Two miles an hour is top speed for a laden canal boat and No. 18's
tired mules kept well inside this limit. At the end of the towline
we nosed along in perfect complacency. We chatted with the skipper,
admired the scenery, examined our maps of the route, chaffed the
villagers, ate our luncheon, jogged the motor, read a little, took
short naps and made ourselves absolutely comfortable. Our only effort
was to keep on the shady side of the boat, for the weather was the
hottest we had endured. As a remedy for tired nerves I can testify to
the curative qualities of canalboating.
The skipper was a man of parts. He had run the canal for more than
20 years. He had walked every inch of the towpath from Cumberland to
Washington every hour of the day and night and he declared that he
could pace those 184 miles with his eyes blindfolded. He recognized
every hill and house and tree and could tell their history. He knew all
the neighborhood gossip, and all the neighbors knew him.
Toward the end of the drowsy afternoon we floated into the little
village of Four Locks which takes its name from the fact that a chain
of four locks are here. No. 18 cast us off and we prepared to paddle
through. To our surprise the motor condescended to run. At the time I
was ready to believe that it heard the mule driver's sublime cussing
and was frightened into obedience.
With the motor running again we soon passed No. 18 and snorted off
around a sharp bend, through Two Locks where we were lowered into the
waters of the Potomac. I say "snorted" advisedly. "Sometub" exhibited
colt-like behavior when unleashed from the slow-moving canal craft.
The towpath follows the northern bank of the river and the boats hug
the shore closely, but we careened far out into the stream. "Sometub"
had found a nautical playground more spacious than it had ever enjoyed
before.
After a two-mile run on the river we entered another lock and once more
were confined to the comparatively narrow channel of the canal. We
found all conditions favorable and at sunset we crossed the great stone
aqueduct over the winding Conococheague and a few minutes later tied up
at the Williamsport lock.
I was now on familiar ground. Eleven years before I had visited
historic Williamsport in quest of newspaper "feature stories," and a
decade had witnessed but little change in the place. In the early days
of the Federal government Williamsport was a pretentious bidder as
the seat for the national capital. In the Civil War it was a sort of
Pryzmyl, having been taken and retaken by the armies of both the north
and the south, but the town itself was of no importance except as the
key to strategic positions beyond. Here in June, 1863, the vanguard
of Lee's conquering legions crossed the Potomac when they swept down
the Shenandoah and crossed triumphantly into Pennsylvania, and here
less than a month later their ragged columns made a bold stand against
Meade's victorious forces while the retreating Confederates waited for
the flood to subside so that they could withdraw into Virginia. Along
the street that leads down to the river are many of the old houses
whose walls resounded with the tread of those valiant armies--Union and
Confederate. In those houses, too, many a soldier suffered the agony
of wounds received in the desperate charges at Gettysburg. Of those
southern heroes who raced with death from that immortal field, scores
gave up their lives here in sight of their native Virginia hills.
Williamsport today is another of those outposts for supplying alcoholic
drinks to bleary-eyed pilgrims from West Virginia and in consequence
does not afford hotel accommodations for the ordinary traveler. After
trying in vain to get dinner, we boarded a trolley car and 40 minutes
later reached Hagerstown where we stopped for the night, enjoying the
solid luxury of a "room with bath connecting."
* * * * *
AMONG Hagerstown's well known business men is Mr. Walter E. Pattison, a
former Pittsburgher. We sent him a grape-vine telegram of our advent in
town and on coming down from breakfast in the morning he hailed us with
a motorcar and an invitation for a drive through Greater Hagerstown. We
accepted with alacrity, remembering the tedious hours of the previous
day, and made no objection when the chauffeur cut up didoes with the
Maryland speed limit.
Mr. Pattison accompanied us to Williamsport in the afternoon to see
"Sometub" and to join a little reunion with Col. George W. McCardell,
the veteran editor of the Williamsport _Leader_. Editor McCardell had
been looking for me for eleven years and we were somewhat in doubt as
to the outcome of the interview. The reason for his desire to lay hands
on me was, as nearly as I can remember, the following paragraph which
was printed over my name in the Pittsburgh _Gazette_ in the summer of
1905:
The Williamsport Leader is more than a journalistic
enterprise--it is a well founded institution. It is the
oracle of rockribbed Democracy, the unflinching champion of
pure Jeffersonism and unfaltering Andyjacksonism.... The
editor will take two pairs of Maryland frying-size chickens
on subscription, but of his Virginia subscribers he requires
three pairs in advance because, he says, the Maryland
pullets are better and more tender.
