by Judith Pella
“Why?” James murmured to the empty room. “Why did he have to die? Why not me also? How can I face life like this?” The very real possibility that he might never walk again, at least not without a peg or a crutch, was nearly more than James could take.
Closing his eyes, James could see it all again—it haunted him day and night. His nightmares were full of the images of crashing engines and shattered bodies. Over and over again that locomotive would be cruising down the track with laughing men aboard—oh, how that laughter pricked at him! Then, in a mere heartbeat, the laughter turned to screams and agony and the grinding of metal upon metal. James grew terrified of sleep, but waking brought little improvement. As bad as the horrible dreams were, nothing could possibly hurt more than reliving the moment when he’d known for certain that Phineas was dead.
It should have been me, he thought, and not for the first time. Life had seemed so perfect. He was going to work for Phineas and the B&O Railroad. He would have designed great engines with his mentor. Now he wondered if he could even look at another locomotive without the image of death and destruction preying upon his mind.
Looking around him, James saw the trappings of a lifetime of ease. Everything in this room was a part of him, and yet he had never felt as alienated from all that he’d once known as he did now. Dark burgundy wallpaper with tiny gold stripes and gold fleur-de-lis designs were joined midway by walnut wainscoting. James had always remembered it a warm and inviting place, but now it seemed to be a dark and brooding room.
Lead toy soldiers still stood on the fireplace mantel, symbols of happy carefree days when James had been a boy. On one side of the hearth shelves of books lined the wall, and he could see several of his childhood favorites still there. In the opposite corner a small writing desk, long outgrown by the occupant, looked as though it were simply awaiting the child who’d left it so many years ago.
Had he really been gone from home so very long? There had been visits during the five years of school up north; why, then, had he not noticed how very juvenile this room had remained? Suddenly he felt out of place. How many times had his father told him to behave like a man instead of a child? Yet now he felt like a man—an old world-weary man.
At his own request, the heavy burgundy draperies had been pulled tightly shut to keep out the sunlight, and even the flames in the hearth had died out for need of attention. Still, he could see well enough from the bedside lamp that this room belonged to a boy with dreams and hopes for adulthood. The man he now was did not belong here. In fact, he was imposing upon the fond memories once witnessed in this room.
The heavy knock on the door snapped James’ thoughts back to the dreary present. “Come in,” he called resolutely.
Leland Baldwin entered the room with an expression of sheer determination. “James, your mother said you weren’t eating. You can’t hope to recover if you don’t care for your needs.” He held the same tray Edith had offered only moments ago.
“I have no appetite,” he replied, hoping the words would send his father away.
“Nonsense,” Leland said, placing the tray on his son’s lap. “You have to eat.”
James barely held his temper in check. His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a low gravelly tone. “I am not hungry.”
Leland stared at his son for a moment before replying. “Eat. That is an order.”
With lightning reflexes that James had not even known he possessed, he thrust the tray from his lap, spilling it with a loud clatter and crash onto the floor. “Order all you want!” he yelled. “You’ve ordered my way in most every detail of life. Will you order me to live as well? Will you order the pain to cease? While you’re at it, order the dead back to life, and I will honor you all of my days!”
Leland paled a bit and his jowls trembled when he spoke. “It is understandable that you mourn the loss of your friend. Your mother and I have experienced our own sorrows in wondering what it might have been like had that person laid to rest been you instead.”
“I wish it had been.” Even as he spat the words, James knew his father didn’t deserve them. But he had so much anger inside him, it had to be released somehow.
“You don’t mean that,” Leland replied.
James thought he detected anger in his father’s tone. “I do mean it. I have no desire to live as a cripple.”
“Then you might as well wish your mother dead as well!” Leland bellowed. “Is that what you want? Do you want us dead from grief too painful to bear? Think on this, James Edward Baldwin. Would you have your mother endure the sorrow you now know? You think it bad, and granted it is a hard thing to bear, losing a friend, but you scarcely knew the man. Imagine a mother losing her child—her only child. It would kill her.”
