Lady Duffus Hardy

Retrospective.—A critical conductor.—Montgomery.—Train wreckers at work.—Weird scenes in the moonlight.—Silent watchers.—“Wild Cat” train to New Orleans.

In the light of the early morning we bid adieu to Florida, its fruits, its flowers, its sunshine and its people. We have found our own country-people largely represented in all parts of the state, and everywhere they are doing well, and look healthy, happy, bright and contented; and on all sides we see evidence of their thrift, industry, and general prosperity. We inquire to whom belongs some lovely extensive orange groves, or some picturesque luxurious dwelling, and we are told to “some English settlers,” who perhaps began with a shanty in the wilderness, and have transformed it into an earthly paradise of peace and plenty. Then a thriving farm, with its abundant cattle, its corn or cotton-fields, and peach or pine orchards stretching away till they are lost in the distance; the farmer is a man from the “old country”—in fact, wherever the Anglo-Saxon spirit stirs, prosperity follows: “When he sets his hand to the plough he doeth it with all his might.” There are very few Irish in Florida, in fact so few that when the familiar accent greets our ears it sounds strange to us in these latitudes, and we turn round to look at the speaker. Their scanty numbers is somewhat surprising, as nowhere could the tide of immigration set in with such promise of success; indeed here is a veritable “Tom Tiddler’s ground,” it needs but the shovel and pickaxe to turn over the soil, when all who will may “pick up the gold and silver.” The foreign element is altogether rather conspicuous from its absence, for there is but a poor sprinkling of German settlers, and the Latin races are scarcely represented at all; even the Spaniards who once were rulers in the land have left but here and there a solitary specimen of their races, and they are not often to be found in the great army of workers. A little fruit, a little corn—such as can be obtained by little labour—contents them; they have no ambition, either for the advancement of themselves, or of their children who follow in their footsteps, and live as their parents lived; if they can sit and smoke and dream under their own fig-tree their cup of happiness is full. English and Americans contribute the greater portion of the population; the stream of immigration has set in from every state in the Union, but New England appears to be the state most largely represented; nearly all the railroads, steamboats, factories, &c., are the outcome of New England and New York enterprise, brains, and capital.

Coloured labour is generally used, both in the house and in the fields, gardens, and groves, but it is uncertain and unsatisfactory in its results; and the immigration of a few thousand of the quiet, industrious, reliable Chinese would be cordially welcomed throughout the State of Florida. They may have their drawbacks and be undesirable as citizens, but as mechanical or field labourers or house servants they are unsurpassed, being quiet, civil, obedient and obliging; set against these good qualities their propensity for petty pilfering and lying; but these vices once acknowledged, you can prepare for or guard against them; their industry and faithful labour may always be relied on. Many other nations have their vices without their redeeming qualities. There is very little crime, comparatively, in Florida; assaults or robberies are of infrequent occurrence. This is perhaps to be wondered at, as the houses are so few and far between, and every facility exists for the operations of tramps or burglars, but tramps and burglars are almost unknown; if any of that genus ventures to interfere with the honest working population a rough-and-ready kind of popular justice speedily overtakes the evil-doer.

The difference between the people here in the extreme South and those in the extreme West is very remarkable. Here the stream of life flows on in peaceful untroubled calm, it moves with a decorous quiet, is never in a hurry; they till the soil, and sow, and reap, prune, and plant in a leisurely fashion. They have made their homes and settled down there and mean to stay. There is no vexatious hurrying to and fro, no sudden influx of strangers from all lands, pouring in and overspreading the country, bringing with them a whirl of evil passions, with murder in their train, each elbowing the other, trampling down all rule and order in their eager thirst for gold! Here there is no excitement, no mines to develop, no visions of sudden fortunes to be grasped in a lucky hour, no rush of eager anxious men in flannel shirts, top-boots, sombreros, armed with knives and revolvers, such as we often see even in the cities of the west; there is no gambling with fate, no endeavour to cheat fortune’s blind old eyes. Here the dignity of labour, as “when Adam delved and Eve span,” asserts itself supreme. Men know that to conscientious labour will come success, with prosperity and ease in the near distance. Well, we say farewell to this land of promise with regret, and once more we establish ourselves on our pleasant Pullman car, and are en route for New Orleans.

One of our casual acquaintances accompanies us to the station, loads us with heaps of good wishes and a basket of beautiful flowers; we exchange a pleasant farewell, and the train moves slowly off. We take our last look at the majestic river, whereon we have passed so many delightful hours; it is clothed with a silver sheen, and ripples and sparkles and flashes in the royal light of the sun. The little Palatka steamer, with a single white sail fluttering from its masthead, puffs fussily on its way, bearing a fresh freight of happy tourists on their way to the wonderful Ocklawaha—as it bore us only a few days ago; for a moment it seems to be racing with us, then we pass out of sight. We take a last look at the pretty embowered city of Jacksonville, and then proceed to decorate our section with flowers, have a table set up, get out our books and a little idle needlework, and settle ourselves comfortably in our travelling home.

The car is almost empty, and the few companions we have are of the masculine order; the touristical element is absent. Our companions, judging from, their conversation, are all Texan farmers who have been on a trip through Florida, combining business with pleasure, investigating the land generally, seeing how they could improve their own possessions; and gathering up hints and facts and scraps for future use. One talked of giving up his cattle ranch in Texas, and migrating to Florida altogether.

