The darky was trying to keep up his spirits by singing, the words of his ditty being somewhat similar to those made famous by Uncle Remus: “Oh, de fus’ news you know de day’ll be a-breakin’, An’ de fier be a-burnin’ en’ de ash-cake a-bakin’, An’ de hen’ll be a-hollerin’ en’ de boss’ll be a-wakin’―― Better git up, nigger, en’ give yo’se’f a shakin’―― Hi O! Miss Sindy Ann! “Oh, honey, w’en you year dat tin horn a-tootin’, Oh, honey, w’en you year de squinch-owl a-hootin’, Oh, honey, w’en you year dem little pigs a-rootin’, Right den she’s a-comin’ a-skippin’ en’ a-scootin’―― Hi O! Miss Sindy Ann!” Davy most profoundly wished for the daylight the old cook was praying for. Suddenly there was a crash and the covering of the way to the deck was crushed flat, perhaps from being struck by the limbs of a tree. There was no chance to get out of the place where he was sitting. The scurrying of feet sounded above, there was a sudden thump and a tipping of the boat, as the clumsy craft struck the head of an island and lodged against a pile of flood-trash and loose timbers. Realizing his danger, Davy tried in vain to force his way up the stairs. As the boat careened, the opening used for dipping water from the river was exposed, the other boat having drifted away. He tried to get out through this, but found it too small. In desperation he put his arms through as far as he could, and as the water was not yet up to his face, he says he “hollered as loud as he could roar,” telling the crew to pull him out or pull him in two. It was a case of life or death, with no time to wait. By a violent pull, they dragged him through. He had been without a coat in the cabin, and now found himself without a shirt, and so badly scratched up that he was “skinned like a rabbit.” He says he was glad enough to escape alive, without shirt or hide. The whole crew then left the boats to their fate and climbed onto the timber, which seems to have been in the form of a raft, where they sat without much on till morning. Davy had at this time a hope of success in the next election, and as he sat, disconsolate and barefooted in the middle of the Mississippi, two miles wide, he says: “I reckon I looked like a pretty cracklin’ ever to get to Congress.” In the midst of so many troubles, Davy showed his grit; and his reflections at the time are worth recording: “We had now lost all our loading, and every particle of our clothing, except what we had on; but over all this, while I was setting there, in the night, floating about on the drift, I felt happier and better off than I had ever felt before in my life, for I had just made such a marvelous escape that I had forgot almost everything but that; and so I felt prime.”