“Gentlemen,” he said, to a little group of passengers, of which Robert and I were a part, “gentlemen, we are in an almighty fix. There is yellow fever in Galveston—plenty of it, already—and likely to be much more, and that’s a fact. So none of us will be allowed to land there, unless we have homes in the city, and have been made immune by a previous attack.”
The gentlemen in white then examined the passengers, and only four were permitted to land. Our case was hopeless: we were Europeans, and particularly liable to become infected, as were also the body of emigrants on board. What were we to do? 179 There were two alternatives. We could return to New Orleans on The Lone Star for the chance of some ship going to New York, or we could continue our journey into the interior of Texas.
“How can the journey be continued?” asked Robert.
“A small steamer will be sent this afternoon,” was the answer. “It will convey all wishing to go inland up the Buffalo Bayou to Harrisburg. The leader of the German emigrants tells me they will be met at Harrisburg with vehicles to carry them and their baggage to New Braunfels.”
“But we are traveling alone,” continued Robert, “and how can we proceed?”
“Where are you going to?”
“To Austin.”
“Well, then, the railway goes some distance beyond Harrisburg—a few miles—and it may yet be in service. If so, you will take it to its terminus. There the mail coach for Austin and San Antonio will call for mail, and no doubt it will have room for you. Travel is not very lively at present.”
“Do you know the days and hours when the mail coach is due at this terminus?” Robert asked.
“No, indeed!” was the smiling reply. “Bud Terry makes his own hours. But he’s sure to come along sooner or later. I did hear that Bud was down, but I don’t take any stock in that report. There’s a deal of business just now between Washington and Austin, and Bud knows his duty, and, gen’rally speaking, does it.”