A NEW DANGER
There is a superstition among railroad men which, strangely enough,
is seemingly warranted by experience, that when one wreck occurs,
two more are certain to follow. And, sure enough, two more did
follow, though neither was so serious as the one at Vinton; which,
indeed, still lives in the memories of those who helped clear it
away as the worst that ever happened on the division.
Not so serious, that is, in delaying the traffic of the road, but
more serious in another way, since both entailed loss of life. The
first one occurred just three days after the wreck at Vinton. A
freight-train had taken a siding about five miles east of Wadsworth
to allow the through east-bound express to pass, but the brakeman on
the freight, who was a green hand, forgot to throw the switch back
again after the freight-train had backed in upon the siding. He
climbed up into the cab, and he and the engineer and fireman sat
there chatting away, all unconscious of the impending disaster. In a
moment, they heard the roar of the approaching train, and then it
flashed into view far down the track. They turned to watch it, to
admire the clean lines of the engine as it whirled toward them;
then, as it reached the switch, they were horrified to see it turn
in upon the siding. There was no time to move, to cry out, to
attempt to save themselves. An instant of horrified suspense, and
the crash came, and the two engines, together with the cars
immediately behind them, were piled together into a torn and twisted
mass of wreckage,—wreckage through which blistering steam hissed and
about which in a moment hungry flames began to lap,—wreckage from
which no man came forth alive. But, as the accident occurred upon a
siding, the main track was not even blocked, and the wreckage was
cleared away without the feverish haste which marked the wreck at
Vinton.
The third wreck occurred at Torch, a little station on the east end
of the road, when both engineer and fireman of an east-bound
freight-train forgot their orders to take the siding there, to make
way for the west-bound flier, and continued on full speed past the
station. The conductor recognized the error at once, but he was away
back in the caboose at the other end of the train. He sent a
brakeman flying forward over the cars to warn the engineer of his
danger, but, before he had got forward half the length of the train,
the express hurtled down upon them, and both engineer and fireman
paid for their forgetfulness with their lives. This wreck was so far
east that it was handled from Parkersburg, and the gang from Section
Twenty-one was not called out.
This series of accidents impressed deeply upon Allan’s mind the
terrible peculiarity which belongs to railroading. In most of life’s
ordinary occupations, a mistake may be retrieved; on the railroad,
almost never. To make a mistake there is, almost inevitably, to
sacrifice life and property. The railroad man who makes a mistake
never has the chance to make a second one. If he survives the first
one, his dismissal from the road’s employ will follow. Mistakes on a
railroad are too expensive to risk them by employing careless men.
The employés of the road breathed easier after the accident at
Torch. Until the fatal three had occurred, every man feared that his
turn would come next; now they knew that they were safe until
another series was started. Whether it was from the increased
self-confidence and self-control which this belief engendered, or
whether there really was some basis for this railroad superstition,
at any rate, no more accidents occurred, and the road’s operation
proceeded smoothly and uneventfully.
One exciting battle there was in late September. The fall rains had
been unusually heavy and persistent; every little brook became a
roaring torrent, loosening bridges and culverts, seeping under the
road-bed, and demanding constant vigilance on the part of the
section-gangs. As the rain continued without abating, the broad
river, which usually flowed peacefully along far below the railroad
embankment, rose foot by foot until the whole stretch of embankment
along the river’s edge was threatened. Long trains of flat cars were
hurried to the place, loaded with rock and bags of sand. These were
dumped along the embankment, which was washing badly in places, and
for a time it looked as though the encroachments of the water had
been stopped. But the rain continued, and the river kept on rising,
until it was seeping along the top of the embankment. If it once
began to flow over it, nothing could save the track, for the water
would slice away the earth beneath it in great sections.
All the men that could be spared from the other portions of the road
had been hurried to the scene. At the gravel-pit just below the
city, a gang of fifty men was working, filling heavy sacks and
loading them on flat cars. A great steam-shovel was heaping the
loose gravel upon other cars, and, as soon as enough were loaded to
make a train, they were hurried away to the danger point. During
that culminating day, no effort was made to preserve the train
schedule. The work-trains were given the right of way, and even the
lordly east-bound passengers had to flag through from the embankment
to the gravel-pit. Train-master and superintendent were on the spot,
directing where the gravel should be dumped, and watching anxiously
the gauge which marked the rise of the water. Another inch and it
would be over the embankment.
But from the last inspection of the gauge Mr. Schofield arose with a
shout of triumph.
“It’s no higher than it was half an hour ago,” he said. “It hasn’t
risen a hair’s breadth. It’ll begin to fall before long. We’re all
right if we can only make the embankment hold.”
Hope put new life into the men, and they worked like beavers; but
whether the embankment could withstand much longer the tremendous
pressure of the water against it seemed exceedingly doubtful. The
whole length of the river seemed to be concentrating its strength to
push against this one spot. Allan, as he paused to look up the muddy
current, almost imagined that the water was rushing toward the
embankment with the deliberate purpose of overwhelming it. The
débris which the broad current hurried along told of the damage it
was doing in other places. Lordly trees had been uprooted,
outbuildings carried away, stock drowned, fertile bottom land
covered with gravel and rendered worthless,—but all this seemed
trivial to the boy beside the danger which threatened the road. He
could guess how long it would take to rebuild this great stretch of
embankment, should it be swept away. For weeks and months, the
system must lay powerless, lifeless, disrupted.
