue of the people marooned on the tops of the houses and in the trees, some in the very face of the current, was a dangerous and risky undertaking. Hundreds of Negroes were brought to the levee for safety, the levee being the only land anywhere in sight, and tents were provided for them. These carefree people were soon content in their new condition, with no work to do and being fed by owners of the plantations on which they lived. They were provided with clothing and other necessities by the white people and were as happy as children.

 

Great loss of stock of all kinds was general; all fences were gone and also all the houses directly in the path of the water. The antebellum home of General Charles Clark was within a mile of this break, and the current swept away the foundation, so it had to be torn down; not a vestige of it remains. There was no water in the town of Rosedale from this break 12 miles below, although it was in sight of the town. A fairly good season followed this overflow, with medium crops. The weather was very bad and wet in the fall, while work was being done on the line of new levee made necessary


by the break on Lake Vermillion. Progress on it was very slow. A rise in the river in January found a gap of a few hundred yards still incomplete; the water came through this gap, which widened as the water rose, and soon the country was overflowed again.

 

As the river receded, heroic measures were taken to close the gap by the River Commission, under the direction of that splendid engineer, Major Ockerson, who had had experience in such work in the West. Piles were driven and a railroad track laid across the gap, from which trainloads of rock were dumped into the crevasse until it was filled. Even then, on a second rise, enough water flowed through the rocks to overflow a goodly portion of the land that was in the course of the flood a second time, making three inundations in twelve months. This was the last break in the levees of Bolivar County, until 'the 1927 overflow, although there have been several terrific floods and battles with them.

      

In 1916 the water was higher than in 1912, but no breaks occurred. In 1922, we had the highest floodtide in Bolivar County ever known, to that time, and only military discipline and limitless man-power and money averted an overwhelming disaster in the lower part of the county, at the old Stop Landing1 and for three miles above. A break in the levees at that time would have driven the labor that had been left to us from the negro exodus and practically depopulated the greater part of the district.

 

The fight won against the great water of 1922 demonstrates that all that is required to give immunity from overflow to this Delta is men and money and the executive ability to use them intelligently.

 

The supreme effort of the people of the Delta should be made to secure an appropriation sufficient to build these levees to a grade and standard that will resist any flood that comes down the river and end forever the dangers from overflow and its consequent destruction of life and property.

 

 

1As early as 1879 this landing was known as Stop Landing. It took its name from the fact that it was not a regular landing, the boats had to be flagged. Mound Landing was the regular landing for that vicinity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REMINISCENCES OF THE RIVER

 

By MARGARET ALLEN GREEN

 

The following reminiscences of fights against "Ole Man River" are the result of a morning's conversation with Mr. Charles B. Allen, Sr., Mr. W. J. Shackleford, and Mr. Dutch Naderhoff. These three gentlemen probably know first hand as much about high water fights, levee construction, and the ways of the river as any triumvirate in the Mississippi Valley.  Mr. Allen, who came to the county in 1892, was employed by U. S. Engineers until 1933


and either aided or was in charge of every fight during those years; Mr. Shackleford came in 1893 and likewise worked with the engineering department, being chief engineer of the Mississippi Levee Board (1913). Mr. Naderhoff came in 1903 and was a timber man, whose intimate knowledge of the river's ways made him invaluable in high water fights. There is no sequence or order to these stories, for men do not reminisce in an orderly fashion; but the eternal struggle for the land, the heroic quality in those fighters, and the ever present humor ate apparent to all who read.

 

The levees are divided up into one thousand feet stations, with two inch pipes driven into the ground, serving as markers. The numbers of the stations are marked on the pipes, and numbering begins at the Coahoma County line and goes south.2 During a high water fight, men were assigned a certain number of stations with walking guards every mile. These guards carried a lantern, gun, and shovel. Each guard walked back and forth, and met other guards to report conditions on their stretch. These man-to-man verbal reports were the only means of communication. To show the speed with which such words traveled, one night a slough developed at Riverton and Mr. Allen heard at his headquarters at Bolivar, a distance. of about twenty-five miles, that the levee had broken. He and his assistant, Mr. Eugene Williams, quickly saddled their horses and rode toward Riverton. A few miles up the levee, by the light of the moon, they saw a very large negro woman crossing a barrow pit at the base of the levee. The pit was about three feet deep and filled with water from recent rains. The old woman weighed about two hundred pounds, had a large bundle balanced on her head, and her skirt billowed around her like a huge umbrella. "Where's the break, Auntie?", jocularly called Mr. Williams. "Ah don't rightly know, Mr. Gene, but dis water am a risin' fast."

 

Rosedale was last under water in 1897. There were three breaks in the levees within thirty-six hours, below Gunnison, Stop Landing, mid at the foot of Lake Bolivar. The levees were only about ten feet high, but water was deep enough for a small steamboat to travel over the levee of picket fences. This boat was owned by Mr. Jet Dent who made regular trips on Bogue Phalia.

 

About forty men (bachelors and temporary widowers), lived upstairs in the courthouse. Frank Wingfield was elected mess' steward of the group. Due to the shortage of fresh food, a strong right arm with a heavy punch, was necessary to insure satisfaction with his meals. Boats were moored to a wharf built out from the, front door. One night, Hubert Wilson returning from a night visit, mistook the court house shadow for the wharf, and stepped out in water over his head.

 

 

  2The Mississippi Levee District begins at Coahoma County on the north and ends above Vicksburg at the south.

 

 


 

Mr. Will Stone had a fox terrier named Tramp. Once as he and Tramp were rowing into the wharf, Tramp jumped a little too soon, missed the boards and came up under the wharf. Mr. Stone standing up and pointing to the bubbles coming from under the planks, shouted, "Yes, by God, there he goes, there he goes." Tramp finally emerged from under the wharf and lived to a ripe old age.

 

A long string of boats tied one to the other, was a sign that the regular evening poker game had commenced and all interested were silently invited to hitch on and come in.

 

The city park (then an open cow pasture) was the town swimming pool. Two ladies, Mrs. Fred Clark and her stepdaughter Fannie, decided they would learn in their front yard before venturing into the town hole, so arrayed in home-made swimming suits, they went forth into the water (about four feet deep). Soon down the street came a skiff, paddled by two young townsmen, Will Stone and Charlie Allen. They decided to watch the ladies emerge from the water so they tied up to the fence top and proceeded to wait. The ladies, much too bashful to come out, were forced to stay submerged until darkness could protect them.

 

     Dr. Harris would not learn to row a boat, so anyone needing his services was forced to go for him and carry him back home.

 

     Anita Martin lost her diamond ring in swimming. She stuck a pole up to mark the spot and after the water receded found her ring.

 

     There was always the threat that people from Arkansas would steal across the river at night and cut the Mississippi levees in order to save their own land. Many were the rumors of encounters with such scoundrels. John Kirk, a youngster with an eye to a good joke, once took chicken blood and scattered it over the levee in front of his house, then told the guard there must have been a desperate fight with someone trying to cut the levee. The blood was sent to Rosedale for analysis, but Dr. Harris said there was no way to distinguish human blood-so many believed the lad's wild tale.

