THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS OF THE HUDSON RIVER.
Soon after leaving Port Chester, frequent explosions attracted my
attention, and when within two miles of Tarrytown I came to a cluster
of cheap shanties out in the woods, and found that it was the location
of Shaft No. 11 of the new aqueduct for New York city. This shaft was
only sixty feet deep, and as dump cars of rocks were constantly coming
up, and empty cars going down, I thought it would be a fine thing to
go down into the bowels of the earth. But no amount of entreaty, no
amount of newspaper influence behind me would induce the foreman to
give his consent without a permit from headquarters, so I rode over
to Tarrytown, hunted the city all over, and finally got the coveted
piece of paper from D. D. McBeau, the superintendent. I laid awake
half the night thinking of the grand chance before me, and started
off next morning from Sing Sing to Shaft One, eight miles directly
out of my way, over a hilly and muddy country. Here were more cheap
shanties off in the mountains and crowds of negroes and Italians
loafing around in the woods, waiting for their turn to go down to
work. Rum-holes were numerous and doing a thriving business. The
powder and oil clerk gave me an old coat and a pair of rubber boots
to put on, and when the empty car was ready I crawled over into it
and boldly stood up in the mud beside an Italian, who grinned and
said something I could not understand. While waiting for the bell
to ring I found this hole was 360 feet deep instead of sixty. That
information caused me to look over the side of the car down into the
dark where the loaded car comes up--the cars go up and down like the
buckets in a well--and try to imagine how far down a fellow would
go. If anything should break I did not suppose it would jar me much
more to drop 360 feet than it would sixty, but it was the uneasy
feeling falling during the longer interval that I began to believe I
would avoid. What would happen afterwards I never thought of, but it
was the long time going down so far before anything could happen that
troubled me. I did not want to run the risk of waiting so long. Then I
began to think of what they told me before I got into the car, how the
day before the cable slipped, a wheel or something dropped--I did not
mind much what they said I was so intent on getting into that car--and
how the brains of the man beneath were scooped up into a cigar-box
and taken away, and how twelve men were sitting on that cigar-box,
or all there was of the man's body below his shirt collar, at the same
time I was hanging over that black hole. I did not object so much to
being carried away in a cigar-box, or being sat upon afterwards, but
somehow I did not think it such a big thing to go down after all. I
began to imagine how it looked down there, and the more the workmen
urged me the less I wanted to go. It wouldn't pay anyhow. I could
just as well imagine how it looked and not go. All this time if the
bell had rung I should have had no choice, but I finally crawled out,
just in time, feeling very foolish, and returned the coat and boots
unsoiled. A mile farther I came to Croton dam and the head of the new
aqueduct. I may use that hard earned and once highly prized piece of
paper some other time when I feel more like it. A brief description
of this great work may not be uninteresting.
The present aqueduct runs near the Hudson River, but the rich property
holders along its course would combine to effectually prevent another
aqueduct from boring its way through their fine grounds, so the only
thing to be done was to go back five or six miles into the mountains
and tunnel the whole distance of thirty-five or forty miles. The
head of the two aqueducts are close together, but whereas the old
one winds along the banks of the Hudson on the surface, the new one
takes a straight course from New York, the first nine miles being
a bee line. Every mile or two holes are dug down into the mountain,
these shafts varying from 50 to 400 feet in depth, and then tunnels are
started out in opposite directions till they meet those being dug from
the next shaft. This tunnel goes through solid rock, under swamps and
ponds, through mountains, and finally passes under the Harlem River,
eighty feet beneath its bed, into the city. Think of a hole eighteen or
twenty feet in diameter being dug as far below the surface of the earth
as the Genius of Connecticut on the dome of the Capitol at Hartford is
above it; this hole going from Hartford down under the Meriden hills
and coming out at New Haven. How do those railroad tunnels through the
Alps compare with this? There are about twenty-five of these shafts,
and six or seven hundred men are constantly working, day and night,
down in the bowels of the earth. The tunnels are lighted by the
Schuyler Electric Light Company of Hartford. The average fall to New
York is eight inches to the mile, and the water will not run much
faster than a mile an hour. I have probably ridden over this tunnel
half a dozen times during the past two days, and every farmer along
its course for twenty-five miles knows about how far underneath him
these men are working. Frequently an explosion that shakes buildings
five miles away reminded me of what was going on.
Asking of a good woman to-day how much the bread and milk I had of
her would be, she replied, "Five or ten cents if thee is able to pay."
