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THE NERVE OF FOLEY
AND OTHER RAILROAD STORIES
BY FRANK H. SPEARMAN
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900
Copyright, 1900, by Frank H. Spearman.
_All rights reserved._
TO
MY BROTHER
[Illustration: "FOLEY DROPPED DOWN ON THE STEAM-CHEST AND SWUNG FAR
OUT"]
CONTENTS
THE NERVE OF FOLEY
SECOND SEVENTY-SEVEN
THE KID ENGINEER
THE SKY-SCRAPER
SODA-WATER SAL
THE McWILLIAMS SPECIAL
THE MILLION-DOLLAR FREIGHT-TRAIN
BUCKS
SANKEY'S DOUBLE HEADER
SICLONE CLARK
ILLUSTRATIONS
"FOLEY DROPPED DOWN ON THE STEAM-CHEST AND SWUNG FAR OUT"
"THE CAB FOR A PASSING INSTANT ROSE IN THE AIR
"THAT WAS BURNS'S FIRING THAT NIGHT"
"SINCLAIR WAS WHISTLING SHARPLY FOR ORDERS"
The Nerve of Foley
There had been rumors all winter that the engineers were going to
strike. Certainly we of the operating department had warning enough. Yet
in the railroad life there is always friction in some quarter; the
railroad man sleeps like the soldier, with an ear alert--but just the
same he sleeps, for with waking comes duty.
Our engineers were good fellows. If they had faults, they were American
faults--rashness, a liberality bordering on extravagance, and a
headstrong, violent way of reaching conclusions--traits born of ability
and self-confidence and developed by prosperity.
One of the best men we had on a locomotive was Andrew Cameron; at the
same time he was one of the hardest to manage, because he was young and
headstrong. Andy, a big, powerful fellow, ran opposite Felix Kennedy on
the Flyer. The fast runs require young men. If you will notice, you will
rarely see an old engineer on a fast passenger run; even a young man can
stand only a few years of that kind of work. High speed on a locomotive
is a question of nerve and endurance--to put it bluntly, a question of
flesh and blood.
* * * * *
"You don't think much of this strike, do you, Mr. Reed?" said Andy to me
one night.
"Don't think there's going to be any, Andy."
He laughed knowingly.
"What actual grievance have the boys?" I asked.
"The trouble's on the East End," he replied, evasively.
"Is that any reason for calling a thousand men out on this end?"
"If one goes out, they all go."
"Would you go out?"
"Would I? You bet!"
"A man with a home and a wife and a baby boy like yours ought to have
more sense."
Getting up to leave, he laughed again confidently. "That's all right.
We'll bring you fellows to terms."
"Maybe," I retorted, as he closed the door. But I hadn't the slightest
idea they would begin the attempt that night. I was at home and sound
asleep when the caller tapped on my window. I threw up the sash; it was
pouring rain and dark as a pocket.
"What is it, Barney? A wreck?" I exclaimed.
"Worse than that. Everything's tied up."
"What do you mean?"
"The engineers have struck."
"Struck? What time is it?"
"Half-past three. They went out at three o'clock." Throwing on my
clothes, I floundered behind Barney's lantern to the depot. The
superintendent was already in his office talking to the master-mechanic.
Bulletins came in every few minutes from various points announcing
trains tied up. Before long we began to hear from the East End. Chicago
reported all engineers out; Omaha wired, no trains moving. When the sun
rose that morning our entire system, extending through seven States and
Territories, was absolutely paralyzed.
It was an astounding situation, but one that must be met. It meant
either an ignominious surrender to the engineers or a fight to the
death. For our part, we had only to wait for orders. It was just six
o'clock when the chief train-dispatcher who was tapping at a key, said:
"Here's something from headquarters."
We crowded close around him. His pen flew across the clip; the message
was addressed to all division superintendents. It was short; but at the
end of it he wrote a name we rarely saw in our office. It was that of
the railroad magnate we knew as "the old man," the president of the
system, and his words were few:
"Move the trains."
"Move the trains!" repeated the superintendent. "Yes; but trains can't
be moved by pinch-bars nor by main force."
We spent the day arguing with the strikers. They were friendly, but
firm. Persuasion, entreaties, threats, we exhausted, and ended just
where we began, except that we had lost our tempers. The sun set without
the turn of a wheel. The victory of the first day was certainly with the
strikers.
Next day it looked pretty blue around the depot. Not a car was moved;
the engineers and firemen were a unit. But the wires sung hard all that
day and all that night. Just before midnight Chicago wired that No.
1--our big passenger-train, the Denver Flyer--had started out on time,
with the superintendent of motive power as engineer and a wiper for
fireman. The message came from the second vice-president. He promised to
deliver the train to our division on time the next evening, and he
asked, "Can you get it through to Denver?"
We looked at each other. At last all eyes gravitated towards Neighbor,
our master-mechanic.
The train-dispatcher was waiting. "What shall I say?" he asked.
The division chief of the motive power was a tremendously big Irishman,
with a voice like a fog-horn. Without an instant's hesitation the answer
came clear,
"Say 'yes'!"
Every one of us started. It was throwing the gage of battle. Our word
had gone out; the division was pledged; the fight was on.
Next evening the strikers, through some mysterious channel, got word
that the Flyer was expected. About nine o'clock a crowd of them began to
gather round the depot.
It was after one o'clock when No. 1 pulled in and the foreman of the
Omaha round-house swung down from the locomotive cab. The strikers
clustered around the engine like a swarm of angry bees; but that night,
though there was plenty of jeering, there was no actual violence. When
they saw Neighbor climb into the cab to take the run west there was a
sullen silence.
