Accidents.
Marco liked his seat upon the outside of the stage-coach very much. He
could see the whole country about him to great advantage. He was very
much interested in the scenery, not having been accustomed to travel
among forests and mountains. The driver was a rough young man,--for
the boy who drove the coach up to the door was not the regular driver.
He was not disposed to talk much, and his tone and manner, in what he
did say, did not indicate a very gentle disposition. Marco, however,
at last got a little acquainted with him, and finally proposed to the
driver to let _him_ drive.
"Nonsense," said he, in reply, "you are not big enough to drive such a
team as this."
"Why, there was a boy, no bigger than I, that drove the horses up to
the door when we started, this morning," replied Marco.
"O yes,--Jerry,"--said the driver,--"but he'll break his neck one of
these days."
"I didn't see but that he drove very well," said Marco.
The driver was silent.
"Come," persisted Marco, "let me drive a little way, and I'll do as
much for you some day."
"You little fool," said the driver, "you never can do any thing for
me. You are not big enough to be of any use at all."
Marco thought of the fable of the mouse and the lion, but since his
new companion was in such ill-humor, he thought he would say no more
to him. A resentful reply to the epithet "little fool," did in fact
rise to his lips, but he suppressed it and said nothing.
It was fortunate for Marco that he did so. For whenever any person has
said any thing harsh, unjust, or cruel, the most effectual reply is,
generally, silence. It leaves the offender to think of what he has
said, and conscience will often reprove him in silence, far more
effectually than words could do it. This was the case in this
instance. As they rode along in silence, the echo of the words "little
fool," and the tone in which he had uttered them, lingered upon the
driver's ear. He could not help thinking that he had been rather harsh
with his little passenger. Presently he said,
"I don't care though,--we are coming to a level piece of ground on
ahead here a little way, and then I'll see what you can make of
teaming."
Marco was quite pleased at this unexpected result, and after ten or
fifteen minutes, they came to the level piece of road, and the driver
put the reins into Marco's hand. Marco had sometimes driven two
horses, when riding out with his father in a barouche, up the
Bloomingdale road in New York. He was therefore not entirely
unaccustomed to the handling of reins; and he took them from the
driver's hand and imitated the manner of holding them which he had
observed the driver himself to adopt, quite dexterously.
The horses, in fact, needed very little guidance. They went along the
road very quietly of their own accord. Marco kept wishing that a
wagon or something else would come along, that he might have the
satisfaction of turning out. But nothing of the kind appeared, and he
was obliged to content himself with turning a little to one side,
to avoid a stone. At the end of the level piece of road there was a
tavern, where they were going to stop to change the horses, and Marco
asked the driver to let him turn the horses up to the door. The driver
consented, keeping a close watch all the time, ready to seize the
reins again at a moment's notice, if there had been any appearance of
difficulty. But there was none. Marco guided the horses right, and
drawing in the reins with all his strength, he brought them up
properly at the door; or rather, he seemed to do it,--for, in
reality, the horses probably acted as much of their own accord, being
accustomed to stop at this place, as from any control which Marco
exercised over them through the reins.
There was, however, an advantage in this evolution, for Marco became
accustomed to the feeling of the reins in his hand, and acquired a
sort of confidence in his power over the horses,--greater to be sure
than there was any just ground for, but which was turned to a very
important account, a few hours afterward, as will be seen in the
sequel.
The sailor went several times into the taverns on the way, in the
course of the afternoon, to drink, until, at length, he became
partially intoxicated. He felt, however, so much restrained in the
presence of the passengers within the coach, that he did not become
talkative and noisy, as is frequently the case in such circumstances;
but was rather stupid and sleepy. In fact, no one observed that any
change was taking place in his condition, until, at last, as he was
coming out from the door of a tavern, where he had been in to get
another drink, the driver said,
"Come, Jack, you must get up with me now, there is another passenger
to get in here."
