NARROW ESCAPE IN A ROW AT BALTIMORE.
ABOUT the middle of March I concluded to take a tour to Baltimore,
Harper’s Ferry, Antietam Battle-field, Hagerstown and Harrisburg: at all
of which places—and especially ANTIETAM—I had been before. I intended to
occupy three or four weeks, and made arrangements to act meantime as
correspondent for a paper.
Nothing unusual happened to me on the way to Baltimore, except that on
looking from a car window at Havre de Grace, a small particle of cinder
from the engine flew into my eye; which kept it red and inflamed, and
furnished me with first-class pain, at intervals, for the ensuing two
weeks.
A bit of cinder from a locomotive, with all its “fine points,” is, I
think, the severest thing that can work its way into a man’s optic
organ. Had railroads been in vogue in the days of King John, what a
point young Arthur might have made, when remonstrating with Hubert who
had been authorized to burn his eyes out with a red-hot poker, and
eloquently descanting on the sensitiveness of the eye, by reminding him
how it felt even when a cinder from a locomotive got into it. For
example, how would the passage read in this shape?——
“O, heaven! that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand’ring hair,
_Or the ten-thousandth part of a dead spark
From the smoke-stack of a lo-com’-o-tive_;
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible!”
It will be perceived that the two lines in italics are my (John Smith’s)
own production: the rest is Shakspeare’s. I will not venture to predict
what critics will say of the relative merits of the two authors in this
case.
As the trains from Philadelphia enter Baltimore, they cross a wide,
clean, quiet street, called “Broadway.” It bears no resemblance to the
Broadway of New York, as it is occupied chiefly by private dwellings.
The trains always stop there a minute or two to allow those who wish to
get off. This street runs north and south and of course crosses
Baltimore street, the principal business thoroughfare, which runs east
and west. The Baltimore-street railway extends down Broadway, and as
several cars are always in waiting when trains arrive, many passengers
get off the train here, take a street-car, and ride into the heart of
the city. I always do so when I visit the “Monumental city.” I did so on
this occasion, having first instructed the baggage-express agent to send
my trunk to my hotel.
As I jumped from the train, (before it had quite stopped,) and walked
toward the street-car that stood waiting on Broadway, a soldier
approached me, and tapping me familiarly on the shoulder, said:
“Why, Locke! how are you?”
I saw at a glance that he had mistaken me for some one else, and soberly
replied:
“I believe this isn’t I.”
“O, so it isn’t! Excuse me,” he said, perceiving his mistake and
laughing at my joke.
I got into a crowded car and rode to my hotel on West Baltimore street;
for the principal street is divided into East and West Baltimore streets
by a canal, which it crosses near the center of the city.
Having a week or two before me, with very little to do, I determined to
see all the places of interest in the vicinity, for I had, theretofore,
neglected to visit them, although I had frequently been in Baltimore. I
had never even visited the Washington Monument there.
Here let me commend Baltimore for being the only city that has ever
erected a monument to the memory of that pure-hearted patriot to whom we
are indebted for our liberties and free institutions—GEORGE WASHINGTON!
Baltimore has another monument which was erected in honor of the
Maryland soldiers who fell in the war of 1812; and is hence styled the
“Monumental City.”
The Washington Monument is indeed quite a fine structure. It is built of
marble to the height of about two hundred feet, and its top is adorned
with a large statue of the “Father of His Country.” Within, is a spiral
stairway of stone, like that in the Bunker Hill Monument; but it is not
lighted with gas, nor has it any embrasures for the admission of air and
daylight. The superintendent, or some one employed for the purpose,
accompanies each visitor, who wishes to ascend, carrying a lantern. He
may well be termed a man who has a great many “ups and downs” in the
world. From the top of this monument, the view of the city is excellent;
almost every house in it can be seen.
Of course, I visited this monument, but as nothing extraordinary
occurred, and especially nothing funny, I will not entertain the reader
with a full description of my visit, nor of the monument itself.
