The Herald - The Herald Magazine
United States A voyage into the unexplored corners of the South on a Mississippi steamboat
ERIC FLOUNDERS
ABOUT a mile ahead of us a freight train was slowly nosing its way across one of the Mississippi’s impressive iron girder bridges. The huge engine disappeared into trees on the western shore, but the wagons kept on coming. As we finally passed beneath a good 40 minutes later, the bogies were still screeching and clattering above us. And long after we passed, the lumbering wagons continued to snake out of a cutting on the eastern shore.
We were on a Mississippi steamboat – in fact, the biggest steamboat in existence – heading slowly down one of the biggest rivers in the world. Its many tributaries, of which we encountered the Missouri, Ohio, Tennessee and Cumberland, each makes the Clyde look like a rivulet.
Our stern paddle steamboat, American Queen, might make some shudder at what they perceive to be a Disneyesque pastiche of the steamboats Tom Sawyer threw stones at. But, despite being built as recently as 1995, American Queen is as close to the real thing as possible without sacrificing modern comfort. To begin with, it is actually a steamboat; the engines, built in 1932 and salvaged from an earlier vessel, are genuine, hissing, throbbing steam engines and passengers are welcome to visit the engine room and watch the two huge pistons driving the massive red stern paddle wheel. When the whistle blows, clouds of steam snort into the air. At the stern sits a calliope – a tuneless forerunner of the fairground organ, and which was used by the Mississippi boats to noisily announce their arrival and departure – from which steam pulsates from polished brass pipes as the organist belts out an unrecognisable tune. It’s a racket, but an authentic racket.
But we didn’t opt for American Queen because it’s a Mississippi paddle steamer: that seemed just a quaint extra at the time. We chose it because of its itinerary, which reaches the parts other travel companies do not. The ports are a roll-call of places you have never heard of – Paducah, Chester (Chester, Illinois, that is), Dover (without any white cliffs) and Clarkesville. This, from a tourist point of view, is unknown America; it is not the glass-towered cities of the coasts, but the real America. Hicksville, if you like; places the folks next door have never been to. And, it transpired, it was unexpectedly interesting.
We joined the ship by flying to St Louis for an overnight stay, included in the price. The cleverness of this idea means all the passengers are gathered in one place in advance of boarding, so all the bureaucracy of registering, booking shore excursions and assignment of tables can be done before we have even glimpsed the ship. Next day we travel the short distance to it by coach and simply walk on board – our luggage having got there before us.
But though American Queen’s steamboat status wasn’t our motive, she turned out to be a glorious confection with towering black twin funnels forward, a gaudy red paddle wheel at the stern, and brilliant white wood and iron tracery and pillars rising from the low hull through a multiplicity of veranda decks. Most of the cabins had two doors, one opening straight on to a deck and the other leading to the deep pile carpet of a classically lit and florally wallpapered internal corridor.
Unlike most cruise vessels, where cabins have modernist but bland decor, American Queen’s are all quirky, and individually furnished in tasteful Edwardian items doubtless scoured from auction rooms up and down the land. That, coupled with high beds, period crystal and brass lighting and homely wallpaper rather than cold paint, provides for cosy comfort with an authentic feel.
Similarly, the public rooms are beautiful and evocative. The double height dining room with its tall windows topped by oval fan lights, and its delicate, white painted hammer beam ceiling makes for one of the most exquisite restaurants I have ever seen afloat. The food is good too, and efficiently served, albeit without a great deal of finesse. The buffets at breakfast and lunch were unfailingly excellent.
The oak-panelled library, set out with polished tables and comfortable sofas and chairs, is lit by Lalique lamps and features display cases of artefacts that would grace any museum.
The steamboat also features a small theatre, complete with proscenium arch and private boxes, based on the famous Ford’s Theatre where Abraham Lincoln met his end. Best not to sit in the box on the right of the stage … The entertainment
This is not the glass-towered cities of the coasts, but the real America. Hicksville, if you like
is provided every night by a small but accomplished troupe, although one of the singers should not be on American Queen at all – she should be on Broadway.
Our first significant port of call was Chester, Illinois, known to the Americans on board as the birthplace of Popeye. Or rather, of his creator EC Segar. Perched atop a limestone bluff above the river and nestled among woods of birch and maple, Chester certainly recognises its famous son. Whereas other towns have statues of unknown generals on horseback, Chester is dotted with well executed statues of Popeye, Wimpy, Bluto and the lascivious Olive Oyl trailing Sweet Pea.
And on we glided down the wide Mississippi, unexpectedly steep sided and lush, to Cape Giradeau which, despite its French name is quintessential small-town America, with its significant Main Street and more new churches oozing prosperity than you would ever find in one place in the UK. Such places demonstrate the essential kindness of Americans in a way that New York never will; it was our only day of rain, and as we sheltered under a shop awning the jolly and garrulous owner came bustling out – to tell us, we assumed, to move away as we were blocking the view of her wares. How uncharitable we were; her intention was simply to offer us, two total strangers, the loan of an umbrella. Cape Giradeau gave way the next day to Paducah, at the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee rivers, a small but perfectly formed town with some fine buildings and as many museums as Cape Giradeau had churches. There is a Civil War museum, a Railroad museum, a Kentucky museum and, if you are really desperate, a Quilting museum. Quilting, like the Civil War, is pretty big in these parts.
ONE of the biggest events of the Civil War took place in Dover, snuggled into a bend of the Cumberland River. We awoke to find a thick mist as we approached, but as the sun broke through it dissipated to reveal a placid river edged on each side by dense forest which stretched away to distant hills. There seemed to be no despoiling humans, just huge herons which, as we approached, flapped lazily away. Eddies of wispy mist swirled on the surface of the still water from which little balloons of vapour broke free and circled gently upwards to evaporate in the morning sun. Views are often described as magical; this one was, and so peaceful it was impossible to imagine what violence had once erupted there.
The little town of Dover has one significant claim to fame – the Dover Hotel. This simple two-storey house on the banks of the Cumberland is where Ulysses S Grant, later the 18th President of the United States, as a Union general accepted the surrender of 13,000 Confederate troops; it was a watershed in that bloody war. And for those with a passing interest in ornithology, a visit to the Confederate redoubt at Fort Donelson, which they defended with valour but lost, may well result in a sighting of bald eagles.
At least Fort Donelson put up a fight, which is more than can be said for Clarkesville, our next port of call upriver. There the sublimely misnamed Fort Defiance simply surrendered without a single shot being fired. That is not the only shame of Clarkesville; those who are still able to sing along to the Monkees’ Last Train to Clarkesville will be horrified to learn that not only has the last train long gone, but there is now no station. And not even a plaque.
Visiting places of interest on American Queen’s itinerary could not be simpler (or cheaper). The company has a fleet of four coaches which follow the boat, and at each stop provide a hop-on, hop-off service – which is exactly what it says. At any point (usually places of interest) marked on a map distributed at each port by the company, guests are free to hop on the continuous circular service and hop off at the next place that suits them. It is a brilliant concept.
Those same coaches took us to Nashville airport, some 30 miles away, for a reluctant flight home. Reluctant because this cruise is a thoroughly enjoyable voyage to unlikely places which is delivered impeccably.