The first morning that McGlathery saw the great river stretching
westward from the point where the initial shaft had been sunk he was
not impressed by it—or, rather, he was, but not favorably. It looked
too gray and sullen, seeing that he was viewing it through a driving,
sleety rain. There were many ferry boats and craft of all kinds, large
and small, steaming across its choppy bosom, giant steamers, and long
projecting piers, great and mysterious, and clouds of gulls, and the
shriek of whistles, and the clang of fog-bells,... but he did not like
water. It took him back to eleven wretched seasick days in which he had
crossed on the steamer from Ireland. But then, glory be, once freed
from the mysteries of Ellis Island, he had marched out on dry land at
the Battery, cloth bags in hand, and exclaimed, “Thanks be, I’m shut av
it!”
And he thought he was, for he was mortally afraid of water. But fate,
alas! had not decreed it as a permanent thing. As a matter of fact,
water in one form or another had persistently seemed to pursue him
since. In Ireland, County Clare, from whence he hailed, he had been a
ditcher—something remotely connected with water. Here in America, and
once safely settled in Brooklyn, he had no sooner sought work than the
best he could seemingly get was a job in connection with a marsh which
was being drained, a very boggy and pool-y one—water again, you see.
Then there was a conduit being dug, a great open sewer which once when
he and other members of the construction gang were working on it, was
flooded by a cloudburst, a tremendous afternoon rain-storm which drove
them from it with a volume of water which threatened to drown them
all. Still later, he and thirty others were engaged in cleaning out a
two-compartment reservoir, old and stone-rotten, when, one-half being
empty and the other full, the old dividing wall broke, and once more he
barely escaped with his life by scrambling up a steep bank. It was then
that the thought first took root in his mind that water—any kind of
water, sea or fresh—was not favorable to him. Yet here he was, facing
this great river on a gray rainy November morning, and with the avowed
object of going to work in the tunnel which was about to be dug under
it.
Think of it! In spite of his prejudices and fears, here he was, and all
due to one Thomas Cavanaugh, a fellow churchman and his foreman these
last three years, who had happened to take a fancy to him and had told
him that if he came to work in the tunnel and prosecuted his new work
thoroughly, and showed himself sufficiently industrious and courageous,
it might lead to higher things—viz., bricklaying, or plastering, in
the guise of cement moulding, down in this very tunnel, or timbering,
or better yet, the steel-plate-joining trade, which was a branch of
the ironworkers’ guild and was rewarded by no less a compensation
than twelve dollars a day. Think of it—twelve dollars a day! Men of
this class and skill were scarce in tunnel work and in great demand
in America. This same Cavanaugh was to be one of the foremen in this
tunnel, his foreman, and would look after him. Of course it required
time and patience. One had to begin at the bottom—the same being
seventy-five feet under the Hudson River, where some very careful
preliminary digging had to be done. McGlathery had surveyed his
superior and benefactor at the time with uncertain and yet ambitious
eyes.
“Is it as ye tell me now?” he commented at one place.
“Yis. Av course. What d’ye think I’m taalkin’ to ye about?”
“Ye say, do ye?”
“Certainly.”
“Well! Well! Belike it’s a fine job. I dunno. Five dollars a day, ye
say, to begin with?”
“Yis, five a day.”
“Well, a man in my line could git no more than that, eh? It wouldn’t
hurt me fer once, fer a little while anyway, hey?”
“It would be the makin’ av ye.”
“Well, I’ll be with ye. Yis, I’ll be with ye. It’s not five I can git
everywhere. When is it ye’ll be wantin’ me?”
The foreman, a Gargantuan figure in yellow jeans and high rubber boots
smeared to the buttocks with mud, eyed him genially and amiably, the
while McGlathery surveyed his superior with a kind of reverence and
awe, a reverence which he scarcely felt for any other man, unless
perchance it might be his parish priest, for he was a good Catholic, or
the political backer of his district, through whom he had secured his
job. What great men they all were, to be sure, leading figures in his
life.
So here he was on this particular morning shortly after the work had
been begun, and here was the river, and down below in this new shaft,
somewhere, was Thomas Cavanaugh, to whom he had to report before he
could go to work.
“Sure, it’s no colleen’s job,” he observed to a fellow worker who had
arrived at the mouth of the shaft about the same time as himself, and
was beginning to let himself down the ladder which sank darkly to
an intermediate platform, below which again was another ladder and
platform, and below that a yellow light. “Ye say Mr. Cavanaugh is below
there?”
“He is,” replied the stranger without looking up. “Ye’ll find him
inside the second lock. Arr ye workin’ here?”
“Yis.”
“Come along, then.”
With a bundle which consisted of his rubber boots, a worn suit of
overalls, and with his pick and shovel over his shoulder, he followed.
He reached the bottom of the pit, boarded as to the sides with huge oak
planks sustained by cross beams, and there, with several others who
were waiting until the air pressure should be adjusted, entered the
lock. The comparatively small and yet massive chamber, with its heavy
iron door at either end, responding so slowly to pressure, impressed
him. There was only a flickering light made by a gasoline torch here.
There was a whistling sound from somewhere.
“Ever work under air pressure before, Paddy?” inquired a great hulking
ironworker, surveying him with a genial leer.
“Air what?” asked McGlathery without the slightest comprehension of
what was meant, but not to be outdone by mere words. “No, I never did.”
“Well, ye’re under it now, two thousand pounds to the square inch.
Don’t ye feel it?”
Dennis, who had been feeling an odd sensation about his ear-drums and
throat, but had no knowledge that it was related to this, acknowledged
that he did. “’Tis air, is it?” he inquired. “’Tis a quare feeling I
have.” The hissing ceased.
“Yuh want to look out fer that, new man,” volunteered another, a
skimpy, slithery, genial American. “Don’t let ’em rush that stuff on
yuh too fast. Yuh may git the ‘bends.’”
Dennis, ignorant as to the meaning of “bends,” made no reply.
“D’yuh know what the ‘bends’ is, new man?” persisted the other
provocatively.
“Naw,” replied Dennis awkwardly after a time, feeling himself the
centre of a fire of curious observations and solicitation.
“Well, yuh will if yuh ever git ’em—haw! haw!” this from a waggish
lout, a bricklayer who had previously not spoken. The group in the lock
was large. “It comes from them lettin’ the pressure be put on or took
off too fast. It twists yer muscles all up, an’ does sumpin’ to yer
nerves. Yuh’ll know it if yuh ever git it.”
“Member Eddie Slawder?” called another gaily. “He died of it over here
in Bellevue, after they started the Fourteenth Street end. Gee, yuh
oughta heerd him holler! I went over to see him.”
