On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck Part 1

On a Donkey's Hurricane Deck.

by R. Pitcher Woodward.

PROLOGUE.

This is as true a story of my "voyage" as I am capable of writing.

Besides the newspaper accounts, two magazine articles, ill.u.s.trated on this subject have been published, the only ones contributed by me, and they hardly outlined the trip. I have left out a hundred interesting incidents and culled and edited until I am tired, in order to condense this volume to convenient size. On the other hand, notable adventures only recalled by my photographs have been cheated of a mention, because the donkey ate my notes--he ate everything in sight, and did not discriminate between a comic circus poster and a tragic diary.

Ever since completing the trip, I have promised this book "next month," but owing to the checkered career of the MS. with ninety-seven publishers (all of whom declared that the book should be brought out at once, but they lacked the nerve to publish it), I am only now able to fulfil my promises. This is no romance. When I did not walk with the donkey or carry him, he carried me the whole four thousand and ninety-six miles, which includes the distance traveled when he balked and backed.

With my two cameras I secured six hundred pictures descriptive of the journey across eleven states, through the four seasons, during that long, long year; only by them and my diary am I brought to realize it is not a wild, weird dream. Now it is over, I sometimes smile over things recalled which, when they happened, found me as serious as the donk--grave in the superlative degree--and thought-less people and those who never even crossed the plains by train may style my experience a mere outing or "picnic." General Fremont and other distinguished pioneers emphasize in their writings the pleasures of their overland trips. They, as did the emigrants of the '40s and '50s, set out in spring time from the Missouri or the Mississippi in companies, with money, wagons, cattle and supplies, and with one-third of the continent already behind them. The Indians and big game of the prairies provided excitement that lent a charm to the undertaking; it is dull monotony that kills.

I started four days before winter, practically without money, to support, from earnings only, myself and dumb partner from New York city to San Francisco.

It required twelve weeks to traverse the Empire State, through a severe season when and where I suffered the most. The delightful part of the journey was while crossing the Rockies. Instead of taking the shortest cut, I had to consider the towns where I might best make expenses, to look for the best roads and desert trails by springs. Three times when lost I traveled far out of my course, once twenty miles into a mountain forest.

It is only five days across by rail. Have you traveled it--in summer? How monotonous grew those seas of alkali, sand (rock waste), cacti and sage as the hours lengthened into days! Yet with comfortable beds, shade, meals served, cool drinks, and books to read, at times feeling yourself speeding through the air a mile to,the minute, you wearied of the "voyage." Five days!

Multiply them into weeks, then into months, double and add five weeks--forty-nine weeks! Fancy yourself for such a period on a slow burro which walks half your natural pace, and so small that if you wear roller skates while in the saddle you may ease the animal; ride one mile astride; when you feel about to split, ride the second mile side-ways; when your back feels ready to break, ride the third mile Turkish fas.h.i.+on; by this time your legs are benumbed and your feet asleep, so walk a mile and carry the jacka.s.s; you will thereby quiet your nerves, rest your bones, and make better time.

If ever you are tempted to ride a donkey overland, REFRAIN. Rather creep across backwards on your hands and knees, or circ.u.mnavigate the globe in a washtub. If you still persist, why, ride a donkey twenty miles in a pouring rain, then follow your own judgment. If you wish my donkey's advice, I will introduce him. His head is longer than his ears, which was not the case when he set out with me.

R. P. W.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_I bade my friends farewell._"]

PART 1.

On a Donkey's Hurricane Deck

CHAPTER I.

By this hand, thou think'st me as far in the devil's book as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and persistency. Let the end try the man.

--_Shakespeare._

A noisy, curious, gaping mult.i.tude was crowded about the Bartholdi Hotel, New York. It was just after the noon hour on Friday, November 27, 1896, the day on which I was to start on my long and memorable journey across the continent on a donkey. The corridors were filled with interested guests, the reception room held about a hundred of my friends who had come to bid me G.o.d-speed, and less than a hundred thousand people choked Madison Square and the streets leading into it.

I had agreed with a friend to forfeit to him five thousand dollars, in case I should fail to make a donkey trip from New York to San Francisco in three hundred and forty-one days, under the following conditions:

Start from New York City, without a dollar in pocket and without begging, borrowing, or stealing, procure a donkey, and, riding or leading the beast, earn my way across the continent to San Francisco, and register at its leading hotel within the schedule time. I must cover the whole distance with a donkey by road or trail only; announce in a prominent newspaper of New York my start, at least twenty-four hours in advance, and mention the hour, day, and starting point. Seated on a donkey, I must parade on portions of Broadway, Fourteenth and Twenty-third Streets, Fifth, Madison, and West End Avenues; both the donkey and I must wear spectacles, and I a frock-coat and "plug" hat, but, the latter to be discarded at pleasure when once across the Mississippi River, the coat to be worn to San Francisco.

I slyly suggested the two most absurd conditions, believing it would be easier to earn my way in the role of a comedian than in the garb of a serious-thinking, imposed-upon mortal. I reasoned that I should have to live on sensation and notoriety, and, perhaps, keep from starving by employing my wits. These reflections I kept to myself. My "friend" chuckled amusedly, doubtless picturing in his mind the circus I was about to provide.

Without delay I began the preparations for the asinine journey.

After much troublesome searching, I managed with the help of Hennessy, a stable-keeper, and Dr. Moore, a veterinary surgeon, to secure an option on a small donkey at James Flanagan's sale stables. Macaroni was the animal's name, and the price to be paid was $25. Then I got our coachman to go among his friends to see if he could get hold of a coat--a Prince Albert--and stove-pipe hat.

