THE SENATOR'S DAUGHTER
A scene terribly beyond the power of description was presented to the
gaze of Lieutenant Somers when he recovered his scattered senses. The car
had been literally wrenched to pieces, and the passengers were partially
buried beneath the fragments. Our traveler was stunned by the shock, and
made giddy by the wild vaulting of the car as it leaped down the
embankment to destruction. He was bruised and lacerated; but he was not
seriously injured. He did not make the mistake which many persons do
under such trying circumstances, of believing that they are killed; or,
if their senses belie this impression, that they shall die within a brief
period.
Lieutenant Somers was endowed with a remarkable degree of self-possession,
and never gave up anything as long as there was any chance of holding on.
He saw a great many stars not authenticated in any respectable catalogue
of celestial luminaries. His thoughts, and even his vitality, seemed to be
suspended for an instant; but the thoughts came back, and the stream of
life still flowed on, notwithstanding the rude assault which had been made
upon his corporal frame.
Finding that he was not killed, he struggled out from beneath the wreck
which had overwhelmed him. His first consideration, after he had assured
himself that he was comparatively uninjured, was for those who were his
fellow-passengers on this race to ruin and death; and perhaps it is not
strange that the fair young lady who had occupied the opposite seat in
the car came to his mind. Men and women were disengaging themselves from
the shapeless rubbish. Some wept, some groaned, and some were motionless
and silent.
He did not see the fair stranger among those who were struggling back to
consciousness. A portion of the top of the car lay near him, which he
raised up. It rested heavily upon the form of a maiden, which he at once
recognized by the dress to be that of the gentle stranger. The sight
roused all his energies; and he felt that strength which had fired his
muscles when he trod the field of battle. With desperate eagerness, he
raised the heavy fragment which was crowding out the young life of the
tender form, and bore it away, so that she was released from its cruel
pressure.
She, poor girl! felt it not; for her eyes were closed, and her marble
cheek was stained with blood. The young officer, tenderly interested in
her fate, bent over her, and raised the inanimate form. He bore it in his
arms to a green spot, away from the scattered fragments of the train, and
laid it gently down upon the bosom of mother earth. By all the means
within his power, he endeavored to convince himself that death had not
yet invaded the lovely temple of her being. But still she was silent and
motionless. There was not a sign by which he could determine the
momentous question.
He was unwilling to believe that the beautiful stranger was dead. It
seemed too hard and cruel that one so young and fair should be thus
rudely hurried out of existence, without a mother or even a father near
to receive her last gaze on earth, and listen to the soft sigh with which
she breathed forth her last throb of existence. He had a telescopic
drinking-cup in his pocket, with which he hastened to a brook that flowed
through the valley. Filling it with water, he returned to his charge. He
sprinkled her face, and rubbed her temples, and exerted himself to the
best of his knowledge and ability to awaken some signs of life.
The task seemed hopeless; and he was about to abandon it in despair, to
render assistance to those who needed it more than the fair, silent form
before him, when an almost imperceptible sigh gladdened his heart, and
caused him to renew his exertions. Procuring another cup of water, he
persistently sprinkled the fair face and chafed the temples of his
charge. With his handkerchief he washed away the blood-stains, and
ascertained that she was only slightly cut just above the ear.
Cheered by the success which had rewarded his efforts, he continued to
bathe and chafe till the gentle stranger opened her eyes. In a few
moments more she recovered her consciousness, and cast a bewildered
glance around her.
"Where is my father?" said she; and, as she spoke, the fearful nature of
the catastrophe dawned upon her mind, and she partially rose from her
recumbent posture.
Lieutenant Somers could not tell where her father was, and his first
thought was that he must be beneath the wreck of the shattered cars. For
the first time, he looked about him to measure with his eye the extent of
the calamity. At that moment he discovered the engine, with the forward
part of the train, backing down the railroad. Only the two rear cars had
been precipitated over the embankment; the accident having been caused by
the breaking of an axle on the last car but one. The shackle connecting
this with the next one had given way, and the broken car had darted off
the bank, carrying the rear one with it, while the rest of the train
dashed on to its destination.
Of course the calamity was immediately discovered; but a considerable
time elapsed--as time was measured by those who were suffering and dying
beneath the _débris_ of the train--before the engine could be stopped,
and backed to the scene of the accident. Lieutenant Somers had seen the
lady's father go forward, and had heard him say he was going to the
smoking-car; he was therefore satisfied that he was safe.
"He will be here presently," he replied to the anxious question of the
fair stranger.
"Perhaps he was--oh, dear! Perhaps he was----"
"Oh, no! he wasn't. The smoking-car was not thrown off the track,"
interposed the young officer, promptly removing from her mind the
terrible fear which took possession of her first conscious moments. "Are
you much hurt?"
"I don't know; I don't think I am; but one of my arms feels very numb."
"Let me examine it," continued our traveler, tenderly raising the injured
member.
He was not deeply skilled in surgery; but he knew enough of the mysteries
of anatomy to discover that the arm was broken between the elbow and the
shoulder.
"I am afraid your arm is broken," said he cautiously, as though he feared
the announcement would cause her to faint again.
