Part 22 (2/2)

Thousands of people jammed the bridges and thousands lined the sh.o.r.es to salute the intrepid voyager. He was picked up at the Point and quickly placed in a carriage in order to avoid the crowd and hurriedly driven to a hotel. He was half frozen and his worn appearance showed how trying had been the trip, which was accomplished in a little less than four days.

After a brief rest, he made ready to resume the voyage. The start was made from the foot of Seventh Street, February 24th. The Ohio was so full of ice that it was difficult to forge ahead. The first day's run was to Rochester, where he hauled up for the night. Owing to his being behind time the band and many people who had been waiting for him, went away, while those who remained occupied their time in patronizing a convenient bar. Mr. James Creelman, of the New York Herald, who had been a.s.signed to write up the voyage, and another newspaper man, accompanied Boyton, making their way in conveyances along the sh.o.r.e. When they arrived at Rochester, Paul was tired and wanted to sleep, so they repaired to a hotel as quickly as possible, and all three were put into one room. It became, noised around that the travelers had arrived and crowds gathered at the hotel. They demanded a speech and the landlord waited on Paul with the information. He was sent back to tell the people that Boyton was in bed and did not wish to be disturbed.

Then they wanted him to fire off just one rocket. That was also impossible, because the ”Baby Mine,” the name of the little tender, had struck a piece of ice before reaching the town and sprung a leak, wetting all the fireworks. The landlord, however, thought he could touch off one of the rockets anyway, so he seized a large detonator and with a red hot poker tried to see how it would work. Finding the fuse, as he thought, too wet, he threw the rocket on the floor and left the room. Directly after, Paul heard a hissing noise and realized that the landlord had succeeded in leaving a live spark in the fuse. He simply drew the bedclothes around himself and let the rocket sizz. It went off with a terrible report, shaking the whole house and frightening his companions out of their wits. The landlord rushed into the room with a ”hip, hooray,” much delighted.

”That's it,” he cried, ”that's good,” and he yelled again, regardless of the fact that his carpet was on fire and the room terribly littered up.

Between Rochester and Wellsville, Paul had an awful time in an ice gorge. He could hear it cracking and grinding below as though warning him of danger. He succeeded in climbing on a cake which saved him from being carried under, and made his way to clear water on the other side.

Below Steubenville, a native from the West Virginia side rowed frantically out to him.

”Hold on, stranger, I'll resky yo' in a minit,” he yelled. When he drew nearer and Paul spoke to him, he appeared as tickled as a boy at a monkey show. ”Wal, ef yo' aint jus' th' cutes' little cuss I ever seed paddlin' aroun' out here in the ice like a beaver.”

However, he expressed much disgust, not to say contempt, when Boyton refused to land and take a drink of ”Virginia's own Mountain Dew.”

After hard work through the ice gorged river, Paul reached Wheeling and rested there until the next morning. On resuming the voyage he was frequently compelled to mount an ice cake to look for the best place to strike open water, where he could get at least enough paddling to keep up his temperature. While on one of those lookouts he heard the clear, ringing sound of an ax on the frosty morning air, wielded by the powerful arm of some hardy chopper. Looking along sh.o.r.e Paul discovered the wood cutter just about the same instant that worthy discovered him.

The tall, lank West Virginian eyed the strange looking creature far a second, dropped the ax and started in a lope for his cabin. Suspecting that the curious landsman was going after his rifle, as it is customary for them to shoot at anything in the water they cannot understand, Boyton sounded a l.u.s.ty blast on the bugle to attract the chopper's attention from the shooting iron. The man returned to the water's edge, loosened a flat bottomed boat from the ice and with an iron shod pole pushed out from sh.o.r.e toward Paul, who was rapidly approaching with the floe. As Boyton neared the woodcutter he thought, ”Here comes another lantern-jawed individual who wants to ask me if I'm cold.”

To his surprise the man never opened his mouth, but ran his boat as close as he, could get it to the object of his curiosity and after a long stare turned his craft and began poling back to sh.o.r.e. When about twenty yards away he stopped as though he had forgotten some important matter, and seriously inquired:

”Say, mister, be yo' stuffed wuth cork or wind?”

