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It was the writing guy who drew this story out of Captain Shreve. He talked so much I think the Old Man spun the yarn just to shut him up. He had talked ever since his arrival on board, early that morning, with a letter from the owners' agent, and the announcement he intended making the voyage with us. He had weak lungs, he said, and was in search of mild, tropical breezes.
At this instant, their left attacked Colonel Angel, who defended himself with persevering gallantry. The conflict was sharp, and was maintained for about half an hour, when, compelled by superior numbers to give way, he retired in good order, and brought off his wounded. His retreat was covered by Colonel Shreve, who, after Angel had passed him, was ordered by General Greene to join his brigade.
"No; I abstained from performing an infamous deed," said Captain Shreve. "I think that is the way most men win to manhood." "Oh!" said the writing guy. He seemed about to say a lot more, when I put my oar in again. "Let us have the yarn, Captain," I begged. Captain Shreve squinted at the sun, and then favored the passenger with one of his rare smiles. "Why, yes," he said.
Those old, broken bulwarks yonder have looked upon life, I can tell you and upon death." "The dangerous life of the sailor, I presume," drawled the writing guy. "Falling from aloft, and being washed overboard, and all that sort of thing." "Not always," retorted Captain Shreve. "There were other ways of going to Davy Jones in the old clipper days and in these days, also, for that matter.
George C. Shreve, the jeweler, had one also, as did Charles Kohler, of the firm of Kohler & Frohling, wine men of San Francisco. He offered me $3000 for my right but I refused it. I applied for a patent only to find that another was about twenty years ahead of me. The Donahue Brothers.
From Tioga, Colonel Shreve sent forward to us a wagon train of provisions, even wines and delicacies for our sick and wounded; but even with this slight aid our men remained on half rations; and for all our voluntary sacrifice we could not hope now to reach Niagara and deliver the final blow to that squirming den of serpents. True, Amochol was dead; but Walter Butler lived.
I imagined my name on sailors' lips, in ships not yet launched; they would talk of me, of Jack Shreve, the lad who killed Yankee Swope so his shipmate might live. My resolution did not weaken; rather, it grew firmer with the passage of the hours. They promised they would keep the men in check until I had completed my task.
In 1816, however, Henry Shreve conceived the idea of raising the engine out of the hold and constructing an additional deck. The Washington, the first doubledecker, was the result. The next year this steamboat made the round trip from Louisville to New Orleans and back in forty-one days. The doubters were now convinced.
"Well, this is a fast ship none faster," I told him, mollified by his flattery. "Say seventy days, at the outside, from 'Frisco to Hong Kong. Probably sixty days would be nearer to it." At that he burst out cursing, and consigned the ship and all her afterguard to the Evil One. "My God, another month of this hell!" he cried. "Will you stand it, Shreve?" "Sure. We'll all stand it. What else to do?"
On the third of October, the army was in marching order once more; Colonel Shreve blew up the Tioga military works; the invalids, women and children, and some of the regiments went by batteaux; but we marched for Wyoming, passing through it on the tenth, and arriving at Easton on the fifteenth.
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