If it had been a yacht in which we were speeding along at the rate of a
trifle over a mile per minute, we should have "taken our reckoning,"
"hove the log," or done something nautical, and the captain would
doubtless have reported in regular sea-faring terms that we were off Oil
City with Lake Chautauqua so and so many knots on our port quarter.
But it wasn't a yacht, nor a schooner, nor a Conestoga wagon, lightning
express or catamaran, in which we were travelling neck and neck with one
of the wildest looking storm clouds of hot mid-summer.
No. It was--can you guess it? Yes, a _balloon_.
And this is how it all came about:
Fourth of July came upon the _fifth_ that year, (because of some strange
oversight on the part of the folks who first hit upon the plan of
dividing time into weeks, somehow the Fourth will, every once in a while,
strike Sunday.)
[Illustration: INFLATING THE "BUFFALO."]
At least it did in Cleveland; and although they were a day late, the
Clevelanders determined to have a big time. So they had sent for Prof.
Samuel A. King, an aeronaut of distinction. Balloonists, you know, are
nearly always called "Professors"--why this is so I don't _profess_ to
know. And Prof. King had arrived in Cleveland a few days before, bringing
his great balloon, the "Buffalo."
Early upon the morning of the 5th he was on hand with the helpless
monster all in a heap tied about with ropes, mixed up with netting and
sand-bags, and supplemented with a big basket which looked a good deal
like an inverted straw hat made for some huge giant.
The netting was carefully spread out on the Nicholson pavement in the
centre of the pretty square that you will remember if you have ever been
in Cleveland. The bags were filled from a wagon-load of sand and hitched
with snap-catches about the edges. So they stood about in a circle. Then
the aerostat, as the great bag is called, was unrolled and spread evenly
over this. An oiled-muslin tube was tied to the neck, and its other
extreme to a gas main in a hole which some of the workmen had dug for the
purpose.
Next the gas was turned on. The bag began to rise, looking at first like
ever so many young whales all huddled together. The men now began, under
the Professor's direction, to pull the netting over to hold the bag down.
The sand-bags were brought closer and set along on either side of the
tube. The bag now began to grow round and plump. Groups of lookers-on
kept growing, too, until all the square was alive with them. The helpers
kept walking around the swelling globe, changing the bags to lower
strands of the netting; and so it continued until by two o'clock the
balloon was full--that is, allowance was made only for expansion when the
balloon should have reached the clouds.
Every few moments the breeze would sway the monster to and fro, and it
seemed chafing to break away. Soon after, the basket was tied upon the
ring, and into this a great heap of sand-bags was piled, and a lot of
ropes, an anchor, an aneroid, thermometer, compass and other accessories
tied into the rigging or outside of the basket.
How grandly she stood there, the vast dome towering above the trees, her
amber sides bright with decorations and her shapely globe held in leash
by the white network--but bless me! here's more than four pages used up,
and we haven't started yet.
At precisely four o'clock the Professor's cheery voice was heard all
through the square as he sang out, "All aboard!" And his eight companions
responded as soon as they could get through the dense crowd that surged
on every side.
Now the sole remaining rope which held us to the earth was gripped by a
score of eager men.
The order came, "Let go!" The basket was raised a few feet and then
settled slowly back. This made the crowd laugh.
"Throw out two bags!" cried the Professor.
Then--then how grandly we lifted! How the cannon roared and bands added
their noise to the shouts of the hundred thousand people whose faces were
all turned toward our little wicker car!
The writer was sand-man, and following orders, he let out the contents of
another bag which fell in a swift gray stream plump down into the midst
of a little group of young ladies who were seated on a house-top.
If it happens that _this book_ reaches that family, opportunity is now
taken to apologize to those young ladies for thus pouring sand down the
backs of their necks.
Well, we sailed along grandly, soon leaving the city far behind--I forgot
to say that just as we were leaving, a darkey in a white apron came
through the crowd bringing us a hamper of good things. What an appetite
this keen upper air gave us, to be sure! We ate and drank and toasted
everything and everybody.
Pretty soon one of the boys said, (we were all newspaper men, and spoke
of each other as "boys"):
"Listen a moment!"
And we all held our breaths. What supreme silence! the gentle sighing of
the wind among the trees a mile below, the barking of dogs, or subdued
shouts of excited villagers, was all we could hear--but hark!
