across the continent. In company with two old friends who had crossed
the ferry from San Francisco to Oakland to see me off, I sat chatting
in my sleeper, when two Sisters of Mercy hurriedly entered the car.
Just what it was in the appearance of the newcomers that arrested the
attention of the earlier arrivals—whether it was their humble yet
characteristic attire, so suggestive of charity the whole world over,
the apparent anxiety betrayed by their manner, or the fact that a
sleeping child, clasped tenderly in the arms of one, was their sole
companion—whether it was any or all of these things that caused a
sudden reign of respectful silence in the car, I am unable to say.
Certain it is, however, that their coming was not unnoticed; neither
was the circumstance that the only visible baggage of the trio
consisted of a small square bundle neatly done up in a gray shawl.
Upon being shown to seats in the section directly opposite the one
occupied by myself and friends, they at once entered into earnest
conversation with the sleeping-car conductor. At the first few
whispered words the man's manner showed unmistakable surprise. He
appeared either unable or unwilling to comply with some request
they had made. Although the nature of the request was not apparent,
the occupants of neighboring seats could not fail to note from the
conversation, which now and then became quite audible, that it bore
some important relation to the sleeping member of the party. The
evident fact that the sisters felt much concerned respecting the safety
and welfare of their youthful companion served only to increase the
mystery of the situation.
After patiently listening for some minutes to appeals first from one
and then the other, and after glancing over a railroad ticket and
letter they had handed him, the conductor consented to meet their
wishes, declining, however, to accept a sum of money they repeatedly
tendered him. Before leaving them the man spoke a few words of
reassurance and encouragement, which were cut short by the shrill
whistle of the locomotive announcing the train's departure. The
sisters arose instantly, hastily expressed their earnest thanks to the
conductor, and then, sinking upon their knees before the child, which
had been aroused from its slumbers and sat innocently gazing about,
first one and then the other clasped the infant in fond embrace, and,
amid sobs and kisses, showered upon the little being the most fervent
blessings and tender farewells. Then, covering their tearful faces with
their hands, they arose, still weeping as though their hearts would
break, and hurriedly left the car, which was already moving slowly out
of the station.
No sooner had they gone than all eyes were directed towards the
diminutive stranger who had caused the scene just witnessed. Too young
to realize what was going on, he sat motionless, as though spellbound
by fear or astonishment at his strange surroundings. In an instant
the child became an object of intense curiosity. More than that, its
extreme youth and utter helplessness aroused, on the part of its
fellow-travelers, feelings of genuine sympathy and pity—feelings which
the heroic silence maintained by the little innocent, in spite of the
now swiftly moving train, only served to intensify.
Neither memory nor imagination can suggest to me a more touching
picture than the one presented by that plainly clad handful of human
loneliness, as it sat there in meek silence, its tiny hand timidly
resting on the little bundle by its side, while its eyes remained
intently fixed on the door which, a few moments before, had closed upon
its late companions. Whose child was this? Who was to care for it? What
was to become of it? Was one of the nuns a relative? Was the younger,
perhaps, its sister? Or was either neither? These and similar questions
could be easily read on the countenances of the wondering passengers.
Some minutes elapsed before the conductor again made his appearance,
when he was at once besieged with questions concerning the mysterious
stranger. And, as if determined that not a word should escape their
ears, each of the twelve or fifteen occupants of the car crowded about
him as he seated himself beside the lonely child.
The story they heard was brief and pathetic. The little boy was as much
of a stranger to the conductor as he was to the passengers. His mother
was dead. His home was in one of the smaller manufacturing towns of
New England, where his father, who was to meet him on the arrival of
our train at Omaha, lived in humble circumstances. The conductor had
promised the sisters to protect and care for the child during the five
days' journey. It was, however, not the little fellow's first trip
across the plains, as nearly a year and a half ago, when but a few
weeks old he had come to California with his invalid mother. The latter
had survived the long journey but a very short time, and died among
strangers in one of the foot-hill towns near San Francisco. The Sisters
of Mercy of that city had by correspondence arranged with the father
to adopt, or, rather, to provide a temporary home for the little waif,
until he should be old enough to make the long return journey. And now,
although the boy had reached but the tender age of eighteen months,
the distant parent, craving for his presence, had begged the sister
to enlist in his behalf the sympathies and care of some kind-hearted
East-bound passenger or railway employee. Their repeated efforts in
the former direction having failed, they had at last applied to the
conductor.
