As far back in my naval career as I can remember—even before graduation from the Academy—I was fascinated by yarns of the wonders of the Yangtze, spun by those who had been there. I was therefore particularly delighted when, nearly a year after my arrival in Shanghai, the opportunity of making a trip up river arose. For the benefit of those who have never sailed the muddy Yangtze, let me explain that this wonderful river is divided into three parts: lower, upper, and middle. The lower river extends from the sea to Hankow, roughly 650 miles up. For six to nine months in the year, this port is accessible to ocean-going ships and, even in the season of lowest water, there is seldom less than twelve feet of water in the channels. There are numerous navigational aids and this part of the river has been thoroughly surveyed. Merchant ships usually travel all night on the lower river. Contrary to popular notion, Shanghai is not on the Yangtze but on the Whangpoo, thirteen and one-half miles from Woosung where the latter river empties into the Yangtze. Woosung is forty miles from the mouth of the Yangtze.
The part of the river, 384 miles long, between Hankow and Ichang is called the middle river. In it is the zone of communist control which keeps a large force of Nationalist troops at and near Hankow. The bandits have destroyed most of the aids to navigation and the river is constantly shifting its channel, making navigation very difficult, particularly in the winter when the water is low. Only in the summer months and with pilots of long experience do boats run at night on the middle river.
Above Ichang is the upper river. It is 350 miles to Chungking, the last of the treaty ports. The river is navigable for shallow- draft steamers for 200 miles above Chungking, but only Chinese vessels can go higher up because foreigners can engage in business only in “treaty ports.” The upper river, the region of the gorges of the Yangtze, is one of the outstanding wonders of nature and a part of the world well worth the time of anyone looking for rare scenery. I discussed rapids and gorges with my friends of the Yangtze Patrol but upon seeing them found my mental pictures entirely inadequate. Probably I shall be no more successful in portraying this wonderful river to those of the service who have never been there, but here goes a try at any rate.
Throughout this narrative, distances are given in sea miles. Practically all early surveys of the Yangtze were made by naval personnel of various countries and they naturally used the unit they were used to in deep-sea navigation, the sea mile. Sometimes in telling others about the Yangtze, the difference between sea miles and statute miles is overlooked and it does make a difference in distances.
The first trip I made up the Yangtze was in the winter when the river reached lower marks on the gauges than it had for several years. My second trip was made in September of the same year when the river reached heights greater than any recorded before and, for a distance of approximately 600 miles, spread out over the tops of the dykes to an average width of 20 miles. It was impossible in September to recognize the villages that had lined the banks in January. The crest of the flood had passed and the water was falling when I reached Hankow in September; the water had gone down 7 feet in the city but was still 45 feet above the January-February level. Forty-five feet!
I left Shanghai, on the dirty Whangpoo, in a gale with cold rain on a raw January day aboard the U.S.S. Luzon. The temperature fell, the rain changed to snow, and the spray froze on the deck and upper works of the gunboat. It was cold!
The ship proceeded by short stages, there being no cause for haste, and it was noon of the second day after leaving Shanghai when she reached Nanking, the present capital of China. The Nationalist government is engaged in building a modern capital city in old Nanking in accordance with a carefully prepared plan, in which American architects participated, and they are doing a creditable job. The things of importance to the sight-seer are the old city wall, the Ming tombs, and the memorial to and mausoleum of Sun Yat Sen, founder of the Nationalist movement in China. But I have a prize yarn of Nanking. I saw Chinese women on the frozen surfaces of some ponds near the river washing clothing through holes in the ice. Can anyone beat that?
Nanking is on the right bank of the Yangtze and is one terminus of the Shanghai-Hangchow-Nanking Railroad. Across the river is Pukow, terminus of the Pukow-Tientsin Railroad. Rail passengers from Shanghai to Tientsin, Peiping, and the north are ferried across the Yangtze at Nanking for there are no bridges. The banks are designated as right or left, always looking with the current, i.e., downstream.
After two days at Nanking, the ship continued its leisurely way up river. This part of the valley is a hunter’s paradise. Even below Nanking we passed some geese and ducks but above this point were geese by the hundred, ducks by the thousand, and occasionally small flocks of wild swans. Ashore there were pheasants, doves, hares, and small deer. The surgeon shot fourteen pheasants in two hours one morning.
