It seemed a long while coming, and never did man gaze on a more dismal, ghastly scene than was revealed to me by those first gray gleams dimly showing in the far east.  All about stretched utter desolation; wherever my eyes turned, the vista was the same—­a wide stretch of restless, brown water surging and leaping past, bounded by low-lying shores, forlorn and deserted.  There was no smoke, no evidence of life anywhere visible, no sign of habitation; all was wilderness.  The snag on which I rested was nearly in the center of the great river, an ugly mass of dead wood, sodden with water, forking out of the stream, with grotesque limbs thrust up into the air.  The force of the current had driven the nose of the boat so firmly beneath one branch as to sink it below the surface, making it impossible to be freed.  In the dull light I struggled hopelessly to extricate the craft, my feet slipping on the water-soaked log.  Twice I fell into the stream, barely able to clamber back again, but my best efforts were without results.  The increase in light gave me by this time a wider view of my surroundings, but brought with it no increase of hope.  I was utterly alone, and only by swimming could I attain either bank.

How far I had aimlessly drifted down stream during the night was a mere matter of conjecture.  I possessed no knowledge of where I was.  No familiar object along shore afforded any clue as to my position, and I could not even determine which bank offered me the greater chance of assistance.  Each appeared about equally bare and desolate, entirely devoid of promise.  However, I chose the west shore for my experiment, as the current seemed less strong in that direction, and was about to plunge in, determined to fight a way across, when my eyes suddenly detected a faint wreath of smoke curling up into the pale sky above a headland far to the southward.  As I stared at this it became black and distinct, tossed about in the wind.  I watched intently, clinging to my support, scarcely trusting my eyesight, while that first wisp deepened into a cloud, advancing slowly toward me.  There was no longer doubt of what it was—­unquestionably some steamer was pushing its course up stream.  Even before my ears could detect the far-off chug of the engine, the boat itself rounded the sharp point of the headland, and came forth into full view, heading out toward the middle of the river in a search for deeper water.

It was an unusually large steamboat for those days, a lower river packet I guessed, with two funnels painted yellow, and a high pilot house, surmounted by a huge brazen eagle.  At first, approaching me, bow on, I could perceive but little of its dimensions, nor gain clear view of the decks, but when it veered slightly these were revealed, and I had a glimpse of a few figures grouped forward, the great wheel astern splashing the water, and between a long row of windows reflecting the glare of the early sun.  Even as I gazed at this vision a flag crept up the slender staff at the bow, and reaching the top rippled out in the crisp breeze.  A moment later I deciphered the lettering across the white front of the pilot house, Adventurer, of Memphis.