”Wind,” tersely answered the Captain.

He waited for no further reply, but poled solemnly and silently back to his cabin.

Below Pomeroy, Boyton, making his first all night run and feeling drowsy was moving along mechanically, when he was startled by hearing the paddle wheels of a steamer, which proved to be the Telegraph, bearing right on him. With all his energy he rose up and shouted: ”Port, port, or I am a dead man.”

Instantly the wheel was put over and the steamer glided by, barely missing him.

At six o'clock next morning, as he was nearing Gallipolis, he observed a boat putting out from one of the floating houses, or Jo-boats that are frequently met along the Ohio and Mississippi, containing two river gypsies. Boyton paid no attention to them until they were close behind. Then he stood up expecting to ask the time of day. He made that movement just in time, for one of the men, pale with excitement, was taking deliberate aim at him with a musket. Boyton yelled out a warning as the trigger was about to be pressed, and saved his life. The river pirate was profuse in his apologies.

”Great etarnal jeehosophat, straanger; I wouldn't a shot yer 'fur two dollars an' a half, I wouldn't, by golly, fur I'm loaded bang up ter th'

muzzle with slugs fur geese. It were a narry escape fur me.”

When nearing the mouth of the Big Sandy river, which forms the boundary between West Virginia and Kentucky, Paul was met by the steamer Fas.h.i.+on, loaded with ladies and gentlemen, who gave him a hearty welcome to the sh.o.r.es of old Kentucky. At Cattlettsburg, a banquet was spread on sh.o.r.e, of which he partook and slid back into the water. He arrived at Ironton at nine o'clock that night where he remained until morning.

From that point to Cincinnati, every town turned out to greet him. The banks were lined with people and bonfires were built at night. A short distance above Cincinnati he was met by an excursion steamer containing notables of that city and newspaper representatives. Madame Modjeska, who was with the party, presented him with a handsome silk flag. The river at Cincinnati was crowded with excursion boats. A large barge loaded with people, was driven against a pier and was barely saved from sinking with all on board. He made a brief stay in Cincinnati, and continued the voyage accompanied by a boat load of reporters, among whom was also Oliver Byron, the actor. The ice was then disappearing though the water was very cold. He averaged about five miles an hour on the lower river, and the rowing of the newspaper men to keep their boat up with him, was something beautifully scientific. At Delhi the two experienced oarsmen, who had been engaged to row a short distance, went ash.o.r.e, leaving Creelman, Byron and two Cincinnati newspaper men to manage the lumbering boat. It was fortunate for their reputation as oarsmen, that spectators were directing most of their attention to Boyton, for such pulling was never seen before on the Ohio and will probably never be seen again. Paul felt like shedding tears every time he looked around to see how they were getting along. His own safety had something to do with his watchful care, for they came near running him down several times. The enthusiastic oarsmen first removed their overcoats; their undercoats followed and then collars were unb.u.t.toned. One of them said it wasn't the length of the river that bothered them so much as the breadth. They worked independently of each other, and it was pretty hard to tell which was the bow and which the stern of the boat. A ragged urchin rowed out from sh.o.r.e to see what they were doing and sarcastically inquired if they were rowing over stumps. That was an unkind allusion to the extreme height at which they elevated their oar blades from the water between strokes. There was no revolver or shot gun in the party, or there would have been a funeral in that lad's family.

Row boats would pull out from sh.o.r.e all along, and the questions asked by the parties pulling them were ridiculous, and painfully monotonous. A sample of some of them: ”Have you springs in your arms?” ”Blow your horn. How far can it be heard?” ”Are you going to travel all night?”

”Are you going back to Cincinnati to-night?” ”Let me sit on you.” ”Don't you get tired?” ”Are you cold?”

When the press boat was not trying to climb the Kentucky hills, Paul would cheer himself by running alongside and converse with the boys; but as a rule he was wary of getting too close to them.

Nearing Louisville, a fleet of excursion steamers ran up to meet him.

There was a heavy fog and the excursionists were so eager to see him, the boats pus.h.i.+ng close around, that before he could bear into the city, he was carried over the falls, and was picked up five miles below.

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