Forty miles
in forty minutes, with one slow down was our time. The old derrick and
wreck outfit swayed to and fro like reeds in the wind, as we went down
the track like a thunderbolt, but fortunately we held to the rails.
There was scarcely a word spoken in the caboose, every one being intent
upon holding on and thinking of the horrible scene we were soon to view.
When we reached Truxton we found the track walker there, and after
hearing his story in brief, we pulled out for the bridge. Our ride from
Truxton over to the wreck was frightful. It was still raining torrents,
the wind was coming up again, lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the
track was so soft in some places that it seemed as if we would topple
over; but we finally reached there--and then what a scene to behold!
The bridge, a long wooden trestle, was completely gone, nothing being
left but twisted iron and a few broken stringers hanging in the air.
Four mail clerks, the express messenger, and the baggage man were
drowned like rats in a trap. Poor Ben Roberts had hung to his post like
the hero, that he was, and was lost.
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