But we were not to get there without two more exciting incidents, to me at least. A few miles above Chosica we entered a deep cutting, I think it was about a mile long, with a space of about twelve feet each side of the rails. As we entered the cutting we saw a flock of sheep on the line about half way along, and higher up still a couple of mules. As the engine was on a stiff incline, the driver did not feel inclined to stop, so he blew his whistle and rang the bell on the engine, hoping the sheep would scamper along the track in front of us, but not they, whoever knew sheep to do what was expected of them. As the engine drew near, they all went over to the left side of the track, and got well clear of the engine, and there they stood until the engine was nearly abreast of them, then, for some unaccountable reason, known only to sheep, one of them started to cross over to the other side, right in front of the engine, and, as is usual for a flock of sheep, all the others followed the leader, the consequence was that the engine rushed among them, crushing and mangling about fifty of them, and making the rails so slippery that the engine was brought to a standstill. We had to clear the track of the dead carcases, and rub the grease off the rails with sand before we could get started again. However, after a lot of trouble, and a lot of strong language from the driver, we started off once more, and had proceeded about half a mile, when we drew near the mules, these we thought would surely clear off the track before we got up to them, but we reckoned without the mules, they were bent on disputing our passage, and to our surprise and astonishment they stood stock still side by side in the middle of the track facing the engine, with their heads up and their tails on end, pawing the ground all the time.
“Ring the bell, and blow the whistle!” cried the foreman, in exasperated tones. This was done with noise enough to wake the dead, but it took as much effect as a whisper on the mules, and by this time we were only about twenty feet from them, when, like a flash, round they turned and began kicking as only mules can do with their hind feet. They kept this up until the engine struck them. The mule on the right was killed at once, and was thrown off the track by the cow-catcher, while the other one had both hind legs broken and was thrown clear of the track.
When the engine got to the head of the cutting, and was on a stretch of level ground, the foreman ordered a stop while a gang went back to clear the dead sheep from off the track. I went with them, and helped to gather up the pieces, which were taken back to the train and cooked for supper that same night.
While the rest of us were getting up the slaughtered carcases, Brian Flynn, the blacksmith, walked over to one of the dead mules, it was lying on its back, with its legs upwards, and its spine apparently broken.
“Hello, moke!” cried Brian, as he approached it. “You’ve done your last kick,” at the same time giving it a kick on its hind quarters. But it hadn’t given its last kick for the instant he touched it, whether from some contraction of the muscles, or some other cause, I know not, its legs straightened out, and the hoof caught Brian’s leg, breaking it just below the knee. His cries brought us to his assistance, and we carried him to the engine and at once proceeded to Matacama, where a Chilian doctor set the leg after a fashion.
Up to this point the track had been fairly easy through the valley of the Rimac. From Chosica to Matacama, eight thousand feet above the sea, vegetation shows itself in greater quantities, the railway leaves the bed of the valley and begins to climb the side of the mountain, overcoming every difficulty. About two thousand feet above Matacama brings us to the great Verrugas Bridge, the highest bridge in the world, and one of the greatest achievements of engineering the world has ever seen. Upwards of two thousand lives were lost while constructing this famous bridge, all the labourers suffered from a dangerous fever, in which the body was covered with pustules, often half an inch long and full of blood. It was supposed to be caused by some poison that was inhaled while excavating, or from the water, and came to be known as the Verrugas fever, it seemed to be confined to some ten or twelve miles and only attacked those actually working there.
From the Verrugas Bridge upwards, the mountains are covered with thick vegetation, owing to the humid and rainy atmosphere, there we see a little green village full of tropical vegetation, of camphor, banyan, sumach, which is much used for dyeing and medicinal purposes. There, too, are some ordinary looking butterflies, also a swallow tailed species, a fine black and yellow, the only species to be found on these western slopes of the Andes. After leaving Verrugas, the track is marked by a number of black looking tunnels. They seem to be pointing in all directions, and you wonder how on earth you are going to get up there. You enter a tunnel facing one way, and you leave it facing another, often in quite an opposite direction.
I cannot find words to describe the stupendous and almost insuperable difficulties overcome by the engineers who built this masterpiece of railways. There are fifty-seven tunnels in a stretch of a hundred and seven miles, and seven thousand men lost their lives in the construction of this railway. It has only to be seen to be believed, and the wonder is that there were not a greater number lost.