 

The early cemeteries were on Indian mounds, in order that the graves would be safe from river currents. When little Anna Sillers died, she was carried to Glenwood Mound, seven miles below Rosedale. The water had forced the early blossoming of many flowers, so the funeral procession was a long line of rowboats, many of them filled with flowers. The swish of the oars in the water was the only sound as that long row of boats accompanied the child to her final resting place.

 

It was the custom during every high water to drive iron spikes into some large tree close to the levee, just level with the surface of the


water. The dates were marked on them. Often these old spikes are seen in trees and they are very destructive to a saw when encountered in felled timber. Once Mr. Allen and his negro rodsman Ben Williams, were driving these spikes, going from tree to tree in an open skiff. Ben was mortally afraid of snakes and just as they stopped under a tree a Moccasin fell from the lower branch into the middle of the boat. Ben, oar in hand, began to back towards the end of the boat. Somehow he caught his foot and toppled over backwards into fifteen feet of water. Luckily, the snake crawled out and Ben crawled in as fast as possible.

 

The break below Beulah in 1912 began with a boil on the backside of a barrow pit, one hundred and fifty feet from the toe of the levee. The boil was hooped, but the pressure was too great, and the water broke out between the boil and the levee. This was likewise hooped, but unsuccessfully, and a boil finally broke at the very toe, the banquette fell in, and the levee broke, on April seventeenth.

 

A boil is a stream of water that comes out of the ground like a spring. The secret of controlling it is to lay first brush from trees, then sacks of dirt on the brush, to form a wall around it, and allow the water to fill the space. When the pressure is equalized the flow stops, but the water must be drained off the levee and not allowed to saturate the ground. Ditches are cut down the side of the levee to drain the water. This is the reason that levee guards carry shovels. Often a soggy levee, when ditches are cut will become completely dry in the spaces between the drains.

 

A clear boil is harmless and often workers drink from it for it has been filtered. When a boil is throwing up sand or mud it is dangerous, for it shows wash and must be hooped. It is so essential that the men in charge know how to do these things. Some of the men who were excellent help during such times were: Charlie Gibson, H. C. Lenoir, Pat Specter, Lee Payne, J. E. Walters, Walter Sillers, Sr., Henry McGowen, Lyn Arnold, B. J. Young, James West and many others.

 

It was always necessary to have extra labor, and this was brought in from nearby places, the east side of the county, and sometimes as far east as Sunflower County. On Easter Sunday 1912, there were seventeen hundred men working on the levees from Beulah to Prentiss Crossing, a distance of six miles.

 

One group of men from the east side of the county received in every mail a shoebox, carefully wrapped. The foreman, who gave out the mail, became curious, and so one day he did not deliver the box, but opened it instead. It contained a quart of Four Roses Whiskey, at that time the most expensive of brands. The foreman carefully substituted a bottle of Sunny Brook, and thereafter the "higher ones" enjoyed good liquor and no doubt the main liners raged at the treachery of folks back home.

 


Sacks are an important article in high water fights. A hundred pound sugar sack is the ideal size, for it can be filled with dirt and easily handled. It is small enough to fit closely in the formation of a wall. Gunny sacks are sometimes used, though they are unsuitable. Sacks were very scarce in early days. Mr. Sillers was issued only eighty-two for his stretch of levee in 1882. In later fights, as in 1927, thousands of sacks were assigned each foreman. Sacks were used both to hoop boils and to top low levees. In 1912, the levees had an average of eighteen inches of sacks along their whole length. In 1927, eight feet of water was kept back at Neblett's by sacks. Sometimes two rows of planks were put up about two feet apart, and loose dirt dumped in between. The dirt would be hauled up the side of the levee by the wheelbarrow or scraper, pulled by a mule, or it would be dumped from barges on the river side. On occasions when every moment was precious, dirt was scraped off the crown of the levee. Where this was done evenly, and no deep holes were made, no damage resulted. At exposed points where the waves washed the levees, walls of planks were built, extending from just below the water level, to two or three feet above the water.

 

While Rosedale was not inundated in 1912, many families left town. The A. T. Halls lived on the steamer Kate Adams and twice a week came back to greet friends, see about their chickens, and attend to other such duties. Many donations were sent in through the Red Cross for the flood sufferers. One bighearted church society in Florida sent a wooden barrel full of men's detachable collars, all nicely cleaned and starched.

 

When the contractors began to build the new levee across the 1912 Beulah crevasse, fate seemed determined to prevent them. Rain fell almost continuously from November until March. When the January rise came, there were five hundred feet of uncompleted levee, one hundred feet of which had no material at all. The engineers built a series of three walls of sacks across this hundred feet, the river line sixteen feet high, the next line twelve feet high and the third line eight feet high. Nine steamboats were employed to haul barges of dirt to fill these sacks. The spaces between the lines of sacks were pumped full of water.

 

All this was to no avail for when the river rose that January, it washed out the sacks and eight hundred feet of the partly completed levee. Water was coming again through the same crevasse and over the same land. The engineers decided to fill the gap with rocks, so tracks were run down the banquette and on piling driven in the crevasse. Thousands of cars of "foreign" rock (there is no native rock in the Delta) were dumped in the opening. The spring rise in March found the rock levee completed, and water only trickled through the crevices. Today that rock is in the body of the levee, for later it was just covered with sod. Some carloads overturned and the Vardaman house in Rosedale is built from that spilled stone.


 

The 1927 break was at Mound's Landing, near Scott, April 21, at seven A.M. and was above the banquette. Always before a break had meant the fall of the river at points just north of the break, but so vast was the amount of water in Ole Man River this year, that it continued to rise in spite of the fact that millions of cubic feet of water were pouring through the break. On that same afternoon the levees broke on the Arkansas River at Medford and Pendleton, places almost opposite the break. Had it not been for these two breaks, the levee at Waxhaw would undoubtedly have gone out and Mississippi would have had thousands of additional acres inundated.

 

Ole Man River is a giant that slumbers-and man never knows when he will awake. Now, with the line of unbroken levees, twenty five to thirty feet high, three hundred feet at the base and twenty-five feet at the crown, people think he is safely harnessed. The Ohio, Missouri, Tennessee, St. Francis, Red, White, and Arkansas Rivers have never been at flood stage at the same time. If they should be, no man knows the outcome. Men can do only as men have done in the past-pit their wits and their strength against the river, and put their faith in God.

 

 

 

SPRING ON THE RIVER

 

By EMMA BELL EWING

 

 

My first experience with floods was in 1922. The water that year came down the river late, and the spring flood made after a tentative slight retreat, a beautiful connection with the "June Rise." For weeks and weeks that year the levees were soaked and seeping water. The seed were in the ground, and the cotton was coming up. We were anxious; on this delta plantation the seed were of a new variety, fine, and not to be replaced. After it became apparent that there was a river fight on our hands, the peaceful agricultural side was, overnight, transformed by the regimentation necessary to the occupation of an army. For weeks and weeks the great trucks of the Engineer Corps thundered by. The militia guarded not only the levees but the roads leading there so that there might be gangway for the men and provisions going up to the front in a steady stream.

