Perhaps the most disheartening of all bad-road experiences is that of
losing the way--a thing which happened with perverse frequency. Just
imagine yourself a member of such a caravan. You have slept four hours
out of sixteen and are crawling along in the face of a drenching,
blinding rainstorm--soaked, hungry and dazed. The caravan has halted a
dozen times in the forepart of the night to pull out wagons and repair
breakdowns. But it halts again, and the word "lost" is passed back
along the line of wagons. This means retracing the route back to the
forks of the road miles in the rear. Many an old circus man has wished
himself dead on hearing the word "lost" under these conditions.
After one of these disheartening experiences, when we were obliged to
"right about face" and drive the poor, jaded horses back over the same
road along which they had made their useless but painful pilgrimage, I
clambered up to the top of the tent wagon, stretched out on the
jolting, shaking heap of canvas, and was soon oblivious to fatigue and
discouragement. My next conscious impression was that of a sudden
crashing of timbers, the squealing of frightened horses and the
sensation of falling. Then I felt myself plunging into the icy waters
of a little stream into which the heavy show wagon and all its contents
had been precipitated by the breaking of a bridge. It seems almost
miraculous that I should have escaped falling under the mass of tents
on which I had been sleeping, but in some way I was thrown to one side
and contrived to reach the shore in safety.
It is usual, in arranging the season's route, for a circus to make all
the "big jumps" on Sundays; and it not infrequently happens that from
three hundred to five hundred miles are covered between Saturday and
Monday. This arrangement is very convenient in many ways. It may take
you out of a country that is overrun with opposition shows into one
where you may have the whole field to yourself, or it may take you to a
part of the country where the climate has forced the harvests and
therefore placed more money in circulation than usual.
As a general thing circus employes are not in love with Sunday runs
for, commodious as their cars are, they are not exactly fitted up to
enable all occupants to loll lazily around and enjoy a luxurious ride.
If the day happens to be rainy, most of them lie in their beds and
content themselves with reading, with an occasional chat, argument or
light lunch, and in this way endeavor to pass the time as best they
can. If, however, the day happens to be a fine one, then at daybreak
comes a mighty exodus from the sleeping cars. Cozy nooks are singled
out and made comfortable by pressing into service all available shawls,
rugs, etc. Those physically strong enough to brave the exposure make
for the tops of stock and box cars where, lolling at ease, they discuss
sundry topics of interest and revel in the ride through the country.
Others select places underneath the chariots and cages which are loaded
on the flat cars, and thus, sheltered from the sun, spend a delightful
time. Once, at least, during the day, a stop of a couple of hours is
made to enable the horses and animals to be fed and watered, and
advantage is taken of this interval by the performers and other
attaches to stretch themselves and also to cater to their own personal
wants. Both comic and serious accidents are frequently the result of
carelessness during these runs, as the following examples prove:
In one long run between Springfield, Mo., and Mattoon, Ill., one of our
men was standing erect on the top of a car, when a telegraph wire
caught him under his chin and cut his head completely off, as though
done by the surgeon's knife. On that same trip my watchman, Nelse, had
the misfortune to have his straw hat blow off his head. The hat rolled
gently along the top of the flat car and finally rolled off and fell on
the side track. Immediately the watchman jumped to the ground, snatched
up the hat, and leaped unhurt on the last car, although the train was
making nearly twenty miles an hour. Probably the hat cost him
originally fifty cents.
Of all the Sunday runs I ever took, however, I recall one that was
especially pleasant. It took place back in the seventies, and was a run
of some three hundred miles across an Indian reservation between a town
in Kansas and another in southern Texas. The day was beautiful, and as
we bowled along the prairie I felt that the "stillness"--comparatively
speaking--(so seldom enjoyed by circus people) was most refreshing. I
don't suppose there ever was a country-bred boy who lived long enough
to forget how, in his younger days, the Sabbath seemed, always, a day
of stillness and quiet. The cessation of all business and the chiming
of church bells produced an effect that could not fail of indelible
impression; and that Sunday morning ride over the reservation brought
back the scenes of childhood to many a rough and rugged circus man.
Towards noon we halted and erected cooking tents and stables. The
horses and animals were looked after and a dinner was cooked by the
attaches. After dinner they formed congenial knots and strolled around
while the "hash slingers" washed the dishes and the men once more
loaded up. We carried at that time an excellent troupe of Jubilee
singers, and with the light heart and impressionable feelings of their
race, they burst into song, alternating their quaint camp meeting songs
with others in which the majority of the attaches could join. The band,
too, caught the infection and produced their instruments and we enjoyed
a vocal and instrumental feast. Just at dusk, when the stars were
beginning to appear, before starting for the night's run, the "Jubes"
sang "Nearer, My God, to Thee" to the full accompaniment of the band
and with a refrain swelled by every one able to sing. I have, in the
course of my travels, visited many grand concerts and operas, but their
most solemn and sacred effects are dwarfed into absolute insignificance
compared with that of this impromptu performance. The rolling prairie,
the beautiful trees, the perfect weather, the joyous spirits of every
one present, the melodious voices of the Jubilee singers, and the grand
strains produced by thirty skilled musicians, combined to produce music
such as man seldom hears--that, on account of its spontaneity, thrilled
the hearts of all present, then seemed to go right up to heaven, and
"die amid the stars."
"All aboard!" is shouted, and every one climbs into the car. The
whistle sounds and off you go, past miles of beautiful scenery and
occasional Indian villages. Everything is quiet and every one seems to
be "drinking in" the beauty of the scene or sits lost in thought. No
more singing or playing. All seem to be so solemnly impressed with that
last grand hymn that the silence is unbroken. That Sunday run will
always stay in my memory! With quiet "good-nights" one after another
slipped off to bed to awake to another day's hurry and bustle.
V