THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE
I moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in official
uniform.
‘Are you the guard of the 12.0 out from St Pancras?’
‘I am.’
‘Where’s your train? What’s happened?’
‘As for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what’s left of
it. As to what’s happened, why, we’re wrecked.’
‘What do you mean by you’re wrecked?’
‘Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and came
running down the hill on top of us.’
‘How long ago was it?’
‘Not ten minutes. I was just starting off down the road to the signal
box, it’s a good two miles away, when I saw you coming. My God! I
thought there was going to be another smash.’
‘Much damage done?’
‘Seems to me as if we’re all smashed up. As far as I can make out
they’re matchboxed up in front. I feel as if I was all broken up inside
of me. I’ve been in the service going on for thirty years, and this is
the first accident I’ve been in.’
It was too dark to see the man’s face, but judging from his tone he was
either crying or very near to it.
Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine,
‘You’d better go back to the box and let ’em know!’
‘All right!’ came echoing back.
The special immediately commenced retreating, whistling continually as
it went. All the country side must have heard the engine shrieking, and
all who did hear must have understood that on the line something was
seriously wrong.
The smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision had
put out all the carriage lamps. Here was a flickering candle, there the
glimmer of a match, these were all the lights which shone upon the
scene. People were piling up débris by the side of the line, for the
purpose of making a fire,--more for illumination than for warmth.
Many of the passengers had succeeded in freeing themselves, and were
moving hither and thither about the line. But the majority appeared to
be still imprisoned. The carriage doors were jammed. Without the
necessary tools it was impossible to open them. Every step we took our
ears were saluted by piteous cries. Men, women, children, appealed to
us for help.
‘Open the door, sir!’ ‘In the name of God, sir, open the door!’
Over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of
violence, the supplication was repeated.
The guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases,
half-frenzied creatures.
‘All right, sir! If you’ll only wait a minute or two, madam! We can’t
get the doors open without tools, a special train’s just started off to
get them. If you’ll only have patience there’ll be plenty of help for
everyone of you directly. You’ll be quite safe in there, if you’ll only
keep still.’
But that was just what they found it most difficult to do--keep still!
In the front of the train all was chaos. The trucks which had done the
mischief--there were afterwards shown to be six of them, together with
two guards’ vans--appeared to have been laden with bags of Portland
cement. The bags had burst, and everything was covered with what seemed
gritty dust. The air was full of the stuff, it got into our eyes, half
blinding us. The engine of the express had turned a complete
somersault. It vomited forth smoke, and steam, and flames,--every
moment it seemed as if the woodwork of the carriages immediately behind
and beneath would catch fire.
The front coaches were, as the guard had put it, ‘matchboxed.’ They
were nothing but a heap of débris,--telescoped into one another in a
state of apparently inextricable confusion. It was broad daylight
before access was gained to what had once been the interiors. The
condition of the first third-class compartment revealed an
extraordinary state of things.
Scattered all over it were pieces of what looked like partially burnt
rags, and fragments of silk and linen. I have those fragments now.
Experts have assured me that they are actually neither of silk nor
linen! but of some material--animal rather than vegetable--with which
they are wholly unacquainted. On the cushions and woodwork--especially
on the woodwork of the floor--were huge blotches,--stains of some sort.
When first noticed they were damp, and gave out a most unpleasant
smell. One of the pieces of woodwork is yet in my possession,--with the
stain still on it. Experts have pronounced upon it too,--with the
result that opinions are divided. Some maintain that the stain was
produced by human blood, which had been subjected to a great heat, and,
so to speak, parboiled. Others declare that it is the blood of some
wild animal,--possibly of some creature of the cat species. Yet others
affirm that it is not blood at all, but merely paint. While a fourth
describes it as--I quote the written opinion which lies in front of
me--‘caused apparently by a deposit of some sort of viscid matter,
probably the excretion of some variety of lizard.’
In a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young man
costumed like a tramp. It was Marjorie Lindon.
So far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the compartment
contained.