“Would you like to see the wreck?” it inquires. Yes, we would like it very much; and two chivalrous but invisible escorts receive us as we alight in a mud bank (where we nearly leave our shoes), and half lead and half support us as we stumble along the track. There lies the engine—a wreck among its expiring fires—the tender smashed beside it; the two foremost cars are off the line, toppling sideways but not absolutely turned over. Our car, the last, was the only one that kept the rails—this accounts for the mere shaking the accident caused us. The occupants of the forward cars were very much shaken; the baggage master had his shoulder dislocated, but no one was seriously hurt. We were all indebted for our providential escape to the presence of mind of our engine driver, who, on feeling his engine jerk off the line, reversed it, whistled “down brakes,” and having done all that could be done for saving us, jumped from the engine and saved himself. On farther inquiry we learn that our accident is believed to be no accident at all, but the work of “train wreckers,” who have removed the rails, and are no doubt lurking in the surrounding wilds, biding their time to swoop down and rob the train—a little game they are rather fond of playing in this part of the country. We are prepared for them, however. The gentlemen, who are all well armed, turn out of the train, every one of them, join the officials, and watch with them through the night. Meanwhile we are locked into the cars, assured of safety, and solemnly adjured to retire to rest, as we shall have to be astir at four o’clock in the morning.
A great fire of pine logs is kindled on the track, and the dusky figures of our volunteer guard pass to and fro, now illuminated by the red glare of light, then vanishing like shadowy spectres into the darkness, and the white watery moon peering out from a ragged mass of leaden clouds, or hiding behind them, gives the whole scene a weird look, like a living illustration torn out from some dead romance. There is no talking, no sound, only the solitary figures of the watchers stalking to and fro in the mysterious gloom. In the soft grey dawn of the morning we are roused (though indeed few of us need rousing, we too have been silent watchers through the night). We make a hasty toilet, gather our belongings together, descend from the cars, and walk along the line to meet the New Orleans train which has been signalled to stop, and is already disgorging its living freight. The alighting passengers meet us face to face with scared inquiring looks, as wondering why they have been roused from their sleep so early. The sight of our dilapidated train explains the mystery, and our sleepy melancholy processions pass each other by; they go east by the train which has been sent from Montgomery to meet them, and we enter the cars they have vacated. On viewing our wrecked train by the morning light we realise more completely the danger we have passed through.
The transfer of baggage and passengers is soon made, and by the time the beautiful sun has opened like a rich red rose in the east, we are once more on our way towards New Orleans.
All the usual transit arrangements have been thrown out of gear by our accident, and we have to run on what is called “a wild cat train,” that is to say, we have no time of our own, and have to get along as well as we can, without any legitimate chum to the “right of the road.” We shriek and whistle, and wriggle along for a few minutes, and then are ignominiously shunted; our engine gasps, and swallows its own smoke, and droops its iron wings in a most forlorn condition; even the fireman hides his face, as the triumphant express dashes joyously by, as though rejoicing in our humiliating condition. Even the usually despised freight train passes us. We are something lower than an “immigrant train”—we are a “wild cat.” We struggle on a little farther and then are signalled out of the way again; we are always backing, pulling up short, and being shunted into unexpected sidings—never knowing what we are going to do from one moment to another, or where we shall get anything to eat, or whether we shall have to starve till we get to New Orleans. Sometimes during this weary waiting we get out and promenade the track; it is rather rough walking, and we don’t do too much of it. Or if we are brought to a standstill in the wilderness, we ramble for half-an-hour through the sweet wet woods, for the gentle rain has bathed the tall trees and brought out the perfume of the wild flowers, and clothed all the wooded wonders with a dainty freshness. Who cares to wander through the hot dry woods in the scorching summer time, when the thirsty trees droop their long branches as though trying to reach the running water, whose gentle gurgling they hear from afar off; and the pale flowers, sick and sorely laden with their own perfumes, open their parched lips prayerfully and wait for the freshening rain? Well, it has fallen to-day, and the wild woods are chirping with vigorous life—birds, and shrubs, and flowers, and all the insect world, fresh from their showery bath, are waking and whirring joyously in the soft sunshine; then we come upon a clump of magnolia trees, whose long buds are slowly opening into flower, and somebody presents me with a magnolia as large as a young cabbage.
About twelve o’clock we pull up at a desolate-looking village; people come out of their cottages, pigs and children tumbling one over the other, to stare at this sudden irruption of humanity, at this hour when no respectable train is expected to be on the road. We alight, and are marshalled through numerous tumble-down cottages to a dilapidated hotel—a cross between an Irish shanty and a low class refreshment bar. Here we get a meal, or at least a substitute for one; we are all too hungry to pay much attention to the quality of the food, provided we get enough of it. The landlady, in large hoop earrings and a draggled print gown, received us at the stair-head, and with apologies for the poor entertainment she is able to afford us, on the ground of the exceptional nature of the occasion; it is the very first time a train has come to a standstill in this primitive part of the country.
There is a general clatter and chatter; two or three small negroes flutter round like a flock of frightened geese; everybody seems to get in everybody else’s way—they tumble over each other, tumble over us. There is a general scrimmage and rush for such eatables as are here attainable; one gets a cup of steaming coffee while the milk vanishes in the distance; another is refreshed with a bowl of sugar; one gets proud possession of a yard of corn bread, another grasps a dish of rancid butter—but the difficulty is getting the two together; fresh eggs are plentiful, and are piled like mountains of white cannon balls upon the table. A trio of adventurous gentlemen make a raid upon the kitchen, and reappear proudly bearing their spoils aloft; by degrees things shake down and we manage to fill the vacuum within us. Our damaged baggage master, with his dislocated shoulder bound up by amateur hands, is cheerful, albeit in pain, and receives the attentions of the ladies with great placidity; he has to be fed like a big baby, for he can’t use his right hand, and his left is sprained and swollen. Everybody is laughing, chatting, and grumbling all in a breath; as for us we never enjoyed a thoroughly British growl at so small a price—twenty cents a head!
On our way to the station we meet a wicked-looking little Topsy, with a huge brown jug of new milk, just fresh from the cow; we speedily relieve her of this responsibility, and in the twinkling of an eye change the stone jug and its contents into a shower of “nickels.”
Re-entering the car we are again on our way, and enjoy a series of dissolving views of some of the most charming scenery of the South—through plantations of cotton trees, and red and white blossomed dogwood. Slowly the world of green disappears beneath the grey twilight shadows; the sun, which has been blazing like a ball of burnished gold all day, seems suddenly to grow tired of shining, and draws his crimson curtains round him and sinks suddenly to rest. Soon the lights of New Orleans loom upon our sight.
Omnibuses and cars of all description are in waiting at the station, and in a very short time we are driving through the up and down streets of this quaint old city to the Hotel St. Charles, where we take our rest.