positive suffering and danger, is "going back to flag." When a
train is unexpectedly stopped upon the road, the brakeman at the
rear end must immediately take his red flag or lantern and go back
a half-mile or more to give the "stop" signal to the engine-men of
any train that may be following. This rule is sometimes disregarded
in clear weather on straight lines, and is even evaded by lazy or
unfaithful brakemen where the neglect is positively dangerous,
but still many a faithful man has to go out and stand for a long
time in a severe snow-storm or risk his life in walking several
miles to a station. The record of individual perils and heroisms
in the New York blizzard of March, 1888, are paralleled, or at
least repeated, on a slightly milder scale, by brakemen every
winter. Even in the blizzard country of the Northwest, where a half
hour's exposure is often fatal, the system of train-running is
such that the stopping of a train at an unexpected place involves
danger of collision if the brakeman does not at once go back and
_stay back_. A "tail-end" brakeman has various anxieties, which
cannot be detailed here. Often there is a possibility that the
advancing engineer will not see his red lantern. One brakeman in
New Brunswick several years ago ignominiously deserted his post,
leaving his train to look out for itself, because of a visit from
a huge bear whose residence was in the woods near the point on the
railroad where the brakeman was keeping his lonely night-vigil.
[Illustration: Coupling.]
The danger of sudden accidental death or maiming is constant
and great, and the bare record of the numerous cases is acutely
suggestive of inexpressible suffering; but, strange to say, it does
not worry the average brakeman much. Though probably a thousand
trainmen are killed in this country every year, and four or five
thousand injured, by collisions and derailments, in coupling cars,
falling off trains, striking low overhead bridges, and from other
causes, not one brakeman, from what he sees in his own experience,
realizes the danger very vividly. As in other dangers which are
constant but inevitable, familiarity breeds carelessness which is
closely akin to contempt. Falling from trains is really a serious
danger, because the most ceaseless caution--next to impossible for
the average man to maintain--is necessary to avoid missteps. This
will be practically abolished when the long-wished-for air-brake
comes into use, as that will obviate the necessity of riding on the
tops of the cars.
Coupling accidents are practically unavoidable because, although
the necessary manipulations _can_ be made without going between
the cars or placing the hands in dangerous situations, the men
as a general thing prefer to take the risk of the more dangerous
method. With the ordinary freight-car apparatus (which, however,
is destined to be superseded by an automatic coupler) the link by
which the cars are connected is retained by a pin in the drawbar of
either car; as one car approaches another at considerable speed,
this link, which hangs loosely down at an angle of thirty degrees,
must be lifted and guided into the opening in the opposite
drawbar. This operation must, according to the regulations of most
roads, be performed by the aid of a short stick; but, disregarding
the regulation, partly to save time and partly because of fear of
the ridicule that would be called out by the exhibition of a lack
of dexterity, the average brakeman uses his fingers. He must lift
the link and hold it horizontally until the end enters the opening,
and then withdraw his hand before the heavy drawbars come together.
A delay of a fraction of a second would crush the hand or finger
as under a trip-hammer. And, in point of fact, this delay does,
for various reasons, frequently happen, and the number of trainmen
with wounded hands to be found in every large freight-yard is sad
evidence of the fact. But again, assuming that this part of the
operation is accomplished in safety, there is another and worse
danger in the possibility of being crushed bodily. Cars are built
with projecting timbers on their ends at or near the centre, for
the purpose of keeping the main body of each car twelve or fifteen
inches from its neighbor; but cars of dissimilar pattern sometimes
meet in such a way that the projections on one lap past those on
the other, and the space which should afford room for the man to
stand in safety is not maintained. If the brakeman, in the darkness
of night or the hurry of his work, fails to note the peculiarities
of the cars, he is mercilessly crushed, the ponderous vehicles
often banging together with a force of many tons. A constant danger
in coupling and uncoupling is the liability to catch the feet in
angles in the track.[33] Freight conductors are peculiarly liable
to this, as the duty of uncoupling (pulling out the coupling-pin)
generally devolves upon them, and must be done while the train is
in motion. Walking rapidly along, in the dark, with the right hand
holding a lantern and grasping the car, while the left is tugging
at a pin which sticks, involves perplexities wherein a moment's
hesitation may prove fatal.