James was taken aback by his father’s harsh tone. He’d received nothing but compassion and concern from both parents since the accident two weeks past. The thought of anyone, much less his mother, bearing up under the anguish which flooded his soul and the phantoms which haunted his nightmares caused James to reconsider his behavior.
He stared up at the ceiling in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his emotions. There was such a thin line between his anger and his despair. “I did not expect life to be so . . . fragile.” His voice caught on the words, but he continued. “I thought youth to be excluded from this very private club of sorrows.” James gave up trying to hide the tears that came to his eyes. “He was there with me alive and well, laughing and offering me the job of my dreams, and in the next moment he was gone. That’s all. Nothing more remains of Phineas Davis except the locomotive engines that claimed his very life. And nothing more remains of my dream.” Much to his consternation, it was this thought that grieved him as much, if not even more, than the loss of his friend.
Leland nodded sympathetically, and James thought the man looked rather awkward. His father knew well how to deal out anger and rebukes, but sympathy and tenderness were subjects of which he knew little. Still, he was showing an effort, and James thought him kind to do so.
“Railroading is a dangerous business,” Leland said, clearly uncertain how to deal with his son’s introspection. “I’ve always said it was a great risk. Maybe now you’ll consider coming to work for me.”
James looked at his father for a moment, then turned his eyes to the fireplace. The coals barely hinted a glow of life. “That’s me,” he said, motioning toward the hearth. “I’m dying out inside. Losing heat, the very thing that keeps me alive. It would be a simple thing to rekindle the flame. A little puff of air here, a bit of fuel there, and maybe with just the right amount of care, the warmth would return to burn again.”
Leland’s puzzled expression told James he hadn’t a clue of the matter on which his son spoke. “I can have Nellie stoke up the fire,” Leland told James, going to the door to call the servant girl.
James shook his head. “Do as you like, but that’s not the kind of fire I’m speaking of. I’m talking about me. About my passions and dreams. I’ve desired to be a part of the railroad for so long now that I’ve had no other focus or goal within me. I burned for that goal, and the fire of desire drove me forward. Don’t you see, Father? Is it really so hard to understand? Yes, Phineas is dead and that grieves me, but without my dream, what am I? Who am I? I lie in this bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what’s to become of me. Phineas’s future is decided for him, but what of me? What of my future? Does that sound selfish? Am I a horrible person for grieving more for my lost life than for Phineas’s?”
Leland grimaced. “I fear your medication has caused you confusion. I’ll get Nellie in here, and she can clean up this mess and build you a cozy fire. Would you like something to read?”
James sighed. His father had no mind for dealing with another person’s anxieties and fears. Especially when they were those of his son. “I don’t need anything”—he paused and looked away—“or anyone.”
If only that were true! He had never felt more needy in his life, not only in his body, but
in his heart as well. And the worst of it was that he could not make himself believe there was hope for anything better. He feared he’d always be as he now was. Lost, impotent, angry, heartbroken. A skeleton of a man held together only by despair.
17
The Cost of Fear
Three days later the doctor visited and, for once, left the sickroom without that grim look in his eyes.
“Ah, Leland!” he said as he met the elder Baldwin downstairs in the parlor. “To be young! It never ceases to amaze me what the miracle of youth does for the healing process.”
“Are you saying James will be all right?” Leland chose his words cautiously, afraid to get his hopes up.
“The boy’s leg is mending nicely. We will have to keep it splinted and immobile for some time yet, but he is well past the worst of it.”
“He won’t lose the leg?”
“I believe I can safely say he won’t. Beyond that, of course, we must wait and see. But with proper care, I do believe he can expect full, or practically full, use of his leg.”
“Thank God!”
“I am, however, concerned with his mental healing. He seemed not nearly as elated over my news as one might expect.”
