SNATCHING VICTORY FROM DEFEAT.
The wreck by which the terrific speed of the special had been so suddenly
checked was one of those that may happen at any time even on the best and
most carefully-managed of railroads. The through freight, of which
ex-Brakeman Joe was now conductor, had made its run safely and without
incident to a point within twenty miles of New York. It was jogging along
at its usual rate of speed when suddenly and without the slightest warning
an axle under a "foreign" car, near the rear of the train, snapped in two.
In an instant the car leaped from the rails and across the west-bound
tracks, dragging the rear end of the freight, including the caboose, after
it. Before the dazed train-hands could realize what was happening, the
heavy locomotive of a west-bound freight that was passing the east-bound
train at that moment crashed into the wreck. It struck a tank-car filled
with oil. Like a flash of lightning a vast column of fire shot high in the
air and billows of flame were roaring in every direction. These leaped
from one to another of the derailed cars, until a dozen belonging to both
trains, as well as the west-bound locomotive, were enveloped in their
cruel embrace.
Conductor Joe escaped somehow, but he was bruised, shaken, and stunned
by the suddenness and awfulness of the catastrophe. In spite of his
bewilderment, however, his years of training as a brakeman were not
forgotten. Casting but a single glance at the blazing wreck, he turned and
ran back along the east-bound track. He was no coward running away from
duty and responsibility, though almost any one who saw him just then might
have deemed him one. No, indeed! He was doing what none but a faithful
and experienced railroad man would have thought of doing under the
circumstances; doing his best to avert further calamity by warning
approaching trains from the west of the danger before them. He ran half a
mile and then placed the torpedoes, which, with a brakeman's instinct, he
still carried in his pocket.
_Bang-bang!_ BANG! Engineman Newman, driving locomotive number 385 at
nearer one hundred miles an hour than it had ever gone before, heard the
sharp reports above the rattling roar of his train, and realized their
dread significance. It was a close call, and only cool-headed promptness
could have checked the tremendous speed of that on-rushing train in the
few seconds allowed for the purpose. As it was, 385's paint was blistering
in the intense heat from the oil flames as it came to a halt and then
slowly backed to a place of safety.
Conductor Joe had already returned to the scene of the wreck and was
sending out other men with torpedoes and flags in both directions. Then he
joined the brave fellows who were fighting for the lives of those still
imprisoned in the wrecked caboose. Among these were Rod Blake, Conductor
Tobin, and the sheriff. Snyder Appleby had turned sick at the heartrending
sights and sounds to be seen and heard on all sides, and had gone back to
his car to escape them. He did not believe a soul could be saved, and he
had not the nerve to listen to the pitiful cries of those whom he
considered doomed to a certain destruction.
In thus accepting defeat without a struggle, Snyder exhibited the worst
form of cowardice, and if the world were made up of such as he, there
would be no victories to record. But it is not. It not only contains those
who will fight against overwhelming odds, but others who never know that
they are beaten, and where indomitable wills often snatch victory from
what appears to be defeat. General Grant was one of these, and Rod Blake
was made of the same stuff.
Again and again he and those with him plunged into the stifling smoke to
battle with the fierce flames in their stronghold. They smothered them
with clods of earth and buckets of sand. They cut away the blazing
woodwork with keen-edged wrecking axes torn from their racks in the
uninjured caboose and in Snyder Appleby's special car. One by one they
released and dragged out the victims, of whom the fire had been so
certain, until none was left, and a splendid victory had been snatched
from what had promised to be a certain defeat.
[Illustration: IN THE RAILROAD WRECK.--(_Page 215._)]
There was a farm-house not far away, to which the victims of the disaster
were tenderly borne. Here, too, came their rescuers, scorched,
blackened, and exhausted; but forgetful of their own plight in their
desire to further relieve the sufferings of those for whom they had done
such brave battle. In one of the wounded men Rod Blake was especially
interested, for the young brakeman had fought on with a stubborn
determination to save him after the others had declared it to be
impossible. The man had been a passenger in the caboose of the through
freight, and was so crushed and held by the shattered timbers of the car
that, though the rescuing party reached his side, they were unable to drag
him out. A burst of flame drove them back and forced them to rush into the
open air to save their own lives. Above the roar of the fire they could
distinguish his piteous cries, and this was more than Rod could stand.
With a wet cloth over his mouth and axe in hand he dashed back into the
furnace. He was gone before the others knew what he was about to attempt,
and now they listened with bated breath to the sound of rapid blows coming
from behind the impenetrable veil of swirling smoke. As it eddied upward
and was lifted for an instant they caught sight of him, and rushing to the
spot, they dragged him out, with his arms tightly clasped about the
helpless form he had succeeded in releasing from its fiery prison.
At that moment the young brakeman presented a sorry picture, blackened
beyond recognition by his dearest friends, scorched, and with clothing
hanging in charred shreds. By some miracle he was so far uninjured that a
few dashes of cold water gave him strength to walk, supported by Conductor
Tobin, to the farm-house, whither the others bore the unconscious man
whom he had saved. The lad wished to help minister to the needs of the
sufferer, but those who had cheered his act of successful bravery now
insisted upon his taking absolute rest. So they made him lie down in a
dimly-lighted room, where the sheriff sat beside him, and, big rough man
that he was, soothed the exhausted lad with such tender gentleness, that
after awhile the latter fell asleep. When this happened and the sheriff
stole quietly out to where the others were assembled, he said
emphatically:
"Gentlemen, I am prouder to know that young fellow than I would be of the
friendship of a president."