When the two cyclists came to Deptford, they found that comparatively
little damage had been done to the station there, beyond that the
offices and platforms had been wrecked. A wounded man was found, who
described how a mighty hurricane had roared down the tube ten minutes
after the excursion trains had departed. Fergusson made a rapid
calculation from the figures that the man supplied.
"The trains must have been near to Park Road Station," he said, "when
the explosion occurred. There is just a chance that they may have
run into a space free from gas, and that the explosion passed them
altogether. Let us make for Park Road Station without delay, and we
must try to pick up some volunteers as we go along."
When they arrived at the scene they found that a big crowd had
gathered. A rumour had spread that feeble voices had been heard down
one of the ventilation gratings, calling for help. Fergusson and
Rossiter reached the spot with difficulty.
"Get our fellows together," whispered Fergusson. "We can work now with
impunity; and if any of those poor people down below are alive, we
shall have them out in half-an-hour. If we only had some lights! Beg,
borrow, or steal all the lanterns you can get."
The nearest police-station solved that problem fast enough. A small
gang of special experts moved upon Park Road Station whilst the mob was
still struggling about the ventilation shaft, and in a little time the
entrance was forced.
The station was a veritable wreck; but for two hundred yards the tunnel
was clear before them. Then came a jammed wall of timber, the end of a
railway carriage standing on end. The timbers were twisted, huge baulks
of wood were bent like a bow. A way was soon made through the _débris_,
and Fergusson yelled aloud.
[Illustration: Out of the velvety darkness of the tube a man staggered
into the lane of light.]
To his delight a hoarse voice answered him. He yelled again and waved
his lantern. Out of the velvety darkness of the tube a man staggered
into the lane of light made by the lantern. He was a typical, thick-set
workman, in his best clothes.
"So you've found us at last," he said dully.
He appeared to be past all emotions. His eyes showed no gratitude, no
delight. The horrors of the dark hours had numbed his senses.
"Is--is it very bad?" asked Rossiter.
"Many were killed," the new comer said in the same wooden voice. "But
the others are sitting in the carriages waiting for the end to come.
The lights in the carriages helped us a bit, but after the first hour
they went out. Then one or two of us went up the line till it seemed to
rise and twist as if it was going to climb into the sky, and by that we
guessed that there had been a big explosion of some kind. So we tried
the other way, and that was all blocked up with timber; and we knew
then. The electricity was about, and--well, it wasn't a pretty sight,
so we went back to the trains. When the lights went out we were all mad
for a time, and--and--"
The speaker's lips quivered and shook--he burst into a torrent of
tears. Rossiter patted him on the back approvingly. Those tears
probably staved off stark insanity. The light of the lanterns went
swinging on ahead now, and the trains began to pour out their freight
of half-dead people. There were some with children, who huddled back
fearfully in their corners and refused to face the destruction which
they were sure lay before them. They were all white and trembling, with
quivering lips and eyes that twitched strangely. Heaven only knows how
long an eternity those hours of darkness had seemed.
They were all out at last, and were gently led to blessed light again.
There were doctors on the spot by this time with nourishing food and
stimulants. For the most part, the women sat down and cried, quietly
hugging their children to their breasts. Some of the men were crying in
the same dull way, but a few were violent. The dark horror of it had
driven them mad for the time. But there was a darker side to it; of the
pleasure-seekers the dead were numbered at more than half.
But there was one man here and there who had kept his head throughout
the crisis. A cheerful-looking sailor gave the best account of the
adventure.
"Not that there is much to say," he remarked. "We got on just as usual
for the first ten minutes or so, the train running smoothly and plenty
of light. Then all at once we came to a sudden stop that sent us flying
across the carriage. We seemed to have gone headlong into the stiffest
tempest I ever met. You could hear the wind go roaring past the
carriages, and then it stopped as soon as it had begun.
"The rattle of broken glass was like musketry. The first thing I saw
when I got out was the dead body of the engine-driver with the stoker
close by. It was just the same with the train in front. Afterwards, I
tried to find a way out, but couldn't. There was a man with me who trod
on some of them cables as you call 'em, and the next instant there was
no man--but I don't want to talk of that."
"It means months upon months," Fergusson said sadly.
"Not months--years," Rossiter replied. "Yet I dare say that in the
long run we shall benefit by the calamity, great communities do. As
to calculating the damage, my imagination only goes as far as fifty
millions, and then stops. And yet if anybody had suggested this to me
yesterday morning, I should have laughed."
"It would have seemed impossible."
"Absolutely impossible. And yet now that it has come about, how easy
and natural it all seems! Come, let us get to work and try to forget."