Next day a committee of strikers, with Andy Cameron, very cavalier, at
their head, called on me.
"Mr. Reed," said he, officiously, "we've come to notify you not to run
any more trains through here till this strike's settled. The boys won't
stand it; that's all." With that he turned on his heel to leave with his
following.
"Hold on, Cameron," I replied, raising my hand as I spoke; "that's not
quite all. I suppose you men represent your grievance committee?"
"Yes, sir."
"I happen to represent, in the superintendent's absence, the management
of this road. I simply want to say to you, and to your committee, that I
take my orders from the president and the general manager--not from you
nor anybody you represent. That's all."
Every hour the bitterness increased. We got a few trains through, but we
were terribly crippled. As for freight, we made no pretence of moving
it. Trainloads of fruit and meat rotted in the yards. The strikers grew
more turbulent daily. They beat our new men and crippled our
locomotives. Then our troubles with the new men were almost as bad. They
burned out our crown sheets; they got mixed up on orders all the time.
They ran into open switches and into each other continually, and had us
very nearly crazy.
I kept tab on one of the new engineers for a week. He began by backing
into a diner so hard that he smashed every dish in the car, and ended by
running into a siding a few days later and setting two tanks of oil on
fire, that burned up a freight depot. I figured he cost us forty
thousand dollars the week he ran. Then he went back to selling
windmills.
After this experience I was sitting in my office one evening, when a
youngish fellow in a slouch-hat opened the door and stuck his head in.
"What do you want?" I growled.
"Are you Mr. Reed?"
"What do you want?"
"I want to speak to Mr. Reed."
"Well, what is it?"
"Are you Mr. Reed?"
"Confound you, yes! What do you want?"
"Me? I don't want anything. I'm just asking, that's all."
His impudence staggered me so that I took my feet off the desk.
"Heard you were looking for men," he added.
"No," I snapped. "I don't want any men."
"Wouldn't be any show to get on an engine, would there?"
A week earlier I should have risen and fallen on his neck. But there had
been others.
"There's a show to get your head broke," I suggested.
"I don't mind that, if I get my time."
"What do you know about running an engine?"
"Run one three years."
"On a threshing-machine?"
"On the Philadelphia and Reading."
"Who sent you in here?"
"Just dropped in."
"Sit down."
I eyed him sharply as he dropped into a chair.
"When did you quit the Philadelphia and Reading?"
"About six months ago."
"Fired?"
"Strike."
I began to get interested. After a few more questions I took him into
the superintendent's office. But at the door I thought it well to drop a
hint.
"Look here, my friend, if you're a spy you'd better keep out of this.
This man would wring your neck as quick as he'd suck an orange. See?"
"Let's tackle him, anyhow," replied the fellow, eying me coolly.
I introduced him to Mr. Lancaster, and left them together. Pretty soon
the superintendent came into my office.
"What do you make of him, Reed?" said he.
"What do you make of him?"
Lancaster studied a minute.
"Take him over to the round-house and see what he knows."
I walked over with the new find, chatting warily. When we reached a live
engine I told him to look it over. He threw off his coat, picked up a
piece of waste, and swung into the cab.
"Run her out to the switch," said I, stepping up myself.
He pinched the throttle, and we steamed slowly out of the house. A
minute showed he was at home on an engine.
"Can you handle it?" I asked, as he shut off after backing down to the
round-house.
"You use soft coal," he replied, trying the injector. "I'm used to hard.
This injector is new to me. Guess I can work it, though."
"What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't say."
"What is it?" I asked, curtly.
"Foley."
"Well, Foley, if you have as much sense as you have gall you ought to
get along. If you act straight, you'll never want a job again as long as
you live. If you don't, you won't want to live very long."
"Got any tobacco?"
"Here, Baxter," said I, turning to the round-house foreman, "this is
Foley. Give him a chew, and mark him up to go out on 77 to-night. If he
monkeys with anything around the house kill him."
Baxter looked at Foley, and Foley looked at Baxter; and Baxter not
getting the tobacco out quick enough, Foley reminded him he was waiting.
We didn't pretend to run freights, but I concluded to try the fellow on
one, feeling sure that if he was crooked he would ditch it and skip.
So Foley ran a long string of empties and a car or two of rotten oranges
down to Harvard Junction that night, with one of the dispatchers for
pilot. Under my orders they had a train made up at the junction for him
to bring back to McCloud. They had picked up all the strays in the
yards, including half a dozen cars of meat that the local board of
health had condemned after it had laid out in the sun for two weeks, and
a car of butter we had been shifting around ever since the beginning of
the strike.
When the strikers saw the stuff coming in next morning behind Foley they
concluded I had gone crazy.
"What do you think of the track, Foley?" said I.
"Fair," he replied, sitting down on my desk. "Stiff hill down there by
Zanesville."
"Any trouble to climb it?" I asked, for I had purposely given him a
heavy train.
"Not with that car of butter. If you hold that butter another week it
will climb a hill without any engine."
"Can you handle a passenger-train?"
"I guess so."
"I'm going to send you west on No. 1 to-night."
"Then you'll have to give me a fireman. That guy you sent out last night
is a lightning-rod-peddler. The dispatcher threw most of the coal."
"I'll go with you myself, Foley. I can give you steam. Can you stand it
to double back to-night?"
"I can stand it if you can."
