An hour later I am in the pilothouse, looking down upon what was once the channel of a peaceful river.  But its banks are only defined by tossing tufts of willow washed by the long swell that breaks over a vast inland sea.  Stretches of “tule” land fertilized by its once regular channel and dotted by flourishing ranchos are now cleanly erased.  The cultivated profile of the old landscape had faded.  Dotted lines in symmetrical perspective mark orchards that are buried and chilled in the turbid flood.  The roofs of a few farmhouses are visible, and here and there the smoke curling from chimneys of half-submerged tenements shows an undaunted life within.  Cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian mounds waiting the fate of their companions whose carcasses drift by us, or swing in eddies with the wrecks of barns and outhouses.  Wagons are stranded everywhere where the tide could carry them.  As I wipe the moistened glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on the deck from the lowering clouds, dashing against the window, dripping from the willows, hissing by the wheels, everywhere washing, coiling, sapping, hurrying in rapids, or swelling at last into deeper and vaster lakes, awful in their suggestive quiet and concealment.

As day fades into night the monotony of this strange prospect grows oppressive.  I seek the engine room, and in the company of some of the few half-drowned sufferers we have already picked up from temporary rafts, I forget the general aspect of desolation in their individual misery.  Later we meet the San Francisco packet, and transfer a number of our passengers.  From them we learn how inward-bound vessels report to have struck the well-defined channel of the Sacramento, fifty miles beyond the bar.  There is a voluntary contribution taken among the generous travelers for the use of our afflicted, and we part company with a hearty “Godspeed” on either side.  But our signal lights are not far distant before a familiar sound comes back to us—­an indomitable Yankee cheer—­which scatters the gloom.

Our course is altered, and we are steaming over the obliterated banks far in the interior.  Once or twice black objects loom up near us—­the wrecks of houses floating by.  There is a slight rift in the sky toward the north, and a few bearing stars to guide us over the waste.  As we penetrate into shallower water, it is deemed advisable to divide our party into smaller boats, and diverge over the submerged prairie.  I borrow a peacoat of one of the crew, and in that practical disguise am doubtfully permitted to pass into one of the boats.  We give way northerly.  It is quite dark yet, although the rift of cloud has widened.

It must have been about three o’clock, and we were lying upon our oars in an eddy formed by a clump of cottonwood, and the light of the steamer is a solitary, bright star in the distance, when the silence is broken by the “bow oar”: 

“Light ahead.”

All eyes are turned in that direction.  In a few seconds a twinkling light appears, shines steadily, and again disappears as if by the shifting position of some black object apparently drifting close upon us.