One hot summer afternoon in 1920 when we were cruising below Chungking we moored the Palos to a rocky bank earlier than usual in order to give the Black Gang opportunity to repair a slight case of indigestion from which one of the boilers appeared to be suffering. We went ashore. We took along Polly, a messboy interpreter, to afford us a chance to pry out of celestial brains replies to questions concerning the operations of farmers and fishermen. We strolled off into the interior.
In due time we came to a village and picked our way through the mud and filth of the street to a ramshackle temple which stood on a high point beyond the hamlet. We entered. A priest appeared and seemed glad to conduct us through his domain. He led us into a long, rather low hall. An atmosphere of great age hung about the apartment. Dust lay thick upon the floor. Dust and cobwebs covered the rows and rows of wooden images which lined the walls and occupied a long platform which ran the length of the room along its middle. We regarded without much interest the crudely carved and painted images and followed along behind the priest with the mild reflection that this temple was bad for the sinuses. Then abruptly we came to a stop.
There, seated at the end of a row along a wall, sat Marco Polo. There was no doubt about it, for he wore the hat and costume of Venice in the thirteenth century. The artist had done well with Marco, and the Venetian sat there gazing out upon his dusty compeers with a haughty look as if he were sneering at the placidity of his piefaced fellow's.
“Who,” we asked through Polly, “is this chap?”
Polly translated: “This blong white man come this side many, many year ago.”
We presently went back to the ship and got out the volume of Marco’s wanderings. That night we read until late. We encountered Marco’s description of the Chengtu plain, and then and there we determined to visit that place when and if we could manage it. Marco said:
The city is watered by many considerable streams, which, descending from the distant mountains, surround and pass through it in a variety of directions. Some of these rivers are half a mile in width, others are two hundred paces, and very deep, over which are built several large and handsome stone bridges. . . . These rivers, uniting their streams below the city, contribute to form the mighty river called the Kian [Yangtze], whose course, before it discharges itself into the ocean, is equal to a hundred days’ journey. . . .
A year elapsed before we found a condition which would allow us to make the trip—a combination of a situation of political and military quiet in the stretch between Ichang and Chungking; very high water in the Upper River; and high water in the Min. In 1914 the Monocacy had reached Kiating. She never returned to that port. In 1918 the Palos had made an effort to reach this goal, but due to a rapidly falling Min she had been forced to turn back from Suifu. Our information concerning these upper regions was exceedingly vague. One steamer, Chinese owned, made occasional trips as far as Suifu. None attempted the Min. Our only real source of information was old Li, the pilot, who said that he knew the Min, though he had not been there for many years. He did his best to discourage us from the project, but we expected that.
There was no information available regarding coal in these upper ports, except vague statements that there was some at Suifu. However, we reasoned that since the Monocacy had managed the trip in 1914 she must have obtained fuel at Kiating. Our final estimate of the situation was “dangerous but possibly practicable.”
There was a considerable number of Americans in this region above Chungking. Some were scattered in towns along the river. There was a small colony at Kiating. There was a large group at Chengtu, the capital of the province, and there were others on beyond toward Thibet. Nearly all of these people were missionaries.
The Patrol Commander, approached on the subject of a voyage into Western Szechwan, approved, stating that the showing of the flag at Suifu and Kiating might have a good influence on the treatment of Americans when the next troublous period would arise.
We overhauled our machinery, put everything in the best possible condition, drew a long breath, and sailed upriver from Chungking at 10:00 a.m., August 6. At 11:21 there came a thump from the engine-room, and the engines abruptly stopped. We headed for the bank, and with our usual Palos luck found that we could anchor in a place that was reasonably safe. The starboard high pressure had come to sore grief, the mate reported. It could be fixed, we found upon examination. Our one consolation was that we had at least got out of sight of Chungking before breaking down. The city was a whole 10 miles away in a beeline. We fell to work.
We went on the next morning, running the starboard engine slow for a time. Our repairs held, and we were able to make standard speed all afternoon. The going was not made hard by rapids, but the current was swift and the miles made good over the ground were markedly less than those obtained in most open places below Chungking. We anchored at six, just 60 miles above our starting point.
As we went on the next day the character of the country slowly changed. The ground was rolling and open, and there were not many rocky stretches. There were even picturesque old trees along the banks and the scattered villages looked attractive from the distance.
The ship coaled at Luchow on the 10th. We went on the next day, making good 64 of the 73 miles remaining from Luchow to Suifu. The current was bad, averaging 7 knots per hour, though there were no rapids to balk us. The country continued to open out, and there were few rocks. The Yangtze was narrower and shoaler. We observed that nearly all of the natives working in the fields were completely nude, an odd fact, for this condition occurs at few other places in the world.