The dangers here recounted are those which only brakemen (or those
acting as brakemen) have to meet. The liability of all trainmen to
be killed by the cars tumbling down a bank, colliding with another
train, and a hundred other conditions, is also considerable. The
horror which the public feels on the occurrence of such a disaster
as that at Chatsworth, Ill., in the summer of 1887, or the
half-dozen other terrible ones within the past few years, could
reasonably be repeated every month if railroad employees instead
of passengers were considered. There are no accurate official
statistics kept of the train accidents in the country, but the
accounts compiled monthly by the _Railroad Gazette_ always show
a large number of casualties to railroad men from causes _beyond
their own control_ (collisions, running off the track, etc.), no
mention being made of the larger number resulting from the victims'
own want of caution. In the month of March, 1887, in which occurred
the terrible Bussey Bridge disaster, near Boston, 25 passengers
were killed in the United States; but the same month recorded 34
employees killed. At Chatsworth 80 passengers were killed; but in
that and the following month the number of employees killed in the
country reached 97. In both of these comparisons the number of
passengers is exceptional, while that of employees is ordinary.
But, as already intimated, these dangers and discouragements are
distributed over such a large territory and among such a large
number of individuals that the general serenity of the brakeman's
life is not much disturbed by them. In spite of them all, he enjoys
his work and, if he is adapted to the calling, he sticks to it.
[Illustration: The Pleasant Part of a Brakeman's Life.]
The brakeman must be on hand promptly at the hour of his train's
preparation for departure, and generally he must do his part in 15,
30, or 60 minutes' lively work in assembling cars from different
tracks, changing them from the front to the rear or middle of
the train, and setting aside those that are broken or disabled;
but, once on the road, by far the greater portion of his time is
his own, for his own enjoyment, almost as fully as that of the
passenger who travels for the express purpose of entertaining
himself. In mild weather and in daylight, life on the top of a
freight train is almost wholly devoid of unpleasant features, and
it takes on the nature of work only for the same reason that any
routine becomes more or less irksome after a time. Much of the time
there are a few bushels of cinders from the engine flying in the
air, which a novice can get into his eyes with great facility, but
the brakeman gets used to them. He sees every day (on many roads)
the beauties of nature in great variety. Much of the scenery of
the adjoining country is 500 per cent. more enjoyable from the
brakeman's perch on the roof than from the car windows, for the
reason that the increased height gives such an enlarged horizon.
This education from nature is an element in railroad men's lives
not to be despised. The trainman whose daily trips take him past
the panoramic charms of the Connecticut Valley in summer, through
the gorgeous-hued mountain-foliage along the Erie in autumn, or the
perennial grandeur of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, certainly
enjoys a privilege for which many a city worker would gladly make
large sacrifices. But to trainmen the refining influence of these
surroundings is often an unconscious influence, and with the
majority of them is perhaps generally so, because of the prosaic
round of every-day thoughts filling their minds. There are also
some other advantages, not wholly unæsthetic, which a millionaire
might almost envy the freight trainman. Every twenty miles or so
the engine must stop for water, and it often happens that this
is in a cool place where the men can at the same time refresh
themselves with spring water whose sparkling purity is unknown in
New York or Chicago. Though brakemen who love beer are not by any
means scarce, an accessible spring or well of pure water along the
line always finds appreciative users during warm weather; and the
Kentuckian who sojourned six months in Illinois without thinking to
try the water there is not represented in the ranks of level-headed
brakemen. A certain railroad president regales himself in summer on
spring water brought in jugs from 100 miles up the road by trainmen
who find in this service an opportunity to "make themselves solid"
at headquarters. Freight trainmen get all the delicious products
of the soil at first hands. In their stops at way-stations they
get acquainted with the farmers, and can make their selection of
the best things at low prices, thus (if they keep house) living on
fruits, vegetables, etc., of a quality fit for a king.