On both banks are numerous small villages which are little more than a collection of farmers' houses. Every square foot of land is tilled, and this part of the valley is frequently referred to as the granary of China. The Chinese farmer lives simply and is very hospitable—even to foreigners. He does not consider curiosity discourteous and makes no attempt to conceal it. This is embarrassing at first to foreigners taught to repress their curiosity and unused to being frankly stared at, but the Chinese are not aware of this feeling because they have no such feelings themselves. The only remedy is to get used to being stared at; the starers mean no discourtesy and it is therefore ridiculous to be angered thereby.
Between Nanking and Hankow, I had the opportunity of visiting the following cities: Wuhu, famous for its iron flowers; Anking, which has one of the most spectacular pagodas on the Yangtze; Kiukiang, from which comes the most beautiful chinaware in all the world; and Wongshikong, near which the Japanese have a large iron smeltery. I also had several rambles through the country when the sportsmen were after game. Above Anking both banks are lined with brick kilns where a very low grade of brick is produced. When I passed this same region in September not one kiln was to be seen intact. The flood had completely destroyed an industry! By this time it has doubtless been largely rebuilt, because these people have wonderful powers of recuperation and can thrive under what would be starvation conditions to an American. But they suffered great hardships by reason of the misbehavior of the Great River and many lives were lost.
I had often heard of the dislike of carabaos, or water buffaloes, for occidentals and therefore took advantage of several opportunities for testing this allegation. It is a true one, all right. Why this beast, so docile and gentle as long as he has the smell of a sweaty oriental farmer in his nose, should suddenly become savage when he catches the scent of a freshly bathed occidental is beyond my ability to explain, but it is a fact just the same. And if you are contemplating a cross-country trip through China, take my tip and do not play with any buffaloes—don't go near any of them unless you have at least a little Chinese child with you to control the unruly animal when his nose informs him of your proximity.
Three things impressed me as I saw at close range the manner of living of the Chinese farmer, which has now been given to the world in The Good Earth by Pearl Buck, the simplicity of their living, the crudity and scarcity of their implements, and the diligence with which they do their tasks. They deserve something better of life, these thrifty, hardworking feeders of a nation. I was also surprised to note that foot-binding is still done to some extent among the rural people, although it has been practically stamped out among the city dwellers.
As the ship progressed up the river, the country changed from an alluvial plain to a river valley, broad with hills in the background and an occasional cliff at the river's edge. One of these is Cock's Head, just below Wongshikong. An interesting formation in the river is Little Orphan, just below Kiukiang. This is a rock which rises a sheer 300 feet out of the water and, except at very low stages of the river, is not connected with either bank.
Although the scenery along the lower river is nothing to write home about, the people are very interesting and I shall always be glad that the trip was made by short stages with numerous stops and plenty of opportunity for rambling around the country as well as the towns and cities. The trip to Hankow took ten days.
Hankow is the home port of the ships of the Yangtze Patrol. The Navy has a go- down (storehouse) there under the supervision of a pay clerk, who is permanently stationed in Hankow. The patrol dentist is also usually stationed there. This city is probably the most important one in the interior of China, commercially and politically. It is located on the left bank of the river at the mouth of the Han River. There are three separate municipalities: Hankow, Hanyang, and Wuchow, but it is all one populated area. The Han separates Hanyang and Hankow and the Yangtze, Hankow and Wuchang. Hanyang and Wuchang are not treaty ports and therefore not commercially important to foreigners, hormerly the French, Japanese, Russians, Germans, and British had concessions in Hankow, but these have all been returned to the Chinese government except the first two. The United States has never had any concessions in China.
Hankow has rail connection with Peiping and from Wuchang there is a railroad to south China which may be linked up to Canton when peace is re-established.
There is a good-sized foreign colony in Hankow and several foreign clubs. Altogether it is a pleasant place to live, except during the summer when the heat is almost unbearable. When I was there on my first trip it was cold and the ricksha coolies ran barefoot through the snow covered streets. These poorly fed, hard worked orientals survive exposure that would lay a healthy occidental low.
The next leg of my trip was made on the Tutuila, one of the smallest of the new river gunboats. She convoyed two American merchant ships.
