A CAPTURE AT BRUSHINGHAM
On the same Wednesday morning Jawn Donohue was oiling the old switch
engine preparatory to making up a train of coal cars. Since his ride
with the President, Jawn had been even more silent than before. His
work had been done with the same gruff independence, and his fireman had
received the usual quota of stern rebukes; in fact, Jawn was outwardly
so like his old self that none suspected him of emotion, but Jawn knew
how thin was the veneer. It is hard upon a man to lose ground in the
great struggle. Conscious of his ability, proud in his experience, Jawn
grew daily more bitter at the prospect before him, and more hostile to
his superiors. For a few days after the ride he had hoped for some word;
he had felt that such an appeal as the one he had made to Jim Weeks
should be productive of some notice, if not of a definite result. But
as the week wore away, and no word came, his heart sank. Every day he
rattled the dumpy little engine about the division yards, chewing the
stem of his pipe, and hardening his heart against the world. He spent
Sunday in his room at the boarding-house, for he had no family. Monday
and Tuesday passed in worse than solitude, and when Wednesday morning
came, and with it a message from the division superintendent, Jawn, in
spite of his hopes, was taken by surprise. The message was addressed to
the agent, and was very brief:--
Send J. Donohue and fireman to Manchester at once.
Jawn and his fireman took 16 for Manchester. Beyond a brief word Jawn
had said nothing, but his heart was disturbed. He was sure that it
couldn't mean discharge, for they would not call him north for that--a
word and a check would have settled it. It was hardly likely that one
of the passenger engineers was to be reduced in his favor; Jawn knew the
inside history of every man's connection with the road, and he could see
no reason for a change. No, as he worked it over and over in his mind
during the three-hour ride, he began to suspect that there was special
work to be done.
If Jawn had been present at the brief scene in Mattison's office that
morning, or if there had been a friend at court to tell him of it, he
would have been a happy man. For while Jim Weeks, aggressive as ever,
was organizing his forces for the defence of the road (Jim foresaw what
Porter's next move in the natural course of events would be), Mattison
had turned to the division superintendent, and said: “Who can you put
on the engine, if we have to come to rough work? The nerviest man
we've got.” And before the other could reply, Jim had turned from a
conversation with Harvey to say: “Donohue's got to take out that train.
He's on a switch engine at Tillman.”
Jim was continually surprising his subordinates with his intimate
knowledge of the details of management. Mattison had long been
accustomed to his ways, but he gave Jim a glance of wonder before he
repeated the order to the division chief. And so Jawn was called to
Manchester as the nerviest man on the road.
In the meantime a scene not unlike that at Truesdale was being enacted
in and about the Manchester station. There was the same reticence, and
the studied quiet and perfect discipline were even more pronounced; for
with Jim and Harvey to issue orders, and with Mattison and Mallory to
execute them, the chance of a slip or a misunderstanding was too slight
to be considered. A long train of tourist cars was made up shortly after
noon and backed into the train shed, where it lay awaiting orders. Jim
had no very definite idea of using it, at least until force was the only
expedient; but he had been through too many fights to be caught off
his guard. Instructions were wired from the despatcher's office to
the operators all along the line, ordering them to report promptly any
irregularity or suspicious circumstance. Meanwhile the regular trains
for Truesdale pulled out through the yards and went on their way.
When Jawn came into the Superintendent's office at two o'clock he found
a group of men standing in nervous attitudes, all evidently awaiting
orders. A boy stopped him and asked his business.
“I want to see Mr. Mattison,” said Jawn, removing his pipe and holding
it awkwardly: Jawn, though at home on an engine, was ill at ease in an
office.
“Can't see him,” snapped the boy; “he's busy.”
“He sent for me.”
“Name, please.”
“Donohue.”
“Sit down, Mr. Donohue.”
Jawn sat down in a corner and the boy disappeared. In a short time he
returned and led Jawn to Mattison's desk. Mattison wasted no time, but
told him the situation in a few sentences. “Now, Donohue,” he said,
in conclusion, “you understand, do you, that we are putting a big
responsibility on you? Mr. West will be in command, and you will be
subject to his orders without question; but if for any reason you should
have to act rapidly, or should be thrown on the defensive, I shall
expect you to do what is best for the road. Run no unnecessary risks,
but remember, we must hold the line at any cost--if we lose an engine
doing it. Do you understand?”
Jawn, standing beside the oak desk, looked down at the Superintendent
and nodded gravely. Mattison returned the look with a brief searching
gaze, then he turned to his work, saying, “Very well, you may go.”
Harvey was all over the station. The strain of the last two days had
told upon his nerves, but the prospect of a conflict buoyed him up.