Good news, indeed! So this was his introduction to the tunnel, and here
was a danger not commented on by Cavanaugh. In his dull way McGlathery
was moved by it. Well, he was here now, and they were forcing open
the door at the opposite side of the lock, and the air pressure had
not hurt him, and he was not killed yet; and then, after traversing
a rather neatly walled section of tunnel, albeit badly littered with
beams and plates and bags of cement and piles of brick, and entering
another lock like the first and coming out on the other side—there,
amid an intricate network of beams and braces and a flare of a half
dozen great gasoline lamps which whistled noisily, and an overhanging
mass of blackness which was nothing less than earth under the great
river above, was Cavanaugh, clad in a short red sweater and great
rubber boots, an old yellowish-brown felt hat pulled jauntily over one
ear. He was conversing with two other foremen and an individual in good
clothes, one of those mighties—an engineer, no doubt.
Ah, how remote to McGlathery were the gentlemen in smooth fitting
suits! He viewed them as you might creatures from another realm.
Beyond this lock also was a group of night workers left over from the
night before and under a strange foreman (ditchers, joiners, earth
carriers, and steel-plate riveters), all engaged in the rough and yet
delicate risk of forcing and safeguarding a passage under the river,
and only now leaving. The place was full. It was stuffy from the heat
of the lamps, and dirty from the smear of the black muck which was over
everything. Cavanaugh spied Dennis as he made his way forward over the
widely separated beams.
“So here ye arr! These men are just after comin’ out,” and he waved a
hand toward the forward end of the tunnel. “Git in there, Dennis, and
dig out that corner beyond the post there. Jerry here’ll help ye. Git
the mud up on this platform so we can git these j’ists in here.”
McGlathery obeyed. Under the earthy roof whose surface he could see
but dimly at the extreme forward end of the tunnel beyond that wooden
framework, he took his position. With a sturdy arm and a sturdy back
and a sturdy foot and leg, he pushed his spade into the thick mud, or
loosened it with his pick when necessary, and threw it up on the crude
platform, where other men shoveled it into a small car which was then
trundled back over the rough boards to the lock, and so on out. It
was slow, dirty, but not difficult work, so long as one did not think
of the heavy river overhead with its ships and its choppy waves in
the rain, and the gulls and the bells. Somehow, Dennis was fearfully
disturbed as to the weight of this heavy volume of earth and water
overhead. It really terrified him. Perhaps he had been overpersuaded by
the lure of gold? Suppose it should break through, suppose the earth
over his head should suddenly drop and bury him—that dim black earth
overhead, as heavy and thick as this he was cutting with his shovel now.
“Come, Dennis, don’t be standin’ there lookin’ at the roof. The roof’s
not goin’ to hurt ye. Ye’re not down here to be lookin’ after the roof.
I’ll be doin’ that. Just ye ‘tend to yer shovelin’.”
It was the voice of Cavanaugh near at hand. Unconsciously McGlathery
had stopped and was staring upward. A small piece of earth had fallen
and struck him on the back. Suppose! Suppose!
Know, O reader, that the business of tunneling is one of the most
hazardous and dramatic, albeit interesting, of all known fields of
labor. It consists, in these latter days at least, in so far as
under-water tunneling is concerned, of sinking huge shafts at either
end or side of a river, lake or channel (one hundred feet, perhaps,
within the shore line) to a depth of, say, thirty feet below the water
level, and from these two points tunneling outward under the bottom of
the river until the two ends meet somewhere near the middle. The exact
contact and precise joining of these outer ends is considered one of
the true tests of skilful engineering. McGlathery personally understood
all this but dimly. And even so it could not cheer him any.
And it should be said here that the safety of the men who did the work,
and the possibility of it, depended first on the introduction at either
end, just at the base of the shafts and then at about every hundred
or so feet, as the tunnel progressed outward, of huge cylindrical
chambers, or locks, of heavy iron—air locks, no less—fifteen feet in
diameter, and closed at each end by massive doors swinging inward
toward the shore line, so that the amazing and powerful pressure of
air constantly forced outward from the shore by huge engines could not
force them open. It was only by the same delicate system which causes
water locks to open and close that they could be opened at all. That
is, workingmen coming down into the shaft and desiring to pass into the
head of the tunnel beyond the lock, would have to first enter one of
these locks, which would then gradually be filled with air compressed
up to the same pressure as that maintained in the main portion of the
tunnel farther in. When this pressure had been reached they could
easily open the inward swinging door and pass into the tunnel proper.
Here, provided that so much had been completed, they might walk, say,
so much as a hundred or more feet, when they would encounter another
lock. The pressure in the lock, according to who had last used it,
would be either that of the section of the tunnel toward the shore, or
of the section beyond, toward the centre of the river. At first, bell
cords, later telephones, and then electric signals controlled this—that
is, the lowering or raising of the pressure of air in the locks so that
one door or the other might be opened. If the pressure in the lock was
different from that in your section, and you could not open the door
(which you could not), you pulled the cord or pushed the button so many
times, according to your position, and the air in the lock was adjusted
to the section of the tunnel in which you stood. Then you could open
the door. Once in, as in a water lock, the air was raised or lowered,
according to your signal, and you could enter the next section outward
or inward. All these things had been adjusted to a nicety even in those
days, which was years ago.
* * * * *
The digging of this particular tunnel seemed safe enough—for McGlathery
at least, once he began working here. It moved at the rate of two and
even three feet a day, when things were going well, only there were
days and days when, owing to the need of shoring and timbering and
plate setting, to say nothing of the accidental encountering of rock
in front which had to be drilled away, the men with picks and shovels
had to be given a rest, or better yet, set to helping the joiners in
erecting those cross beams and supports which made the walls safe. It
was so that Dennis learned much about joining and even drilling.
Nevertheless, in spite of the increased pay, this matter of working
under the river was a constant source of fear to him. The earth in
which he worked was so uncertain. One day it would be hard black mud,
another soft, another silt, another sand, according as the tunnel
sloped further and further under the bed. In addition, at times great
masses of it fell, not enough to make a hole in the roof above, but
enough, had it chanced to fall on one of the workers, to break his back
or half bury him in mud. Usually it was broken by the beams overhead.
Only one day, some seven months after he had begun and when he was
becoming fairly accustomed to the idea of working here, and when his
skill had increased to such an extent that he was considered one of the
most competent workers in his limited field, the unexpected happened.
He had come down one morning at eight with the rest of his gang and was
working about the base of two new supports which had just been put in
place, when he noticed, or thought he did, that the earth seemed wetter
than usual, sticky, watery, and hard to manage. It could not have been
much worse had a subterranean spring been encountered. Besides, one of
the gasoline lamps having been brought forward and hung close by, he
noticed by its light that the ceiling seemed to look silvery gray and
beady. He spoke of it to Cavanaugh, who stood by.
“Yis,” said his foreman dubiously, staring upward, “’tis wet. Maybe the
air pumps is not workin’ right. I’ll just make sure,” and he sent word
to the engineer.
The shaft superintendent himself appeared.
“Everything’s all right up above,” he said. “Two thousand pounds to the
square inch. I’ll just put on a little more, if you say so.”
“Ye’d better,” replied Cavanaugh. “The roof’s not actin’ right. And if
ye see Mr. Henderson, send him down. I’d like to talk to him.”
“All right,” and off he went.
McGlathery and the others, at first nervous, but now slightly
reassured, worked on. But the ground under their feet became sloppy,
and some of the silvery frosting on the roof began to drop and even
trickle as water. Then a mass of sloppy mud fell.
