THE PET MONKEY DINES UPON RUBBER TIRES AND DELAYS
PROGRESS--OFFICIALS REFUSE TO LET THE TOURISTS GO THROUGH
BELOOCHISTAN.
Our last days in India were spent during the monsoon season. The
deserts had become lakes of steaming water, the matted undergrowth
of rank grass and vegetation rotting, and that we escaped without
malarial or typhoid fever was almost a miracle. The railway tracks,
which formed our only path, were cut away by the flood of ceaseless
rain. The ballast had been swept away and the clay embankment cut
into a series of gullies. Four hundred miles we had to push and plod
our way through this sticky mass. We left Khanpur on the evening
of Aug. 18. The rain had been pouring down for three days, and had
subsided into a steady drizzle, which we deemed the most favorable
opportunity we would have for a start. We arrived at Daharki, in the
plague-stricken district of India, on Aug. 20. We spent the next day,
Sunday, at Daharki, and early on the morning of Aug. 22 we started
out on a day of mishaps. Before we had passed the yard limits my
rear tire collapsed, necessitating a delay of half an hour. Then
an unusually long bridge of open structure made our limbs tremble,
and scarcely two miles further came a second puncture. Under ordinary
circumstances punctures with the outfit and tire we use are trifling
affairs, but when each minute counts, as with a race with the sun,
such delays are of as great importance to us as any delay to the fire
department on its way to a conflagration. Three hours interviewed,
when a loud hiss from my rear tire announced a third puncture, and
in a few minutes the rim, bumping and smashing on the stone ballast,
announced that I was "without air." Three punctures in less than thirty
miles was a record to which we were quite unaccustomed. With a third
disaster, and no plugs to repair with, my suspicions were aroused
and upon investigation I found five large wounds in the tire. As the
injury extended along one side only, and that the side which did not
come in contact with the ballast, I examined the sides and found the
threads torn outward. While sitting on the edge of the railroad ties,
gloomily reflecting on the long walk before me, and wondering who could
so maliciously have damaged my tire, the pet monkey, Rodney, crawled
from his resting place in the bosom of my coat and began plucking grass
and herbs. I paid but little attention to him until I heard a sound at
the wheel, and turned just in time to discover Rodney chewing a fresh
hole. I had caught the offender in the act, and subsequent observations
convinced me that he was determined either to make a monkey of us,
or satisfy the inexplicable monkey in him. The only reason I failed
to kick that grinning ape into space larger than that longed for by
the most ardent balloonist, was that he skipped through a barb wire
fence quicker than I could reach him with my foot. Mrs. McIlrath
carried him into Sarhad, for had he been consigned to my care I fear
he would have been cast adrift on the Indus. I reached Sarhad at noon,
and had the journey been a mile longer the heat certainly would have
killed me. From Sarhad I wired for our trunks and got them after
much difficulty. They were billed to a station forty miles ahead,
and the station master at first refused flatly to surrender them. He
gave them to me after my protests, that without them I should have
to walk forty miles more. The plugs were found, the necessary repairs
made and at 5 o'clock in the afternoon we were again upon our way.
Lacki Pass, which had been our bugbear for several weeks, proved a
serious undertaking, but one which we made with far less inconvenience
than we had anticipated. Lacki Pass is the section of railway from
Dadu to Lacki. Many persons in discussing our journey had said to us
in tones of significance: "Well, just wait until you get to Lacki
Pass." Sand of depth and finest quality was the first obstacle we
encountered ere we entered the first cutting through stone. The pass
would be called a canyon in America, for on one side flowed the broad
Indus, then in torrent, and on the other rose the steep, rocky face
of the mountain. We decided the momentous question of Lacki Pass by
mounting our wheels and cycling along the narrow ledge just outside
the rails and next the precipice. Our path was not all that could be
desired by novices. It was only a foot in width, beset in places with
stones and boulders, with the foaming river hundreds of feet below; but
then the Inter Ocean cyclists had long ago passed the novice stage, and
we set out at a good pace. Hundreds of water buffalos were scrambling
along the rocks at the base of the mountain, or wallowing through the
coves of slack water, but excepting the occasions that we dismounted
to cross some trestle which spanned a chasm, we had little time to
observe scenery. Five miles up the steep grade, a half hour's riding
along the dizzy height, and we passed the little station of Bagatara,
congratulating ourselves that we were almost into the cuttings which
would lead to the plain below. The bend which carried us from the
edge of the precipice ended our ride, for we were invited to the
home of a Mr. Swetenham, who had come up the tracks behind us on a
hand-car. There were three miles more of the pass to cover, but the
dinner invitation was too much for us and we loaded our wheels on
his hand-car and rolled into Lacki.