"I am glad it is no worse," said she with a languid smile, and without
exhibiting the least indication of feminine weakness.
"It might have been worse, certainly. Can I do anything more for you?"
added Lieutenant Somers, glancing at the wreck of the cars, with a
feeling that his duty then was a less pleasing one than that of attending
to the wants of the beautiful stranger; for there were still men and
women lying helpless and unserved in the midst of the ruins.
The train stopped upon the road; and the passengers, though appalled by
the sight, rushed down the bank to render willing assistance to the
sufferers. Among them was the father of the young lady, who leaped
frantically down the steep, and passed from one to another of the forms
which the survivors had taken from the wreck.
"There is your father," said Lieutenant Somers as he recognized him among
the excited passengers. "I will go and tell him where you are."
"Do, if you please," replied the lady faintly.
He ran to the distracted parent, and seized him by the arm as he dashed
from one place to another in search of the gentle maiden whose life was
part of his own.
"Your daughter is out here, sir," said Lieutenant Somers, pointing to the
spot where he had borne her.
"My daughter!" gasped the agonized father. "Where--where?"
"In this direction, sir."
"Is she--O Heaven, spare me!" groaned he.
"She is hurt, but I think not very badly. Her left arm is broken, and her
head is slightly cut."
"O God, I thank Thee!" gasped the father, as he walked with the
lieutenant to the place where the young lady was sitting on the grass.
"I think you need not be alarmed about her," added our officer, anxious
to console the suffering parent.
"My poor Emmie!" exclaimed the anxious father when they reached the spot,
while he knelt down upon the grass by her side, the tears coursing in
torrents down his pale cheeks.
"Don't be alarmed, father," replied she, putting her uninjured arm around
his neck and kissing him, while their tears mingled. "I am not much hurt,
father."
Lieutenant Somers had a heart as well as a strong and willing arm, and he
could not restrain his own tears as he witnessed the touching scene. The
meeting seemed to be so sacred to him, that he could not stand an idle
gazer upon the expression of that hallowed affection as it flowed from
the warm hearts of the father and daughter.
"As I can be of no further service here, I will go and do what I can for
those who need my help. If you want any assistance, I shall be close at
hand," said he, as he walked away to the busy scene of woe which
surrounded the wreck.
The wounded, the maimed, and the dead were rapidly taken from the pile of
ruins, and placed in the cars on the road; and there was no longer
anything for the young officer to do. He returned to the grassy couch of
her whom he could not but regard as peculiarly his patient. The father
had recovered his self-possession, and satisfied himself that Emmie was
not more seriously injured than her deliverer had declared.
"My young friend, while I thank God that my daughter is still alive, I am
very grateful to you for the care you have bestowed upon her," said the
father, as he grasped the young officer's hand.
"You may well thank him, Mr. Guilford," said one of the two gentlemen who
had followed the young officer to the spot; "for the first thing I saw,
when I came out from under the ruins, was this young man lifting half the
top of the car off your daughter."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I think we should convey the young lady up
to the cars; for I see they are about ready to start," said Lieutenant
Somers, blushing up to the eyes.
"I thank you, young man," added Mr. Guilford with deep feeling. "I must
see you again, and know more about you. Emmie has told me how kind you
have been to her; and you may be sure I shall never forget it while I
live. How do you feel now, Emmie?"
"My arm begins to pain me a little," she answered languidly.
"We must put you into the car, and in a short time we shall be able to do
something for you."
"I will carry her up to the train, sir," said the young officer.
"I thank you, sir," said Emmie with a smile; "but I think I can walk."
"Well," said the gentleman who had spoken before, "I saw him carry you
from the wreck to this place; and I am bound to say, I never saw a mother
handle her baby more tenderly."
"I am very grateful to him for what he has done for me," added Emmie with
a slight blush; "and if I needed his services, I certainly should accept
his kind offer."
She took the arm of her father, and walked very well till she came to the
steep bank, whose ascent required more strength than she then possessed.
Her father and Lieutenant Somers then made a "hand-chair," and bore her
up to the car, in which she was as comfortably disposed as the
circumstances would permit. The train started with its melancholy freight
of wounded, dead and dying.
"I see, sir, you are an officer in the army," said Mr. Guilford as the
train moved off; "but I have not yet learned your name."
"Thomas Somers, sir," replied our young officer.
"I must trouble you to write it down for me, with your residence when at
home, and your regiment in the field."
Lieutenant Somers complied with this request, and in return the gentleman
gave him his address.
"I shall never forget you, Lieutenant Somers," said Mr. Guilford when he
had carefully deposited the paper in his memorandum-book. "I have it in
my power to be of service to you; and if you ever want a friend, I shall
consider it a favor if you will come to me, or write to me."
"Thank you, sir; I am very much obliged to you. But I hope you won't
consider yourself under any obligations to me for what I have done. I
couldn't have helped doing it if I had tried."
"Lieutenant Somers, you are in luck," said the gentleman who had
accompanied him before. "That is Senator Guilford, of ----, and he will
make a brigadier-general of you before you are a year older."