soldiers, and cars coming north with the wounded, it is not remarkable
that the fever should get into the young despatcher's blood. He read of
the great, sad Lincoln, whom he had seen and heard and known, calling
for volunteers, and his blood rushed red and hot through his veins. He
talked to the trainmen who came in to register, to enginemen waiting for
orders, to yardmen in the yards, and to shopmen after hours; and many of
them, catching the contagion, urged him to organize a company, and he
did. He continued to work days and to drill his men in the twilight. He
would have been up and drilling at dawn if he could have gotten them
together. He inspired them with his quiet enthusiasm, held them by
personal magnetism, and by unselfish patriotism kindled in the breast of
each of his fifty followers a desire to do something for his country.
Gradually the railroad, so dear to him, slipped back to second place in
the affairs of the earth. His country was first. To be sure, there was
no shirking of responsibility at the office, but the business of the
company was never allowed to overshadow the cause in which he had
silently but heartily enlisted. "Abe" Lincoln was, to his way of
reasoning, a bigger man than the President of the Chicago and Alton
Railroad--which was something to concede. The country must be cared for
first, he argued; for what good would a road be with no country to run
through?
All day he would work at the despatcher's office, flagging fast freights
and "laying out" local passenger trains, to the end that the soldiers
might be hurried south. He would pocket the "cannon ball" and order the
"thunderbolt" held at Alton for the soldiers' special. "Take siding at
Sundance for troop train, south-bound," he would flash out, and glory in
his power to help the government.
All day he would work and scheme for the company (and the Union), and at
night, when the silver moonlight lay on the lot back of the machine
shops, he would drill and drill as long as he could hold the men
together. They were all stout and fearless young fellows, trained and
accustomed to danger by the hazard of their daily toil. They knew
something of discipline, were used to obeying orders, and to reading
and remembering regulations made for their guidance; and Jewett reasoned
that they would become, in time, a crack company, and a credit to the
state.
By the time he had his company properly drilled, young Jewett was so
perfectly saturated with the subject of war that he was almost unfit for
duty as a despatcher. Only his anxiety about south-bound troop trains
held his mind to the matter and his hand to the wheel. At night, after a
long evening in the drill field, he would dream of great battles, and
hear in his dreams the ceaseless tramp, tramp of soldiers marching down
from the north to re-enforce the fellows in the fight.
Finally, when he felt that they were fit, he called his company together
for the election of officers. Jewett was the unanimous choice for
captain, other officers were chosen, and the captain at once applied for
a commission.
The Jewetts were an influential family, and no one doubted the result of
the young despatcher's request. He waited anxiously for some time, wrote
a second letter, and waited again. "Any news from Springfield?" the
conductor would ask, leaving the register, and the chief despatcher
would shake his head.
One morning, on entering his office, Jewett found a letter on his desk.
It was from the Superintendent, and it stated bluntly that the
resignation of the chief despatcher would be accepted, and named his
successor.
Jewett read it over a second time, then turned and carried it into the
office of his chief.
"Why?" echoed the Superintendent; "you ought to know why. For months you
have neglected your office, and have worked and schemed and conspired to
get trainmen and enginemen to quit work and go to war. Every day women
who are not ready to be widowed come here and cry on the carpet because
their husbands are going away with 'Captain' Jewett's company. Only
yesterday a schoolgirl came running after me, begging me not to let her
little brother, the red-headed peanut on the local, go as drummer-boy in
'Captain' Jewett's company.
"And now, after demoralizing the service and almost breaking up a half a
hundred homes, you ask, 'Why?' Is that all you have to say?"
"No," said the despatcher, lifting his head; "I have to say to you, sir,
that I have never knowingly neglected my duty. I have not conspired. I
have been misjudged and misunderstood; and in conclusion, I would say
that my resignation shall be written at once."
Returning to his desk, Jewett found the long-looked-for letter from
Springfield. How his heart beat as he broke the seal! How timely--just
as things come out in a play. He would not interrupt traffic on the
Alton, but with a commission in his pocket would go elsewhere and
organize a new company. These things flashed through his mind as he
unfolded the letter. His eye fell immediately on the signature at the
end. It was not the name of the Governor, who had been a close friend of
his father, but of the Lieutenant-Governor. It was a short letter, but
plain; and it left no hope. His request had been denied.
