THE IRISH BRIGADE
It was not until they were seated around the table that evening that
Allan remembered that the next day was to occur the great inspection
by the Irish Brigade, and he straightened up suddenly as he thought
of it.
“Didn’t that engine tear things up some when she ran off the track?”
he asked of Jack.
“Yes,” answered the foreman, “but it was only at th’ end of th’
sidin’, an’ that won’t matter. Besides, th’ wreckin’ crew’s up there
now gittin’ th’ engine back on th’ track an’ fixin’ things up ag’in.
If th’ main line on Twenty-one ain’t in good shape, it’s because I
don’t know what good shape is,” he added, with decision. “We
couldn’t do anything more to it if we worked fer a week. I’ve asked
th’ boys t’ take a run over it t’-morrer mornin’ jest as a matter o’
precaution. Do y’ think y’ kin git up at midnight?” he added,
suddenly, giving his wife a knowing wink.
“At midnight?” repeated Allan. “Why, yes, of course, if you want me
to.”
“Well, y’ll have t’ git up at midnight if y’ want t’ ketch Number
Five fer Cincinnati.”
Allan’s face flushed with quick pleasure.
“Am I to go, too?” he asked, eagerly. “Can you take me, too?”
Jack laughed in sympathy with his bright eyes.
“Yes,” he said; “that’s what I kin. I got an extry pass from th’
superintendent. I told him I had a boy who wanted t’ see th’ road
because he was goin’ t’ be superintendent hisself, some day. He said
he guessed he knew th’ boy’s name without bein’ told, an’ wrote out
th’ pass.”
Allan flushed high with pleasure.
“That was nice of him,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jack; “an’ yet I think he was figgerin’ on helpin’ th’
road, too. Y’ see, whenever a bright feller like you comes along an’
shows that he’s steady an’ can be depended on, he never gits t’ work
on section very long. They need boys like that up in th’ offices.
That’s where th’ brains o’ th’ road are. In fact, th’ office itself
is th’ brain o’ th’ whole system, with wires runnin’ out to every
part of it an’ bringin’ back word what’s goin’ on, jest like a
doctor told me once th’ nerves do in our bodies.”
“Yes,” nodded Allan; “but what has that got to do with my going over
the road to-morrow?”
“Jest this,” said Jack; “before a feller’s fit to hold a job in th’
offices,—a job as operator or despatcher, that is,—and work one o’
them little wires, he’s got t’ know th’ road better’n he knows th’
path in his own back yard. He’s got t’ know every foot of it—where
th’ grades are an’ how heavy they are; where th’ curves are, an’
whether they’re long or short; where every sidin’ is, an’ jest how
many cars it’ll hold; where th’ track runs through a cut, an’ where
it comes out on a fill; where every bridge and culvert is—in fact,
he’s got t’ know th’ road so well that when he’s ridin’ over it he
kin wake up in th’ night an’ tell by th’ way th’ wheels click an’
th’ cars rock jest exactly where he is!”
At the moment Allan thought that Jack was exaggerating; but he was
to learn that there was in all this not the slightest trace of
exaggeration. And he was to learn, too, that upon the accuracy of
this minute knowledge the safety of passenger and freight train
often depended.
They sat on the porch again that evening, while Mary rocked Mamie to
sleep and Jack smoked his pipe. Always below them in the yards the
little yard-engines puffed up and down, placing the cars in position
in the trains—cars laden with coal and grain for the east; cars
laden with finished merchandise for the west; the farmer and miner
exchanging his product for that of the manufacturer.
Only there was no Reddy to come and whistle at the gate, and after
awhile they walked over to his house to find out how he was.
Mrs. Magraw let them in. Her stout Irish optimism had come back
again, for Reddy was better.
“Though he’s still a little quare,” she added. “He lays there with
his oies open, but he don’t seem t’ notice much. Th’ docther says
it’ll be a day or two afore he’s hisself ag’in.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s no worse,” said Jack. “We can’t afford to lose
Reddy.”
“We won’t lose him this trip, thank God!” said Mrs. Magraw. “Mr.
