OF THOSE ghosts that are simply ghosts I have no fear. Some persons
whistle when they pass country graveyards after dark in order, they
say, to keep up courage; for the same reason I sometimes whistle
on Broadway. Specters are harmless if they do not assume material
form. The apparitions on the Chesapeake and Ohio canal towpath soon
lost their ethereal quality in our vision and the unearthly noise
that accompanied their manifestation translated itself into "you
black-hearted, ornery, low-lifed beggar--geddap!"
There was a familiar rattle of harness. The specters moved again, but
more quickly this time. Against the black infiniteness of the mountains
across the river were the shadowy forms of a pair of gray mules hitched
in tandem. Wearily they plodded off, and moving slowly, tediously,
silently behind them a canal boat followed along at the end of an
invisible towline.
A canal boat at night is a great hulk of hush. Its silence is
positively uncanny. A few ripples momentarily disturb the placid
surface of the water but as they swirl around the craft they seem to
beckon a state of funereal quietude. You can hardly blame the midnight
driver of the canal boat for his profane vociferousness in addressing
his mules. His voice alone breaks the death-like stillness. After the
lock has been passed and the patient animals take up their gait, even
he is overcome by the environment and relapses into drowsy silence.
At intervals through the night other specters appeared over there
on the towpath and their advent invariably was heralded by the same
hair-raising shouts. The noise of cussing the poor mules followed
as certainly as the agonizing "low music" during tense moments in a
melodrama.
Tardy dawn ushered in a gloomy day. We placed our "canned heat" range
on a lumber pile beside the North Branch lockhouse and had our coffee
and bacon progressing satisfactorily toward the proper elements of an
al fresco breakfast when rain began to fall. We retreated to the boat.
The rain continued unabated and we breakfasted on board. Inasmuch as
we were obliged to keep the curtains down and tuck the baggage under a
poncho, it was impracticable--we thought--to proceed on our journey.
The locktender's office at North Branch has seen service for more than
half a century. We can testify to this because after we had sought its
shelter and read all the magazines bought on the beginning of the trip
we turned to a perusal of the lockmaster's records. These books date
back to the 60's and it was fascinating to read on the faded pages
the entries for the boats and cargoes of a by-gone era. The boats now
operating are distinguished by numbers from 1 to 100, but in the old
days they bore names, suggestive, no doubt, of their architecture and
other characteristics, or of the ambition of their owners.
Noon brought no cessation of the rain. We ate luncheon in the office.
"Star boarders" could not have reported more promptly at meal time.
Good appetites were the most encouraging features of this portion of
the trip. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon the skies cleared slightly
and in a few minutes we resumed our voyage. The three locks at North
Branch, Nos. 75, 74 and 73, respectively, were negotiated in less than
15 minutes and we found ourselves on "Oldtown level."
In the language of the boatmen and the denizens of the canal country
all geographical distinctions are made strictly "on the level." A
"level," we learned, is that stretch of the canal between two given
locks. From Cumberland to Georgetown (Washington) there are 75 locks,
and consequently the same number of levels, plus one.
There is an ancient and honorable superstition to the effect that the
person who sets out on a journey and turns back is certain to meet
with disappointment. Ten minutes after we departed from North Branch
we remembered that we had left our maps behind in the lockmaster's
office. The maps, United States Geological Survey quadrangles,
were indispensable and we turned back. Prompt and speedy came our
disappointment.
* * * * *
OLDTOWN LEVEL is about 10 miles long. We estimated that we could reach
Oldtown village in about two hours. While the idle hours had dragged
along in the sleepy hamlet of North Branch we looked forward longingly
to Oldtown. The name sounded enchanting and moreover we were told
that we could procure gasoline, groceries and our favorite brands of
confectionery there. After running merrily about seven miles our motor
stopped cold. No amount of coaxing would make it run. Gathering clouds
betokened a resumption of the rain. No human habitation was in sight.
The motor's affliction was difficult of diagnosis, but its trouble
appeared to be serious. I had just made up my mind that the boat would
have to be paddled or towed to the end of the level when Canal Boat
No. 14 eased along. The skipper inquired we were "in trouble." It was
mere charity and politeness of him to ask, because the expression on
our faces must have told him that we regarded our condition as one of
dire distress.
"His en-jine's done busted," shouted the little ragged muleteer as he
passed us on his plodding animals.
"Ketch the line," advised the skipper, while we grasped the piece of
rope he tossed toward us. Making his rope fast to a cleat on the bow we
saw "Sometub" humiliated by being towed at the stern of a slow-moving
freight boat towed in turn by two decrepit mules. "Sometub" felt the
disgrace keenly and jerked about like an unbroken colt that feels a
rein for the first time. Only strenuous use of the paddle as a steering
oar kept the proud little boat in the channel. In this way we moved
stupidly into Oldtown. An hour and a half was required to go less than
three miles.
On reaching the lock at Oldtown it was apparent that there would not
be room between the gates to accommodate both the canal boat and
"Sometub," and the skipper cast us off in a fashion so uncermonious
that we floated in his wake feeling like unbidden guests at a feast.
The big freight boat glided away, leaving us on the wrong side of the
gate. You know how sometimes you turn and drive away the homeless dog
that sheepishly follows you down the street? Well, we felt placed in
the situation of the homeless dog.
It was the first time in my life that I experienced a sincere desire to
embrace the teachings of anarchy. After the canal boat had started on
its way Mr. Carter, the lockmaster, returned to inquire into our wants.
"What are you going to do with us?" I asked him.
