These words to me from Bullard,
first class engine driver of the Chicago, Burlington &
Quincy, a long, loosely‑jointed man with the eye
and build of a scout. As he spoke they were coupling us to the mail
cars in
preparation for the start. In overalls and sweater I came, with
typewritten
authority to make the run that night. This was in the first week in
January,
the second time Bullard had drawn the throttle for Burlington on
the new fast schedule. Burlington lay off there in Iowa, on the Mississippi, with all the night and all the State of Illinois between us.
Now the train stood ready, three
mail cars and the engine, not a stick
besides. No Pullman
comforts here, no bunks for sleeping, no
man aboard who had the right to sleep. Everything was hustle and
business.
Already the mail clerks were swarming at the pouches, like printers on
a rush
edition. You could see those last bags swung in through the panel
doors! Not
even the president of the road could ride here without a permit from
the
government.
Bullard took up a red, smoking
torch, and looked Number 590 over. He
filled her cups and proded a two‑foot oiler into her rods and bearings.
Dan
Cleary, the fireman, looked out of his window on the left, and chewed
complacently. Down the track beside him locomotive 1309 backed up, a
first‑class
engine she, but Number 590 bulked over her as the king of a herd might
over
some good, ordinary working elephant.
As she stood here then, purring
through her black iron throat, Number
590 measured 16 feet, three inches from rails to stack top. Both
engines blew
out steam, that rolled up in silver clouds to the electric lights.
Cleary told
that he was testing the brakes. Under each car 16 iron shoes closed
against 16
wheels and stayed there. Down the length of the train went the repair
man with
his kit to make sure that every contact was right. He then pulled a
rope four
times at the rear, whereupon four hissing signals answered in the cab.
Bullard
shuts off the air.
'It's all there was to stop her with,' he said, 'so
we take no chances
with it. She's got high‑speed brakes on her, Number 590 has 110 pounds
to the
inch. Twenty‑four, Dan,' he added, and snapped his watch. We start at
thirty.'
Dan chewed on. 'Bad
wind tonight,' he said, 'regular gale.'
Bullard nods. 'I know it. We're
15 minutes late, too. Make Burlington on time?'
'Got to.
You hit it
up, and I'll skin her. Twenty‑six, Dan.' Four minutes to wait. Two
station
officials come up with polite inquiries. The thermometer was falling,
they
said, and we would have it bitter cold over the plains. They reached up
with
cordial handshakes. I pulled my cap down, and took my stand behind
Bullard. Our
side of the cab was quite cut off from the fireman's side by a swelling
girth
of boiler, which left an alleyway on either side wide enough for a
man's body
and no widen Bullard and I were in the right‑hand alleyway, Bullard's
back and
black cap just before me. Dan with his shovel was out on a shaky steel
shelf
behind, that bridged the space between engine and tender. This was
where he
worked, poor lad! We were breathing coal dust and torch smoke and warm
oil.
'F‑s‑s‑s‑s‑s,'
came the signal, and instantly we were moving. Lights flashed about us
everywhere, green lights, white lights, red lights, a phantasmagoria of
drugstore bottles. The tracks shone yellow far ahead. A steady jarring
and
pounding began and grew like the roar of battle. The cab heaved with
the
tugging of a captive balloon. Our speed increased amazingly. We seemed
constantly on the point of running straight through blocks of houses,
and only
escaped by sudden and disconcerting swayings around curves that all
lead, one
will vow, straight into black chasms under the dazzle. Whoever rode
here for
the first time felt' that he was ticketed for sure destruction,
understanding
that this plunging engine must necessarily go off the rails in two or
three
minutes, say five minutes at the latest. For what guidance, he would
reason,
could any man get from a million crazy lights, and who that was human
could
avoid a snarl in such a tangle of bumping switches? I am free to
confess, for
my own part, that I found the first half hour of my ride on 590
absolutely
terrifying.
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