We were a sorry looking pair as we set out on the last short relay
in India. The cooking pots which we carried clattered and rattled
noisily as they banged against the frames of our bicycles. The luggage
cases were heavily laden; our front tires, long ago worn out as rear
tires, leaked badly; the cork grips were gone from our handle-bars,
and the felt pads of our saddles had become hard as wood. Our attire
was thoroughly in keeping with the disreputable appearance of our
wheels. Helmets were battered and patched, clothes torn and stained,
shoes scuffed and cut to relieve swollen feet, and stockings darned
with thread of all colors. Mrs. McIlrath, covered with prickly heat,
looked as though bees had stung every portion of her hands and face,
and I hardly recognized my own self in the mirror in the gaunt,
hollow-cheeked, dull-eyed, yellow-skinned skeleton. Our objective point
was Kurrachee. We had a good path, exceptionally free from culverts
and bridges, and in the white light of the moon, fanned by the cool
breeze from the sea, we sped merrily along until a low-railed bridge
obstructed our path, a sign-board indicating that we were but four
miles from Dabhugi, the village where we intended to eat our lunch. We
were so close upon the bridge before dismounting, that to check my
heavy-laden wheel I had to run a few steps with it. Bracing one foot
against the curb of the bridge, my eye moved involuntarily to where
my foot rested. I was having another encounter with a cobra. The black
monster was stretched out in heavy line four feet long. He was of the
hooded species, the most deadly of his family, and I stood face to face
with death in his most terrible garb. I should have retreated, I should
have shot the hideous thing, I should have done anything else but what
I did, to stand terrified without power to move a muscle. Suddenly
the snake coiled itself into a knot, then twisted around in a circle
and disappeared in one of the crevices of the loose rock on the slope
of the stream. It was one of the closest escapes I have to relate.
We were in Kurrachee for a week, an attack of fever detaining me. Then
began preparation for our trip through Beloochistan, a trip which we
did not take. From Kurrachee there is a telegraph line which skirts
the coast of Beloochistan and enters Persia. This was the route we had
calculated upon since leaving Chicago, and with a view of assisting
us to obtain information regarding the conditions of the road, the
distances and supply stations, Mr. W. Flowers Hamilton, the United
States consular agent, gave a dinner, at which we met a number of
British officials and heads of the railway department. These same
gentlemen had entertained Lenz on his journey, but when the subject
was broached of Mrs. McIlrath and myself making the same trip, great
surprise was expressed and the question advanced as to whether or not
the government would permit it. "But why should Lenz be permitted to
pass through and not ourselves?" I asked of Mr. Barker, the telegraph
superintendent. "Things were different then," he replied. "The
borders from Cashmere to the gulf are now up in arms, and battles
are being fought daily, and not with the most satisfactory result to
the government either." This was the first intimation we received
that the government would probably interfere with our action. The
second came a few days later in a letter from the American Consular
Department, which caused me post haste to begin a systematic routine
of calls upon the British officials. The letter was dated Sept. 14,
and signed by Mr. Hamilton. Briefly, it was a protest against our
intention of proceeding to Beloochistan. "I am not a pessimist,"
he wrote, "and would be the last person to thwart your desires in
any way, were there the remotest chance of your safely accomplishing
the journey you have planned. I feel, though, that since the natives
between this and the Persian frontier are bound to forcibly resist
your passage to the territory, that to attempt the journey would
mean sudden death to you both, and I earnestly request you to accept
my advice and to adopt the alternative route via Bushire, Shiraz,
Ispaham, Teheran, Tabriz and Batoum."
I called upon Mr. Wingate, commissioner of Scinde, and Capt. Tighe,
and though I used every argument, offering to assume all risks and
to relieve the government of any responsibility, their consent of
the promise of an indifferent attitude was withheld. "But if I am
willing to attempt the journey alone without Mrs. McIlrath?" was
my argument. "It is evident that you do not clearly understand the
situation," was the reply. "Your life would not be worth one cent
ten miles from the border." This was the final argument, and there
was nothing for us to do but scratch Beloochistan from the list, and
prepare to take one of the British India steamers leaving for Bushire,
on Sept. 28.
Our trip through India was severe upon us, physically, and we were
compelled to suffer many inconveniences, hardships and even torture
from hunger, thirst and weather. There is much misery in India and
unalterable condition which forbid that its people ever be benefited
by British rule, or that a sympathetic bond be established between
the European and Indian. But none who visit its shores will ever have
aught to say that both are not hospitable, or that the Englishmen in
India do not strive earnestly and sincerely to execute the duties of
their office.