 

I made up my mind that I would stay as long as the levee did and that when it went, I would go, too. I packed my trunk, disposed of my valuables, stacked my books on high shelves, and for six weeks that spring listened to the telephones. After a few weeks of listening I could tell by the sound of the ring what the news was. I listened to the boats on the river. Although they were at least three miles away, they were riding above the level of land and their deep guttural calls sounded disquietly close and so ominous. It behooves one to listen to the boats when the levee is threatened,


for by pre-arranged signal, if the levee goes, the "quarterboat" will sound the alarm. Well, we "sweated it out" in 1922, call that term vulgar or literal, as you will. It was quite thrilling when it was all over; and we were buoy�ant and proud. The government, realizing what a close squeak we had, began building up the levees; and when we saw all the scrapers and the monstrous machines at work, we thanked God that the next time we had a high river we would have a good levee as well.

 

Then in October, 1926, the river was out of its banks. But that was nothing. Only it stayed out. When I, with my little family, arrived at the station the day before Christmas on our way to Grandmother's for the holidays, we were told that the track had been washed away by the heavy rains of the previous night in the local watersheds, and that there would be no trains that day. The next day was no better; and when, finally, the railroad officials could give us some hope that the tracks would be ready soon, there was another downpour and more tracks went out.

 

In the winter of 1927 came torrential rains, and a little later men began to say to me that we would have a river on our hands, surely in the spring; and so we did. There was the regular and familiar routine of posting guards, sacking boils, sending laborers to build up the top of the levee with sand bags. The water kept coming, and suddenly, new levees or not, we were in peril again. There was that ominous sound of boats riding cautiously twenty feet above the land level, feeling their way slowly, sounding so close. The telephones were all hooked up and ringing day and night. My whole house shook when the trucks laden with men or provisions went thundering by. Relations from spots high and dry besought me to flee with the young and innocent, two small sons whom I had acquired since 1922. One neighbor did go with her baby, but she explained very carefully that she was just going on a visit anyway. The rest of us prepared, like the trees, to stand our ground.

 

In 1927, although the river had been full a long time and we were not ignorant of the danger, sudden, tremendous rains in all the close watersheds wrecked us almost before we knew it. I count such things by sleepless nights. In 1922 there were weeks of them, and at the end all was well; in 1927, on the eve of disaster, I did not lose more than a couple of nights' sleep. After the first restless night, I had my large trunks packed, and got down the handbags; we kept the car full of gasoline. The next day the man I had packing things up seemed nervous, and I let him go when the heaviest work was done. The cook came in, walling the whites of her eyes and saying that little bayou back other house was "jest risin'." I seemed unable to get settled intelligently at anything. I thought if I could have a rod high up across the top of my dressing room our clothes would be safe, and at the same


time, we could use them conveniently. But I did not have a bit of luck with that little piece of carpentry. Not a nail would go all the way through the tough old board; everyone turned over just as I would get to the point of hoping. It was dispiriting. I gave it up.

 

There were clouds and wind; it looked like rain, and it was turning cold. I decided to drive to Greenville and get a raincoat for my husband who was on the levee. I found all the raincoats in Greenville sold out except one voluminous slicker designed for wear on horseback. When I got nearly home, gusts of cold rain began to blow. I turned off and took the raincoat directly to the levee. That normally deserted spot was a turmoil of activity; desperate efforts were being made to repair a sub-levee that had just given way. Tugs and barges were maneuvering about with workmen, willow-mats, and sacks. I looked in astonishment at a man I knew, in charge of the sector. I thought he must be drunk; his face was flushed and he was talking rapidly and looked so distraught that I couldn't think what else could be the matter with him. It wasn't drink, of course.

 

My husband was coming off duty, so I brought him home. I also recognized and picked up an ancient darkey, "Senior Deacon" Wash Wray. He was too old to work on the levee, but he had been out to see. He clambered into the car and sat down heavily. "I've been through every overflow since the Civil War," he said, "and I am plumb wore out with it." We came on home but felt restless and started over to Content, where, it was rumored, the situation was desperate and the levee might go at any time. Water was up to the floor of the bridge over Lake Bolivar, and washed in spray across as the gusts of wind swept down the lake. Our car in those days was an open one, and we were wet with the spray and with the fine cold rain that began to fall. We turned back and came home. I put the children to bed; the telephone rang incessantly. The railroad officials were asked to place box cars on the sidings in the morning to take people out, in case anything happened.

 

     That was a dreadful night for those working on Content; the rain began to fall in earnest with the coming of night, and the wind to blow in gusts. There is nothing like that wind and rain in the darkness to take the heart out of people who have a levee, already sopping wet, on their minds. Every blow sends the waves over, while the river rises every hour. On such nights we know that anything may happen. That night the river was rising so rapidly and the rain and wind blowing so terribly that the workers building up the top of the levee had to place their sand-bags on the parapet and kneel on the ones just placed to hold them until others could be put into position these, in turn, to be held from washing away until their fellows were in place, and so on interminably all night long. We went through the motions of bed, but I listened to the wind and the sheets of rain.


 

At daylight we were up, and my husband was off to the levee. The smell of doom was in the air. I started to the office to put my silver in the vault and to get some money. It was too late. On the way I had word that the levee had gone - yes, already gone! Not at Content north of us, but slightly to the south of us. What to do? We had our retreat mapped out in case the trouble came from Content, north of us, but the break slightly to the south caught us unprepared. Circumstances had altered, but the general theory of action was just the same: we turned tail and fled. The silver was pushed over and the rear of the car accommodated the one-legged washerwoman, who simply detached the cord to her iron and put on her shoe and came along, and the black cook came too. Cooks were hard to get in those days, and, next after my children, I proposed to save my cook. A friend took my two small sons with her in her sedan, and we were off. The highway was at the moment abnormally deserted; the roadside ditches were brimming full with the torrents of rain that had fallen the night before, and more rain threatened to fall again at any moment. Water was flowing over the road in many places, with no sign to tell whether or not it had been washed out underneath. We did not stop, only we went slowly through those places.

 

For one hundred and fifty miles up the riverside we fled. When I caught sight of the hills below Memphis, I drew a long breath. But I drew it too soon. Up in the hills the streams were washing over the roads and over the bridges up to the running boards of the cars. Eight inches of rain had fallen there in the night. If water is pouring over a bridge, one feels even less certain of the bridge than of a road if it is merely running over there. Guards helped us over the worst places. Our cars were the last to enter Memphis over that highway that day. Later motorists had to have their cars loaded on railway flats and taken in.

 

Being a refugee is not so bad after it is over. We fell into the arms of my sister in Memphis as if we had actually been snatched from the brink of a watery grave. We told our story to spell-bound audiences. A few moments after we arrived, someone in the apartment house called my sister out, and when she returned, her face was beaming, and her arms were piled with all sorts of clothes. My brother sent me a thrilling check. That was the reaction, apparently, of every man, woman, and child in the whole United States. Even the porter on the train leaving Memphis looked as if he had just as soon not have the dollar I gave him. It was all very warming.

