 | Mark Twain's sketches, new and old |  |
CANNIBALISM IN THE CARS.
I VISITED St Louis lately, and on my
way west, after changing cars at Terre
Haute, Indiana, a mild, benevolent-looking
gentleman of about forty-five, or
may be fifty, came in at one of the way-stations
and sat down beside me. We
talked together pleasantly on various subjects
for an hour, perhaps, and I found
him exceedingly intelligent and entertaining.
When he learned that I was from
Washington, he immediately began to ask
questions about various public men, and
about Congressional affairs; and I saw
very shortly that I was conversing with a man who was perfectly familiar
with the ins and outs of political life at the Capital, even to the ways and
Chambers of the National Legislature. Presently two men halted near us for a
single moment, and one said to the other:
“Harris, if you'll do that for me, I'll never forget you, my boy.”
My new comrade's eyes lighted pleasantly. The words had touched upon a
happy memory, I thought. Then his face settled into thoughtfulness—almost into
gloom. He turned to me and said, “Let me tell you a story; let me give you a
secret chapter of my life—a chapter that has never been referred to by me since its
events transpired. Listen patiently, and promise that you will not interrupt me.”
I said I would not, and he related the following strange adventure, speaking
sometimes with animation, sometimes with melancholy, but always with feeling
and earnestness.
The Stranger's Narrative.
“On the 19th of December, 1853, I started from St. Louis on the evening train
bound for Chicago. There were only twenty-four passengers, all told. There
were no ladies and no children. We were in excellent spirits, and pleasant
acquaintanceships were soon formed. The journey bade fair to be a happy one;
and no individual in the party, I think, had even the vaguest presentiment of the
horrors we were soon to undergo.
“At 11 P. M. it began to snow hard. Shortly after leaving the small village of
Welden, we entered upon that tremendous prairie solitude that stretches its leagues
on leagues of houseless dreariness far away towards the Jubilee Settlements. The
winds, unobstructed by trees or hills, or even vagrant rocks, whistled fiercely across
the level desert, driving the falling snow before it like spray from the crested waves
of a stormy sea. The snow was deepening fast; and we knew, by the diminished
speed of the train, that the engine was ploughing through it with steadily increasing
difficulty. Indeed, it almost came to a dead halt sometimes, in the midst of great
drifts that piled themselves like colossal graves across the track. Conversation
began to flag. Cheerfulness gave place to grave concern. The possibility of being
imprisoned in the snow, on the bleak prairie, fifty miles from any house, presented
itself to every mind, and extended its depressing influence over every spirit.
“At two o'clock in the morning I was aroused out of an uneasy slumber by the
we were captives in a snow-drift! `All hands to the rescue!' Every man sprang
to obey. Out into the wild night, the pitchy darkness, the billowy snow, the
driving storm, every soul leaped, with the consciousness that a moment lost now
might bring destruction to us all. Shovels, hands, boards—anything, everything
that could displace snow, was brought into instant requisition. It was a weird
picture, that small company of frantic men fighting the banking snows, half in the
blackest shadow and half in the angry light of the locomotive's reflector.
“One short hour sufficed to prove the utter uselessness of our efforts. The storm
barricaded the track with a dozen drifts while we dug one away. And worse than
this, it was discovered that the last grand charge the engine had made upon the
enemy had broken the fore-and-aft shaft of the driving-wheel! With a free track
before us we should still have been helpless. We entered the car wearied with
labor, and very sorrowful. We gathered about the stoves, and gravely canvassed
our situation. We had no provisions whatever—in this lay our chief distress. We
could not freeze, for there was a good supply of wood in the tender. This was our
only comfort. The discussion ended at last in accepting the disheartening decision
of the conductor, viz., that it would be death for any man to attempt to travel fifty
miles on foot through snow like that. We could not send for help; and even
if we could, it could not come. We must submit, and await, as patiently as we
might, succor or starvation! I think the stoutest heart there felt a momentary
chill when those words were uttered.