When I walked into the round-house in the evening, with a pair of
overalls on, Foley was in the cab getting ready for the run.
Neighbor brought the Flyer in from the East. As soon as he had uncoupled
and got out of the way we backed down with the 448. It was the best
engine we had left, and, luckily for my back, an easy steamer. Just as
we coupled to the mail-car a crowd of strikers swarmed out of the dusk.
They were in an ugly mood, and when Andy Cameron and Bat Nicholson
sprang up into the cab I saw we were in for trouble.
"Look here, partner," exclaimed Cameron, laying a heavy hand on Foley's
shoulder; "you don't want to take this train out, do you? You wouldn't
beat honest working-men out of a job?"
"I'm not beating anybody out of a job. If you want to take out this
train, take it out. If you don't, get out of this cab."
Cameron was nonplussed. Nicholson, a surly brute, raised his fist
menacingly.
"See here, boss," he growled, "we won't stand no scabs on this line."
"Get out of this cab."
"I'll promise you you'll never get out of it alive, my buck, if you ever
get into it again," cried Cameron, swinging down. Nicholson followed,
muttering angrily. I hoped we were out of the scrape, but, to my
consternation, Foley, picking up his oil-can, got right down behind
them, and began filling his cups without the least attention to anybody.
Nicholson sprang on him like a tiger. The onslaught was so sudden that
they had him under their feet in a minute. I jumped down, and Ben
Buckley, the conductor, came running up. Between us we gave the little
fellow a life. He squirmed out like a cat, and backed instantly up
against the tender.
"One at a time, and come on," he cried, hotly. "If it's ten to one, and
on a man's back at that, we'll do it different." With a quick, peculiar
movement of his arm he drew a pistol, and, pointing it squarely at
Cameron, cried, "Get back!"
I caught a flash of his eye through the blood that streamed down his
face. I wouldn't have given a switch-key for the life of the man who
crowded him at that minute. But just then Lancaster came up, and before
the crowd realized it we had Foley, protesting angrily, back in the cab
again.
"For Heaven's sake, pull out of this before there's bloodshed, Foley," I
cried; and, nodding to Buckley, Foley opened the choker.
It was a night run and a new track to him. I tried to fire and pilot
both, but after Foley suggested once or twice that if I would tend to
the coal he would tend to the curves I let him find them--and he found
them all, I thought, before we got to Athens. He took big chances in his
running, but there was a superb confidence in his bursts of speed which
marked the fast runner and the experienced one.
At Athens we had barely two hours to rest before doubling back. I was
never tired in my life till I struck the pillow that night, but before I
got it warm the caller routed me out again. The East-bound Flyer was on
time, or nearly so, and when I got into the cab for the run back, Foley
was just coupling on.
"Did you get a nap?" I asked, as we pulled out.
"No; we slipped an eccentric coming up, and I've been under the engine
ever since. Say, she's a bird, isn't she? She's all right. I couldn't
run her coming up; but I've touched up her valve motion a bit, and I'll
get action on her as soon as it's daylight."
"Don't mind getting action on my account, Foley; I'm shy on life
insurance."
He laughed.
"You're safe with me. I never killed man, woman, or child in my life.
When I do, I quit the cab. Give her plenty of diamonds, if you please,"
he added, letting her out full.
He gave me the ride of my life; but I hated to show scare, he was so
coolly audacious himself. We had but one stop--for water--and after that
all down grade. We bowled along as easy as ninepins, but the pace was a
hair-raiser. After we passed Arickaree we never touched a thing but the
high joints. The long, heavy train behind us flew round the bluffs once
in a while like the tail of a very capricious kite; yet somehow--and
that's an engineer's magic--she always lit on the steel.
Day broke ahead, and between breaths I caught the glory of a sunrise on
the plains from a locomotive-cab window. When the smoke of the McCloud
shops stained the horizon, remembering the ugly threats of the strikers,
I left my seat to speak to Foley.
"I think you'd better swing off when you slow up for the yards and cut
across to the round-house," I cried, getting close to his ear, for we
were on terrific speed. He looked at me inquiringly. "In that way you
won't run into Cameron and his crowd at the depot," I added. "I can stop
her all right."
He didn't take his eyes off the track. "I'll take the train to the
platform," said he.
"Isn't that a crossing cut ahead?" he added, suddenly, as we swung round
a fill west of town.
"Yes; and a bad one."
He reached for the whistle and gave the long, warning screams. I set the
bell-ringer and stooped to open the furnace door to cool the fire,
when--chug!
I flew up against the water-gauges like a coupling-pin. The monster
engine reared right up on her head. Scrambling to my feet, I saw the new
man clutching the air-lever with both hands, and every wheel on the
train was screeching. I jumped to his side and looked over his shoulder.
On the crossing just ahead a big white horse, dragging a buggy, plunged
and reared frantically. Standing on the buggy seat a baby boy clung
bewildered to the lazyback; not another soul in sight. All at once the
horse swerved sharply back; the buggy lurched half over; the lines
seemed to be caught around one wheel. The little fellow clung on; but
the crazy horse, instead of running, began a hornpipe right between the
deadly rails.
I looked at Foley in despair. From the monstrous quivering leaps of the
great engine I knew the drivers were in the clutch of the mighty
air-brake; but the resistless momentum of the train was none the less
sweeping us down at deadly speed on the baby. Between the two tremendous
forces the locomotive shivered like a gigantic beast. I shrank back in
horror; but the little man at the throttle, throwing the last ounce of
air on the burning wheels, leaped from his box with a face transfigured.