We were approaching a small town. In the square, through the gathering
twilight, we could discern a crowd, and now there came to us, refined by
distance, the familiar notes, played by the village band, of "Up in a
balloon, boys!"
We passed over the village, and the Professor pulled the valve cord
gently, so we dropped towards the place and cheered in reply.
"Now let's give them a song," said the Professor.
[Illustration: A PLUCKY DOG.]
So he began, and we came in on the chorus:
"Oh! 'twas old Sam Simons,
And young Sam Simons,
Old Sam Simons' son:
Now young Sam Simons
Is old Sam Simons,
For old Sam Simons is gone."
I wish the editor would only give me room to tell you about the scores of
funny things that happened that afternoon; but after all, the real
adventures happened the next day. So I can only speak briefly of the
pretty carrier-pigeons we loosed, which flew swiftly back to Cleveland,
bearing our messages to the newspapers--short notes only, to be sure,
wrapped about their slender legs, and which appeared in the papers the
following morning. One of these I find in the scrap-book before me, for
it was returned to me some weeks afterwards. It reads:
"_We've just eaten supper out of our hamper, unhampered by any
fears as to breakfast. Supper above the clouds is what I call high
living. We can see you yet, but you are only a smoky stain upon the
shore of Lake Erie. The Professor says we are to go into camp and
then continue trip to-morrow. Good-night._"
It would never do, either, to forget the plucky dog which ran after our
drag-rope as it trailed along the ground when we were quite near the
earth, and held on with his teeth though we pulled him along over the
stubble on his back, and never let go until we had jerked him plumb over
a fence.
I've been in all sorts of camps--military camps, hunting camps and camp
meetings, but never dreamed of such a thing as a _balloon camp_ before!
By the help of some farmers we filled the great basket with stones and
then pitched a tent and made a fire at a safe distance. Lines were run to
trees in three directions, loosely to give the balloon "play" in case of
much wind, and then we all lay down in our blankets and tried to sleep.
At the very first signs of dawn we were up, and there she stood in the
still air just like a vision. At sunrise a hospitable farmer invited us
to breakfast, and wasn't it good? I'll never forget that coffee.
By eight o'clock quite a large number of country folks had reached the
field. Teams were hitched all along the fences. Now the Professor
announced that as he wished to make a long trip that day, he should carry
plenty of ballast and so could allow only two persons with him. It had
been agreed that we should draw cuts, and this was done good-naturedly.
The
[Illustration: OUR BALLOON CAMP.]
choice fell upon a photographer, and the writer.
We were sorry indeed to leave our companions behind us, but there was no
help for it. So we took our seats in the basket, said good-by, and were
off.
Now we went up! _up!_ UP! passing through a thin cloud that made
everything below look dim and distant. We were in the region where
_November spends the summer_. Whew! how chilly it was. We wrapped our
overcoats and blankets close about us and our teeth chattered. Then we
rubbed our hands and faces. Why! how queerly they looked and felt.
"Ha! ha! look at the Professor's face. Why! there _ain't a wrinkle
left_!" said the photographer.
And so it proved. The aneroid told us that we were over three miles from
the ground, and the atmosphere was so diminished in pressure that the
internal forces of the body pressed outward and made the skin full and
smooth.
One of yesterday's party had provided some large envelopes with long red
tails of tissue paper to drop into towns, and we wrote messages and
enclosed them in some of these, putting sand in one end, and launched
them. We watched them as they shot hither and yon in their swift flight
toward the earth. The chance finder was requested to send the contents to
the nearest telegraph office, but we never heard from any of them, save
one.
About noon we found by comparing our maps with the streams below that we
had passed into Pennsylvania; and not long afterwards we descried Oil
City set upon the creek, with all its hills covered with derricks and oil
tanks.
Speaking of Oil City, reminds me of a rather funny incident: For a couple
of years I had been in correspondence with a young man who resided there,
and who was also a journalist. His name and mine were just the same. I
had promised faithfully to stop and see him at any time chance might
bring me near his home. I took one of the envelopes and wrote a _regret_,
dropping it over the city. It was picked up in the road and handed to
him, but he always insisted that I had broken my promise unreasonably.
At the rate in which Oil City was left behind we knew our pace was very
rapid, though to us it all seemed like a dead calm, for we kept just even
with the wind.
