The two o'clock express from Redlands to Forestville, Georgia, had been proceeding with the languid placidity of the river whose banks it skirted for more than two hours.But, unlike the river, it had stopped frequently; sometimes at recognized stations and villages, sometimes at the apparition of straw-hatted and linen-coated natives in the solitude of pine woods, where, after a decent interval of cheery conversation with the conductor and engineer, it either took the stranger on board, or relieved him of his parcel, letter, basket, or even the verbal message with which he was charged.Much of the way lay through pine-barren and swampy woods which had never been cleared or cultivated; much through decayed settlements and ruined villages that had remained unchanged since the War of the Rebellion, now three years past.There were vestiges of the severity of a former military occupation; the blackened timbers of railway bridges still unrepaired; and along the line of a certain memorable march, sections of iron rails taken from the torn-up track, roasted in bonfires and bent while red-hot around the trunks of trees, were still to be seen.These mementos of defeat seemed to excite neither revenge nor the energy to remove them; the dull apathy which had succeeded the days of hysterical passion and convulsion still lingered; even the slow improvement that could be detected was marked by the languor of convalescence.
The helplessness of a race, hitherto dependent upon certain barbaric conditions or political place and power, unskilled in invention, and suddenly confronted with the necessity of personal labor, was visible everywhere.Eyes that but three short years before had turned vindictively to the North, now gazed wistfully to that quarter for help and direction.They scanned eagerly the faces of their energetic and prosperous neighbors--and quondam foes--upon the verandas of Southern hotels and the decks of Southern steamboats, and were even now watching from a group in the woods the windows of the halted train, where the faces appeared of two men of manifestly different types, but still alien to the country in dress, features, and accent.
Two negroes were slowly loading the engine tender from a woodpile.
The rich brown smoke of the turpentine knots was filling the train with its stinging fragrance.The elder of the two Northern passengers, with sharp New England angles in his face, impatiently glanced at his watch.
"Of all created shiftlessness, this beats everything! Why couldn't we have taken in enough wood to last the ten miles farther to the terminus when we last stopped? And why in thunder, with all this firing up, can't we go faster?"The younger passenger, whose quiet, well-bred face seemed to indicate more discipline of character, smiled.
"If you really wish to know and as we've only ten miles farther to go--I'll show you WHY.Come with me."He led the way through the car to the platform and leaped down.
Then he pointed significantly to the rails below them.His companion started.The metal was scaling off in thin strips from the rails, and in some places its thickness had been reduced a quarter of an inch, while in others the projecting edges were torn off, or hanging in iron shreds, so that the wheels actually ran on the narrow central strip.It seemed marvelous that the train could keep the track.
"NOW you know why we don't go more than five miles an hour, and--are thankful that we don't," said the young traveler quietly.
"But this is disgraceful!--criminal!" ejaculated the other nervously.
"Not at their rate of speed," returned the younger man."The crime would be in going faster.And now you can understand why a good deal of the other progress in this State is obliged to go as slowly over their equally decaying and rotten foundations.You can't rush things here as we do in the North."The other passenger shrugged his shoulders as they remounted the platform, and the train moved on.It was not the first time that the two fellow-travelers had differed, although their mission was a common one.The elder, Mr.Cyrus Drummond, was the vice-president of a large Northern land and mill company, which had bought extensive tracts of land in Georgia, and the younger, Colonel Courtland, was the consulting surveyor and engineer for the company.Drummond's opinions were a good deal affected by sectional prejudice, and a self-satisfied and righteous ignorance of the actual conditions and limitations of the people with whom he was to deal; while the younger man, who had served through the war with distinction, retained a soldier's respect and esteem for his late antagonists, with a conscientious and thoughtful observation of their character.Although he had resigned from the army, the fact that he had previously graduated at West Point with high honors had given him preferment in this technical appointment, and his knowledge of the country and its people made him a valuable counselor.And it was a fact that the country people had preferred this soldier with whom they had once personally grappled to the capitalist they had never known during the struggle.
The train rolled slowly through the woods, so slowly that the fragrant pine smoke from the engine still hung round the windows of the cars.Gradually the "clearings" became larger; they saw the distant white wooden colonnades of some planter's house, looking still opulent and pretentious, although the fence of its inclosure had broken gaps, and the gate sagged on its single hinge.
Mr.Drummond sniffed at this damning record of neglect and indifference."Even if they were ruined, they might still have spent a few cents for nails and slats to enable them to look decent before folks, and not parade their poverty before their neighbors,"he said.