"Lock you through," he answered. "Give me your line and I'll tow you
in. Then you can tie up over there and stop at my house all night.
My wife will have a nice hot supper for you. The gentleman who runs
the store up on the hill has an automobile and knows a lot about gas
engines. I know he'll be delighted to fix up your machine."
It was hard to believe that he meant what he said. He had enunciated
that kind of hospitality which I had thought no longer existed except
in books that sell at $1.08. My wife, however, did not share my
skepticism. Here was good old-fashioned southern hospitality and she
emphasized the fact with some pride that we were now well over the
Mason & Dixon line and might expect cordiality to be something more
than a meaningless phrase. She rushed across the towpath to chat with
the lockmaster's wife and daughters while Mr. Carter towed "Sometub"
through the lock and found a suitable place to tie up on the berm bank
of the short level.
* * * * *
OLDTOWN, I believe, was called Oldtown even in its younger days. I
believe also that now in its boast of municipal veneration it looks
younger than it did in its youth. The wrinkled visage of great age is
in strange contrast with its modern affectations. Personify it and you
would have the picture of a centenarian doing a fox trot. Oldtown is
one of the oldest settlements in western Maryland and it dwelt on in
a kind of proud senility until West Virginia went "dry." Being on the
border Oldtown possessed a situation of peculiar strategic value. It
afforded the opportunity for the establishment of an exceedingly "wet"
outpost, and the opportunity did not go begging. In consequence the
chief enterprise of Oldtown is slaking the thirsts of West Virginians
from many miles up and down the Potomac. The structures that domicile
these establishments form a cluster of new buildings that gives Oldtown
something of the appearance of a boom town in the west. A sincere
opponent of the liquor traffic would be justified in saying that
Oldtown is in its second childhood.
With many thanks we declined the hospitality of the whole-souled
lockmaster and his family and cooked our dinner in a drizzling rain
and "tinkered" on the motor until after midnight. The knowledge that
we were among friends enabled us to make ourselves comfortable for the
night regardless of the weather.
In the morning we were awakened by a call from Mr. Carter. He came
to give me "a lift" with the motor. As a last forlorn hope I gave
the flywheel a twirl--and it went! We made all haste to depart and
before the sun had reached the mountain tops we were under way. With
good behavior on the part of the motor "Sometub" is the spryest young
boat you ever saw, and on this Tuesday, July 18th, we made our record
run. The sky was cloudless and out in the meadows we watched farmers
and harvest hands sweltering in the broiling sun, but in the shade of
the stately trees that form an arch over the canal in this region we
enjoyed a delightful atmosphere. Steep cliffs enclose the north bank
of the canal and over these in luxuriant profusion were seemingly
endless brambles of blackberry vines burdened with luscious ripe fruit.
For luncheon we skirted the cliffs and picked a dish of berries which
with crackers and tea enabled us to have a unique and delicious repast
without tying up the boat.
Our logbook for this day contains nevertheless many entries of enforced
stops. Wild grass growing up in the bottom of the canal checked us
frequently and necessitated removing long coils that choked the
propeller. Shortly after noon we reached the tunnel which carries the
waters of the canal for seven-eighths of a mile under one of the lofty
ridges of the Alleghanies. The channel is barely wide enough to allow
the passage of a single craft and we knew that we must hold the right
of way or back out in case we should meet a canal boat. The tunnel has
no lights and when you get into its depths it is a veritable black hole
in the ground.
Fixing our red and green running lights we started bravely in, but
after going a dozen yards we struck windrows of grass and weeds which
made it impossible for our propeller to turn. There was but one thing
to do, and I climbed out on the narrow shelf of a towpath and took the
end of the line while my better, and on this occasion, less nervous
half, caught up the paddle and steered. The towpath in the tunnel is
intended only for mules. In many places are mountain springs whose
icy waters trickle down through the old brick walls and transform the
towpath into soft mire that is knee deep. It was the longest seven
furlongs I ever trod and I came out of the tunnel with a feeling of
profound respect for the canal boat mule.
Our cruise during the remainder of the afternoon was delightful. Here
is the wildest scenery in the upper Potomac valley and there are few
settlements. The locktenders were the only persons we saw for hours
at a time and the locks were few. Likewise on this part of our run
we passed no boats. We felt real neighborly toward the train crews
on the Baltimore and Ohio and Western Maryland railroads when they
condescended to look at us as they sped past. For miles, however, no
railroad was in sight.
* * * * *
A COUNTRY store keeper at Little Orleans, who dealt in everything from
women's "fashionable gowns" to fresh fish and from "near beer" to
gasoline, enabled us to continue our voyage without delay. From him we
purchased a supply of gasoline, oil and tobacco--three important items
for the "engine room." When the motor is out of order the consumption
of tobacco is particularly heavy.
In the twilight we passed the village of Pearre and at dark drew up
alongside the dock of the Woodmont Hunting and Fishing Club. Dinner
was late this night but the weather was perfect and no fashionable
restaurant could have offered more inviting surroundings for the diner
with an appetite whetted by a day of toil in the great outdoors. We
sat in the boat and used the dock for a table. And we would not have
exchanged the privilege for the finest mahogany ever turned out!
We were in Dixie now, sure enough. On the clubhouse porch up on the
hill a party of young people were holding a dance which was enlivened
by singing oldtime songs that recalled our presence in the beloved
Southland. As two tired voyagers dropped off to slumber they heard the
sweet strains of an inspiring melody that floated on the still night
air far across the Potomac hills--
_For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland, my Maryland!_