The engine, while under the control of its master, moves along regularly and with the beauty of a dream; its wheels revolve, glancing in the sun; its exhausted steam coughs as regularly as the strong man's heart beats, and trails back over the train, wreathing itself into the most fantastic convolutions; now sweeping away towards the sky in a grand, white pillar, anon twining and twisting among the gnarled limbs of the trees beside the track, and the train moves on so fast that the scared bird in vain tries to get out of its way by flying ahead of it. Still the engineer sits there cool and calm; but let him have a care,—let not the exhilaration of his wild ride overcome his prudence, for the elements he controls are, while under his rule, useful and easily managed, but broken loose, they have the power of a thousand giants, and do the work of a legion of devils in almost a single beat of the pulse.
A man can easily retain his presence of mind where the danger depends entirely upon him; that is, where his maintaining one position, or doing one thing resolutely, will avert the catastrophe; but under circumstances such as frequently beset an engineer, where, to do his utmost, he can only partially avert the calamity, then it is that the natural bravery and acquired courage of a man is tried to the utmost extent. I remember several instances of this kind, where engineers, in full view of the awful danger which threatened them, knowing too well the terrible chances of death that were against them and the passengers under their charge, even if they did maintain their positions, and, by using all their exertions, succeeded in slightly reducing the shock of the collision, which could only be modified—not averted—still stuck to their posts, did their utmost, and rode into the other train and met their death, amid the appalling scenes of the chaotic ruin which followed.
George D—— was running the Night Express on the —— road. I was then running the freight train, which laid over at a station for George to pass. One night—it was dark and dismal—the rain had been pouring down in torrents all night long; I arrived with my train, went in upon the switch and waited for George, who passed on the main track without stopping. Owing to the storm and the failure of western connections, George was some thirty minutes behind, and of course came on, intending to run though the station pretty fast—a perfectly safe proceeding, apparently, for the switches could not be turned wrong without changing the lights, and these being "bull's-eye" lanterns elevated so that they could be seen a great distance on the straight track which was there, no change could be made without the watchful eye of the engineer seeing it at once. So George came on, at about thirty-five miles an hour, as near as I could judge, and I was watching him all the time. He was within about three times the length of his train of the switch—was blowing his whistle—when I saw, and he saw the switchman run madly out of his "shanty," grab the switch and turn it so that it would lead him directly into the hind end of my train. I jumped, instinctively, to start my engine—I heard him whistle for brakes, and those that stood near said that he reversed his engine—but my train was too heavy for me to move quickly, and he was too near to do much good by reversing, so I soon felt a heavy concussion, and knew that he had struck hard, for, at the other end of forty-five cars, it knocked me down, and the jar broke my engine loose from the train. He might have jumped from his engine with comparative safety, after he saw the switch changed, for the ground was sandy there and free from obstructions; and he could easily have jumped clear of the track and escaped with slight bruises. But no! Behind him, trusting to him, and resting in comparative security, were hundreds to whom life was as dear as to him; his post was at the head; to the great law of self-preservation, that most people put first in their code of practice, his stern duty required him to forswear allegiance, and to act on the principle, "others first, myself afterwards." So, with a bravery of heart such as is seldom found in other ranks of men, he stuck to his iron steed, transformed then into the white steed of death, and spent the last energies of his life, the strength of his last pulse, striving to mitigate the suffering which would follow the collision. His death was instantaneous; he had no time for regrets at leaving life and the friends he loved so dearly. When we found him, one hand grasped the throttle, his engine was reversed, and with the other hand he still held on to the handle of the sand-box lever. The whole middle and lower portion of his body was crushed, but his head and arms were untouched, and his face still wore a resolute, self-sacrificing expression, such as must have lit up the countenance of Arnold Winkleried, when crying, "Make way for liberty," he threw himself upon a sheaf of Austrian spears and broke the column of his enemies.
I find in nearly every cemetery that I visit, monuments and memorial-stones to some brave man who fell and died amid the smoke and flame and hate of a battle-field; and orators and statesmen, ministers and newspapers, exhaust the fountains of eloquence to extol the "illustrious dead." But George D——, who spent his life in a constant battle with the elements, who waged unequal war with time and space, who at last chose rather to die himself than to bring death or injuries to others, sleeps in the quiet of a country church-yard. The wailing wind, sighing through the few trees there, sings his only dirge; a plain stone, bought by the hard won money of his companions in life, alone marks his resting-place. The stranger, passing by, would scarcely notice it; but who shall dare to tell me that there resteth not there a frame, from which a soul has flown, as noble as any that sleeps under sculptured urn or slab, over which thousands have mused, and which has been the text of hundreds of exhortations to patriotism and self-forgetfulness?
THE FIREMAN.