The following morning, Saturday, March 21, we again mounted our wheels and took to the tow-path. Though the ground was soft and treacherous, we reached Tan Yan at 10 o’clock. It was amusing to observe the effect of our bicycles upon the natives. Farmers and laborers in the fields dropped their implements soon as they sighted us and ran to the roadside to view us in blank amazement, but if I stopped and attempted to engage them in conversation they directly ran for the interior again. Some of the people we passed with wheelbarrows left the vehicles in the path and sought refuge in the rice fields. A steam street roller could not have created greater consternation among a troop of wild ponies than our innocent rubber-tired vehicles did among the country folk of China. Several times we thought we had lost our way, so obscure had the path become, and had it not been for our compass, the knowledge that Ching Kiang lay directly north, and an occasional friendly farmer, we would never have found our way. Seventeen miles from Tan Yan we sighted the pagoda of the south gate of Ching Kiang, and entering upon a stone-bedded road, we plowed along at lively speed to the very entrance of the city wall. Inquiry for “Yen Isweesun” (foreigners) put to the crowd before us was fruitful, and under the escort of half a dozen young men we were led through a maze of small streets, and the way pointed out to a group of small houses which dotted the summits of a chain of hills. The United States flag floated over one residence, and with thanks to our guides we turned to leave them. The Chinese who had piloted us blocked our path, demanding a reward. By gestures they made it known that they would consider the account settled if I would let one man ride my wheel. Nothing could have suited me better, and I surrendered it at once. Two men held the wheel while the third mounted it, and in less than a minute he had taken a plunge into a ditch of muddy water, changing his ambition to ride into one of disgust for the wheel and respectful admiration for myself.
The United States Consul, Gen. A. C. Jones, occupied one of the handsomest houses in Ching Kiang. We called upon him on the afternoon of our arrival, but found him absent. However, we were taken into his office and entertained by Mrs. Jones until the arrival of her husband, who had been looked up by a native servant with the information that “two men” had come to see him “walking on wheels.”
CHAPTER X.
GENERAL JONES ABLY REPRESENTS UNCLE SAM AND HIS GOVERNMENT—MUD DELAYS THE TOURISTS—MISTAKEN FOR A MISSIONARY M. D.
Gen. Jones, a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose handsome face was crowned with silvery white hair and ornamented by a flowing mustache and imperial, impressed me as one of the most courteous and affable gentlemen with whose acquaintance I had ever been honored. There are many reminiscences told of him and his admirable dealings in national affairs with the Chinese, and none better is related than how he adjusted the claim of his government arising out of the great riot of Ching Kiang in 1889. The riot, it may be remembered, resulted in the burning of the British Consulate, the looting of the American Consulate, and the death of Mrs. Mansfield, wife of Her Majesty’s Consul, from shock and prostration. The claims of the British government were first presented to the Tao Tai, and after a long period of wrangling the amount of damages was considerably cut down and the matter was pigeon-holed for future consideration. When it came the American Consul’s turn to present his bill, he did so without waste of words. It is told of him, by none other than Mr. Mansfield, the English Consul, that Gen. Jones disdained the seat offered him at the meeting of the Commissions of Arbitration, and remained standing in dramatic attitude before the Tao Tai. When that official had listened to the American claim, and expostulated that the figures seemed exorbitant, Gen. Jones drew himself up and forthwith gave an exhibition of Western ideas and American principles. Addressing the Tao Tai, he said:
“Sir, I represent a people whom your horde of fanatic savages have maliciously wronged and robbed. I have presented the claim; it lies before you. I do not ask that it be paid; I do not supplicate you that it be settled, but, as the representative of the United States Government, I demand, sir, that it be paid, unaltered, unchanged and in its entirety.”
The Consul leaned over the table, one hand with clenched fist supporting his body, the other resting upon his hip, as if to draw a six-shooter, and with determination stamped upon his countenance, he hurled the words, rather than spoke them. The Tao Tai first appeared amazed, and finally he actually trembled with fear. The entire scene was theatrical, but the climax caused those assembled more astonishment still. After a hurried whispered conversation the Chinese officials nodded pleasantly to Gen. Jones, and the Consul took his seat. His claim had been accepted.
We had already been considerably delayed in our progress to Nanking, so charming and hospitable had been Gen. Jones and his wife, and, in spite of warm invitations to remain longer, Mrs. McIlrath and I left Ching Kiang at noon on March 22. Gen. Jones had ordered the way cleared for us, sending ahead a native officer. We had several days of hot, dusty riding, which was made all the more difficult by the increased amount of baggage which we carried. Nanking, our objective point, is the Southern capital of the empire, the home of the Kai King rebels; the site of the famous porcelain palace and of the great Confucian temple, a city which is the greatest of all Chinese educational points, as well as the most historical, offering opportunity for the examination of 28,000 students at one place at one time. Before entering the city we visited the Ming tomb, the burial place of the Emperor Hung Woo, who reigned during the fourteenth century, and dying at the Imperial Palace was interred at the foot of the Purple mountain. The tomb itself is simply a small hill, with nothing extraordinary appearing about its graceful, rolling eminence. Tradition has it, however, that in its depth reposes a magnificent vault, which has been completely covered by the faithful subjects who visited the tomb, each one depositing a handful of earth upon and about the vault. I bore a letter of introduction from one of my missionary friends to a Mr. Ferguson, an American resident of Nanking, through whose kind offices we were enabled to see nearly, if not all, the points of interest in the historical Chinese city, visiting the Bell tower, Drum tower and Examination Halls before our departure.
As Tai Ping Foo, our next stopping place, was 68 miles southwest, and over uncertain roads, we decided to remain the second night at the home of Mr. Ferguson, and it was not until March 23 that we took our leave. We were unable to get further than fifteen miles of Tai Ping Foo on account of the muddy roads. The clay collected by our tires blocked the opening in forks and frames, the sprockets were thick discs of the yellow, sticky mass, and every fifty feet we were compelled to scrape the mud off in order to move a wheel. Removing the chain from each wheel helped matters slightly, but so frequently did the cleaning process become necessary, that we no longer used a stick for the work, but simply scraped the mud from our tires and frames with our hands. Darkness overtook us and added to our discomfort. The path, only three feet wide, and built as an embankment, was as difficult to keep upon as a greased plank. Mrs. McIlrath and I fell time and again. Bridges had to be crossed on hands and knees, and so clogged with mud were our shoes that our legs ached from lifting our feet. We encountered many difficulties since leaving Chicago, but none so hopeless and with so little promise of a night’s rest as the time we tried to make Tai Ping Foo. Mrs. McIlrath gave way to her feelings, and sat down upon one of the muddy embankments and indulged in a good cry. We wandered through the mud and rain the greater part of the night, plunging through rice fields and patches of mustard plants, guided only by the feeble light shed by our bicycle lamps. A bad fall broke the glass in my lantern, and we were then forced to proceed only by the dim rays cast by the lamp on Mrs. McIlrath’s wheel. Toward morning we came to a halt in front of a mud hut, through the bamboo doors of which we could see the dying embers of a fire. I shouted several times before I could raise any of the occupants. A generous display of silver pieces persuaded them to let us enter. The wife arose, cooked us food, and made places for us to sleep on the floor, with the fire at our feet. I had expected my bill to be something enormous for this great accommodation, and I was all but stunned when our host demanded only 600 cash. This was equivalent to about 60 cents of Uncle Sam’s money, which amount will keep a large Chinese family for a week. Tai Ping Foo by this time was only three miles away, and without further incident we reached the city, and though we had been awake the lesser part of the day, we were soon ready for another night’s rest in more comfortable quarters.