When nearing the mouth of the Big Sandy river, which forms the boundary between West Virginia and Kentucky, Paul was met by the steamer Fashion, loaded with ladies and gentlemen, who gave him a hearty welcome to the shores of old Kentucky. At Cattlettsburg, a banquet was spread on shore, of which he partook and slid back into the water. He arrived at Ironton at nine o'clock that night where he remained until morning.
From that point to Cincinnati, every town turned out to greet him. The banks were lined with people and bonfires were built at night. A short distance above Cincinnati he was met by an excursion steamer containing notables of that city and newspaper representatives. Madame Modjeska, who was with the party, presented him with a handsome silk flag. The river at Cincinnati was crowded with excursion boats. A large barge loaded with people, was driven against a pier and was barely saved from sinking with all on board. He made a brief stay in Cincinnati, and continued the voyage accompanied by a boat load of reporters, among whom was also Oliver Byron, the actor. The ice was then disappearing though the water was very cold. He averaged about five miles an hour on the lower river, and the rowing of the newspaper men to keep their boat up with him, was something beautifully scientific. At Delhi the two experienced oarsmen, who had been engaged to row a short distance, went ashore, leaving Creelman, Byron and two Cincinnati newspaper men to manage the lumbering boat. It was fortunate for their reputation as oarsmen, that spectators were directing most of their attention to Boyton, for such pulling was never seen before on the Ohio and will probably never be seen again. Paul felt like shedding tears every time he looked around to see how they were getting along. His own safety had something to do with his watchful care, for they came near running him down several times. The enthusiastic oarsmen first removed their overcoats; their undercoats followed and then collars were unbuttoned. One of them said it wasn't the length of the river that bothered them so much as the breadth. They worked independently of each other, and it was pretty hard to tell which was the bow and which the stern of the boat. A ragged urchin rowed out from shore to see what they were doing and sarcastically inquired if they were rowing over stumps. That was an unkind allusion to the extreme height at which they elevated their oar blades from the water between strokes. There was no revolver or shot gun in the party, or there would have been a funeral in that lad's family.
Row boats would pull out from shore all along, and the questions asked by the parties pulling them were ridiculous, and painfully monotonous. A sample of some of them: "Have you springs in your arms?" "Blow your horn. How far can it be heard?" "Are you going to travel all night?" "Are you going back to Cincinnati to-night?" "Let me sit on you." "Don't you get tired?" "Are you cold?"
When the press boat was not trying to climb the Kentucky hills, Paul would cheer himself by running alongside and converse with the boys; but as a rule he was wary of getting too close to them.
Nearing Louisville, a fleet of excursion steamers ran up to meet him. There was a heavy fog and the excursionists were so eager to see him, the boats pushing close around, that before he could bear into the city, he was carried over the falls, and was picked up five miles below. The newspaper men were also carried over and rescued by the life saving crew.
Leaving Louisville next morning, he intended to make the run to Cloverport, over one hundred miles below, without leaving the water. There was a strong head wind all day, turning the yellow waves of the Ohio over his face, and night closed in with dark, low hanging clouds. An electric storm began to rage about him. Flashing sheets of lightning ran over the surface of the water, cracking and sputtering as though angry at his presence. It was a grand, though fearful sight. Tree after tree along the shore was splintered by the sharp flashes and peals of thunder added to the terrific grandeur of nature's display. Fearing that his copper bugle would attract the lightning, he lowered it as far under the water as he could. All night he ran through that fearful storm, arriving at Cloverport very tired. He rested there several hours and ran to Owensboro. The mail boats, Idlewild and Morning Star, steamed up from Evansville to meet him, lashed together for the occasion, carrying a large crowd of people, and flying Boyton's colors, the Geneva Cross, which is the international life saving standard. Miss Maggie Morgan, one of Evansville's fair daughters, stepped off the Idlewild into the press boat and presented Paul with his colors.
An amusing incident occurred just as the flag was being presented. The commander of the steamer Hotspur, with an eye to business in running a little speculation of his own, loaded his steamer at so much per head, holding out the inducement that Boyton would give an exhibition up the river and that would be seen better from the deck of the Hotspur than from any other boat. As the young lady finished her presentation, the Hotspur steamed up, her deck black with people eager to witness the exhibition. Boyton had been told about the Hotspur by his agent who was on the other steamers and so, despite all the efforts of the captain and pilots of that boat, Paul kept the Idlewild and Mayflower between himself and her, in such a way that the people aboard of her could see nothing. For an hour or more, this amusing dance around the two steamers continued, until the Hotspur's captain, swearing and tramping his decks in a rage, ordered the boat back to Evansville, and to make matters worse with him, he could not collect a cent from the people he had inveigled aboard, having lost his sunshade during the night, his eyes were almost blinded and his face scorched by the intense heat.
He reached Cottonwood at 6 o'clock in the evening and through sheer exhaustion was compelled to leave the water for rest, after a continuous run of thirty-two hours. About 2 o'clock the next afternoon he met a heavy head wind and a high sea. He kept up a pretty good rate of speed, however, until he was struck by a storm off Hale's Point. The rain descended in torrents and darkness became so intense that he could scarcely tell whether he was going up, down or across. His matches were wet and he could not strike a light. He determined to go ashore, and if he could find no habitation, at least to remain along the bank until the storm had abated. A landing was effected in a thick woods, and there he found that he had not bettered the situation, because he was in danger of the lightning. He was debating whether to return to the water or not, when he caught the tiny glimmer of a light among the trees and he struck out for it, leaving the "Baby Mine" under a log near the shore. The light guided him to a lone negro cabin and he unceremoniously pushed the door open and entered, frightening the inmates, a newly wedded couple, half out of their wits, until he had explained who he was. The negro took it all good humouredly, however, saying: "Yo' done scart de life mos' out o' us. I knows who yo' is now, do Boss."
"How about a little fire, my friend," asked Boyton.
"All right boss, all right, sah, yo' kin have a fiah quicker 'n yo' kin skin er cat," and the negro began tearing boards off the side of the cabin. It was too much trouble to gather fuel in the woods or cut down a tree and besides, the boards burned more easily.