 

In the meanwhile, back home, at Scott, it was taking the water several hours to get, by way of the low places, into the village, although those who remained could see it across the field, three miles away flowing over the levee. There was time to get many things done; my husband put his


seed out of harm, many of the animals were removed from danger, tenants warned. I think those left behind had almost got to thinking that after all a flood was a slow-moving, manageable sort of affair, when, all at once, toward the middle of the afternoon, the low places were filled, the bulk of the levee worn out, and the torrent was swirling everywhere. A foreman with a drove of mules realized that he was too late to get them out; the bookkeeper, carrying his last armful of records, had to cling to the wall to keep from being swept off his feet; the telephone girl was up to her waist in water. What had not already been done, could no longer be done. Upstairs, everywhere was filled with people. The man in charge finally abandoned the weak levee at Content. There was no longer anybody to kneel on bags of dirt to build up the top, and no use. That night a huge corn crib, on whose upper floor Negroes had taken refuge, burned to the water's edge, and again the poor darkies had to take to boats. Weary men, and a few women, watched the flames from their refuges half a mile away.

 

The break was on Thursday. The water continued to rise all of Friday and Saturday, very slowly, toward the end. The home of Mr. Fox, the general manager of the plantation, is on the highest ground. It got into his house on Sunday morning, a dampness here and there on the floor. That night, as he was reading in his living room about midnight, he saw a little trickle creep under the door. It sought out the low places, and ran in a little stream under the sofa. He closed his book, picked up his rubber boots, and, joining the heterogeneous company already asleep upstairs, wondered what the morning would bring forth. The next morning there was no more on the floor than that same little trickle. The utmost watermark had been set.

 

After a little the water began to go down quite thrillingly, and it appeared that in a few weeks we would all be home again. The peach trees, waist deep in water, ripened their fruit; passers-by in motor boats along the highway smelled the gardenias in my garden, and, turning aside, followed the delicious odor until they found them and picked the blossoms from the tops of the bushes. After that a few high spots of land came out" and there was talk of planting' cotton. Talk was all, however. Word came down the river of the "June Rise," and then the June Rise itself covered everything again. The peach trees died, the food gave out, and the stove wood was all washed away. Everybody left who could, whether he had anywhere to go or not. During those weeks until the middle of July, while the water was slowly rising again, and even more slowly receding, those of us elsewhere, as well as those present, savored the "hope deferred that maketh the heart sick."

 

     After having been away nearly three months, my small sons and I came in on the second train to run. That train only made it as far as Scott;


it was many weeks before it got all the way to Greenville, sixteen miles farther. We were happy! As we arrived, the station was milling with white and black, all glad to see each other. The one-legged washerwoman was on the same train that we were; the cook was already on hand. A few battered looking friends, who had been in and out all during the water, greeted us warmly, but seemed somehow not to feel the tremendous enthusiasm with which we were brimming. The road to our cottage was gone, but one could tell where it had been. There were great drifts of sand, and we had to clamber over what had once been a forest tree, its trunk still strong and sound, but stripped of branches, and only stumps of its greatest roots left. I looked across the field toward the break and saw where the trees stopped abruptly on each side. I shuddered and thought of the two boys whose boat had been capsized while they were trying to get through the crevasse to help with the rescue work. They managed to reach another boat, which in its turn was swept into the torrent. They got into a tree somehow and it served them until rescue came. The large highway bridge across Deer Creek was not entirely gone. In fact, it was resting on the water, and just how much was gone would not be determined until the water went down. It had a terrible sag at one end. A great cable supported it somewhat, and a board or two had been put where the flooring was entirely gone. As a foot passage only, it was precarious enough for a nervous woman and two children.

 

I cannot think now what we ate those first weeks before regular train service was established; I remember cabbage all right, and that the youngsters did not turn a hair at condensed milk, for which amiability I praised God. There were no vegetables; the peach trees were dead. We had two ancient pear trees, the remnant of what had been a large mixed orchard, all the other trees being dead from floods long gone by and all but forgotten. There are small groups of old pear trees all over this delta country; I look at them: they are pear trees, and something more, to me. Our two bore a marvelous crop that August; we must have gathered forty bushels from them, and we ate, and our neighbors ate, as long as they lasted. We started planting a garden before the ground was dry. The vegetables came up overnight, and grew by leaps and bounds, but they could not leap and bound fast enough to get ahead of the innumerable, voracious insects that swarmed and devoured them overnight. I can see now the cracks in the tomatoes that came from having to cover them white with poison to kill the worms. There were strange and astonishing looking bugs as well as all we had met before. I found one worm on a gardenia bush that had feathers. I sent a specimen to a government entomologist down in Louisiana, a zealous gentleman who, several months before, had refused to be drawn from his work by reports of waters bearing down on him. When kind friends


moved his paraphernalia all but from under him, he indignantly charged them with interfering unnecessarily with scientific investigation. Well, even he had never seen a worm with feathers before. We battled with the pests. One day, exhausted by apparently fruitless efforts, I came in and sat down. I thought I would just have to give up, that there was no use trying to raise anything to eat. The very next morning matters began to improve. The pests seemed to give up, and things began to grow.

 

Strange plants came up - a buckwheat from some colder climate, and wild marsh iris. A pumpkin vine came up by my back door, quite of its own accord, grew with astonishing rapidity to cover half of the back yard, and bore the most extraordinary number of enormous pumpkins. All the hedges and fence rows were piled with driftwood, and it was pleasant to go out on autumn afternoons and gather the bleached and polished wood for our inland hearth.

 

Then there was the fishing. Some of the boys took motor boats and floated a piece of the washed-away lake bridge down into the creek and fastened and tied it there. It was quite wide and, if you do not care what you say, safe enough to fish from, floating there on the water. With the highways all gone, there was nowhere to go; there was nothing to speak of to keep house with, or in, and how we did fish! Young and old wet their lines, and young and old filled their baskets. We floated, enjoying the cool and delightful breezes, and we were gay and carefree. We congregated there every afternoon. Although we knew people who, long after things were more or less back to normal, still cherished a poisonous bitterness, we who had been on the front line and had contested every inch of the way with the river, with all the strength we had and some we could not well spare, felt that we had all done the best we could.

 

As soon as things were pretty generally dry we began to drive about to see what changes had taken place and to look for our pointer pup. We knew he had been seen at the camps on the levee. Afternoons we drove for miles and stopped and called his name ever so often. Where the force of the current had been strongest, it was as if we were driving along the seashore: there were the sandy beach, the little bays and inlets where the water stood, and in which numberless long-legged white and blue cranes fished. A drove of pelicans, great white birds, hundreds of them, seven feet of wing spread, came and stayed a month or so-the fishing was so good, I guess. One day we saw a little pointer trotting along the top of the levee, a quarter of a mile away, perhaps. We did not think it could be "George Paine,' but we called anyway. The little animal was galvanized into instant attention, turned in our direction, and came bounding across the fields. I jumped out of the car to welcome him, but he did not notice me. He just


leaped into the car and began to lick the two little boys from head to foot - and they licked back.