“Back, men!”
It was the voice of Cavanaugh, but not quicker than the scampering of
the men who, always keenly alive to the danger of a situation, had
taken note of the dripping water and the first flop of earth. At the
same time, an ominous creak from one of the beams overhead gave warning
of the imminence of a catastrophe. A pell-mell rush for the lock some
sixty feet away ensued. Tools were dropped, precedence disregarded.
They fell and stumbled over the beams and between, pushing each other
out of the way into the water and mud as they ran, McGlathery a fair
second to none.
“Open the door! Open the door!” was the cry as they reached the lock,
for some one had just entered from the other side—the engineer. “For
Christ’s sake, open the door!” But that could not be done so quickly. A
few moments at least had to elapse.
“It’s breakin’ in!” cried some one in a panicky voice, an ironworker.
“Great God, it’s comin down!” this from one of the masons, as three
lamps in the distance were put out by the mud.
McGlathery was almost dying of fear. He was sweating a cold sweat. Five
dollars a day indeed! He should stay away from water, once and for all.
Didn’t he know that? It was always bad luck to him.
“What’s the trouble? What’s the trouble?” called the amazed engineer
as, unconscious of what was happening outside, he pushed open the door.
“Git out of the way!”
“Fer God’s sake, let us in!”
“Shut the door!” this from a half dozen who had already reached safety
assuming that the door could be instantly closed.
“Wait! Cavanaugh’s outside!” This from some one—not McGlathery, you may
be sure, who was cowering in a corner. He was so fearful that he was
entirely unconscious of his superior’s fate.
“To hell with Cavanaugh! Shut the door!” screamed another, a great
ironworker, savage with fear.
“Let Cavanaugh in, I say!” this from the engineer.
At this point McGlathery, for the first time on this or any other
job, awoke to a sense of duty, but not much at that. He was too
fearful. This was what he got for coming down here at all. He knew
Cavanaugh—Cavanaugh was his friend, indeed. Had he not secured him this
and other jobs? Surely. But then Cavanaugh had persuaded him to come
down here, which was wrong. He ought not to have done it. Still, even
in his fear he had manhood enough to feel that it was not quite right
to shut Cavanaugh out. Still, what could he do—he was but one. But even
as he thought, and others were springing forward to shut Cavanaugh out,
so eager were they to save themselves, they faced a gleaming revolver
in the steady hand of the big foreman.
“I’ll shoot down the first damned man that tries to shut the door
before me and Kelly are in,” the big foreman was calling, the while
he was pulling this same Kelly from the mud and slime outside. Then
fairly throwing him into the lock, and leaping after him, he turned and
quietly helped closed the door.
McGlathery was amazed at this show of courage. To stop and help another
man like that in the face of so much danger! Cavanaugh was even a
better and kinder man than he had thought—really a great man—no coward
like himself. But why had Cavanaugh persuaded him to come down here
when he knew that he was afraid of water! And now this had happened.
Inside as they cowered—all but Cavanaugh—they could hear the sound
of crushing timber and grinding brick outside, which made it quite
plain that where a few moments before had been beams and steel and a
prospective passageway for men, was now darkness and water and the
might of the river, as it had been since the beginning.
McGlathery, seeing this, awoke to the conviction that in the first
place he was a great coward, and in the second that the tunnel digging
was no job for him. He was by no means fitted for it, he told himself.
“’Tis the last,” he commented, as he climbed safely out with the others
after a distressing wait of ten minutes at the inward lock. “Begob,
I thought we was all lost. ’Twas a close shave. But I’ll go no more
below. I’ve had enough.” He was thinking of a small bank account—six
hundred dollars in all—which he had saved, and of a girl in Brooklyn
who was about to marry him. “No more!”
* * * * *
But, at that, as it stood, there was no immediate danger of work
being offered. The cave-in had cost the contractors thousands and
in addition had taught them that mere air pressure and bracing as
heretofore followed were not sufficient for successful tunneling. Some
new system would have to be devised. Work on both halves of the tunnel
was suspended for over a year and a half, during which time McGlathery
married, a baby was born to him, and his six hundred had long since
diminished to nothing. The difference between two and five dollars a
day is considerable. Incidentally, he had not gone near his old foreman
in all this time, being somehow ashamed of himself, and in consequence
he had not fared so well. Previously Cavanaugh had kept him almost
constantly employed, finding him faithful and hard-working, but now
owing to stranger associates there were weeks when he had no work at
all and others when he had to work for as little as one-fifty a day. It
was not so pleasant. Besides, he had a sneaking feeling that if he had
behaved a little more courageously at that time, gone and talked to his
old foreman afterward or at the time, he might now be working for good
pay. Alas, he had not done so, and if he went now Cavanaugh would be
sure to want to know why he had disappeared so utterly. Then, in spite
of his marital happiness, poverty began to press him so. A second and a
third child were born—only they were twins.
In the meantime, Henderson, the engineer whom Cavanaugh had wanted
to consult with at the time, had devised a new system of tunneling,
namely, what subsequently came to be known as the pilot tunnel. This
was an iron tube ten feet in length and fifteen feet in diameter—the
width of the tunnel, which was carried forward on a line with the
axis of the tunnel into the ground ahead. When it was driven in far
enough to be completely concealed by the earth about, then the earth
within was removed. The space so cleared was then used exactly as a
hub is used on a wagon wheel. Beams like spokes were radiated from its
sides to its centre, and the surrounding earth sustained by heavy iron
plates. On this plan the old company had decided to undertake the work
again.
One evening, sitting in his doorway thumbing his way through an evening
paper which he could barely read, McGlathery had made all this out.
Mr. Henderson was to be in charge as before. Incidentally it was
stated that Thomas Cavanaugh was going to return as one of the two
chief foremen. Work was to be started at once. In spite of himself,
McGlathery was impressed. If Cavanaugh would only take him back! To be
sure, he had come very near losing his life, as he thought, but then
he had not. No one had, not a soul. Why should _he_ be so fearful if
Cavanaugh could take such chances as he had? Where else could he make
five dollars a day? Still, there was this haunting sensation that the
sea and all of its arms and branches, wherever situated, were inimical
to him and that one day one of them would surely do him a great
injury—kill him, perhaps. He had a recurring sensation of being drawn
up into water or down, he could not tell which, and of being submerged
in ooze and choking slowly. It was horrible.
But five dollars a day as against one-fifty or two or none at all
(seven, once he became very proficient) and an assured future as a
tunnel worker, a “sand-hog,” as he had now learned such men as himself
were called, was a luring as well as a disturbing thought. After all,
he had no trade other than this he had begun to learn under Cavanaugh.
Worse he was not a union man, and the money he had once saved was gone,
and he had a wife and three children. With the former he had various
and sundry talks. To be sure, tunneling was dangerous, but still! She
agreed with him that he had better not, but—after all, the difference
that five, maybe seven, instead of two a day would make in their
living expenses was in both their minds. McGlathery saw it. He decided
after a long period of hesitation that perhaps he had best return.
