We are fairly packed
on board a small transport; so thickly are we crowded in, it is almost
impossible to stir; yet all will stir. Every man seems to think his very
existence depends on movement. As I sit here on my knapsack, my back against
the railing, inkstand between my feet to prevent it being kicked over, a
continuous stream of restless, uneasy men is pouring around, on and over me,
which, added to the motion of the vessel, makes writing difficult. We left
Cairo yesterday at five o'clock in the afternoon, and steamed down the river a
few miles below Cumberland, Kentucky, and anchored for the night.
The captain dare not
run his vessel in the night, it being dark and cloudy, and the Mississippi being
the most dangerous river in the world to navigate. We expect to reach Memphis
early in the morning, and will then learn our final destination.
Having crossed the
Mississippi at Dubuque, some three hundred miles above Cairo, I was somewhat
disappointed, as it did not appear to be any wider at Cairo than at Dubuque,
but, by close observation, I discovered that what it lacked in width was made
up in velocity and depth.
At Dubuque, too, the
water is clear as crystal; from St. Louis down it is the color of chocolate.
The banks of the river are uninhabited and uninhabitable most of the way. Every
spring and fall they overflow from ten to thirty miles, and then this mighty
mass of water will not be confined. The river channel is constantly changing.
The light, loose soil of the valley cannot withstand the tremendous power of
the resistless floods that are hurled from the north upon its yielding bosom.
This is one cause of disaster. The sand bars change so often it is impossible
to keep track of them.
SOURCE: David Lane,
A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 47-8
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