A WOMAN OPERATOR WHO SAVED A TRAIN
X---- was a pretty good sort of an office to have, barring a beastly
climate wherein all four seasons would sometimes be ably and fully
represented in one twenty-four hours. But eighty big round American
dollars a month was not to be sneezed at--that was a heap of money to a
young chap--and I hung on. In those days civilization had not advanced
as far westward as it is to-day, and there was not much local business
on the road, due to the sparsely settled country. The first office east
of X---- was Dunraven, some twenty miles away. Between the two places were
several blind sidings used as passing tracks. Dunraven was a cracking
good little village and the day operator there was Miss Mary Marsh;
there was no night office. Now I was just at the age where all a young
man's susceptibility comes to the surface, and I was a pretty fair
sample. I weighed one hundred and fifty pounds and every ounce of me was
as susceptible as a barometer on a stormy day. Consequently it was not
long until I knew Mary and liked her immensely. All my spare time was
occupied in talking to her over the wire, except when the cussed
despatcher would chase me off with, "Oh! get out you big spoon, you make
every one tired." Then Mary would give me the merry, "Ha, ha, ha."
One time I took a day off and ran down to Dunraven, and my impressions
were fully confirmed. Mary was a little bit of a woman, with black hair,
red lips, white teeth, and two eyes that looked like coals of fire, so
bright were they. She was small, but when she took hold of the key, she
was jerked lightning, and I have never seen but one woman since who was
her equal in that line.
Our road was one of the direct connections of the "Overland Route," west
to San Francisco, and twice a day we had a train, that in those days was
called a flyer. Now it would be in a class with the first class
freights. The west bound train passed my station at eight in the
morning, and the east bound at seven-thirty in the evening. After that I
gave "DS" good night, and was free until seven the next morning. The
east bound flyer passed Dunraven at eight-fifteen in the evening and
then. Mary was through for the night. The town was a mile away from the
depot and the poor girl had to trudge all that distance alone. But she
was as plucky as they make them and was never molested. A mile west of
Dunraven was Peach Creek, spanned by a wooden pile and stringer bridge.
Ordinarily, you could step across Peach Creek, but sometimes, after a
heavy rain it would be a raging torrent of dirty muddy water, and it
seemed as if the underpinning must surely be washed out by the flood.
One day after I had been at X---- a couple of months, we had a stem-winder
of a storm. The rain came down in torrents unceasingly for twelve hours,
and the country around X---- was almost a morass. The roadbed was good,
however, and when the section men came in at six that night they
reported the track firm and safe. But, my stars! how the rain was
falling at seven-thirty as the flyer went smashing by. I made my "OS"
report and then thought I'd sit around and wait until it had passed
Dunraven and have a little chat with Mary, before going home for the
night. At seven-forty-five I called her but no answer. Then I waited.
Eight o'clock, eight-fifteen, eight-twenty, and still nothing from
Dunraven. The despatcher then started to call "DU," but no answer.
Finally, he said to me, "You call 'DU.' Maybe the wire is heavy and she
can't adjust for me." I called steadily for five minutes, but still no
reply. I was beginning to get scared. All sorts of ideas came into my
head--robbers, tramps, fire and murder.
"DS" said, "I'm afraid something has happened to the flyer. Turn your
red-light and when No. 26 comes along, I'll give them an order to cut
loose with the engine and go through and find the flyer."
Five minutes later the wire opened and closed. Then the current became
weak, but adjusting down, I heard, "DS, DS, WK." Ah! that meant a wreck.
"DS" answered and I heard the following message:--
"W. D. C. "PEACH CREEK, 4 | 13, 18--
"DS.
"Peach Creek bridge washed out to-night, but I heard of it and
arrived here in time to flag the flyer. Send an operator on the
wrecking outfit to relieve me.
(signed) MARY MARSH, Operator."
