THE NIGHT AND THE STORM.
The night was portentous. All nature conspired to make it prophetic of
some direful event. The sympathy of the natural with the historic event
was known and felt.
Ominous of evil, a furious storm had set in. It was one of the
periodical snow storms for which the season had been remarkable. Every
Saturday throughout the month it had returned, the same fearful blast
and fall of snow. As if in warning, it had come three or four times
during the season, and now with redoubled force appeared.
The snow had fallen all day long, and was, at the dusk of night, still
falling with blinding fury. The powers of nature had seized it again,
and were hurling it down as if in very vengeance against the abodes of
men. Everything was covered with a weight of snow. The wreaths and
fancy drapery which, during the first storm, had engaged the attention
of children, and pleased the fancy with their forms of beauty and
delicate tracery, had now increased until they were heavy blankets and
burdensome loads. The feathery flakes, which at first were beds of
down, had become solid banks. Everything was buried in the increasing
drifts, even trees and houses and fences stood with muffled forms and
burdened with a snowy mantle. The streets were covered with drifts
which were piled high and wide.
No attempt had been made to break the roads. The citizens had, for
the third time, confined themselves to their houses, and had not even
opened the paths from the doors to the gates. It was, in fact, one of
those blinding, burying storms which occasionally come upon northern
homes. The greatest comfort was in being at home and having the
consciousness of the home feeling. Even the cares of the world were
shut out, and many had remained in doors refusing to be called from the
loved circle and comfortable fire. Those who were well housed felt a
pleasure in their own security, and often looked out, grateful for the
shelter of their homes.
But to the traveler it was a fearful storm. The same clouds which
filled the sky with their fleecy masses, became portentous to his
gaze. As the dusk of night settled down with more fury in the storm, a
fearful foreboding filled his heart. There were many who were impressed
with this indefinable sense of danger. It was not because they felt the
discomfort of the journey, nor because they unconsciously acknowledged
the difficulty of the way, but a strange presentiment continually
haunted them and filled them with indefinable fear. Brave hearts sank
within many, as the strange feeling came over them, that there was
danger in the air. It was like a pall to the soul. It rested heavily
upon the spirits. Stout men had to reason with themselves to nerve
themselves to undertake the journey.
This presentiment of evil was the common one. Many of the friends urged
the travelers to stay and not undertake the fearful journey. Parents at
Buffalo are known to have persuaded a daughter to stay until the storm
was over, and only yielded because a light heart was so buoyant and
hopeful, in the prospect of a holiday approaching.
A wife at Rochester urged a loved husband to stay, and was only
comforted by the promise of a speedy return. A young husband at Erie,
away from his loved wife, was sadly impressed, and discussed the
question a long time with parents and friends, and only went because
absence might disappoint the expectant companion, and because affection
for a little babe was stronger than the fear which haunted him.
Even the sweet singer of Israel was strangely impressed, and had so
far yielded to his presentiments as to persuade the ticket agent, at
the station where he was waiting, to exchange tickets and to give him
passage by another route, and only the sudden appearance of the train,
induced him to take it instead of another.
Among the many others the same forebodings were felt, but unexpressed.
As the sun went down the air grew colder. A blast from the north
arose and the snow ceased falling, but the roads and paths were still
unbroken. Whoever undertook to breast the storm or to pass through the
streets, plunged deeply into the untrodden snow. Horses were kept from
their accustomed duties and were comfortably stabled from the storm.
Nothing was stirring, apparently; only the strong iron horse and the
solitary train, which slowly made its way along the snow-covered track.
Everything was behind time. The train which was due at Erie at a little
after noon, was two and a half hours late. It should have reached
Ashtabula before sundown, and it was now dark and the lamps had long
been burning. But the engine pushed forward. The same train which
had started from New York the night before, had divided at Albany; a
portion of it was plunging through the snow-drifts of the mountains of
Vermont, and now another portion was struggling amid the snow near the
banks of Lake Erie. Both were destined to be wrecked.
Four engines had been used to push the train from the station at Erie.
Two strong locomotives were straining every nerve to push forward and
overcome the deep snow.
Within the cars there were many already anxious about the time. It was
a long and well filled train, but it was greatly behind time. Those
from a distance had been delayed throughout all their journey. Those
from nearer cities were impatient to meet their friends. To some a long
trip across the continent became an immense and gloomy undertaking. But
the passengers were making the most of the comforts of the hour. It was
a little world by itself. Men, women and children were mingled together
in the precious load. Clergymen, physicians, professional men, business
men and travelers, young men and women, those from all classes and
places were there.
In the distant east and, even, the distant west, from north and south
their homes were scattered.
The continent was represented by that train. It bore the hearts of
many, many friends. It was a varied company. Each one was pursuing
that which best suited the varied tastes, and were beguiling the weary
hours. An unusual number of parties had gathered to drive away care
and weariness by card playing. At least five such parties had cards
in their hands at the hour of the sudden calamity. Others had been
beguiling the time by tales of adventure, and by relating escapes from
various dangers.
In the smoking car a group was discussing the weight of the engines and
the amount of water used by each engine. Ladies in the sleeping coach
were preparing to retire; some had already laid down in their berths.
Gentlemen were quietly dozing in their seats; others were taking their
last smoke, before settling themselves for the night. Even the sweet
singer had just laid aside the Sacred Word, and was quietly meditating,
with a song echoing in his heart. It was just the time when every one
was seeking to make himself comfortable for the night, notwithstanding
the storm which raged.
A few thought of danger as they looked out into the darkness of the
night, but the sense of security pervaded the train; when suddenly!
the sound of the wheels was stopped; the bell-rope snapped; the lights
were extinguished; and in an instant all felt themselves falling,
falling, falling. An awful silence seized the passengers; each one sat
breathless, bracing and seizing the seats behind or before them. Not
a word was spoken; not a sound was heard--nothing except the fearful
crash. The silence of the grave had come upon them. It was the fearful
pause before an awful plunge. It was the palsied feeling of those who
were falling into a fathomless abyss. The sensation was indescribable,
awful, beyond description. It seemed an age, before they reached the
bottom. None could imagine what had happened or what was next to come.
All felt as if it was something most dreadful. It was like a leap into
the jaws of death, and no one can tell who should escape from the
fearful doom.
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