Читать книгу True to his Colours - Theodore P. Wilson - Страница 4

The Crossbourne station was not in the town itself, but on the outskirts, about a quarter of a mile distant from the Town Hall. Nevertheless, the town was creeping up to it in the form of a suburb, which would ere long reach the station gates. Crossbourne, the present flourishing manufacturing town, occupied the hills on either side of the little stream, the greater part of it being to the north, in the direction of the parish church. The station itself was on high ground, and looked across over open country, the line in the London direction passing from it through the centre of the town over a noble viaduct of some twenty arches. In the opposite direction the line made a gradual descent from the station, and at a mile’s distance passed through a cutting, towards the farther end of which it inclined northwards in a sharp curve.

Just about the middle of this curve, and where the cutting was pretty deep, a massive wooden foot-bridge was thrown across the line. This was at a place not much frequented, as the bridge formed only part of a short cut into a by-road which led to one or two farms on the hill-sides. Along the rails round this ascending curve the ordinary trains laboured with bated breath; and even the dashing express was compelled to slacken here a little in its speed.

It was on the 23rd of December, the same night in which Kate Foster received so mysteriously the little Bible which was dropped with the ring into her parlour, that four men were plodding along in the darkness over a field-way which led to the wooden bridge just mentioned. They were dressed in their ordinary mill or foundry working-clothes, and seemed, from their stealthy walk and crouching manner, to be out on no good or honest errand. Three of them slouched along with their hands deep in their pockets; the fourth carried a bag of some kind, which apparently was no burden to him, for it swung lightly backwards and forwards on two of his fingers. The men’s faces were all muffled in scarves, and their caps pulled down over their eyes. As they walked along the field-path in single file they preserved a profound silence. At last they reached a stile which brought them out close to the end of the bridge which was nearest to the up-line, along which the trains to London passed.

It was now nearly half-past ten. Everything around was profoundly still, except the faint wailing of the wind among the telegraph wires. A drizzling rain had been falling at intervals, for the season was remarkably mild for the time of year, though the little air that blew was raw and chilly. It was very dark, nevertheless the great wooden parapet of the bridge could be distinctly seen on either side, as the four men stood on the roadway of the bridge itself midway over the line.

“Ned,” said one of the men in a hoarse whisper, “just cross right over, and see if there’s any one about.”

The man addressed crept cautiously over to the farther side of the line, and along the road either way for a hundred yards or more, and then returned to his companions.

“It’s all right,” he whispered; “there’s not a soul stirring, as I can hear or see.”

“Well, wait a bit,” said the man whom he addressed; “just let’s listen.”

All was perfectly quiet.

“Now, then,” said the first speaker again, “the express won’t be long afore it’s here; who’ll do it?”

“Why, Joe Wright, to be sure; he’s got the most spirit in him. I know he’ll do it,” said another voice.

“He’s got most beer in him, at any rate,” said the first speaker.

There was a gruff chuckle all round.

“Well, I’m your man,” said Wright; “I’ve carried the bag, and I may as well finish the job.”

“Look alive, then,” cried Ned, “or the train’ll pass afore you’re ready.”

“You just shut up,” growled Joe; “I knows what I’m about.”

So saying, he began to climb over the parapet of the bridge, grasping in his left hand the bag, which was apparently an ordinary travelling or carpet-bag, rather below the average size. Having clambered over the top rail, he let himself down among the huge beams which sprung out from the great upright posts, and served to strengthen and consolidate the whole structure.

“Mind how you get down, Joe; take care you don’t slip,” said more than one voice anxiously from above.

“All right,” was the reply; “I’m just ready.”

“Stick fast, and mind where you drop it; she’s coming!” cried Ned half-out loud, in a voice of intense excitement.

Joe Wright was now half standing, half hanging over the up-rails, a few feet only above where the roofs of the carriages would pass. The low, labouring sound of the coming train had been heard for some moments past; then it swelled into a dull roar as the light wind carried it forward, then became fainter again as the wind lulled; and then burst into a rushing, panting whirlwind as the engine turned the bend of the curve. Forward dashed the train, as though it were coming with a will to batter down the bridge at a blow; light flashing from its lamps, fiery smoke throbbing out from the funnel in giant puffs, and a red-hot glare glowing from beneath the furnace.