This time he did not ask why. He knew why, and knew that the influence
of a great railway company, with the best of the argument on its side,
would outweigh the influence of a train despatcher and his friends.
Reluctantly Jewett took leave of his old associates in the office, went
to his room in the hotel, and sat for hours crushed and discouraged.
Presently he rose, kicked the kinks out of his trousers, and walked out
into the clear sunlight. At the end of the street he stepped from the
side-walk to the sod path and kept walking. He passed an orchard and
plucked a ripe peach from an overhanging bough. A yellow-breasted lark
stood in a stubble-field, chirped two or three times, and soared,
singing, toward the far blue sky. A bare-armed man, with a muley cradle,
was cradling grain, and, far away, he heard the hum of a horse-power
threshing machine. It had been months, it seemed years, since he had
been in the country, felt its cooling breeze, smelled the fresh breath
of the fields, or heard the song of a lark; and it rested and refreshed
him.
When young Jewett returned to the town he was himself again. He had been
guilty of no wrong, but had been about what seemed to him his duty to
his country. Still, he remembered with sadness the sharp rebuke of the
Superintendent, a feeling intensified by the recollection that it was
the same official who had brought him in from Springdale, made a train
despatcher out of him, and promoted him as often as he had earned
promotion. If he had seemed to be acting in bad faith with the officials
of the road, he would make amends. That night he called his company
together, told them that he had been unable to secure a commission,
stated that he had resigned and was going away, and advised them to
disband.
The company forming at Lexington was called "The Farmers," just as the
Bloomington company was known as the "Car-hands." "The Farmers" was
full, the captain said, when Jewett offered his services. At the last
moment one of the boys had "heart failure," and Jewett was taken in his
place. His experience with the disbanded "Car-hands" helped him and his
company immeasurably. It was only a few days after his departure from
Bloomington that he again passed through, a private in "The Farmers."
Once in the South, the Lexington company became a part of the 184th
Illinois Infantry, and almost immediately engaged in fighting. Jewett
panted to be on the firing-line, but that was not to be. The regiment
had just captured an important railway which had to be manned and
operated at once. It was the only means of supplying a whole army corps
with bacon and beans. The colonel of his company was casting about for
railroaders, when he heard of Private Jewett. He was surprised to find,
in "The Farmers," a man of such wide experience as a railway official,
so well posted on the general situation, and so keenly alive to the
importance of the railroad and the necessity of keeping it open. Within
a week Jewett had made a reputation. If there had been time to name him,
he would doubtless have been called superintendent of transportation;
but there was no time to classify those who were working on the road.
They called him Jewett. In some way the story of the one-time captain's
experience at Bloomington came to the colonel's ears, and he sent for
Jewett. As a result of the interview, the young private was taken from
the ranks, made a captain, and "assigned to special duty." His special
duty was that of General Manager of the M. & L. Railroad, with
headquarters in a car.
Jewett called upon the colonel again, uninvited this time, and
protested. He wanted to get into the fighting. "Don't worry, my boy,"
said the good-natured colonel, "I'll take the fight out of you later on;
for the present, Captain Jewett, you will continue to run this
railroad."
The captain saluted and went about his business.
There had been some fierce fighting at the front, and the Yankees had
gotten decidedly the worst of it. Several attempts had been made to rush
re-enforcements forward by rail, but with poor success. The pilot
engines had all been ditched. As a last desperate chance, Jewett
determined to try a "black" train. Two engines were attached to a
troop-train, and Jewett seated himself on the pilot of the forward
locomotive. The lights were all put out. They were to have no pilot
engine, but were to slip past the ambuscade, if possible, and take
chances on lifted rails and absent bridges. It was near the end of a
dark, rainy night. The train was rolling along at a good freight clip,
the engines working as full as might be without throwing fire, when
suddenly, from either side of the track, a yellow flame flared out,
followed immediately by the awful roar of the muskets from whose black
mouths the murderous fire had rushed. The bullets fairly rained on the
jackets of the engines, and crashed through the cab windows. The
engineer on the head engine was shot from his seat. Jewett, in a hail of
lead, climbed over the running-board, pulled wide the throttle, and
whistled "off brakes." The driver of the second engine, following his
example, opened also, and the train was thus whirled out of range, but
not until Jewett had been badly wounded. A second volley rained upon the
rearmost cars, but did little damage. The enemy had been completely
outwitted. They had mistaken the train for a pilot engine, which they
had planned to let pass; after which they were to turn a switch, ditch,
and capture the train.