In relating the child's sad history, the sisters had, the conductor
continued, so feelingly solicited his kindly offices and paid such
glowing tribute to the almost angelic disposition and exceptional
bravery of the infant that, however disinclined he had been to assume
the responsibility, a persistent refusal of their unusual request
seemed almost inhuman. He had therefore undertaken the strange charge,
and trusted, he said, that the passengers would in no wise be
inconvenienced thereby. From that moment on, every one who had less
than half an hour before witnessed the scene of sorrowful parting,
which had so touchingly told how completely the little fellow had
walked into the hearts of his benefactors,—from that time on, every
one felt a personal responsibility for the comfort and safety of the
boy. Introduced under circumstances that rendered him a hero at the
outset, at the end of the first day he had already become the pet of
the passengers and the object of their kindliest attentions.
While the claim that this child was remarkable for beauty and
cleverness might lend sentiment and romance to my simple narrative,
the fact is that he was neither handsome nor bright. In appearance
he was simply a plain, plump, red-cheeked, flaxen-haired baby boy,
with apparently little to be proud of, save his evident good health
and a pair of large blue eyes that seemed frankness itself. His
accomplishments were few, indeed. He was still, as the sisters had
said, learning to walk. His vocabulary included but three or four
imperfectly spoken words, and he was conspicuously deficient in
that parrot-like precociousness so common and frequently so highly
prized in little children. But what our youthful companion lacked in
attractive outwardness was more than made up by the true inwardness
of one accomplishment he did possess. That was silence. This virtue
he practised to a degree that soon won for him the admiration and
affection of all. Though exhibiting no sign of embarrassment at the
friendly advances of the passengers, and while not unmoved by their
tender attentions, he maintained through that long journey a humble air
of mute contentment that lost its balance on but three occasions.
His quiet ways were a theme of constant comment, while his presence
proved not only a source of increasing pleasure to our small band of
tourists, but did much to relieve the monotony of the tedious journey.
One important detail in the boy's eventful history was missing. Cared
for by strangers from earliest infancy, deprived of his mother's love
and father's care, he had thus far not even received that all-important
parental gift,—a Christian name. To the sisters he had been known
simply as "Baby." By that infantile appellation he had passed from
their gentle mercies to the conductor's care. And only as "Baby
homeward bound" was he spoken of in their letter addressed to his
father.
Before he had spent a day among us it was suggested that his exemplary
conduct entitled him to a more dignified name—at least during the
period of our companionship. And this suggestion led to one of many
amusing incidents. By what name should the boy be known? After the
question had been eagerly answered a dozen times in as many different
ways, with apparently little hope of a unanimous choice—for every one
felt that his or her preference was peculiarly appropriate—a quiet
old man, whose appearance was strongly suggestive of the pioneer days,
offered a happy solution of the difficulty. He proposed that, in view
of the humble circumstances of the child, the privilege of naming
him for the trip be sold at auction among the passengers of our car,
adding, by way of explanation, that the sum thus realized might "give
the little fellow a start in life."
The average overland tourist is never slow to adopt any expedient to
relieve the tedium of the journey; and here was, as one chap expressed
it, "A chance for an auction on wheels, and one for charity's sake, at
that." So the proposition was no sooner stated than acted upon. The
auctioneer found himself unanimously elected, and, placing himself in
the center of the car, heard the bidding, prompted by every generous
impulse that enthusiasm and sympathy can give, rise rapidly in sums
of one, two, and three dollars until thirty-five was called. There it
halted, but only for a moment. The situation had become exciting. The
auctioneer himself now took a hand in the competition; and a round
of applause greeted his bid, made in the name of his native State,
"Ohio bids fifty dollars." It was regarded as a matter of course that
this sum would secure the coveted privilege. But no! Some one remarks
that yet another county remains to be heard from. The voice of the
weather-worn pioneer,—the suggester of the scheme,—has not yet been
heard in the bidding. He has been a silent looker-on, biding his time.
Now it has come. As he rises slowly in his seat he is intently watched
by every eye, for somehow the impression prevails that he hails from
"the coast," and that consequently there can be nothing small in
anything he does; In this no one is disappointed. The heart and purse
of the gray-haired veteran are in the cause. Besides, his "pride is up"
for the State he worships, almost idolizes. As his clear voice rings
out with: "California sees Ohio's fifty, and goes fifty better," he is
greeted by a storm of cheers that he will remember as long as he lives.
And when the auctioneer announces: "California pays one hundred dollars
and secures the privilege of naming the boy; what name shall it be?"
the answer comes back quick as a flash:
"Grit! That sounds well and seems to fit well."
The passengers thought so, too, and very plainly showed their approval
by overwhelming the man with congratulations and good wishes.
