Ironhorse

26

Virgil stayed on point on the downhill platform, and I worked my way back through both coaches. Nobody was talking. The passengers were settled and the lamps had all been turned off. It was quiet except for the sound of the slow rolling wheels on the track.

I thought about the many brakemen who lost their jobs because of George Westinghouse; brakemen with the dangerous job of helping the engineer regulate a train’s speed by moving from coach to coach, tweaking the wheels of the handbrakes.

With the exception of the faint glow from a passenger’s cigar or cigarette, we were now traveling in complete darkness. When I opened the door and stepped out onto the uphill coach’s platform it was obvious we were rolling faster. Not a lot faster, but some. I got down on the floor plate of the platform and opened the angle cock valve and heard nothing — nothing happened, no braking, no slowing, nothing.

I got to my feet and released the foot latch on the handbrake and gave the wheel a turn.

“Son of a bitch,” I said out loud.

The wheel just turned, like the other end, it just turned.

“Son of a bitch.”

I got down to look under the coach. It was dark, and nothing was visible on the underside. I reached under to feel underneath the shaft of the handbrake. There was no chain connected to the brake. I got to my feet quick, stepped back through the door and down the aisle toward the other coach. My mind started to race. Had this been by design? Were we dealing with a train hand? A saboteur? Was there a getaway plan? A backup plan?

Whatever, whoever, however, we were rolling without any way of stopping or controlling our speed. I stepped into the next coach and grabbed a conductor’s lantern hanging by the door.

“A match!” I said. “Who’s got a match?”

The undertaker pulled out a box of matches. He struck one and cupped his hand around the flame. I lifted the reflector glass. He lit the wick, then slid the matchbox into my breast pocket. I turned up the lamp flame and stepped out the door and back onto the platform.

“We got a situation, Virgil!” I said.

“What sort of a situation?”

“The back wheel brake is not working,” I said. “It’s disconnected.”

“What about the George Westinghouse brakes?” Virgil asked.

“Not working, either.”

“Not?” Virgil said.

I shook my head.

“That’s not good,” Virgil said.

“No, it’s not.”

“And this one here,” Virgil said. “It’s busted, too.”

“Is,” I said. “I’m going to get down and have a look at this handbrake. See if I can make out what’s broke about it. Hold this.”

I handed the lamp to Virgil.

“Hold it down here,” I said. “Below the platform.”

We were picking up speed as I leaned out over the platform and looked back under the coach. Virgil held the lamp down under the platform so I could see. I was upside down, the ground passing by swiftly below my head as I tried to figure out what the problem was with the brake. It was hard to see, but there was enough light to determine what the problem was right off. The chain had separated from the wheel shaft and was dragging back under the coach between the tracks. I lifted myself up quick.

“The chain is free of the wheel, dragging behind us,” I said.

“No way of reaching it?” Virgil said.

“No.”

“What do you figure?”

“We get to the end of the other car,” I said. “If we got the same situation, at least the chain will be dragging behind. Maybe we can get ahold of it and somehow stop us. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise, we’ll have to ask everyone to jump,” Virgil said.

“We will,” I said.