Life in a Railway Factory

by Alfred Williams

FORGING AND SMITHING — HYDRAULIC OPERATIONS — “BALTIMORE” — “BLACK SAM” — “STRAWBERRY” AND GUSTAVUS — THE “FIRE KING” — “TUBBY ” — BOLAND — PINNELL OF THE YANKEE PLANT

The drop-stamps and forgers, together with the plant known as the Yankee hammers — so called by reason of their having been introduced from the other side of the Atlantic — are the life and soul of the shed. The hydraulic machines, through their noiseless and almost tedious operation and the considerably less skill required on the part of the workmen in carrying out the various processes, are dull and tame in comparison with them. The steam-hammers, both by their noise, speed, and visible power and by the alertness and dexterity of the stampers and forgers, are certain to compel attention. There is a great fascination, too, in standing near the furnace and watching the sparkling, hissing mass of metal being withdrawn by the crane, or seeing the heated bars removed from the oil forge and clapped quickly on the steel dies to be beaten into shape. No one can withstand the attraction of the steam-hammers; even those who have spent a lifetime in the shed like to stand and watch the stampers and forgers at work.

Forging and smithing are, without doubt, the most interesting of all crafts in the factory; other machinery, however unique it may be, will not claim nearly as much attention. Visitors will pass by the most elaborate plant to stand near the steam-hammers, or to watch the smith weld a piece of iron on the anvil. The small boy who has just been initiated into the shed, the youth, the grown-up man, and the grey-haired veteran are bound to be attracted by the flashing of the furnace and the white-hot metal newly brought out. They are greatly delighted, too, with the long, swinging blow of the forging hammers, or the short, sharp stroke of the stampers; to watch the metal being transposed and conforming to the pressure of the dies, to see the sparks shooting out in white showers, and the men sweating; to feel the earth shaking, and to hear the chains jingling, the steam hissing and roaring and the blows echoing like thunder all the time. To stand in the midst of it and view the whole scene when everything is in active operation is a wonderful experience, thrilling and impressive. You see the lines of furnaces and steam-hammers — there are fifteen altogether — with the monkeys travelling up and down continually and beating on the metal one against the other in utter disorder and confusion, the blazing white light cast out from the furnace door or the duller glow of the half-finished forging, the flames leaping and shooting from the oil forges, the clouds of yellow cinders blown out from the smiths’ fires, the whirling wheels of the shafting and machinery between the lines and the half-naked workmen, black and bare-headed, in every conceivable attitude, full of quick life and exertion and all in a desperate hurry, as though they had but a few more minutes to live. And what a terrific din is maintained! You hear the loud explosion of the oil and water applied for removing the scale and excrescence from the iron, the ring of the metal under the blows of the stampers or of the anvil under the sledge of the smiths, the simultaneous priming of the boilers, the horrible prolonged screeching of the steam-saw slowly cutting its way through the half-heated rail, the roaring blast, the bellowing furnace, the bumping Ajax, the clanking cogwheels, the groaning shears, and a hundred other sounds and noises intermingled. There is the striker’s hammer whirling round, this one pulling and heaving, the forgeman running out with his staff, the stamper twisting his bar over, the furnaceman charging in his fuel, the white slag running out in streams sparkling, spluttering, and crackling, the steam blown down from the roof through the open door, the thick dust, the almost visible heat, the black gloom of the roof and the clouds of smoke drifting slowly about, or hanging quite stationary like a pall, completely blotting out the other half of the shed, all which form a scene never to be forgotten by those who shall happen to have once viewed it.

The hydraulic work, on the other hand, though interesting, is not engrossing. There is a lack of life and animation in it; it is not stirring or dramatic. The huge “rams” of the presses, though capable of exerting a pressure equal to two hundred tons weight, descend very slowly; the quick, alert steam-hammer could strike at least ten or a dozen blows while the ram is once operating. So rapid is the blow of the steam-hammer that the pressure raised in the metal by the impact of the dies is often still unspent when the hammer rebounds, so that, as the dies separate, if the metal is very hot, it explodes and flies asunder. The speed of the rebound may be gauged by the fact that the stamper can actually see the flow of metal in the dies from the blow after the hammer has left it. The metal, as the result of this, will frequently overflow the edge of the bottom die, and when the hammer descends again the top die will have to shear away a quarter, or half an inch.

