_Snatched From Death--Forty-nine Miles on a Hand-car--Finding a
Partner._
Two-score people had seen me pulled down from the tender, and were now
watching the result of my sudden discomfiture with interest, and with a
look of deep humiliation and embarrassment--for the most part
assumed--for my vanity had materially suffered in that fifty-seven mile
ride, I now stood in the presence of the policeman.
Apparently I could not even look up at the cruel, cold-staring crowd of
country folks that thickly gathered around me.
Evidently the policeman was touched, and unaware of the fact that I was
playing on his sympathy, he questioned me as to where I lived, where I
was going, etc., all of which I answered in a straightforward manner,
adding that I was going West to cure the asthma, and that I had letters
of recommendation.
I had several other letters of this kind in my pocket, but remembering
that home reference is said to be the best, I selected only two from the
bunch--those of Mr. John Shackelford and Mr. Frank Powell, and here I
must beg their pardon, most humbly, for using their kind notes of praise
like this, and am sure they'll forgive me, for I was in a tight box.
After reading the two papers over carefully, he slowly remarked, with a
puzzled look on his face:
"Look here! it's against my rule, but I'm going to let you go this time.
Just scoot down that track, now, and remember," he added, as I started
through the increasing throng, "if you return I shall run you in."
There was nothing to do but walk, and I started down the tracks,
walking--I knew not where.
My scheme had worked and I was free, but far from being in a happy frame
of mind.
A small hand-mirror showed me a face that frightened me with its
blackness, and my hands were in even a worse condition.
"Oh, if my people could only see me now!" I mused.
A sudden recollection quickened my pace--in the terms of the law I was a
vagrant, and what, if the Chadbourn official should change his mind
about letting me go. This was a phase of the case I had not considered
before, being a vagrant, and darkness had settled down, and I had been
silently walking along the pathway of the track for some time, when my
melancholy musings were suddenly put to flight. A quarter of a mile
ahead a light was shining. "Some farm-house built near the railroad," I
speculated; "wonder if they'll give me shelter." Drawing nearer, I
discovered my mistake. The light was issuing from the windows of a small
store.
A large railroad board in front of the place told me I had reached the
town of Grice--containing three or four small dwellings, one store and a
town pump; the place is hardly on the map, though it was a boon to me
just now.
On entering the store I was surprised to find a good number of people
trading, notwithstanding the fact it was Sunday.
Several darkies were in the place, and calling one of them outside, we
headed for the pump.
"Been hoboing?" asked the darkey, beginning to pump water for me to
wash.
"Yes," I replied, not relishing his familiarity, "I'm going down to
Florida."
Now its a fact, though not generally known, that between South Carolina
and Florida, both being warm sections, a good many of the colored gentry
are continually traveling back and forth the year round, but very
little, if any, of this migration reaches up to North Carolina or
Virginia.
"I'm going South myself to-night," said the darkey. "Can't I go along
with you?"
My ablutions ceased.
"Say that over again, my man. Did you want to go with me, you say?"
He was a large, powerfully built fellow, with a face calculated to give
a timid man chills, and that the suggestion frightened me, I must admit,
for suppose he attacked me during the night, thinking I had money with
me. Creepy sensations began to steal over me, and yet it will be better
than being alone, I thought.
"I know the ropes pretty well, young feller," he added.
This settled it, for I did not know the "ropes," as he expressed it.
"You may go with me," I said.
I was dying for some kind of companionship, and being the possessor of
unusually good strength myself, as a result of years of physical
culture, I saw no serious cause for fearing my formidable looking
companion, providing I could keep awake during the night, so, purchasing
a bite to eat at the store and some smoking tobacco for my colored
friend, we began to discuss a plan of action.
"We'll have to go back to Chadbourn and lay for a late freight
to-night," said he, "for the trains seldom stop in Grice."
I was afraid the authorities of the town would nab me, but he only
laughed at my timidity.
We left Grice about 8 p. m. and set out for Chadbourn, some three miles
off. We had gone perhaps a mile on the return journey when I observed
another darkey leading up a close rear. I didn't like this for a cent,
however I kept quiet, and our dusky follower soon came up quite close.