 

It was months after we had returned before the power lines were repaired, and we had electric lights again. It is not so dark in the country even when the moon is not shining. Toward evening we would have our supper and sit on the porch watching the sunset across the quiet and placid water of Lake Bolivar. It had been filled up by successive floods, and had long since renounced the turbulent days of its youth; we could hardly believe that it had ever been an arm of the river. Tall cypress trees bordered it, lush water grass grew, waist high, everywhere the birds sang as they do in spots remote from civilization. Sometimes a negro boy went by in the dusk whistling a sweet and minor melody. The singing of darkies, at work and at leisure, celebrated in legend, has all but disappeared from Southern plantations; but they sang those months immediately after the flood as they must have done in the days gone by before they had automobiles, store-bought clothes, and "standards of living." Of course, I understand that the "standards" must be maintained, but it is a pity about the singing.

 

Before the water was gone, men in boats surveyed the right of way and decided where the new levee should go. As soon as possible, great dredges pumped sand and closed the break. All the old levees were ordered enlarged and built up. Those enormous mounds of earth do, when the river is meandering along its bed, look absolutely impregnable. Men say we will never have another major flood in this valley, but when the little streams of seep water flow swift and clear on the land side of the levee, and the pump wells become overflowing, and the morning paper is full of accounts of heavy rains and overflows in the tributary watershed, then the old anxiety catches one at night, like a half-forgotten neuritis, and he does not rest well.

 

 

THE 1927 OVERFLOW

 

By MRS. E. M. DICKERSON

 

 

When I first came to Mississippi, September 10, 1900, to visit my uncle, Mr. J. B. Bond of Beulah, people were still talking of the overflow of 1897; and everywhere, near bayous and streams, were the high water marks of that deluge on trees and houses.

 

In 1903 we had a strenuous high water fight. I had married Mr. Dickerson, and we were living at Malvina, where he managed several small farms for Mr. Charles Scott. We had heard so many reports of the high water that we went over to Beulah one Sunday to observe for ourselves. I was terrified to see the great waves, driven before a high wind, washing logs over the top of the levee; and the pumps all over the town spouting streams of water


like fountains, because of the terrific pressure. But the levee held.           

 

The next scare came in 1912, when the levee broke near Lake Vermillion. We were living at Scott then, and, though a great expanse of the country was flooded, the only water we saw was in the low places and where Deer Creek backed up into Lake Bolivar.

 

Though I had heard much overflow talk, I was never in one before the spring of 1927. The fall and winter preceding were rainy. Downpours were continuous; bayous, swamps, and ditches were flooded all winter; we began to hear of the alarming rise of the Ohio, and of levees crumbling all the way dawn the river; while men, bath white and black, were trying to build up the levee in the law places with sandbags. By April there was little hope that a flood could be averted. By then the question was not whether the levee would break or not, but when and where.

 

On Sunday, while we were attending services at the church, a man came to the door and announced: "All men and their Negroes are wanted at Lake Vermillion at once." Instantly all the men left the church-and such a roaring of engines as the cars started! Each man collected his Negroes, took them to the levee, and they worked all night in the rain. The next day the telephones were ringing to report, "Professor Fox wants all the men he can get at Eutah." Then someone was calling for "all the men you can send to Stop Landing and to Neblett's." The men all came in that night wet, bedraggled, and exhausted, with the rain still falling in torrents.

 

The next morning at breakfast time the telephones were ringing again, "Send men - Send men," while we were trying to plan same way to get them to the levee - not an easy matter, since the roads were all muck and mire, difficult for mules to cross, and impossible for cars. None of us had slept, and we were all filled with nervous dread. For days we had been building boats, and moving hay and corn to high places. It was almost a relief when the phone rang again, to report that the levee had broken below Scott.

 

There was so much to do we did not know where to begin. While our place, Prairie Plantation, and Mr. Faunt Biscoe’s place, Compromise, had never been under water, we were afraid to risk our stock there, as the country was already overflowed with rain water; so Mr. Dickerson and the Negroes took our mules to the levee. Then they went to Monte Christo and the Geise place to see that the Negroes there were safe and to carry the mules from those plantations to the levee, also.

 

We had expected to have at least twenty-four hours in which to save our stock and move the Negroes to safety, but by four o’clock in the afternoon we could see the water spreading out in Deer Creek. When my husband came in about six, the water was so deep where it had backed


across the road that it drowned the engine of the car, I and the Negroes had to push it to the house. It had not seemed possible for the water to reach us so soon. Now it was all over the pasture, and before supper it came rushing around the front of the house. We watched it come higher and higher on the fence. The speed with which it came was appalling; and our feeling of helplessness was so overwhelming it was pathetic.

 

Finally it came to a stand-four inches below the floor of our house. The boats we had built with so much pride could not withstand the swift current of the water, and the Negroes in their isolated houses were frantic. Mr. Biscoe, confident that his place would not go under water, did not send his mules to the levee; and when the water did come, they had to swim to the high spots where they waded around for days, until the Bostick brothers came, built a floor over the hay in the barn, and got the stock in it. But their troubles were not over; the water soaked the hay, weakened the foundation, and it settled, causing constant worry.

 

As soon as we saw that the water would cover our place, I phoned my brother-in-law, Mr. Scott Ellis, to buy us a boat at once. He did - a large, handsome one with a new Ford motor and fifteen gallons of gasoline. It was sent down the Mississippi to Bolivar, where the pilot phoned us to come for it. We replied that we had no way to get out of the house. About 4:30 came the boat.  Xan Bostick came out with the boatman to show him the way and take him back to the point where the railroad was above the water and the trains were still running.

 

Xan and our young brother, Louis, spent two days rescuing the people marooned in the back country on housetops and in trees. Their rescue work was arduous and dangerous, but they performed it courageously and effectively. They were joined by many other boats, until all the marooned were safely sheltered in tents on the levee. This accomplished, we could use our boat ourselves, and we were anxious to get to the levee to see about our mules and to take some sick Negroes to the doctor.

 

Many distressing situations and strange incidents were associated with this high water. There were the cows that trailed around on a high ridge, which did not go under, making the night hideous with their lowing; and the stormy nights with the doleful sound of the rain falling on the water. One little negro boy died, and there was no place to bury him except on a high ditch bank, which began to cave, but the grave was saved. At Stringtown, where the current was exceptionally swift and powerful, the large general store owned by Mr. C. D. Terrell, was lifted off its foundation and turned completely around, with the back door where the front door had been. The valuable stock of goods in the store was either ruined or stolen, as there


was no way to lock up anything in the water.

 

Among the saddest fatalities was the drowning of the two children of Mr. Ed Hilliard of Lamont. Because of the deep and dangerous currents at Lamont, which was in the direct path of the water, Mr. Hilliard sent his family to his sister's home in Shelby, where they stayed until the situation began to improve. Then they begged to come home to enjoy the fun of living over the water. While their boat was attempting to land, in a very swift current, on an elevated railroad track, it turned over, and all were thrown into the swift current. Mr. Hilliard managed to save his wife and eldest daughter, but the younger girl and little boy were carried down stream and drowned.

