Choptank River Trip - Joppa Overnight Run

Text and photos for this imaginary steamboat trip from Easton to Baltimore, written 75 years ago, are excerpted from:

Steamboatin' Days
by John H. K. Shannahan
The Norman Publishing Co., Baltimore, 1930.

"STEAMBOAT TIME" was an important event in tidewater Maryland.  Before the faint whisp of smoke of the approaching steamer was seen the country folk began to gather at the wharf to see who may be coming or who was going to Balt'more.  It was a picturesque gathering.  The sons of the nearby farmers were on hand, washed and combed after the day's work in the field, conversing with shy awkwardness with the neighboring girls who had also come down to see the boat come in. The Negro hands were there with their ever-present good humor and loud guffaws.  One of them produces a mouth organ and in a few minutes a "break-down" is in full swing.  (How those black boys can make a mouth organ talk!)

Or, it may be that a real treat is given - "Old Black Joe," sung by those untaught children of the fields - sung with a sweetness and melody unequaled by the best trained choir.

Who of us past forty can ever forget the thrill when as a child we stood on the wharf waiting the Joppa or perhaps the Eastern Shore for the long anticipated trip to the city, where we could ride on the horse cars or perhaps the new cable cars?

The first thrill came when "Trump Gale" stopped at your house with his bus, drawn by two sway-back bays, and announced:  "Al' aboard for the boat." Unfortunately, the bus, too, is a matter of history.  Then there were other stops in the town until Trump could no longer pack another passenger inside, though everyone moved up front as far as possible in response to his oft-repeated request.

Now you are off to "The Point" over a hard, shell road to the steamboat wharves. Bear in mind that in those days you had the choice three lines on which to make the trip to Baltimore. You might take the sidewheeler Ida, the Maryland Line, or, if so minded, you might take the Choptank or the Tred Avon, of Choptank Line; or the Minnie Wheeler, of Wheeler Line. All resplendent with Brussels carpet, easy chairs and clean as a new pin.  Whichever line you took you paid a fare of fifty cents, and in either case you were assured of a clean bed and courteous treatment.

It was a mile from the outskirts of the town to the steamboat landing, the road straight as a string. You knew every foot of that road.  During the bare-footed months you would catch a ride to "The Point" on one of Dixon's wagons going down for coal or lumber.

There was so much at "The Point" to interest boys. The wharves with their bustling activity, loading freight that had arrived on the early morning boat and discharging boxes and mysterious packages to go to Baltimore by the night boat.  Most of the merchandise for the local merchants arrived by boat from Baltimore. 

Mr. Matthews had contracts with many of the store-keepers to deliver their freight to them.  Many a morning when you were home and for some unusual reason had gone "up town" early with father, you had seen Matthews' wagon unloading large boxes on the pavement in front of Thompson and Kersey's store. You marveled then how anyone could get up sufficiently early to do this. But the goods must be delivered and unpacked before the regular shopping hours.  You knew Mr. Matthews very well.  He would frequently let you drive.  A boy didn't get the chance to drive a horse and wagon every day.

Just before reaching "The Point" you passed White's brickyard. This was one of your favorite playgrounds.  You tried to count the bricks piled up to dry before they were put into the kiln, but it was too much for your arithmetic. Father and Mr. White had been in "the war," though Mr. White had been in the Federal Army, while father had been a Confederate. They were good friends, though, and the White boys and your brothers were chums.

A little further on to the left was the home of Admiral Febiger, an imposing stone house at the end of a long avenue lined with trees.  It reminded you of the old English estates of which you had read.

But "The Point" itself had the greatest charm. Captain Beckwith's shipyard, where he built small sailing vessels, was of never failing interest.  He lived in a large brick house - it doesn't seem so large now - and was always ready to talk with you about his boats.

"The Point" was so named because it was formed by two branches of the Tred Avon. The left branch went up past the paper mill, while the headwaters of the right branch passed under the court house bridge to your meadow beyond.

As the bus approached "The Point" you wondered if the boat was in.  You hoped not, as you liked to see her dock.  Presently the bus stops and you hurry out to the wharf.  A telephone jingles in the office and in a few minutes the agent announces: "She just left Oxford; be here in thirty minutes." Then you stood watching the bend of the river for the first sign of her approach.  Would she never come?  For a week you had been counting off the days and on that last day the hours. You had confided to your chums, with an air of much importance: "I'm going to Baltimore Sunday night."