The middle river has many bends and at each one the channel crosses the river. There are approximately sixty of these crossings between Hankow and Ichang; none good and many dangerous with only a few inches of water to spare. The location of a crossing is not fixed, and it frequently changes materially between the time of two consecutive trips. The current is always stronger than in the straight runs of the channel (called reaches) and its direction is variable. Swirls and eddies (chow- chow water) are encountered in many of the crossings. It is therefore apparent that they must be navigated with extreme caution. Sometimes a sampan is sent ahead to sound out the channel and the bamboos (bamboo poles marked in feet) are always kept going the whole time.
In the reaches, the channel runs close to one bank, which is nearly vertical because the current is busy eating it away. On the other side of the river there is a long foreshore and either shoals or low lying islands which are being made from the soil washed from the opposite bank higher up. In other words there is a continual transfer of soil from one side of the river to the other. In the winter, it is no unusual sight to see a ship grounded with the nearest water a couple of hundred yards away.
Owing to the extremely low water then prevailing, the Tutuila was often not more than twenty-five feet from the eroding bank, the top of which was above my eye when standing on the top of the bridge, the highest place on board. In many places the country was covered with reeds to an average height of twelve feet; these are used as fuel. To anyone with a modern rifle and knowledge of how to use it, it would have been “duck soup” to sit in the reeds and pick off people on the decks of the boats as they steamed by. Fortunately for us, the bandits in this area had very inferior firearms.
Immediately after leaving Hankow, I saw several interesting sights. We passed several log rafts, acres in extent with a small village of huts on each. These rafts must be broken up above Hankow. They float with the current and their direction is controlled partly by kedging and partly by tremendous sweeps handled by several men (or women). The kedging operation is interesting. A sea anchor is carried out by a sampan and hauled in by a homemade, man-power windlass, the drum of which is frequently twenty feet or more in diameter.
Another interesting sight was the junks being towed up river, the towline being made fast to the masthead to facilitate clearing the masts of any junks that might be moored along the river.
The first important city above Hankow is the treaty port Chenglingki and the Chinese city Yochow on the right bank at the mouth of the Siang River, the highway to Changsha. Not far above Chenglingla, at a village named Kienli, was the last Nationalist outpost. The next 150 miles of the river were under the control of the bandits who pretend communist allegiance. New flags with the hammer and sickle emblem were to be seen in many places and many communist propaganda signs in Chinese facing the river. We were in the bandit area part of two days. On the afternoon of the first, we were fired upon, but no harm was done and the gun was located and dismounted by the Tutuila. We fully expected a warmer reception at Temple Hill, 253 miles above Hankow, but a British gunboat downbound had got there ahead of us and dismounted every gun in the stronghold. Although somewhat disappointed, we were also relieved when we passed out of the bandit zone.
The next day we passed Shasi, an important middle river treaty port, and in the afternoon the village of Tungtze, where there was a most difficult crossing and an abrupt change in the appearance of the country. Below this point, there is a wide flat valley. The hills are well back from the river and the soil along the river free from rocks. At Tungtze, the foreshore was covered with stones about four inches in diameter. And above this point, rocky cliffs with only a thin covering of soil rose directly out of the river. This is the beginning of the scenic section of the Yangtze. At Tiger Tooth Gorge, a little more than an hour's travel below Ichang, the cliffs rise 500 feet sheer out of the water on one side, and even in midwinter are covered with green grass and leafy trees. It is worth getting up early to see on the first trip up, but is an anti-climax after seeing the gorges above Ichang.
Ichang is an important commercial city because most of the freight going up above tins point is transshipped here. The coolies at Ichang have required that all freight be put ashore in warehouses and reloaded, not merely shifted from ship to ship, and the government has usually supported them in enforcing such demands against foreign shipping companies. The resistance of the foreigners to the unreasonable demands of the coolies at Ichang has resulted in considerable anti-foreign sentiment. It is the least popular of the treaty ports with the personnel of the Yangtze Patrol.
I made the trip to Chungking and back on board a merchant ship of American registry. As the captain had been in command of one of the vessels of the convoy between Hankow and Ichang, I knew him quite well before we left Ichang. On the upper river winter boats the captain is the only foreigner in the ship's company. As a distinguished passenger, I was installed in the unoccupied mate's cabin next to captain's and made the trip under the best possible conditions for observation. I spent most of the under-way time on the bridge studying the river and the charts. If I live to be a hundred, I doubt if I will ever forget that trip. It is really worth a lot of discomfort to see the gorges and rapids of the Yangtze.