 

Not only were the effects of the overflow devastating here, it covered the Delta from Benoit to Vicksburg, carrying death and destruction as it went. Though there was, comparatively, little loss of life, the destruction of farm and personal property-farm implements and machinery, cattle, mules, and hogs-ran into millions.

 

At last the water began to fall, and we had a little land out. We planted some cotton and gardens, but alas, the June rise came - another big rise in the river. Many of the Negroes were taken to Benoit and fed by the Red Cross. They would be seen there at all times of the day, cooking on little stoves on the railroad track, which was above the water, having a jubilant time.

 

Finally the river fell; and when the water ceased flowing through the break-over night-it vanished, and we found ourselves on dry land again. But much time and work were needed to clean things up and start our lives over. It had been a lonely time-our telephone was our only connection with the outside world during all the long weeks that the land was submerged. It takes courage to live through one of Old Man River's rampages.

 

 

OUR GRACIOUS LADY-KATE ADAMS

 

By EVELYN SILLERS PEARSON

 

 

 

"The steamers Kate Adams were named for the wife and widow of Major John D. Adams, who died at his home in Little Rock, Arkansas. He was known all along the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers and their tributaries, and especially at Memphis and on the Arkansas and White Rivers, having been a merchant and United States mail contractor there for nearly half a century. Major Adams served with distinction in the army of the Southern Confederacy. He died at the age of seventy, and his loss was mourned by his many friends in Arkansas and Tennessee. He had been president of the Memphis and Arkansas City Packet Company.

 

     "The first Kate Adams was built in 1882 by James Rees, of Pittsburgh for the Memphis and Arkansas City Packet Company. Her cost was about $90,000 and her capacity 1,000 tons. This packet was a large sidewheeler, with a wooden hull, said to have been about the finest ever turned out


of a shipyard; her cabin was finished throughout in hardwood, with panels of birdseye maple, mahogany, and walnut. In appearance she was a typical Mississippi River packet of that period, but was the first steamer on Western and Southern rivers to adopt the Edison electric light system throughout every department, and was considered one of the fastest, most economical, and successful 'packets that ever plied the Mississippi River. The memory of the first Kate Adams is still green among the steamboat men of the lower Mississippi and the people of Memphis. She .was their pride-always on time and the fastest boat belonging at the port of Memphis. In the office of the firm of James Rees' Sons and Company hangs a picture of the first Kate Adams, and under it is the following inscription:

 

'The Kate Adams, designed and constructed in 1882 by James Rees. - On her famous trip on the Mississippi River

from Helena, Arkansas, to Memphis, Tennessee, 'March 18, 1885, a distance of 90 miles, her time was 5 hours,

18 minutes, and was and is to this date, the fastest time on record between these points.'

 

 The first Kate Adams burned at Commerce Landing, about 40 miles below Memphis, early Sunday morning, December 23, 1888. The boat was a total loss, but by the coolness and nerve of her commander, Captain Mark R. Cheek, every passenger, except one, was saved, and all the crew.1

 

Kate Adams - magic name! How memories come trooping to mind till in fancy we again live in those eventful days when "The Kate" in all her glory plied the mighty waters of the Mississippi.

 

It is 1882 and the young Kate, first of her name, has just begun to ply the river from Memphis to Arkansas City. She stands at the home port, awaiting the bell's clang to start on her trip down the river, her hold well laden with freight, the United States mail in her office, and her cabins filled with passengers. The bell rings; she clears port, graceful as a swan, slender, white, beautiful-the Kate on her maiden voyage.

 

Again it is night on the river - the moon above the willows throws a silver sheen over the rippling waters, save where dark irregular shadows fall from the trees along the banks. On the bank a dim yellow light gleams in the darkness indicating a landing. The silence is broken by an occasional night bird's call, a low laugh now and then, mingled with the soft voices of the darkies and the gentle lapping of the water against the banks.

 

 

'Quoted from an article by Mrs. S. Kussart, Pittsburg, Pa.

 

 

        There comes a whistle, clear, and sweet, a long, a short, a long. Sudden bustle and stir, the bank awakes, all is activity as the Kate swings round


the bend and looms into view, her outline dark against the moonlit sky, her breast aglow with spangles of light. The searchlight plays upon the bank; swiftly, silently, save for the muffled throb of her engines, the Kate lands. Then begins a scene of activity. Roustabouts dart here and there busily unloading and reloading the hold. The incoming and outgoing mail is exchanged, passengers come and go. Voices call words of greeting and farewell. There are the mate's crisp orders, laughter, talk - the bell clangs - up goes the stageplank, and the Kate is again on her way. As she sails down the river, strains of music come floating back from the cabin where the young folks are dancing to the tune of "The Heel and Toe."

 

A variety of activities hold sway on board, romance and gayety where the young folks "trip the light fantastic," or couples court on the guards. More serious folk are gathered in the lounge reading or engaged in conversation. And the gentlemen so inclined, may be found in that male sanctum sanctorum, the barber shop, and the forward cabin, at cards and drink.

 

November 23, 1885. This time the Kate stands at her moorings awaiting the arrival of the "Will S. Hayes," manned with the Kate's crew and sent out in her place, because of the Hayes' lesser draft, to bring into Memphis the largest cotton bale shipment of the season1638 bales, totaling 819,000 pounds.

 

The first Kate's career is drawing to a close; it is early morning, December 23, 1888, and she is headed for Commerce Landing. The fire alarm arouses the passengers, who are bidden to dress quickly and come on deck. Through the wise and courageous management of her master, Captain Cheek, all passengers are assembled on deck ready to disembark from the flaming boat when the stageplank is lowered. Suddenly an accident occurs. A cotton bale tips over and fastens the dress of a lady who is holding twin babies in her arms. Her husband, spurred by roaring flames and billowing clouds of smoke to put forth superhuman effort, lifts the bale alone, freeing his wife's skirt. As the stageplank is being lowered, one man frantic with terror springs upon it and dashing to the end jumps to the bank. What happens next fills everyone with horror. The plank falls on the unfortunate man, breaking his back. Thus one life is lost unnecessarily, because of unreasoning panic. The passengers and crew standing on the bank watch in silent grief the flames consume the beautiful Kate Adams.

 

"The hull of the second Kate Adams was built by Howards, of Jeffersonville, Indiana, in 1888, for James Rees and Company of Pittsburgh, who constructed the machinery. Like the first Kate Adams, this steamer was a sidewheeler with a wooden hull and was built for the Memphis and Arkansas Packet Company. Her cost was about $80,000, and she carried 1,000 tons. After being used in the Memphis and Arkansas City packet trade for a time,


this boat was sold to Captain Lee Cummings, and plied in the trade between Memphis and Vicksburg, her name being changed to Dewey. Later she was sold to Captain Thomas B. Sims, and her name changed to the Lotus Sims. She was destroyed by fire, early in the morning of October 28, 1903, at the wharf at St. Louis, Missouri."2

 

Again memory paints mind pictures as our thoughts turn to those busy years when the Mississippi was the great highway, and the Kate Adams, the connecting link between the outer world and the vast acres of the Delta lands along the river front.