After all, nothing had happened to him that other time, and might it
ever again, really? He meditated.
As has been indicated, a prominent element in McGlathery’s nature
was superstition. While he believed in the inimical nature of water
to him, he also believed in the power of various saints, male and
female, to help or hinder. In the Catholic Church of St. Columba of
South Brooklyn, at which McGlathery and his young wife were faithful
attendants, there was a plaster statue of a saint of this same name, a
co-worker with St. Patrick in Ireland, it appears, who in McGlathery’s
native town of Kilrush, County of Clare, on the water’s edge of
Shannon, had been worshipped for centuries past, or at least highly
esteemed, as having some merit in protecting people at sea, or in
adventures connected with water. This was due, perhaps, to the fact
that Kilrush was directly on the water and had to have a saint of
that kind. At any rate, among other things, he had occasionally been
implored for protection in that realm when McGlathery was a boy. On
his setting out for America, for instance, some few years before at
the suggestion of his mother, he had made a novena before this very
saint, craving of him a safe conduct in crossing the sea, as well as
prosperity once he had arrived in America. Well, he had crossed in
safety, and prospered well enough, he thought. At least he had not been
killed in any tunnel. In consequence, on bended knees, two blessed
candles burning before him in the rack, a half dollar deposited in the
box labeled “St. Columba’s Orphans,” he finally asked of this saint
whether, in case he returned to this underground tunnel work, seeing
that necessity was driving him, would he be so kind as to protect him?
He felt sure that Cavanaugh, once he applied to him, and seeing that he
had been a favorite worker, would not begrudge him a place if he had
one. In fact he knew that Cavanaugh had always favored him as a good
useful helper.
After seven “Our Fathers” and seven “Hail Marys,” said on his knees,
and a litany of the Blessed Virgin for good measure, he crossed himself
and arose greatly refreshed. There was a pleasant conviction in his
mind now, newly come there before this image, that he would never
come to real harm by any power of water. It was a revelation—a direct
communication, perhaps. At any rate, something told him to go and see
Cavanaugh at once, before the work was well under way, and not be
afraid, as no harm would come to him, and besides, he might not get
anything even though he desired it so much if he delayed. He bustled
out of the church and over to the waterfront where the deserted shaft
was still standing, and sure enough, there was Cavanaugh, conversing
with Mr. Henderson.
“Yis—an’ what arr ye here fer?” he now demanded to know of McGlathery
rather amusedly, for he had sensed the cause of his desertion.
“I was readin’ that ye was about to start work on the tunnel again.”
“An’ so we arr. What av it?”
“I was thinkin’ maybe ye’d have a place fer me. I’m married now an’
have three children.”
“An’ ye’re thinkin’ that’s a reason fer givin’ ye something, is it?”
demanded the big foreman rather cynically, with a trace of amusement.
“I thought ye said ye was shut av the sea—that ye was through now, once
an’ fer all?”
“So I did, but I’ve changed me mind. It’s needin’ the work I am.”
“Very well, then,” said Cavanaugh. “We’re beginnin’ in the mornin’. See
that ye’re here at seven sharp. An’ mind ye, no worryin’ or lookin’
around. We’ve a safe way now. It’s different. There’s no danger.”
McGlathery gratefully eyed his old superior, then departed, only to
return the next morning a little dubious but willing. St. Columba had
certainly indicated that all would be well with him—but still— A man
is entitled to a few doubts even when under the protection of the best
of saints. He went down with the rest of the men and began cleaning out
that nearest section of the tunnel where first water and then earth
had finally oozed and caked. That done he helped install the new pilot
tunnel which was obviously a great improvement over the old system.
It seemed decidedly safe. McGlathery attempted to explain its merits
to his wife, who was greatly concerned for him, and incidentally each
morning and evening on his way to and from his task he dropped in
at St. Columba’s to offer up a short silent prayer. In spite of his
novena and understanding with the saint he was still suspicious of this
dread river above him, and of what might happen to him in spite of St.
Columba. The good saint, due to some error on the part of McGlathery,
might change his mind.
Nothing happened, of course, for days and weeks and months. Under
Cavanaugh’s direction the work progressed swiftly, and McGlathery
and he, in due time, became once more good friends, and the former
an expert bracer or timberer, one of the best, and worth seven a day
really, which he did not get. Incidentally, they were all shifted from
day to night work, which somehow was considered more important. There
were long conversations now and again between Cavanaugh and Henderson,
and Cavanaugh and other officials of the company who came down to see,
which enlightened McGlathery considerably as to the nature and danger
of the work. Just the same, overhead was still the heavy river—he could
feel it pushing at him at times, pushing at the thick layer of mud and
silt above him and below which with the aid of this new pilot shield
they were burrowing.
Yet nothing happened for months and months. They cleared a thousand
feet without a hitch. McGlathery began to feel rather comfortable about
it all. It certainly seemed reasonably safe under the new system. Every
night he went down and every morning came up, as hale and healthy as
ever, and every second week, on a Tuesday, a pay envelope containing
the handsome sum of seventy-two dollars was handed him. Think of it!
Seventy-two dollars! Naturally, as a token of gratitude to St. Columba,
he contributed liberally to his Orphans’ Home, a dollar a month, say,
lit a fresh candle before his shrine every Sunday morning after high
mass, and bought two lots out on the Goose Creek waterfront—on time—on
which some day, God willing, he proposed to build a model summer and
winter cottage. And then—! Well, perhaps, as he thought afterward, it
might have been due to the fact that his prosperity had made him a
little more lax than he should have been, or proud, or not quite as
thoughtful of the saint as was his due. At any rate, one night, in
spite of St. Columba—or could it have been with his aid and consent in
order to show McGlathery his power?—the wretched sneaky river did him
another bad turn, a terrible turn, really.
It was this way. While they were working at midnight under the new
form of bracing, based on the pilot tunnel, and with an air pressure
of two thousand pounds to the square inch which had so far sufficed to
support the iron roof plates which were being put in place behind the
pilot tunnel day after day, as fast as space permitted, and with the
concrete men following to put in a form of arch which no river weight
could break, the very worst happened. For it was just at this point
where the iron roof and the mud of the river bottom came in contact
behind the pilot tunnel that there was a danger spot ever since the new
work began. Cavanaugh had always been hovering about that, watching it,
urging others to be careful—“taking no chances with it,” as he said.
“Don’t be long, men!” was his constant urge. “Up with it now! Up with
it! In with the bolts! Quick, now, with yer riveter—quick! quick!”
And the men! How they worked there under the river whenever there was
sufficient space to allow a new steel band to be segmentally set! For
at that point it was, of course, that the river might break through.
How they tugged, sweated, grunted, cursed, in this dark muddy hole,
lit by a few glittering electric arcs—the latest thing in tunnel work!
