Death Of A Stranger

Monk had realized it all, but it was too late to do anything but save what he could out of the pieces, and stop Baltimore from doing it again. Dundas had been more than willing to give everything he owned to stop it.

That was it! The last piece falling into place, sickeningly, making Monk halt where he stood at the end of the carriage behind the engine. Baltimore, a step behind, knocked against him and all but drove the air out of his lungs.

He had not known it at the time he had handed the money to Baltimore to bribe the enquiry, he had known it afterwards, when it could not be undone. It was not to protect Dundas ’s reputation, or the Baltimore company, although that mattered, a thousand men and their families. Nolan Baltimore had said he would implicate Monk in the faulty brakes. It had been his signature on the banking forms that had provided the money for their development. It had been to save Monk that Dundas had been prepared to sacrifice everything he had left.

As he lunged forward, forced open the carriage door against the onrushing air and stepped out onto the narrow ledge at the side, clinging to the door frame, it was more than the wind, the steam and the smuts that stung his skin and his eyes, it was an agony of memory, a sacrifice, a loss, the price of his own escape from ruin and prison as well.

He turned to see how far he had to inch along the carriage until he could scramble onto the plates that co

Baltimore was screaming something behind him.

By then Dundas had understood what the price was. He might even have felt the jail fever in his bones and known he would die there. Certainly he knew the hatred of the injured and the bereaved after the crash. Blame for it would have destroyed any man, dogged him for the rest of his life. Poverty was a small price in comparison. Perhaps he trusted that his wife would have borne that lightly compared with Monk’s ruin. He might even have discussed it with her.

Maybe that was why she had smiled even as she wept for him when she told Monk of his death.

He must move. The train was still increasing speed. If his hand slipped, if he lost his hold on the door frame, he would be dead in seconds. He must not look down. The countryside was a blur, like something seen through a rain-smeared window.

He started to inch along, moving his hands then his feet. It was not far to the front of the carriage, two yards maybe, but they were the longest two yards on earth.

There was no time to delay, no time to think. He put one hand along as far as he dared, and stretched his foot to grip. He let go with the other hand and jerked his body forward. The carriage swayed and he slipped, and grasped again. He almost fell onto the footplate behind the coal wagon, the sweat breaking out on his body until his clothes were cold and wet against his skin.

He turned to see Baltimore teetering on the edge, white with terror, and shot out his hand to haul him in. Baltimore ’s knees crumpled and he sank down onto the plate.

The noise was indescribable. Monk gestured toward the coal wagon.

Baltimore clambered to his feet, waving his hands.

“He’ll never hear us!” he shouted desperately. His hair flying, whipped about his head, his face wild-eyed, wind stung, already splotched with smuts.

Monk waved at the coal wagon again and moved toward it.

“You can’t!” Baltimore screamed at him, shrinking back against the carriage wall.

“I damn well can!” Monk yelled. “And so can you! Come on!”

Baltimore was plainly terrified of the thought of struggling to climb up the wagon into the loose coal and trying to crawl on hands and knees over it in the teeth of the choking steam as the train careered over the rails, growing faster and faster, lurching from one side to the other. The long slope was steepening ahead of them, and Monk could see the sweep beyond and down to the viaduct as if it were in his mind’s eye.

He swiveled around to face Baltimore. “Is there anything else due on this line?” he shouted, driving his hand the other way to illustrate his meaning.

Baltimore put his hand up to his face, now ashen gray. He nodded very slightly. Like a man in a nightmare, he stepped forward, swayed, righted himself, and put his hands onto the coal wagon. It was a more powerful and terrible answer than any words could have been.

Monk followed after him, scrambling up onto the rough lumps of coal and feeling the wind batter him and the wagon’s bucket around like a ship at sea.

The stoker turned, shovel in his hand. His mouth fell open at the sight. Baltimore, his fair hair streaming back, his face fixed in a grimace of terror, was clambering over the coal toward the engine. A yard behind him, Monk followed, more agile.

The stoker threw down his shovel and lunged toward Baltimore.

Baltimore screamed something at him, but the sound was torn from his lips.

The stoker came forward, hands outstretched.

The train was going ever faster as the incline steepened.

Monk made a desperate effort to claw himself forward and catch up with Baltimore. The coal rolled underneath him. A large lump unsettled and fell sideways, and he slid after it, narrowly missing injuring his shoulder against the mound above.

He heaved himself up, disregarding his torn hands, and threw his weight forward.

Baltimore was almost on top of the stoker.

Monk yelled at him, but his voice was drowned in the roar and crash of steel on steel and the howl of the wind.

Baltimore fell forward and the stoker went down with him.

Monk hauled himself up and swung around to land on his feet.

The brakeman was staring at him, his face streaming sweat as he struggled with the lever and felt it yield. The driver was coming toward them, waving his arms.

Suddenly, Monk knew what to do. He had done it before, hurling his weight and his strength against the brakes, and feeling them rip out just as they were now. He knew exactly what it was, and the memory of it turned him sick with terror. Only then he had been in the rear wagon of the train, and the impact had thrown him off, to roll over and over, bruised and bleeding down the slope but alive-while the others died. That was the guilt that stabbed through his mind with pain-he had survived, and they had not-not one of them. They had all been crushed in that inferno of flame and steel.

“Stoke!” he yelled with all the power of his lungs. He swung his arms. He understood now what they must do, the only chance. “The brakes are gone! They’re no use! Go faster!”

Behind him, Baltimore and the stoker were struggling to their feet. He swiveled around. “Stoke!” he mouthed to Baltimore. “Faster!” He swung his arms.

Baltimore looked terrified. The stoker made to move forward and catch Monk and restrain him physically. Baltimore charged at him. The two of them rocked and swayed as the train roared through the gathering dusk, pitching like a ship in a storm.

Monk picked up the fallen shovel and started to heave more coal into the boiler. It was already yellow hot at the heart, and the blast from it scorched his face, but he threw in more, and then more. They had to pass over the viaduct before the other train came; it was the only chance. Nothing on earth could slow them now.

Baltimore was shouting behind him, waving his arms like a windmill. The stoker was stupefied. Suddenly his kingdom was invaded by madmen, his train was screaming through the twilight like a rocket on fire, and the single-track viaduct lay ahead with another train due on it in minutes.

Then at last the brakeman understood. He had felt the brakes tear out and knew how useless it was to hurl his weight or strength against them anymore. He picked up the other shovel and worked beside Monk.

They were going faster, ever faster. The sound was deafening, like a solid thing against the head; the heat seared the skin, burned the eyelashes; and still they threw the coal on, until the stoker grabbed Monk by the arm and pulled him back. He shook his head. He held his arms across his chest, then flung them wide.