On the trip up, I was in charge of an armed guard but as banditry had been suppressed on the upper river, my duties were purely nominal. The biggest nuisance was my inability to join the captain in a cocktail before dinner because all alcohol was taboo when one was on armed guard duty.
The upper river pilots deserve special mention. They are men from about fifty years up, because one must have years of experience piloting native junks and steering steamers before he can qualify as a pilot for steamers. On merchant ships there are two pilots and two quartermasters. They stand one hour watches during daylight. Only the very experienced or the foolhardy ever risk steaming during darkness. These upper river pilots know every foot of the river between Ichang and Chungking (350 miles) as well as most of us know the driveway from the street to the garage. The pilot on duty is usually to be seen leaning on the front railing of the bridge smoking a small native cigar held in a long bone or ivory stemmed pipe. He is a man of few words, conveying his directions to the quartermaster by motions of his fingers. When he speaks it is usually to tell the quartermaster in Szechuen dialect that he is not only the poorest helmsman on the river but a stupid blockhead besides.
During the hour off watch, the pilot retires to his room and soothes his nerves with several pipes of opium. When the time to relieve arrives, he proceeds to the bridge followed by his steersman, spots his location and the river conditions prevailing, and then taps the duty pilot lightly on the shoulder. The latter without hesitation steps to back, of the bridge. The quartermasters change simultaneously with the pilots—all in perfect silence. The pilot relieved remains in the background several minutes until sure that the duty pilot is out of his hop and able to do his job, then toddles on below to have a pipe or two himself.
The captain remains on the bridge practically the entire time the ship is under way. The pilot is responsible for the courses steered but changes in speed and whistle signals are the captain’s pidgin. In specially dangerous places both pilots are on the bridge and the senior usually takes the wheel, relying on the junior to advise him of conditions close aboard. At the very beginning of the trip I was puzzled by the helmsman’s posture, a half sitting position with legs well apart, but I was not long learning the reason for it. The first swirls we hit sent the ship lurching and the armed guard officer reeling across the bridge like an ordinary bum after a terrible bender, but the quartermaster just shifted his weight on his legs and stuck to his steering.
I never really knew what rapids are until this trip. On the supposition that there may be others in the service as ignorant as I was, let me explain. It is a part of a river where the current is much faster than the average. This may be due to two things, either an abrupt increase in the slope of the water course, or a reduction of the cross-sectional area through which the water must flow. The slope of the surface in smoothly flowing rivers is very small, much too small to see, but in the strongest rapids the water can be seen flowing downhill. Hill climbing men-of-war are probably a new line of boats to salt water navigators, but that is just exactly what the Guam and Tutuila are.
A perfect rapids would appear as a V with the apex downstream, but in most actual rapids the sides of the V are marred by bowlders or other obstructions which break the surface of the water in the rapids. The Hsiamatan has the most perfect V of all the low water stage rapids. It should be explained that a rapids due to shoal water or an abrupt change of slope is a “tan,” one due to a horizontal constriction of the water a “tzu,” thus Hsintan and Chaipan-tzu.
To describe the “grandeur of the gorges” is beyond my ability and I shall not attempt it. It is just as hard to photograph due to hazy weather, but good photographs have recently been made and are now available. Between Ichang and Wanhsien, half way to Chungking, the river is one succession of rapids and gorges. The river that I saw was the low-level river. The mid-level river and high-level river are two entirely different bodies of water with entirely different problems of navigation. In this fact is the reason for my profound admiration of the ability of the upper, river pilots to recognize the location and know the proper way to handle a vessel under all circumstances.
My ship stood out of Ichang in the early half-light of a late January day. We rounded a bend and behold! We were in another world. The river was a canal between sheer walls of naked rock, the only vegetation being a little grass and an occasional tree growing in a cleft of the cliffs. At this season of the year, the bottom of the gorges is gloomy on an overcast day. In the presence of the grandeur and majesty of the works of nature, even a matter-of-fact personality is impressed.
