Westward Hoboes
| Author | Dixon, Winifred Hawkridge |
|---|---|
| Genre | Non-Fiction |
| Journal or Book | Westward Hoboes |
| Publisher | - |
| Year of Publication | 1921 |
| Pages | 1-6 |
| Additional information | - |
"WESTWARD HO!"
TOBY'S real name is Katharine. Her grandmother was a poet, her father is a scientist, and she is an artist. She is called Toby for Uncle Jonas' dog, who had the habit, on being kicked out of the door, of running down the steps with a cheerful bark and a wagging tail, as if he had left entirely of his own accord. There is no fact, however circumstantially incriminating, which this young doctrinaire cannot turn into the most potent justification for what she has done or wishes to do, and when she gets to the tail wagging stage, regardless of how recently the bang of the front door has echoed in our ears, she wags with the charm of the artist, the logical precision of the scientist, and the ardor of the poet. Even when she ran the car into the creek at Nambe——
At the outset we did not plan to make the journey by automobile. Our destination was uncertain. We planned to drift, to sketch and write when the spirit moved. But drifting by railroad in the West implies time-tables, crowded trains, boudoir-capped matrons, crying babies and the smell of bananas, long waits and anxiety over reservations. Traveling by auto seemed luxurious in comparison and would save railroad fares, annoyance and time. We pictured ourselves bowling smoothly along in the open air, in contrast with the stifling train; we previsioned no delays, no breakdowns, no dangers; we saw New Mexico and Arizona a motorist's Heaven, paved with asphalt and running streams of gasoline. An optimist is always like that, and two are twenty times so. I was half-owner of a Cadillac Eight, with a rakish hood and a matronly tonneau; its front was intimidating, its rear reassuring. The owner of the other half was safely in France. At the time, which half belonged to which had not been discussed. It is now a burning question. I figure that the springs, the dust-pan, the paint, mud-guards and tires constituted her share, with a few bushings and nuts thrown in for good measure, but having acquired a mercenary disposition in France, she differs from me.
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What I knew of the bowels of a car had been gained, not from systematic research, but bitter experience with mutinous parts, in ten years' progress through two, four, six and finally eight-cylinder motors of widely varying temperaments. I had taken no course in mechanics, and had, and still have, a way of confusing the differential with the transmission. But I love to tinker! In the old two-cylinder days, when the carburetor flooded I would weigh it down with a few pebbles and a hairpin, and when the feed became too scanty, I would take the hairpin out and leave the pebbles in. I had a smattering knowledge of all the deviltry defective batteries, leaky radiators, frozen steering-wheels, cranky generators, wrongly-hung springs, stripped gears and slipping clutches can perpetrate, but those parts which commonly behaved themselves I left severely alone. Toby could not drive, but a few lessons made her an apt pupil. She paid her money to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for a license, and one sparkling evening in early February we started for Springfield. We were to cover thirteen thousand miles before we saw Boston again,—eleven thousand by motor and the rest by steamship and horseback.
As I threw in the clutch, we heard a woman's voice calling after us. It was Toby's mother, and what she said was, "Don't drive at night!"
In New York we made the acquaintance of a map—which later was to become thumbed, torn and soiled. A delightful map it was, furnished by the A.A.A., with an index specially prepared for us of every Indian reservation, natural marvel, scenic and historical spot along the ridgepole of the Rockies, from Mexico, to Canada. Who could read the intriguing list of names,—Needles, Flagstaff, Moab, Skull Valley, Keams Canyon, Fort Apache, Tombstone, Rodeo, Kalispell, Lost Cabin, Hatchita, Rosebud, Roundup, Buckeye, Ten Sleep, Bowie and Bluff, Winnemucca,—and stop at home in Boston? We were bent on discovering whether they lived up to their names, whether Skull Valley was a scattered outpost of the desert with mysterious night-riders, stampeding steer, gold-seekers, cattle thieves and painted ladies, or had achieved virtue in a Rexall drugstore, a Harvey lunchroom, a jazz parlor, a Chamber of Commerce, an Elks' Hall, and a three story granite postoffice donated by a grateful administration? Which glory is now Skull Valley's we do not yet know, but depend on it, it is either one or the other. The old movie life of the frontier is not obsolete, only obsolescent, provided one knows where to look. But the day after it vanishes a thriving city has arrived at adolescence and "Frank's" and "Bill's" have placed a liveried black at their doors, and provided the ladies' parlor upstairs with three kinds of rouge.
It was love at first sight—our map and us. Pima and Maricopa Indians, Zuni and Laguna pueblos, the Rainbow Bridge and Havasupai Canyon beckoned to us and hinted their mysteries; our itinerary widened until it included vaguely everything there was to see. We made only one reservation—we would not visit California. California was the West, dehorned; it possessed climate, boulevards and conveniences; but it also possessed sand fleas and native sons. It was a little thing which caused us to make this decision, but epochal. At the San Francisco Exposition, I had seen a long procession of Native Sons, dressed in their native gold—a procession thousands strong. Knowing what one native son can do when he begins on his favorite topic of conversation, we dared not trust ourselves to an army of them, an army militant.
