LITMIR.BIZ

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with that part of the country, knew I could secure a horse and go to Mollendo or Arequipa. I knew also that the officer and his men had never been on a train, and it would be impossible for them to give chase.

      But we were again doomed to disappointment. The engineer feared to carry out the plan and instead of increasing speed, went slower than usual.

      On our arrival at Moquequa we were marched through the streets, to my great humiliation, as I knew many people in the town. Numbers of them came and offered their sympathy. To our great indignation we were thrown into a cell with six other prisoners convicted of murder, and a more ugly, villainous and desperate-looking lot of characters would have been hard to find anywhere. No attention had been paid to my remonstrance, when an hour later a gentleman, whom I had favored, presented himself. After I told him the circumstances of our detention he said he would send a lawyer to defend us. In the meantime he arranged with a hotel keeper to send us regular meals, also mattresses and blankets.

      The day following I had many visitors, some drawn by curiosity and others by sympathy and good will. The latter were profuse in their attentions. When a lawyer appeared, I related to him the details of our arrest. I did the talking, as Thompson could not speak the language, while I was becoming quite proficient in it. Upon leaving, the lawyer promised to have us free in eight days at most.

      I passed away the dreary time pacing that prison cell. It was about twenty feet long and twelve feet wide, and contained nothing but stone walls and floor, with a heavy iron-grated window which looked out on the plaza. A bottle of wine came with each meal, instead of coffee, and I shared it with the criminals in our cell. In this way I soon won their good will, and as they had all been convicted of murder, they did not hesitate to tell me of their horrible crimes.

      There is no capital punishment in Peru. Sentence for life, in that country, means about fifteen years, and seldom do they serve that length of time. Usually a revolution releases them. At such times insurgents invariably break open the prisons and liberate the convicts, which happened to these prisoners a few months later. We were visited daily by my lawyer and finally were told that four hundred dollars would be required for our liberation.

      “Liberate us and I will give you the money,” was my answer.

      Next day I bid adieu to my undesirable residence and companions; Thompson had no money and I paid all. After purchasing new clothes and receiving the congratulations of friends, we boarded the train for Ilo. Mr. Hill returned from Lima that day and after learning of the indignities inflicted upon me, told his officials that they should have notified the British consul and compelled the Peruvian authorities to pay, instead of taking my money.

      I returned to work in the shops, and three weeks afterward one of the office clerks came in breathless and told me I was to be arrested again along with Thompson. The papers would be down from Moquequa that night and tomorrow morning they would come for us.

      I was furious when I realized that we were again facing punishment for a crime of which we were innocent and I determined to resist arrest, and leave Ilo.

      I went to the office of the secretary of the railroad, and after a long consultation, it was agreed to have three of Mr. Hill’s best horses in readiness at midnight. One of the hostlers was to accompany us and when we reached Tambo, Thompson and I would take the train for Arequipa.

      I went to my room, packed my clothes, carefully loaded two revolvers and placed my trunk and other articles of value in the hands of my friends, with orders to send them to Arequipa after the sensation of my escape was over. After supper, to allay any suspicion the authorities might have, I strolled along the wharf, went into a billiard hall and actually played a game of billiards with the captain of the guard, who I have no doubt had the order to arrest me in his pocket. Thompson had gone to his room. I followed thirty minutes later, and at precisely twelve o’clock, I sallied out of the house by the rear, and met Thompson at the agreed place on the beach.

      The night was dark, and everything being in readiness, we mounted and rode through the town dressed like natives. We soon gained the highway leading to Tambo and after being well clear of Ilo, we put our horses to their best. We rode the fifty-five miles to Tambo, over a rugged and mountainous country and caught the train for Arequipa, arriving that night after an absence for me of two years.

      VII.

      IN THE THROES OF REVOLUTION

      The railroad had now been extended from Arequipa to Puno. A revolution had broken out and insurgents were cutting the telegraph wires.

      I was engineer on a combination locomotive and coach and as this locomotive will be in the scene of more than one tragedy, I will describe it. It was specially designed for the president and officers of the road, weighing only eight tons. On the same frame with the engine, in fact, a part of it, was built a beautiful black walnut coach, with a seating capacity of from twelve to eighteen persons. It had two side doors and one in front, which, when opened, communicated with the engineer. There were windows hung with beautiful damask curtains, the carpets were of rich velvet, and a center table and several cupboards under the seats completed the furnishings. It was in reality a palace on wheels, named The Arequipena, meaning a native of Arequipa. I mention the design of the combination engine-car for the reason that, on a duplicate of The Arequipena, later occurred one of the most perilous and tragic events of my life.

      The stretch of road from Julica to Cabanillas was level and straight, except about two miles from Cabanillas station, where a heavy side cut and sharp curve was the only obstruction to the view for miles. I was going at the rate of forty miles an hour, when, on nearing this curve, I beheld a large Rogers locomotive with a train of coaches coming toward me. I cannot describe the thoughts that went through my brain–there was a terrific crash–flying debris–a hissing of steam–mingled with the groans of the wounded and dying.

      I was thrown out of the way of the wreck and near the edge of a river, and when I regained my senses a priest was bending over me, bathing my forehead. I gradually realized what had happened and went to my engine. There was scarcely a vestige left of The Little Arequipena, only a piece of the boiler and two pairs of driving wheels. The shock was so great that the little coach was hurled over the other engine, which was not damaged much.

      I saw several persons bending over some one, and, on going closer, found William Cuthbert, our traveling engineer, stretched on the ground dying. Five soldiers were dead beneath the ruins. One officer, with his legs broken in two places, begged that others be cared for first. The road-master was in agony, his lower limbs frightfully burned by escaping steam; all the others were more or less seriously injured, except myself. When relief came our dead and wounded were taken to Arequipa.

      We had been sent out to repair the wires, and orders had come to me that we should be given the right of way. The engineer who collided with me told me that the commander of the government forces had ordered our superintendent to furnish transportation for his troops to Puno at once, and when informed that it would be impossible to send a train until we were heard from, he threatened to place the superintendent in jail unless his orders were complied with. No one on the other train was hurt. They had six coaches full of soldiers, the priest who assisted me being among them.

      The day after our arrival at Arequipa the funeral of William Cuthbert took place. The procession was the largest that I had ever witnessed at any funeral in Arequipa, natives as well as foreigners taking part.

      It was a long time before I recovered from the shock, not alone of the collision, but the death of William Cuthbert who always had been ready to befriend me and who had given me much valuable information. He lies buried in the cemetery at Arequipa, in a vault. A marble slab was erected to his memory.

      The general manager sent for me one day to come to his office in Arequipa, and after talking over the cause of the collision, I told him that I considered him to blame for allowing any engine and train to go out without knowing first where we were, and that it would have been better to have gone to prison, that if he had been sent there the American government would have demanded his freedom, and he would have been honored. As it stood, he was to a certain extent responsible for that dreadful affair. After some more words I left the office, realizing that I had incurred the displeasure of the head officer. I concluded to leave, which I was sorry to do, as I looked upon Arequipa

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