CHAPTER XVII.NIGHT RIDING THROUGH INDIA TO ESCAPE THE HEAT—THREEIMPUDENTENGLISH 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.“As the cycle lamp’s 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, his fangs disclosed in deadly array.” (See Page94).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 worldnot 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 FortRamnagarby the Maharajah of Benares, one of the native princes of India. His Highness sent a magnificently appointed carriage to thehotel 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.”AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page 92).AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page92).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 fiftymiles. 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.
CHAPTER XVII.NIGHT RIDING THROUGH INDIA TO ESCAPE THE HEAT—THREEIMPUDENTENGLISH 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.“As the cycle lamp’s 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, his fangs disclosed in deadly array.” (See Page94).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 worldnot 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 FortRamnagarby the Maharajah of Benares, one of the native princes of India. His Highness sent a magnificently appointed carriage to thehotel 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.”AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page 92).AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page92).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 fiftymiles. 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.
CHAPTER XVII.NIGHT RIDING THROUGH INDIA TO ESCAPE THE HEAT—THREEIMPUDENTENGLISH WHEELMEN ENCOUNTERED AT BENARES.
NIGHT RIDING THROUGH INDIA TO ESCAPE THE HEAT—THREEIMPUDENTENGLISH WHEELMEN ENCOUNTERED AT BENARES.
NIGHT RIDING THROUGH INDIA TO ESCAPE THE HEAT—THREEIMPUDENTENGLISH 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.“As the cycle lamp’s 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, his fangs disclosed in deadly array.” (See Page94).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 worldnot 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 FortRamnagarby the Maharajah of Benares, one of the native princes of India. His Highness sent a magnificently appointed carriage to thehotel 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.”AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page 92).AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page92).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 fiftymiles. 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.
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.
“As the cycle lamp’s 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, his fangs disclosed in deadly array.” (See Page94).
“As the cycle lamp’s 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, his fangs disclosed in deadly array.” (See Page94).
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 worldnot 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 FortRamnagarby the Maharajah of Benares, one of the native princes of India. His Highness sent a magnificently appointed carriage to thehotel 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.”
AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page 92).AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page92).
AT MEMORIAL WELL, CAWNPORE.—(See Page92).
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 fiftymiles. 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.