The Professor said we could reach New England by midnight if the wind
held and it didn't grow cloudy; but alas! for the past hour we had been
watching a little fleecy nebulous bit of mist that seemed, like a spirit,
to spring from the nothingness of the blue ether, growing constantly, and
attracting other cloudlets which came toward it from all quarters of the
heavens and were swallowed up. A growing, whirling wall of pearly gray
mounted and spread its shadow over half the earth.
We threw out sand and mounted above it. Then it arose toward us again. It
seemed as though we could reach our hands into its surging depths. Over
went seats, baskets, the tent--everything we could spare, and I'm not
sure the Professor didn't glare at one of his companions with malicious
and deadly intent.
The truth rushed upon us that we were racing with a storm.
It was of vital importance to keep in the sun, for the moment the shadows
below could place their chilly spell upon our steed, the gas would chill
and condense, and we would drop! drop! swiftly to the earth. At last it
came, and we knew it was inevitable. Below us we could hear the crashing
of thunder reverberating away into the depths of the black storm masses,
and the lightnings every moment lit the weird scene with a grandeur but
few mortals have ever witnessed. For a brief moment we hung suspended
like Mahomet's coffin in the centre of a great cave of pearl. Shall I
ever forget that glimpse of heavenly splendor? A single shaft of sunlight
broke through its walls and then died like the last ray of hope. Then
downward we rushed! A mile nearer earth within the first minute! As the
air grew denser we fell more gradually. Our long drag-rope was out,
weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Now we were closely enshrouded by
leaden clouds. The rain ran down the bag in rivulets and trickled upon
our heads.
"Look, oh look!" cried the Professor.
We were now below the storm, and along its dense ceiling could see its
broad extent. We were above the mountains. No towns nor even houses could
be discovered, only dense forests, through which the gale howled as among
the rigging of a ship upon a winter sea.
Very quickly our drag-rope touched the tree-tops and began to glide among
the swaying pines.
"Hold on at life-ropes!" shouted the Professor, knife in hand.
In another instant the basket gave a dreadful surge; a mass of pine
boughs swept about our heads, followed by a strong jerk. The Professor
had cut the cord which bound the anchor coil. The anchor had dropped and
caught among the limbs. We were safe! No! not yet.
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR'S DILEMMA.]
The line must be shortened so we could clear the tree-tops. All three
tugged at the rope. Then other lashings were made while the great
aerostat plunged about like a wounded leviathan. We were eighty feet from
the ground. Two of us found it convenient to go down the drag-rope, but
the poor Professor, tall and heavy, preferred to try the tree. This was
wet and slippery, as well as full of projecting points of broken
branches. About twenty feet from the ground the Professor's clothes
caught. He was in a great dilemma.
Amid a good deal of laughter we managed to liberate him, and as he
reached the ground he exclaimed: "Well, of all the scrapes I was ever in,
this is about the meanest!"
But help came even here. Far down the slope we heard a shout, which you
may be sure was quickly answered. Then, after a while, the bushes parted
and a half-score of woodsmen carrying gleaming axes ran to our aid. They
were all thoroughly wet, like ourselves.
"What can we do for you?" they asked.
"Cut down half a dozen of these pines. I want to save the balloon,"
answered the aeronaut.
Then you should have seen the chips fly! Down came the trees, one after
the other, and finally the one to which our steed was lashed. The gas
soon escaped through great holes torn by the limbs, and our gallant craft
was robbed of its power. Standing upon one of the fallen trees I made the
sketch you see before you.
We found upon inquiring that we had landed in Potter county,
Pennsylvania; and consulting our watches, found we had travelled one
hundred and twenty-five miles in about two hours.
We were made comfortable at a lumberman's cabin,
[Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE "BUFFALO."]
and managed to get out of the woods in a couple of days where we could
telegraph to our friends.
It cannot be denied that after the excitement had passed we felt very
much like an old farmer who listened to our adventures. He said:
"Mebbe some folks prefer to travel in a flying Beelzebub, but I'm willin'
to git along in a buck-board with a good road to put my feet agin when I
git off."
_You'll_ say, now, "I guess that race was enough for you!" But you're
wrong; for I've had several trips since; and now you've a perfect right
to retort, "Well! you are a bigger _balloonatic_ than I took you for."
Perhaps you're right.