“Within the hour conversation subsided to a low murmur here and there about
the car, caught fitfully between the rising and falling of the blast; the lamps grew
dim; and the majority of the castaways settled themselves among the flickering
shadows to think—to forget the present, if they could—to sleep, if they might.
“The eternal night—it surely seemed eternal to us—wore its lagging hours away
at last, and the cold grey dawn broke in the east. As the light grew stronger the
passengers began to stir and give signs of life, one after another, and each in turn
pushed his slouched hat up from his forehead, stretched his stiffened limbs, and
glanced out at the windows upon the cheerless prospect. It was cheerless indeed!
—not a living thing visible anywhere, not a human habitation; nothing but a vast
a world of eddying flakes shutting out the firmament above.
“All day we moped about the cars, saying little, thinking much. Another lingering
dreary night—and hunger.
“Another dawning—another day of silence, sadness, wasting hunger, hopeless
watching for succor that could not come. A night of restless slumber, filled with
dreams of feasting—wakings distressed with the gnawings of hunger.
“The fourth day came and went—and the fifth! Five days of dreadful imprisonment!
A savage hunger looked out at every eye. There was in it a sign of awful
import—the foreshadowing of a something that was vaguely shaping itself in every
heart—a something which no tongue dared yet to frame into words.
“The sixth day passed—the seventh dawned upon as gaunt and haggard and
hopeless a company of men as ever stood in the shadow of death. It must out now!
That thing which had been growing up in every heart was ready to leap from every
lip at last! Nature had been taxed to the utmost—she must yield. Richard H.
Gaston, of Minnesota, tall, cadaverous, and pale, rose up. All knew what was
coming. All prepared—every emotion, every semblance of excitement was
smothered—only a calm, thoughtful seriousness appeared in the eyes that were
lately so wild.
“`Gentlemen,—It cannot be delayed longer! The time is at hand! We must
determine which of us shall die to furnish food for the rest!'
“Mr. John J. Williams, of Illinois, rose and said: `Gentlemen,—I nominate
the Rev. James Sawyer, of Tennessee.'
Mr. Wm. R. Adams, of Indiana, said: `I nominate Mr. Daniel Slote, of New York.'
“Mr. Charles J. Langdon: `I nominate Mr. Samuel A. Bowen, of St. Louis.'
“Mr. Slote: `Gentlemen,—I desire to decline in favor of Mr. John A. Van
Nostrand, Jun., of New Jersey.'
“Mr. Gaston: `If there be no objection, the gentleman's desire will be acceded
to.'
“Mr. Van Nostrand objecting, the resignation of Mr. Slote was rejected. The
resignations of Messrs. Sawyer and Bowen were also offered, and refused upon the
same grounds.
“Mr. A. L. Bascom, of Ohio: `I move that the nominations now close, and that
the House proceed to an election by ballot.'
“Mr. Sawyer: `Gentlemen,—I protest earnestly against these proceedings.
They are, in every way, irregular and unbecoming. I must beg to move that they
be dropped at once, and that we elect a chairman of the meeting and proper officers
to assist him, and then we can go on with the business before us understandingly.'
“Mr. Bell, of Iowa: `Gentlemen,—I object. This is no time to stand upon
forms and ceremonious observances. For more than seven days we have been
without food. Every moment we lose in idle discussion increases our distress. I
am satisfied with the nominations that have been made—every gentleman present
is, I believe—and I, for one, do not see why we should not proceed at once to elect
one or more of them. I wish to offer a resolution—'
“Mr. Gaston: `It would be objected to, and have to lie over one day under
the rules, thus bringing about the very delay you wish to avoid. The gentleman
from New Jersey—'
“Mr. Van Nostrand: `Gentlemen,—I am a stranger among you; I have not
sought the distinction that has been conferred upon me, and I feel a delicacy—'
“Mr. Morgan, of Alabama (interrupting): `I move the previous question.'
“The motion was carried, and further debate shut off, of course. The motion
to elect officers was passed, and under it Mr. Gaston was chosen chairman, Mr.
Blake secretary, Messrs. Holcomb, Dyer, and Baldwin, a committee on nominations,
and Mr. R. M. Howland, purveyor, to assist the committee in making selections.