My grandfather, Dr. Hicks, of Rocky Mount, N. C., famous for his
writings and adventures of Civil War life, has many a time illustrated
to me where strategem is better than strength.
On one occasion, when he was a young man, he was proceeding along a
lonely country road. It was nearly dark and several miles to the nearest
house, and in those days houses were scarce and the people were more
lawless, and, suddenly, a thick set, fierce looking man, holding a stout
cudgel in his hand, emerged from the dense woods, which were on either
side of the road, and began quickly to overtake him. That my grandfather
was pretty well scared can well be imagined, but being a ventriloquist
and full of tricks, he soon dispatched his enemy. Glancing into the
woods nearby, he shouted: "Come on Jim!" then using his powers of
ventriloquism, a hoarse voice close at hand seemed to say, "All right,
be there in a minute."
The next moment the man who had been following him plunged deep into the
forest and grandfather was left to proceed alone.
That these two men were in collusion and had designs on robbing me I now
felt convinced.
Our late addition had drawn up dangerously close.
It was pitch dark, and evidently he was unaware I had discovered his
presence in the party, and the other fellow was exerting himself about
this time to keep me entertained with stories of "hobo" life.
It was up to me to use strategem, and use it quick!
"Confound the luck!" I exclaimed, "I forgot those pistol balls back at
the store, but it is all right, Bill"--Bill was the name he had called
himself at the pump--"my little Iver Johnson is full loaded, and good
for at least five brakemen. Ha! ha! ha! they had better let us go
through to Florence, I guess."
Most darkies are afraid of a gun in a white man's hand, and these were
no exceptions.
The third man was not long in speaking out, and as if he had just joined
us.
"Howdy, gentlemen," was the expressive salutation, "going over to
Chadbourn?"
"Yes," I retorted.
"We's gwyne down to Florida," supplemented Bill.
"Dat's strange, I'se gwyne dat way myself," muttered the darkey, "let me
go too."
"We don't own de roads," shrewdly observed the man named Bill.
"Well, I'll go den," declared the newcomer, and thus they arranged it to
suit themselves, and I said nothing, though I mentally concluded to
shift them both at the first opportunity.
One at a time we filed across the main street of Chadbourn an hour
later, and, undiscovered, made our way to a large pile of railroad ties
some two hundred yards from the depot.
The darkies, unconcerned, stretched out full length upon the timber,
and their heavy snoring soon denoted that they had passed into the land
of dreams, but their lively trombone music quickly became disgusting,
forcing me to seek another pile of the timber for rest.
My thoughts drifted back several years to the scores of positions and
hundreds of places I had been in, but none ranked so low as this; and
again, thoughts of the warm, comfortable home I had left stole over me.
About midnight my reveries were disturbed by the labored puffing of a
heavy laden freight train, which had just begun to ascend the long grade
outside of Chadbourn.
My companions were awakened and had silently joined me in the darkness.
The train had pulled up the grade now and the cars had attained a
dangerous speed.
As the engine dashed by, my companions came near knocking me down in
their greedy endeavor to secure the handles of the first two cars from
the engine.
With the throttle open a car's length is a serious matter to the man on
the ground, but I caught the third car safely and climbed aboard.
Chadbourn was left like a flash, and a few moments later we went hurling
through Grice like a shot out of a gun.
The train was a through freight, and we were bound for Florence.
Crawling back on my hands and knees through the darkness several car
lengths, I found an empty coal car. In this car I would be shielded from
most of the cold wind, which was blowing at a terrific rate over the top
of the train.
Carefully descending to the car and peering over the edge I was
surprised to find another passenger, a mild looking mulatto, who, upon
finding that I was not a brakeman, as he at first had supposed, became
quite sociable.
"I'm also bound for Jacksonville," said he, "and we'll go along
together."
The proposal suited me to a T, as he added that he was an expert at the
business, having been over the same road several times before, and knew
every move to make to avoid being "nabbed."
The other two men now got into the car, at which the mulatto immediately
drew off to the opposite end.
"Two together is safer," he said, as I joined him.
A drizzling rain set in and we were left to ourselves.
"What have you got there?" he asked, some hours later, stumbling against
my paper bundles.