Schofield was over jist now t’ see if they was anything he could do.
He says th’ road’ll make it all roight with Reddy.”
“That’s good!” said Jack, heartily; “but we won’t keep you any
longer, Mrs. Magraw,” and he and Allan said good night.
“We must be gittin’ t’ bed ourselves,” Jack added, as they mounted
the path to his home. “Remember, we have t’ git up at midnight. It’s
good an’ sleepy you’ll be, my boy!”
“No, I won’t!” laughed Allan. “But I’ll turn in now, anyway.”
It seemed to him that he had been asleep only a few minutes when he
heard Jack’s voice calling. But he was out of bed as soon as he got
his eyes open, and got into his clothes as quickly as he could in
the darkness. Mary had a hot lunch waiting by the time he got
down-stairs. He and Jack ate a little,—one doesn’t have much
appetite at midnight,—and together they made their way across the
yards to the station, where they caught the fast mail for the city.
The smoking-car of the train was crowded with section-men on their
way to the rendezvous, and a jolly, good-natured lot they were.
There was no thought of sleep, for this was a holiday for
them,—besides, sleep was out of the question in that tumult,—and one
story of the rail followed another. As Allan listened, he wondered
at these tales of heroism and daring told so lightly—of engineers
sticking to their posts though certain death stared them in the
face; of crossing-flagmen saving the lives of careless men and
women, at the cost, often, of their own; of break-in-twos, washouts,
head-end collisions, of confusion of orders and mistakes of
despatchers—all the lore that gathers about the life of the rail.
And as he listened, the longing came to him to prove himself worthy
of this brotherhood.
One story, in particular, stuck in Allan’s memory.
“Then there was Tom Rawlinson,” began one of the men.
“Let Pat tell that story,” interrupted another. “Come out here, Pat.
We want t’ hear about Tom Rawlinson an’ his last trip on th’
Two-twenty-four.”
So Pat came out, shyly, a tall, raw-boned man. As he got within the
circle of light, Allan saw that his face was frightfully scarred.
“’Twas in th’ summer o’ ninety-two,” he began. “Rawlinson had had
th’ Two-twenty-four about a month, an’ was as proud of her as a man
is of his first baby. That day he was takin’ a big excursion train
in to Parkersburg. He was lettin’ me ride in th’ cab, which he
hadn’t any bus’ness t’ do, but Tom Rawlinson was th’ biggest-hearted
man that ever pulled a lever on this road.”
He paused a moment, and his listeners gravely nodded their approval
of the sentiment.
“Well, he was pullin’ up th’ hill at Torch, an’ th’ engine had on
every pound she could carry. There was a big wind whistlin’ down th’
cut, an’ we could hear th’ fire a-roarin’ when th’ fireman pulled
open th’ door t’ throw in some more coal. Th’ minute th’ door was
open, the wind jest seemed t’ sweep int’ thet fire-box, an’ the
first thing I knew, a big sheet o’ flame was shootin’ right out in
my face. I went back over that tender like a rabbit, without
stoppin’ t’ argy th’ why an’ th’ wherefore, an’ when I got back t’
th’ front platform o’ th’ baggage-car, I found that Tom an’ his
fireman had come, too.
“We stood there a minute, hardly darin’ t’ breathe, a-watchin’ thet
fire. It licked out at th’ cab, an’ quicker’n I kin tell it, th’
wood was blazin’ away in great shape. Then, all of a sudden, I
happened t’ think o’ somethin’ that sent a cold chill down my back,
an’ made me sick an’ weak. Here was we poundin’ along at forty miles
an hour, with orders t’ take th’ sidin’ fer Number Three at th’
Junction, five mile ahead. It looked to me as though they’d be about
a thousand people killed inside of a mighty few minutes.”
He stopped to take a fresh chew of tobacco, and Allan saw that his
hands were trembling at the memory of that fearful moment.
“Well,” he continued, “as I was a-sayin’, I could feel my hair
a-raisin’ right up on my head. I looked around at Tom, an’ I could
tell by his set face that he was thinkin’ of th’ same thing I was.
