While Sean slept, curled up in a corner of the boxcar, the big Mikado locomotive began to slow down as she glided around a broad curve near the lakefront of Lake Pontchartrain. This broad curve was the longest railroad curve in the world. The company men knew it, the track supervisors knew it. The train crews knew it and it was referred to as 'That Big Ass Curve by the lake'. This curve took the Illinois Central around the lake and north to Jackson, Mississippi, then on to Chicago, Illinois. The big Mikado tooted his whistle as he passed a section gang and their small open motorcar sitting on a siding. Once the long freight had passed, they would finish their work and return to New Orleans for the day as the sun began to set, casting a fireball glow across the huge lake. After passing this siding, the tracks crossed the wooden trestle over the Bonnet Carre spillway and floodway, the same place that Sean's grandfather Samuel was killed when the earthen embankment caved in during the flood of 1915. The men of the ICRR knew one thing - never trust the lake. This whole area was mostly water; New Orleans was surrounded by it. You had the lake to the north of the city and the Mississippi River on the southern side. When it rained, you had few choices; you manned the dikes, toting 100-pound sandbags to protect the city and your home or you headed for the nearest high ground which was miles away. The Illinois Central Railroad took over the New Orleans, Jackson and Great Northern in 1885 and since then had spent more money on trying to improve the earthen dam and spillway to protect its track and investments in the huge port and grain elevators located near the waterfront of the Mississippi River. It was an ongoing war, fought by everyone who lived and worked in this area. The bridge timbers creaked and moaned under the 150,000 pound locomotive and tender, and the train eased on across and soon was back on solid ground. The sun had slipped from the sky and now the full moon hovered over the bayou country, and the bright headlight cut a path of daylight through the darkness. Sean began to stir awake. He slowly opened his eyes in the darkness, at first trying to remember where he was. Then he remembered he was on board a freight train, headed north away from his past. He rubbed the dirt and grime off his face and blinked his eyelids open, then closed. The soft long eye lashes gave him a softer than normal boyish look. He stood and walked across the bouncing, rocking floor of the boxcar to the open door and sat down.
Sean watched the rolling landscape as he sat in the open door of the boxcar. He did not know how long he had slept. The sky was dark and the moon shining brightly. He saw flickers of light as they passed houses near the tracks of the Illinois Central line. The big engine sounded a warning cry as it passed by a small wood station, which bore the name in white letters - Akers. The train began to slow as he peered out to see why. He was greeted with a tall signal up ahead of the train with a bright red light shining into the darkness. He could tell by the engine headlight that a drawbridge was in the up position, waiting for a small lake steamer to pass under, going from Lake Pontchartrain to the smaller lake, Maurepas. The brakes on the cars screeched as they slowed, then the slack in the cars began to run in. Each time one stopped completely, there was a large bang as the couplers clanged together. The big engine let off steam and began to pant, waiting on the slow steam tug to pass under the raised steel and iron bridge. Sean smiled and thought 'big boy is getting impatient with his little friend on the lake'. Sean heard a voice in the darkness; it was the conductor walking along the side of the train, looking at the brakes and journals on the trucks where the wheels rolled.
"They all look good so far, Scott, on this side."
"Yeah, Joe, they all tight over here and well greased. I don't see any leaking out the grease from the packing."
Sean stepped back from the open door of the Western Maryland boxcar. He was not far from the front of the train, about 10 cars in fact behind the locomotive.
"I wonder has John found any up front of the train, like he really has time to listen for them, but shoveling coal is a pain in the ass," Scott said as he walked to the next car.
"Yeah, it is, I did it for two years, then decided I wanted to be a conductor and ride in the angel's seat of the caboose," said Joe.
"Hey, Scott, get your butt over here, we might have a hobo on our train!"
"What's up, Joe?"
"This Western Maryland box got a open door on my side. What about on yours?"
"This side is closed and locked," called out Scott.
"Well, come over here and let's see what extra cargo we got to throw to the fishes while we wait for that old tug to pass under the bridge."
"A'right, Joe," Scott said, and he began to crawl under the center of the car.
Sean heard the two men and knew he had no way out. Would he meet his parents tonight? He shivered at that dark thought as it raced through his mind. He heard the one named Scott crawling beneath the car and saw the lantern the one named Joe was holding at the open door. Sean felt the sweat forming on his brow and reached deep into his pockets to find the gold coins. He fished them out and placed them in his shoe. The pocket watch would just have to stay in his pants pocket where it was.
Joe stepped closer to the open door as Scott moved beside him, in case there was trouble. Hobos in general were a'right people, lazy but pretty much OK with the trainmen, never causing trouble, just looking for a free ride on the high iron. Then you had your troublemakers who enjoyed causing as much pain and trouble as they could to the brakemen, engineers, and everyone else who got in their way. They would build fires inside boxcars to stay warm. It would burn holes in the floor. They would put ties across the rails to stop the train so they could jump on. You name it, they tried to do it.
Joe nodded to Scott and then opened the heavy wood door some more so he could look around inside the car. Then he decided he would call out and see if he had a good bo or a bad bo. "Anyone in here?" he shouted, then he raised his lantern and looked inside. He got his answer to both of his questions, the two that raced through his mind. He saw in the right corner a teenager shivering from fear. He looked at Scott. "It is OK, we got a frightened boy but no one dangerous."
"Come on, lad, come here, I want to talk to you. I won't hurt you, neither will my brakeman Scott."
Sean stood on shaky legs and slowly walked forward to the man holding the lantern. He stood in the open doorway.
"Hop down. I am Joe and this Scott."
Sean climbed down out of the boxcar and walked over to the two men. "My name is Sean Davis, sirs."
"Well, Sean, I have one question for you. Where are you going, son?"
"Sir, anywhere I can find work and to escape New Orleans."
"Why do you want to escape New Orleans?" asked Joe, his tone of voice hard.