I shall not attempt to list the gorges and low level rapids, the names being difficult and meaning little to one who has not been there. The scenery changes with the rapidity of scene-shifting in a theater. Between gorges are stretches with hug masses of rock and aggregations of bowlders, some as large as a house, but with banks sloping instead of sheer, and occasional cultivated patches of ground where some hard-working Szechuenese ekes out a bare existence. They must put ropes on the babies to keep them from rolling into the water. Every foot of the way is filled with danger to the navigator, rocks just below the surface of the water, which can take the bottom out of a steel ship as easily as one cuts the lid off a tin can, currents which seem eager to put the vessels on shoals or against the river banks, chow-chow water, rapids, and safe anchorages few and often far between.
One of the most thrilling experiences of my life was the ascent of the Hsintan. This, the most formidable of the low level rapids to ascend, is located roughly forty miles above Ichang amidst magnificent scenery. Here has been erected a memorial to Captain Plant, the pioneer of upper river navigation by steamers, and all passing do honor to his memory.
The rapids are really a series of three separate rapids, known from upstream clown as Nos. 1, 2, and 3. Numbers 2 and 3 are not particularly difficult, but at the level then obtaining, No. 1 was a severe trial for any navigator. Merchant ships practically always heave the Hsintan. The Tutuila steamed it once at low level but she had to make 16 knots on her engines to get over. The standard procedure for merchant ships is to steam No. 3, keeping close to the left bank and then anchor in a cove between Nos. 2 and 3, while the hawsers to be used for heaving over are taken ashore and made ready for use. Generally one end of the hawser (sometimes two or three are used) is made fast to a bowlder or stout tree well above the rapids. The free end is passed to the vessel just after she has entered the rapids and taken to a winch or windlass. Then with safeties popping and the engines turning over fast enough to make the designer shudder, the hawser is wound up on the drum and supplies the extra power needed to bring the vessel up the hill.
It all sounds very simple, but in real life the aspect of the river is appalling. It is difficult to believe that a tiny winter boat can go through it and live. To make matters worse, there was a wreck at the foot of No. 1 which restricted the passage through the reef of rocks so that there was less than ten feet clearance on each side. It was like taking a ship into a dry dock under her own power at 12 or 14 knots. The rapids were only 150 feet long but the upstream end was 7 feet higher than the downstream end! It took my ship 7 minutes to make this 150 feet. It took the ship ahead 53 minutes, and another ship on which I subsequently traveled three hours using 3 wire hawsers on her winches and 500 coolies heaving on bamboo lines.
The water is a confused mass of eddies and swirls. The ship does not roll, it lurches abruptly from side to side. It is required to make full speed on the engines to maintain position in the stream and only the most expert steering keeps the ship in the channel. The sensation I had the first time I ascended a rapids was just as if someone had put on the brakes. I could feel the engines turning over to beat the band and the water was going by too—but the ship was standing still!
The wonders of the upper river are too numerous to do justice to them in a short article. The Wushan gorge, a thirty-mile waterway through solid rock rising up to 2,000 feet above the water, having only two safe anchorages; trackers’ paths, galleries carved by hand on the face of the cliffs 200 feet or more above the low level of the river; the trackers themselves struggling with a junk in the rapids or wading through water of 40-degree temperature clad only with a turban and a pair of reed slippers; the cities with their walls far above the winter level of the river; and the winter villages of temporary shacks between the water’s edge and the wall; the salt makers of Kweifu; graceful pagodas on the eminences; the effects of erosion in the gorges; the curious arrangements of rock strata in various locations; the Windbox Gorge with sides like giant castles; the poppy fields and orange groves, green even in January and February—all these and others hold the interest of the traveler and make the trip one never to be forgotten.
Nearly all of the rapids and all of the gorges are below Wanhsien, which is about midway between Ichang and Chungking. Above this point the valley, though narrow, is more as a valley should be, beautiful, restful, and even in winter cultivated to the river’s edge. This part of the river is as different from the gorges as the gorges are from the middle or lower river and just as interesting as any part of the river.
It is pleasant to sit on deck under an awning and take in the interesting features both natural and man made as they are disclosed. There are too many of these to attempt even to list them. One conclusion that I have arrived at is that to really appreciate the Upper Yangtze, one has to see it. Even the most lucid narrator cannot make his listener or reader see scenes unless there is some common background of comprehension.