At 7:00 a.m. on the 12th we anchored off Suifu, a city whose annals date from 134 b.c. It is built on a rocky promontory between the Yangtze and the Min. For centuries the Min was considered by the Chinese to be the continuation of the Yangtze, and the Yangtze above Suifu was thought to be a tributary and was called the Kinsha Kiang (River Of Golden Sands). Above Suifu the Yangtze is navigable for but a scant 50 miles. From that point up it drains a wild, mountainous region still almost entirely unexplored until the remote town of Batang is reached.
One of the sources of the Min River is near the edge of the plateau of Thibet on the frontier. The stream flows through a gorge for 100 miles and then debouches into the great plain of Chengtu, where it is split into numerous small channels to irrigate that basin. Above Kiating these waters are collected into one channel to form the Min River. According to Chinese tradition this scheme was planned and laid out some 2,000 years ago. In this immense plain are collected millions of people. It is the center of the province. As we have stated in previous articles, this province of Szechwan is somewhat smaller than the state of Texas and contains a population of 55,000,000 people, as many souls as in France, Belgium, and Holland combined. Most of the millions of this teeming population of Szechwan live in the Chengtu plain.
At Suifu we coaled; checked over our machinery; observed with satisfaction that the Min was very high and still rising; obtained from missionaries the welcome information that we could lay our hands on some kind of coal at Kiating. At the crack of dawn on the 14th we sailed up the Min.
For a time the new river was narrow and deep. Then it shoaled rapidly. There were no rapids, but the current was exceedingly swift. In the 103 miles between Kiating and Suifu there is a drop in elevation of 400 feet. This, we discovered, made hard going, nor did the fact that the Suifu coal was pediculous assist us in our day’s journey. That afternoon we steamed for an hour with less than 2 feet of water under the flat bottom of the ship. The leadsman with his sounding pole fetched out his reports with alarm in his voice. But after a time our concern diminished, and we became accustomed to: “Seven feet!—Six and a half feet!” We had to anchor twice during the day to clean fires. In a rainy dusk we moored below a rocky cliff.
Before we left the bridge we interviewed the pilot. Li was vague about what lay ahead; said that it was very doubtful if the ship could reach Kiating at that level; was exasperatingly indefinite about the strength of the currents on above; suggested that our best scheme would be to return to Chungking. We reflected that we had consumed a surprising quantity of our coal and that from dawn to dark in this long day we had made good but 30 miles. There was, we had gathered from our cross-examinations over a period of months of every encountered man, woman, or child who had visited Chengtu, no coal to be obtained between Suifu and Kiating. We were gloomy that night, but we decided to go on at dawn until we discovered definitely that the trip could not be managed.
For a time the next morning we found the going a trifle easier, but at half-past nine it was necessary to anchor and clean fires. We chose a sandy beach. It seemed unreal to see water in China so clear as this stream had become, and while the fires were being cleaned most of the crew were indulging in their first swim in many months.
We went on, and the difficulties of the passage abruptly increased. On the bridge we were calculating a problem which involved how much coal remained; how much we were using; how much farther we could go before we must give up and head downriver. It was apparent that we could not possibly reach Kiating on our coal supply at the rate we were burning the foul fuel we had received at Suifu. We decided to go as far up the Min as we could safely manage.
At 2:30 we came to Kien Wi Hien, a walled city 68 miles above Suifu. We anchored to clean fires. With the faint hope that a miracle might happen, Yong Ki, the steward, was sent ashore to inquire into the possibility of obtaining coal. He presently came racing back to the ship. Coal, he said, could be bought. Our experts piled into the sampan, headed for the shore with Yong Ki. They returned, reporting that enough could be purchased and that it was of at least as good quality as that of Suifu. We spent the remainder of that day coaling.
At dawn the next morning we sailed. From the start the going was bad. It grew worse. The river was narrow and shoal and the current averaged 8½ knots. With the poor coal steaming was difficult and the heat in the fireroom was intense. From dawn until noon we made good but 13 miles, and the current, if anything, was steadily strengthening. And then the Palos got into her worst scrape of that year.
We came to a division of the Min into two channels. The left-hand one, Li said, was too shallow. So we tackled the other. Down dashed the stream against a cliff, the current turning through 90° then and heading on downstream. Opposite the cliff was a shingle bank. We crowded over against this as closely as we dared, edging away from the cliff with that fury of waters boiling up from its base. We made the sharp turn around the upper edge of this bank and stood on up the channel, which rushed down through exposed shingle on either side. More and more difficult became the progress of the ship. The rapid was not the sort we were accustomed to encounter below Chungking. It was a straight, swift stream, a downshoot of rushing water bursting from the dam formed by the shingle. Slower and slower grew the progress of the Palos. We were going full speed, all we could do. Li was teasing the ship from side to side of the narrow channel, in vain hoping to find some whirl or backwash which would ease the strain. But this was new to us. There was nothing here to help us for, as we have said, the stream was merely a straight downpour through the shingle.