"My entire family was killed two days ago in a fire that swept through our tenant building. I could not stand the city, being alone. I want to find a new life far from there as I could. I have no other kin people except for an aunt and uncle in Chicago. They are on my mother's side but we have not talked to them in a long time. My mother said there was bad blood following the Civil War and my grandfather and mother quit talking to them."
"I see," said Joe. "Well, Scott, we will let him ride in the caboose with us for a while. No need for the poor boy to ride in the drafty boxcar all the way to Chicago." Joe did not know if he should believe this kid's story or not, but with him riding in the caboose, he could find out rather quickly and, if he was lying, off the back of the caboose he would go.
The three stood in silence as the steam tug tooted her sharp whistle as she cleared the open drawbridge with her tow of barges. The big steam engine blasted a loud toot back at the steamer.
"Come on, Sean and Scott, time to get back to the crummy before the bridge tender lowers the span and Bill highballs out of here without us." The three walked back toward the caboose as they heard the big machinery kick in gear to lower the bridge. They walked past the 40 cars making up the rest of the train, then climbed aboard the wood caboose. Joe blew out the lantern and rehung it on the railing. Then they entered the caboose. Kerosene lamps hung on the walls and the brass reflectors cast the light out, lighting the caboose. The big desk had paperwork and the running orders for the mixed freight train, along with the waybills for each car on the train. A large leather chair was behind the desk, and bunks for sleeping lined the wall in the forward section of the caboose. A big tin ice chest sat against the opposite wall from the desk and a potbelly stove sat next to it with a pot of coffee on top. The big desk doubled as a table when the men riding the caboose ate while the train was traveling down the track. There was even a sink in the corner for washing up and doing the dishes, along with a toilet located in a small room under the ladder leading to the cupola and the seats up there. Sean just stood looking around this homely caboose. Each one was different because each was assigned to its conductor, so each had a special touch.
"Very nice caboose, sir," said Sean.
"Why thank you, Sean. Have ever been in one before?"
"Yes sir, my father worked in the roundhouse in New Orleans before he was killed. I would sit on top of the small hill at the beginning of the yard and watch the trains come in and leave when I had nothing else to do. Other times I would help out pa in the roundhouse and would get to see a caboose when it was shoved to the repair track for servicing or repairs."
"Your father worked in the roundhouse, you say. For this railroad?"
"Yes sir, his name was Charles Davis. He did mostly boiler work but sometimes helped the repair men when they were trying to catch up if they got a busy spell."
Scott whistled low and softly. "I knew your father, Sean. We used to play a little poker and would talk in the break room. He was a fine man. I am sorry you lost him. He was a good friend of mine. I wish I had known about it sooner and I would have tried to send flowers to the funeral."
Joe looked over at Sean who now had tears in his eyes as they streamed down his face. "Sean, I am so sorry for your loss. At first I did not know whether to trust you or not on your story; now I do. I also knew Charles; he worked on this very caboose, he fixed the roof on old #600 here not two months ago." Joe walked over to Sean and hugged him tightly. "You're safe with us and you can ride as far as we are going. Now, come on, Sean, let's climb up top to the angel's seat and enjoy the cool night air."
Sean climbed the iron rungs up to the seats and sat down. Joe followed him and sat beside him. The big locomotive blew her warning whistle and Scott on the rear platform raised his lantern in a high arc, signaling the engineer, giving him the highball sign, then hung the lantern back on the railing next to the one with the clear globe. The caboose carried three lanterns, one with a clear globe for walking the tracks and looking, one with a green globe, the one Scott had just replaced, and one with a red globe which was used in case of danger on the track and to flag other trains in case of a accident.
The engineer gave another short blast on the whistle to signal the brakeman and the conductor that he saw the lantern and then also to the bridge tender when the big semaphore raised its red board and the light shone green, meaning a clear track ahead.
Scott climbed the rungs and sat down on the other seat on the opposite side of the car. The center area was open in the cupola to allow passage from one end of the car to the other. Scott picked up his harmonica and put it to his lips and began to play old songs. Sean recognized the first one as the Yellow Rose of Texas. The big engine began to pant harder as the engineer pulled the throttle back, the big drivers bit into the rail as air shot sand onto the rails for traction to get the heavy train under way. The engine began to slowly move and then began to pick up speed, the couplers between the cars clanged as they were pulled tight and began to roll. Sean back in the caboose now knew he would have to brace himself as he heard the couplers clanging up front as the train started to move. He put his feet against a rail on the floor and held tightly on. Joe smiled, he was about to mention to Sean about holding on to something when the train started moving but he saw this was a son of a Railroader. The cars continued to clang as the engine began to ease across the big bridge, then came the jerk they were waiting for. Sean was jerked back in his seat as the caboose began to roll, the click-clack of the rails echoing up to his ears. 'Ahh,' he thought, 'this is what it is like to ride in the angel's seat.' He stuck his head out the open window enough so he could see up ahead. The semaphore and its green light passed a few feet away from his head and they began to cross the big bridge. Sean waved at the bridge tender as they passed by; he smiled and waved back, then asked himself 'who was the kid' and smiled again. The big engine whistled again as it cleared the bridge and began to pick up speed as the rails began to hum beneath her big drivers. Back in the caboose, Sean was smiling ear to ear as the wind blew his brown hair back and his eyes began to water from the coal cinders coming from the stack of the locomotive. He called out to no one but at everyone, "Pa, I understand what you meant now; once Railroading does get in your blood, you're a railroad man for life!" Joe looked over when he heard those words and felt misty-eyed as he thought, 'Sean, my boy, I know what you mean by shouting out those words. Railroading is in the blood.' He should know, he was the 3rd generation in his family to ride these rails and he hoped he was not the last in his family. Joe reached over and patted Sean on the back. Sean turned and looked at the two smiling men. As if to have heard Sean's words too, the big engine blasted a long cry as it passed over a road crossing. Sean looked up into the skies at the full moon and said softly, "Papa, I hope you can see me now." Scott put his harmonica back to his lips and started to play the Wabash Cannonball. Sean just beamed as Joe's voice came in with the words to the song. Joe's voice was soft, his hair a dirty blond, he stood about 5'9 and weighed about 145; his skin was a pale smooth milky white, with handsome blue eyes. He was part Italian and the rest all American. Scott on the other hand was slender, with dark brown hair, deep tanned skin, and stood about 5'7 and weighed around 155. His hazel eyes seemed to shine when he was happy. These two men loved their job and were proud of it. They both thought 'who could not be proud to work for such a grand road as the Illinois Central - The Main Line of Mid-America.'