Stripped to the waist, in mud-soaked trousers and boots, their arms
and backs and breasts mud-smeared and wet, their hair tousled, their
eyes bleary—an artist’s dream of bedlam, a heavenly inferno of toil—so
they labored. And overhead was the great river, Atlantic liners resting
upon it, thirty or fifteen or ten feet of soil only, sometimes, between
them and this thin strip of mud sustained, supposedly, by two thousand
pounds of air pressure to the square inch—all they had to keep the
river from bleeding water down on them and drowning them like rats!
“Up with it! Up with it! Up with it! Now the bolts! Now the riveter!
That’s it! In with it, Johnny! Once more now!”
Cavanaugh’s voice urging them so was like music to them, their gift of
energy, their labor song, their power to do, their Ei Uchnam.
But there were times also, hours really, when the slow forward movement
of the pilot tunnel, encountering difficult earth before it, left this
small danger section unduly exposed to the rotary action of the water
overhead which was constantly operating in the bed of the river. Leaks
had been discovered from time to time, small tricklings and droppings
of earth, which brought Cavanaugh and Henderson to the spot and caused
the greatest tension until they had been done away with. The air
had a tendency to bore holes upward through the mud. But these were
invariably stanched with clay, or, if growing serious, bags of shavings
or waste, the air pressure blowing outward from below being sufficient
to hold these in place, provided the breach was not too wide. Even when
“all hands” were working directly under a segment wide enough for a
ring of plates, one man was told off to “kape an eye on it.”
On the evening in question, however, after twenty-eight men, including
Cavanaugh and McGlathery, had entered at six and worked until midnight,
pushing the work as vigorously as usual, seven of the men (they were
told off in lots of seven to do this) were allowed to go up to the
mouth of the tunnel to a nearby all-night saloon for a drink and a bite
of food. A half hour to each lot was allowed, when another group would
depart. There was always a disturbing transition period every half hour
between twelve and two, during which one group was going and another
coming, which resulted at times in a dangerous indifference which
Cavanaugh had come to expect at just about this time and in consequence
he was usually watching for it.
On the other hand, John Dowd, ditcher, told off to keep an eye on the
breach at this time, was replaced on this particular night by Patrick
Murtha, fresh from the corner saloon, a glass of beer and the free
lunch counter still in his mind. He was supposed to watch closely, but
having had four glasses in rapid succession and meditating on their
excellence as well as that of the hot frankfurters, the while he was
jesting with the men who were making ready to leave, he forgot about
it. What now—was a man always to keep his eye on the blanked thing!
What was going to happen anyway? What could happen? Nothing, of course.
What had ever happened in the last eight months?
“Sssst!”
What was that? A sound like the blowing off of steam. All at once
Cavanaugh, who was just outside the pilot tunnel indicating to
McGlathery and another just where certain braces were to be put, in
order that the pilot tunnel might be pushed forward a few inches for
the purpose of inserting a new ring of plates, heard it. At a bound he
was back through the pilot hub, his face aflame with fear and rage. Who
had neglected the narrow breach?
“Come now! What the hell is this?” he was about to exclaim, but seeing
a wide breach suddenly open and water pour down in a swift volume, his
spirit sank and fear overcame him.
“Back, men! Stop the leak!”
It was the cry of a frightened and yet courageous man at bay. There
was not only fear, but disappointment, in it. He had certainly hoped
to obviate anything like this this time. But where a moment before
had been a hole that might have been stopped with a bag of sawdust
(and Patrick Murtha was there attempting to do it) was now a rapidly
widening gap through which was pouring a small niagara of foul river
water, ooze and slime. As Cavanaugh reached it and seized a bag to stay
it, another mass of muddy earth fell, striking both him and Murtha,
and half blinding them both. Murtha scrambled away for his life.
McGlathery, who had been out in the front of the fatal tunnel with
others, now came staggering back horribly frightened, scarcely knowing
what to do.
“Quick, Dennis! Into the lock!” Cavanaugh called to him, while he
himself held his ground. “Hurry!” and realizing the hopelessness of it
and his own danger, Dennis thought to run past, but was stopped by the
downpour of water and mud.
“Quick! Quick! Into the lock! For Christ’s sake, can’t ye see what’s
happenin’? Through with ye!”
McGlathery, hesitating by his chief’s side, fearful to move lest he
be killed, uncertain this time whether to leave his chief or not,
was seized by Cavanaugh and literally thrown through, as were others
after him, the blinding ooze and water choking them, but placing them
within range of safety. When the last man was through Cavanaugh himself
plunged after, wading knee-deep in mud and water.
“Quick! Quick! Into the lock!” he called, and then seeing McGlathery,
who was now near it but waiting for him, added, “In, in!” There was a
mad scramble about the door, floating timbers and bags interfering with
many, and then, just as it seemed as if all would reach safety, an
iron roof plate overhead, loosened by the breaking of plates beyond,
gave way, felling one man in the half-open doorway of the lock and
blocking and pinning it in such a way that it could be neither opened
nor closed. Cavanaugh and others who came up after were shut out.
McGlathery, who had just entered and saw it, could do nothing. But in
this emergency, and unlike his previous attitude, he and several others
on the inside seized upon the dead man and tried to draw him in, at
the same time calling to Cavanaugh to know what to do. The latter,
dumbfounded, was helpless. He saw very clearly and sadly that very
little if anything could be done. The plate across the dead man was
too heavy, and besides, the ooze was already pouring over him into the
lock. At the same time the men in the lock, conscious that although
they were partially on the road to safety they were still in danger of
losing their lives, were frantic with fear.
Actually there were animal roars of terror. At the same time
McGlathery, once more realizing that his Nemesis, water, had overtaken
him and was likely to slay him at last, was completely paralyzed with
fear. St. Columba had promised him, to be sure, but was not this
that same vision that he had had in his dreams, that awful sense of
encroaching ooze and mud? Was he not now to die this way, after all?
Was not his patron saint truly deserting him? It certainly appeared so.
“Holy Mary! Holy St. Columba!” he began to pray, “what shall I do now?
Mother of God! Our Father, who art in Heaven! Bejasus, it’s a tight
place I’m in now! I’ll never get out of this! Tower of Ivory! House of
Gold! Can’t we git him in, boys? Ark of the Covenant! Gate of Heaven!”
As he gibbered and chattered, the others screaming about him, some
pulling at the dead man, others pulling at the other door, the still
eye of Cavanaugh outside the lock waist-deep in mud and water was
surveying it all.
“Listen to me, men!” came his voice in rich, heavy, guttural tones.
“You, McGlathery! Dennis!! Arr ye all crazy! Take aaf yer clothes and
stop up the doorway! It’s yer only chance! Aaf with yer clothes, quick!
And those planks there—stand them up! Never mind us. Save yerselves
first. Maybe ye can do something for us afterwards.”
As he argued, if only the gap in the door could be closed and the
compressed air pushing from the tunnel outward toward the river allowed
to fill the chamber, it would be possible to open the other door which
gave into the next section shoreward, and so they could all run to
safety.
His voice, commanding, never quavering, even in the face of death,
subsided. About and behind him were a dozen men huddled like sheep,
waist-deep in mud and water, praying and crying. They had got as close
to him as might be, still trying to draw upon the sustaining force of
his courage, but moaning and praying just the same and looking at the
lock.