Reports of our proceedings were not slow in reaching the passengers
in other parts of the train, whose curiosity or compassion led to
numerous daily visits, while thoughtful sympathy found expression in
liberal gifts of fruit, photographs, and a variety of Indian toys,
as curious as they were welcome. To the old Californian, whose great
liberality had secured for him a place in the respect and good-will of
the entire party which was second only to that held by Grit himself,
these continued attentions proved a source of special delight. Though
he bore his honors with becoming modesty, he found early opportunity
of proposing the health of the boy, who, as he aptly expressed it,
"had been rocked in the cradle of misfortune, but had at last struck
the color." Equally happy was his reply to a party of jolly cowboys,
whom curiosity had led to solicit "a peep at the silent kid," while the
train was delayed at one of the eating stations along the road. Their
request having been granted, one of their number felt so highly elated
upon receiving a handshake from Grit that he insisted upon presenting
him with his huge cowboy spurs as a keepsake, proclaiming as he did
so—with a trifle more enthusiasm than reverence—that in "paying a
hundred to nominate the cute little kid, 'old California' carved his
own name upon the Rock of Ages."
"Bless his little heart," replied the grizzled miner; "I'd give ten
thousand more to own him, now that he has won his spurs."
Among the recollections of my personal experiences with Grit, the
second night of the journey stands out with especial clearness. At
that time we were passing through the famous snowshed section on the
eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada, our train running at a high rate of
speed in order to make up lost time. It was here that the bravery of
our little hero was put to a cruel test. Some time after midnight I was
awakened by a child's frantic screams, that rose loud above the train's
thundering noise. And, though up to this time there had not been a
single tearful outbreak on the part of the young Trojan, there could be
no mistaking the source of the piercing shrieks that now met my ears. I
lost no time in hastening to his assistance, for I knew that, by way of
experiment, he had been quartered in a "section" entirely by himself,
the previous night having been a sleepless one to both the conductor
and his charge. Furthermore, it was evident from his agonizing cries
that I was the first to hear him. Finding the car in total darkness,
the lights on both ends having gone out, I met with some delay in
feeling my way to the terrified child, calling to him as I went; and
at the first touch of my hand the trembling, feverish little form drew
close to me, its chubby arms closed wildly about my neck, while loud,
hysterical sobs told more plainly than words can express the agony
that the child had endured. Only one who is familiar with sleeping-car
travel over mountainous country, who has found himself suddenly aroused
by the terrific roaring and swaying of a swiftly running train, and
who, unconscious for the instant of his surroundings, has felt his
flesh creep and his heart stand still, as he imagined himself engulfed
by a mighty torrent or hurled over some awful precipice, only such an
one can realize the position of this terror-stricken child.
Arousing the porter, who had gone to sleep while blacking the
passengers' boots, I carried Grit to my own berth, where my endeavors
to soothe his disturbed feelings proved so highly successful that the
re-lighting of the car was greeted by him with loud laughter, through
the still lingering tears. But go to sleep again he would not. No
matter how often I tucked him beneath the blankets and settled myself
to pretended slumbers, he would as often extricate himself, and, in
a sitting posture, silently contemplate his surroundings. Fearing to
doze off under the circumstances, I finally concluded to sit up with
the little fellow until sleep should overcome him. Making his way to
my side as I sat on the edge of the berth, and placing his face close
to mine, he imparted the cause of his persistent wakefulness by a
gently uttered "dwink!"—repeating the word with more emphasis after
a moment's pause. Happily, ample provisions had been made to meet his
wants in this direction, and, procuring from the porter's "baby's
bakery," as the well-provided lunch basket we had presented him at
Sacramento had come to be known, I helped him to a glass of milk, after
drinking which he fell quickly to sleep.
After that night's experience, Grit singled me out as his particular
friend; and, as a consequence, he was nightly permitted to share my
section with me. In these closer relations I found him the gentlest,
most loving, and best-behaved child I ever met. It seemed as though
he knew and felt that he stood sadly alone in the world, and that the
less trouble he gave to others the better he would get on. His spirit
of contentment and faculty of self-entertainment were phenomenal. While
cards, books, conversation, and sleep served as a means of passing away
time among the other passengers, he would for hours at a time remain in
sole possession of a favorite corner seat, silently musing over some
simple Indian toy. Again, an illustrated time-table or railway map
would absorb his entire attention, until he had apparently mastered
every detail of the intricate document. To watch the little toddling
figure, after these prolonged periods of self-amusement, as, clad in a
long, loose, gray gown, it quietly made its way along the car on a tour
of inspection, proved an appealing study. Finding his arrival at my
seat unnoticed at times—by reason of my absorption in a book or game
of cards—he would announce his presence by a series of steady pulls
at my coat, and make known his wants by a sweetly mumbled "Mum-mum."
Repeated falls, incurred during these excursions, never caused him to
falter in his purpose, nor did these, at any time, result in any other
than good-natured demonstrations.
On but one occasion, aside from that already alluded to, was he moved
to tears—an unlucky incident that happened while our party was taking
breakfast at Cheyenne, sadly upsetting the remarkable tranquillity
of his mind. We had scarcely seated ourselves at the table, with the
boy, as usual, perched in a baby chair in the midst of the party, when,
espying an orange that a little girl next to him had placed beside her
plate, Grit, innocently unmindful of its ownership, proceeded to help
himself to the inviting fruit. No sooner had he grasped it than a sharp
slap from his fair neighbor's hand sent it rolling along the floor.