Sean rode on now with his head propped against the back of the chair, feet up on the front window seat, listening to the two men as they played and sang the old railroad song. Sean leaned up for a moment to adjust the pocket watch in his pocket. Joe saw this as a chance and placed his arm on Sean's seat. When he leaned back he felt Joe's arm and felt a little more safe. Joe smiled inside that the boy did not jerk back up when he felt the arm on the back of his neck. Scott winked at Joe as he continued to play as the caboose rocked along the tracks at 50 miles per hour. They passed through the Louisiana swampland, passing the sugarcane plantations and the rice fields, then on through fields of cotton, passing small towns and dirt roads and the old plantation houses set off in the distance. Shanty lights shined from windows as the slow pace of life continued for these humble people.
The bell rang as the train passed over the dirt road crossings and the whistle sounded her mournful cry as they raced along the rails, heading north. Sean felt the air brakes begin to engage as the train began to slow down. The big brass bell began to toll as the engine slowed to a crawl and Sean leaned out the window to see John climb down from the tender and run ahead to a switch. He pulled out his key and inserted it in the lock. He turned the key and the heavy lock opened and he picked up the handle out of the slot and rotated it and the rails turned to guide the train onto a siding. John dropped the handle back into the proper slot and boarded the engine once again and they crept over the switch and into the long passing siding. The air brakes hissed as they began to slow the train down and brake shoes screeched as they rubbed against the wheels. Scott flicked on a small light above his head and opened his silver pocket watch - 8:30. "Joe, we're right on time for the southbound Cannonball. Sean looked ahead and saw the home signal, a double semaphore with one of its blades high in the air, showing a green light, while the other was in lowered position, showing red for the train he was on. The station sign read Ponchatoula. Scott climbed down the rungs to the floor of the caboose and Joe motioned for Sean to do the same; he climbed down, followed by Joe. The three walked to the back platform to wait on the southbound Cannonball to pass. Joe lit the red and green hand lanterns while the big rear end markers burned brightly in the darkness. The big rear end markers served two purposes, to warn trains following and to let the engineer know that his train was still intact and that he had not lost part of his train. They showed red toward the rear and green forward towards the locomotive. Minutes passed as they waited for the crack passenger train to come down the line. Scott stepped down and began to walk toward the locomotive to speak with John and motioned for Sean to come with him. Sean climbed down the rear steps onto the crushed rock and cinders and followed beside Scott. Scott passed the lantern in his hand to Sean.
"There ya go, make you look like a real railroader!" Scott smiled and Sean beamed. Neither of them saw the expression on Joe's face - it was a pure smile. Joe thought, 'That is one fine lad walking beside his best friend.'
Sean and Scott talked as they walked, learning about each other and railroading in general. Sean learned that Scott was a 2nd generation railroad man; his father was a clerk in Jackson, Mississippi. Scott also told Sean that Joe was a 3rd generation railroader and that his father was track supervisor on the Grenada district in north Mississippi. They came to the big panting steam locomotive, her headlight dimmed while waiting on the passenger train. The Engineer stuck his head out the cab window.
"Hey, Scott, who you got this time totin' your lantern?"
"This is Sean Davis from New Orleans. He is riding with us." Scott smiled.
"Howdy, I am Bill or, as the boys like to call me, Wild Bill."
"Nice to meet you, sir."
"Aww hell, no 'sir' to it, just Bill, my young friend. So why you riding this here freight train?"
Scott spoke for Sean. "Bill, this is Charles Davis' son. You know he was killed two days ago in a fire at his tenant building. Sean here is escaping the memories of that since he lost his whole family in that fire, so Joe and I decided he was going to ride with us in the caboose."
"I am so sorry to hear of the passing of your father, my boy. If I can do anything, just ask me. I will be more than happy to try and do it. We'll be on our way once old number 9 passes us here. John is at the station, talking to the operator, finding out how long we will be stuck here. This old boy will soon be thirsty and hungry and I like to keep old 1200 here well fed."
"You know my pa helped build #1200?" spoke Sean.
"He and the rest did a fine damn job on him too."
John walked across the track and over to where Sean and Scott stood talking to Bill. "Hey, Scott, I see you got a helper tonight." John stuck out his hand after removing his glove. "I am John. Nice to meet you." "Sean Davis." Sean shook John's hand.
A long blast from a whistle broke the night as a headlight rounded the curve. Engine number #946 rounded the curve, her drivers flashing in the headlight of #1200. The sharp 4-6-0 ten-wheeler sounded her whistle again as it passed the station, then another at the crew of #1200. Bill yanked the whistle cord to #946 in reply to the other engine. The engineer waved at Bill and they all waved back as the steamer roared past, followed by the dark green Pullman passenger cars with Illinois Central painted in gold leaf. The 12 cars passed in a flash, the wheels pounding the frog in the switch. Then there was nothing but the receding red glow of her markers along the track. They heard the chain of the semaphore being raised as the board changed from red to green.
"Sean, go back to the caboose and I will throw the switch and hop on once I line it back for the main."
"Aww, hell, Scott, let the boy ride up here to Hammond. It is only 20 miles away. Let the boy ride what his father built with pride. Come on, Sean, climb aboard." John winked at Scott.
"Scott, go throw that switch. I got time to make up."
"Oh, God, not another speed race." And they all laughed.
Sean climbed the ladder mounted between the locomotive and tender. He was standing on the gangway that connected the tender and locomotive. It also gave a place for the fireman as he shoveled the coal from the tender to the firebox.