“Steers and heifers, and such-like are well enough raisin’,” he said, “but them cattle lifters are always about, and keep us a little too lively all the time. When we go to bed at night we are never sure we sha’n’t find our cattle driven off in the morning, and then—well, there’s generally a little shootin’ before we can get ’em back. I’ve seen so much of that sort of thing that now I’m getting an old man I’m tired of it. It seems all so quiet and peaceful down Florida, no lifters nor raiders thereabouts. I think,” he added, after a pause, “I shall turn my cattle into orange groves.”

The conversation generally turned upon agricultural matters, in which, of course, they were all deeply interested—in fact, so interested, that they interested us. We could not help observing how much better educated they seem to be than the same class at home. Two lively young fellows entered into a brisk discussion as to the relative superiority of their different States. One, a tall, lanky, loose-jointed specimen, was a landowner in “Alabama”—or “Alabawmer,” as he called it, with a by no means unpleasant drawl; the other was a restless, eager-eyed young Texan, as full of quips and cranks as a young monkey. He seemed to regard life generally as a good joke, and turned everything into a laugh; sometimes the laugh was against himself, but he was shrewd and sensible enough, though he had a queer, quaint way of handling his subject. It was a pleasant journey on the whole; their rough-and-ready talk was amusing, and gave us a new view of life in the wilds. Their account of the various methods of cultivating lands in the different States was most interesting, and we wish we could drop these grains of useful knowledge among those who could benefit by it. The seeds we sow and the harvests we gather have little to do with the agricultural interests.

Our conductor, as usual, when he has leisure from his official duties, lounges across to our section and enters into a pleasant conversation with us. He discusses the social, political, and literary questions of the day with sound good sense and much discrimination. He opens his stores of knowledge freely, and shows us through every department of his mind; as one door shuts he opens another, takes a header, and plunges from one subject to another without any preliminary leading up thereto; he seems determined to make the best use of his time, and show us how much worldly and intellectual gossip can be gathered in the wilds of Alabama. He reminds us of the clever tradesman who conducts you through the warehouse where all his best goods are on exhibition. He embellished his conversation with poetical quotations from Tennyson and Shakespeare, and occasionally fished up from the depths of his memory a mysterious passage of Browning and tried to make sense of it. He endeavoured, but failed, to extract the poet’s meaning from the conglomerated mass of fine phrases and high-sounding words with which he had scrupulously clothed and concealed it, as though he never intended anybody ever should find it out; and, indeed, if he entered on the quest, might have some difficulty in finding it out himself. Our conductor appears to be a devotee of the drama, too, and is not disposed to hide his light under a bushel. He waxed critical on the subject of Modjeska’s Juliet and Bernhardt’s Camille; he had seen both once when he had been travelling East. The time passed so pleasantly that we were sorry when his duties called him away, but they did not very often. Our agricultural companions evidently thought our conversation frivolous and foolish, and occasionally snorted a disapproving snarl about play-acting.

As there are no dining cars attached to this train, meals are served at stated places. At Waycross we get an excellent supper—a thoroughly enjoyable and satisfactory meal. Some of our fellow-travellers, having been deluded into the belief that nothing eatable was to be had on the road, abstracted from the bowels of their baskets stale sandwiches, crumpled buns, and mashed fruits, a delightful provision against starvation, which had got considerably mixed during the journey.

We reach Montgomery about eight o’clock in the evening, and there we have to wait two hours for the New Orleans train. It is not often we have these long dreary waits by the wayside; as a rule the correspondence between the trains is arranged so as to avoid this inconvenience. However, we have to wait now, and had best bear the annoyance patiently. We take a walk through the dimly-lighted town, indulge in a little characteristic gossip with the natives, and the time soon passes; it is useless to fret and fume over the unavoidable—travelling has taught us that much. On our return to the “waiting-room” (so called by courtesy, for it is a mere shed with a few wooden benches), our attention is attracted by a young woman who is seated in a dusky corner; she has a fractious child about a year old in her arms, and in a tired voice is telling somebody of the long weary journey she has had, and—

“Now,” she continues, with a low sob in her voice, “I have to go on a common car all the way to New Orleans. I cannot get a sleeping berth; I have just been to the office, and they say they are all taken.”

I doubt this, as I have just had a choice of two; I volunteer to go and see what I can do in the matter, and succeed in securing for her the last berth. As soon as we enter the car I see that the woman is coloured; perhaps this is the reason of her failure. One or two of our fellow passengers look on her askant, as coloured people are not generally taken on the Pullman cars, but no one was inhuman enough to take exception to her presence.

There is a stir, a momentary confusion in finding and settling ourselves in our different sections; if we would only be guided by the calm official mind, we should be guided thereto in less time and with less trouble. We are both tired and sleepy, and in an incredibly short time are in our closely-curtained berths fast asleep, wandering through the land of nod.

Suddenly we are violently shaken out of our sleep. Jerk! crash! and we stand still. Doors open and shut, men pass hastily to and fro, the gentlemen tumble out of their berths; soon everybody is astir, and mysterious whispers and wonderings pass from one to another. “We’re off the line,” says one; “The train’s wrecked;” “Any body hurt?” “It’s brigands,” etc. We are in the last car, fortunately for us, and we step out on to the platform to ascertain for ourselves what is really the matter. A polite unknown voice issues from the darkness—

“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.