What we planned to do was harder and less usual. We would follow the old trails, immigrant trails, cattle trails, traders' routes,—mountain roads which a long procession of cliff dwellers, Spanish friars, gold seekers, Apache marauders, prospectors, Mormons and scouts had trod in five centuries, and left as they found them, mere footprints in the dust. The Southwest has been explored afoot and on horse, by prairie schooners, burro, and locomotive; the modern pioneer rattles his weather beaten flivver on business between Gallup and Santa Fe, Tucson and El Paso, and thinks nothing of it, but the country is still new to the motoring tourist. Because a car must have the attributes of a hurdler and a tightrope walker, be amphibious and fool-proof, have a beagle's nose for half-obliterated tracks, thrill to the tug of sand and mud, and own a constitution strong enough to withstand all experiments of provincial garage-men, few merciful car owners will put it through the supreme agony. Had not the roads looked so smooth on the map we wouldn't have tried them ourselves.
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And then, in New York, we met another optimist, and two and one make three. It was not until long afterward, when we met the roads he described as passable, that we discovered he was an optimist. He had motored through every section of the West, and paid us the compliment of believing we could do the same. When he presented us with our elaborate and beautiful itinerary he asked no questions about our skill and courage. He told us to buy an axe and a shovel, and carry a rope. A tent he advised as well, and such babes in the woods were we, the idea had not occurred to us.
"And carry a pistol?" asked Toby, eagerly.
"Never! You will be as safe—or safer than you are in New York City." Toby was disappointed, but I heard him with relief. By nature gun-shy, I have seen too many war-dramas not to know that a pistol never shoots the person originally aimed at. The procedure never varies. A pulls a gun, points it at B. B, unflinching, engages A in light conversation. Diverted, A absent-mindedly puts down the gun, which B picks up, shooting to kill. I realized that as B my chances were better than as A, for while I would surely fall under the spell of a western outlaw's quaint humor and racy diction and thus hand over the weapon into his keeping, the chances were that he might be equally undermined by our Boston r's, and the appeal to his rough Western chivalry which we intended to make. Toby held out for an ammonia pistol. We did debate this for a while, but in the excitement of buying our tent we forgot the pistol entirely.
Our Optimist directed us to a nearby sports'-goods shop, recommending us to the care of a certain "Reggi," who, he guaranteed, would not try to sell us the entire store. Confidently we sought the place,—a paradise where elk-skin boots, fleecy mufflers, sleeping bags, leather coats, pink hunting habits and folding stoves lure the very pocketbooks out of one's hands. We asked for Mr. Reggi, who did not look as Italian as his name. He proved a sympathetic guide, steering us to the camping department. He restrained himself from selling the most expensive outfits he had. At the price of a fascinating morning and fifty-odd dollars, we parted from him, owners of a silk tent, mosquito and snake proof, which folded into an infinitesimal canvas bag, a tin lantern, which folded flat, a tin biscuit baker which collapsed into nothing, a nest of cooking and eating utensils, which folded and fitted into one two-gallon pail, a can opener, a hunting knife, doomed to be our most cherished treasure, a flashlight, six giant safety-pins, and a folding stove. The charm of an article which collapses and becomes something else than it seems I cannot analyze nor resist. Others feel it too; I know a man who once stopped a South American revolution by stepping into the Plaza and opening and shutting his opera hat.
Only one incident marred our satisfaction with the morning's work; we discovered, on saying farewell to Reggi, that we had been calling him by his first name!
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FROM NEW YORK TO ANTOINE'S<mw:editsection page="Westward Hoboes" section="1">FROM NEW YORK TO ANTOINE'S</mw:editsection>
THERE were, we found, three ways to transport an automobile from New York to Texas; to drive it ourselves, and become mired in Southern "gumbo," to ship it by rail, and become bankrupt while waiting weeks for delivery, or, cheaper and altogether more satisfactory, to send it by freight steamer to Galveston. By this means we avoided the need of crating our lumbering vehicle; we also could calculate definitely its date of arrival, and by taking a passenger boat to New Orleans, and going thence by rail, be at the port to meet it.