“He took the death of his friend quite hard.”
“Well, we must work on lifting his spirits.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’m going to send over some crutches this afternoon. Getting out of that bed will work wonders, I am certain. He mustn’t put any weight on the leg, and make sure he only gradually extends his activities.”
But when the crutches arrived, James greeted them and what they represented with little enthusiasm. He did make use of them, yet he smiled little and continued to be quiet and withdrawn. Leland had no idea what else to do for his son. Finally desperate, he procured several old issues of railroad periodicals. Leland was willing to concede to James’ previous interest if it would do the boy some good. But James politely thanked his father and laid aside the material unread.
Then one day, after a week, Leland had an inspiration. He went to the rail yards and spoke to the manager who knew James. Leland was also introduced to several of James’ other friends—common sorts mostly, but if they were able to help his son, he’d be more than willing to rub shoulders with them.
James was sitting in a chair in his dark room trying unsuccessfully to focus his attention on a newspaper when the visitors arrived. He couldn’t very well refuse them, so he told Nellie to send them up. But the last thing he wanted was to entertain railroad people.
Eddie, Tommy, and Dale Collins came into his room with friendly cheerful greetings. James tried to respond in kind, but the smile he wore felt like a paper mask.
They filled him in on all the latest happenings and gossip at the rail yard. James politely nodded, pretending he was interested. He didn’t know why he wasn’t. It made him extremely uncomfortable to hear about the railroad, or even think about it. He knew there was more to it than simply his grief over Phineas, but he could not identify what was bothering him—in truth, he was afraid to identify it. Yet even before his friends had arrived, James had been experiencing an odd discomfiture whenever he thought about the railroad.
“Your father tells us you are getting up and around now,” said Eddie. “ ’Tis wonderful news!”
“We’ll have you down at the yards and back to work before you know it,” said Tommy.
“I don’t know . . .” James squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
“Why wait? That is, if you’re up to it, Jimmy me boy,” said Eddie enthusiastically. “We got a new engine in a couple days ago. It’s only a prototype, but it was one of Phineas’s last designs.”
“Phineas . . . ?”
“It’s his design for a horizontal boiler,” Dale explained.
“They finished it?”
“Sure. In his honor, you might say.”
“Why don’t you come down and see it?” asked Tommy. “Your pa said you can get up.”
“That’s true, but . . .” James could not think of an excuse. So Phineas’s prototype was finished. James thought of Phineas’s excitement for the project and how, before the accident, he himself had longed to see it. Now . . . it just didn’t seem right when the designer himself would never see the finished result of his labors. Yet by refusing to go, James felt a bit as though he were turning his back on his friend. He was torn, wanting to go, longing to once again be among the things he so loved; yet he was oddly reluctant.
“Don’t you worry. We’ll give you a hand,” said Eddie, misinterpreting James’ hesitation.
In the end James couldn’t say no. He was growing weary of his self-pity. Getting out might be just the remedy he needed to rise from the awful slump he had been in lately. Maybe it would even help him get over his friend’s death.
He couldn’t deny the surge of excitement he felt when he and his friends arrived at the rail yard. The smells of metal and grease and the burning of the forge; the sounds of machines, men yelling, hammers clanking; the sights . . .
Yes, it was good to be back. He was almost overcome with how much he felt he belonged here. At first it was easy to ignore that gnawing disquiet he also felt.
Phineas’s engine was a beauty, a fine tribute to the man’s talent. James recognized the 4-2-0 design immediately. John Jervis had created the design in 1831, but as was often the case, he hadn’t patented the engine and freely gave it as his contribution to the industry. Now it was one of the most popular designs. Jervis, knowing that the curving uneven American tracks were a problem for many lines, had lengthened the wheel base and added swiveling lead wheels. This was a masterful stroke of genius, and while swiveling wheels had been used in England to follow the large drive wheels, no one had yet put them on the front to help guide the train on the tracks. Phineas had obviously studied this design and converted it for use with the B&O’s twisted tracks.