"Hop up in John's seat on the fireman's side. You can ring the bell and John will sit in the brakeman's seat, since we only got one brakie on this run."
Sean sat down in the seat that was still called the $2.00 seat from the old days when firemen made $2.00 a day, building the transconti- nental Railroad. "Ring the bell, Sean. See that cord? Pull on it, my boy, pull." John smiled as Sean grabbed the cord and pulled. The bell began to toll as the big engine released her brakes and began to move forward as Bill pulled back on the throttle. The big engine snorted and began to roll. They passed Scott standing at the switch and Sean waved at him and he saluted Sean. The big engine crossed the frog and the wheels clanged against the rails as it passed over. Once again they were on the main line. They eased ahead as they pulled out. Once the caboose had passed the switch, Scott lifted the handle and lined it back for the main line and mounted the caboose. Bill looked back and saw the high ball signal and then he pulled the throttle open. The big locomotive surged forward as more steam was let into the pistons that drove the connecting rods and they began to flash as they picked up speed. "You can let off that bell now, Sean," said John.
"OK." Sean let go of the rope.
"Since you're riding in my seat, here's what you got to do while I feed this old boy. See those big gauges in front of you?"
"I see them."
"Good, you have three right before your eyes. They are called sight glasses. The two with water in them are your most important; the one on the left shows how much water is in the boiler and covering the crown sheet. If it drops below that red line we're in trouble; that means there is not enough water to keep the crown sheet covered and the firebox is overheating the metal that separates it from the bottom of the boiler and, young man, you know what that means."
Sean looked at John, his eyes wide, "Yes, sir, it means we're going to have a boiler explosion and we won't be here to see the wrecking crew coming with the crane."
"Very good and correct. The one beside it shows the amount of water in the tender. When full, the tender holds 14,000 gallons of water as you can see on the gauge. We have about 4,000 gallons back there now, enough to get us to Hammond. Now here is your job for now. See those gloves on the toolbox beside your seat. Put them on because your task is this." Sean put the heavy wool gloves on and listened as John told him which way to turn the metal wheels to let more water from the tender to the boiler and how to watch the gauges showing air pressure for the train brakes, engine brakes, and other functions of the fireman. "Also you must be alert. After a few miles you will begin to hear this old boy talking to you like I am now. It will let you know when you don't do something right and Bill over there will yell at you when he sees his steam pressure dropping. Then when we get to Hammond he will scald both of our asses for making him lose time. Passenger train #9 was the first of four we will pass tonight on our way to Jackson, Mississippi and it is a sin for a freight train to delay one of them for a second. Same goes for the banana trains and the hot shot and red eye freights. This is a 3rd class train so we got three other classes to watch out for. Now the most important thing to remember. Following us is the pride of the line on a crack schedule; we do not delay her for one second. I repeat, we DO NOT DELAY THE PANAMA LIMITED. If we do, all of our asses on this freight train will be on the carpet in front of the Division superintendent. He will want an explanation of why we delayed her and if we do not give him one to his satisfaction, Bill, Scott, Joe, and me will be laid off for 30 days for that sin. Do you understand?"
Sean looked at John, then in his proudest voice he could muster under the stern gaze of the fireman, "Yes, sir, I will do my damnedest to get old #1200 into Hammond on time."
John smiled, "That is the spirit!" John picked up his fireman's scoop and started to feed lump coal into the firebox. The big door swung open every time John threw another shovelfull into the raging fire, highlighting him in a crimson glow as the heat flared up and out. Sean watched and learned as he watched the gauges before him and he watched the track through the tall narrow window in front of him at the front of the cab. He watched the mile markers flash by, and the telegraph poles looked like a picket fence as Bill poured on more steam. Sean looked over to the right side of the cab at Bill. He had a broad grin on his face, with his left hand on the throttle lever and his right on the window seal. He looked over at Sean and yelled, "Let's make John work for a while now, my boy," and he tugged the throttle open a little more. His speed gauge hovered on 65 miles per hour as the landscape flashed by. Sean watched ahead and learned when to start ringing the bell when they came to a road crossing and when to stop ringing it. He watched the gauges and, most of all, felt the pride inside himself swell. Here he was at 15, riding the High Iron in a locomotive that his very father had helped build and breathe life into. He was riding on the same rails that his grandfather passed over, headed north on the long freight trains on #99. 'Yes,' he thought, 'I know what it means to catch Iron Fever. I hope it never lets go of me, either.'
"Get that bell ringing, my boy. Ponchatoula is straight ahead!" Bill eased back on the throttle and the big engine began to slow and Sean watched as the boiler pressure began to rise since the big engine was not sending as much to the pistons that drove the 60" drivers.
Sean reached up and grabbed the bell cord and began to pull it. Over the noise in the cab he heard the crisp ring of the bell tolling their arrival. John sat down in the other seat behind Sean and wiped the sweat off his face. "Damn, you boys are trying to work me to the bone."
Sean looked at John as he continued to ring the bell. "How did I do, John?"
"You're doing fine, Sean, you're a born railroader!" John slapped Sean on the back.
Sean beamed at the compliment from John. They watched the small wood station come into view on their side of the tracks. A small 2-6-0 Mogul was sitting there on the siding, steam floating up from her generator powering the headlamp, light trails of smoke puffing from her stubby stack. The little engine was a relic in many people's eyes, built before the turn of the century in 1890, but she still did her job daily, switching the sidings and industries around this small town. The big Mikado glided past on the mainline, tooting the whistle at the little steamer and the short train of three cars and a caboose. The little steamer answered back with a short toot. The big double-armed semaphore showed a green light and the train passed by, with Sean ringing the bell until it passed the small wood station. Once past, Bill again picked up speed as he pulled the throttle back - ten miles to Hammond.
