Thus was accomplished one of the most remarkable and perilous voyages ever made by men. The boat was seventy-two feet long, with seventeen feet breadth of beam and eight feet depth of hold, and carried an engine of one hundred horse-power. In conversation with Robinson after the voyage, he stated that the greater part of it was like what he had always imagined must be the swift sailing of a large bird in a downward flight; that when the accident occurred the boat seemed to be struck from all directions at once; that she trembled like a fiddle-string, and felt as if she would crumble away and drop into atoms; that both he and McIntyre were holding to the wheel with all their strength, but produced no more effect than they would if they had been two flies; that he had no fear of striking the rocks, for he knew that the strongest suction must be in the deepest channel, and that the boat must remain in that. Finding that McIntyre was somewhat bewildered by excitement or by his fall, as he rolled up by his side but did not rise, he quietly put his foot on his breast, to keep him from rolling around the deck, and thus finished the voyage.
Poor Jones, imprisoned beneath the hatches before the glowing furnace, went down on his knees, as he related afterward, and although a more earnest prayer was never uttered and few that were shorter, still it seemed to him prodigiously long. To that prayer he thought they owed their salvation.
The effect of this trip upon Robinson was decidedly marked. As he lived only a few years afterward, his death was commonly attributed to it. But this was incorrect, since the disease which terminated his life was contracted at New Orleans at a later day. "He was," said Mrs. Robinson to the writer, "twenty years older when he came home that day than when he went out." He sank into his chair like a person overcome with weariness. He decided to abandon the water, and advised his sons to venture no more about the rapids. Both his manner and appearance were changed. Calm and deliberate before, he became thoughtful and serious afterward. He had been borne, as it were, in the arms of a power so mighty that its impress was stamped on his features and on his mind. Through a slightly opened door he had seen a vision which awed and subdued him. He became reverent in a moment. He grew venerable in an hour.
Yet he had a strange, almost irrepressible, desire to make this voyage immediately after the steamer was put on below the Falls. The wish was only increased when the first Maid of the Mist was superseded by the new and stancher one. He insisted that the voyage could be made with safety, and that it might be made a good pecuniary speculation.
He was a character—an original. Born on the banks of the Connecticut, in the town of Springfield, Massachusetts, it was in the beautiful reach of water which skirts that city that he acquired his love of aquatic sports and exercises and his skill in them. He was nearly six feet in stature, with light chestnut hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion. He was a kind-hearted man, of equable temper, few words, cool, deliberate, decided; lithe as a Gaul and gentle as a girl. It goes without saying that he was a man of "undaunted courage." He had that calm, serene, supreme equanimity of temperament which fear could not reach nor disturb. He might have been, under right conditions, a quiet, willing martyr, and at last he bore patiently the wearying hours of slow decay which ended his life. His love of nature and adventure was paramount to his love of money, and although he was never pinched with poverty, he never had abundance.
He loved the water, and was at home in it or on it, as he was a capital swimmer and a skillful oarsman. Especially he delighted in the rapids of the Niagara. Kind and compassionate as he was by nature, he was almost glad when he heard that a fellow-creature was, in some way, entangled in the rapids, since it would give him an excuse, an opportunity, to work in them and to help him. As he was not a boaster, he made no superfluous exhibitions of his skill or courage, albeit he might occasionally indulge—and be indulged—in some mirthful manifestation of his good-nature; as when, on reaching Chapin's refuge for his rescue, he waved from one of its tallest cedars a green branch to the anxious spectators, as if to assure and encourage them; and when he returned with his skiff half filled with cedar-sprigs, which he distributed to the multitude, they raised his pet craft to their shoulders, with both Chapin and himself in it, and bore them in triumph through the village, while money tokens were thrown into the boat to replace the green ones.
He never foolishly challenged the admiration of his fellow-men. But when the emergency arose for the proper exercise of his powers, when news came that some one was in trouble in the river, then he went to work with a calm and cheerful will which gave assurance of the best results. Beneath his quiet deliberation of manner there was concealed a wonderful vigor both of resolution and nerve, as was amply shown by the dangers which he faced, and by the bend in his withy oar as he forced it through the water, and the feathery spray which flashed from its blade when he lifted it to the surface.
In all fishing and sailing parties his presence was indispensable for those who knew him. The most timid child or woman no longer hesitated if Robinson was to go with the party. His quick eye saw everything, and his willing hand did all that it was necessary to do, to secure the comfort and safety of the company.