There was great rejoicing in the hungry army at the front that dawn,
when the long train laden with soldiers and sandwiches arrived. The
colonel was complimented by the corps commander, but he was too big and
brave to accept promotion for an achievement in which he had had no part
or even faith. He told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth; and, when it was all over, there was no more "Captain" Jewett.
When he came out of the hospital he had the rank of a major, but was
still "assigned to special duty."
Major Jewett's work became more important as the great struggle went on.
Other lines of railway fell into the hands of the Yankees, and all of
them in that division of the army came under his control. They were good
for him, for they made him a very busy man and kept him from panting for
the firing-line. In conjunction with General D., the famous army
engineer, who has since become a noted railroad-builder, he rebuilt and
re-equipped wrecked railways, bridged wide rivers, and kept a way open
for men and supplies to get to the front.
When at last the little, ragged, but ever-heroic remnant of the
Confederate army surrendered, and the worn and weary soldiers set their
faces to the north again, Major Jewett's name was known throughout the
country.
At the close of the war, in recognition of his ability and great service
to the Union, Major Jewett was made a brevet colonel, by which title he
is known to almost every railway man in America.
* * * * *
Many opportunities came to Colonel Jewett to enter once more the field
in which, since his school days, he had been employed. One by one these
offers were put aside. They were too easy. He had been so long in the
wreck of things that he felt out of place on a prosperous,
well-regulated line. He knew of a little struggling road that ran east
from Galena, Illinois. It was called the Galena and something, for
Galena was at that time the most prosperous and promising town in the
wide, wild West.
He sought and secured service on the Galena line and began anew. The
road was one of the oldest and poorest in the state, and one of the very
first chartered to build west from Chicago. It was sorely in need of a
young, vigorous, and experienced man, and Colonel Jewett's ability was
not long in finding recognition. Step by step he climbed the ladder
until he reached the General Managership. Here his real work began. Here
he had some say, and could talk directly to the President, who was one
of the chief owners. He soon convinced the company that to succeed they
must have more money, build more, and make business by encouraging
settlers to go out and plough and plant and reap and ship. The United
States government was aiding in the construction of a railway across the
"desert," as the West beyond the Missouri River was then called. Jewett
urged his company to push out to the Missouri River and connect with the
line to the Pacific, and they pushed.
Ten years from the close of the war Colonel Jewett was at the head of
one of the most promising railroads in the country. Prosperity followed
peace, the West began to build up, the Pacific Railroad was completed,
and the little Galena line, with a new charter and a new name, had
become an important link connecting the Atlantic and the Pacific.
For nearly half a century Jewett has been at the front, and has never
been defeated. The discredited captain of that promising company of
car-boys has become one of our great "captains of industry." He is
to-day President of one of the most important railroads in the world,
whose black fliers race out nightly over twin paths of steel, threading
their way in and out of not less than nine states, with nearly nine
thousand miles of main line. He has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams;
and his success is due largely to the fact that when, in his youth, he
mounted to ride to fame and fortune, he did not allow the first jolt to
jar him from the saddle. He is made of the stuff that stands.
THE MILWAUKEE RUN
Henry Hautman was born old. He had the face and figure of a voter at
fifteen. His skin did not fit his face,--it wrinkled and resembled a
piece of rawhide that had been left out in the rain and sun.
Henry's father was a freighter on the Santa Fé trail when Independence
was the back door of civilization, opening on a wilderness. Little Henry
used to ride on the high seat with his father, close up to the tail of a
Missouri mule, the seventh of a series of eight, including the trailer
which his father drove in front of the big wagon. It was the wind of the
west that tanned the hide on Henry's face and made him look old before
his time.
At night they used to arrange the wagons in a ring, in which the
freighters slept.
