When the river is very low, and one’s steamboat
is ’drawing all the water’ there is in
the channel,—or a few inches more, as was
often the case in the old times,—one must
be painfully circumspect in his piloting. We
used to have to ‘sound’ a number of particularly
bad places almost every trip when the river was at
a very low stage.
Sounding is done in this way. The boat ties
up at the shore, just above the shoal crossing; the
pilot not on watch takes his ‘cub’ or steersman
and a picked crew of men (sometimes an officer also),
and goes out in the yawl—provided the boat
has not that rare and sumptuous luxury, a regularly-devised
’sounding-boat’—and proceeds
to hunt for the best water, the pilot on duty watching
his movements through a spy-glass, meantime, and in
some instances assisting by signals of the boat’s
whistle, signifying ‘try higher up’ or
‘try lower down;’ for the surface of the
water, like an oil-painting, is more expressive and
intelligible when inspected from a little distance
than very close at hand. The whistle signals
are seldom necessary, however; never, perhaps, except
when the wind confuses the significant ripples upon
the water’s surface. When the yawl has
reached the shoal place, the speed is slackened, the
pilot begins to sound the depth with a pole ten or
twelve feet long, and the steersman at the tiller
obeys the order to ’hold her up to starboard;’
or, ’let her fall off to larboard;’{footnote
[The term ‘larboard’ is never used at
sea now, to signify the left hand; but was always
used on the river in my time]} or ‘steady—steady
as you go.’
When the measurements indicate that the yawl is approaching
the shoalest part of the reef, the command is given
to ‘ease all!’ Then the men stop rowing
and the yawl drifts with the current. The next
order is, ’Stand by with the buoy!’ The
moment the shallowest point is reached, the pilot
delivers the order, ‘Let go the buoy!’
and over she goes. If the pilot is not satisfied,
he sounds the place again; if he finds better water
higher up or lower down, he removes the buoy to that
place. Being finally satisfied, he gives the
order, and all the men stand their oars straight up
in the air, in line; a blast from the boat’s
whistle indicates that the signal has been seen; then
the men ‘give way’ on their oars and lay
the yawl alongside the buoy; the steamer comes creeping
carefully down, is pointed straight at the buoy, husbands
her power for the coming struggle, and presently,
at the critical moment, turns on all her steam and
goes grinding and wallowing over the buoy and the
sand, and gains the deep water beyond. Or maybe
she doesn’t; maybe she ‘strikes and swings.’
Then she has to while away several hours (or days)
sparring herself off.
Sometimes a buoy is not laid at all, but the yawl
goes ahead, hunting the best water, and the steamer
follows along in its wake. Often there is a deal
of fun and excitement about sounding, especially if
it is a glorious summer day, or a blustering night.
But in winter the cold and the peril take most of
the fun out of it.