“Yis! Yis!” exclaimed McGlathery of a sudden, awakening at last to a
sense of duty and that something better in conduct and thought which he
had repeatedly promised himself and his saint that he would achieve.
He had been forgetting. But now it seemed to him once more that he had
been guilty of that same great wrong to his foreman which had marked
his attitude on the previous occasion—that is, he had not helped him or
any one but himself. He was a horrible coward. But what could he do?
he asked himself. What could he do? Tearing off his coat and vest and
shirt as commanded, he began pushing them into the opening, calling to
the others to do the same. In a twinkling, bundles were made of all
as well as of the sticks and beams afloat in the lock, and with these
the gap in the door was stuffed, sufficiently to prevent the air from
escaping, but shutting out the foreman and his men completely.
“It’s awful. I don’t like to do it,” McGlathery kept crying to his
foreman but the latter was not so easily shaken.
“It’s all right, boys,” he kept saying. “Have ye no courage at aal?”
And then to the others outside with him, “Can’t ye stand still and
wait? They may be comin’ back in time. Kape still. Say yer prayers if
ye know any, and don’t be afraid.”
But, although the air pressing outward toward Cavanaugh held the
bundles in place, still this was not sufficient to keep all the air
in or all the water out. It poured about the dead man and between the
chinks, rising inside to their waists also. Once more it threatened
their lives and now their one hope was to pull open the shoreward door
and so release themselves into the chamber beyond, but this was not to
be done unless the escaping air was completely blocked or some other
method devised.
Cavanaugh, on the outside, his whole mind still riveted on the men
whom he was thus aiding to escape, was the only one who realized what
was to be done. In the panel of the door which confronted him, and the
other, which they were trying to break open, were thick glass plates,
or what were known as bull’s eyes, through which one could see, and
it was through the one at his end that Cavanaugh was peering. When it
became apparent to him that the men were not going to be able to open
the farthest door, a new thought occurred to him. Then it was that his
voice was heard above the tumult, shouting:
“Break open the outside bull’s eye! Listen to me, Dennis! Listen to me!
Break open the outside bull’s eye!”
Why did he call to Dennis, the latter often asked himself afterwards.
And why did Dennis hear him so clearly? Through a bedlam of cries
within, he heard, but also realized that if he or they knocked out the
bull’s eye in the other door, and the air escaped through it inward,
the chances of their opening it would be improved, but the life of
Cavanaugh and his helpless companions would certainly be destroyed. The
water would rush inward from the river, filling up this chamber and the
space in which stood Cavanaugh. Should he? So he hesitated.
“Knock it out!” came the muffled voice of his foreman from within where
he was eyeing him calmly. “Knock it out, Dennis! It’s yer only chance!
Knock it out!” And then, for the first time in all the years he had
been working for him, McGlathery heard the voice of his superior waver
slightly: “If ye’re saved,” it said, “try and do what ye can fer the
rest av us.”
In that moment McGlathery was reborn spiritually. Although he could
have wept, something broke in him—fear. He was not afraid now for
himself. He ceased to tremble, almost to hurry and awoke to a new idea,
one of undying, unfaltering courage. What! There was Cavanaugh outside
there, unafraid, and here was he, Dennis McGlathery, scrambling about
like a hare for his life! He wanted to go back, to do something, but
what could he? It was useless. Instead, he assumed partial command in
here. The spirit of Cavanaugh seemed to come over to him and possess
him. He looked about, saw a great stave, and seized it.
“Here, men!” he called with an air of command. “Help knock it out!” and
with a will born of terror and death a dozen brawny hands were laid on
it. With a mighty burst of energy they assaulted the thick plate and
burst it through. Air rushed in, and at the same time the door gave way
before them, causing them to be swept outward by the accumulated water
like straws. Then, scrambling to their feet, they tumbled into the next
lock, closing the door behind them. Once in, they heaved a tremendous
sigh of relief, for here they were safe enough—for the time being
anyhow. McGlathery, the new spirit of Cavanaugh in him, even turned
and looked back through the bull’s eye into the chamber they had just
left. Even as they waited for the pressure here to lower sufficiently
to permit them to open the inner door he saw this last chamber they had
left his foreman and a dozen fellow workers buried beyond. But what
could he do? Only God, only St. Columba, could tell him, perhaps, and
St. Columba had saved him—or had he?—him and fifteen other men, the
while he had chosen to allow Cavanaugh and twelve men to perish! Had
St. Columba done that—or God—or who?
“’Tis the will av God,” he murmured humbly—but why had God done that?
* * * * *
But somehow, the river was not done with him yet, and that, seemingly,
in spite of himself. Although he prayed constantly for the repose of
the soul of Thomas Cavanaugh and his men, and avoided the water, until
five years later, still there was a sequel. By now McGlathery was the
father of eight children and as poor as any average laborer. With
the death of Cavanaugh and this accident, as has been said, he had
forsworn the sea—or water—and all its works. Ordinary house shoring and
timbering were good enough for him, only—only—it was so hard to get
enough of this at good pay. He was never faring as well as he should.
And then one day when he was about as hard up as ever and as earnest,
from somewhere was wafted a new scheme in connection with this same old
tunnel.
A celebrated engineer of another country—England, no less—had appeared
on the scene with a new device, according to the papers. Greathead was
his name, and he had invented what was known as “The Greathead Shield,”
which finally, with a few changes and adaptations, was to rid tunnel
work of all its dangers. McGlathery, sitting outside the door of his
cottage overlooking Bergen Bay, read it all in the Evening _Clarion_,
and wondered whether it could be true. He did not understand very
much about this new shield idea even now, but even so, and in spite
of himself, some of the old zest for tunneling came back to him. What
times he had had, to be sure! What a life it had been, if a dog’s
one—and Cavanaugh—what a foreman! And his body was still down there
entombed—erect, no doubt, as he was left. He wondered. It would be only
fair to dig him out and honor his memory with a decent grave if it
could be done. His wife and children were still living in Flatbush.
It stirred up all the memories, old fears, old enthusiasms, but no
particular desire to return. Still, here he was now, a man with a wife
and eight children, earning three a day, or less—mostly less—whereas
tunneling paid seven and eight to such as himself, and he kept thinking
that if this should start up again and men were advertised for, why
shouldn’t he go? His life had been almost miraculously saved these
two times—but would it be again?—that was the great question. Almost
unceasingly he referred the matter to his saint on Sundays in his
church, but receiving no definite advice as yet and there being no work
doing on the tunnel, he did nothing.
But then one day the following spring the papers were full of the fact
that work would soon actually be resumed, and shortly thereafter, to
his utter amazement, McGlathery received a note from that same Mr.
Henderson under whom Cavanaugh had worked, asking him to call and see
him. Feeling sure that it was the river that was calling him, he went
over to St. Columba’s and prayed before his saint, putting a dollar in
his Orphans’ box and a candle on his shrine, and then arising greatly
refreshed and reassured, and after consulting with his wife, journeyed
over to the river, where he found the old supervisor as before in a
shed outside, considering one important matter and another.