Awkwardly maneuvering the crutches, James approached it with a kind of reverence. His friends, flanking him, understood and beheld it in the same manner. The horizontal boiler engine seemed almost foreign in a place where only vertical grasshopper engines had traveled before. James studied the wood lagging surrounding the boiler’s waist. These narrow wooden strips were designed to hold in precious heat and conserve fuel. Even a stationary boiler could show a heat loss varying from twelve to twenty-five percent. A moving engine was a greater liability still. As air passed over the boiler’s surface the effect was heightened, and in cold weather it became a very disagreeable situation.
“Lagging, eh?” James murmured, continuing to note the differences. Glancing up he saw the large black smokestack. A steady stream of smoke oozed from the opening. She was fired up and ready for action. The very thought caused James to involuntarily shudder.
“ ’Tis too bad he never got to ride it,” Eddie said in a hushed tone.
James only nodded, a lump in his throat preventing speech.
“Come aboard, Jimmy. See her up close,” Tommy encouraged. “Duke won’t mind.”
“Duke?” James questioned in a hesitant voice.
“He’s my fireman. Hey, Duke, this here is a friend of Phineas Davis. James Baldwin’s his name.”
Duke, a coal-smeared youngster, barely old enough to be called a man, looked down from the platform and gave a nod.
“Come on, Jimmy,” Eddie encouraged, “you might as well have a look around.”
“I don’t think I could with these—” He gave one of his crutches a shake.
“We’ll help you.”
“Well—” But before he could finish, several hands were hoisting him onto the engine. He was set on the locomotive platform as smoothly as if his friends were experts at handling cripples. James’ sudden light-headedness seemed to have nothing to do with the procedure. He gripped the rail, fearing he might lose his balance. His hand shook.
At that moment the station manager ambled by. “Are you fellows going to take James for a ride?”
&n
bsp; “There’s an excellent idea!” exclaimed Eddie. “How about it, Jimmy?”
James’ mouth was dry. He wanted to tell them no, but, again, he couldn’t. He felt himself nod.
“Get her steam up, Tommy!” called Eddie.
Tommy nodded to Duke, who began dumping even greater quantities of coal into the firebox. Swinging the coal shovel to and fro, he narrowly missed James’ crutch.
“It ain’t no race,” Eddie growled. “Watch out for his leg.”
The fireman grunted in reply, lost in the rhythmic loading of the coal. When Tommy was satisfied, he began cranking the bell back and forth.
Clang. Clang. Clang. It was a warning to those who waited below to clear the track.
“They didn’t put a whistle on,” Eddie said, as if James had asked a question. “What with her being a prototype and all, they figured they’d save money.”
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound set James’ nerves on fire. With every sound of the bell and hissing groan of the engine, he felt an odd sensation grip him. What should have been a wonderful moment was rapidly spiraling into a nightmare.
Tommy eased the lever forward and grinned. “Here we go!”
The moment the locomotive lurched, James knew it was a mistake. His stomach knotted and an awful cold chill washed over him, accompanied by rising nausea. His hands grasped the rail so tightly his arms began to ache, but that was the least of the awful physical afflictions assailing him.
Stop! James wanted to yell, but his lips were frozen; he couldn’t speak. The machine rolled forward while his chest constricted. What was happening?
In a few minutes they were away from the yard and moving into the countryside. James had not yet moved a muscle. Duke and Tommy were busy tending the engine, and even Eddie, caught up in the moment, didn’t seem to notice his distress. He tried to shake it off but with no success. It only became worse. He broke into a cold sweat, still shaking—all over now, not just his hands. He closed his eyes hoping to steady himself but was rewarded only with a horrifying image—an engine heaving up upon its rail and tumbling over and over in a deadly somersault. He opened his eyes with a strangled cry that thankfully was swallowed by the roar of the engine.