Mollie you do not understand why I was not on that boat—­I will tell you.  I left Saint Louis on her, but on the way down, Mr. Brown, the pilot that was killed by the explosion (poor fellow,) quarreled with Henry without cause, while I was steering.  Henry started out of the pilot-house—­Brown jumped up and collared him—­turned him half way around and struck him in the face!—­and him nearly six feet high—­struck my little brother.  I was wild from that moment.  I left the boat to steer herself, and avenged the insult—­and the Captain said I was right—­that he would discharge Brown in N. Orleans if he could get another pilot, and would do it in St. Louis, anyhow.  Of course both of us could not return to St. Louis on the same boat—­no pilot could be found, and the Captain sent me to the A. T. Lacey, with orders to her Captain to bring me to Saint Louis.  Had another pilot been found, poor Brown would have been the “lucky” man.

I was on the Pennsylvania five minutes before she left N. Orleans, and I must tell you the truth, Mollie—­three hundred human beings perished by that fearful disaster.  Henry was asleep—­was blown up—­then fell back on the hot boilers, and I suppose that rubbish fell on him, for he is injured internally.  He got into the water and swam to shore, and got into the flatboat with the other survivors.—­[Henry had returned once to the Pennsylvania to render assistance to the passengers.  Later he had somehow made his way to the flatboat.]—­He had nothing on but his wet shirt, and he lay there burning up with a southern sun and freezing in the wind till the Kate Frisbee came along.  His wounds were not dressed till he got to Memphis, 15 hours after the explosion.  He was senseless and motionless for 12 hours after that.  But may God bless Memphis, the noblest city on the face of the earth.  She has done her duty by these poor afflicted creatures—­especially Henry, for he has had five—­aye, ten, fifteen, twenty times the care and attention that any one else has had.  Dr. Peyton, the best physician in Memphis (he is exactly like the portraits of Webster) sat by him for 36 hours.  There are 32 scalded men in that room, and you would know Dr. Peyton better than I can describe him, if you could follow him around and hear each man murmur as he passes, “May the God of Heaven bless you, Doctor!” The ladies have done well, too.  Our second Mate, a handsome, noble hearted young fellow, will die.  Yesterday a beautiful girl of 15 stooped timidly down by his side and handed him a pretty bouquet.  The poor suffering boy’s eyes kindled, his lips quivered out a gentle “God bless you, Miss,” and he burst into tears.  He made them write her name on a card for him, that he might not forget it.

Pray for me, Mollie, and pray for my poor sinless brother. 
                         Your unfortunate Brother,
                                        Saml.  L. Clemens.

P. S. I got here two days after Henry.