The ten miles flashed by as Bill gave the big locomotive as much steam as he dared to. The train crews lived by the working timetable listing all the trains on the line and where they had to meet and pass each other. Bill knew he had plenty of time to meet the southbound Panama Limited which was screaming through the night toward New Orleans at 100 MPH. He also knew there was a northbound #10 at Hammond, a local passenger train that he was to pass. He knew there were four passenger trains on the line and over 50 freights that he would have to meet before reaching Jackson, MS. Hammond was 53 miles from New Orleans. Sean watched the gauges, doing his best to please both John and Bill. He watched the sugarcane fields turn to corn and cotton fields as they headed north and into higher land elevations, leaving the swamps and bayous behind and, with each turn of the big drivers, a little farther from his smoking past, the moon shining brightly on the rails ahead. The tracks curved in and around hills and hollows and in other places straight as an arrow for a few miles, then another curve. Sean soon began to notice the flickering of lights scattered in the distance, then the switch to the yards. Bill closed the throttle on the big Mikado as he slowly engaged the air brakes on the engine and the rest of the train. The heavy steel shoes began to heat up as they rubbed the flanges of the wheels as the train slowed. Sean was ringing the bell when Bill looked over at him and nodded his approval of how fast Sean was learning the tricks of the trade. The harder you pulled the bell cord, the bell would ring faster and, if you pulled hard enough, the bell would start to swing on its own and you no longer had to pull it constantly. Up ahead at the station stood number #10 and her 10 car train of mail and passengers. Number 10 left New Orleans ahead of their train and would switch over to the western line running to Baton Rouge. Hammond was also the pick up point for freight for #1200 and its crew. The big Mikado eased up to the brick station, bell ringing to warn away the passengers waiting to board #10. The brakes hissed as they stopped. John told Sean to continue to ring the bell because of the passengers walking along the station platform and the surrounding areas of it. Bill had stopped his big Mikado pilot to pilot with the small 4-6-0 ten wheeler. The engineer of the ten wheeler stuck his head out his cab window and waved at John and Sean.
"Howdy, John, who's your new helper?"
"This is Sean Davis of New Orleans. He is earning his ride to Jackson, MS. He has."
"Sean Davis, son of Charles Davis who was killed in a tenant building not two days past?"
"Yeah, Keith, same young man."
"I am so sorry to hear of your father's death, my boy. He was a great man and wonderful mechanic. There will be no one to replace such a fine man as he was."
"Thank you, sir," replied Sean.
"Keith, I will tell you this. Sean is a born Railroader. He has been riding in that seat for the last 20 miles and I swear old #1200 here used less water and coal than on any run before tonight. He has kept the boiler full and gauges under close eye and, boy, can he ring a bell. You heard Sean tolling the bell, pulling in tonight I was enjoying the ride for once." John smiled as he spoke and saw Sean's face turn crimson red.
"Yes, he is then, if that hog uses less fuel and water, he must be a born railroader. But, boys, you will never match old #956 here. I will race you any day and leave you in a cloud of smoke and cinders." Keith patted the throttle of his engine. "So, Sean, where you heading after Jackson?"
"Anywhere far away from New Orleans, sir."
"Starting a new life for yourself? That is a fine choice, my boy. But I take it old Joe found you hitching a ride on one of his cars. Good thing he has a soft heart for young boys." Keith winked.
"Yes, sir, I was, Joe found."
"Stop, you damned kid, come back here!"
They all turned to look at the station agent chasing after a young blond headed boy about Sean's age. Scott and Joe stepped down off the back of the caboose to watch the chase. The station agent was a tall slender man with light gray hair and wire rim glasses. The boy ducked under a boxcar about halfway down the train from the locomotive. The station agent followed after him but when he came up on the other side of the car, the kid had vanished. The station agent stood and brushed off his coat and readjusted his hat. Joe walked up to the agent.
"What'd he do?" asked Joe.
"Damned brat tried to sneak on board Number 10 there. Sorry son of a bitch."
"I see," said Joe, as he opened his pocket watch. "9:15. You're five minutes late giving #10 her high ball to depart." Joe spoke in a sharp, hard voice.
"I be God damned." The station agent started to crawl back under the boxcar to save time getting around the long train.
"Umm, sir, you know the rules do not allow Railroad employees to crawl under loaded freight cars while coupled to a train with a locomotive coupled and not blue flagged. I would hate to have to report you to division headquarters. Now number 10 is seven minutes late departing and if I understand correctly, according to the timetable I am supposed to pick up 10 loaded boxcars from the yard switcher and you're delaying my train. Please walk around the locomotive and not crawl under my cars like a common tramp, my good sir."
"I be damned." The agent stood straight and walked down the line of freight cars until he was in front of the engine and was beginning to walk across the track, when Bill yanked the whistle cord. The station agent froze in his tracks for a second, then hurried across the track and into the station. The semaphore raised its board from red to green, giving #10 permission to depart the station to the junction switch located farther along in the yards.
Keith waved and wished Sean good luck in his travels. Then he pulled the whistle cord on #956 and pulled the throttle lever. The big drivers slipped and spun, then made purchase on the rail, and the heavy train pulled out of the station siding.
Sean looked over at John. "Why did we stop here if we are going into the yard to pick up cars and to refuel?"
"Well, Sean, it is simple. The yard crew has the main blocked while they sort any yard cars bound for other trains and industries and shops here. Bill made it ahead of schedule just like he promised and with our help he made better time than he thought. The yard crew has the junction switch lined and locked for the Baton Rouge route. Once they clear the main, we will pull in the yard and water and coal our engine while they do the switching of our train." The rear markers of number 10 disappeared in the darkness and they heard her whistle at the yard crew as she swung around and entered the west track for Baton Rouge. The yard crew flashed their headlight at Bill and whistled two long blasts to enter the yard. Bill answered with one long blast and released the air brakes. He opened the throttle and turned on the sanders that shot dry sand under the driving wheels to keep them from slipping as they started the heavy train once more.
Sean looked puzzled. "Why did #956 spin her drivers with a shorter train pulling out and here Bill was easing forward without a slip of a single wheel?"