"Take her!" he cried, and, never shifting his eyes from the cut, he shot
through his open window and darted like a cat along the running-board to
the front.
Not a hundred feet separated us from the crossing. I could see the
baby's curls blowing in the wind. The horse suddenly leaped from across
the track to the side of it; that left the buggy quartering with the
rails, but not twelve inches clear. The way the wheels were cramped a
single step ahead would throw the hind wheels into the train; a step
backward would shove the front wheels into it. It was appalling.
Foley, clinging with one hand to a headlight bracket, dropped down on
the steam-chest and swung far out. As the cow-catcher shot past, Foley's
long arm dipped into the buggy like the sweep of a connecting-rod, and
caught the boy by the breeches. The impetus of our speed threw the child
high in the air, but Foley's grip was on the little overalls, and as the
youngster bounded back he caught it close. I saw the horse give a leap.
It sent the hind wheels into the corner of the baggage-car. There was a
crash like the report of a hundred rifles, and the buggy flew in the
air. The big horse was thrown fifty feet; but Foley, with a great light
in his eyes and the baby boy in his arm, crawled laughing into the cab.
Thinking he would take the engine again, I tried to take the baby. Take
it? Well, I think not!
"Hi! there, buster!" shouted the little engineer, wildly; "that's a
corking pair of breeches on you, son. I caught the kid right by the seat
of the pants," he called over to me, laughing hysterically. "Heavens!
little man, I wouldn't 've struck you for all the gold in Alaska. I've
got a chunk of a boy in Reading as much like him as a twin brother. What
were you doing all alone in that buggy? Whose kid do you suppose it is?
What's your name, son?"
At his question I looked at the child again--and I started. I had
certainly seen him before; and, had I not, his father's features were
too well stamped on the childish face for me to be mistaken.
"Foley," I cried, all amaze, "that's Cameron's boy--little Andy!"
He tossed the baby the higher; he looked the happier; he shouted the
louder.
"The deuce it is! Well, son, I'm mighty glad of it." And I certainly was
glad.
In fact, mighty glad, as Foley expressed it, when we pulled up at the
depot, and I saw Andy Cameron with a wicked look pushing to the front
through the threatening crowd. With an ugly growl he made for Foley.
"I've got business with you--you--"
"I've got a little with you, son," retorted Foley, stepping leisurely
down from the cab. "I struck a buggy back here at the first cut, and I
hear it was yours." Cameron's eyes began to bulge. "I guess the outfit's
damaged some--all but the boy. Here, kid," he added, turning for me to
hand him the child, "here's your dad."
The instant the youngster caught sight of his parent he set up a yell.
Foley, laughing, passed him into his astonished father's arms before the
latter could say a word. Just then a boy, running and squeezing through
the crowd, cried to Cameron that his horse had run away from the house
with the baby in the buggy, and that Mrs. Cameron was having a fit.
Cameron stood like one daft--and the boy catching sight of the baby that
instant panted and stared in an idiotic state.
"Andy," said I, getting down and laying a hand on his shoulder, "if
these fellows want to kill this man, let them do it alone--you'd better
keep out. Only this minute he has saved your boy's life."
The sweat stood out on the big engineer's forehead like dew. I told the
story. Cameron tried to speak; but he tried again and again before he
could find his voice.
"Mate," he stammered, "you've been through a strike yourself--you know
what it means, don't you? But if you've got a baby--" he gripped the boy
tighter to his shoulder.
"I have, partner; three of 'em."
"Then you know what this means," said Andy, huskily, putting out his
hand to Foley. He gripped the little man's fist hard, and, turning,
walked away through the crowd.
Somehow it put a damper on the boys. Bat Nicholson was about the only
man left who looked as if he wanted to eat somebody; and Foley, slinging
his blouse over his shoulder, walked up to Bat and tapped him on the
shoulder.
"Stranger," said he, gently, "could you oblige me with a chew of
tobacco?"
Bat glared at him an instant; but Foley's nerve won.
Flushing a bit, Bat stuck his hand into his pocket; took it out; felt
hurriedly in the other pocket, and, with some confusion, acknowledged he
was short. Felix Kennedy intervened with a slab, and the three men fell
at once to talking about the accident.
A long time afterwards some of the striking engineers were taken back,
but none of those who had been guilty of actual violence. This barred
Andy Cameron, who, though not worse than many others, had been less
prudent; and while we all felt sorry for him after the other boys had
gone to work, Lancaster repeatedly and positively refused to reinstate
him.
Several times, though, I saw Foley and Cameron in confab, and one day up
came Foley to the superintendent's office, leading little Andy, in his
overalls, by the hand. They went into Lancaster's office together, and
the door was shut a long time.
When they came out little Andy had a piece of paper in his hand.
"Hang on to it, son," cautioned Foley; "but you can show it to Mr. Reed
if you want to."
The youngster handed me the paper. It was an order directing Andrew
Cameron to report to the master-mechanic for service in the morning.
* * * * *
I happened over at the round-house one day nearly a year later, when
Foley was showing Cameron a new engine, just in from the East. The two
men were become great cronies; that day they fell to talking over the
strike.
"There was never but one thing I really laid up against this man," said
Cameron to me.
"What's that?" asked Foley.
"Why, the way you shoved that pistol into my face the first night you
took out No. 1."
"I never shoved any pistol into your face." So saying, he stuck his hand
into his pocket with the identical motion he used that night of the
strike, and levelled at Andy, just as he had done then--a plug of
tobacco. "That's all I ever pulled on you, son; I never carried a pistol
in my life."
