PRESENTLY we run into dock, and are as firmly part of it as if the
two structures were one, and so we land and struggle along in groups
to the platform, where our special train is to start for Chicago,
a run of one thousand miles. Mr. Carpenter, the traffic manager of
this road, is here to receive us. He and Mr. Abbey exchange some not
unpleasant badinage about the tribulations of our previous journey from
Boston to Baltimore, and we get aboard. Mr. Blanchard, the president
of the Erie Railroad, has lent Mr. Irving his own parlor-car for the
journey, although it is necessary that the company shall travel over
the Pennsylvania road. He has provisioned it also. It contains a
private room for Miss Terry, a special room for Irving, and sections
for myself and other friends. There is also a smoking-room and little
parlor, besides, of course, a well-appointed kitchen. Mr. Blanchard’s
own _chef_ is in the car, with a couple of servants; they are colored
gentlemen, and very attentive to our wants. Miss Terry and her maid go
straight to bed; so likewise do the other occupants of the car, except
Irving and myself. We think there may be much rest for mind and body in
a quiet chat before turning in for the night.
“Besides,” says Irving, lighting a cigar, “we may not be in the humor
for such recreation after Monday night. I am to get it hot in Chicago,
they tell me.”
“I believe you will find the gate of the West wide open to receive you,
and the people of Chicago quick to recognize all that is good in your
work, and not a whit behind the other cities in its appreciation of it.”
“They can have no prejudices, at all events,” he replied; “there has
been no time for tradition to take root there. They will not be afraid
to say what they think, one way or the other. I would not feel anxious
at all if we had to stay there a month instead of a fortnight.”
“I should not wonder if reporters meet the train and ask for interviews
long before we arrive at Chicago.”
“Is it possible? Well, let them come. I am told that if we should be
snowed up, there are much worse persons to fear than our friends, the
reporters. Mr. Abbey carries pistols, and the conductors and guards are
armed. During the Bernhardt tour more than one plot to stop Abbey’s
special trains was discovered. A band of masked men were disappointed
at one place, and a company of desperadoes from a western camp at
another. One of Abbey’s agents was attacked in his sleeping-car, and
badly wounded, by men who sneaked on board during a stoppage near a
signal station; but he made a good fight, and the guard coming quickly
to his aid, the fellows got off. Travelling as we did, even from Boston
to Baltimore, pulling up at lonely and unpeopled points, one can
understand how easily a gang of reckless robbers might capture a train,
the facilities for getting aboard and walking right through the cars
being largely in favor of success. It was known, Mr. Abbey tells me,
that Madame Bernhardt carried her diamonds about with her; and, acting
on reliable information, he found it desirable to have a smart chief of
police on the train, who had each end of her car protected at night by
an armed guard. No such honor is, I suppose, provided for us; and then
we do not go so far West, nor so near the frontiers, as she and her
company went. I suppose Abbey is not chaffing us, as Raymond and those
other fellows tried to do in London?”[35]
“Oh, no; Abbey’s is a true bill. In the West a detective well known to
the thieves sat by Madame Bernhardt’s coachman whenever she went out,
to or from the theatre, or anywhere else; and, apart from the weapons
he carried, his courage and skill made him a terror to evil-doers. The
western bandit is singularly discreet when he knows the reputation of
the police is pledged against him in a public enterprise.