"Medicine and clothes," I retorted. He laughed.
"You'll never get to Jacksonville with all that truck," he said. "You'd
better get clear of it."
So far my baggage had been a source of constant annoyance, and I,
therefore, readily agreed to part with it.
It had ceased raining now, and the dim light in the east told of the
near approach of day.
The lights of Florence could be seen faintly gleaming in the distance as
we rapidly drew near, and there was no time to lose, so throwing off
coat, shoes and hat, I quickly tore open both bundles, and out in a heap
rolled shirts, collars, socks, photographs, cough syrup, quick asthma
cures--but space forbids naming all the things.
The bundles had been carefully packed by a loving mother, who had
thoughtfully placed in one of them a small Bible. I felt better as I
placed the little book in an inside pocket, and I would read it and
daily pray to God to take me safely through the long journey before me.
My next move was to astonish the negro at the number of shirts and socks
I got into.
"Put on all you can and be quick," I exclaimed, in answer to his
questioning gaze.
He needed no second invitation, and I now began to stuff my pockets with
the smaller things, again inviting him to follow suit. About the first
thing he grabbed up was a $1.50 razor, which I politely deprived him of.
Within a few minutes the train slackened speed and pulled into the
yards.
Quickly alighting and bidding me to follow, the negro made off from the
tracks at full speed.
At first I thought he was running away with my things, but the wisdom of
the move was soon apparent, for at a safe distance, he pointed out to me
two slow moving lights going up and down both sides of the train we had
just deserted.
"Spotters," he whispered, breathing heavily.
I realized then just how green I was at the profession of hoboing.
Undoubtedly I would have again been picked up, and this time it might
not have gone so easily with me as at Chadbourn.
For nearly an hour we walked about the streets of Florence looking for a
restaurant, but it was yet too early for them to open, and,
disappointed, we returned to the railroad yards.
Two or three trains were beginning to pull out when we arrived.
Plunging between two long freights, and walking rapidly, my companion
began to scan the car doors.
"In here," he presently whispered, drawing up before an empty car. "This
is the Junction train, and will leave in a few minutes."
Afraid of going wrong and being pretty well frightened, I hesitated.
"What Junction? Are you sure this is the right train?" I questioned,
fearing the cars might be made up for Atlanta or Columbia.
His reply was to furtively glance up and down the tracks, and the next
instant he had vanished through the half open door. Greatly frightened,
I followed.
Quickly and silently we closed the door, leaving us in impenetrable
darkness.
It was not long before an engine bumped against the cars, and shortly
after we pulled out.
The day dawned beautiful and clear, and being warm, we opened the car
door to enjoy the sunshine.
We had gone some fifty or sixty miles down the road, perhaps, when the
mulatto declared his intention of getting out to buy something to eat.
"You had better stay in here," I called, but the next moment he was
gone.
To my dismay a few minutes later the train slowly began to move off,
then faster and faster.
Downhearted, I sat down in the end of the car alone. The wheels began to
roar and sing with increasing speed. Once more I cast a last despairing
glance at the door. Suddenly a hand was thrust into the opening! In a
flash it had disappeared.
Rushing to the door and looking out I was horrified to see the man who
had lately left me lying helpless, stretched upon the ground.
No doubt, in jumping he had miscalculated the position of the rod under
the door, and as a result of the misstep, had been thrown from the car
with considerable force.
Being unusually intelligent, and of a quiet kind of disposition, I had
taken quite a fancy to the fellow by this time, and it was with a sigh
of genuine relief I noted he had not been run over.
Struggling to his feet with one hand pressed against his head, he waved
to me for a moment and then slowly staggered off the pathway of the
track.
The man who had claimed to be an "expert" was left, and I was soon miles
away, but such is life.
Going back into the car, and being exhausted from hunger, I soon fell
asleep.
My last conscious thought was a desire to wake up in Savannah, Ga.
Two hours later it would be time to change trains at Charleston Junction
for Savannah, but being blissfully ignorant of this fact, my slumbers
were undisturbed.
I slept long and sound--then with a start awoke.