Cameron looked at him, then he turned to me, with a tired expression:
"I've seen a good many men, with a good many kinds of nerve, but I'll be
splintered if I ever saw any one man with all kinds of nerve till I
struck Foley."
Second Seventy-Seven
It is a bad grade yet. But before the new work was done on the river
division, Beverly Hill was a terror to trainmen.
On rainy Sundays old switchmen in the Zanesville yards still tell in
their shanties of the night the Blackwood bridge went out and Cameron's
stock-train got away on the hill, with the Denver flyer caught at the
foot like a rat in a trap.
Ben Buckley was only a big boy then, braking on freights; I was
dispatching under Alex Campbell on the West End. Ben was a tall,
loose-jointed fellow, but gentle as a kitten; legs as long as
pinch-bars, yet none too long, running for the Beverly switch that
night. His great chum in those days was Andy Cameron. Andy was the
youngest engineer on the line. The first time I ever saw them together,
Andy, short and chubby as a duck, was dancing around, half dressed, on
the roof of the bath-house, trying to get away from Ben, who had the
fire-hose below, playing on him with a two-inch stream of ice-water.
They were up to some sort of a prank all the time.
* * * * *
June was usually a rush month with us. From the coast we caught the new
crop Japan teas and the fall importations of China silks. California
still sent her fruits, and Colorado was beginning cattle shipments. From
Wyoming came sheep, and from Oregon steers; and all these not merely in
car-loads, but in solid trains. At times we were swamped. The overland
traffic alone was enough to keep us busy; on top of it came a great
movement of grain from Nebraska that summer, and to crown our troubles a
rate war sprang up. Every man, woman, and child east of the Mississippi
appeared to have but one object in life--that was to get to California,
and to go over our road. The passenger traffic burdened our resources to
the last degree.
I was putting on new men every day then. We start them at braking on
freights; usually they work for years at that before they get a train.
But when a train-dispatcher is short on crews he must have them, and can
only press the best material within reach. Ben Buckley had not been
braking three months when I called him up one day and asked him if he
wanted a train.
"Yes, sir, I'd like one first rate. But you know I haven't been braking
very long, Mr. Reed," said he, frankly.
"How long have you been in the train service?"
I spoke brusquely, though I knew, without even looking at my
service-card just how long it was.
"Three months, Mr. Reed."
It was right to a day.
"I'll probably have to send you out on 77 this afternoon." I saw him
stiffen like a ramrod. "You know we're pretty short," I continued.
"Yes, sir."
"But do you know enough to keep your head on your shoulders and your
train on your orders?"
Ben laughed a little. "I think I do. Will there be two sections
to-day?"
"They're loading eighteen cars of stock at Ogalalla; if we get any hogs
off the Beaver there will be two big sections. I shall mark you up for
the first one, anyway, and send you out right behind the flyer. Get your
badge and your punch from Carpenter--and whatever you do, Buckley, don't
get rattled."
"No, sir; thank you, Mr. Reed."
But his "thank you" was so pleasant I couldn't altogether ignore it; I
compromised with a cough. Perfect courtesy, even in the hands of the
awkwardest boy that ever wore his trousers short, is a surprisingly
handy thing to disarm gruff people with. Ben was undeniably awkward; his
legs were too long, and his trousers decidedly out of touch with his
feet; but I turned away with the conviction that in spite of his
gawkiness there was something to the boy. That night proved it.
When the flyer pulled in from the West in the afternoon it carried two
extra sleepers. In all, eight Pullmans, and every one of them loaded to
the ventilators. While the train was changing engines and crews, the
excursionists swarmed out of the hot cars to walk up and down the
platform. They were from New York, and had a band with them--as jolly a
crowd as we ever hauled--and I noticed many boys and girls sprinkled
among the grown folks.
As the heavy train pulled slowly out the band played, the women waved
handkerchiefs, and the boys shouted themselves hoarse--it was like a
holiday, everybody seemed so happy. All I hoped, as I saw the smoke of
the engine turn to dust on the horizon, was that I could get them over
my division and their lives safely off my hands. For a week we had had
heavy rains, and the bridges and track gave us worry.
Half an hour after the flyer left, 77, the fast stock-freight, wound
like a great snake around the bluff, after it. Ben Buckley, tall and
straight as a pine, stood on the caboose. It was his first train, and he
looked as if he felt it.
In the evening I got reports of heavy rains east of us, and after 77
reported "out" of Turner Junction and pulled over the divide towards
Beverly, it was storming hard all along the line. By the time they
reached the hill Ben had his men out setting brakes--tough work on that
kind of a night; but when the big engine struck the bluff the heavy
train was well in hand, and it rolled down the long grade as gently as a
curtain.
Ben was none too careful, for half-way down the hill they exploded
torpedoes. Through the driving storm the tail-lights of the flyer were
presently seen. As they pulled carefully ahead, Ben made his way through
the mud and rain to the head end and found the passenger-train stalled.
Just before them was Blackwood Creek, bank full, and the bridge swinging
over the swollen stream like a grape-vine.
At the foot of Beverly Hill there is a siding--a long siding, once used
as a sort of cut-off to the upper Zanesville yards. This side track
parallels the main track for half a mile, and on this siding Ben, as
soon as he saw the situation, drew in with his train so that it lay
beside the passenger-train and left the main line clear behind. It then
became his duty to guard the track to the rear, where the second section
of the stock-train would soon be due.
