By H. G. PROUT.
The Possibilities of Destruction in the Great Speed of a Locomotive—The Energy of Four Hundred Tons Moving at Seventy-five Miles an Hour—A Look ahead from a Locomotive at Night—Passengers Killed and Injured in One Year—Good Discipline the Great Source of Safety—The Part Played by Mechanical Appliances—Hand-brakes on Old Cars—How the Air brake Works—The Electric Brake—Improvements yet to be Made—Engine Driver Brakes—Two Classes of Signals: those which Protect Points of Danger, and those which Keep an Interval between Trains on the Same Track—The Semaphore—Interlocking Signals and Switches—Electric Annunciators to Indicate the Movements—The Block Signal System—Protection for Crossings—Gates and Gongs—How Derailment is Guarded Against—Safety Bolts—Automatic Couplers—The Vestibule as a Safety Appliance—Car Heating and Lighting.
In 1829, when Ericsson's little locomotive "Novelty," weighing two and a half tons, ran a short distance at the rate of thirty miles an hour, a writer of the time said that "it was the most wonderful exhibition of human daring and human skill that the world had ever seen." To-day trains weighing four hundred tons thunder by at seventy-five miles an hour, and we hardly note their passage. We take their safety as a matter of course, and seldom think of the tremendous possibilities of destruction stored up in them. But seventy-five miles an hour is one hundred and ten feet a second, and the energy of four hundred tons moving at that rate is nearly twice as great as that of a 2,000-pound shot fired from a 100-ton Armstrong gun. This is the extreme of weight and speed now reached in passenger service, and, indeed, is very rarely attained, and then but for short distances; but sixty miles is a common speed, and a rate of forty or fifty miles is attained daily on almost every railroad in the country. We cannot tell from the time-tables how fast we travel. The schedule times do not indicate the delays that must be made up by spurts between stations. The traveller who is curious to know just how fast he is going, and likes the stimulus of thinking that he is in a little danger, may find amusement in taking the time between mile-posts; and when these are not to be seen, he can often get the speed very accurately by counting the rails passed in a given time. This may be done by listening attentively at an open window or door. The regular clicks of the wheels over the rail-joints can usually soon be singled out from the other noises, and counted. The number of rail-lengths passed in twenty seconds is almost exactly the number of miles run in an hour.
Danger Ahead!
But if one wants to get a lively sense of what it means to rush through space at fifty or sixty miles an hour, he must get on a locomotive. Then only does he begin to realize what trifles stand between him and destruction. A few months ago a lady sat an hour in the cab of a locomotive hauling a fast express train over a mountain road. She saw the narrow bright line of the rails and the slender points of the switches. She heard the thunder of the bridges, and saw the track shut in by rocky bluffs, and new perils suddenly revealed as the engine swept around sharp curves. The experience was to her magnificent, but the sense of danger was almost appalling. To have made her experience complete, she should have taken one engine ride in a dark and rainy night. In a daylight ride on a locomotive, we come to realize how slender is the rail and how fragile its fastenings, compared with the ponderous machine which they carry. We see what a trifling movement of a switch makes the difference between life and death. We learn how short the look ahead must often be, and how close danger sits on either hand. But it is only in a night ride that we learn how dependent the engineer must be, after all, upon the faithful vigilance of others. We lean out of the cab and strain our eyes in vain to see ahead. The head-light reveals a few yards of glistening rail, and the ghostly telegraph poles and switch targets. Were a switch open, a rail taken up, or a pile of ties on the track, we could not possibly see the danger in time to stop. The friendly twinkle of a signal lamp, shining faintly, red or white, tells the engineer that the way is blocked or is clear, and he can only rush along trusting that no one of a dozen men on whom his life depends has made a mistake.
When one reflects upon the destructive energy which is contained in a swiftly moving train, and sees its effects in a wreck; when he understands how many minute mechanical details, and how many minds and hands must work together in harmony to insure its safe arrival at its destination, he must marvel at the safety of railroad travel. In the year 1887, the passengers killed in train accidents in the United States were 207; those injured were 916. The employees killed were 406, and injured 890.[20] These were in train accidents only, it must be remembered, and do not include persons killed at crossings, or while trespassing on the track, or employees killed and injured making up trains. As will be seen later, the casualties in these two classes are much greater than those from train accidents. The total passenger movement in 1887 was equal to one passenger travelling 10,570,306,710 miles. That is to say, a passenger might have travelled 51,000,000 miles before being killed, or 12,000,000 miles before being injured. Or he might travel day and night steadily at the rate of 30 miles an hour for 194 years before being killed. Mark Twain would doubtless conclude from this that travelling by rail is much the safest profession that a man could adopt. It is unquestionably true that it is safer than travelling by coach or on horseback, and probably it is safer than any other method of getting over the earth's surface that man has yet contrived, unless it may be by ocean steamer. If one wants anything safer he must walk.