After a few minutes pleasant talk at Peekskill with Chief Consul
E. F. Hall, a slight built, dark complexioned gentleman of, perhaps,
30, wearing glasses, I hired a boatman and crossed the river, a
mile and a half wide at this place, to Jones's Point. This was done
partly to avoid the sandy roads running far east from the river to
Garrison's, but principally to get a better view of the entrance to
the Highlands. The sun was only half an hour high, but I loitered
along, never thinking of the night. The road which winds along the
side of the mountain was too stony to ride; but who would want his
attention diverted by riding when there was such grand scenery on
all sides? The West Shore trains were rushing up and down along the
river fifty feet almost perpendicularly below me, the Hudson River
trains on the opposite side were just as busy, and the sun brought
out the features of Anthony's nose with great distinctness as it rose
nearly 1,500 feet straight up from the east bank of the river. The
sun went down some time before I began to wonder if any farmers
lived along that rugged region, for not a house was in sight for
miles, but hearing some one chopping upon the side of the mountain
somewhere, I pushed my machine up a cow-path till my wind was all
gone, and found there was a house half a mile farther on. Coming to
the barn, in front of which a good looking woman of 30 was milking,
I told her how I hoped to reach West Point that night, but the rough
roads delayed me, and could I stay over night? The husband was inside,
she said, and seeing some one in there in the dark I retold my story,
only to find out I was talking to the hired man. Finally the husband,
who was in a box stall milking, came out and said "yes" without more
ado. The house was close to the river, and soon after supper was
over, and we were all sitting in the dining-room talking, a knock was
heard. The man of the house said "Come in," but no one came. Soon
the knock was repeated, with the same answer, and finally the door
slowly opened and a small, dried up, middle-aged man came shuffling
in, blinking and muttering "Is John here?" But John was not there; so
Walter sat down by the stove and immediately fell into a deep reverie,
occasionally arousing himself to inquire for John. Finally John came
in, and then it seems Walter wanted to be taken home in John's boat,
up the river about a mile. So John said, good naturedly, "Come out and
get in then," and walked across the gang-plank, out to where the boat
was moored. Walter started out into the bright moonlight, going very
unsteadily, and reached the gang-plank without any serious trouble,
but here he slowed up. The women-folks said "Help him across, John,"
but Walter started, very cautiously, without waiting for help, and had
got half way across when he stepped off into the air and went down
out of sight with a splash. John was so tickled he laid down in the
boat and roared, and when Walter came up, bareheaded and looking very
sleek, John couldn't stop laughing long enough to help him, leaving
him hanging there by the gang-plank in the water up to his neck,
sputtering, "Zis the river John, zis the river?" But poor Walter was
soon helped out, wrapped up in blankets, and taken home in the boat.
The ride next morning of five or six miles to West Point was over a
road that would compare favorably with the best city roads, and after
spending an hour about the grounds, seeing all the captured Mexican
cannons, and wondering where the captured cannons of the war of 1812
were--I guess that was not a very good war for capturing cannons--I
crossed to Garrison's and found a road that for fifty miles, and
probably farther, is as fine as there is anywhere about Boston. The
grades are easy, the coasting so perfect I almost forgot there was
a brake on the machine. For miles and miles fine rows of elms and
maples line the sides of the road. To say I enjoyed it seems tame. At
Cold Spring I explained the workings of the cyclometer to a gentleman,
and opposite the "Cro' Nest," meeting the same one again, he returned
the favor by showing me the situation of the Storm King Bridge, that
is soon to be built. It is at the northern entrance to the Highlands
and at one of the wildest parts of the whole river. On both sides are
high mountains with bold fronts, the one on the east jutting out into
the river. Around this projection there is just room enough for one
team to pass between the rocks and the river, the railroad tunneling
through the rocks at this point. It is to be a cantilever bridge,
and, if I understand it, is to be built nearly a mile in length and
upon four or five piers. These iron piers are raised to the height
of nearly 250 feet above the river, but how deep the river is at this
point I did not learn. At other points it is 200 feet and over. When
these piers are at the required height an arm or span is built out
in one direction and another of equal length in the other direction,
and so on till the spans meet in the center between the piers. It
is like building four or five immense capital T's and extending the
arms out till they meet. Imagine those men up in the air 250 feet,
and working out on the end of one of those immense spans 500 feet
from the center of the pier. At Po'keepsie I found quite a nest of
wheelmen at the office of the Buckeye shops, a policeman escorting
me to the place to the evident delight of all the small boys,
who thought I was under arrest. Representative Adriance is a tall,
sandy complexioned gentleman of 35 or 40, with a full beard, and
Captain Edward A. King is dark complexioned and smooth, full faced,
and under 25. Both of these gentlemen treated me very cordially, as did
others there, and I would be glad to be walked off by a policeman any
time to meet such fine fellows in a strange city. Saturday morning,
after crossing from Rhinecliff to Kingston and traveling twelve
miles over some sandy roads that would have been impassable but for a
fair side-path, I found, upon reaching Saugerties, that I had made a
mistake by not going up the east side and crossing to the same point,
but forgot all about it as the terraced Catskills came in view. At
Palenville the hard work commenced, pushing the machine to the top,
and, after two hours of sweating and puffing, I arrived. Since a boy I
had been told there was plenty of room at the top, and so I found it,
1,200 of them, all empty. Notwithstanding that fact, I was obliged to
take an apartment on the first floor front, that is, the piazza. The
board was very plain, too. The one under me was not only planed but
painted. I did not stay long.
Distance traveled in six days, 251 miles.