It was pouring rain and as dark as a pocket. He started his hind-end
brakeman back on the run with red lights and torpedoes to warn the
second section well up the hill. Then walking across from his caboose,
he got under the lee of the hind Pullman sleeper to watch for the
expected headlight.
The storm increased in violence. It was not the rain driving in
torrents, not the lightning blazing, nor the deafening crashes of
thunder, that worried him, but the wind--it blew a gale. In the blare of
the lightning he could see the oaks which crowned the bluffs whip like
willows in the storm. It swept quartering down the Beverly cut as if it
would tear the ties from under the steel. Suddenly he saw, far up in the
black sky, a star blazing; it was the headlight of Second Seventy-Seven.
A whistle cut the wind; then another. It was the signal for brakes; the
second section was coming down the steep grade. He wondered how far back
his man had got with the bombs. Even as he wondered he saw a yellow
flash below the headlight; it was the first torpedo. The second section
was already well down the top of the hill. Could they hold it to the
bottom?
Like an answer came shorter and sharper the whistle for brakes. Ben
thought he knew who was on that engine; thought he knew that
whistle--for engineers whistle as differently as they talk. He still
hoped and believed--knowing who was on the engine--that the brakes would
hold the heavy load; but he feared--
A man running up in the rain passed him. Ben shouted and held up his
lantern; it was his head brakeman.
"Who's pulling Second Seventy-Seven?" he cried.
"Andy Cameron."
"How many air cars has he got?"
"Six or eight," shouted Ben. "It's the wind, Daley--the wind. Andy can
hold her if anybody can. But the wind; did you ever see such a blow?"
Even while he spoke the cry for brakes came a third time on the storm.
A frightened Pullman porter opened the rear door of the sleeper. Five
hundred people lay in the excursion train, unconscious of this avalanche
rolling down upon them.
The conductor of the flyer ran up to Ben in a panic.
"Buckley, they'll telescope us."
"Can you pull ahead any?"
"The bridge is out."
"Get out your passengers," said Ben's brakeman.
"There's no time," cried the passenger conductor, wildly, running off.
He was panic-stricken. The porter tried to speak. He took hold of the
brakeman's arm, but his voice died in his throat; fear paralyzed him.
Down the wind came Cameron's whistle clamoring now in alarm. It meant
the worst, and Ben knew it. The stock-train was running away.
There were plenty of things to do if there was only time; but there was
hardly time to think. The passenger crew were running about like men
distracted, trying to get the sleeping travellers out. Ben knew they
could not possibly reach a tenth of them. In the thought of what it
meant, an inspiration came like a flash.
He seized his brakeman by the shoulder. For two weeks the man carried
the marks of his hand.
"Daley!" he cried, in a voice like a pistol crack, "get those two
stockmen out of our caboose. Quick, man! I'm going to throw Cameron
into the cattle."
It was a chance--single, desperate, but yet a chance--the only chance
that offered to save the helpless passengers in his charge.
If he could reach the siding switch ahead of the runaway train, he could
throw the deadly catapult on the siding and into his own train, and so
save the unconscious travellers. Before the words were out of his mouth
he started up the track at topmost speed.
The angry wind staggered him. It blew out his lantern, but he flung it
away, for he could throw the switch in the dark. A sharp gust tore half
his rain-coat from his back; ripping off the rest, he ran on. When the
wind took his breath he turned his back and fought for another. Blinding
sheets of rain poured on him; water streaming down the track caught his
feet; a slivered tie tripped him, and, falling headlong, the sharp
ballast cut his wrists and knees like broken glass. In desperate haste
he dashed ahead again; the headlight loomed before him like a mountain
of flame. There was light enough now through the sheets of rain that
swept down on him, and there ahead, the train almost on it, was the
switch.
Could he make it?
A cry from the sleeping children rose in his heart. Another breath, an
instant floundering, a slipping leap, and he had it. He pushed the key
into the lock, threw the switch and snapped it, and, to make deadly
sure, braced himself against the target-rod. Then he looked.
No whistling now; it was past that. He knew the fireman would have
jumped. Cameron too? No, not Andy, not if the pit yawned in front of his
pilot.
He saw streams of fire flying from many wheels--he felt the glare of a
dazzling light--and with a rattling crash the ponies shot into the
switch. The bar in his hands rattled as if it would jump from the
socket, and, lurching frightfully, the monster took the siding. A flare
of lightning lit the cab as it shot past, and he saw Cameron leaning
from the cab window, with face of stone, his eyes riveted on the
gigantic drivers that threw a sheet of fire from the sanded rails.
"Jump!" screamed Ben, useless as he knew it was. What voice could live
in that hell of noise? What man escape from that cab now?
One, two, three, four cars pounded over the split rails in half as many
seconds. Ben, running dizzily for life to the right, heard above the
roar of the storm and screech of the sliding wheels a ripping, tearing
crash, the harsh scrape of escaping steam, the hoarse cries of the
wounded cattle. And through the dreadful dark and the fury of the babel
the wind howled in a gale and the heavens poured a flood.
Trembling from excitement and exhaustion, Ben staggered down the main
track. A man with a lantern ran against him; it was the brakeman who had
been back with the torpedoes; he was crying hysterically.
They stumbled over a body. Seizing the lantern, Ben turned the prostrate
man over and wiped the mud from his face. Then he held the lantern
close, and gave a great cry. It was Andy Cameron--unconscious, true, but
soon very much alive, and no worse than badly bruised. How the good God
who watches over plucky engineers had thrown him out from the horrible
wreckage only He knew. But there Andy lay; and with a lighter heart Ben
headed a wrecking crew to begin the task of searching for any who might
by fatal chance have been caught in the crash.