The car was no longer moving. I listened intently for a brakeman, but
the grave-like silence was unbroken. Darkness had long since settled
down. Now fully awake and being of a logical turn of mind, I began to
speculate. Evidently, we had run into Savannah late at night and were
now in the train yards. Noiselessly I tiptoed to the door--imitating my
late companion--and with great caution poked my head out.
[Illustration: "Surely my hunger must be causing some horrible
nightmare--"]
The moon was just rising from behind a distant cloud-bank.
Surely my hunger must be causing some horrible nightmare, and directly
in front of me was a large cabbage patch--the largest I had ever seen,
in fact.
Countless thousands of cabbage were growing on every hand, and as far as
the eye could reach large nice ones they were, too, some of them growing
so close to the railroad track as to be almost under my feet.
I had eaten but once since my arrival in Wilmington Saturday night from
Southport, and it was now Monday night.
I ceased to remember I was trying to reach Savannah, nor did I speculate
long as to the reality of the vision before me.
Springing from the car door into the patch, I sat down before one of the
largest of the vegetables and had eaten nearly half of it when I heard
some one approaching.
With a guilty start I sprang to the railroad track.
Now would be a good time to locate my position.
The man soon came up.
"Hello! my friend, how far is it to Savannah?" I asked.
"About 150 miles, sir," said the man looking at me curiously.
The truth dawned upon me instantly, while sleeping I had been switched
off on the wrong road.
The man started down the track.
"Say, hold on there a minute!" I cried. "How far is it to Charleston
Junction?"
"Forty-seven miles," replied the man.
"Well, how far is it to the next town, then?"
The fellow's short answers were exasperating in the extreme.
"Three miles," he hollered, fast getting out of ear shot.
I must confess I completely lost temper.
Making a trumpet of my hands, I shouted:
"I say, you escaped lunatic, what is the name of the town?"
"Meggetts," came back the faint reply, and the man passed out of range.
The solution of the problem was now easy. Not knowing I must change
trains at Charleston Junction, I had been carried forty-seven miles out
of my way down a branch road.
Twenty-four empty box-cars had been side-tracked to be loaded with
cabbage, and I had been in one of the cars.
After an hour's walk I arrived at Meggetts. It was near 11 p. m., though
all the stores, five, I think, were open.
Appeasing my hunger at a small restaurant in the place, I had just $1.05
of the original $4.00 I had left home with.
Upon inquiry, I found that a freight would leave Meggetts at 2 a. m.
that night bound for the North.
The train was loaded with early vegetables, and I was told would make a
short stay at the Junction.
Eighteen colored men, whose homes were in Charleston, boarded the train
that night when I did. The men had been sent down from Charleston to
help load the train.
The brakemen, whose instructions were to let the men ride free kept to
themselves on the train, and without stop we ran back to the Junction.
The men clambered down and were soon walking the remaining few miles to
their homes.
There are several tracks at Charleston Junction, but before departing
the men showed me the track leading to Savannah.
About daylight a freight pulled upon this track and came to a short
standstill.
Once more I was fortunate in finding an empty car, and getting into it
unobserved.
I was not absolutely sure the darkies had not deceived me, but then a
man beating the roads has got to take all kinds of chances, and I was
fast learning the fact.
At noon that day I arrived safely in Savannah, that is to say, I arrived
within a mile of the town proper, where I ran the risk of breaking my
neck by jumping off, but that was much better than being pulled into
the yards in broad open daylight to be arrested.
There is one thing peculiar about Savannah, which can't fail to impress
a stranger on his first visit. For the size of the town, I think it
contains three times as many colored people as any other city in the
United States.
That afternoon I found the time to read a chapter in the little Bible my
mother had given me. I shall always believe it was the work of a kind
Providence that sent me upon the streets of Savannah that night in quest
of some one to go with me to Jacksonville. Luckily for me this time too,
as subsequent events will prove.
It was past midnight. Again my conveyance was a freight train; this time
bound for Jacksonville, Fla., and again I had a darkey for a traveling
companion.
We boarded the freight one mile from the city limits at a slow-down
crossing. There was no empty car to get into and the only other place
was on the end of a loaded flat-car, where we were shielded somewhat
from the cold winds blowing over the train.
