On the roof, the Captain was giving orders to Jenkins: "Come ahead, outside!" Jenkins pulled the bell-rope and the brave engineer responded to the order. The boats had swung a short distance apart, the States rapidly sinking. Jenkins put the America up between the States and the shore. The States was carrying, as freight, a lot of barrels of coal-oil and gasoline, and in the collision these were smashed and the gasoline caught fire and in a few moments the sinking boat was all ablaze forward. Jenkins groaned as he saw the fire, for the flames had already swept over upon the America, and he saw that his boat was also doomed. The bow of the America was almost touching the gravel, and believing that he had his boat safely on shore, Jenkins hurriedly left the pilot-house. Charles Ditman, the other head pilot of the America, off watch, ran up into the pilot-house and catching the wheel, rang for reversed engines, and backed the boat out into the river, away from the States, but his action was miscalculated, for fire had broken out on the America, and great sheets of flame were leaping from her forward decks and guards. Had the boat held the position in which Jenkins had placed her, all the passengers might have escaped. Officers and crew were cutting away timbers with axes and dashing water upon the fire, but the great crackling tongue of flame licked up everything in its pathway. The heavens shone like a great, golden mirror under the spreading blaze. The burning oil flowed out over the water and flamed up across every avenue of escape. From out the black clouds of smoke, great sheets of flame burst through, rolled heavenward, and leaped down again like some devouring demon. In such a transformation from pleasure to horror, who can discern the turning impulses within the human breast--of fear, of hope or of heroic self-control? To some, such a moment brings hopeless despair, or frantic terror, which will crush women and children and crowd them from places of safety, and oftimes in such an hour there comes to those of otherwise timid dispositions, a grandeur of heroism never evidencing itself before; some latent, slumbering power of soul that can only be awakened by some fearful test of human tragedy. From the burning boats came wild cries, shrieks and screams. Some were kneeling in prayer, others cursing and bemoaning their plight. Dr. Fannastock, a millionaire manufacturer from Philadelphia, clasped his beautiful daughter in his arms and cried, "I will give one hundred thousand dollars to the one who saves my child!" Both were lost. Ole Bull, the famous violinist, who had taken passage at Louisville, stood quietly holding his violin case, calmly endeavoring to reassure the frightened women and children. The fire was fast approaching the rear cabin. Shawn stood by Mrs. Alden's side, buckling a life-preserver around her body. "I'm trusting in God, Shawn," said the good woman, as a ghastly pallor overspread her face.