CHAPTER XX.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 spacelarger 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.ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page 101.)ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page101.)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 luggagecases 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 inarms, 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.
CHAPTER XX.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 spacelarger 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.ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page 101.)ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page101.)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 luggagecases 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 inarms, 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.
CHAPTER XX.THE PET MONKEY DINES UPON RUBBER TIRES AND DELAYS PROGRESS—OFFICIALS REFUSE TO LET THE TOURISTS GO THROUGH BELOOCHISTAN.
THE PET MONKEY DINES UPON RUBBER TIRES AND DELAYS PROGRESS—OFFICIALS REFUSE TO LET THE TOURISTS GO THROUGH BELOOCHISTAN.
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 spacelarger 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.ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page 101.)ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page101.)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 luggagecases 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 inarms, 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.
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 spacelarger 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.
ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page 101.)ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page101.)
ON THE ROAD TO MOOLTAN.—(See Page101.)
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 luggagecases 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 inarms, 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.