It is instructive to note the effect of the blows on the hot metal. Continual beating it will quickly raise the temperature of the iron or steel; I have many times raised the heat of a piece in operation from a dull yellow to a brilliant welding pitch during the delivery of three or four blows. Hammers have recently been invented that, with continually beating on cold metal, will make it sufficiently hot to allow of drawing and shaping; but though such machinery is interesting, it is not of much use for serious manufacture. Compressed air, directed on metal of a dull yellow heat, will soon considerably increase its temperature; you may easily burn a hole quite through a six-inch steel bloom by the method.

The flying of sparks through the air will greatly intensify their heat; after travelling a few yards they will become very dazzling and brilliant and explode like fireworks. Sometimes a piece of this superfluous metal, an ounce or more in weight, forced out from the die with the blow, will shear off and fly to a great distance — often as much as sixty or seventy yards. This, at the moment of leaving the die, may be no more than a dull yellow, but by the time it falls to the ground it will be intensely hot and will throw off a shower of hissing sparks. The shearing-off of the bur is a source of great danger to the workmen. I have several times been struck with pieces and been brought to the ground in consequence; the effect is almost as though you had been struck with a bullet from a gun.

Nothing of this kind is ever possible with the hydraulic machines. If a weld is to be made it must be performed with one stroke of the ram; after the top die leaves the metal it will be too cool to receive any benefit from a second application of the power. Welding by hand or steam power is always preferable to that performed by hydraulic action; a joint that is made with six or ten small quick blows will be far more effective and durable than where the iron has been simply squeezed together by one operation of the ram. As soon as the hydraulic dies meet the metal is considerably chilled. Instead of intensifying the heat, as in the case of the steam-hammer, the cold tools greatly lessen it. The weld, when made, will most certainly be short and brittle.

Some portion of the personnel of the shed has already been given, but of the hundred and fifty comprising the permanent staff of the place several are conspicuous among the rest for strangeness of habit, queer characteristics, or strong personality. The men are a mixture of many sorts and of several nationalities — English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish. There is the shaggy-browed, fierce-looking son of Erin; the canny Scot from Motherwell over the border; the gruff and short-tempered old furnaceman from Dowlais; the doughty forger from Middlesborough; the cultured cockney with his superb nasal twang; the Lancastrian with his picturesque brogue; a representative of distant Penzance; an ex-seaman, nicknamed “The Jersey Lily,” from the Channel Islands, and those hailing from nearly every county in the Midlands and south of England, from “Brummagem Bill” to “Southampton Charlie.” There are ex-soldiers and sailors with arms and breasts tattooed with birds, flowers, serpents, fair women and other emblems, and who have seen service in the East and West Indies, China, Egypt, or the Transvaal; those who constantly pride themselves on having once been in gentlemen’s service — though they do not tell you how they came to leave it! butchers and bakers, professional football players, conjurers, bandsmen, and cheap-jacks.

“Baltimore” works the middle drop-stamp, about halfway up the shed, and, in the line of smaller steam-hammers opposite to him, toils a mulatto known to everyone about the place as “Black Sam,” or “Sambo.” They are old hands, having both come to the premises as boys, where they have since been, except for the time when “Balty” was absent for the annual training in the local Militia. It is not explained how he came to receive the nickname. Black Sam is so called from his very dark complexion, his short, black, curly hair and large, dark eyes. Baltimore is rather ordinary in appearance. His forehead is low, his cheek-bones high and his nose irregular. His lips are thick, he has a pointed chin and lantern jaws. He is of medium height, square and broad shouldered. As he walks his shoulders sway to and fro and up and down, keeping time with his footsteps; he is exceedingly unmilitary both in physique and movement.

It was by reason of these characteristics that Baltimore obtained the attention of his shopmates. They all laughed rudely to see him in the old-time Militia uniform — scarlet tunic much too big, with regulation white belt, baggy trousers too long in the legs, heavy bluchers on the feet and, instead of the swagger headgear worn in the Service to-day, the old Scotch cap with long streamers behind and a little swishing cane in the hand or under the arm. It is carefully handed down and passed from one to the other that when Balty was at home on furlough all the small boys of the street would gather round him, sniggering and jeering, and making fun of his cut and appearance, and it is said furthermore that he used very unceremoniously to drive them away with his cane crying — “Get out, you young varmints! ’Aven’t you never seen a sojer before?” In the shed and at the furnace he continued to attract attention and be the subject of jocular remarks made by his workmates. They never would take him seriously, not even though he came in time to work one of the biggest drop-stamps and be reckoned among the honourable company of forgers.