And while the trainmen of the freights worked at the wreck the
passenger-train was backed slowly--so slowly and so smoothly--up over
the switch and past, over the hill and past, and so to Turner Junction,
and around by Oxford to Zanesville.
When the sun rose the earth glowed in the freshness of its June
shower-bath. The flyer, now many miles from Beverly Hill, was speeding
in towards Omaha, and mothers waking their little ones in the berths
told them how close death had passed while they slept. The little girls
did not quite understand it, though they tried very hard, and were very
grateful to That Man, whom they never saw and whom they would never see.
But the little boys--never mind the little boys--they understood it, to
the youngest urchin on the train, and fifty times their papas had to
tell them how far Ben ran and how fast to save their lives. And one
little boy--I wish I knew his name--went with his papa to the
depot-master at Omaha when the flyer stopped, and gave him his toy
watch, and asked him please to give it to That Man who had saved his
mamma's life by running so far in the rain, and please to tell him how
much obliged he was--if he would be so kind.
So the little toy watch came to our superintendent, and so to me; and I,
sitting at Cameron's bedside, talking the wreck over with Ben, gave it
to him; and the big fellow looked as pleased as if it had been a
jewelled chronometer; indeed, that was the only medal Ben got.
The truth is we had no gold medals to distribute out on the West End in
those days. We gave Ben the best we had, and that was a passenger run.
But he is a great fellow among the railroad men. And on stormy nights
switchmen in the Zanesville yards, smoking in their shanties, still tell
of that night, that storm, and how Ben Buckley threw Second
Seventy-Seven at the foot of Beverly Hill.
The Kid Engineer
When the big strike caught us at Zanesville we had one hundred and
eighty engineers and firemen on the pay-roll. One hundred and
seventy-nine of these men walked out. One fireman--just one--stayed with
the company; that was Dad Hamilton.
"Yes," growled Dad, combating the protests of the strikers' committee,
"I know it. I belong to your lodge. But I'll tell you now--an' I've told
you afore--I ain't goin' to strike on the company so long as Neighbor is
master-mechanic on this division. Ain't a-goin' to do it, an' you might
as well quit. 'F you jaw here from now till Christmas 'twon't change my
mind nar a bit."
And they didn't change it. Through the calm and through the storm--and
it stormed hard for a while--Dad Hamilton, whenever we could supply him
with an engineer, fired religiously.
No other man in the service could have done it without getting killed;
but Dad was old enough to father any man among the strikers. Moreover,
he was a giant physically, and eccentric enough to move along through
the heat of the crisis indifferent to the abuse of the other men. His
gray hairs and his tremendous physical strength saved him from personal
violence.
Our master-mechanic, "Neighbor," was another big man--six feet an inch
in his stockings, and strong as a draw-bar. Between Neighbor and the old
fireman there existed some sort of a bond--a liking, an affinity. Dad
Hamilton had fired on our division ten years. There was no promotion for
Dad; he could never be an engineer, though only Neighbor knew why. But
his job of firing on the river division was sure as long as Neighbor
signed the pay-rolls at the round-house.
Hence there was no surprise when the superintendent offered him an
engine, just after the strike, that Dad refused to take it.
"I'm a fireman, and Neighbor knows it. I ain't no engineer. I'll make
steam for any man you put in the cab with me, but I won't touch a
throttle for no man. I laid it down, and I'll never pinch it again--an'
no offence t' you, Neighbor, neither."
Thus ended negotiations with Dad on that subject; threats and entreaties
were useless. Then, too, in spite of his professed willingness to throw
coal for any man we put on his engine, he was continually rowing about
the green runners we gave him. From the standpoint of a railroad man
they were a tough assortment; for a fellow may be a good painter, or a
handy man with a jack-plane, or an expert machinist, even, and yet a
failure as an engine-runner.
After we got hold of Foley, Neighbor put him on awhile with Dad, and the
grizzled fireman quickly declared that Foley was the only man on the
pay-roll who knew how to move a train.
The little chap proved such a remarkable find that I tried hard to get
some of his Eastern chums to come out and join him. After a good bit of
hustling we did get half a dozen more Reading boys for our new corps of
engine-men, but the East-End officials kept all but one of them on
their own divisions. That one we got because nobody on the East End
wanted him.
"They've crimped the whole bunch, Foley," said I, answering his
inquiries. "There's just one fellow reported here--he came in on 5 this
morning. Neighbor's had a little talk with him; but he doesn't think
much of him. I guess we're out the transportation on that fellow."
"What's his name?" asked Foley. "Is he off the Reading?"
"Claims he is; his name is McNeal--"
"McNeal?" echoed Foley, surprised. "Not Georgie McNeal?"
"I don't know what his first name is; he's nothing but a boy."
"Dark-complexioned fellow?"
"Perhaps you'd call him that; sort of soft-spoken."
"Georgie McNeal, sure's you're born. If you've got him you've got a
bird. He ran opposite me between New York and Philadelphia on the
limited. I want to see him, right off. If it's Georgie, you're all
right."
Foley's talk went a good ways with me any time. When I told Neighbor
about it he pricked up his ears. While we were debating, in rushed
Foley with the young fellow--the kid--as he called him. Neighbor made
another survey of the ground in short order: run a new line, as Foley
would have said. The upshot of it was that McNeal was assigned to an
engine straightway.