“A recess of half an hour was then taken, and some little caucussing followed.
At the sound of the gavel the meeting reassembled, and the committee reported in
favor of Messrs. George Ferguson, of Kentucky, Lucien Herrman, of Louisiana,
and W. Messick, of Colorado, as candidates. The report was accepted.
“Mr. Rogers, of Missouri: `Mr. President,—The report being properly before
the House now, I move to amend it by substituting for the name of Mr. Herrman
that of Mr. Lucius Harris, of St. Louis, who is well and honorably known to us all.
I do not wish to be understood as casting the least reflection upon the high character
and standing of the gentleman from Louisiana—far from it. I respect and
esteem him as much as any gentleman here present possibly can; but none of us
lain here than any among us—none of us can be blind to the fact that the committee
has been derelict in its duty, either through negligence or a graver fault, in
thus offering for our suffrages a gentleman who, however pure his own motives may
be, has really less nutriment in him—'
“The Chair: `The gentleman from Missouri will take his seat. The Chair
cannot allow the integrity of the Committee to be questioned save by the regular
course, under the rules. What action will the House take upon the gentleman's
motion?'
“Mr. Halliday, of Virginia: `I move to further amend the report by substituting
Mr. Harvey Davis, of Oregon, for Mr. Messick. It may be urged by
gentlemen that the hardships and privations of a frontier life have rendered Mr.
Davis tough; but, gentlemen, is this a time to cavil at toughness? is this a time to
be fastidious concerning trifles? is this a time to dispute about matters of paltry
significance? No, gentlemen, bulk is what we desire—substance, weight, bulk—
these are the supreme requisites now—not talent, not genius, not education. I
insist upon my motion.'
“Mr. Morgan (excitedly): `Mr. Chairman,—I do most strenuously object to
this amendment. The gentleman from Oregon is old, and furthermore is bulky
only in bone—not in flesh. I ask the gentleman from Virginia if it is soup we
want instead of solid sustenance? if he would delude us with shadows? if he would
mock our suffering with an Oregonian spectre? I ask him if he can look upon the
anxious faces around him, if he can gaze into our sad eyes, if he can listen to the
beating of our expectant hearts, and still thrust this famine-stricken fraud upon us?
I ask him if he can think of our desolate state, of our past sorrows, of our dark
future, and still unpityingly foist upon us this wreck, this ruin; this tottering swindle,
this gnarled and blighted and sapless vagabond from Oregon's inhospitable shores?
Never!' (Applause.)
“The amendment was put to vote, after a fiery debate, and lost. Mr. Harris was
substituted on the first amendment. The balloting then began. Five ballots were
held without a choice. On the sixth, Mr. Harris was elected, all voting for him
but himself. It was then moved that his election should be ratified by acclamation,
which was lost, in consequence of his again voting against himself.
“Mr. Radway moved that the House now take up the remaining candidates, and
go into an election for breakfast. This was carried.
“On the first ballot there was a tie, half the members favoring one candidate on
account of his youth, and half favoring the other on account of his superior size.
The President gave the casting vote for the latter, Mr. Messick. This decision
created considerable dissatisfaction among the friends of Mr. Ferguson, the defeated
candidate, and there was some talk of demanding a new ballot; but in the midst
of it, a motion to adjourn was carried, and the meeting broke up at once.
“The preparations for supper diverted the attention of the Ferguson faction from
the discussion of their grievance for a long time, and then, when they would have
taken it up again, the happy announcement that Mr. Harris was ready, drove all
thought of it to the winds.
“We improvised tables by propping up the backs of car-seats, and sat down with
hearts full of gratitude to the finest supper that had blessed our vision for seven
torturing days. How changed we were from what we had been a few short hours
before! Hopeless, sad-eyed misery, hunger, feverish anxiety, desperation, then—
thankfulness, serenity, joy too deep for utterance now. That I know was the
cheeriest hour of my eventful life. The wind howled, and blew the snow wildly
about our prison-house, but they were powerless to distress us any more. I liked
Harris. He might have been better done, perhaps, but I am free to say that no
man ever agreed with me better than Harris, or afforded me so large a degree of
satisfaction. Messick was very well, though rather high-flavored, but for genuine
nutritiousness and delicacy of fibre, give me Harris. Messick had his good points
—I will not attempt to deny it, nor do I wish to do it—but he was no more fitted
for breakfast than a mummy would be, sir—not a bit. Lean?—why, bless me!—
and tough? Ah, he was very tough! You could not imagine it,—you could never
imagine anything like it.”