John laughed when he answered. "Keith was showing off because the station agent delayed his train, that's why."
Sean smiled, "I see."
The big Mikado eased down the track to the yard, Joe and Scott riding the back steps of the caboose and the blonde haired, blue eyed kid riding the roof of a Pennsylvania boxcar.
The blonde haired, blue eyed kid hugged the roof walk of the 40-foot boxcar, wondering what had he just done. All he wanted to do was to run, and he did that fine, from a father and mother who did not care if he lived or died. He was alone now, his father a drunken, out of work steamboat's captain, his mother nothing more than a slut who served drinks in a seedy bar along the riverfront. His parents had lost one child to the state and now no one knew where he was, an older brother he never got to meet. He was big for his age. He was thirteen but could pass for a boy fifteen or sixteen. He weighed 140 pounds and stood 5'6".
He lived a hard life, but three days ago he said enough was enough when his father tried to make money by selling his boy to some British aristocrat. His father did make 50 dollars from the rich snob who met his father in the seedy bar called the Steamboat Inn and he was dragged against his will to the Hotel Lafayette. The aristocrat introduced himself as a Lord Oliver. Greenbacks exchanged hands and he was left with this strange acting man with even a weirder voice. The man forced him to strip off his rags after they were alone in the locked, overly hot room. The tall man then, after saying he only wanted to look at his naked body lying there on the bed, had tricked him into spreading out his arms while this man rubbed his naked flesh. He never saw the gold tassels hanging from the bedposts being slipped around his wrists and when he realized what was going on, it was too late. He tried to get off the bed and the golden cords tightened around his wrists; the more he struggled, the tighter they became. The stranger tied his legs to the lower part of the bed. Now he was helpless. All he could think was 'I am going to kill the bastard before he leaves the city.' The cool air floated through the hotel windows after Lord Oliver cast them open to catch the night air. "This time the boy would not escape like the olive god did that afternoon." He heard the words spoken in that clipped British accent that sent chills down his naked sweating body. Then the stranger towered over him again. Then the stranger bent over him and started to rub his chest, the long fingernails leaving faint red lines wherever they crossed his chest. He did not like this feeling. It made him feel dirty and slimy, the perfectly clipped fingernails to go along with that weird clipped voice of this stranger who now had control over his body. The boy tried to move again and again but he knew it was no use. The ropes held him down like a slave before a master and he realized that's what he was. He was bought and paid for just like he was a slave in an antebellum slave market. The boy wanted to cry but held his tears; he would show no weakness to this bastard. What he needed was a plan and it was forming in his mind. All he had to was....
The stranger known as Lord Oliver thought and pondered a question in his mind as he looked at the helpless naked boy tied on the big bed. He was different from the bronze god that was here that afternoon. Quite different in fact. This boy was a fighter but with little will power; the other one had both. The blue eyes of this boy showed fear and an uncertainty of what would happen next. Maybe it was because of how he got here against his will as his father dragged him up the back stairway of the hotel, a gag in the boy's mouth to keep him from screaming at the top of his youthful lungs. Lord Oliver rubbed the tenting crotch of his tailor- made britches as the boy lay there looking up at him, sweat beading on his milky white skin as it trickled down his forehead and beaded on his smooth chest. The boy was almost hairless except for under his armpits and his crotch, where fine blonde hair covered the white skin, the hair barely visible on his powerful young legs. The boy's chest rose and fell as he breathed, stomach muscles tight under the skin. He reached down and grabbed the boy's limp penis and began to stroke it while his other hand reached under the boy's balls to stroke the tender area leading to the young virgin ass and the cherry he would claim as his. He clicked open his watch - ah, time was money and he had a card game soon to go to. The night was still young and so was his captive slave, lying on the bed. The boy's soft penis began to stiffen as he rubbed his fingers over the cut shaft, making it jerk at his will. The tight muscles of the boy's anus were firmly clinched shut like a vise. That would soon change as his cock claimed another boy cherry. Something about all of this gave him a power money or rank could not buy. He stopped rubbing the boy's now hard cock and unfastened the buttons on his britches, letting his own member free from its clothed prison. He reached down to untie the boy's feet to allow him access to the boy's ass.
The boy watched the man as he undid the ropes on his legs. He did not move, he waited until he could get the man in the right position, then he would strike. He waited and he watched. The man moved between his spread legs, lifting them high in the air to access his asshole. Here was his one chance to pull it off. He brought his powerful left leg up and, before the man could move, slammed his foot in the man's groin. The man grunted and gripped for his nuts as he tumbled off the bed. Now the damn ropes on his wrists. He did not know what to do for a moment and panic almost seized him. Then he just let out a powerful roar deep inside himself and jerked with all his will and the right cord snapped. He quickly undid the other one and yanked off the cords. He reached in his pants pocket and found what he was looking for, a small bottle of white powder he knew was some bad shit; his friends has warned him about it, telling him what all it would do to a person if given a large dose at one time. He pulled the cork stopper out, walked over to the stranger, and grabbed him by his hair, jerking the man's head back. He was about to let out a scream when the boy poured the white powder down the man's open mouth, then he closed the man's mouth and made him swallow the powder. The man struggled with him at first but a heel to the man's already aching balls stopped the struggle as the man gripped them tighter. The boy, now free from his bonds, yanked on his pants and shoes and grabbed his shirt and raced out of the room and down the back stairs. He would remember that night for the rest of his life. His brother's birthday was May 12th and the night his father tried to sell him was May 12th. The next two and a half days he roamed New Orleans, staying far away from the hotel and waterfront. He hid around the Texas and Pacific's railroad yards until a cinder dick spotted him trying to steal food from a reefer. So he ran until he saw the local passenger train pulling out of the station near downtown. He raced along beside it until he saw his chance. The train had to crawl over a set of tracks leading into the station from another line, so he ducked under the moving passenger car and grabbed ahold of the iron rods running beneath the car body. He quickly pulled himself up on the rods and made himself as comfortable as possible and rode the train all the way to Hammond until the agent spotted him coming back from taking a piss behind the station. So he raced to where he was now, high in the air on a boxcar as it rumbled into the yards.