I resolved to meet the editor and finish the argument. Mr. Pattison
led the way to a new and prosperously attractive sanctum. It was
publication day--Friday--and Col. McCardell, after a strenuous week,
stood with folded arms beside an imposing stone with type still wet
from the day's "run." My wife, who embodies the traditions of five
generations of the editor's brand of politics but who stood ready to
defend the quality of Virginia chicken against the world, was the first
to enter the den of the journalistic lion. It was a clever ruse on
Mr. Pattison's part, for first of all Col. McCardell is a chivalrous
southern gentleman. Why, of course, Virginia fried chicken is the
finest in the land. And Virginia women compose the very flower of
American womanhood. Their presence here is welcomed like the May-time
sunshine. The Potomac ripples softly when they cross the river and in
the trees on the Maryland shore the summer zephyrs sing sweet benisons
to the fair daughters of the Old Dominion.
And when I entered the feud of eleven years had vanished. I could only
blush and bow my acknowledgements.
With fond good-byes to Col. McCardell and Mr. Pattison we departed in
the mid-afternoon bound for Mercerville by twilight in the hope that
we would have the following day to spend on Antietam battlefield. But
we had not reckoned with the elements. Four miles below Williamsport
a terrific storm burst upon us. So sudden was the tempest that we
were obliged to tie to the towpath bank to prevent the furious gales
of wind from capsizing the boat. For a few minutes it seemed that our
canopy would be torn to tatters. Our lines gave way and I climbed out
to steady the heaving craft. Then it rained in such torrents that
it momentarily took away my breath. Vivid flashes of lightning and
deafening thunder followed in instant succession. The wind wrenched big
sycamores from their roots and they crashed across the miry towpath
like jackstraws thrown by an angry giant. The storm lasted more than
an hour but a steady patter of rain followed. Our supplies stored
under the deck and protected by the poncho were dry, but our clothes
were dripping and the temperature had turned chill and raw. Darkness
was coming on and we prepared to tie up for the night. How bright and
warm looked the blue flame from the canned alcohol while we boiled our
coffee!
It was a gloomy outlook, but southern hospitality which proved the
silver lining to every dark cloud on our cruise, once more intervened.
A farmer rode down the towpath and invited us to go to his house for
the night. Our good Samaritan was Mr. J. H. Wine, whose home nestles
snugly under the mountain beside the canal. We accepted with haste that
we hoped would indicate our extreme gratitude and soon had our dripping
duds spread out on the backs of chairs before the range in the spacious
kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Wine tendered us the guest room and we sought
slumber early. Only the outdoor enthusiast would have been worthy of
the frugal breakfast in the morning. We thanked our good hosts and
prepared to depart. The question of remuneration for favors invariably
was spurned by the hospitable people on the canal.
The sun came out gloriously and we hoped to reach Mercerville by
noon. We did, but there the motor balked again and we spent two hours
trying to fix it. We gave up the thought of visiting Antietam and
about the time the shadows began to lengthen, started solemnly toward
Shepherdstown, five honest miles down the canal. We paddled and towed
alternately, making even slower progress than in the wake of No. 18.
Darkness came on and we were still on the lonely path. About 9 o'clock
we reached a lock and were told that Shepherdstown was still a mile
beyond. A storm was gathering and the lockmaster invited us to tie up
and spend the night in his house notwithstanding that it would place
several members of his large family at an inconvenience. We agreed to
leave the boat, but insisted on going to Shepherdstown where we could
find a hotel and a garage mechanic.
* * * * *
AGAINST the protests of the lockmaster and his wife we lighted our
lantern and started down the lonely towpath. Black clouds obscured the
sky and we stumbled along at times having difficulty in keeping on the
path. Flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder betokened a storm that
would rival the one on the previous night. Our lantern's flickering
light only intensified the darkness but the lightning frequently
assisted us when its glare illuminated the entire landscape.
In our race with the storm we were the first under the wire. Fleeing
across the bridge over the Potomac we breathlessly climbed the hill
and along a dark street to the center of the town whither we had
been directed to the hotel. Suddenly we rounded a corner into an
electric-lighted thoroughfare and stood before the entrance of the
Rumsey House. Our clothes were wrinkled and we were splashed with
mud from head to foot. We still carried our lighted lantern and the
crowd at the hotel gazed at us with expressions twixt curiosity and
amazement. The proprietor was moved to commiseration.
"Come in here, you-all, right away," he said.