Mr. Schofield bent over the gauge again and looked at it.
“She’s going down, boys!” he cried, rising with beaming face. “She’s
gone down half an inch. We’re going to win this fight!”
But how slowly the water receded! It seemed to Allan, at times, that
it was rising again; but the crest of the flood had passed, and by
the next day the danger was quite over. The embankment had to be
rebuilt where it had been badly washed; and it was rebuilt more
strongly than ever, and guarded by a wall of riprap, but never for
an hour was the traffic of the road interrupted.
So October passed and November came. Always there was the track
demanding attention,—an endless round of work which would never be
completed. Always there were the trains rushing over it in endless
procession,—the luxurious Limited, sending every other train
headlong into a siding out of the way; the slower “accommodation,”
which stops at every station along the road and is very popular with
the farmers and dwellers at crossroads; the big through freight,
drawn by a mighty giant of an engine, hauling two thousand tons of
grain or beef or coal to the great Eastern market.
And the through freight is the greatest of them all, for it is the
money-maker. The Limited, glittering with polished brass and rare
woods and plate-glass, is for show,—for style. It makes the road a
reputation. It figures always in the advertisements in big type and
on the back of folder and time-table in gorgeous lithograph. Its
passengers look out with aversion at the dingy, ugly freight,
standing on the siding, waiting for it to pass. But it is the
freight that is meat and drink to the road; it enables it to keep
out of the receiver’s hands, and sometimes even to pay dividends.
For Allan, the days passed happily, for one serious cloud was lifted
from his life. Dan Nolan had disappeared. He had not been seen for
weeks, and every one hoped that he would never be seen in that
neighbourhood again. Jack had taken good care to spread the story of
the fallen rock, and Nolan was wise to keep out of the trainmen’s
way.
“He thinks I saw him that day,” remarked the foreman, “an’ he’s
afeard of a term in th’ penitentiary. Well, he’ll git it; if not
here, somewheres else.”
One trouble still remained, for Reddy showed no sign of improvement.
His aversion to all his old friends seemed rather to increase, and
he would wander away for days at a time. With this development of
vagrant habits, he fell naturally in with other vagrants; played
cards with them under the big coal-chute, rode with them in empty
box-cars,—in a word, degenerated utterly from the happy, industrious
Reddy of other days. Still, he showed no disposition to harm any
one, so his friends deemed it best to let him go his way, hoping
against hope that time might work a cure. His wife had been given
the position of janitress of the depot building, and so provided for
the family.
Physically, Allan had never been in such splendid condition.
Constant work in the open air had hardened his muscles and tanned
his face; he was lean and hard, his eyes clear, his nerves steady.
He was always ready for his bed at night, and always ready for his
work in the morning. He felt within himself an abounding health and
vitality, that brought him near to nature, and made him love her
great winds and tempests. The only things he missed were the books
to which he had always been accustomed. He was usually too tired in
the evening to do more than read the newspaper; but he was gaining
for himself a first-hand experience of life more valuable than any
reflection of it he could have caught from the printed page. The
foundations of his education had been well laid; now he was laying
the foundations of experience. Somehow, for the time being, books
seemed to him strangely useless and artificial. He was drinking deep
of life itself.
And as the days passed, Allan grew to know the trainmen better. He
was admitted to the freemasonry of their fellowship, and sat with
them often in the evenings at roundhouse or yardmaster’s office,
listening to their yarns, which had a strange fascination for him.
It was at the roundhouse that engineers and firemen met, summoned by
the caller to take their engines out; at the yardmaster’s office,
conductors and brakemen reported. And the boy found all of them
alike prepared for what might befall, ready, instinctively, without
second thought, to risk their lives to save the company’s property
or to protect the passengers entrusted to their care.
A great admiration for these men grew into his heart. They were like
soldiers, ready at a moment’s notice to advance under fire,—only
here there was not the wild exhilaration of battle, of charge and
sortie, but only a long, cold looking of danger in the face.
Even the humblest of them had his heroisms, as the boy found out one
night; for, surely, none was humbler than Bill Griffith, the lame
crossing-flag-man. It was at the roundhouse one evening that Allan
chanced to ask how Bill lost his leg. “Tookey” Morton—the oldest
engineer on the road—who had just come in to report, turned around
at the question.
“He’s lost both legs, my boy,” he said. “He’s wood on both sides
from the knee down, only you can’t see it because his pant-legs hide
it. Ten years ago, Bill was one of the best engineers on this road.