One night Henry was wakened by the yells of Indians, and saw men
fighting. Presently he was swung to the back of a cayuse behind a
painted warrior, and as they rode away the boy, looking back, saw the
wagons burning and guessed the rest.
Later the lad escaped and made his way to Chicago, where he began his
career on the rail, and where this story really begins.
It was extremely difficult, in the early days, to find sober, reliable
young men to man the few locomotives in America and run the trains. A
large part of the population seemed to be floating, drifting west, west,
always west. So when this stout-shouldered, strong-faced youth asked for
work, the round-house foreman took him on gladly. Henry's boyhood had
been so full of peril that he was absolutely indifferent to danger and a
stranger to fear. He was not even afraid of work, and at the end of
eighteen months he was marked up for a run. He had passed from the
wiping gang to the deck of a passenger engine, and was now ready for the
road.
Henry was proud of his rapid promotion, especially this last lift, that
would enable him to race in the moonlight along the steel trail, though
he recalled that it had cost him his first little white lie.
One of the rules of the road said a man must be twenty-one years old
before he could handle a locomotive. Henry knew his book well, but he
knew also that the railroad needed his service and that he needed the
job; so when the clerk had taken his "Personal Record,"--which was only
a mild way of asking where he would have his body sent in case he met
the fate so common at that time on a new line in a new country,--he gave
his age as twenty, hoping the master-mechanic would allow him a year for
good behavior.
Years passed. So did the Indian and the buffalo. The railway reached out
across the Great American Desert. The border became blurred and was
rubbed out. The desert was dotted with homes. Towns began to grow up
about the water-tanks and to bud and blow on the treeless plain.
Henry Hautman became known as the coolest and most daring driver on the
road. He was a good engineer and a good citizen. He owned his home; and
while his pay was not what an engineer draws to-day for the same run
made in half the time, it was sufficient unto the day, his requirements,
and his wife's taste.
Only one thing troubled him. He had bought a big farm not far from
Chicago, for which he was paying out of his savings. If he kept well, as
he had done all his life, three years more on the Limited would let him
out. Then he could retire a year ahead of time, and settle down in
comfort on the farm and watch the trains go by.
It would be his salvation, this farm by the roadside; for the very
thought of surrendering the "La Salle" to another was wormwood and gall
to Henry. It never occurred to him to quit and go over to the N.W. or
the P.D. & Q., where they had no age limit for engineers. No man ever
thought of leaving the service of the Chicago, Milwaukee & Wildwood. The
road was one of the finest, and as for the run,--well, they used to say,
"Drive the Wildwood Limited and die." Henry had driven it for a decade
and had not died. When he looked himself over he declared he was the
best man, physically, on the line. But there was the law in the Book of
Rules,--the Bible of the C.M. & W.,--and no man might go beyond the
limit set for the retirement of engine-drivers; and Henry Hautman, the
favorite of the "old man," would take his medicine. They were a loyal
lot on the Milwaukee in those days. Superintendent Van Law declared them
clannish. "Kick a man," said he, "in St. Paul, and his friends will feel
the shock in the lower Mississippi."
Time winged on, and as often as Christmas came it reminded the old
engineer that he was one year nearer his last trip; for his mother, now
sleeping in the far West, had taught him to believe that he had come to
her on Christmas Eve.
How the world had aged in threescore years! Sometimes at night he had
wild dreams of his last day on the freight wagon, of the endless reaches
of waving wild grass, of bands of buffalo racing away toward the setting
sun, a wild deer drinking at a running stream, and one lone Indian on
the crest of a distant dune, dark, ominous, awful. Sometimes, from his
high seat at the front of the Limited, he caught the flash of a field
fire and remembered the burning wagons in the wilderness.
But the wilderness was no more, and Henry knew that the world's greatest
civilizer, the locomotive, had been the pioneer in all this great work
of peopling the plains. The pathfinders, the real heroes of the
Anglo-Saxon race, had fought their way from the Missouri River to the
sundown sea. He recalled how they used to watch for the one opposing
passenger train. Now they flashed by his window as the mile-posts
flashed in the early days, for the line had been double-tracked so that
the electric-lighted hotels on wheels passed up and down regardless of
opposing trains. All these changes had been wrought in a single
generation; and Henry felt that he had contributed, according to his
light, to the great work.
