On Sunday, the 30th of January, we left St. Louis at eight o’clock in the morning for Cincinnati. I was in my magnificently appointed Pullman car, and I had requested that my car should be put at the end of our special train, so that from the platform I might enjoy the beauty of the landscape which passes before one like a continually changing living panorama.
We had scarcely been more than ten minutes en route when the guard suddenly stooped down and looked over the little balcony. He then drew back quickly, and his face turned pale. Seizing my hand, he said in a very anxious tone, in English, “Please go inside, madame.” I understood that we were in danger of some kind. He pulled the alarm signal, made a sign to another guard, and, before the train had quite come to a standstill, the two men sprang down and disappeared under the train. The guard had fired a revolver in order to attract everyone’s attention, and Jarrett, Abbey, and the artistes hurried out into the narrow corridor. I found myself in the midst of them, and to our stupefaction, we saw the two guards dragging out from underneath my compartment a man armed to the teeth. With a revolver held to his temple on either side he decided to confess the truth of the matter. The jeweler’s exhibition had excited the envy of all the tribes of thieves, and this man had been despatched by an organized hand at St. Louis to relieve me of my jewelry. He was to unhook my carriage from the rest of the train between St. Louis and Cincinnati, at a certain spot known as the “Little Incline.” As this was to be done during the night, and my carriage was the last, the thing was comparatively easy, as it was only a question of lifting the enormous hook and drawing it out of the link. The man was a veritable giant and he was fastened on to my carriage. We examined his apparatus and found that it consisted of merely very thick, wide straps of leather, about half a yard wide. By means of these, he was fastened firmly to the under part of the train with his hands perfectly free. The courage and the sang froid of that man were admirable. He told us that seven armed men were waiting for us at the “Little Incline” and that they certainly would not have injured us if we had not attempted to resist, for all they wanted was my jewelry, and the money which the secretary carried, $2,300. Oh! he knew everything, he knew everyone’s name, and he gabbled on in bad French: “Oh! as for you, madame, we should not have done you any harm in spite of your pretty little revolver; we should even have let you keep it.”
And so this man and his band knew that the secretary slept at my end of the train and that he was not to be dreaded much, poor Chatterton, that he had with him $2,300, and that I had a very prettily chased revolver, ornamented with cats’ eyes. The man was firmly bound and taken in charge by the two guards, and the train was then backed to St. Louis—we had started away only a quarter of an hour before. The police were informed and they sent us five detectives. A goods train, which should have gone on half an hour after us, was sent on ahead. Eight detectives traveled on this goods train and received orders to get out at the “Little Incline.” Our giant was handed over to the police authorities, but I was promised that he should be dealt with mercifully on account of the confession he had made. Later on, I learned that this promise had been kept, as the man was sent back to his native country, Ireland.
From this time forth, my compartment was always placed between two others every night. In the daytime I was allowed to have my carriage at the end on condition that I would agree to have an armed detective on my bridge, whom I was to pay, by the way, for his services. We started about twenty-five minutes after the goods train. All the men were requested to have their revolvers in readiness and some white sticks like pastry rollers were given to the women and to the men who had not any revolvers. Our dinner was very gay and everyone was rather excited. As to the guard who had discovered the giant hidden under the train, Abbey and I had rewarded him so lavishly that he was intoxicated, and kept coming on every occasion to kiss my hand and weep his drunkard’s tears, repeating all the time: “I saved the French lady, I’m a gentleman.”
When, finally, we approached the “Little Incline,” it was dark. The engine driver wanted to rush along at full speed, but we had not gone five miles when petards exploded under the wheels, and we were obliged to slacken our pace. We wondered what new danger there was awaiting us, and we began to feel anxious. The women were nervous and some of them were in tears. We went along slowly, peering into the darkness, trying to make out the form of a man or of several men by the light of each petard. Abbey suggested going at full speed, because these petards had been placed along the line by the bandits, who had probably thought of some way of stopping the train in case their giant did not succeed in unhooking the carriage. The engine driver refused to go more quickly, declaring that these petards were the signals placed there by the railway company, and that he could not risk everyone’s life on a mere supposition. The man was quite right and he was certainly very brave.
“We can certainly settle a handful of ruffians,” he said, “but I could not answer for anyone’s life if the train went off the lines, or collided with something, or went over a precipice.”
We continued, therefore, to go slowly. The lights had been turned off in the car, so that we might see as much as possible without being seen ourselves. We had tried to keep the truth from the artistes, except from three men whom I had sent for to come to my carriage. The artistes really had nothing to fear from the robbers, as I was the only person at whom they were aiming. To avoid all unnecessary questions and evasive answers we sent the secretary to tell them that as there was some obstruction on the line the train had to go slowly. They were also told that one of the gas pipes had to be repaired before we could have the light again. The communication was then cut between my car and the rest of the train. We had been going along like this for ten minutes, perhaps, when everything was suddenly lighted up by a fire, and we saw a gang of railway men hastening toward us. It makes me shudder now when I think how nearly these poor fellows were to being killed. Our nerves had been in such a state of tension for several hours that we imagined at first that these men were the wretched friends of the giant. Some one fired at them, and if it had not been for our plucky engine driver calling out to them to stop, with the addition of a terrible oath, two or three of these poor men would have been wounded. I, too, had seized my revolver, but before I could have drawn out the ramrod which serves as a cog to prevent it from going off, anyone would have had time to seize me, bind me, and kill me a hundred times over. And still any time I go to a place where I think there is danger, I invariably take my pistol with me, for it is a pistol and not a revolver. I always call it a revolver, but, in reality, it is a pistol, and of a very old-fashioned make, too, with this ramrod and the trigger so hard to pull that I have to use my other hand as well. I am not a bad shot, for a woman, provided that I may take my time, but this is not very easy when one wants to fire at a robber. And yet, I always have my pistol with me; it is here on my table and I can see it as I write. It is in its case, which is rather too narrow, so that it requires a certain amount of strength and patience to pull it out. If an assassin should arrive at this particular moment I should first have to unfasten the case, which is no easy matter, then to get the pistol out, pull out the ramrod, which is rather too firm, and press the trigger with both hands. And yet, in spite of all this, the human animal is so strange that this little ridiculously useless object here before me seems to me an admirable protection. And nervous and timid as I am, alas! I feel quite safe when I am near to this little friend of mine, who must roar with laughter inside the little case out of which I can scarcely drag it.
Well, everything was now explained to us. The goods train which had started before us ran off the line, but no great damage was done, and no one was killed. The St. Louis band of robbers had arranged everything, and had prepared to have this little accident two miles from the “Little Incline,” in case their comrade, crouching under my car, had not been able to unhook it. The train left the rails, but when the wretches rushed forward believing that it was mine, they found themselves surrounded by the band of detectives. It seems that they fought like demons. One of them was killed on the spot, two more wounded, and all the others taken prisoners. A few days later the chief of this little band was hanged. He was a Belgian, named Albert Wirbyn, twenty-five years of age.
I did all in my power to save him, for it seemed to me that unintentionally I had been the instigator of his evil plan. If Abbey and Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertisement, if they had not added more than 600,000 francs’ worth of jewelry to mine, this man, this wretched youth, would not perhaps have had the stupid idea of robbing me.
