The Pay-Master writes the order, and looks around with curiosity at the picket station. We peer into the bayou, which is supposed to swarm with deadly moccason snakes, and then climbing on the car, resume our jaunt. We pay the two companies stationed at Tigerville; we hearken to the commanding officer’s advice to stay and dine with him, and then, with a new hand-car and a fresh guard, we run twelve miles further up the road and pay the last company. An hour or two after dark this is accomplished, and we prepare to return. As we approach the car, one of the men meets us with a rumor that a division of the army is coming up the single track, and that doubtless we shall meet several trains where the swamp is darkest and the roadway narrowest. We investigate the rumor, and find that it is based on the fact that the trains ought to come, but no one really knows that they are coming. “What do you think, Pay-Master? You and the money chest must be taken great care of.” The Pay-Master thinks that if we had a lantern it would be safe. We procure a lantern, and hold a consultation. One of our guard is an experienced railroad builder; he knows the ways of hand-cars, and can tell afar off the sound of advancing trains. He promises to “brake-down” the hand-car in an instant, and to forewarn us of impending engines long before they can run into us.
We start, and the experienced man stands with his hand upon the brake, and an officer who has joined us takes his place in front, holding the lantern plainly in sight. Away we go into the darkness of the swamp—a darkness so thick that you cannot see the man who sits beside you. For several miles the road runs straight as an arrow, and I sit behind with the Pay-Master, trusting those in front to keep a look-out. At length we come out of the swamp and enter an open plantation country, through which the road makes many turns. “Ease off and then brake-down,” and the car lessens its speed and in a few moments stops. The experienced man goes forward, puts one ear close to the track, and announces that there is no train on the road within ten miles. We start again, and this time I stand up and post myself where I can have a clear view of the front.
“Oh, Colonel, sit down,” says the experienced man; “no use in your standing up. I’ll tell you the moment any train comes in sight.”
“I’m much obliged to you, but as the way is somewhat crooked from here to Tigerville, I think I shall be quite as comfortable keeping a little look-out of my own, as sitting down and trusting it all to you.”
The hand-car runs merrily forward; the men, refreshed with our brief halt, are sending it along with increased speed, when through the trees and bushes, across a sharp curve of the road—a flash—a light, and the thunder of a coming train. “An engine.” “The cars.” “Brake-down’ quick.” “They’re at full speed.” “They’ll be on us if you don’t hurry.” The experienced man tugs at the brake, the others start up and frantically endeavor to extricate their legs and arms (which everybody else seems to be sitting upon), the hand-car runs on as if it will never stop; the heavy engine glares on us with its great, glowing eye, and comes rushing forward in unabated haste. There is no time to waste in trifles; the officer in front springs from the car and runs down the road, waving the lantern with all his might; a couple of soldiers tumble themselves off, and one adroitly falls across the track, and lies there stunned; the experienced man strains away on his brake; the Pay-Master and I drop off behind, and seizing hold of the car, succeed in stopping it. The train seems but a few yards distant, crashing and thundering, and shaking the very ground we stand on. The Pay-Master, who has been the most cautious of the party, is now the most cool and decided. While two men push against each other and the experienced man gives contradictory directions, the Pay-Master seizes the car, capsizes it off the track, and hurls it down the bank. The precious box and the stunned soldier are dragged out of the way, and the train goes roaring past. When all is over, we first berate the experienced man roundly, then haul the car with much trouble up the bank and on to the track, and then feel our way cautiously down to Tigerville. There we refresh ourselves with a cold supper, tell over the tale of our escape, and abuse the engineer to our heart’s content for not seeing our lantern, and stopping his train. The Pay-Master announces his intention of writing the history of the last twenty-four hours, and publishing it as the “Adventures of a Pay-Master.” I am sorry to say he does not keep this promise.
III.
THE WILD TEXANS.
Some weeks after the pay-day, I found myself stretched upon a bed, in a little shanty, at Tigerville. I had some hazy recollections of having moved my quarters to Tigerville—of having left my tent one evening, after dress-parade, for a ride—of having ridden to the hospital and dismounted, with a dizzy head and aching frame—of the surgeon telling me, that I was very ill and must not go back—and then of horrible fever-visions.
The long days travelled slowly, and the sultry nights wore away wearily, but they rolled into weeks ere anything was gained. Then I was carried to Brashear, and placed in a house which had been the mansion of an old Louisiana family. In front was a strip of lawn shaded by large oaks moss-hung and spreading. Beneath them the view opened on the waters of the Atchafalaya, which here had widened into Berwick Bay, and beyond, on the little village of Berwick. Around were the remains of the finest garden of western Louisiana. There still lingered thickets of the fig and orange, of lemon and banana; and there still flowered oleanders, and catalpas, and jasmin, with many other specimens of tropical fruits and flowers. As I sat observing these remnants of other times, an old New York friend and his wife came in. The lady looked around on the grass-grown walks, broken and effaced; on the long rows of fruit trees to which horses were picketed; on the rare flowerbeds trampled out by droves of mules; on the smooth grass-plots covered with heaps of rubbish.
“You have been here before,” I said, as I marked the careful looks that travelled so closely over every part of the sad, disordered scene.
“I have passed the most of my life here,” she replied. “This is my mother’s house.”