Presently you see against the sky the reflection of the searchlight as the steamer plies her tortuous way up the Tred Avon, playing the light here and there to make sure she clears some bar.  Then as she swings around the last point and come into full view, her deep-throated whistle gives a salute.  It won't be long now!  How big she looks as she approaches! You gaze with rapt eyes until father draws you back as the lines are flung ashore.  Eager hands grasp them and haul them in, throwing the heavy hawser over the clustered piles. Meanwhile, the captain had been standing at the rail giving his commands.  He was an imposing figure in his blue uniform and brass buttons.  You are sure he must be almost as important as the President, and confide to father that you think you will be steamboat captain when you grow up.

The gangplank is run out with a clatter. Father goes to the purser's office, pays the fare and gets the key to your stateroom.  It has already been settled that you may sleep in the top berth. Do you remember when you slept "upstairs" for the first time?  Previously you were too young and father was afraid you'd roll off.

Finally you are all tucked in snug and hear sleepily the chug-chug of the paddle wheels.  An occasional "Bla, bla" of a calf on the freight deck arouses your sleepy senses.  Or you may hear the engine-room bell when boat stops at Tilghmans.

When you open your eyes in the morning you wonder where you are.  Then you realize you are in Baltimore.  The rumble and clatter of the wagons over the cobblestones and the trucking of the freight soon has you wide awake.  You dress in jigtime and with your hand tight father's, you are walking up Light Street - Light Street of the '80s.  Then breakfast the Maltby House, or Wagner's Green House, Sheehan's, or maybe at the Carrollton - all of blessed memory.

After breakfast came the important matter a new suit.  Whether to go to Likes, Berwanger, Oehm's Acme Hall, or the New York Clothing House was a difficult decision. You finally decided in favor of the former because the last time you got a suit there they gave you a ball and bat.  

Then you went with father while he attended to his business. You were glad when he announced that he couldn't get through that day because that meant you would spend the night the Maltby House.  There were finer hotels you knew, but father preferred the Maltby House because it was closer to the wharves, Basshor's and other places where he had business.  You thought the Maltby House very fine, its lobby paved in large black and white marble squares like a huge checker board.

After supper you sat out front with your feet on the iron railing just like father, while he smoked his cigar.  How quiet the streets were after nightfall!  No heavy wagons rumbling over the rough cobble stones.  But presently you hear  a clatter of hooves and a horseman draws up at the intersection of the streets and blows a long blast on a trumpet.  It reminded you of Paul Revere and you wondered what it could all be about.  But father explained that the horseman was warning any late teamsters that a train was coming.  Sure enough, in a few minutes a locomotive and a number of freight cars went slowly past. It seemed that this was the only way the railroad could get freight across the city, but you thought it very strange to see a freight train go right down the middle of the street.

Then you went sleepily up to bed.  There were elevators in your town and you were glad you didn't have to walk up the four flights of stairs.  Before you got into bed you let down the mosquito netting that was gathered like canopy at the ceiling and in a few minutes you were in the land of dreams. At breakfast the next morning you had buckwheat cakes and sausage.  You didn't think they were as good as Aunt Sally had at home, but you enjoyed them. You didn't eat breakfast in a big hotel every morning.

Father thought before you went home he would have your picture taken as a surprise for mother.  So after dinner you climbed the stairs to the "photograph gallery." The photographer decided upon a "full figure." So he stands you up like a wooden Indian, with an iron support for your head cleverly hidden behind you.  Neither father nor the photographer notice that your sleeves were a little short, that shoes needed polishing or that your hair might be straightened out. When mother saw those photographs she smiled and put them away. But you liked them and you have one yet, nor would you part with it for mere dollars.  It is sacred to memory!

One of the things we need today is more family portraits and the sentiment that goes with them.

This is something of what we traded for the gasoline buggy!  The average boy today of tidewater Maryland makes his trip to the city in his car.  He leaves early in the morning and is back by bedtime - his bedtime.  Does he get out of such a thrill as we got?

I wonder?

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