“Do you mean to tell me that—”
“Do not interrupt me, please. After breakfast we elected a man by the name of
Walker, from Detroit, for supper. He was very good. I wrote his wife so afterwards.
He was worthy of all praise. I shall always remember Walker. He was
a little rare, but very good. And then the next morning we had Morgan, of Alabama,
for breakfast. He was one of the finest men I ever sat down to,—handsome
a perfect gentleman, and singularly juicy. For supper we had that Oregon patriarch,
and he was a fraud, there is no question about it—old, scraggy, tough, nobody
can picture the reality. I finally said, gentlemen, you can do as you like, but I
will wait for another election. And Grimes, of Illinois, said, `Gentlemen, I will
wait also. When you elect a man that has something to recommend him, I shall be
glad to join you again.' It soon became evident that there was general dissatisfaction
with Davis, of Oregon, and so, to preserve the good-will that had prevailed so
pleasantly since we had had Harris, an election was called, and the result of it was
that Baker, of Georgia, was chosen. He was splendid! Well, well—after that we
liad Doolittle and Hawkins, and McElroy (there was some complaint about McElroy,
because he was uncommonly short and thin), and Penrod, and two Smiths, and
Bailey (Bailey had a wooden leg, which was clear loss, but he was otherwise good),
and an Indian boy, and an organ grinder, and a gentleman by the name of Buckminster—a
poor stick of a vagabond that wasn't any good for company and no
account for breakfast. We were glad we got him elected before relief came.”
“And so the blessed relief did come at last?”
“Yes, it came one bright, sunny morning, just after election. John Murphy was
the choice, and there never was a better, I am willing to testify; but John Murphy
came home with us, in the train that came to succor us, and lived to marry the
widow Harris—”
“Relict of—”
“Relict of our first choice. He married her, and is happy and respected and
prosperous yet. Ah, it was like a novel, sir—it was like a romance. This is my
stopping-place, sir; I must bid you good-by. Any time that you can make it convenient
to tarry a day or two with me, I shall be glad to have you. I like you, sir;
I have conceived an affection for you. I could like you as well as I liked Harris
himself, sir. Good day, sir, and a pleasant journey.”
He was gone. I never felt so stunned, so distressed, so bewildered in my life.
But in my soul I was glad he was gone. With all his gentleness of manner and his
soft voice, I shuddered whenever he turned his hungry eye upon me; and when I
heard that I had achieved his perilous affection, and that I stood almost with the
late Harris in his esteem, my heart fairly stood still!
I was bewildered beyond description. I did not doubt his word; I could not
question a single item in a statement so stamped with the earnestness of truth as
his; but its dreadful details overpowered me, and threw my thoughts into hopeless
confusion. I saw the conductor looking at me. I said, “Who is that man?”
“He was a member of Congress once, and a good one. But he got caught in a
snowdrift in the cars, and like to been starved to death. He got so frost-bitten
and frozen up generally, and used up for want of something to eat, that he was sick
and out of his head two or three months afterwards. He is all right now, only he
is a monomaniac, and when he gets on that old subject he never stops till he has
eat up that whole car-load of people he talks about. He would have finished the
crowd by this time, only he had to get out here. He has got their names as pat as
A, B, C. When he gets them all eat up but himself, he always says:—`Then the
hour for the usual election for breakfast having arrived, and there being no opposition,
I was duly elected, after which, there being no objections offered, I resigned.
Thus I am here.”'
I felt inexpressibly relieved to know that I had only been listening to the harmless
vagaries of a madman instead of the genuine experiences of a bloodthirsty
cannibal.
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