XI
A Voyage Up the Hudson
As four p.m. approached, I took the children to a great glass window in the cabin, through which we could see the massive machinery.
“Now,” said I, “watch the steel giant; he is motionless, but in a moment or two he will move.”
True enough, he appeared to take a long breath of steam, and then slowly lifted his polished arms, or levers, and the boat that had been like a part of the wharf began to act as if it were alive and were waking up.
“Now,” I asked, “shall we go to the afterdeck and take our last look at the city, or forward and see the river and whither we are going?”
“Forward! forward!” cried all in chorus.
“That’s the difference between youth and age,” I thought. “With the young it is always ‘forward.’ ” But we found that we could not go out on the forward deck, for the wind would have carried away my light, frail Mousie, like a feather. Indeed it was whistling a wild tune as we stood in a small room with glass windows all round. The waves were crowned with foaming whitecaps, and the small craft that had to be out in the gale were bobbing up and down, as if possessed. On the river was a strange and lurid light, which seemed to come more from the dashing water than from the sky, so dark was the latter with skurrying clouds.
Mousie clung timidly to my side, but I reassured her by saying: “See how steadily, how evenly and boldly, our great craft goes out on the wide river. In the same way we must go forward, and never be afraid. These boats run every day after the ice disappears, and they are managed by men who know what to do in all sorts of weather.”
She smiled, but whispered, “I think I’ll go back and stay with mamma;” but she soon found much amusement in looking at passing scenes from the windows of the warm after cabin—scenes that were like pictures set in oval frames.
The other children appeared fascinated by the scene, especially Winnie, whose bold black eyes flashed with excitement.
“I want to see everything and know everything,” she said.
“I wish you to see and know about things like these,” I replied, “but not such things as Melissa Daggett would show you.”
“Melissy Daggett, indeed!” cried Winnie. “This beats all her stories. She tried to tell me the other day about a theatre at which a woman killed a man—”
“Horrid! I hope you didn’t listen?”
“Only long enough to know the man came to life again, and danced in the next—”
“That will do. I’m not interested in Melissa’s vulgar stories. As you say, this, and all like this, is much better, and will never prevent you from becoming a lady like mamma.”
Winnie’s ambition to become a lady promised to be one of my strong levers in uplifting her character.
I confess that I did not like the looks of the sky or of the snowflakes that began to whirl in the air, but the strong steamer plowed her way rapidly past the city and the villa-crowned shores beyond. The gloom of the storm and of early coming night was over all, and from the distant western shores the Palisades frowned dimly through the obscurity.
My wife came, and after a brief glance shivered and was turning away, when I said, “You don’t like your first glimpse of the country, Winifred?”
“It will look different next June. The children will take cold here. Let them come and watch the machinery.”
This we all did for a time, and then I took them on excursions about the enclosed parts of the boat. The lamps were already lighted, and the piled-up freight stood out in grotesque light and shadow.
Before very long we were standing by one of the furnace rooms, and the sooty-visaged man threw open the iron doors of the furnace. In the glare of light that rushed forth everything near stood out almost as vividly as it would have done in a steady gleam of lightning. The fireman instantly became a startling silhouette, and the coal that he shovelled into what was like a flaming mouth of a cavern seemed sparkling black diamonds. The snowflakes glimmered as the wind swept them by the wide open window, and in the distance were seen the lights and the dim outline of another boat rushing toward the city. Clang! the iron doors are shut, and all is obscure again.
“Now the boat has had its supper,” said Bobsey. “O dear! I wish I could have a big hot supper.”
The smoking room door stood open, and we lingered near it for some moments, attracted first by a picture of a great fat ox, that suggested grassy meadows, plowing, juicy steaks, and other pleasant things. Then our attention was drawn to a man, evidently a cattle dealer, who was holding forth to others more or less akin to him in their pursuits.
“Yes,” he was saying, “people in the country eat a mighty lot of cow beef, poor and old at that. I was buying calves out near Shawangunk Mountains last week, and stopped at a small tavern. They brought me a steak and I tried to put my knife in it—thought the knife might be dull, but knew my grinders weren’t. Jerusalem! I might have chawed on that steak till now and made no impression. I called the landlord, and said, ‘See here, stranger, if you serve me old boot leather for steak again I’ll blow on your house.’—‘I vow,’ he said, ‘it’s the best I kin get in these diggin’s. You fellers from the city buy