What he wanted to know was this—did McGlathery want to take an
assistant-foremanship under a new foreman who was going to be in charge
of the day work here, one Michael Laverty by name, an excellent man,
at seven dollars a day, seeing that he had worked here before and
understood the difficulties, etc.? McGlathery stared in amazement. He
an assistant-foreman in charge of timbering! And at seven dollars a
day! He!
Mr. Henderson neglected to say that because there had been so much
trouble with the tunnel and the difficulties so widely advertised,
it was rather difficult to get just the right sort of men at first,
although McGlathery was good enough any time. But the new shield made
everything safe, he said. There could be no calamity this time. The
work would be pushed right through. Mr. Henderson even went so far as
to explain the new shield to him, its excellent points.
But McGlathery, listening, was dubious, and yet he was not thinking of
the shield exactly now, nor of the extra pay he would receive, although
that played a big enough part in his calculations, but of one Thomas
Cavanaugh, mason foreman, and his twelve men, buried down below there
in the ooze, and how he had left him, and how it would only be fair
to take his bones out, his and the others’, if they could be found,
and give them a decent Christian burial. For by now he was a better
Catholic than ever, and he owed that much to Cavanaugh, for certainly
Cavanaugh had been very good to him—and anyhow, had not St. Columba
protected him so far? And might he not in the future, seeing the
position he was in? Wasn’t this a call, really? He felt that it was.
Just the same, he was nervous and troubled, and went home and consulted
with his wife again, and thought of the river and went over and prayed
in front of the shrine of St. Columba. Then, once more spiritualized
and strengthened, he returned and told Mr. Henderson that he would come
back. Yes, he would come.
He felt actually free of fear, as though he had a mission, and the
next day began by assisting Michael Laverty to get out the solid mass
of earth which filled the tunnel from the second lock outward. It
was slow work, well into the middle of the summer before the old or
completed portion was cleared and the bones of Cavanaugh and his men
reached. That was a great if solemn occasion—the finding of Cavanaugh
and his men. They could recognize him by his big boots, his revolver,
his watch, and a bunch of keys, all in position near his bones. These
same bones and boots were then reverently lifted and transferred to
a cemetery in Brooklyn, McGlathery and a dozen workers accompanying
them, after which everything went smoothly. The new shield worked like
a charm. It made eight feet a day in soft mud, and although McGlathery,
despite his revived courage, was intensely suspicious of the river,
he was really no longer afraid of it in the old way. Something kept
telling him that from now on he would be all right—not to fear. The
river could never hurt him any more, really.
But just the same, a few months later—eight, to be exact—the river did
take one last slap at him, but not so fatally as might have appeared
on the surface, although in a very peculiar way, and whether with or
without St. Columba’s aid or consent, he never could make out. The
circumstances were so very odd. This new cutting shield, as it turned
out, was a cylinder thirteen feet long, twenty feet in diameter, and
with a hardened steel cutting edge out on front, an apron, fifteen
inches in length and three inches thick at the cutting edge. Behind
this came what was known as an “outside diaphragm,” which had several
openings to let in the mud displaced by the shield’s advance.
Back of these openings were chambers four feet in length, one chamber
for each opening, through which the mud was passed. These chambers in
turn had hinged doors, which regulated the quantity of mud admitted,
and were water tight and easily closed. It was all very shipshape.
Behind these little chambers, again, were many steel jacks, fifteen to
thirty, according to the size of the shield, driven by an air pressure
of five thousand pounds to the square inch, which were used to push the
shield forward. Back of them came what was known as the tail end of the
shield, which reached back into the completed tunnel and was designed
to protect the men who were at work putting in the new plates (at that
danger point which had killed Cavanaugh) whenever the shield had been
driven sufficiently forward to permit of a new ring of them.
The only danger involved in this part of the work lay in the fact that
between this lining and the tail end of the shield was always a space
of an inch to an inch and a half which was left unprotected. This
small opening would, under ordinary circumstances, be insignificant,
but in some instances where the mud covering at the top was very soft
and not very thick, there was danger of the compressed air from within,
pushing at the rate of several thousand pounds to the square inch,
blowing it away and leaving the aperture open to the direct action
of the water above. This was not anticipated, of course, not even
thought of. The shield was going rapidly forward and it was predicted
by Henderson and Laverty at intervals that the tunnel would surely go
through within the year.
Some time the following winter, however, when the shield was doing
such excellent work, it encountered a rock which turned its cutting
edge and, in addition, necessitated the drilling out of the rock in
front. A bulkhead had to be built, once sufficient stone had been cut
away, to permit the repairing of the edge. This took exactly fifteen
days. In the meantime, at the back of the shield, at the little crevice
described, compressed air, two thousand pounds to the square inch, was
pushing away at the mud outside, gradually hollowing out a cup-like
depression eighty-five feet long (Mr. Henderson had soundings taken
afterwards), which extended backward along the top of the completed
tunnel toward the shore. There was then nothing but water overhead.
It was at this time that the engineers, listening to the river, which,
raked by the outpouring of air from below, was rolling gravel and
stones above the tunnel top and pounding on it like a drum, learned
that such was the case. It was easy enough to fix it temporarily by
stuffing the crevice with bags, but one of these days when the shield
was repaired it would have to be moved forward to permit the insertion
of a new ring of plates, and then, what?
At once McGlathery scented trouble. It was the wretched river again
(water), up to its old tricks with him. He was seriously disturbed,
and went to pray before St. Columba, but incidentally, when he was
on duty, he hovered about this particular opening like a wasp. He
wanted to know what was doing there every three minutes in the day, and
he talked to the night foreman about it, as well as Laverty and Mr.
Henderson. Mr. Henderson, at Laverty’s and McGlathery’s request, came
down and surveyed it and meditated upon it.
“When the time comes to move the shield,” he said, “you’ll just have
to keep plenty of bags stuffed around that opening, everywhere, except
where the men are putting in the plates. We’ll have extra air pressure
that day, all we can stand, and I think that’ll fix everything all
right. Have plenty of men here to keep those bags in position, but
don’t let ’em know there’s anything wrong, and we’ll be all right. Let
me know when you’re ready to start, and I’ll come down.”
When the shield was eventually repaired and the order given to drive
it just twenty-five inches ahead in order to permit the insertion of
a new ring of plates, Mr. Henderson was there, as well as Laverty
and McGlathery. Indeed, McGlathery was in charge of the men who were
to stuff the bags and keep out the water. If you have ever seen a
medium-sized red-headed Irishman when he is excited and determined, you
have a good picture of McGlathery. He was seemingly in fifteen places
at once, commanding, exhorting, persuading, rarely ever soothing—and
worried. Yes, he was worried, in spite of St. Columba.
The shield started. The extra air pressure was put on, the water began
to pour through the crevice, and then the bags were put in place and
stopped most of it, only where the ironworkers were riveting on the
plates it poured, poured so heavily at times that the workers became
frightened.
“Come now! What’s the matter wid ye! What arr ye standin’ there fer?
What arr ye afraid av? Give me that bag! Up with it! That’s the idea!