* * * * *
[Illustration: At the Spring.]
The passenger-train brakeman differs from the freight trainman
chiefly in the fact that he must deal with the public, and so
must have a care for his personal appearance and behavior, and
in the fact that he is _not a brakeman_, the universal air-brake
relieving him of all work in this line. His chief duties are those
of a porter, though the wide-awake American brakeman, with an eye
to future promotion to a conductorship, maintains his dignity and
is not by any means the servile call-boy that the English railway
porter is. The wearing of uniforms has been introduced here from
England and is, in the main, a good feature, though some roads,
whose discipline is otherwise quite good, allow their men to
appear in slovenly and even ragged clothes. Superintendents should
give more care to this matter, as it is not an unimportant one.
It affects the men's self-respect and influences their usefulness
in other ways. The frugal brakeman cannot wear his blue suit on
Sunday or a-visiting, and his Sunday suit when old cannot be used
up by week-day wear, so he naturally concludes that his employer
is guilty of a little undue severity toward him. Brakemen on
the modern "limited" trains (a three hours' run without a stop
constituting a day's work) have in some respects too easy a task,
and their minds are more likely to rust out than to wear out.
They have a constant care, to be sure, and sometimes must "go
back to flag," the same as a freight trainman, but, in the main,
their berth would about fill the ideal of the Irish shoveller who
confided to his fellow-workman that "for a nice, clane, aisy job"
he would like to be a bishop.
Brakemen have had the reputation of doing a good deal of flirting,
and many a country-girl has found a worthy husband among them;
but there is not so much of this method of diversion as formerly;
both passenger and freight men now have to attend more strictly to
business, and they cannot conveniently indulge in side play. There
are still, however, enough short branch-lines and slow-going roads
in backwoods districts to insure that flirting shall not become a
lost art in this part of the world.
The freight conductor is simply a high grade of brakeman. His work
is almost wholly supervisory and clerical, and so, after several
years' service, he becomes more sober and business-like in his
bearing, the responsibilities of his position being sufficient
to effect this change; but he generally retains his sympathies
with his old associates who have become subordinates. His duties
are to keep the record of the train, the time, numbers of cars,
etc.; to see that the brakemen regulate the speed when necessary,
and to keep a general watch. The calculations necessary to make
a 75-mile trip and get over the line without wasting time are
often considerable, and an inexperienced conductor can easily
keep himself in a worry for the whole trip. Often he cannot go
more than ten miles after making way for a passenger train before
another overtakes him; so that he must spend a good share of his
time sitting in his caboose with the time-table in one hand and
his watch in the other, calculating where and when to side-track
the train. On single-track roads perplexities of this kind are
generally more numerous than on double lines, because trains both
in front and behind must be guarded against, and because the
regulations are frequently modified by telegraphic instructions
from headquarters. A mistake in reading these instructions,
which are written in pencil, often by a slovenly penman, and on
tissue-paper, may, and occasionally does, cause a disastrous
collision. These duties of conductors are especially characteristic
of trains that must keep out of the way of passenger trains, so
that in this particular line it will be seen that the passenger
conductor has much the easier berth. The freight and "work-train"
conductor must really be a better calculator, in many ways, than
the wearer of gilt badges and buttons, though the latter receives
the higher pay.
The _bête noire_ of the freight conductor is an investigation
at headquarters concerning delinquencies in which the blame is
divided. A typical case of this kind is that of a freight train
which has stopped at some unusual place and been run into by a
following train, doing some hundreds of dollars damage, if not
killing or injuring persons. "Strict adherence to rules will avert
all such accidents," the code says; but they do happen, and the
inquiry as to whether the conductor used due diligence in sending a
man with a red flag to warn the oncoming train, or the engineer of
the latter was heedless, or what was the trouble, is the occasion
of much anxiety.