Marco, who was still in his seat, holding the reins of the horses,
looked down, expecting that the sailor would make objections to this
proposal,--but he found, on the contrary, that Jack, as they called
him, acquiesced without making any difficulty, and allowed the driver
to help him up. The new passenger got inside. Forester felt somewhat
uneasy at having Marco ride any longer on the top, especially now that
the sailor was going up too. But the coach was full. He himself was
wedged into his seat, so that he could not get out easily. He knew,
too, that two or three of the passengers were going to get out at the
next stage, and so he concluded to let Marco remain outside until that
time, and then to take him in again.
Marco's admiration for the sailor was very much diminished when he
saw how helpless he had rendered himself by his excesses, and how
unceremoniously the driver pulled and hauled him about, in getting him
into his seat.
"There! hold on there," said the driver to him, in a stern
voice,--"hold on well, or you'll be down head foremost under the
horses' heels, at the first pitch we come to."
The poor sailor said nothing, but grasped an iron bar which passed
from the top of the coach down by the side of the seat, and held on as
well as he could.
They rode on in this manner for some miles, the head of the sailor
swinging back and forth, helplessly, as if he was nearly asleep.
Whenever Marco or the driver spoke to him, he either answered in a
thick and sleepy tone of voice, or he did not reply at all. Marco
watched him for a time, being continually afraid that he would fall
off. He could do nothing, however, to help him, for he himself was
sitting at one end of the seat while the sailor was upon the other,
the driver being between them. In the mean time the sun gradually went
down and the twilight came on, and as the shadows extended themselves
slowly over the landscape, Marco began to find riding outside less
pleasant than it had been before, and he thought that, on the whole,
he should be very glad when the time arrived for him to get into the
coach again, with his cousin.
At length they came to a bridge, covered with planks, which led across
a small stream. It was in rather a solitary place, with woods on each
side of the road. Beyond the bridge there was a level piece of road
for a short distance, and then a gentle ascent, with a farmhouse near
the top of it, on the right hand side of the road. At the end of the
bridge, between the planks and the ground beyond them, there was a
jolt, caused by the rotting away of a log which had been imbedded in
the ground at the beginning of the planking. As it was rather dark,
on account of the shade of the trees, the driver did not observe this
jolt, and he was just beginning to put his horses to the trot, as they
were leaving the bridge, when the forward wheels struck down heavily
into the hollow, giving the front of the coach a sudden pitch forward
and downward. Marco grasped the iron bar at his end of the seat, and
saved himself; and the driver, who was habitually on his guard, had
his feet so braced against the fender before him, that he would not
have fallen. But the poor sailor, entirely unprepared for the shock,
and perhaps unable to resist it if he had been prepared, pitched
forward, lost his hold, went over the fender, and was tumbling down,
as the driver had predicted, head foremost, under the horses' heels.
The driver seized hold of him with one hand, but finding this
insufficient dropped his reins and tried to grasp him with both. In
doing it, however, he lost his own balance and went over too. He, of
course, let go of the sailor, when he found that he was going himself.
The sailor fell heavily and helplessly between the pole and the side
of one of the horses, to the ground. The driver followed. He seized
the pole with one hand, but was too late to save himself entirely,
and thinking there was danger of being dragged, and finding that the
horses were springing forward in a fright, he let himself drop through
to the ground also. The coach passed over them in a moment, as the
horses cantered on.
All this passed in an instant, and Marco, before he had a moment's
time for reflection, found himself alone on his seat,--the driver run
over and perhaps killed, and the horses cantering away, with the reins
dangling about their heels. The first impulse, in such a case, would
be to scream aloud, in terror,--which would have only made the horses
run the faster. But Marco was not very easily frightened; at least,
he was not easily made crazy by fright. So he did not scream; and not
knowing what else to do, he sat still and did nothing.
[Illustration: THE ACCIDENT.]
In the mean time, the passengers inside knew nothing of all this. Many
of them had been asleep when they came over the bridge. The jolt had
aroused them a little, but there was nothing to indicate to them
the accident which had occurred forward, so they quietly adjusted
themselves in their seats, and endeavored to compose themselves to
sleep again.
