The presence of mind shown by railroad men is a great deal talked
about; but few, I think, know the trying circumstances under which it
must be exercised, because they have never thought of, and are not
familiar enough with the details of the business, and the common,
every-day incidents of the lives of railroad men. If any thing does
happen to a train of cars, or an engine, it comes so suddenly, and is
all over so quickly, that the impulse, and effort, to do something to
prevent it, must be instantaneous, or they are of no avail. The mind
must devise, and the hands spring to execute at once, for the man is
on a machine that moves like the wind-blast, and will snap bands and
braces of iron or steel as easily as the wild horse would break a
halter of thread.
The engine, while under the control of its master, moves along
regularly and with the beauty of a dream; its wheels revolve, glancing
in the sun; its exhausted steam coughs as regularly as the strong man's
heart beats, and trails back over the train, wreathing itself into the
most fantastic convolutions; now sweeping away towards the sky in a
grand, white pillar, anon twining and twisting among the gnarled limbs
of the trees beside the track, and the train moves on so fast that the
scared bird in vain tries to get out of its way by flying ahead of
it. Still the engineer sits there cool and calm; but let him have a
care,--let not the exhilaration of his wild ride overcome his prudence,
for the elements he controls are, while under his rule, useful and
easily managed, but broken loose, they have the power of a thousand
giants, and do the work of a legion of devils in almost a single beat
of the pulse.
A man can easily retain his presence of mind where the danger depends
entirely upon him; that is, where his maintaining one position, or
doing one thing resolutely, will avert the catastrophe; but under
circumstances such as frequently beset an engineer, where, to do his
utmost, he can only partially avert the calamity, then it is that the
natural bravery and acquired courage of a man is tried to the utmost
extent. I remember several instances of this kind, where engineers, in
full view of the awful danger which threatened them, knowing too well
the terrible chances of death that were against them and the passengers
under their charge, even if they did maintain their positions, and, by
using all their exertions, succeeded in slightly reducing the shock of
the collision, which could only be modified--not averted--still stuck
to their posts, did their utmost, and rode into the other train and
met their death, amid the appalling scenes of the chaotic ruin which
followed.
George D---- was running the Night Express on the ---- road. I was then
running the freight train, which laid over at a station for George to
pass. One night--it was dark and dismal--the rain had been pouring
down in torrents all night long; I arrived with my train, went in upon
the switch and waited for George, who passed on the main track without
stopping. Owing to the storm and the failure of western connections,
George was some thirty minutes behind, and of course came on, intending
to run though the station pretty fast--a perfectly safe proceeding,
apparently, for the switches could not be turned wrong without changing
the lights, and these being "bull's-eye" lanterns elevated so that
they could be seen a great distance on the straight track which was
there, no change could be made without the watchful eye of the engineer
seeing it at once. So George came on, at about thirty-five miles an
hour, as near as I could judge, and I was watching him all the time. He
was within about three times the length of his train of the switch--was
blowing his whistle--when I saw, and _he_ saw the switchman run madly
out of his "shanty," grab the switch and turn it so that it would lead
him directly into the hind end of my train. I jumped, instinctively, to
start my engine--I heard him whistle for brakes, and those that stood
near said that he reversed his engine--but my train was too heavy for
me to move quickly, and he was too near to do much good by reversing,
so I soon felt a heavy concussion, and knew that he had struck hard,
for, at the other end of forty-five cars, it knocked me down, and the
jar broke my engine loose from the train. He might have jumped from his
engine with comparative safety, after he saw the switch changed, for
the ground was sandy there and free from obstructions; and he could
easily have jumped clear of the track and escaped with slight bruises.
But no! Behind him, trusting to him, and resting in comparative
security, were hundreds to whom life was as dear as to him; his post
was at the head; to the great law of self-preservation, that most
people put first in their code of practice, his stern duty required him
to forswear allegiance, and to act on the principle, "others first,
myself afterwards." So, with a bravery of heart such as is seldom found
in other ranks of men, he stuck to his iron steed, transformed then
into the white steed of death, and spent the last energies of his life,
the strength of his last pulse, striving to mitigate the suffering
which would follow the collision. His death was instantaneous; he
had no time for regrets at leaving life and the friends he loved so
dearly. When we found him, one hand grasped the throttle, his engine
was reversed, and with the other hand he still held on to the handle
of the sand-box lever. The whole middle and lower portion of his body
was crushed, but his head and arms were untouched, and his face still
wore a resolute, self-sacrificing expression, such as must have lit
up the countenance of Arnold Winkleried, when crying, "_Make way for
liberty_," he threw himself upon a sheaf of Austrian spears and broke
the column of his enemies.
I find in nearly every cemetery that I visit, monuments and
memorial-stones to some brave man who fell and died amid the smoke
and flame and hate of a battle-field; and orators and statesmen,
ministers and newspapers, exhaust the fountains of eloquence to extol
the "illustrious dead." But George D----, who spent his life in a
constant battle with the elements, who waged unequal war with time and
space, who at last chose rather to die himself than to bring death
or injuries to others, sleeps in the quiet of a country church-yard.
The wailing wind, sighing through the few trees there, sings his only
dirge; a plain stone, bought by the hard won money of his companions in
life, alone marks his resting-place. The stranger, passing by, would
scarcely notice it; but who shall dare to tell me that there resteth
not there a frame, from which a soul has flown, as noble as any that
sleeps under sculptured urn or slab, over which thousands have mused,
and which has been the text of hundreds of exhortations to patriotism
and self-forgetfulness?