As luck would have it, Neighbor put the boy on the 244 with Dad
Hamilton; and Dad proceeded at once to make what Foley termed "a great
roar."
"What's the matter?" demanded Neighbor, roughly, when the old fireman
complained.
"If you're goin' to pull these trains with boys I guess it's time for me
to quit; I'm gettin' pretty old, anyhow."
"What's the matter?" growled Neighbor, still surlier, knowing full well
that if the old fellow had a good reason he would have blurted it out at
the start.
"Nothin's the matter; only I'd like my time."
"You won't get it," said Neighbor, roughly. "Go back on your run. If
McNeal don't behave, report him to me, and he'll get his time."
It was a favorite trick of Neighbor's. Whenever the old fireman got to
"bucking" about his engineer, the master-mechanic threatened to
discharge the engineer. That settled it; Dad Hamilton wouldn't for the
world be the cause of throwing another man out of a job, no matter how
little he liked him.
The old fellow went back to work mollified; but it was evident that he
and McNeal didn't half get on together. The boy was not much of a
talker; yet he did his work well; and Neighbor said, next to Foley, he
was the best man we had.
"What's the reason Hamilton and McNeal can't hit it off, Foley?" I asked
one night.
"They'll get along all right after a while," predicted Foley. "You know
the old man's stubborn as a dun mule, ain't he? The injectors bother
Georgie some; they did me. He'll get used to things. But Dad thinks he's
green--that's what's the matter. The kid is high-spirited, and seeing
the old man's kind of got it in for him he won't ask him anything. Dad's
sore about that, too. Georgie won't knuckle to anybody that don't treat
him right."
"You'd better tell McNeal to humor the old crank," I suggested; and I
believe Foley did so, but it didn't do any good. Sometimes those things
have to work themselves out without outside help. In the end this thing
did, but in a way none of us looked for.
About a week later Foley came into the office one morning very much
excited.
"Did you hear about the boy's getting pounded last night--Georgie
McNeal? It's a shame the way these fellows act. Three of the strikers
piled on him while he was going into the post-office, and thumped the
life out of him. The cowardly hounds, to jump on a man's back that way!"
"Foley," said I, "that's the first time they've tackled one of Dad
Hamilton's engineers."
"They'd never have done it if they thought there was any danger of Dad's
getting after them. They know he doesn't like the boy."
"It's an outrage; but we can't do anything. You know that. Tell McNeal
to keep away from the post-office. We'll get his mail for him."
"I told him that this morning. He's in bed, and looks pretty hard. But
he won't dodge those fellows. He claims it's a free country," grinned
Foley. "But I told him he'd get over that idea if he stuck out this
trouble."
It was three days before McNeal was able to report for work, though he
received full time just the same. Even then he wasn't fit for duty, but
he begged Neighbor for his run until he got it. The strikers were
jubilant while the boy was laid up; but just what Dad thought no one
could find out. I wanted to tell the old growler what I thought of him,
but Foley said it wouldn't do any good, and might do harm, so I held my
peace.
One might have thought that the injustice and brutality of the thing
would have roused him; but men who have repressed themselves till they
are gray-headed don't rise in a hurry to resent a wrong. Dad kept as
mute as the Sphinx. When McNeal was ready to go out the old fireman had
the 244 shining; but if the pale face of his engineer had any effect on
him, he kept it to himself.
As they rattled down the line with a long stock-train that night neither
of them referred to the break in their run. Coming back next night the
same silence hung over the cab. The only words that passed over the
boiler-head were "strickly business," as Dad would say.
At Oxford they were laid out by a Pullman special. It was three o'clock
in the morning and raining hard. Under such circumstances an hour seems
all night. At last Dad himself broke the unsupportable silence.
"He'd have waited a good bit longer if he had waited for me to talk,"
said the boy, telling Foley afterwards.
"Heard you got licked," growled Dad, after tinkering with the fire for
the twentieth time.
"I didn't get licked," retorted Georgie; "I got clubbed. I never had a
chance to fight."
"These fellows hate to see a boy come out and take a man's job. Can't
blame 'em much, neither."
"Whose job did I take?" demanded Georgie, angrily. "Was any one of
those cowards that jumped on me in the dark looking for work on this
engine?"
There was nothing to say to that. Dad kept still.
"You talk about men," continued the young fellow. "If I am not more of a
man than to slug a fellow from behind, the way they slugged me, I'll get
off this engine and stay off. If that's what you call men out here I
don't want to be a man. I'll go back to Pennsylvania."
"Why didn't you stay there?" growled Dad.
"Why didn't you?"
Without attempting to return the shot, Dad pulled nervously at the
chain.
"If I hadn't been fool enough to go out on a strike I might have been
running there yet," continued Georgie.
"Ought to have kept away from the post-office," grumbled Dad, after a
pause.
"I get a letter twice a week that I think more of than I do of this
whole road, and I propose to go to the post-office and get it without
asking anybody's permission."
"They'll pound you again."
Georgie looked out into the storm. "Well, why shouldn't they? I've got
no friends."
"Got a girl back in Pennsylvania?"
"Yes, I've got a girl there," replied the boy, as the rain tore at the
cab window. "I've had a girl there a good while. She's gray-headed and
sixty years old--that's my girl--and if she can write letters to me, I
can get them out of the post-office without a guardian."
"There she comes," said Dad, as the headlight of the Pullman special
shone faint ahead through the mist.