I was always fond of rowing, and as the weather was mild and pleasant
next day, I concluded to go down to the harbor, hire a boat and take a
row. I was told that I could get one at the foot of a little street
running obliquely toward the piers from the junction of Broadway and
Pratt streets, the latter being the street on which the Philadelphia
trains run into the city—and I took a street-car and went down.
When I asked the man for the boat, he looked at my crutch and said:
“Can you row?”
I told him that reminded me of a lady friend of mine, who shortly after
my return from the “field of glory,” asked me if I didn’t find my
corporeal defect very inconvenient about eating. “Why shouldn’t I row?”
said I. “A man don’t hold the oars with his toes, any more than he holds
his knife and fork in them when eating at the table—which would look
rather odd, and render it necessary for him instead of sitting in the
usual manner to take a somewhat novel position.”
No further doubts were expressed as to my ability to row, and I got into
a fifty-cents-an-hour boat, and rowed out into the harbor.
“Be careful,” was the owner’s admonition as I pulled away, “that you
don’t get caught in a squall and be driven away. The weather is
uncertain in March.”
“No danger,” I replied, and my boat glided out to where there was a
stiff breeze blowing, and was soon dancing on the waves.
I moved toward the southeast a mile or so, rested awhile near a ship
that was lying at anchor, and had a chat with one of the mates. I was
beginning to pull away from the ship, when I heard an excited voice
toward my right sing out:
“Look out there! Where the deuce are you going?”
Immediately followed a confusion of voices, the ringing of bells, and
the shriek of a steam whistle. I turned in the direction, and was
somewhat alarmed to discover that I was about to cross the bow of a
propeller, that came dashing along. Had I pulled the oars but once more,
nothing would have saved me from being run down. My boat would have been
shivered to pieces, I would have been stunned and my chances of being
saved from a watery grave would have been as one against a hundred. With
all the presence of mind I could command, I “backed oars,” and checked
my boat, which of its own accord turned side-wise; and the propeller
rushed by at such a trifling distance from me as to strike the blade of
my right-hand oar.
“Whew! my young man,” said the mate with whom I had been talking—for he
still stood by the bulwark—“you came near going down.”
I fully realized this, and quite satisfied with my row, put back for
shore. The wind had increased, and I now noticed, for the first time,
that some dark clouds were coming from the west. I had a good mile to
row against the wind, which, as well as the waves, was every moment
increasing in violence. I was yet a quarter of a mile from the dock in
which the boat belonged, when a regular squall came on. Then I had a
time of it. Throwing off my coat and hat, and placing them in the bottom
of the boat, I grasped my oars and pulled away with all the strength and
energy I possessed. I made rather slow time, and when within one hundred
yards of port, perceived that I was just making out to lie still against
the wind. I was nearly exhausted, and felt like throwing down my oars in
despair; but seeing what a short distance was yet to be accomplished, I
nerved myself for a final effort; and such a battle as I had with the
wind and waves no one need want to engage in. After ten minutes of the
most strenuous exertion, I arrived in the dock, trembling from
exhaustion, perspiring from exercise, and wet all over with spray.
I concluded, taking my narrow escape into consideration, that rowing in
the harbor was no delightful recreation, and solemnly vowed never again
to venture out there in a row-boat. I kept my word faithfully till next
afternoon; when the weather being very delightful, I broke it, went out
again, and had a very pleasant row in the same boat.
At four o’clock one evening I left Baltimore for Harper’s Ferry, _via_
the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, having first sent my trunk back to
Philadelphia by express. I arrived at Harper’s Ferry by nine o’clock. A
great many soldiers were there—for it will be recollected that the war
was not yet ended—and I found it difficult to secure a comfortable
lodging. Every private house was acting the part of an hotel, furnishing
supper to many soldiers and a few sorry-looking travelers; while those
desiring a night’s lodging were packed into rooms at the rate of from
seven to twenty-seven in each.
By paying a few dollars extra, talking politely, and pretending that I
was not in the best of health—although I eat an astonishing supper for
an invalid—I succeeded in securing a small room to myself, to which I
retired immediately after supper; and having carefully fastened the
door, I lay down on a clean bed and slept comfortably till the morning.