NIGHT RIDING THROUGH INDIA TO ESCAPE THE HEAT--THREE IMPUDENT
ENGLISH WHEELMEN ENCOUNTERED AT BENARES.
We left Calcutta early on the morning of May 4, taking the Strand road,
across the sacred Hoogly river by means of the Jubilee bridge. We
were accompanied for a brief distance by Mr. W. S. Burke, editor of
the Asian, the only legitimate sporting paper in the East. To this
gentleman were the Inter Ocean tourists indebted for maps, guidance
and excellent entertainment while in the city. He piloted us through
a road shaded by magnificent palm trees, an avenue 40 feet wide, level
as a billiard table and smooth as asphalt. Mr. Burke informed us that
this was the "Grand Trunk" road, our path across India from shore to
shore. Most of our riding was done at a fast clip, in spite of the
fact that we carried full luggage cases, camera, guns, water canteens,
lamps, and bells to the extent of 50 pounds each. Only twice did we
dismount in the twenty-five-mile run to Chandernagore, once to induce
a cautious gate tender at a railroad crossing to open the gates, the
second time to view the terrible cars of Juggernaut. Much has been
written concerning these vehicles and the manner in which they are
hauled about on festive occasions, and in former days crushed out
the lives of hundreds of devout fanatics, who endeavored to reach
heaven by self-sacrifice. One would naturally believe that such
barbaric practice had been done away with by British rule, but such
is not the case, and, despite the presence of police and soldiery,
each time the towering car is hauled out by worshipers some poor,
weak-minded wretch hurls himself under the ponderous wooden rollers.
Burke, good-natured, fat and jolly, left us at Chandernagore, but
not before a breakfast at the same hotel where, three years ago,
he had breakfasted with poor Lenz, served by the same woman, who
spoke also of "the fine little lad" who was lost in Armenia. Intense
heat made riding dangerous during the day, and after we left Burdwan,
on May 5 (81 miles from Calcutta), the greater part of our progress
was accomplished at night. We never realized what Indian heat
signified until now. The coolness of night offers many inducements
for bullock-cart caravans to travel, and a sharp outlook has to be
maintained for these obstacles. Our arrival at the Hotel de Paris
in Benares, on May 12, completed one-fourth the run across India,
a total of 496 miles from Calcutta, representing a succession of
night rides, with stops for refreshment and rest at the bungalows
along the route. Night riding in India is the only way to avoid
paralyzing heat, but it has its terrors and dangers, and after some
of my experiences in the jungle between Delhi and Benares, I should
say that if I had the trip to make over again, I should undoubtedly
trust to the mercies of the sun. We encountered leopards by the score,
and though leopards in India are not supposed to attack humans, we
could not help our misgivings at the sight of the graceful creatures,
as they silently bounded their way through the jungle.
Our arrival at the Hotel de Paris caused much excitement. The English
do not read newspapers as generally as do the Americans, and, with
but one exception, not one man around the hotel had the slightest
idea who we were, where we were from, or what we were doing. In
fact, after reading the "World's Tour for the Inter Ocean, Chicago,
U. S. A.," as printed in large white letters on our luggage cases,
many asked us politely, "Pray, what is the meaning of the legend?" We
had learned while in Calcutta that Messrs. Lowe, Lum and Frazer,
who had left England on a cycling tour of the world in 1896, were
on their way across India, and that in all probability we would meet
them in Benares. We looked forward with much pleasure to the occasion
of joining hands with cyclists who understood the hardships of great
journeys in strange lands, but the meeting occasioned us an unexpected
set-back in our natural affection for fellow wheelmen. The trio
arrived on the second day of our visit in Benares, and immediately sent
word that they wanted to see me. I called upon them, and was greatly
surprised to ascertain that they looked upon Mrs. McIlrath and myself
as frauds. They questioned me closely as to my journey, and concluded
by commenting upon the strangeness of the fact that they had never
heard of us before. This I did not regard as unseeming, since few of
the inhabitants of "the tight little isle" do know what is occurring
in the greater part of the world not under British taxation. Fifteen
minutes' conversation with the Frazer outfit convinced me that the
new aspirants to globe-girdling honors entertained little respect for
Americans in general, and ourselves in particular. Lenz they declared
emphatically a nonentity in cycling history; Tom Stevens was totally
unreliable, and as for ourselves, we had undergone no hardships, and
were comparatively new. They probably did not like Stevens because
he was the original "round the world on bicycles;" Lenz because he
had accomplished single-handed more up to the time of his death than
these fellows could accomplish over the route they had selected,
if they completed their program; and Mrs. McIlrath came in for her
share of contempt because a wee, slender woman, she had encompassed
what they averred they would attempt, in a number strong enough to
cross the threshold of any earthly inferno with impunity.