It dawned upon us that we were in the worst of predicaments. The channel in which we were struggling was not as wide as the length of the Palos. If we attempted to back down the stream there was the cliff at the bottom with the complete certainty that the stern would be smashed to pieces in any attempt to go stern first around that treacherous corner. And about this time the progress of the Palos ceased, though she was still trembling and shaking to the best speed her engines could turn out with the available steam. A bead on trees along the shore showed that she was not only not advancing but was beginning to lose ground. We eased out of the main channel and edged over as close to the shingle bank as we dared. We let go the anchor with 6 inches of water between the ship’s bottom and the bottom of the river. As close as we were, it was necessary to keep one engine turning over slowly to hold the ship from dragging. The stream was perfectly clear, and inspection of the bottom showed us that at least we had no rocks to fear. Any of us could have jumped over the side and waded ashore.
While the ship caught her breath, so to speak, and the sweating firemen fetched the steam up to popping point, we studied the situation. We had but 30 feet to go to get our bow to the top of this race. It did not look like too bad going above this stretch of shingle banks sprawling across the river. So we decided to put our eggs in one basket and risk trouble later on by giving the ship the gun, even though we exhausted our steam in this effort.
When we were ready with the boilers, we rang up full speed and hove up the anchor. The Palos lost a little ground before she could respond to her engines. Then, bit by bit, she struggled up the race, straining and shuddering. Li, who had learned something from his earlier endeavor, held her perilously in against the shingle bank out of the worst of the current, and there was one stretch when the quartermaster was reporting his soundings in inches, for under our bottom we had but four of these vital commodities to spare. Foot by foot the Palos fought her way to the top. Then she emerged into a broader channel and easier water. We looked back, and then, dismissing that job from our mind, stared ahead to see what lay before us.
We made but 8 miles that afternoon, for the current grew more and more vicious. At 4:30 we quit for the day, for the fires were foul and we were managing to accomplish no more than a painful crawl. We anchored off the village of Sipa. The current was so strong that in addition to our anchor it was necessary to put out wires to trees. Even that would not hold the ship, and we therefore sparmoored. A crowd gathered, for this was the first steam vessel ever to visit the place, and many of the gaping onlookers had never seen one before.
With 14 miles to go, we got under way at five the next morning. We were immediately involved in a fierce struggle with the Min, and the current grew swifter and swifter. At seven we ran into a fog and had to anchor for an hour. At a bit past eight we went on. Cruising resolved itself into one constant scrap with the river. The current was averaging 10 knots now, and with our poor coal we could not do better than a maximum of 12 with our straining engines. The water was shoaling, too, and we got numbers of 5-foot soundings.
Around eleven we spent a solid hour in a rapid. It took every whit of speed we could wring out of the ship for a straight 20 minutes to surmount this obstacle. And 20 minutes straight of full speed was distinctly a feat for the Palos.
Kiating appeared in view ahead. More and more severe grew our struggle. Then the water shoaled to less than 5 feet. The quartermasters sounding in the bow reported a rocky bottom. Old Li mumbled something about the advisability of returning to Chungking.
“Four feet, six inches!” came the cry of the quartermaster in the starboard bow.
His mate thrust down his sounding pole.
“Four feet, three inches!” he bawled.
And almost immediately: “Four feet!”
The Palos was drawing 3 feet and 9 inches. It was absurd to keep on. It was equally absurd to quit at that moment, for the water front of Kiating was alive with people watching us, and face is all important in China. So we kept on.
For 20 yards—the ship straining, flames belching from her red-hot stacks—the Palos gained painful ground, the quartermasters’ shouts of “Four feet!”—“Four feet!” rising clearly through the still air.
Then: “Four feet, two inches!” came, and the tension on the bridge and throughout the ship slackened. “Five feet!” was bawled a moment later, and this shout, which in pre-Min days would have caused us to leap for the engine-room telegraphs, came as a welcome relief.
Where the roaring Yaho River dashes into the Min we again had to steam at the best speed remaining in the exhausted vessel. But we passed this point, had another bad spell of 5-foot soundings over a rocky bottom, and then were safely off the foreshore of the city.
Just above the town we anchored in 12 feet of water with 30 fathoms of chain. We put out 3 wires to trees to prevent us from dragging. The ship settled down to her berth. Chinese began coming out.
We sent a sampan with quartermasters to sound above the anchorage. They returned, reporting that a 2-foot bar existed a few hundred yards above and that it reached completely across the Min. Li relaxed when we told him that this was as far as we would go. He went below to his opium pipe. He had earned it.
Yong Ki set off for the town to arrange an immediate coaling. The quartermasters drove stakes into the sandy sloping shore abreast the ship so that we might have instant information of a fall of the river level. The Mate instructed his Black Gang to be prepared to move downriver at short notice. We found that the Min was still slowly rising. With the feeling that the ship was in something uncomfortably like a possible trap, we went below.
We studied our crude chart. When we discovered that the Palos was 1,635 miles above Shanghai we decided that this, definitely, was far enough west. But we were still 100 miles below Chengtu.