The child started, trembled; keenly hurt in more ways than one by what
was, no doubt, the first punishment he had ever received, he burst into
heart-rending tears.
Turning to me with outstretched arms, his piteously spoken "Mum-mum"
cast a shadow over the festive occasion, and to some of us, at least,
placed the further discussion of the meal beyond desire. Taking him
back to the car, we were quickly joined by the conductor and our friend
from the coast, who, after denouncing the "outrage" with frontier
fluency, insisted that he should demand an apology from the offender,
who was "plenty old enough to know better," and whose indignity to
Grit, "right before a lot of strangers, was nothing short of an insult
to our entire party." He "would rather," he continued, "fast a whole
month" than sit by and again witness such conduct from one whose "sex
and insignificance prevented a man from even drawing his gun in defense
of the most helpless and innocent little creature on earth."
Something in the old man's manner, as he uttered these words, left
little doubt in the minds of the passengers, now returning from the
hurriedly finished meal, that, had Grit's tormentor been unfortunate
enough to belong to the sterner sex, the novel experience of serving
on a coroner's jury in the cowboy country would doubtless have been
afforded us. This tension of feeling was happily relieved, however,
by the appearance of the offender in person, who, accompanied by her
mother, tearfully presented, not only her humble apology, but that bone
of contention, the tropical product itself, which she insisted should
be accepted as a peace offering.
As the journey progressed, each day brought to our party frequent
reminders of their constantly increasing attachment, not only for the
little hero, but for each other. And it became more and more apparent,
now that the Rockies had already been left behind, and our thoughts
turned to the inevitable breaking up of the happy band, that Grit's
presence had been the unconscious means of forming among his companions
a strong bond of friendship and good-fellowship—one that could not be
severed without sincere mutual regrets.
The morning of the last day found us still speeding over the seemingly
endless cattle plains, where the frequent spectacle of immense grazing
herds, guarded by picturesque bands of frolicking cowboys, added
novelty and interest to the monotony of the scene.
It was in the early part of the afternoon of that day, while Grit was
enjoying his customary mid-day nap, and the final games of whist and
euchre so completely enlisted our interest as to render unnoticed the
locomotive's shrill notes of warning to trespassing cattle, that a
sudden terrific crash, followed by violent jolting and swaying of the
car, breaking of windows, and pitching about of passengers and baggage,
caused a scene of consternation and suffering.
Mingled with shouts of "Collision!" from men, and the screams of
panic-stricken women, came the engineer's piercing signal for "Down
brakes!" and before the car had fairly regained its balance upon the
rails and the occupants had time to extricate themselves or realize
what had happened, the train had come to a standstill.
More frightened than hurt, people instantly began bolting frantically
for the doors, questioning and shouting to one another as they went.
In the midst of the wild confusion arose cries of "Save Grit! Look out
for the baby!" The words sent a shock to the heart of every hearer.
Fear vanished. Personal peril was forgotten for the moment. Not a soul
left the car! Though women had fainted and men lay motionless as if
paralyzed, but one thought filled the minds of those who had heard the
appeal: Was Grit safe?
In a moment the answer to this unasked question fell from the lips of
one whose intense affection for the boy he had so appropriately named
needed no appeal to carry him to his side in time of peril. "The child
is hurt! Somebody go and see if there is a doctor on the train!" In
willing response, several men rushed out among the excited throng that
poured from the other cars.
Before us, on a pillowed seat, to which he had just borne him,
lay Grit, half unconscious, pale, limp, and breathing with painful
difficulty. The sudden shock which had almost overturned the car
had rudely thrown him from his bed to the floor. There, between two
unoccupied seats on the opposite side of the car, we had found him,
convulsively gasping for breath, one little hand still grasping tightly
the Indian doll-baby that for days had been his cherished companion.
Though an examination of his body revealed no marks of violence, he was
evidently in great pain. Applying such restoratives as were at hand, we
gradually revived consciousness. Every attempt, however, to lift him or
change his reclining position visibly increased his suffering.
Word soon came back that no physician could be found, that the accident
was caused by the train coming into collision with a band of stray
cattle. So far as could be hastily ascertained, one man had been
fatally injured, while many persons had sustained serious bruises and
strains. From the train conductor it was further learned that neither
the locomotive nor any of the cars had been sufficiently damaged to
prevent our proceeding to Omaha—still some five or six hours distant.
After a brief stop for the purpose of a careful examination of all
parts of the train, we were again under way; the engineer having
orders, in view of the injured passengers, to make the run in the
fastest time possible.