Chungking, the end of my trip, is a populous, important, and interesting city. The residents probably number a million although estimates of the population vary widely. Until recently a large number of men earned their living carrying water from the river to the consumer and I was told that if I lost my way all that was necessary to get back to the landing was to follow a water-carrier with empty buckets. Like most up-river cities, Chungking still has its ancient city wall, which is a huge affair and reminded me of my ideas of the important medieval European fortified cities. Wheeled vehicles cannot be used here for the streets have many steps and the paths outside the city are narrow. Ashore one must either walk or ride in a chair on the shoulders of two or more coolies. Doubtless after a time one gets used to it, but most Americans in chairs have the appearance of green automobile drivers in the five o’clock traffic of a large city.
The day I was in Chungking, February 3, the temperature was 72°F., with blue skies and sunshine; the next day it was 40°F., with overcast skies and a strong, cold up-river wind. The change in climate was like going from Miami to Boston. The valley is subject to these abrupt changes of temperature but the vegetation remains green and the Chinese simply add more coats—only the foreigner seems to resent it.
The passage down-river of course takes much less time than the run up due to the aid of the current. The descent of the upper rapids seemed tame, but there was a thrill in the lower, stronger ones. The sensation is not unlike tobogganing. At the head of a rapids there is little current, so that as one approaches, the boat slows down. Then as she goes over the crest and gathers velocity from the swift current, the engines are also speeded to give steerage way in the confused, broken water and the boat just shoots ahead. Sometimes, as in the Kunglingtan, an abrupt change of course must be made at the foot of the rapids to avoid rocks or shingle banks which are waiting to take the bottom out of any luckless craft which does not have expert handling. The only adequate comparison to descending the strong rapids of the upper river is bringing a destroyer into dry dock under her own power at 25 knots. That's what I think of the upper river pilots!
At the Hsintan I had an unusual experience. The skipper increased speed a few seconds too soon—it was only his second trip in command—with the result that the bow of the boat shot out over the crest of the rapids until the unsupported weight forward exceeded that of the after body, when—bang! The boat pivoted suddenly and the bottom plating forward slapped the surface of the river hard enough to jar the whole ship and loosen several rivets which leaked all the way to Ichang and at first caused some concern.
The leg of the trip downbound between Ichang and Hankow was the most raiser: able of the whole trip. To begin with, it was impossible to heat the passengers’ spaces because of numerous steam leaks which would have spoiled much of the valuable cargo of silk carried. The temperature was just about freezing with either snow or cold rain; miserable weather with poor visibility obtained during the entire trip. If I saw marvelous piloting on the upper river, I do not think there are two sorrier pilots on the middle river than those we had this trip on the Chi Ping. We grounded at least once each day and some days twice. But the crowning stroke of all was when we grounded just before sunset in the middle of the bandit zone between Shasi and Kienli! Here we were on a little boat with half a million taels in silk and no armed guard! A splendid prize for half-starved bandits! Fortunately the captain wiggled loose just before it became entirely dark and we were able to anchor in deeper water. To help matters it was a rotten night and the temperature rose to 34°F. changing the snow to rain which made us feel more secure.
The Chinese, both passengers and crew, were scared stiff and few of them slept any that night. The captain had to sleep because he was on the bridge from sunrise to sunset. Among the passengers was a former lieutenant commander of the Imperial Russian Navy, who agreed to stand watch and watch with me all night. And what a night it was! I took the first watch and had considerable difficulty getting all lights extinguished and the Chinese passengers quiet. Every few minutes someone would flash a light over the side to see if be could see any bandits. They were nearly crazed with fear and with good reason, because, had the bandits known of our valuable cargo and helpless condition, I do not think even the bad weather would have saved us from attack. And if a couple of sampans filled with bandits had come alongside—what could we have done? There were only three of us with firearms. The one on watch could doubtless have shot seven—but after his pistol was emptied, could he have reloaded, or would the other two have arrived in time to help? I do not know but am thankful to one of the most unpleasant nights I was ever exposed to that it was not necessary to learn the answer.
The country on the down trip had quite a different aspect from that which it had upbound because of the snow. But the snow covering got thinner as we approached Woosung and the streets of Shanghai did not even have slush on them. And the first thing that happened to me in Shanghai was to let a ricksha coolie pass me a counterfeit silver dollar. I could not help laughing as I rode home—so self-satisfied as an experienced traveler and I fell for a bunko game that is usually only tried on the newcomer!