The horses were well trained and gentle. They cantered on as far as
the level ground extended, and then they slackened their pace as
they began to rise the ascent. The idea then occurred to Marco, that
perhaps he might clamber down over the fender to the pole, and then
walk along upon that a little way till he could gather up the reins.
Then he thought that if he could get back again with them to the
driver's seat, perhaps he could stop the horses. Marco was an expert
climber. He had learned this art in his gymnasium at New York; so that
he had no fears in respect to his being able to get down and back
again. The only danger was, lest he might frighten the horses again
and set them to running anew.
After a moment's reflection, he concluded that at any rate he would
try it; so he cautiously stepped over the fender and clambered down.
When his feet reached the pole, he rested them a moment upon it, and
clung with his hands to the fender and other parts of the front of the
coach. He found his position here more unstable than he had expected;
for the coach being upon springs, the forward part rose and fell with
many jerks and surges, as the horses traveled swiftly along, while the
pole was held in its position straight and firm. Thus the different
parts of his body were connected with different systems of motion,
which made his position very uncomfortable.
He found, however, after a moment's pause, that he could stand, and
probably walk upon the pole; so he advanced cautiously, putting his
hands on the backs of the horses, and walking along on the pole
between them. The horses were somewhat disturbed by the strange
sensations which they experienced, and began to canter again; but
Marco, who felt more and more confidence every moment, pushed boldly
on, gathered up the reins, and got all the ends together. Then taking
the ends of the reins in one hand, he crept back, supporting himself
by taking hold of the harness of one of the horses with the other
hand. By this means he regained the coach, and then, though with some
difficulty, he clambered up to his seat again.
He then endeavored to stop the horses by gathering the reins together,
and pulling upon them with all his strength; but it was in vain. The
horses had by this time reached a part of the road where it was more
level, and they began to press forward at a more rapid pace. Marco
thought of calling to Forester to get out of the window and climb
along the side of the coach to the box, in order to help him; but just
at that moment he saw that they were coming up opposite to the farm
house, which had been in sight, at a distance, when they were crossing
the bridge. So he thought that though he could not stop the horses, he
might perhaps have strength enough to turn them off from the road into
the farmer's yard; and that then they could be more easily stopped. In
this he succeeded. By pulling the off rein of the leaders with all his
strength, he was able to turn them out of the road. The pole horses
followed as a matter of course,--the coach came up with a graceful
sweep to the farmer's door, and then the horses were easily stopped.
The farmer came at once to the door, to see what strange company had
come to visit him in the stage,--his wife following; while several
children crowded to the windows.
"What's here?" said a voice from the window of the coach,--"a
post-office?" They thought the stage had been driven up to the door of
some post-office.
Marco did not answer; in fact he was bewildered and confounded at the
strangeness of his situation. He looked back over the top of the coach
down the road to see what had become of the driver. To his great joy,
he saw him running up behind the coach,--his hat crushed out of shape,
and his clothes dusty. The passengers looked out at the windows of the
stage, exclaiming,
"Why, driver! what's the matter?"
The driver made no reply. He began to brush his clothes,--and, taking
off his hat, he attempted to round it out into shape again.
"What _is_ the matter, driver?" said the passengers.
"Nothing," replied he, "only that drunkard of a sailor tumbled off the
stage."
"Where?" "When?" exclaimed half a dozen voices. "Is he killed?"
"Killed? no," replied the driver; "I don't believe he is even
sobered."
Forester and another gentleman then urgently asked where he was, and
the driver told them that he was "back there a piece," as he expressed
it.
"What! lying in the road?" said Forester; "open the door, and let us
go and see to him."
"No," said the driver; "he has got off to the side of the road, safe.
I don't believe he's hurt any. Let him take care of himself, and we'll
drive on."
But Forester remonstrated strongly against leaving the poor sailor in
such a condition, and in such a place; and finally it was agreed that
the farmer should go down the road and see to him, so as to allow the
stage-coach with the passengers to go on.