He succeeded admirably, and when I had ordered spectacles for myself and the donkey, I was ready for the trip. I reached the hotel on the appointed day at one o'clock, borrowed the donkey for my official start, sent him back to the stables, then went to the Reception Room. Among my friends awaiting were my "friend," the landlord of the hotel, a photographer who had taken a picture of me seated on the donkey a few days before, and had come to deliver the photos; and my attorney, for the Chief of Police had refused me a permit to parade on the streets, and threatened my arrest if I proved to be a public nuisance. I borrowed a pen and bottle of ink, and, after bowing a greeting to my friends a.s.sembled, set to work putting my autograph on the pictures, which I offered for sale at twenty-five cents.

Bless my suspenders, and how they went! I made up my mind that we "two donkeys" would many times have greater difficulty in obtaining quarters before I reached my destination. For an hour the fist of Pye Pod swung a powerful quill and inscribed on each photograph a name that would go into his-story. Silver jingled on the table; the anxious hands of the crowding patrons got mixed in the shuffle, and some got two pictures and others got none; the ink flew about recklessly, and there were no blotters at hand; my heart thumped, and I was so excited that I kissed by mistake an indignant girl friend in place of my sister; and finally stole my sister's lace handkerchief, instead of that of a sweetheart, but which, however, I failed to discover till six months afterward; and still I lacked the requisite sum.

I now had twenty-four dollars, but I needed at least forty-one.

Although I had made a five-dollar payment to Flanagan, that money came from my private purse and must be redeemed and returned; besides, I must pay $12 to the photographer for the 200 photos delivered to me, and $4 more to the blacksmith's representative for shoeing the donkey.

"I will lend you all the money you want," said the president of one of my clubs; and my "friend's" ears and eyes were directed upon me.

"I cannot beg, borrow, or accept gratuities," I exclaimed, firmly; "I propose to fulfill the terms of my wager to the letter, and when I accomplish it, be able to make a sworn statement to that effect."

Just then I heard a newsboy calling, "EXTRA--ALL ABOUT THE GREAT DONKEY RIDE."

At once I dispatched a friend with money to purchase the papers, while I followed him to the hotel exit, where I stationed myself in full view of the crowd and drew from my pocket a blue lead pencil, ready for a new task. The papers secured and brought to me, I scribbled my name on them and offered them for a dime apiece.

"I have no time to make change, so give me the amount you wish to pay," I said to the eager purchasers. In fifteen minutes I had enough dimes and quarters and fifty-cent pieces to enable me to square my accounts and send for my donkey.

In the course of a half hour, Macaroni was induced by sundry persuasions to invade the noisy precinct of Madison Square and come up to the hotel door; and, with a small surplus of cash in pocket, I bade my friends farewell and got into the saddle.

Amid a deafening "tiger" from the mult.i.tude, the "lion" of the hour majestically proceeded down Broadway to Fourteenth Street; and the most sensational parade New York had ever witnessed had begun.

My lazy steed barely crawled; he stopped every rod or two, and generally in front of a car or other vehicle. It was an event for the street gamins, and, had they not trailed close behind us through the city and given Mac occasional goads and twists of the tail, I doubt if I could have reached Harlem by midnight. It was a terrible ride, and I often have wondered since how I escaped with my neck.

Pa.s.sing down Fourteenth Street, we turned up Fifth Avenue, crossed Madison Square, paraded Madison Avenue to Thirty-third Street, turned to the left over to Fifth Avenue and pa.s.sed the Waldorf-Astoria, followed Forty-second Street to the Boulevard, and up the avenue to Seventy-second Street, and then up West End Avenue, past my "friend's"

residence. There I was stopped by a member of the mounted police, and, to my surprise, was tendered a Loving-cup Reception by my "friend's"

pretty daughter, who, with a number of our mutual friends, welcomed me while her father was at his office expecting a telegram that Pye Pod had given up his trip.

All drank to the pilgrim's progress. Wines, flowers and ice cream, tears, and best wishes, all contributed to the happy function, while out of doors, an incident happened that caused me to rush to my donkey's side. It seems that, in looking through his green gla.s.ses, he mistook the iron picket screen that guarded a young and hopeful shade tree for some kind of verdant fodder, and destroyed a couple of teeth. The incident threw a damper on the reception, so I made my adieux, and resumed my fated journey with a heart still hopeful, yet heavier than it ever felt before.

It was 7 P. M. when Mac and I stopped at the Minot Hotel, Harlem, and registered for the night. Among my several callers that evening was a Professor of a Riding Academy who claimed to have ridden horseback from ocean to ocean a few years previous and within several feet of his death after losing several horses; and he described to me the perils of my prospective trip, the boundless, waterless deserts and snow-covered mountains, the tornadoes and tarantulas, and the untamed Indians, and ferocious prairie dogs, and begged me to give up the journey. Dear old Professor, how often on that voyage on the hurricane deck of my donkey, did I indulge in grievous meditation on the wisdom of your advice!

I simply thanked the gentleman for his tender concern about my welfare, and sold him a chromo for a quarter.

After a bath, I enjoyed a delicate sleep, and next day set out in a dripping rain for Yonkers, over twenty miles away, with less than a dollar in pocket. I had only sold enough pictures on the way to Harlem to defray my hotel bill, as a stringent city ordinance prohibited it without a license, and I had difficulty in avoiding the vigilant police.

But, although fortune and the weather frowned on me, I ground my teeth and headed for the Golden Gate.

Trailing up Seventh Avenue, I gradually left the busy metropolis to my rear and entered a more open country. Some urchins of the suburbs tagged behind us meddlesomely, and finally a Dutch vixen hit Macaroni with a potato, almost causing me to leave the saddle.