At the side of the track the train-master called a lineman, who carried a wire up a pole and attached it to one of the wires overhead. A telegraph instrument was connected with this, and, sitting down upon the bank, the train-master ticked in to headquarters the news that the track would be clear at midnight, and repaired six hours later.
In this, as in everything, the train-master knew his men. Ten minutes before midnight the last shovelful of coal was out of the way,—the track was clear,—one part of the battle had been won. But another part yet remained to fight,—the track must be rebuilt, and the work of doing it began without a moment’s delay. The twisted rails and splintered ties were wrenched out of the way; the road-bed, which had been ploughed up by the wheels of the derailed cars, was hastily levelled. From the wrecking-car gangs of men staggered under new ties and rails, which were piled along beside the track where they would be needed.
At last the road-bed was fairly level again, and ties were laid with feverish energy by the light of the flaring torches, which gave the scene a weirdness which it had lacked by day. Phantoms of men moved back and forth, now disappearing in the darkness, now leaping into view again, working doggedly on, to their very last ounce of strength and endurance.
As the ties were got into place, the rails were spiked down upon them and fish-plates were bolted into place. Rod after rod they advanced, tugging, hammering, with the energy of desperation. It was no question now of a perfect road-bed—rail must be joined to rail so that once more the red blood of commerce could be pumped along the artery they formed. After that there would be time for the fine points. And just as the sun peeped over the eastern hills, the last spike was driven, the last bolt tightened. The work was done.
The men cheered wildly, savagely, their voices hoarse and unnatural. Then they gathered up their tools, staggered to the car, and fell exhausted on bunk or chair or floor, and went instantly to sleep. Allan found afterward that he had no memory whatever of those last trying hours.
At the side of the road the train-master was ticking off a message which told that his promise was kept,—a message which sent a thrill of life along the line from end to end,—which told that the road was clear. Then he cut loose his instrument, and he and the superintendent walked back to the car together. They were no longer the trim, good-looking men of every day—they were haggard, gaunt, unshaven. Their eyes were bloodshot, their clothing soiled and torn. They had not spared themselves. For thirty-six hours they had been working without so much as lifting their hats from their heads. But they had won the battle—as they had won many others like it, though few quite so desperate.
On either side the track was piled a mass of twisted wreckage; the engine still lay high on the bank. That could wait. Another crew could haul the engine down and gather up the débris, for the track was open.
The journey back took longer than the journey out. At every siding they headed in to let passenger and freight whirl past; the blood was bounding now, trying to make up for the time it had been stopped. But the men lying in the car saw none of them; the roar of their passage did not awaken them—they knew not whether the trip back took two hours or ten—they were deaf, blind, dead with fatigue. Only at the journey’s end were they awakened, and it was no easy task. But at last they had all arisen, gaunt shadows of their former selves.
“Boys,” said the superintendent, “I want to tell you that I’ve never seen a wreck handled as well as you handled this one. You did great work, and I’m proud of you. Now go home and go to sleep,—sleep twenty-four hours if you can. Don’t report for duty till to-morrow. And I promise you I won’t forget this night’s work.”
They staggered away through the curious crowd at the station, seeing nothing, turning instinctively in the direction of their homes.