Two hours afterwards the wrecker came by X---- and, obedient to orders
from the despatcher, I boarded it and went down to work the office. We
reached there in about forty minutes and found that the torrent had
washed out the underpinning of the bridge, and nothing was left but a
few ties, the rails and the stringers. A half witted boy, who lived in
Dunraven, had been fishing that day like "Simple Simon," and came
tramping up to the office, telling Miss Marsh, in an idiotic way, that
Peach Creek bridge had washed out. Just then she heard me "OS" the flyer
and her office was the next one to mine. As the flyer did not stop at
Dunraven, the baggageman and helper went home at six o'clock and she was
absolutely alone save for this half witted boy. The section house was a
mile and a half away to the east. A mile away, to the south were the
twinkling lights of the village, while but one short mile to the west
was Peach Creek, with the bridge gone out, and the flyer thundering
along towards it with its precious load of human freight. How could it
be warned. The boy hadn't sense enough to pound sand. She must do it.
So, quick as a flash she picked up the red-light standing near, and
started down the track. The rain was coming down in a perfect deluge,
and the wind was sweeping across the Nebraska prairies like a hurricane.
Lightning was flashing, casting a lurid glare over the soaked earth, and
the thunder rolled peal after peal, resembling the artillery of great
guns in a big battle. Truly, it was like the setting for a grand drama.
Undaunted by it all, this brave little woman, bare headed, hair flying
in the wind, and soaked to the skin, battled with the elements as she
fought her way down the track. A mile, ordinarily, is a short distance,
but now, to her, it seemed almost interminable; and all the time the
flyer was coming nearer and nearer to the creek with the broken bridge.
My God! would she make it! Presently, above the howling of the wind she
heard the mad waters as they went boiling and tumbling down the
channel.
[Illustration: "After many efforts I finally reached the lowest
cross-arm."]
At last she was there, standing on the brink. But the train was not yet
saved. Just across the creek the road made an abrupt curve around a
small hill, and if she could not reach that curve her labors would be to
no avail, and a frightful wreck would follow. All the bridge was gone
save the rails, stringers and a few shaky ties. Only forty feet
intervened between her and the opposite bank, and get across she must.
There was only one way, so grasping the lantern between her teeth, she
started across on her hands and knees. The stringers swayed back and
forth in the wind, and her frail body, it seemed, would surely be caught
up and blown into the mad maëlstrom of waters below. No! No! she could
not fail now. Away up the road, borne to her anxious ears by the howling
wind, she heard two long and two short blasts of the flyer's whistle as
she signalled for a crossing. God! would she ever get there. Straining
every nerve, at last success was hers, and tottering, she struggled up
the other side. Flying up the track, looking for all the world like some
eyrie witch, she reached the curve, swinging her red light like mad. Bob
Burns, who was pulling the flyer that night, saw the signal, and
immediately applied the emergency brakes. Then he looked again and the
red-light was gone. But caution is a magic watchword with all railroad
men, and he stopped. Climbing down out of the cab of the engine, he took
his torch, and started out to investigate. He didn't have far to go,
when he came upon the limp, inanimate form of Mary Marsh, the
extinguished red-light tightly clasped in her cold little hand.
"My God! Mike," he yelled to his fireman, "it's a woman. Why, hang me,
if it isn't the little lady from Dunraven. Wonder what she is doing out
here." He wasn't long in ignorance, because a brakeman sent out ahead
saw that the bridge had gone.
Rough, but kindly hands, bore her tenderly into the sleeper, and under
the ministrations of her own sex, she soon came around. So soon as she
had seen the flyer stopping she realized that she had succeeded and
womanlike--she fainted. Her clothes were torn to tatters, and taken all
in all this little heroine was a most woebegone specimen of humanity.
A wrecking office was cut in by the baggageman, who happened to be an
old lineman, and she sent the message to "DS," telling him of the wreck.
I relieved her and she stayed in the sleeper all night, and the next day
she returned to her work at Dunraven, but little worse for the
experience. She had positively refused to accept a thing from the
thankful passengers, saying she did but her duty.
Two months afterwards she married the chief despatcher, and the
profession lost the best woman operator in the business. I was
dreadfully cut by the ending of affairs, but she had said, "Red headed
operators were not in her class," and I reckon she was about right.
Surely, she was a direct descendant from the Spartan mothers.