The blast from the steam whistle brought him back to the present and he looked out again from his perch high on the swaying boxcar. The air brakes began to engage and he felt himself being thrown forward on top of the car. He braced himself on the wooden walkway 12 feet above the rail head. He tried to make himself invisible when they passed the yard switcher sitting on the main line as they crossed the junction switch and then entered yard track #1. The big engine crawled along the well worn and beaten rails and the cars bounced and swayed even more on this yard track that did not have to be kept up to main line standards. The Mikado stopped short of the switch leading back out to the main line and he looked behind him. He had not realized that the caboose was no longer on the rear of the train but sitting on the main line. Scott had uncoupled it as the train eased into the yard track.
The slim little 0-4-0 switcher with her sloped back tender eased up to Caboose #600 with Joe standing on the front end, his foot propped up on the railing. Scott threw the switch, lining it back up for the main line and the couplers clanked as they joined. Joe spun the handbrake on the caboose, releasing the brakes, and the little switcher shoved it back down the line to a siding in front of the warehouse. So while the yard switcher shuffled cars like a riverboat gambler, Joe could stock up on ice and coal for his caboose along with drinking water and other supplies he may need before reaching Jackson. Joe stepped down off the front platform and down the steps to the side of the car and walked forward. He lifted the heavy uncoupling bar that ran across the end to the other side. It had a link and chain running down to the center of the knuckle coupler and connected to a pin in the center. He yanked the bar up and the coupler opened, the little steamer tooted her whistle 1 short blast to signal she was beginning to back up. The little 0-4-0 eased back and the yardman threw the siding switch as Scott and Joe began to inspect the journals on the wheels. The bearings of the wheels rolled inside the journal box, a square box with a hinged top. Scott picked up a long-spouted oil can and began looking at each one to check the packing of the bearing. The packing was wool or cotton waste, called dope by the railroad men. He opened the lid and looked in and then, turning the spout of the oil can, began to soak the dope of each wheel, while Joe refilled the oil lamps on the back of the caboose and the lamps inside.
While Joe and Scott worked around the crummy, the crew of #1200 pulled down to the coaling tower and began to fill the tender with black diamonds. The tender held 30 tons of coal. John had climbed up on the top of the tender and lowered the coal chute. The black coal began to pour down, filling the bunker of the tender while Sean and Bill waited on the locomotive. Once the tender was loaded up to her boards, the chute was raised and, with John riding the top of the tender, they eased down to the water tower. The water tower stood on large wooden posts, its wood tank holding 500,000 gallons of water that was pulled from the ground, using a steam pump. On both sides of the tower a large green diamond was painted, with the words Illinois Central painted through the enter. The old lettering fading below it read New Orleans, Jackson and Great Northern. Bill watched for John's signal to stop when he lined the spout up with the water hatch located behind the coalbunker of the tender. Once John gave the signal, Bill stopped the big engine and locked the engine brakes. "Follow me, Sean," said Bill.
They climbed down the ladder in the connecting gangway between the cab and tender. Bill carried another large oilcan with a long narrow spout. They walked around the engine, oiling the bearings in the slide rods and connecting rods of the big engine, then the journal boxes on the tender, as John stood on the back of the tender, holding the weighted water spout in the hatch opening. Bill was doing a running dialog on why they oiled this part and that part, explaining that a hot box on one of the bearings, if not caught in time, would cause an axle or a pin to overheat and it would break, causing a derailment. Bill also carried a small 5-pound hammer to drive loose pins back into their proper position on the connecting rods. Sean had offered to help oil the engine but Bill politely refused the offer, telling Sean he could help John but when it came to this, old #1200 was his engine and nobody laid a hand on it unless it was going to the shops for an overhaul or maintenance.
As Bill and John and Sean watered and fed the snorting, puffing iron beast, the little 0-4-0 was working the yard tracks. The main consist of the freight was to stay the same and more cars added. The little switcher crossed back and forth across the yard tracks, selecting the loaded freight cars to be added to the consist of #1200 and its crew. Each time a car was added, the blonde boy on top of the boxcar felt the jolt as the cars coupled together and heard the muffled voices of the brakemen hooking the air hoses together. He had to get off the top of this car and hide, but where, he wondered. There were too many people around for him to risk the climb down from the roof without being seen again. He remembered seeing a boy about his age riding the big engine; was he part of the crew or a son of one of the men? He remembered the harsh tones used by one of the men who rode the caboose when he was speaking to the old agent at the station. Was he just being rough to him because he was breaking rules or did the man want him to escape? He wished he knew these answers. He looked ahead and saw the big locomotive clanging its bell as it slowly backed back down to the siding where the freight cars sat, the tender light burning brightly, casting a bright yellow glow on the rails. The fireman was still riding the top of the tender. The boy ducked down once again to hide. He thought the fireman saw him but was not sure. He would have to stay here and take his chances. He saw the fireman wave his hand toward the cab of the locomotive and then he felt the jolt as the big engine coupled onto the train. Every time he felt a jolt it shoved his crotch against the rough wood of the walkway.
As the blond haired, blue eyed boy watched everything from the top of the boxcar, it looked different from Sean's viewpoint. He and Bill had finished walking around the big engine and wiping it down and oiling all the journals and connecting rods. When they climbed back into the cab, John was just releasing the weighted spout of the water tower when he gave the signal to back up. John looked up from the top of the coal pile in the bunker and he swore he saw something on top of a boxcar about halfway down the train. He was not sure from where he was standing, and the full moon sometimes played tricks on the eyes of a tired man, so he gave his slow reverse signal and watched as the big engine crawled backward to the waiting line of cars. He gave the signal to stop when he heard the clang of couplers and felt the jolt as the big engine stopped at the head of the train. Now they would wait until the switcher added the last five cars of lumber and cotton, then they would shove the caboose back to the rear and couple it back on.
