"THE HEART OF MARYLAND" is quite as elusive, geographically, as the
phrase is trite. After being lulled to sleep at Woodmont by the old
wartime song and awakened on a sunny morning by the carols of thrush
and mockingbird, we felt that the enchanted land of romance in the old
Cavalier commonwealth must indeed be near at hand.
We made no haste to leave the hospitable dock at Woodmont. The day was
ideal and our camera was chaffing under long idleness. I had passed
this point a score of times on daylight trains of the Baltimore and
Ohio railroad and longed for an opportunity to tarry here. On our
voyage in "Sometub" we realized the oft-repeated wish and made the most
of it.
A heartless motor, however, robbed the "heart of Maryland" of much of
its heartsomeness--for us. Leaving Woodmont about the middle of the
forenoon on Wednesday, July 19, we ran past the ancient settlement
of Sir John's Run, proceeded on under the shadow of Round Mountain,
in Maryland, and picturesque Lover's Leap, in West Virginia, and
glided into the prosperous looking town of Hancock shortly after 2
o'clock. Hancock gained fame in the winter of 1861-62 when Stonewall
Jackson, from the hills south of the Potomac, deigned to throw a few
shells into this Maryland village. It was not a sanguinary battle,
but at that early period in the war it was considered a bold thing
for the Confederate leader to do, and for the time being disturbed
the "alls-quiet-along-the-Potomac" that had become stereotyped in the
reports of the military situation farther down the stream. At Hancock
a short spur of the Baltimore and Ohio runs up to Berkley Springs, a
watering place that boasts of patronage by Virginia aristocrats back in
George Washington's time.
Resolved that we would forego the luxury of luncheon on board, we
tied up under the highway bridge, left "Sometub" in charge of the
toll-keeper and strolled into town. At the hotel we were too late
for dinner and were told that the dining room would not be open for
the service of supper until 6 o'clock. In desperation we sought a
restaurant--and in two minutes regretted that we had not prepared our
own luncheon on the boat.
[Illustration: Picturesque Water Mill Beside the Potomac]
Isn't it peculiar how the smallest trifles will alter the most
elaborate plans? A trifling ham sandwich in a two by four restaurant
caused us to evacuate Hancock forthwith. We had intended to remain here
a day or longer, run over to Berkley Springs and perhaps go fishing.
Instead we left town so precipitately that we forgot to stop at the
postoffice and ask if our mail had been forwarded.
* * * * *
A FEW miles east of Hancock is a wide-water a mile long in the canal
known as Little Pool, the channel being about the width of the
Monongahela river at the Smithfield street bridge. From Hancock to
this point we were obliged to stop frequently on account of grass that
clogged the propeller, and on entering Little Pool the obstruction
was so great that it was necessary to get out and tow several hundred
yards. When clear water was regained the motor began to show signs of
balking, and after a heart-rending effort to repair it on the towpath,
we threw the thing into the boat and paddled our way through the rural
hamlet of Millstone where housewives, milking their cows on the bank
of the canal, stared at us pityingly as we labored by. Cow stables and
pig stys on the berm bank offered no mooring place in the town, and we
plied the paddle until we reached a secluded stretch of woodland where
we could be alone in our chagrin over the obstinacy of the motor.
When we lighted our lantern we were annoyed for the first time by a
swarm of mosquitoes. We had been warned before the trip that these
insects on the canal were related to the Jersey "man-eaters" and would
make life miserable on our cruise. We were prepared for their ravages,
but fortunately a little breeze sprang up after nightfall and they gave
us no more trouble. They were the only militant mosquitoes that we saw
between Cumberland and Georgetown.
As if gloating over our discomfiture in having lost our motive power, a
double-bass bullfrog started in to make the night hideous. His favorite
singing dias was in the pool right under the bow of the boat. When a
stone was thrown in his direction he retreated into deep water, but
invariably returned. Late in the night I hit upon the expedient of
pouring a pint of 30-cent gasoline on the water. The croaker croaked no
more.
In the morning a little tinkering was rewarded by the motor showing
signs of renewing operations and we started in high hopes, but after
a few hundred rods it was apparent that we were making little speed
and we limped into the tiny hamlet of Ernestville where we stopped for
supplies and fresh water. Ernestville is a poor shopping center and
fresh water and kerosene were about all we could obtain.
Along this stretch of the canal it is paralleled for a considerable
distance by the old National Pike, which on this particular morning
was thronged by automobile tourists. As they sped by we knew that they
would be in Hagerstown in an hour. We wondered if we would reach there
in a day. It was apparent now that we must take our crippled motor to a
garage and Hagerstown was the nearest point where we could obtain the
services of a mechanic skilled in repairing marine engines. To reach
Hagerstown from the canal we decided to stop at Williamsport and this
was now our goal.
* * * * *
BIG POOL is a widewater where the canal broadens into a beautiful lake
nearly a mile wide and more than a mile long. Our balky motor pushed
us into this big sheet of water and then stopped with a derisive
screech. It was the ultimatum of a dry bearing and it was inexorable.
While we were floundering in the breeze and trying to paddle ashore,
a motorboat came alongside and its occupants inspected our equipment.
"Sometub" they liked immensely, but the engine perplexed them. We were
looking for neither advice nor sympathy and the stranger who acted very
superior and said, "I have a Koban," didn't improve his favor in our
eyes.
Then into our lives came a heroic figure. Just at that moment he
appeared the greatest man in the world--philanthropist, navigator,
philosopher! He was the skipper of Canal Boat No. 18 which swept
majestically down the pool. His boat appeared as big and formidable as
the new superdreadnaught Pennsylvania. Dexterous work with the paddle
enabled us to get in its lee. Up there on his quarterdeck stood the
skipper. I since believe that he must have resembled Noah, but to we
two--we felt like castaways--he was indeed a mighty admiral. But he was
the admiral of a friendly power and amid all his dignity there was a
benign expression also of stern consideration for a brother mariner in
distress. We gazed at him and his noble craft in mute appeal.
"Ketch the line!"
Like spent swimmers grasping for a straw, we seized the line and made
it fast. For the second time "Sometub" was humiliated by being towed by
a prosaic freight boat.
[Illustration: Above--Upper Level at Four Locks