 

There was much for the Kate to do in those days; each landing was a-buzz with activity. There were passengers and huge shipments of freight to take off and on at points all along the way. At each landing the stout roustabouts, singing at their tasks, loaded and unloaded the cargoes. As the passengers left the luxurious packet, and others boarded her, the genial master - Captain Cheek, speeded the parting and welcomed the coming guests with kindly smile and friendly word; while Rose, the maid who ministered to the comfort of the ladies and gentlemen on board, having bid good-bye to the departing guests, awaited in the cabin the newcomers.

 

During those years when river trade was at its height, close friendship sprang up between the Kate Adams' officers and the passengers, so that throughout the Delta there are many who still hold in affectionate memory Captain Cheek, and, of course, our own Mr. Will A. Shelby, who was for a time chief clerk; Messrs. Lew Price, Pell Thomas, N. C. Blanker and Mr. Matson, the steward.

 

Many were the gay parties held on board the Kate, where the young folks danced the waltz and two-step to the strains of "After the Ball Was Over" and "Washington Post"; and couples continued to seek out secluded nooks in the moonlight.

 

Then came the overflow of 1897 which flooded Bolivar County. It was during this time that the Kate, because of her splendid service in transporting refugees away from and supplies to the stricken area, became noted for her flood relief work. The Kate Adams was absolutely the only source of supplies for the entire area. Towns like Rosedale were entirely dependent for sustenance upon the Kate's cargo, brought out of Memphis twice a week. How faithfully and well she fulfilled her task is gratefully remembered by those who were living here at that time.

 

      It was shortly after 1897 that the Kate Adams was sold and for a short time her place was taken by another boat.

 

The third Kate Adams was built in 1903, and her career, the longest of the three, lasted twenty-four years. During the first decade of her career, though the railroads were encroaching upon her trade, the Kate did a thriving business.

 

'Quoted from an article by Mrs. S. Kussart. Pittsburg, Pa.



     But the decline of river trade in favor of swifter modes of transportation was inevitable. However, the decline was gradual, and it was not until 1924 that the Kate was taken off the run from Memphis to Arkansas City. She was made into a freighter and used on the Ohio River until October, 1926, when the Delta Line Boats, Incorporated, of Memphis, brought her back to inaugurate a through packet system from Memphis to Vicksburg. Shortly after her return to the Mississippi she was chartered by the Universal Films Company for the filming of "Uncle Tom's Cabin". Only two months later, during the first week in January, 1927, she was burned at her moorings in Memphis.

 

The third and last Kate Adams, whose memory is cherished in the hearts of all true sons and daughters of the Delta, was for 24 years an integral part of the life along the Mississippi, from Memphis to Arkansas City. She was, indeed, Our Lady Kate Adams-true aristocrat of river packets, regal of bearing, full of grace and beauty - worthy successor to an honored name.

 

How well does memory bring to mind those scenes of my childhood when the Kate - our pride and joy - plied the river each Tuesday and Friday on her run from Memphis to Arkansas City. As she rounded the bend at Terrene, clear and beautiful came her whistle, which brought forth the never-failing cry, "There's the Kate!" from every man, woman and child in Rosedale, be they black, white or yellow.

 

The Kate was to us more than a boat; she was a personality, a beloved friend-hostess on hundreds of gay parties, match-maker for many a young couple, kind helper in time of need, business associate, mail carrier. She was truly Our Gracious Lady Kate, always hospitable, always ready for service, and as most gracious ladies are, always late!

 

How many times have we waited hours on the bank for the Kate to take us to Arkansas City for one of those most important of town activities, the baseball games. It was back in the early 1900's that the rivalry between the two towns began. Year after year we made our pilgrimages to Arkansas City to the games on the Kate.

 

Picture the scene enacted over and over again: it is ten o'clock of a bright summer morning; the Kate is scheduled to arrive at 10:30. Young people eager for the excursion begin to arrive at the landing. The hacks and surreys continue to arrive, some making two trips, bringing dozens more of young folks, chaperons, and others. Then begins the long wait, for the Kate, as usual, is late. But at last she arrives heralded from afar by her whistle.

 

Embarking upon her we arrive on deck, and what a scene of gayety follows! In anticipation of the excursion, a colored orchestra from Memphis is aboard. And as we climb the wide stairs to the deck at a signal from Captain Agnew the orchestra strikes up, and the young folks begin to dance


to the tunes of "Clover Blossoms", "Eva", and "In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree."                 

 

No longer is the forward cabin reserved for "gentlemen only"; it is now a ballroom. The bar occupies an alcove just off from it, but though it is there for all to see, it is patronized only by the men. No lady would ever step up to the bar! However, it is permissible for the gentlemen to bring refreshing claret lemonades from the bar back to the lounge for the ladies. Time does not allow me to describe the sumptuous meals served on the Kate, nor the varied and delightful happenings along the way.

 

The boat arrives at Arkansas City - late, of course - but the Arkansas City citizens are not dismayed; they are waiting in the grandstand for us as we wend our way through the deserted village to the ball park. This is the peak of the excursion, the climax to which we have been climbing all day. And such a wild scene of excitement ensues! After the game is over, sometimes losers, more often winners, we troop back to the Kate, hot, dusty, and tired.

 

It is time to dress for dinner. Everyone retires to the staterooms to emerge later freshly dressed - the women in dainty lawns and organdies, the men in white trousers and blue coats. Ah, those beautiful, moonlight nights on the Kate-and yes, those nights when the clouds obscure the moon, and we arrive after midnight to find the landing knee-deep in mud, and we lose our slippers in the bog as we endeavor to reach the waiting vehicles-hay wagons, surreys, hacks, and rubbertired buggies.

 

Time flies, the ball games have ceased, but the excursions on the Kate continue. In 1912 there is the overflow at Vermillion Lake, with noble work of relief done by the Kate. In 1917 and 1918 the boys are going to war; there are farewell excursions on the Kate and dancing to the tunes of "K-K-K-Katies" and "Tipperary". In 1919 the boys are home again, and there are more excursions. Then 1924 - that sad time which sees the Kate shorn of her glory and sold up the Ohio River. There she is ignominiously put to work as a freighter, neglected, misunderstood, unloved. But this does not last-the Delta Lines Boats, Incorporated, of Memphis, brings her home. It is true she returned battlescarred, bedraggled, but still the Kate, beloved by all her people.

 

One last honor was paid her when she was chartered by the Universal Films Company for use in "Uncle Tom's Cabin". But her time was nearly out-only two short months later, she, like her predeces�sors, was burned, at her moorings in Memphis. But though she is gone, the memory of her remains green in the hearts of her friends.

 

"To me it now seems that the last lingering vestige of 'De old plan�tation days' has yielded itself up in flames as the Kate Adams burned there in her moorings in Memphis. She was the only remaining evidence of a glory in a great river's history that now has faded into the dim days that are gone.


She was the replica - the embodiment of a regime in the river's record that is no more - of a regime in the Southland that is no more. . . .