He had a long talk with Mallory, in which a campaign was mapped out as
fully as was possible in the circumstances. It had been decided to hold
the men ready to board the train at a moment's notice; but Harvey, as
three o'clock came, ordered them aboard, for he realized that the longer
the delay the greater would be the need of prompt action. So the long
line filed out across the platform to the waiting cars, and the men made
themselves comfortable for a long wait. Mallory stationed two of his
own men in each car with orders to maintain strict discipline. In the
baggage car were stored extra chains, hawsers, coupling links, crowbars,
patent frogs, and every other device which, in Mattison's estimation,
could be used in case of extreme circumstances, and there were chairs
for Harvey and his lieutenants.
Later Harvey walked up to the engine, where Jawn and his fireman were
oiling and polishing.
“Everything all right, Donohue?” he asked.
Jawn growled and looked back at the coal in the tender.
“She ain't much of an engine,” he replied.
Harvey looked her over. She was an ordinary light yard engine with a
footboard in place of the pilot and with a sloping tank. He called to
the yard master who stood near.
“Haven't you got a better engine than this, Pratt?”
Pratt came across the platform.
“I understood you wanted an old one,” he said.
“We do,” replied Harvey; “but we want one that will hold a little water,
and one that can make time if necessary.”
“Shall I change, sir?”
“It rests with the engineer. Donohue, can you do anything with this
engine?”
Jawn leaned against the cab and slowly shook his head.
“Get another, then,” said Harvey, and as the change was effected Jawn's
heart was won. In an unreasoning way he promptly attributed his changed
condition to Harvey; for in spite of his gruff shell the kernel of
Jawn's nature was keenly susceptible to kindness, and to him a good
engine and plenty of authority was the greatest kindness in life.
For two hours the train waited. Then, at five o'clock, a detail was
sent into the restaurant, and the men were supplied with sandwiches and
coffee, eating without leaving their seats. In half an hour all were
fed, and they stretched out on the cane seats as comfortably as their
crowded condition permitted. The long wait did not improve tempers, and
it was a sullen, weary train load that counted the minutes on into the
dusk. Jawn sat on his high seat and dozed.
The suspense was even more tense in the offices on the second floor
of the station. Jim and Harvey spent most of the time in the private
office, going over every possible combination of circumstances, Jim
giving Harvey explicit directions for each case--when to use force, when
not, when to call on the law, and when to send for aid. Occasionally Jim
would call in Mattison to ask a question concerning some detail of the
road, or he would send for Mallory to explain more fully his directions.
It was plain that Jim desired to leave nothing to chance, now that the
real struggle was on, but to throw all his available resources into
the conflict. Mattison had a map drawn for Harvey, which showed every
station, curve, switch, and siding; this Harvey studied during the lulls
in the conversation, and as he already was familiar with all but the
minor details of construction, he soon had his information upon a
working basis. At six-fifteen Mattison came in.
“Mr. Weeks,” he said, “the despatcher reports something the matter. For
two or three hours, he says, the local reports have been confused and
unsatisfactory. A few minutes ago he called up Tillman City and hasn't
yet succeeded in getting any reply. The local men are sending in train
reports, but something isn't right. He's got a notion that they aren't
our old men.”
“Tell them to try again,” said Jim. “Ask them something a new man
wouldn't know.”
Mattison left the office and hurried to the stairway. On the landing he
met a newsboy who was running up, calling:--
“Shcago Even' Papers! Extry! All about big railroad war!”
Mattison seized a paper and glanced at the headings. “Fight for M. &
T.,” he read. “Trunk Line Gobbles Small Road.” His eye ran over the
article; it was dated that afternoon from Truesdale. He turned and ran
up the stairs, dashing into Jim's office and spreading the paper on the
table.
“It's up to us,” he said. “They've been at work all the afternoon.”
As he spoke a boy came running into the office.
“Message from Byron, sir.”
Mattison snatched the paper and read aloud,---
C. & S.C. train leaving Tillman north seizing road.
STEVENS.
“That's the Tillman agent,” said Mattison. “What's he doing at Byron?”
“Probably had to run for it,” responded Harvey, putting on his hat
and buttoning his coat. “That means fast work. Clear the track for me,
Mattison.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jim. “Have we any trains north of Byron?”
“No.”
“Then don't send any orders. They would warn the other side. No, go
ahead and beat them if you have to break their heads.”
As Harvey dashed out of the office Jim's eyes sparkled. He liked to
do his own fighting, and it was half regretfully that he turned to the
Superintendent.
[Illustration: HARVEY'S MAP OF THE M. & T.]
