A RUDE BAPTISM.
There were others on that train equally weary with the young mother, and
even more anxious; for they knew better than she the ever-present
dangers of that water-soaked road-bed, and they bore the weight of a
fearful responsibility.
The conductor, looking grave and careworn, started nervously at every
lurch of more than ordinary violence, and kept moving uneasily from end
to end of his train. He never passed the young mother and her sleeping
babe without casting sympathetic glances at them. He had done everything
possible for their comfort, but it was little enough that he could do,
and for their sake, more than anything else, he wished the trip were
ended.
All through the long, dark hours, the brake-men stood on the platforms
of the swaying cars, ready at a moment's warning to spring to the iron
brake-wheels. This crew of train hands had only come on duty at
nightfall, and had little knowledge of the through passengers.
In the locomotive cab, gazing ahead with strained eyes, were the
engine-driver, Luke Matherson, and his fireman. Every now and then the
latter found a change of occupation in flinging open the furnace door
and tossing chunk after chunk of wood into the glowing interior. As he
closed the door he would stand for a moment and look inquiringly at his
companion, who sat motionless, with his hand on the throttle, and his
eyes fixed steadily on the lines of track gleaming in the light of the
powerful headlight. Occasionally, without turning his head, he exchanged
a few words with the fireman.
"It's a nasty night, Luke," remarked the latter.
"Yes. It wouldn't take many more such to make me give up railroading."
"What do you think of the Beasely cut?"
"I'm afraid of it, and wish we were well through it."
"Well, we'll know all about it in five minutes more, and after that
there's nothing serious but Glen Eddy creek."
The silence that followed was broken, a few minutes later, by two
piercing blasts from the whistle. The fireman had already seen the
danger, and sprung to the brake-wheel on the tender behind him. On every
car the brakes were grinding harshly, set up by nervous, lusty young
arms. The train did not come to a standstill an instant too soon; for,
as it did so, the cow-catcher was already half buried in a slide from
one of the treacherous banks of the Beasely cut.
An hour's hard work by all the train hands, and some of the passengers,
with shovels and spades, cleared the track, and once more the express
proceeded slowly on its uncertain way.
Now for the Glen Eddy bridge. Between it and the city that marked the
end of the line was the best stretch of road-bed in the state. It was a
long one, but it presented no dangers that a railroad man need fear.
The gray dawn was breaking as the train approached Glen Eddy creek. In
the summer-time it was a quiet stream, slipping dreamily along between
its heavily wooded banks. Now it was a furious torrent, swollen beyond
all recognition, and clutching spitefully at the wooden piers of heavy
crib-work that upheld the single span of the bridge.
The train was stopped and the bridge was examined. It seemed all right,
and the conductor gave the word to go ahead. It was the last order he
ever issued; for, in another minute, the undermined piers had given way,
and the train was piled up in the creek a shapeless wreck.
From that terrible plunge only two persons escaped unharmed. One was
Luke Matherson, the engine-driver, and the other was the baby. When the
former felt his engine dropping from under him, he sprang from it, with
desperate energy, far out into the muddy waters, that instantly closed
over him. On coming to the surface, the instinct of self-preservation
forced him to swim, but it was wildly and without an idea of direction
or surroundings. For nearly a minute he swam with all his strength
against the current, so that he was still near the wreck, when his
senses were again quickened into action by a smothered cry, close at
hand. At the same time a dark mass drifted towards him, and he seized
hold of it. As the cry seemed to come from this, the man's struggles
became directed by a definite purpose. Partially supporting himself by
the wreckage, he attempted to guide it to the nearest bank; but so swift
was the current that he was swept down stream more than a mile before he
succeeded in accomplishing his purpose.
Finally his feet touched bottom, and he drew his prize to shore. It was
a car seat, torn from its fastenings. Tightly wedged between it and its
hinged back was a confused bundle, from which came a smothered wailing.
Tearing away the wrappings, Luke Matherson stared for a moment, in a
dazed fashion, at what they had held so safely. He could hardly believe
that it was a live baby, lying there as rosy and unharmed as though in
its cradle.
The sun had risen when the engine-driver, haggard, exhausted, with
clothing torn and muddy, but holding the babe clasped tightly in his
arms, staggered into the nearest farm-house, two miles back from the
creek.
After his night of intense mental strain, the shock of the disaster, his
plunge into the chilling waters, and his subsequent struggle to save the
only surviving passenger of the train, it is not surprising that even
Luke Matherson's strong frame yielded, and that for several weeks he was
prostrated by a low fever. All this time the baby was kept at the
farm-house with him, in order that he might be identified and claimed;
but nobody came for him, nor were any inquiries made concerning the
child. He was called "the Glen Eddy baby" by the few settlers of that
sparsely populated region, who came to gaze at him curiously and
pityingly. Thus those who cared for him gradually came to call him
"Glen" for want of a better name; and, as the initials embroidered on
the blanket saved with him were "G. E.," people soon forgot that Glen
Eddy was not his real name.
Although several bodies were recovered from the wreck of the express,
that of the young mother was not among them; and, as there was no one
left alive who knew that she had been on the train, of course her death
was not reported. Thus the mystery surrounding the Glen Eddy baby was so
impenetrable that, after a while, people gave up trying to solve it, and
finally it was almost forgotten.
When Luke Matherson recovered from his fever, nothing could induce him
to return to his duties as engine-driver on the railroad.
"No," he said, "never will I put myself in the way of going through
another such night as that last one."
He went to Cincinnati as soon as he was able to travel, and while there
was offered a position in the engine-room of a large mill at Brimfield,
in western Pennsylvania, which he accepted. The people of the farm-house
where he had been ill were willing to keep the baby; but Luke Matherson
claimed it, and would not give it up.
The babe had been given to him, if ever one had, he said; and, if no one
else loved it, he did. Of course, if anybody could prove a better claim
to it than his, he would be the last one to dispute it; but, if not, he
would keep the child and do the very best by him he knew how. He had no
folks of his own in the world, and was only too glad to feel that one
human being would grow up to care for him.
The farm-house people lost track of Luke Matherson when he left
Cincinnati. Thus when, some four months later, a broken-hearted man, who
had with infinite pains traced his wife and child to that line of
railroad, reached that part of the country, he could gain no further
information except that a baby, who might have been his, was saved from
the Glen Eddy disaster, but what had become of it nobody knew.