A GENERAL STRIKE--A LOCOMOTIVE ENGINEER FOR A DAY
During the ensuing spring, one of those spasmodic waves of strikes
passed over the country. Some northern road that wasn't earning enough
money to pay the interest on its bonds, cut down the salaries of some of
its employees, and they went out. Then the "sympathy" idea was worked to
the full limit, and gradually other roads were tied up. We had hopes it
would escape us, but one fine day we awoke to find our road tied up good
and hard. The conductors and brakemen went first, and a few days later
they were followed by the engineers and firemen. That completed the
business and we were up against it tighter than a brick. Our men hadn't
the shadow of a grievance against the company, and were not in full
sympathy with the strike, but their obligation to their unions was too
strong for them to resist.
It placed us in a pretty bad fix because just at this time we had a yard
full of freight, a good deal of it perishable, and it was imperative
that it should be moved at once or the company would be out a good many
dollars. The roundhouse men and a few hostlers were still working, so it
was an easy thing to get a yard engine out. Bennett, myself, Burns, the
second trick man, and Mr. Hebron, the division superintendent, went down
in the yard to do the switching. There were twenty-three cars of Texas
livestock and California fruit waiting for a train out, and the drovers
were becoming impatient, because they wanted to get up to Chicago to
take advantage of a big bulge in the market.
I soon found that standing up in the bay window of an office, watching
the switchmen do the yard work and doing it yourself, were two entirely
different propositions. When I first went in between two cars to make a
coupling, I thought my time had come for sure. I fixed the link and pin
in one car, and then ran down to the next and fixed the pin there. The
engine was backing slowly, but when I turned around, it looked as if it
had the speed of an overland "flyer." I watched carefully, raised and
guided the link in the opposite draw head, and then dropped the pin.
Those two cars came together like the crack of doom, and I shut my eyes
and jumped back, imagining that I had been crushed to death, in fact, I
could feel that my right hand was mashed to a pulp. But it was a false
alarm; it wasn't. I had made the coupling without a scratch to myself,
and it wasn't long before I became bolder, and jumped on and off of the
foot-boards and brake-beams like any other lunatic. That all four of us
were not killed is nothing short of miracle.
By a dint of hard work we succeeded in getting a train made up for
Chaminade, and all that was now needed was an engine and crew. There was
a large and very interested crowd of men standing around watching us,
and many a merry ha-ha we received from them for our crude efforts.
Engine 341 was hooked on, and we were all ready for the start. Burns was
going to play conductor, Bennett was to be the hind man, while I was to
ride ahead. But where were the engineer and fireman? Mr. Hebron had
counted on a non-union engineer to pull the train, and a wiper to do the
firing, but just as we expected them to appear, we found that some of
the strikers had succeeded in talking them over to their side. To make
matters worse the roundhouse men and the hostlers caught the fever, and
out they went. Mr. Hebron was in a great pickle, but he didn't want to
acknowledge that he was beaten so he stood around hanging on in hopes
something would turn up to relieve the strain.
Now, it had occurred to me that I could run that engine. When I was
young and fresh in the railroad business, I had spent much of my spare
time riding around on switch engines, and once in a while I had taken a
run out over the road with an engineer who had a friendly interest in
me. One man, old Tom Robinson, who pulled a fast freight, had been
particularly kind to me, and on one occasion I had taken a few days' lay
off, and gone out and back one whole trip with him. Being of an
inquisitive turn of mind, I asked him a great many questions about
gauges, valves, oil cups, eccentrics, injectors, etc., and whenever he
would go down under his engine, I always paid the closest attention to
what he did. I used to ride on the right hand side of the cab with him,
and occasionally he would allow me to feel the throttle for a few
minutes. Thus, when I was a little older, I could run an engine quite
well. I knew the oil cups, could work the injector, knew enough to open
and close the cylinder cocks, could toot the whistle and ring the bell
like an old timer, and had a pretty fair idea, generally speaking, of
the machine. Having all these things in mind, I approached Mr. Hebron,
as he stood cogitating upon his ill-luck, and said, "Mr. Hebron, I'll
run this train into Chaminade if you will only get some one to keep the
engine hot."
"You," said Hebron, "you are a despatcher; what the devil do you know
about running a locomotive?"
I told him I might not know much, but if he would say the word I would
get those twenty-three cars into Chaminade, or know the reason why. He
looked at me for a minute, asked me a few questions about what I knew of
an engine and then said,
"By George! I'll risk it. Get on that engine, my boy; take this one
wiper left for a fireman, and pull out. But first go over to the office
for your orders. You won't need many, because everything is tied up
between here and Johnsonville, and you will have a clear track. Now fly,
and let me see what kind of stuff you are made of."
Strangely enough, after he had consented I was not half so eager to
undertake it; but I had said I would and now I must stick to my word, or
acknowledge that I was a big bluffer. I went up to the office and Fred
Bennett gave me the orders. But as he did so he said: "Bates, that's a
foolhardy thing for you to do, and I reckon the old man must be crazy to
allow you to try it, but rather than give in to that mob out there I'll
see you through with it. Now don't you forget for one minute, that you
have twenty-three cars and a caboose trailing along behind you; that I
am on the hind end, and that I have a wife and family to support, with a
mighty small insurance on my life."
