river. But the Big Sandy was now swollen beyond its
banks, and the rapid current was filled with floating logs and uptorn
trees. The oldest and most experienced boatmen shook their heads, and
would not attempt the perilous voyage.

What was to be done?

Col. Garfield had with him Brown, the scout and ex-canal-boatman, who
had returned from reconnoitering Marshall's camp, with a bullet through
his hat. Garfield asked his advice.

"It's which and t'other, General Jim," he answered, "starvin' or
drownin'. I'd rather drown nur starve. So gin the word, and, dead or
alive, I'll git down the river!"

Garfield gave the word, but he did not let the brave scout go alone.
Together in a small skiff they "got down the river." It was no light
task. The Big Sandy was now a raging torrent, sixty feet in depth, and,
in many places, above the tops of the tall trees which grew along its
margin. In some deep and narrow gorges, where the steep banks shut down
upon the stream, these trees had been undermined at the roots, and,
falling inward, had locked their arms together, forming a net-work that
well-nigh prevented the passage of the small skiff and its two
navigators. Where a small skiff could scarcely pass, could they run a
large steamboat loaded with provisions?

"Other men might ask that question, but not the backwoods boy who had
learned navigation on the waters of the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal. He
pushed to the mouth of the river, and there took possession of the
_Sandy Valley_, a small steamer in the quartermaster's service. Loading
her with supplies, he set about starting up the river, but the captain
of the boat declared the thing was impossible. Not stopping to argue the
point, Garfield ordered him and his crew on board, and _himself taking
the helm_, set out up the river.

"Brown he stationed at the bow, where, with a long fending-pole in his
hand, he was to keep one eye on the floating logs and uprooted trees,
the other on the chicken-hearted captain.

"The river surged and boiled and whirled against the boat, tossing her
about as if she were a cockle-shell. With every turn of her wheel she
trembled from stem to stern, and with a full head of steam could only
stagger along at the rate of three miles an hour. When night came the
captain begged to tie up till morning, for breasting that flood in the
dark was sheer madness; but Brown cried out, 'Put her ahead, Gineral
Jim,' and Garfield clutched the helm and drove her o