Do ye think ye’re goin’ to be runnin’ away now?”
It was McGlathery’s voice, if you please, commanding!—McGlathery,
after his two previous experiences! Yet in his vitals he was really
afraid of the river at this very moment.
What was it that happened? For weeks after, he himself, writhing with
“bends” in a hospital, was unable to get it straight. For four of the
bags of sawdust burst and blew through, he remembered that—it was a
mistake to have sawdust bags at all. And then (he remembered that well
enough), in stuffing others in, they found that they were a bag short,
and until something was secured to put in its place, for the water was
streaming in like a waterfall and causing a flood about their ankles,
he, McGlathery, defiant to the core, not to be outdone by the river
this time, commanded the great thing to be done.
“Here!” he shouted, “the three av ye,” to three gaping men near at
hand, “up with me! Put me there! I’m as good as a bag of sawdust any
day. Up with me!”
Astonished, admiring, heartened, the three of them jumped forward and
lifted him. Against the small breach, through which the water was
pouring, they held him, while others ran off for more bags. Henderson
and Laverty and the ironworkers, amazed and amused and made braver
themselves because of this very thing—filled with admiration, indeed,
by the sheer resourcefulness of it, stood by to help. But then, if you
will believe it, while they were holding him there, and because now
there was nothing but water above it, one end of the shield itself—yes,
that great iron invention—was lifted by the tremendous air pressure
below—eleven or thirteen or fourteen inches, whatever space you can
imagine a medium sized man being forced through—and out he went,
McGlathery, and all the bags, up into the river above, the while the
water poured down, and the men fled for their lives.
A terrific moment, as you can well imagine, not long in duration, but
just long enough to swallow up McGlathery, and then the shield, having
responded at first to too much air pressure, now responding to too
little (the air pressure having been lessened by the escape), shut
down like a safety valve, shutting off most of the water and leaving
the tunnel as it was before.
But McGlathery!
Yes, what of him?
Reader—a miracle!
A passing tug captain, steaming down the Hudson at three one bright
December afternoon was suddenly astonished to see a small geyser of
water lift its head some thirty feet from his boat, and at the top of
it, as it were lying on it, a black object which at first he took to be
a bag or a log. Later he made it out well enough, for it plunged and
bellowed.
“Fer the love av God! Will no one take me out av this? Git me out av
this! Oh! Oh! Oh!”
It was McGlathery right enough, alive and howling lustily and no worse
for his blow-out save that he was suffering from a fair case of the
“bends” and suffering mightily. He was able to scream, though, and
was trying to swim. That old haunting sensation!—he had had it this
time, sure enough. For some thirty or forty seconds or more he had
been eddied swiftly along the top of the tunnel at the bottom of the
river, and then coming to where the air richocheted upward had been
hustled upward like a cork and literally blown through the air at the
top of the great volume of water, out into space. The sudden shift from
two thousand pounds of air pressure to none at all, or nearly none,
had brought him down again, and in addition induced the severe case
of “bends” from which he was now suffering. But St. Columba had not
forgotten him entirely. Although he was suffering horribly, and was
convinced that he was a dead man, still the good saint must have placed
the tug conveniently near, and into this he was now speedily lifted.
“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Captain Hiram Knox, seeing him
thoroughly alive, if not well, and eyeing him in astonishment. “Where
do you come from?”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” bawled McGlathery. “Me arms! Me ribs! Oh! Oh! Oh! The
tunnel! The tunnel below, av course! Quick! Quick! It’s dyin’ av the
bends I am! Git me to a hospital, quick!”
The captain, truly moved and frightened by his groans, did as
requested. He made for the nearest dock. It took him but a few moments
to call an ambulance, and but a few more before McGlathery was carried
into the nearest hospital.
The house physician, having seen a case of this same disease two years
before, and having meditated on it, had decided that the hair of the
dog must be good for the bite. In consequence of this McGlathery was
once more speedily carted off to one of the locks of this very tunnel,
to the amazement of all who had known of him (his disappearance having
aroused general excitement), and he was stared at as one who had risen
from the grave. But, what was better yet, under the pressure of two
thousand pounds now applied he recovered himself sufficiently to be
host here and tell his story—another trick of his guardian saint, no
doubt—and one rather flattering to his vanity, for he was now in no
least danger of dying.
The whole city, if not the whole country, indeed, was astounded by the
accident, and he was a true nine days’ wonder, for the papers were
full of the strange adventure. And with large pictures of McGlathery
ascending heavenward, at the top of a geyser of water. And long and
intelligent explanations as to the way and the why of it all.
But, better yet, four of the happiest weeks of his life were
subsequently spent in that same hospital to which he had first been
taken relating to all and sundry his amazing adventure, he being
interviewed by no less than five representatives of Sunday editors and
eleven reporters for city dailies, all anxious to discover just how it
was that he had been blown through water and air up through so great a
thing as a river, and how he felt while en route. A triumph.
Rivers may be smart, but saints are smarter, thanks be.
And, to top it all, seeing that his right hand and arm might possibly
be crippled for life, or at least an indefinite period (the doctors did
not know), and in grateful appreciation of the fact that he had refused
to deal with various wolfish lawyers who had now descended on him and
urged him to sue for a large sum, he was offered a substantial pension
by the company, or its equivalent, work with the company, no less, at
good pay for the rest of his life, and a cash bonus into the bargain, a
thing which seemed to solve his very uncertain future for him and put
him at his ease. Once more the hand of the saint, you will certainly
admit.
But, lastly, there was the peculiar spiritual consolation that comes
with the feeling that you have done your duty and that a great saint
is on your side. For if all these things did not prove that the good
St. Columba had kept faith with him, what could? To be sure the river
had attempted to do its worst, and had caused him considerable fear
and pain, and perhaps St. Columba did not have as much control over
the river as he should or as he might like to have, or—and this was
far more likely—it was entirely possible that he (McGlathery) had not
at all times deserved the good saint’s support. But none the less,
in the final extremity, had he not acted? And if not, how would you
explain the fact that the tug _Mary Baker_ was just at hand as he arose
out of the water two thousand feet from shore? And why was it, if the
saint had not been trying to help him, that the hospital doctor had
seen to it that he was hustled off to a lock just in time—had seen,
indeed, just such a case as this before, and known how to handle it?
Incontrovertible facts all, aren’t they?—or if not, why not?
At any rate McGlathery thought so, and on Sundays and holidays, whether
there was or was not anything of importance being celebrated in his
church, he might have been seen there kneeling before his favorite
saint and occasionally eyeing him with both reverence and admiration.
For, “Glory be,” as he frequently exclaimed in narrating the wonderful
event afterward, “I wasn’t stuck between the shield and the tunnel, as
I might ’a’ been, and killed entirely, and sure, I’ve aaften thought
’tis a miracle that not enough water come in, just then, to drown ’em
aal. It lifted up just enough to let me go out like a cork, and up I
went, and then, God be praised, it shut down again. But, glory be, here
I am, and I’m no worse fer it, though it do be that me hand wrenches me
now and then.”