Vis Major

Thursday February 24, 1910 6:30 PM John Robert Meath Hands numbed by the cold, senses and reflexes numbed by hunger and fatigue, Meath struggled with the master link on the hoist chain. He was crouched down in the small compartment below the floor of the cab of the X-800, straddling the clutch housing surrounding the machine’s main drive shaft. “Bat” Nelson was alongside of him, his hands cupped following the movement of Meath’s fingers. Above them stood Ed Lindsay and Dan Gilmore, holding lanterns for light. They had succeeded in repairing the broken drive chain that powered the hoist. All that remained was slipping the keeper into place to hold the master link. Hundred million dollar railroad. Lose a two-cent keeper and we’ll be shut down, Meath thought. Move slow. Concentrate. “Keep your hands under that link, Bat,” Meath cautioned. “We loose this keeper we’re in a fix. Probably the only one between here and Everett.” Simple job’s a major headache. Pocketknife in hand, Meath carefully looped the closed end of the keeper over one of the exposed pegs of the master link. With the tip of his knife he pressed on the thin metal until it snapped into the tiny machined groove. Keeping it in place with his thumb, he spread the keeper’s open end. He held his breath as he used his knife both to keep the end open and to pry it over the opposite master link peg. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his knife blade out. Meath let out a long sigh of relief when the sprung metal snapped into position. “That should do it, boys.” Meath said with a sigh of relief. “She’s all yours, Ed. By the way, I have it on good authority that Mr. O’Neill wants you to try and keep it running.” “Ahhh, up yours, Bobby,” Lindsay answered with a smile. Nelson made a half-hearted attempt at wiping the chain grease off his hands before putting his gloves back on. He handed the grimy rag to Meath. “No thanks Bat, I got enough grease on my hands already.” Meath gave Lindsay a slight wink then grabbed the rag. Back alongside the boiler, Meath settled into a chair he had taken from the station the night before. Tired of the simple seat box, he removed the piece of office furniture when Sherlock was not looking. He closed his eyes. 807’s down. Poor Al. Must be catching hell. Damned trains are gonna get snowed in here just like over at Cascade. Food, sleep, a break in the storm. Take any one of the three. Meath felt his strength ebb from his body. The nagging headache he had been enduring for the better part of the day lessened. The loud, painful ringing in his ears brought on by the din of the plow eased as consciousness slowly slipped away. In his semi-lucid state the heat radiating from the boiler conjured up an image of home in Meath’s mind. Hot summers. Milking those damned cows. In between those damned churn heads. Heat coming off their coats. Flies everywhere. Not sure this is much better. The old man. Done milking by now. In the house with Mother. Nice and warm, stomach full. The shrill whistle caused Meath to snap his head forward. “Wind her up, Bobby,” Lindsay called out. Letting out a long sigh, Meath grabbed his whistle cord and gave it two short tugs, with Pete Imberg in the 1154 pushing answering in kind. He slammed the reverse lever forward and pulled the throttle out. He felt the plow lower into position. He widened out the throttle and pushed the reverser into the furthest notch. A gentle jolt shook through the machine as Imberg’s engine began to bite the rail and the outfit moved forward. Meath did the entire process with his eyes barely half open. “Hey you lazy ass, wake-up! I brought you something to eat!” Eyes popping open, Meath focused on the form of Al Dougherty standing in the gangway door. For a brief moment the two friends stared at each other. “Al, how come you’re on our outfit?” “Aw, just hitching a ride down to the coal chute. We got the 807 monkey-rigged back together. While they coaled her up I went and grabbed a bite. Here, Bailets fixed ya a couple of ham sandwiches. On the house, he said.” Dougherty handed Meath two thick sandwiches wrapped in a napkin. “He wants the napkin back, though.” Meath took the parcel and set it up on the boiler near the steam dome. “No sense in eating cold food.” “Coming up on the runaway track switch, Bobby, slow her down,” Lindsay called out. Still standing, Meath pulled back on the throttle and reverser lever. He again looked closely at Dougherty. The deep sunk bloodshot eyes, the peeling red skin on his face, the growth of beard had aged his friend ten years. Meath figured Dougherty was looking at the same sight. “Wind her up Bobby, plowing a full hood,” Lindsay ordered. “I tell ya, Al, they’re never happy up there,” Meath complained as he once again pushed the Johnson bar forward and jerked on the throttle. He settled back in his chair, propping his right foot against the big lever. “So how ya making out Bobby?” “About like you, from the looks of things.” Meath glanced up at the steam gauge. “Bat’s having one hell of a time with his fire. We stand too long in one place, snow melts down through the coal. Stoker pulls that wet shit through into the firebox. Can’t keep this bastard steamed up. You boys having that problem, Al?” “Can’t say as I know. Been doing nothing but shoveling all day. Haven’t even been in the plow.” “Coming up to O’Neill’s car, slow her down, Bobby!” Lindsay hollered. Meath pushed the throttle back by half and pulled back on the reverser. Lindsay was on the whistle cord signaling “all stop” and then “back-up” to Imberg. Hearing the fan begin to race, Meath closed off the throttle and pulled the reverser lever into the straight up “neutral” position. He reached up and grabbed his now warm sandwiches falling hard back into his chair as the plow lurched backwards. “So got any plans when we finally get outta here, Bobby? Overdue for a stay in Everett, wouldn’t you say?” Dougherty asked. With a mouthful of ham sandwich, Meath held up his hand. He chewed quick and swallowed hard. “Now you wouldn’t be talking about a certain birthday coming up in a few weeks, would ya, Al? Hear you’re about to turn 29. Be your last good year.” “How’d you know my birthday’s coming up?” Dougherty was leaning against the plow’s wall, his arms crossed. Meath continued to devour the first sandwich. He gave Dougherty his best “innocent” look. “Oh, word gets around, Al, word gets around.” “That’s for damned sure. So you want to see if some of the boys want to meet up down at Everett when we get done up here?” pressed Dougherty. “Bat” Nelson burst through the gangway door behind the two men. “Bat, just the man I wanna see,” Meath called out. “Hey Al, whatta you doing here?” Nelson inquired. “He’s looking to take a group of willing gentlemen down for a night on the town on Market Street,” Meath offered, getting ready to bite into the second sandwich. “Well, if you’re buying, count me in. Tell Lindsay we’ve got less than an hour’s worth of water.” Bat turned and headed back out to the fire deck. Pausing in the doorway he turned. “Hey Al, keep Blackburn busy and off our asses will ya?” “I’ll do my best, Bat.” Nelson took a long look at the brakeman. “Take care of yourself, Al. When this is all over, I’m buying the first round. Hear tell you’re turning 29. Another year and you’ll look as old and wrinkled as Meath here.” Nelson gave the two men a slight salute and headed back out onto the fire deck. “I’d better get back to my outfit, Bobby. You ain’t gonna get a drop of water until we get outta your way. I’ll tell Lindsay about the water.” Meath rose from his seat and finished his sandwich. He carefully wiped his mouth with the napkin and gave it back to Dougherty. “Make sure Bailets gets his napkin back, Al. He’ll skin both of us if it comes up missing.”