Their object in circling the world was simply to make the journey,
selecting the shortest, most expeditious route, and arriving home as
quickly as possible. Frazer was once a "journalist," he informed me,
but had deserted journalism to become an author, and write stories for
a magazine called the "Golden Penny." While I confessed knowledge to
the existence of the Strand, Pall Mall and other magazines in England,
I dropped another peg lower in the estimation of my friends because
the "Golden Penny" was not included in my list of acquaintances. The
machines the cyclists rode were, of course, English make, weighed
twelve pounds more than our own, and were equipped with mud guards,
gear cases and brakes. The tires were double-tube, and the fourth
pair for each machine were now in use, while we were using the same
set of single tubes placed on our wheels in America. Their machines
showed signs of wear, the front forks of each having been broken,
and now, after only one year's use, the frames creaked painfully
and the apparatus generally looked badly "used up." The luggage of
each man was carried in a small valise fastened on the mud guard
over the rear wheel, and large tool bags hung in the angles of the
frame. Each carried a short-barreled, cheap revolver, and Lowe, the
most gentlemanly and intelligent of the trio, carried a camera. It
is needless to comment further upon these gentlemen. They announced
their intention of visiting America, and one declared, as I informed
him how cordial he would find our cyclists, mayors, governors, and
even the president: "We shall not bother about Americans much; after
being entertained by the Shah of Persia, we have decided to let your
American dignitaries alone."
We were entertained, while at Benares, in the castle at Fort Ramnagar
by the Maharajah of Benares, one of the native princes of India. His
Highness sent a magnificently appointed carriage to the hotel for
us, with the proper quota of coachmen and liveried footmen; greeted
us in excellent English, and soon displayed his foreign tendencies
by direct inquiry about cycling, American foot-ball and base-ball,
proudly assuring us that he was an enthusiastic foot-ball and polo
player. Nothing but our anxiety to get home led us to decline his
urgent invitation to remain his guest for a fortnight, and enjoy a
jungle hunt from the backs of trained elephants. The kindness of the
Maharajah did not cease with our visit to the palace, but each day we
were the recipients of delicious fruit fresh from his garden, and upon
our departure, on May 22, we carried letters of introduction to native
gentlemen and officials along our route, who were requested to show us
every attention and furnish us desired information which would prove
of interest to the readers of the Inter Ocean at home. Still holding
to the Grand Trunk road, we set out for Allahabad. The road was lonely
and monotonous, and a few miles out from Benares there burst upon us a
typical tropical tornado. In a second's time the air was darkened and
filled with sand. Striking us from a quarter over our right shoulders,
the force of the wind pushed us along at a frightful rate. Sand struck
against our goggles with a gritting crunch, filled our nostrils and
ears, and forced its way into our mouths. Leaves and twigs struck
our faces with stinging force, and shrieking and groaning under
pressure of the terrible blasts, the trees along the road threatened
every moment to crush us. It was after dusk when the storm subsided,
and we found shelter in a village 25 miles away from Benares. On
May 27, in Allahabad, we were given an example of India's fiercest
heat. Thermometers indoors, under the influence of fans, exhibited
112 degrees, and in the sunlight open the gauge showed 165 degrees,
heat almost beyond the comprehension of Americans. We remained but one
day in the oven-like hotel, starting at 4 o'clock the next morning,
riding until 9, then resting along the roadway until nightfall, making
the journey by such easy stages to Cawnpore, "the Manchester of India."
Places of historical interest in Cawnpore are calculated as four in
number: first, the site of the government magazine, where Gen. Wheeler,
in charge of Cawnpore forces in 1857, should have erected his
fortifications of defense; second, the memorial church and the open
field south of the structure, where he did assemble his limited force
and the refugees; third, the Suttee Chowra ghat, where the massacre
of the retiring troops and civilians took place; and fourth and last,
Memorial Garden, which commemorates the massacre of the company of
women and children, and the well into which the living were cast with
the dead. We left Cawnpore on Monday, June 1, for Lucknow, one of the
most populous cities of India, situated directly east fifty miles. We
sought out the main road without much difficulty, but for the first
seven miles we had any amount of trouble, through about as rough and
uneven bit of country as one could imagine. As we had left Cawnpore
at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, we had run up only 20 miles to our
credit ere darkness compelled us to light our lamps. While engaged
in this operation our attention was attracted by awful groans at one
side of the roadway. Thinking some poor outcast was dying, I selected
one of the lamps and proceeded to investigate. A wide ditch barred
my progress at the edge of the road, and, mindful of the motto, "Look
before you leap," I flashed the cycle lamp rays on the opposite side
to select a favorable place to alight. There was none in the immediate
vicinity, for as the bright rays penetrated the gloom, they revealed
a large, fine cheetah, or panther, crouched in the edge of the brush,
his eyes fixed on the glare of my lamp, and his fangs disclosed in
excellent array. The sight was a rare one, but as I had learned from
books all I cared to know about the habits of wild beasts, I almost
broke the lamp in my haste to extinguish it and get the ever-handy
45. Cautiously picking my way back to the wheels, Mrs. McIlrath and I
made the chains and sprocket wheels grind out a merry tune to Lucknow.