The rain was coming down in a steady downpour, and had been for two
hours or more.
We were still standing close together on the end of the car, and had
entered Northern Florida, and lying or sitting down in the rain would
have been courting death of cold. There was nothing to do but stand up
and take our medicine quietly. The cold winds had chilled us to the very
marrow.
Weak and faint from the loss of food and sleep, and from the high
nervous strain I had been subjected to, I was fast becoming insensible.
I forgot that I was standing on the end of a wildly rocking flat-car
rushing through inky darkness at the rate of forty miles an hour. The
danger seemed fading away now, and I imagined I was home again resting
in my own comfortable bed. The limit of human endurance had been
reached, and poor, exhausted nature gave up the battle.
Slowly my eyes closed. "It will be for just one sweet moment, just one,"
I promised, and the next instant I was fast asleep.
Two rough hands reached out and encircled me about the waist just as I
was toppling between the swift running cars, and drew me back to safety.
"Good God! young feller, don't trifle wid your life like dat," exclaimed
the frightened darkey.
In a vague way I realized my danger and promised to do better, but I was
too sleepy to be much frightened, and inside of a half an hour I had
again closed my eyes, promising not to go to sleep, but the promise was
broken, and once more I was indebted to the faithful colored man for
saving my life.
[Illustration: "Good God! young feller, don't trifle wid your life like
dat," exclaimed the frightened darky.]
It was now breaking day and the train was slackening speed. The next
stop was Woodbine, Fla.
Here the conductor discovered us and we were put off.
It was not long before the stores opened up. There are but two or three
stores in Woodbine, though one of them is a very large one. It was in
this store we got something to eat.
A young lady waited on us, who informed me that Jacksonville was
forty-nine miles away.
Guessing our intention, she remarked: "You can't walk it, for twelve
miles from here is a long trestle, which is patrolled by a man with a
Winchester rifle. He is in the employ of the government and it's his
duty to see that no one crosses over on foot. Every twelve hours he is
relieved by a man who watches the bridge at night."
"When is the next freight due?" I asked.
"To-morrow morning," was the reply, "it's the same one you just got
off."
Things were beginning to assume a gloomy aspect.
"Is there a ferry?" I asked, brightening up.
"There was so little travel the ferry was abandoned over a year ago,"
replied the young lady.
"Well, good-bye; if there is no other way, we'll have it to swim."
We had gone probably a mile down the track and had begun to look out
for a place to put in a few hours sleep, when looking back, I was
overjoyed to discover a hand-car rapidly overtaking us.
Stepping into the middle of the track I signalled the car to stop.
"Hello, captain! we want to help you peddle that car across the bridge.
Do you go that far?"
"Yes, I'm the track inspector, and go as far as Jacksonville," was the
reply.
"Let us go?" I questioned.
"I don't know; I need two more men, but white men, as a rule, are no
good peddling these cars on a long run," was the retort.
"I'm as strong as either of the two men now propelling you, sir," and,
to prove the assertion, I rolled up my sleeve.
The man's eyes opened wide in astonishment, for notwithstanding I'm an
asthma sufferer, his gaze rested on an arm that had undergone five years
of hard physical culture training.
"You may go," he said, "and I'm glad to get you."
We passed the man with the Winchester rifle safely, and at 3 p. m. I got
off in the suburbs of Jacksonville, parting with the darkey, who is the
right owner of the reward offered in the front pages of this book, and
whom the track inspector had engaged for railroad work at $1.00 per day.
It was nearly two miles down town, and being fatigued from my recent
exertions, I invested five cents in a street car ride.
The car was full of gaily dressed people, white being the prominent
color, all of whom seemed bent upon some kind of pleasure, judging from
their happy faces.
Race prejudice is strong here. Half the car was devoted to the white
passengers and the other half to the colored, and is rigidly enforced.
The gay costumes on the streets, and the brisk, business-like air of the
people, next attracted my attention. Nearly all of the streets are broad
and well paved, and some of the business blocks remind one of Baltimore,
Md. The whole scene was an entire surprise to me. But what impressed me
more than all else was the long line of beautiful palms, extending quite
close on either side of the street car line.