“If they're as near as that, Mattison, it means trouble. You'd better
collect another gang and send it out after West. Take men off the
trains, out of the yards, anywhere you can get them.”
The wheels were soon in motion again, and another train backed under the
iron roof and slowly filled with brawny men.
Harvey swung aboard his train and it started with a jerk, rolling
rapidly over the network of tracks, past the switch tower, under the
signal bridge, and out toward the open country. The little army was not
sullen now. Figures sat erect, eyes flashed, young men spoke eagerly,
older ones gruffly, and through the train ran a steady murmur of
inquisitive wonder. Apparently, save for a few dozen sticks and clubs,
the men were not armed, but many hip pockets bulged suspiciously.
In the baggage car Harvey and Mallory were talking earnestly. Mallory
was for travelling slowly lest they should encounter a loose rail or an
open switch, but Harvey disagreed. He spread the map out on a box and
rested a finger on the dot marked Tillman City.
“There they are,” he said, “or were a few minutes ago, and they're
coming right toward us. Now, to keep us from getting word they have to
stop at every telegraph station, and that takes time. We've got a clear
track and can travel fully twice as fast as they can. Here”--he moved
his finger up the line of the road--“here at Brushingham is a long
siding. I want to make that siding before they do.”
“Why?”
“Because we must pass them there.”
“They aren't going to lie up and let us run by.”
“Yes, they are,” said Harvey. “Wait a moment.” He called to a brakeman
who stood at the door, “Go up to the engine and tell the engineer to get
to the siding at Brushingham at full speed.”
The man nodded and ran forward. Another moment and those in the baggage
car felt a jerk and a lift, and soon they were rattling over the rails
with sway and roll. Harvey, meantime, was explaining to Mallory a plan
which made that veteran chuckle merrily. His eyes wandered to the heap
of chains, ropes, and iron piled on each side of the rear door, and he
chuckled again. But Harvey's face was serious.
“It's something of a question whether we can get there in time, Mallory.
It's a sixty-five mile run for us to thirty-eight for them. We have all
the advantage, of course, but there won't be any time to spare.” He drew
out his watch and timed the clicks of the rails. “He's hitting it up in
good style.”
“What are we making?”
“About fifty, and pulling up all the time. It won't take us much over an
hour at this rate, and I don't believe that they can make it in anything
like that time. There are a lot of little stations north of Tillman, and
they've got to stop at every one.”
Nevertheless, as the minute hand crept around the watch, the two men
began to peer out through the side window. It was dark now, and as the
landmarks were not too familiar either to Harvey or to Mallory, they
were unable to get their bearings.
“Where are we?” Harvey called to the brakeman.
“Getting into St. Johns,” was the reply.
Sure enough, in another moment colored yard lights were whizzing by.
There was a great clatter as they took the switches, then a row of
streaked electric lights, a dim impression of streets and of clanging
bells, a shriek from the locomotive, and again they were in the open.
A few minutes later Harvey gave orders that a brakeman climb forward on
the engine ready to throw the Brushingham switch. Soon the car jarred
and struggled under the air brake, and then slowed down, grinding and
pounding, almost to a stop. The brakes were released, and the train
rolled easily out beyond the station on to the long siding. Harvey
pulled the signal cord.
“Now, Mallory,” he said, as the train came to a standstill, “we can go
ahead.”
Mallory picked up a patent frog from the floor, and with Harvey and the
brakeman swung out of the car and ran down the track. From the windows
projected a long row of heads, but no questions were asked as the three
men ran forward. A short distance ahead of the engine they stopped. Away
to the south a small bright light rounded into view.
“Here she comes,” said Mallory.
Harvey made no reply, and the frog was adjusted to the east rail of the
main track. Then they went back and clambered aboard the engine. Mallory
ordered a squad of men forward, and stationed some on the pilot and
running board, others on the tender and front platform. The light grew
slowly larger, sending out pointed rays and throwing a shine on the
rails. There was the sound of a bell and of the exhaust, and the train
pulled slowly toward the bleak little station. Suddenly, when within
speaking distance, the approaching engine struck the patent frog and
left the rails with a jar and a scrape, ploughing her nose into the
slag.
“Go ahead,” said Harvey.
Jawn pulled the throttle lever, and the long train moved slowly
southward. No. 14 was not full now. The process of dropping men at every
station had left only about half the employees, who clustered in the
forward cars and looked curiously at the passing train. At a shouted
order from Mallory, one of his men dropped off with a squad at his back
and took possession of the wreck, while Harvey, flushed with victory,
moved on to undo the work of the afternoon.