He went out, and Bennett told the cattle men to get aboard as we were
about to start. All this had been done unbeknown to any of the strikers;
but when they saw me coming down that yard with a piece of yellow tissue
paper in my hand they knew something was up, for every man of them knew
that was a train order. But where was the engineer?
I went down and climbed up in the cab of old 341, and removing my coat,
put on a jumper I had brought from the office. Engine 341, as I have
said, was run by Horace Daniels, one of the best men that ever pulled a
throttle, and his pride in her was like that of a mother in a child. She
was a big ten-wheeled Baldwin, and I have heard Daniels talk to her as
if she was a human being; in fact, he said she was the only sweetheart
he ever had. He was standing in the crowd and when he saw me put on the
jumper he came over and said:
"See here, Mr. Hebron, who is going to pull this train out?"
Mr. Hebron who was standing by the step, said, "Bates is."
Daniels grew red with rage, and said:
"Bates? Why good heavens, Mr. Hebron, Bates can't run an engine; he's
nothing but an old brass pounder, and, judging from some of the meets he
has made for me on this division, he must be a very poor one at that.
This here old girl don't know no one but me nohow; for God's sake don't
let her disgrace herself by going out with that sandy-haired chump at
the throttle."
Mr. Hebron smiled and said, "Well then, you pull her out, Daniels."
Daniels shook his head and replied, "You know I can't do that, Mr.
Hebron. It's true I'm not in sympathy with this strike one jot, but the
boys are out, and I've got to stand by them. But when this strike is
over I want old 341 back. Why, Mr. Hebron, I'd rather see a scab run her
than that old lightning jerker."
But Mr. Hebron was firm and Daniels walked slowly and sadly away. By
this time we had a good head of steam on, and Bennett gave me the signal
to pull out. I shoved the reverse lever from the centre clear over
forward, and grasping the throttle, tremblingly gave it a pull.
Longfellow says, in "The Building of the Ship:" "She starts, she moves,
she seems to feel a thrill of life along her keel." I can fancy exactly
how that ship felt, because just as the first hiss of steam greeted my
ears and I felt that engine move, I felt a peculiar thrill run along my
keel, and my heart was in my mouth. She did not start quite fast enough
for me, so I gave the throttle another jerk, and whew! how those big
drivers did fly around! I shut her off quickly, gave her a little sand,
and started again. This time she took the rail beautifully, walking away
like a thoroughbred.
There is a little divide just outside of the El Monte yard, and then for
a stretch of about five miles, it is down grade. After this the road
winds around the river banks, with level tracks to Johnsonville, where
the double track commences. All I had to do was to get the train to the
double track, and from there a belt line engine was to take it in. Thus
my run was only thirty-five miles.
Our start was very auspicious, and when we were going along at a pretty
good gait, I pulled the reverse lever back to within one point of the
centre, and opened her up a little more. She stood up to her work just
as if she had an old hand at the throttle instead of a novice. I wish I
were able to describe my sensations as the engine swayed to and fro in
her flight. The fireman was rather an intelligent chap, and had no
trouble in keeping her hot, and twenty-three cars wasn't much of a train
for old 341. We went up the grade a-flying. When we got over the divide,
I let her get a good start before I shut her off for the down grade. And
how she did go! I thought at times she would jump the track but she held
on all right. At the foot of this grade is a very abrupt curve and when
she struck it, I thought she bounded ten feet in the air. My hat was
gone, my hair was flying in the wind, and all the first fright was lost
in the feeling of exhilaration over the fact that _I_ was the one who
was controlling that great iron monster as she tore along the track.
I--I was doing it all by myself. It was like the elixir of life to an
invalid. My fireman came ever to me at one time and said in my ear that
I'd better call for brakes or the first thing we knew we would land in
the river. Brakes! Not on your life. I didn't want any brakes, because
if she ever stopped I wasn't sure that I could get her started again. We
made the run of thirty-five miles in less than an hour, and when we
reached Johnsonville I received a message from Mr. Hebron,
congratulating me on my success. But Bennett--well, the rating he gave
me was worth going miles to hear. He said that never in his life had he
taken such a ride, nor would he ever volunteer to ride behind a crazy
engineer again. But I didn't care; I had pulled the train in as I said I
would, and the engine was in good shape, barring a hot driving box. I
may add, however, that I don't care to make any such trip again myself.
We went back on a mail train that night, that was run by a non-union
engineer, and in a day or two the strike was declared off, the men
returned to work, and peace once more reigned supreme. Daniels got his
"old girl" in as good shape as ever, and once when he was up in my
office he told me he had hoped that old 341 would get on the rampage
that day I took her out and "kick the stuffin'" out of that train and
every one on it. Poor old Daniels, he stuck to his "old girl" to the
last, but one day he struck a washout, and as a result received a "right
of track order," on the road that leads to the paradise of all
railroaders.