Our baggage we stowed in a peculiarly shaped auto trunk containing five peculiarly shaped suitcases, trapezoids all,—not a parallelepiped among them. Made to fit an earlier car, in its day it had been the laughing stock of all the porters in Europe. Too bulky to be strapped outside, it was to become a mysterious occupant of the tonneau, exciting much speculation and comment. It was to be the means of our being taken for Salvation lassies with a parlor organ, bootleggers, Spiritualists with the omnipresent cabinet, show-girls or lady shirt-waist drummers, according to the imagination of the beholder; but it never was aught but a nuisance. Whatever we needed always reposed in the bottom-most suitcase, and rather than dig down, we did without. Next time, I shall know better. A three-piece khaki suit, composed of breeches, short skirt split front and back, and many-pocketed Norfolk coat, worn with knee-high elk boots, does for daily wear in camping, riding or driving. It sheds rain, heat and cold, does not wrinkle when slept in, and only mellows with successive accumulations of dirt. For dress occasions, a dark jersey coat and skirt, wool stockings and low oxfords is magnificence itself. A heavy and a light sweater, two flannel and a half dozen cotton or linen shirts, and sufficient plain underwear suffice for a year's knocking about. Add to this a simple afternoon frock of non-wrinkling material, preferably black, and no event finds you unprepared.
Our trunk made us trouble from the start. The administration had given us to understand we might ship it with the car, but at the last moment this was prevented by a constitutional amendment. Accordingly, an hour before our boat left, we took the trunk to the line on which we were to travel, and shipped it as personal baggage. It was only the first of many experiences which persuaded us to adopt the frontiersman's motto, "Pack light."
Every true yarn of adventure should begin with a sea voyage. The wharves with their heaped cargoes tying together the four ends of the world, the hoisting of the gang-plank, the steamer flirtations, the daily soundings, the eternal schools of porpoises, the menus with their ensuing disillusionments, and above all, the funny, funny passengers, each a drollery to all the others,—all these commonplaces of voyage are invested by the mighty sea with its own importance and mystery.
On board, besides ourselves, were some very funny people, and some merely funny. A swarthy family of Spaniards next us passed through all the successive shades of yellow and green, but throughout they were gay, eating oranges and chanting pretty little Castilian folk-songs. At table sat a man wearing a black and white striped shirt, of the variety known as "boiled," a black and white striped collar of a different pattern, and a bright blue necktie thickly studded with daisies and asterisks. He looked, otherwise, like a burglar without his jimmy, especially when we saw him by moonlight glowering prognathously through a porthole. He turned out to be only a playwright and journalist, with a specialty for handing out misinformation on a different subject each meal.
The stout lady, the flirtatious purser—why is he of all classes of men the most amorous?—the bounder, the bride and groom, the flappers of both sexes, the drummer, the motherly stewardess and the sardonic steward were all present. And why does the sight of digestive anguish bring out the maternal in the female, and only profanity in the male? Our plump English stewardess cooed over us, helpless in upper and lower berths; our steward always rocked with silent mirth, and muttered, "My God!"
Our own stout lady was particularly rare. She appeared coquettishly the first calm day off Florida, in a pink gingham dress, a large black rosary draped prominently upon her,—which did not much heighten her resemblance to a Mother Superior, owing to her wearing an embroidered Chinese kimona and a monkey coat over it, and flirting so gayly with the boys. On the Galveston train later, we heard her say helplessly, "Porter, my trunk is follering me to Galveston. How shall I stop it?" She could have stopped an express van merely by standing in front of it, but we did not suggest this remedy. The picture of a docile Saratoga lumbering doggedly at her rear was too much for words.
As to the purser, we left him severely alone. We did not feel we could flirt with him in the style to which he had been accustomed.
The last night of the voyage, when the clear bright green of the Gulf of Mexico gave place to the turbulent coffee color of the Mississippi, our stewardess knocked.
"On account of the river, miss, we don't bathe tonight." It was a small tragedy for us. Earlier in the voyage we could not bear to see the water sliding up and down in the tub,—so much else was sliding up and down. It was on one of those days that the stewardess informed us that there were "twenty-seven ladies sick on this deck, to say nothing of twenty-four below," and asked us how we would like a little piece of bacon. We firmly refused the bacon, but the Gilbertian lilt of her remark inspired us to composing a ballad with the refrain, "Twenty-seven sea-sick ladies we."
The river which deprived us of our baths presented at five next morning a bleak and sluggish appearance. I missed Simon Legree and the niggers singing plantation melodies, but it may have been too early in the day. Most picturesque, busy, low-lying river it was, nevertheless, banked with shipyards, newly built wharves, coaling stations, elevators, steamship docks—evidences to a provincial Northerner that the South, wakened perhaps by the Great War, has waited for none, but has forged ahead bent on her own development, achieving her independence—this time an economic independence. To the insular Manhattanite, who thinks of New York as the Eastern gate of this country, and San Francisco as the Western, the self-sufficiency, the bustle and the cosmopolitanism of the Mississippi's delta land, even seen through a six A.M. drizzle, gives a surprising jolt.
Six months later we were to cross the Mississippi near the headwaters not many miles from Canada. More lovely, there at the North, its broad, clear placid waters shadowed by green forests and high bluffs, it invites for a voyage of discovery.