Forester was not willing, however, to have Marco ride outside any
longer; and so they contrived to make room for him within. As Marco
descended from his high seat, the driver said to him, as he passed
him, in a low voice,
"How did you get the reins? I thought they all came down with me,
under the horses' heels."
"Yes," said Marco, "they did, and I climbed down upon the pole and got
them."
"Well," said the driver, "you're a smart boy. But don't tell them
inside that I tumbled off. Tell them I gave you the reins, and jumped
down to see the sailor."
After receiving this charge, Marco would have been under a strong
temptation to tell a falsehood, if the company in the coach had asked
him any questions about it. But they did not. They were so much
occupied in expressing their astonishment that the sailor did not
break his neck, that they asked very few questions, and after riding a
short time, they relapsed into silence again. The fact that both
the driver and the sailor escaped being seriously hurt, was not so
wonderful as it might seem. Horses have generally an instinctive
caution about not stepping upon any thing under their feet. If a
little child were lying asleep in the middle of a road, and a horse
were to come galloping along without any rider, the mother, who
should see the sight from the window of the house, would doubtless be
exceedingly terrified; but in all probability the horse would pass the
child without doing it any injury. He would leap over it, or go around
it, as he would if it were a stone. This is one reason why, in so many
cases, persons are run over without being hurt. The driver and the
sailor, however, fell rather behind the horses' heels, and escaped
them in that way, and they came down so exactly into the middle of the
road, that they were out of the way of the track of the wheels, and
thus they escaped serious injury.
The misfortunes of the evening, however, did not end here. The road
was rather rough, and there were many ruts and joltings; and one or
two of the passengers seemed to feel some fear lest the stage should
upset. One, who sat near the door, put his arm out at the window over
the door, so as to get his hand upon the handle of the catch, in
order, as he said, to be ready to open the door and spring out, at a
moment's warning. The gentleman on the back seat advised him not to do
it.
"If you have your arm out," said he, "the coach may fall over upon
it, and break it. That's the way people get hurt by the upsetting of
coaches, by thrusting out their legs and arms in all directions, when
they find they are going over, and thus get them broken. You ought to
fold your arms and draw in your feet, and when you find that we are
going over, go in an easy attitude, with all the muscles relaxed, as
if your body was a bag of corn."
The passenger laughed and took his arm in; and all the other
passengers, seeing that the advice of the gentleman was reasonable,
concluded to follow it if they should have occasion. And they did have
occasion sooner than they had expected. For, just after dark, as they
were going down a long hill at a pretty rapid rate, with a wagon a
short distance before them, one of the horses of the wagon stumbled
and fell, which brought the wagon to a sudden stand just before the
coach. The driver perceived in an instant that there was not time to
stop his horses, and that the only chance was to turn out of the road
and drive by. The ground at the road-side was so much inclined, that
he was almost afraid to venture this expedient, but he had no time for
thought. He wheeled his horses out,--just escaped the hind wheel of
the wagon--ran along by the road-side a short distance, with the
wheels on one side, down very near the gutter,--and then, just as he
was coming back safely into the road again, the forward wheel nearest
the middle of the road, struck a small stone, and threw the coach
over. The top rested upon the bank, and the horses were suddenly
stopped. Sometimes, on such occasions, the _transom_ bolt, as it
is called, that is, the bolt by which the forward wheels are fastened
to the carriage, comes out, and the horses run off with the wheels. It
did not come out in this case, however. The man who had put his arm
out of the window, immediately called out, in great alarm, "Hold the
horses! Hold the horses! Don't let the horses run and drag us." But
this vociferation was needless. A coach full of passengers and baggage
is a full load for four horses, when it is mounted on wheels. It would
require an exertion far beyond their strength to drag it when on its
side. The horses remained quiet, therefore, while the wagoner and the
driver, who was not hurt, opened the door in the upper side of the
coach. The passengers then climbed out, one by one, without injury.
Mary Williams came out last, with her orange-tree safe in her hand.