the yard hand said as he was straining, red-faced. “Don’t want to break it!”
“Come on! Come on!” I cried out as I put my weight firm but steady on the bar.
It was a matter of odds now: the downhill grade, the strength of the chain, the makeshift brake handle, the coaches’ weight, and Newton’s law, but thankfully, miraculously, we started to slow, and eventually, very slowly, the coaches came to a creeping stop.
The young fellow and I kept holding the pressure on the bar.
“Marshal,” the young fellow said. “There’s a set of chalk blocks there under the first seats.”
Virgil grabbed the two wooden wedges made of oak that were bound together with thick rope. He jumped from the platform to the ground, knocked one block under one wheel and, after a moment, wedged the other under another wheel.
“Okay,” Virgil called out.
The yard hand looked to me, and we let off on the leverage of the bar. The coach moved a bit, but no more. We were stopped.
“There you go,” Virgil called out.
The yard hand and me leaned back against the coach platform wall and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Lightning flashed again, and it was shockingly bright as Virgil climbed the steps. He growled like a coyote as he set foot back on the platform.
“George—by God—Westinghouse.”
28
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, son?” Virgil asked the young yard hand.
He took off his spectacles and wiped the sweat from the lenses with a pocket handkerchief.
“Lee, as in Robert E.,” he said. “Folks, though, call me Whip, on account I’m good with one.”
“You work on trains?” Virgil said.
“I do.”
“I got a question, Whip,” Virgil said.
“Sir?”
“As you know, we got a hell of a situation with this train. Part of it is headed north, part of it headed south, and of course this part, these two cars, are sitting stopped right here in the middle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think there’s a way for you to repair the handbrake on the downhill coach?” Virgil said.
“I can have a look underneath,” Whip said, “see if I can figure out what the situation is.”
“Good,” Virgil said. “What we need to do is leave this uphill car right where it is with the women and the law-abiding others and get the downhill coach disconnected, rolling freely and headed south on this downgrade.”
Whip gave Virgil a sharp nod.
“I’ll have a look,” Whip said.
Whip gathered up the lantern and the pinch bar and stepped off the platform.
“Need a hand?” I said.
“I’ll holler at ya if I do,” Whip said, and he was off.
I stepped into the coach, took out the matches the undertaker had stuffed in my coat pocket, and got one of the lamps burning. The passengers were, for the most part, wide-eyed and uneasy. Some of them were asking questions about what was going to happen, some were just talking to be talking, and some remained silent, but they were all unsettled and afraid.
Virgil moved past me, and I followed him as he walked slowly down the aisle.
“Everybody,” Virgil said. “Let me vow to you, right here where you are is the safest place you could be. So do me the good deed of remaining pleasant and unparticular.”
The chubby man offered us a cigar as we walked by.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Virgil said.
Virgil lit the cigar and, after he got it going good, thanked the fellow, and we walked out the back door. Virgil shared the same safety information with the passengers in the rear coach, and then we stepped out the door and onto the downhill platform.
Light was shining from underneath the downhill coach, where young Whip was already fussing with something. It sounded like he was trying to break some piece of metal away from another piece of metal.
Virgil and I stood on the platform under the coach overhang, watching the rain continue to fall.
“Hell of a ruckus we got ourselves in,” I said.
“Is,” Virgil said.
“Bad bunch we are dealing with.”
“Don’t
“Come on! Come on!” I cried out as I put my weight firm but steady on the bar.
It was a matter of odds now: the downhill grade, the strength of the chain, the makeshift brake handle, the coaches’ weight, and Newton’s law, but thankfully, miraculously, we started to slow, and eventually, very slowly, the coaches came to a creeping stop.
The young fellow and I kept holding the pressure on the bar.
“Marshal,” the young fellow said. “There’s a set of chalk blocks there under the first seats.”
Virgil grabbed the two wooden wedges made of oak that were bound together with thick rope. He jumped from the platform to the ground, knocked one block under one wheel and, after a moment, wedged the other under another wheel.
“Okay,” Virgil called out.
The yard hand looked to me, and we let off on the leverage of the bar. The coach moved a bit, but no more. We were stopped.
“There you go,” Virgil called out.
The yard hand and me leaned back against the coach platform wall and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Lightning flashed again, and it was shockingly bright as Virgil climbed the steps. He growled like a coyote as he set foot back on the platform.
“George—by God—Westinghouse.”
28
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, son?” Virgil asked the young yard hand.
He took off his spectacles and wiped the sweat from the lenses with a pocket handkerchief.
“Lee, as in Robert E.,” he said. “Folks, though, call me Whip, on account I’m good with one.”
“You work on trains?” Virgil said.
“I do.”
“I got a question, Whip,” Virgil said.
“Sir?”
“As you know, we got a hell of a situation with this train. Part of it is headed north, part of it headed south, and of course this part, these two cars, are sitting stopped right here in the middle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think there’s a way for you to repair the handbrake on the downhill coach?” Virgil said.
“I can have a look underneath,” Whip said, “see if I can figure out what the situation is.”
“Good,” Virgil said. “What we need to do is leave this uphill car right where it is with the women and the law-abiding others and get the downhill coach disconnected, rolling freely and headed south on this downgrade.”
Whip gave Virgil a sharp nod.
“I’ll have a look,” Whip said.
Whip gathered up the lantern and the pinch bar and stepped off the platform.
“Need a hand?” I said.
“I’ll holler at ya if I do,” Whip said, and he was off.
I stepped into the coach, took out the matches the undertaker had stuffed in my coat pocket, and got one of the lamps burning. The passengers were, for the most part, wide-eyed and uneasy. Some of them were asking questions about what was going to happen, some were just talking to be talking, and some remained silent, but they were all unsettled and afraid.
Virgil moved past me, and I followed him as he walked slowly down the aisle.
“Everybody,” Virgil said. “Let me vow to you, right here where you are is the safest place you could be. So do me the good deed of remaining pleasant and unparticular.”
The chubby man offered us a cigar as we walked by.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Virgil said.
Virgil lit the cigar and, after he got it going good, thanked the fellow, and we walked out the back door. Virgil shared the same safety information with the passengers in the rear coach, and then we stepped out the door and onto the downhill platform.
Light was shining from underneath the downhill coach, where young Whip was already fussing with something. It sounded like he was trying to break some piece of metal away from another piece of metal.
Virgil and I stood on the platform under the coach overhang, watching the rain continue to fall.
“Hell of a ruckus we got ourselves in,” I said.
“Is,” Virgil said.
“Bad bunch we are dealing with.”
“Don’t
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