On both banks of the river, whose forgotten raft and steamboat life Mark Twain made famous, are now being built concrete boulevards, designed to bisect the country from Canada to the Gulf. Huck Finns of the near future will be able to explore this great artery through what is now perhaps the least known and least accessible region of the country.
New Orleans, those who knew it twenty or forty years ago will tell you, has become modern and ugly, has lost its atmosphere. Drive through the newer and more pretentious outskirts, and you will believe all you are told. You will see the usual Southwestern broad boulevard, pointed with staccato palmettos, but otherwise arid of verdure, bordered with large, hideous mansions which completely overpower an occasional gem of low-verandahed loveliness, relic of happier days. For such grandeur the driver of our jitney,—undoubtedly the one used by Gen. Jackson during his defence of the city,—had an infallible instinct. I don't think he missed one atrocity during the whole morning's drive. Yet we passed one quite charming "colored" dwelling,—a low rambling cottage covered with vines, proudly made of glittering, silvery tin!
But in the old French or Creole quarters you find all the storied charm of the city intact,—a bit of Italy, of Old Spain, of the milder and sunnier parts of France, jumbled together with the romance of the West Indies. In the cobbled narrow pavements, down which mule teams still clatter more often than motors, the mellow old houses, with iron balconies beautifully wrought, broad verandahs, pink, green or orange plastered walls, peeling to show the red brick underneath,—shady courtyards, high-walled with fountains and stone Cupids, glimpsed through low arched doorways, markets like those of Cannes and Avignon, piled with luscious fruits, crawfish, crates of live hens, strings of onions, and barrels of huge oysters,—oh, the oysters of New Orleans,—here lies the fascination of the town.
Set down close to the wharves is this jumble of old streets, so close that the funnels of docked tramps mingle with the shop chimneys. From the wharves drift smells of the sea and sea-commerce, to join the smells of the old town. It is a subtle blend of peanuts, coffee, cooked food, garlic, poultry,—a raw, pungent, bracing odor, inclining one to thoughts of eating. And just around the corner is Antoine's.
Eating? There should be a word coined to distinguish ordinary eating from eating at Antoine's. The building is modest and the lettering plain, as befits the dignity of the place. The interior, plainly finished and lined with mirrors, resembles any one of five hundred un-noteworthy restaurants where business New York eats to get filled. There the resemblance stops. A sparkle, restrained and sober withal, rests on the mirrors, the glasses and the silver. The floors and woodwork have a well scrubbed look. The linen is carefully looked after, the china business-like; everything decent, adequate, spotless,—nothing to catch the eye. It is not visual aestheticism which lures us here, or causes the millionaire Manhattanite to order his private car to take him to Antoine's for one hour of bliss. Antoine is an interior decorator of subtler but more potent distinction. And I would go even farther than that New York multi-millionaire whose name spells Aladdin to Americans; for such a meal as Antoine served us that morning, I would travel the same distance in one of those wife-killing contrivances which are the bane of every self-respecting motorist.
The waiters at Antoine's are not hit-or-miss riff-raff sent up by a waiters' employment bureau. They are grandfatherly courtiers who make you feel that the responsibility for your digestion lies in their hands, and for the good name of the house in yours. Old New Orleans knows them by name, and recognizes the special dignity of their priesthood, with the air of saluting equals. Their lifework is your pleasure,—the procuring of your inner contentment. You could trust your family's honor to them, or the ordering of your meal. Only at Antoine's and in the pages of Leonard Merrick does one find such servitors.
We accepted our Joseph's suggestion that we allow him to bring us some of the specialties of the house. It was a wise decision,—from the prelude of oysters Rockefeller,—seared in a hot oven with a sauce of chives, butter and crumbs,—to the benediction of café brulôt. Between came a marvel of a fish, covered with Creole sauce, a sublimated chicken a la King, a salad and a sweet, all nicely proportioned to each other, but their memory was crowned by the café brulôt. In came Joseph, like all three Kings of Egypt, bearing a tall silver dish on a silver platter. The platter contained blazing brandy, the dish orange peel, lemon peel, cloves, cinnamon stick, four lumps of sugar, and two spoonfuls of brandy. Joseph stirred them into a melted nectar, then with a long silver ladle and the manner of a vestal virgin, swept the blazing brandy into the mixture above, and stood like a benevolent demon over the flame. An underling brought a pot of black coffee, which was added little by little to the fiery mixture, and stirred. Finally it was ladled into two small glasses. We swam in Swinburnian bliss. We paid our bill, and departed to a new New Orleans, where the secondhand stores were filled with genuine, priceless antiques, the pavings easy on our weary feet, the skies, as the meteorologist in the popular song observed, raining violets and daffodils. Mr. Volstead never tasted café brulôt.
