We went by the "Consul," at half-past 8 A.M. of the 11th of March. The
water was very high, as had been the case in the Ohio all the way from
Cincinnati. We had not proceeded far when I found the passengers
a-stir, as if they had got to their journey's end. What was the matter?
Why, we had come to falls, which it was very doubtful whether the
steamer could get over. The passengers were soon landed, and the
steamer, with the crew, left to attempt the ascent. There were locks at
hand by which, under ordinary circumstances, boats evaded the
difficulty; but the flood was now so great that they could not be used.
Our steamer, therefore, stirred up her fires, raised her steam, brought
all her powers to bear, faced the difficulty, dashed into it, cut
along, and set at defiance the fury of the flood. "There she
goes!"--"No!"--"Yes!"--"No!"--"She's at a stand,"--the next moment she
was gliding back with the torrent: she had failed! But _nil
desperandum_. "Try--try--try again!" An immense volume of smoke issued
from her chimney, and soon she seemed again to be fully inflated with
her vapoury aliment. I expected every moment an explosion, and, while
rejoicing in our own safety on _terra firma_, felt tremblingly anxious
for the lives of those on board.
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