Conductors, concerning whose life I have only noted a few of
the duties and perplexities, are not so much subject to the
vicissitudes of cold and wet weather, and therefore have in many
respects better opportunities than the brakemen to avail themselves
of the enjoyments of a trainman's life. The risk to life and limb
from coupling cars, etc., is also somewhat less, though many a
faithful conductor has lost his life in the performance of a
dangerous duty which he had assumed out of generous consideration
for an inexperienced or overworked subordinate. The beneficial
influences on health, mind, and morals coming from contact with
nature are, as before remarked, largely unconscious influences,
because of the counteracting effect of the immediate surroundings.
The irregular hours are unfavorable to health. The crews run in
turn; if there are forty crews and forty trains daily, each crew
will start out at about the same hour each day. But if on Monday
there are forty trains, on Tuesday thirty, and on Wednesday fifty,
it will be seen that the starting time must be very irregular.
Ten of the crews which worked on Monday will have nothing to do
on Tuesday, but on Wednesday or Thursday will have to do double
service. The first trip will be all in the daytime, and the next
all in the night, perhaps. This irregularity is constant, and
it is impossible to tell on Monday morning where one will be on
Wednesday. All the week's sleep may have to be taken in the daytime
or all at night. There may be five days' work to do between Monday
morning and the following Monday morning, or there may be nine.
The trainman has to literally board in his "mammoth" dinner-pail,
and his wife or boarding mistress knows less about his whereabouts
than if he were on an Arctic whaling vessel.
* * * * *
The locomotive engineer is the popular "hero of the rail," and the
popular estimate in this respect is substantially just. Others have
to brave dangers and perform duties under trying circumstances; but
the engine-runner has to ride in the most dangerous part of the
train, take charge of a steam-boiler that may explode and blow him
to atoms, and of machinery that may break and kill him, and try
to keep up a vigilance which only a being more than human could
successfully maintain. He must be a tolerably skilful machinist--he
cannot be too good--and have nerves that will remain steady under
the most trying circumstances. If running a fast express through
midnight darkness over a line where a similar train has been tipped
off a precipice (and a brother runner killed) by train-wreckers
the night before, he must dash forward with the same confidence
that he would feel in broad daylight on an open prairie. But he
does not "heroically grasp the throttle" in the face of danger,
when the throttle has been already shut, nor does he "whistle down
brakes," in order to add a stirring element to the reporter's tale,
when by the magic of the air-brake he can, with a turn of his hand,
apply every brake in the train with the grip of a vise in less time
than it would take him to reach the whistle-pull. When there is
danger ahead there is generally just one thing to do, and that is
to stop as soon as possible. An instant suffices for shutting off
the steam and applying the brake. With modern trains this is all
that is necessary or can be done. Reversing the engine is necessary
on many engines, and formerly was on all; this would, in fact, be
done instinctively by old runners, in any case, but this also is
done in a second. After taking these measures there is nothing
for the engineman to do but look out for his own safety. In some
circumstances, as in the case of a partially burned bridge which
may possibly support the train even in a weakened condition, it may
be best to put on all steam. The runner is then in a dilemma, and
a right decision is a matter of momentary inspiration. Many lives
have been saved by quick-witted runners in such cases, but there
is no ground for censure of the engineer who, in the excitement
of the moment, decides to slacken instead of quicken his speed.