He had the old Ninety-six,—you remember her, boys,—one of them old
passenger-engines, built too light for the business. Well, one night
Bill was spinnin’ down the grade at Loveland when the side-rod on
his side broke, and in about half a second had whipped the cab to
pieces and smashed both Bill’s legs. His fireman, who was green,
jumped at the first crash; so what did Bill do but get up on the
stumps of his legs and walk to the throttle and shut her off. They
found him layin’ on what was left of the deck, and thought he was
dead. But he pulled through, and was given that billet at the
crossin’. And there ain’t a man, woman, or child has been hurt there
since he’s had it.”
The section-men were soon to have their hours of danger, too, for
the road was falling among troublesome times. The first wind of it
came in an order to all employés issued from general headquarters.
Jack stuck a copy of it on the order-hook on the wall of the
section-shanty, and then read it over again with a very dark face.
Thus it ran:
“NOTICE TO EMPLOYÉS, ALL DEPARTMENTS
“The police department of this road has just been
reorganized, and all employés are hereby directed to aid
it in every possible way in keeping all trains, freight
and passenger, free from tramps. This nuisance has grown
to such proportions that it must be checked. Trainmen
discovered permitting tramps to ride on their trains
will be summarily discharged. Section-men will see that
no fires are built by tramps on the right of way, and
that they do not linger on railroad property.
“[Signed] A. G. Round,
“Supt. and Gen. Manager.
_“Cincinnati, Ohio, November 14.”_
“That means trouble,” said Jack, “if they try t’ carry it out,” and
turned away to his work without further comment.
But that night in the yardmaster’s office Allan heard the order
discussed with freedom and much emphasis.
“We can’t deny,” said one man, “that th’ hoboes have been robbin’
th’ road right an’ left, but what kin we do? Try t’ put ’em off an’
git a bullet through us or a knife in us?”
“It’s put ’em off or git fired,” remarked another, grimly.
“The road couldn’t stand it any longer,” remarked the yardmaster.
“Car after car has come into the yards here broken open and any
amount of stuff missing. It’s been costing the road a pretty figure
to straighten things out with the shippers.”
“The tramps get in out here at the heavy grade just east of Byers,”
remarked a conductor. “Those fool despatchers load us up so heavy
that we can’t make more than six or eight miles an hour up that
grade,—sometimes we stick and have to double over. Well, the tramps
lay for us there every night, and, while we’re crawling along, or
maybe cutting the train in two to double, they pick out a likely
looking car of merchandise, break it open, hunt around inside, and
throw off what they want, and then drop off themselves. We don’t
even know the seals are broken until we get into the yards here.”
“There’s a dozen other places on the road just as bad,” said the
yardmaster.
“But how’s a feller t’ know what’s goin’ on inside a car?” queried a
brakeman, sarcastically. “That’s what I’d like to be told.”
“Well,” retorted the yardmaster, “I guess the superintendent will
tell you quick enough, if he ever gets you on the carpet.”
The brakeman snorted skeptically.
“I dunno,” he said. “I guess th’ whole thing’s jest a bluff,
anyway.”
But trainmen and tramps alike soon found out that the management of
the road was in deadly earnest. The force of police had been
strongly reinforced. Tramps were summarily thrown off the trains.
When they showed fight, as they often did at first, they were
promptly arrested, arraigned before the nearest police justice, and
given a term in the workhouse.
To be sure, all this was not accomplished without some cost. One
detective was shot through the head and killed, and many others had
escapes more or less narrow, but the tramps soon lost their
boldness. They no longer broke open freight-cars at will and helped
themselves to their contents, or rode from place to place as their
fancy dictated. But they took their revenge in other ways.
One night an extra west-bound freight ran through an open switch at
Greenfield and crashed into the freight-house. An investigation
showed that the switch-lock had been broken, and the switch thrown.
A night watchman on Section Twenty-eight found a big pile of ties on
the track, and stopped another freight just in time to prevent a
wreck.
Ugly rumours were flying about of the tramps’ intentions, and it was
at this juncture that another order came from headquarters. It ran:
“NOTICE TO SECTION-FOREMEN
“All section-foremen, until further orders, will divide
their gangs into tricks, and have one man constantly on
duty patrolling the track from end to end of their
section. All sections must be gone over not less than
once every three hours, and special vigilance is
required at night. The road relies upon its section-men
to see that this work is faithfully done. Double time
will be allowed for this extra duty. To go into effect
at once.
“[Signed] A. G. Round,
“Supt. and Gen. Manager.
_“Cincinnati, Ohio, November 30.”_
And simultaneously the road’s police force was augmented by a dozen
special detectives. The management was determined to prove that it
could protect its property. Besides, the other roads of the country
were looking on with much interest to see what the result of this
struggle would be, for the tramp nuisance was rampant everywhere.
For a time, it seemed that these precautions had been effective.
There were no more robberies reported, and few tramps attempted to
steal rides. To be sure, the station at Madeira caught fire one
night and burned to the ground, but there was no proof of
incendiarism. Still the road did not relax its vigilance.
Threatening rumours came to it from the underworld. The detectives,
assuming tramp garb and fraternizing with the “hoboes,” became aware
of something sinister in the air, but could never quite fathom the
mystery. They were sure of only one thing—something was going to
happen.