“‘Boys,’ he says, low-like, ‘I’m goin’ forrerd. I’ve got to shet her
off. I hadn’t no business t’ run away.’
“An’ without waitin’ fer either o’ us t’ answer, forrerd he went,
climbin’ over th’ coal an’ down into th’ burnin’ cab. It was like
goin’ into a furnace, but he never faltered—right on he went—right
on into th’ fire—an’ in a minute I felt th’ jerk as he reversed her
an’ threw on th’ brakes. It seemed t’ me as though we’d never come
to a stop, but we did, an’ then th’ brakeman an’ me went forrerd
over th’ coal t’ git Tom out. But it warn’t no use. He was layin’
dead on his seat, still holdin’ to th’ throttle.
“We lifted him down, an’ by that time th’ conductor an’ a lot o’ th’
passengers come a-runnin’ up. An’ then folks begun tellin’ me my
face was burned,” and Pat indicated his scars with a rapid gesture.
“Till then, I’d never even felt it. When y’re in it, y’ know, y’
only feel it fer others, not fer yourself.”
That ended the story-telling. There was something in that tale of
sacrifice which made other tales seem idle and empty.
The dawn was just tingeing the sky in the east when the train rushed
into the great, echoing train-shed at Cincinnati. The men got out
and hurried forward to the dining-room, where a lunch of coffee and
sandwiches awaited them. Here, too, were the train-master and
division superintendent, trim-built, well-groomed men, with alert
eyes, who knew the value of kind words and appreciative criticism
when it came to managing men. Lunch was hastily eaten, and then the
whole crowd proceeded to the special inspection train, where it
stood on the side-track ready to start on its two hundred mile trip
eastward. And a peculiar looking train it was—consisting, besides
the engine, of only one car, a tall, ungainly, boarded structure,
open at one end, and, facing the open end, tiers of seats stretching
upward to the roof.
Into this the men poured and took their seats, so that every one
could see the long stretch of track as it slid backward under them.
Almost at once the signal came to start, and the gaily decorated
engine—draped from end to end in green, that all might know it was
the “Irish Brigade” out on its inspection tour—pulled out through
the “ditch,” as the deep cut within the city limits is called, past
the vast stock-yards and out upon the level track beyond. Instantly
silence settled upon the car, broken only by the puffing of the
engine and the clanking of the wheels over the rails. Seventy pairs
of eyes were bent upon the track, the road-bed, the right of way,
noting every detail. Seventy pairs of ears listened to the tale the
wheels were telling of the track’s condition. It was a serious and
solemn moment.
Allan, too, looked out upon all this, and his heart fell within him.
Surely, no track could be more perfect, no road-bed better kept. It
must be this section which would win the prize. Yet, when that
section had been left behind and the next one entered on, he could
detect no difference. How could anybody rate one section higher than
another, when all alike were perfect? And what possible chance was
there for Twenty-one?
They were side-tracked at the end of an hour to allow a through
passenger to pass, and the babel of voices arose again. But it was
silenced at once the moment they ran out to continue on the journey.
Hours passed, and at last, with a leaping heart, Allan recognized
the west end of Section Twenty-one. He glanced at Jack Welsh, and
saw how his eyes were shining, but he dared not look in his
direction a second time. He stared out at the track and wondered if
it was really here that he had laboured for the past week.
Yes,—he recognized the landmarks,—the high trestle over the deep
ravine, the cut, the long grade, the embankment along the river. It
seemed almost that he knew every foot of the track; but he did not
know it so well as he thought, for his eyes did not detect what
Welsh’s more critical ones saw on the instant,—traces of gravel dug
out, of whitewash rubbed away, of a guard-fence broken down. The
gravel had been replaced, the whitewash touched up anew, the fence
had been repaired, but Welsh knew that the section was not as he had
left it the night before, and in a flash he understood.
“It was some of Dan Nolan’s work,” he said to himself, and, the
moment the train stopped in the yards at Wadsworth, he called to
Allan and hurried away to the section-shanty to hear the story.