The rare cases of this kind are what show the value of experience,
and of men of the right temperament and degree of intelligence to
acquire experience-lessons readily. The writer recalls an instance
several years ago where an alert, steady, and experienced runner
found himself on the crossing of another railroad with a heavy
train rushing toward him on the transverse track at uncontrollable
speed. It was too late to retreat, and in less than ten seconds the
oncoming train would crash broadside into his cars, filled with
passengers. A frantic effort to increase the speed and clear the
crossing would have either broken the weak couplings then in use or
would have simply whirled the driving-wheels with such excessive
force as to slacken the speed of the train rather than accelerate
it. In point of fact, the rear car just escaped being struck by
the ponderous engine bearing down upon it at the rate of twenty
or thirty feet a second; and the preservation of the lives of the
passengers was due to the fact that the engineer was well-balanced,
quick to act, and not excitable. What did he do? He instantly put
on more steam, but with unerring judgment opened the valve just far
enough and no more.
But the terrible cloud constantly hanging over the engineer
and fireman of a fast train is the chance of encountering an
obstacle which cannot possibly be avoided, and which leaves them
no alternative but to jump for their lives, if, indeed, it does
not take away even that. To the fact that this cloud is no larger
than it is, and that these men have sturdy and courageous natures,
must be attributed the lightness with which it rests upon them. On
one road or another, from a washout, or inefficient management,
or a collision caused by an operator's forgetfulness, or some one
of a score of other causes, there are constantly occurring cases
of men heroically meeting death under the most heart-rending
circumstances. Every month records a number of such, though happily
they are not frequent on any one road. The case of Engineer Kennar,
a year or more ago, is a typical one. Precipitated with his engine
into a river by a washout which the roadmaster's vigilance had
failed to discover, his first thought, as zealous hands tried
to rescue him, was for the safety of his train; and, forgetting
his own anguish, he warned those about him to attend first to
the sending of a red lantern to warn a following train against a
collision. The significance of facts like this is not so much in
the service to humanity done at the time, or even in the example
set for those who shall meet such crises in the future, but rather
in the evidence they give of the firm and lofty conscientiousness
that inspires the every-day conduct of thousands of engineers all
over the land. As has already been said, the critical occasions
on which engineers are supposed to be heroic often allow them no
chance at all to be either heroic or cowardly, and their heroism
must be, and is, manifested in the calm fidelity with which they,
day after day and year after year, perform their exacting and
often monotonous round of duties while all the time knowing of the
possibilities before them.
On the best of roads a freight train wrecked by a broken wheel
under a borrowed car may be thrown in the path of a passenger train
on another track, just as the latter approaches. This has happened
more than once lately. No amount of fidelity or forethought
(except in the maker of the wheels) can prevent this kind of
disaster. There is constant danger, on most roads, of running off
the track at misplaced switches, many switches being located at
points where the runner can see them only a few seconds before he
is upon them; but the chance is so small--perhaps one in ten or
a hundred thousand--that the average runner forgets it, and it
is only by severe self-discipline that he can hold himself up to
compliance with the rule which requires him to be on the watch for
every switch-target as long before reaching it as he possibly can.
He finds the switches all right and the road perfectly clear so
regularly, day after day and month after month, that he may easily
fall into the snare of thinking that they will always be so. But,
like other trainmen, the engineman finds enough more agreeable
thoughts to fill his mind, and reflects upon the hazards of his
vocation perhaps too little.
[Illustration: Just Time to Jump.]
The freight engineman's every-day thoughts are largely about the
care of his engine and the perplexities incident to getting out
of it the maximum amount of work with the minimum amount of fuel.
The constant aim of his superiors is to have the engine draw every
pound it possibly can. To haul a train up a long and steep grade
when the cars are so heavily loaded that a single additional one
would bring the whole to a dead stand-still requires a knack that
can be appreciated only by viewing the performance on the spot.
Failure not only wastes time and fuel (it may necessitate a return
to the foot of the hill or going to the top with only half the
load), but it raises a suspicion that some other runner might have
succeeded better. The runner whose engine "lays down on the road"
(fails to draw its load because of insufficient fire and consequent
low steam-pressure) is liable to the jeers of his comrades on his
return home, if not to some sharp inquiries from his superior.