Sean watched John standing on top of the tender, looking up at the roofs of the boxcars. What did he see up there? Then he too saw something on top of a boxcar. Yhe flickers of the bright light on the tender and the full moon showed patches of yellow high up on the car and a dull white like a cotton T shirt. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He continued to pull the bell cord, making the 30-pound bell toll slowly as they backed down the track to the cut of cars. They watched John as he gave the stop signal for the coupling as the big engine slammed her tender into the lead boxcar and the couplers clashed and locked together. John climbed down and Sean followed him. He watched John as he picked up the two air hoses hanging between the two cars. He picked them up and lined them, then locked them together, then reaching over, he slowly opened the valves and let the air from the locomotive flow into the brake lines, charging them.
John and Sean stepped back from the coupled cars as the little 0-4-0 pushed the last of the new cars to the rear of the train and they heard the clang of the couplers mating and the hiss of air as the brake lines connected to the rest of the train began to charge the reservoirs on the new cars. The soft ringing of the bell on the little switcher and the long toot signaled once again it was backing up down the yard tracks. It passed the siding where the caboose sat and entered the siding behind the caboose, the hand brakes were released, and the trim little switcher shoved the caboose to the waiting train and it was coupled on. Now the waiting began. The big air pumps on the locomotive geared up as they began to build the pressure in the lines to 110 pounds per square inch. Bill climbed down from the cab and met Joe at the front of the caboose. Sean and John were walking side by side, talking in low voices about what they had both seen on top of the boxcar. They decided to tell Joe and Bill and figure out what to do about it. They met Bill and Joe standing at the caboose, drinking hot coffee as the air brakes charged and they could depart Hammond for Kentwood, the next meeting place for their train, 33 miles north of Hammond, where they would meet a fast freight.
"Joe, me and Sean think that that kid who raced under the boxcar to get away from the station agent is riding the roof walk. Sean and I both saw something on top of that Pennsy car."
"OK, boys, we'll have a look. John, you climb the (B) end of the car while Scott covers the (A) end, and Bill, Sean, and I will keep a watch on the ground."
They gathered the lanterns hanging on the caboose railing and lit them. Then they headed up the train to the Pennsylvania boxcar. They walked slowly, speaking in soft whispers as they approached the boxcar. John climbed the rungs to the roof of the car as Scott climbed the other end. They saw the blonde kid lying low on the roof walk. He looked up and tried to back away from John, then he turned and saw Scott.
'Shit,' he thought, 'no place to run, no place to hide.'
"Hey, kid, we're not going to hurt you." The look in the boy's eyes showed his fear and distrust of these two men.
"You sure gave the old station agent a run for his money and at the same time he pissed off Joe and that is not nice to do. Man, Joe gave that agent a dose of his own medicine," spoke Scott.
The boy looked at these two men and smiled slightly. They seemed like nice people.
"Scott, you know, most trips we never have a hobo and tonight we got two and they both find the damnedest places to ride."
"Yeah, John, you should not be complaining. Sean turned out to be a damned good fireman for #1200."
The boy did not know what to think. The young boy in the cab was a hobo and they let him ride with them.
"Kid, this is Scott and I am John. Come on down from here and meet the rest of the crew and we'll give you some hot coffee and let you ride with us. We're not going to tell a soul why you were sneaking a ride on the varnish."
"Varnish?" asked the boy.
"Yeah it what us railroaders call a passenger train."
"Come on down and meet our other friend Sean, who was riding inside one of our boxcars," smiled Scott as he spoke. The two men started back down the rungs of the ladders and the boy followed. What did he have to lose in trusting two men he had never met? They seemed nice humble people.
As they reached the ground, the boy felt an arm wrap around his waist and he was helped to the ground; it was Joe. "Hello, my friend. I am Joe, that is Bill. You met Scott and John, and here is our friend Sean.
Sean and the blond boy looked at each other in silence. Then the blond boy stuck out his hand. "Hi, my name is Jamie."
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Dear readers, thank you for the E-Mails I have received on both No Greater Love and High Iron. Thank you even more for putting up with the delays in the new chapters. Sometimes life and Railroading get in my way.
This chapter is dedicated to my friend Jamie, who on a hot autumn night took a ride with me on the HIGH IRON of my line. We did not plan it, nor did he buy a ticket. It started with a plea for help and a runaway boy of 12. The boy was Jamie. As I raced down the rails, looking for this young boy, I did not know the full reasons of why he had left his home. I would learn later about the abusive father that had beat both his wife and son after losing his job. The boy ran and I guess you could say I followed and I found him headed west toward the Big Black River bridge. There were many questions racing through my mind as the cool night air blew in my face. I saw the answers to some of my questions when I first spotted him standing beside the track. I could do only one thing - I hugged him and brought him home. He told me things I will never forget as long as I live. As the weeks passed, I took a trip to Ohio and later on I found that my little friend was sent to a foster home in south Mississippi. From there he escaped once again, headed north along the HIGH IRON. Only this time I was not there to find him or save him. I got a call following the search for the boy. They found him dead in a river not far from a railroad bridge in south MS. There will be questions I ask myself now and for the rest of my life but it really boils down to one, "WHY, my friend, WHY?"
Jamie, this one is for you. I saw friendship in your soul, I saw dreams in your eyes, but when I search myself, I will always and forever ask why? I know you're in a happy, better place now. Flying free with the angels. Looking down upon me. When I look up in the skies as I ride the railroad of life, I hope you're watching out for me. There are many questions I will never know the answers to. But, my friends, never give up hope. And this is a plea for help. If you need me, please E-Mail me. If I can help, I will. But never, never ever give up hope. Because no matter who you are, where you are, someone loves you.
I would like to thank Ed for his help with this chapter and my friend Willy B. for his support. Stephen
As always I love to hear from you, my readers. At Swarri1349@AOL.COM
Peace and joy to all. A special Hello to my angel in California