We who are accustomed to the comforts of railway travelling, are nevertheless, in regard to accidents, very much like the ostrich; for though we do not purposely close our eyes to danger, we are nevertheless placed in such a position that we are unable, when shut up in a railway carriage, to see what is before us, or about to happen.
Far otherwise was the case in the days of coaching. The passengers, as well as the drivers and guards, were not only exposed to the drenchings from long-continued rain, the terrible exposure to the cold night-air in winter travelling, and the danger of attack from highwaymen, but they ran the risks of all the accidents of the road, many of which they could see to be inevitable before they happened. There were occasions when passengers were frozen to death on the coaches, and others when they fell off benumbed with cold. It is said sometimes that first impressions are often correct; but there are, of course, erroneous first impressions as well. A story is told of a mail-guard in Scotland who had the misfortune to be on a coach which upset, and from which all the outside people were thrown to the ground. The guard came down upon his head on the top of a stiff hedge, and from this temporary situation rolled into a ditch, where for a moment he lay. Coming to himself from a partial stupor, he imagined there was something wrong with the top of his head, and putting up his hand, he felt a flat surface, which to his dawning perception appeared to be a section of his neck, his impression being that his head had been cut off. This was, however, nothing but the crown of his hat, which, being forced down over his head and face, had probably saved him from more serious damage. Broken limbs were accidents of common occurrence; but affairs of much more serious import occasionally took place, of which the following is a notable example:—
On the night of Tuesday the 25th October 1808, the road between Carlisle and Glasgow was the scene of a catastrophe which will serve to illustrate in a striking degree one of the perils of the postal service in the mail-coach era. The place where the event now to be described occurred, lies between Beattock and Elvanfoot (about five miles from the latter place), where the highway crosses the Evan Water, a stream which takes its rise near the sources of the Clyde, but whose waters are carried southward into Dumfriesshire. To be more precise, the situation is between two places called Raecleuch and Howcleuch, on the Carlisle road; and a bridge which now spans the water, in lieu of a former bridge, retains by association, to this day, the name of the "Broken Bridge."
It was at the breaking up of a severe storm of frost and snow, when the rivers were flooded to such an extent as had never been seen by the oldest people in the neighbourhood. The bridge had been but recently built; and though it was afterwards stated that the materials composing the mortar must have been of bad quality, no doubt would seem to have been entertained as to the security of the bridge. The night was dark, and accompanied by both wind and rain—elements which frequently usher in a state of thaw. The mail-coach having passed the summit, was speeding along at a good round pace, the "outsiders" doubtless making themselves as comfortable as circumstances would allow, while the "insides," as we might imagine, had composed themselves into some semblance of sleep, the time being between nine and ten o'clock, when, suddenly and without warning, the whole equipage—horses, coach, driver, guard, and passengers—on reaching the middle of the bridge, went headlong precipitate into the swollen stream through a chasm left by the collapse of the arch. It is by no means easy to realise what the thoughts would be of those concerned in this dreadful experience—pitched into a roaring torrent, in a most lonely place, at a late hour on such a night. The actual results were, however, very serious. The two leading horses were killed outright by the fall, while one of the wheelers was killed by a heavy stone descending upon it from the still impending portions of the wrecked structure. The coach and harness also were utterly destroyed. But, worse still, two outside passengers, one a Mr Lund, a partner in a London house, and the other named Brand, a merchant in Ecclefechan, were killed on the spot, while a lady and three gentlemen who were inside passengers miraculously escaped with their lives, though they were severely bruised. The lady, who had scrambled out of the vehicle, sought refuge on a rock in mid-stream, there remaining prisoner for a time; and by her means a second catastrophe of a similar kind was happily averted. The mail from Carlisle for Glasgow usually exchanged "Good-night" with the south-going coach, when they were running to time, just about the scene of the accident. Fortunately the coach from Carlisle was rather late; but when it did arrive, the lady on the rock, seeing the lights approach, screamed aloud, and thus warned the driver to draw up in time. Succour was now at hand. Something ludicrous generally finds itself in company with whatever is of a tragic nature. The guard of the Carlisle coach was let down to the place where the lady was, by means of the reins taken from the horses. Hughie Campbell—that was the guard's name—when deliberating upon the plan of rescue, had some delicacy as to how he should affix the reins to the person of the lady, and called up to those above, "Where will I grip her?" But before he could be otherwise advised, the lady, long enough already on the rock, broke in, "Grip me where you like, but grip me firm," which observation at once removed Hughie's difficulty, and set his scruples at ease. The driver of the wrecked coach, Alexander Cooper, was at first thought to have been carried away; but he was afterwards found caught between two stones in the river. He survived the accident only a few weeks—serious injuries to his back proving fatal. As for the guard, Thomas Kinghorn, he was severely cut about the head, but eventually recovered.
It was usual for the coachman and guard over this wild and exposed road to be strapped to their seats in stormy weather; but on this occasion Kinghorn, as it happened, was not strapped, and to this circumstance he attributed his escape from death. When the mail went down, he was sent flying over the bridge, and alighted clear from the wreck of the coach. The dead passengers and the wounded persons were taken by the other coach into Moffat.
It may be added that the fourth horse was got out of its predicament little the worse for the fall, and continued to run for many a day over the same road; but it was always observed to evince great nervousness and excitement whenever it approached the scene of the accident.
Yet the mail-coach days had charms and attractions for travellers, if they at the same time had their drawbacks: the bustle and excitement of the start, when the horses were loosed and the driver let them have rein, under the eyes of interested and admiring spectators; the exhilarating gallop as a good pace was achieved on the open country-road; the keen relish of the meals, more especially of breakfast, at the neatly kept and hospitable inn; the blithe note of the guard's horn, as a turnpike-gate or the end of a stage was approached; and the hurried changing of horses from time to time as the journey progressed. Ever-varying scene is the characteristic of the occasion: the village with its rustic quiet, and odd characters, who were sure to present themselves as the coach flew by; the fresh and blooming fields; the soft and pastoral downs; the scented hedgerows in May and June; the stretches of road embowered with wood, affording a grateful shade in warm weather; the farmer's children swinging on a gate or over-topping a fence, and cheering lustily with their small voices as the coach swept along. And then, the hours of twilight being past, when
"Day hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars,"
the eeriness of a night-journey would be experienced. During hard frost the clear ring of the horses' feet would be heard upon the road; the discomfort of fellow-passengers rolling about in their places, overcome by sleep, would be felt; while in the solemn dulness of the darker hours of night the monotony of the situation would be relieved at intervals, in the mineral districts, by miniature mountains of blazing coal, shedding their lurid glare upon the coach as it passed, and showing up the figures of soiled and dusky men employed thereat, thus creating a horrible impression upon the passengers, and seeming to afford an effective representation of Dante's shadowy world.
Or, on occasions of great national triumph—when, for example, some important victory crowned our arms—the coach, decked out with ribbons or green leaves, would be the bearer of the joyful and intoxicating news down into the country,—the driver and guard, as the official representatives of the Crown, being the heroes of the hour.