 

"If that old river could only submerge beneath its swift crest the modern inventions that have robbed it of its by-gone glory, to bear once more over its sheening surface the royal race of craft whose heritage the 'Kate Adams' so royally bore, then might the words of a famous river song spring appropriately to the lips in telling of her death:

 

'There's crepe on every steamboat

That plows that stream

From Memphis down to Natchez,

Down to New Orleans.' " 3

 

3Quoted from the words of one who loved her upon hearing of her burning.

 

 

 

SHOWBOATS

 

By MARGARET ALLEN GREEN

 

 

I consented to contribute this article with the expectation of acquiring information from older people about their experiences with showboats, but the more I have inquired, the less information I have obtained. I have met with answers like this: "Well, really, you know, I was raised in Natchez," (or Greenville or New Orleans), "and, er, well, nice people didn't ever go, you see."

 

At length I began to wonder whether Rosedale was the only town on the river where the elite indulged in such common pleasures, or worse still -whether I was really of nice people. Then I questioned people who, I knew, were reared right here in Bolivar County - Bolivar with her dark, rich soil -and this is what I heard: "Oh, I went a few times, but there were not enough people to have a show," or "Transportation was too bad to go any distance."

 

So with all my interviews availing me nothing, I am forced to rely on my own resources, feeling ancient - yes, even hoary - and very plebian, for I am, apparently, the only living daughter who has had actual experience with showboats. Consequently, any words that I may utter concerning this extinct craft of the remote past pertain strictly to my own experience, and the responsibility for them is totally and exclusively mine.

 

What were showboats, anyway, and where and when did they originate? The first one appeared in 1833-though candor compels me to admit that I never saw this one-and consisted of a large flatboat with a rude house built on it, having a ridge-roof and above this a staff with a flag. Upon this was flaunted the word "Theatre." This vessel, called a floating theatre, plied up and down the Ohio River and was run by an English family of Chapmans - the father, three sons, and two daughters. Their admission price was fifty cents. A few years later the Chapmans bought a steamboat and fitted


it up after the manner of a theatre. A crew was added and they showed at all places along the Ohio. This was the ancestor of the "floating palaces."

 

As I knew showboats, they consisted of a big showboat proper, that is, theatre, and a smaller steamboat, which afforded living quarters for crew and cast and pushed the theater. They all carried a calliope and band. The theater part had a small box office and lobby, then seats on the lower floor with two or three boxes on each side, and a balcony above for the Negroes. The stage was fairly large, and, as I remember, the scenery for it was fair. The boats were always strung with numerous rows of electric lights - no small attraction for coal oil lamp addicts. "The Golden Rod" and "French's New Sensation" were names of two that frequented Rosedale from 1900 to 1914 - not quite as far back as the gay nineties.

 

Let us take a typical day in Rosedale in the fall of 1910. We are at school in the new school building over on Levee Street, so named because every other hundred yards parts of the old abandoned levee stood, with barrow pits behind. Suddenly far-off music is heard. Immediately the morning recitations are abandoned, and everyone races to the windows shouting, "There's the calliope!" "The showboat has come!"

 

     "Can we go to the parade, Miss Tillie?"

 

     "We are going in a surrey tonight from Mr. Matthews' livery stable."

 

     "Pop's going to take us in a box tonight, so if it catches on fire we can jump right in the river."

        

"We've got passes cause my cousin is the deputy sheriff. If some of the niggers (sic) have a cutting, they won't make the boat people stay over."

 

"Gosh, I'm going to run off with a showboat some day."

 

Much conversation of this type mingles with the strains of Turkey in the Straw, and Miss Tillie smilingly lets the children listen until the calliope ceases. The excitement is too much for further study, though there is pretense of reciting.

 

Finally a band is heard closer, the parade has come up town. School is dismissed, and the children scurry away to see the showboat band. It is a brass band of, perhaps, twelve or fourteen pieces, the players in gorgeous colored uniforms, looking a little tired from their mile hike from the landing. But their music sounds glorious to the spectators. Children and Negroes crowd close, but the young ladies and men are careful to be at Chaney's Drug Store so they can easily step outside and hear without appearing too interested. After the band has played several pieces, one member gives out handbills, with a picture of the showboat, and an announcement of the program and the price of admission. Then a final selection, and they march


back under the October sun.

 

In the afternoon a few lucky people drive down to the river just to look. They are few, because most people are saving their horses to drive to the show. Only once did I see a floating palace by daylight. It was decidedly disillusioning, for the washing was strung all along the top, the actors were disheveled, and the heroine was cleaning fish.

 

The show began at 7 P. M. At six we had finished with supper and were ready to start. The favorite way to go was in a hay wagon - favorite, that is, for young people. But whatever rig we went in, we had a glorious sensation as we arrived at the top of the levee and caught our first glimpse of the boat, lighted from stem to stern, with myriads of electric lights on the boat reflected in the water. It was truly a floating palace. The teams were hitched to convenient trees, and we descended the steep banks of the river, crossed the gangplank, and were actually on the showboat. I would not trade my thrills on such occasions for all the movies in Christendom.

 

Once we were inside and seated, the fun began. There were always peanuts for sale, and baldheads were the targets for many of these, thrown by exuberant youngsters. The aim of the ungodly was none too accurate, and those seated near the unfortunate gentlemen were likely to receive a generous share of the missles, as May Jones, and I, who once sat immediately behind Mr. Alex Shattuck, can testify.

 

Finally the show began. Sometimes it was melodrama, but I remember more vaudeville. It was usually good and never obscene. I once saw a troupe of Japanese acrobats that I afterwards saw in Ringling Brothers' Circus. The show lasted about two and a half hours-a good evening's entertainment for people starved for the theatre. The trip home was always sleepy. I can shut my eyes and see a typical family man struggling up that steep bank with a sleeping child over one shoulder and a lantern swung in his off hand, while the mother and several children came walking behind. Such a hunt as then began for our respective vehicles! The big search lights on the boat were always turned on the bank and kept there until the last struggling mule and buggy disappeared over the levee.

 

I once went to a showboat in an automobile. In the fall of 1912 the Sillerses had a Maxwell, and incidentally, some of the new Ogden inlaws from Chicago were visiting them. One of the visitors was a boy about fourteen, and I was invited to have supper with him, Evelyn, and Warfield. A showboat was in town, so we all went down in the Maxwell. How all the Sillers and Daddy and I got into that car I can not exactly remember. What I do remember most distinctly was the coming home. We let every rig start ahead of us, so we could make a display of speed-in the vernacular, just plain "show off" -and beat them home. We started and the car began to climb the levee, but she stalled (every automobile was a she in those days) near the top.


Finally, Harry Ogden, the machine man of the party, discovered that we did not have enough gasoline to run the engine uphill. He and Daddy walked to town to get gas while the rest of us waited on the levee. Cold! I can shiver now. I can never recall being cold going to a showboat, nor warm coming back. On this particular occasion we made a fire and burned dried weeds. They burned like tissue paper. We three native kids had tried to show off before the Chicago visitor, but those hours on the Mississippi extracted all our starch. And so ended my only visit to a showboat in a car. I suppose such vessels belong, after all to horse and buggy days.

 

 

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