But the more he pondered the perfection of the service, the comfort of
travel, the magnificence of the Wildwood Limited, the more he dreaded
the day when he must take his little personal effects from the cab of
the La Salle and say good-bye to her, to the road, and hardest of all,
to the "old man," as they called the master-mechanic.
One day when Henry was registering in the round-house, he saw a letter
in the rack for him, and carried it home to read after supper.
When he read it, he jumped out of his chair. "Why, Henry!" said his
wife, putting down her knitting, "what ever's the matter,--open switch
or red light?"
"Worse, Mary; it's the end of the track."
The old engineer tossed the letter over to his wife, sat down, stretched
his legs out, locked his fingers, and began rolling his thumbs one over
the other, staring at the stove.
When Mrs. Hautman had finished the letter she stamped her foot and
declared it an outrage. She suggested that somebody wanted the La Salle.
"Well," she said, resigning herself to her fate, "I bet I have that
coach-seat out of the cab,--it'll make a nice tête-à-tête for the front
room. Superannuated!" she went on with growing disgust. "I bet you can
put any man on the first division down three times in five."
"It's me that's down, Mary,--down and out."
"Henry Hautman, I'm ashamed of you! you know you've got four years come
Christmas--why don't you fight? Where's your Brotherhood you've been
paying money to for twenty years? I bet a 'Q' striker comes and takes
your engine."
"No, Mary, we're beaten. I see how it all happened now. You see I began
at twenty when I was really but sixteen; that's where I lose. I lied to
the 'old man' when we were both boys; now that lie comes back to me, as
a chicken comes home to roost."
"But can't you explain that now?"
"Well, not easy. It's down in the records--it's Scripture now, as the
'old man' would say. No, the best I can do is to take my medicine like a
man; I've got a month yet to think it over."
After that they sat in silence, this childless couple, trying to fashion
to themselves how it would seem to be superannuated.
The short December days were all too short for Henry. He counted the
hours, marked the movements of the minute-hand on the face of his cab
clock, and measured the miles he would have, not to "do" but to enjoy,
before Christmas. As the weeks went by the old engineer became a changed
man. He had always been cheerful, happy, and good-natured. Now he
became thoughtful, silent, melancholy. There was not a man on the first
division but grieved because he was going, but no man would dare say so
to Henry. Sympathy is about the hardest thing a stout heart ever has to
endure.
While Henry was out on his last trip his wife waited upon the
master-mechanic and asked him to bring his wife over and spend Christmas
Eve with Henry and help her to cheer him up; and the "old man" promised
to call that evening.
Although there were half-a-dozen palms itching for the throttle of the
La Salle, no man had yet been assigned to the run. And the same kindly
feeling of sympathy that prompted this delay prevented the aspirants
from pressing their claims. Once, in the lodge room, a young member
eager for a regular run opened the question, but saw his mistake when
the older members began to hiss like geese, while the Worthy Master
smote the table with his maul. Henry saw the La Salle cross the
turn-table and back into the round-house, and while he "looked her
over," examining every link and pin, each lever and link-lifter, the
others hurried away; for it was Christmas Eve, and nobody cared to say
good-bye to the old engineer.
When he had walked around her half-a-dozen times, touching her burnished
mainpins with the back of his hand, he climbed into the cab and began to
gather up his trinkets, his comb and tooth-brush, a small steel
monkey-wrench, and a slender brass torch that had been given to him by a
friend. Then he sat upon the soft cushioned coach-seat that his wife had
coveted, and looked along the hand-railing. He leaned from the cab
window and glanced along the twin stubs of steel that passed through the
open door and stopped short at the pit, symbolizing the end of his run
on the rail. The old boss wiper came with his crew to clean the La
Salle, but when he saw the driver there in the cab he passed him by.
Long he sat in silence, having a last visit with La Salle, her brass
bands gleaming in the twilight. For years she had carried him safely
through snow and sleet and rain, often from dawn till dusk, and
sometimes from dusk till dawn again. She had been his life's companion
while on the road, who now, "like some familiar face at parting, gained
a graver grace."