“Now then!” shouted the men from above. “All right!” Joe shouted back in answer. “Shra–a–a–auk!” roared the train, as with diminished speed it passed beneath them. At that moment Wright, leaning down, dropped the bag. It fell plump on a hollow place into a tarpaulin which covered some luggage on the roof of one of the first-class carriages, and was whisked far away in another second, not to be disturbed from its snug retreat till it reached the great metropolis.

“I’ve done it,” cried Wright from below.

“Now then,” cried Ned in return, “get back as fast as you can, and be careful.”

No reply. Joe was making his way back as best he could; but it was no easy task, for his hands had become very cold, and the great oaken supports of the bridge were slippery with the moisture which had gathered thickly on them.

“Well done,” said one of his companions, stooping over to watch his progress; “a little more to the left, Joe.”

The climber struggled upward. And now his right-hand was nearly on a level with the floor of the bridge, and he was stretching out his left hand to grasp one of the rails, when his foot suddenly slipping on a sloping rafter, he lost his hold altogether, and, to the horror of his companions, fell with a heavy thud on to the rails beneath him!

“Joe, Joe—speak, man! Are you hurt?” cried Ned.

No answer.

“Lord help us,” he continued, “the drunken train’ll be up directly. Get up, man, get up; you’ll be killed if you lie there.”

Not a word from the unfortunate man.

They all leant over the parapet, straining their eyes to see if Joe really lay there or had crawled away. They could just make out a dark heap lying apparently right across the rails: it did not stir; not a moment was to be lost.

“Here, Ned,” cried the man who had seemed to act as a sort of leader of the party, “just get down the bank somehow, and drag him off the rails. I’ll see if I can drop down from the bridge.”

Alas! This was easier said than done. The whistle of the last stopping train—sarcastically but too appropriately known among the men as “the drunken train,” from the ordinary condition of a considerable number of its occupants—was already being sounded; but conveyed no warning to the poor stunned wretch who lay helpless in the engine’s path. Frantically had Ned rushed down the bank of the cutting, while his companion, at the risk of his own life, sliding, slipping, tumbling among the rafters of the bridge, had dropped close to the prostrate body, and then sprung to his feet. It was too late; the instrument of death was upon them. A moment more, and the train had passed over their miserable companion.

In a few minutes the horror-stricken group were gathered round the poor, bleeding, mangled mass of humanity. The sight was too terrible to describe. One thing there could be no doubt about—their unhappy comrade was entirely past their help; the work of destruction had been complete; and what was now to be done? Silently all crept back again to the little stile. A hasty consultation was held.

“Mates,” said the chief speaker, “it’s a bad job, but it’s plain enough we can’t do him no good; it’s past that. It’s no fault of ours. Poor Joe!”

“Shall we go down and drag him off the rails on to the bank?” asked Ned.

“Where’s the use, man?” replied the other; “we shall only be getting ourselves into trouble: it’ll seem then as if some one else had been having a hand in it, and we shall be getting his blood on our clothes. It’s all over with him—that’s certain; and now we must take care of ourselves: what’s done can’t be undone. Pity we ever meddled with that bag. But that’s all past now. Not a word about this to living soul, mates. I’m sure we all see as that’s our line; and a blessed thing it’ll be if we manage to keep clear of another scrape. This one’s been bad enough, I’m sure.”

So all slunk quietly back to their own homes. And next day all Crossbourne was horrified to hear that Joe Wright had been found on the line cut to pieces by some train that had run over him.

An inquest, of course, was held; but as it was well-known that poor Joe was sadly addicted to drink, and was often away from his home for nights together on drunken sprees, it was thought, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that he had wandered on to the line in a state of intoxication, and had been overtaken and killed by the express or stopping train. A verdict of “accidental death” was given accordingly.

But poor Wright’s sad end made no difference in the drunkenness of Crossbourne; indeed, Ned and his two companions in that awful night’s adventure dared not leave their old haunts and ways, even had they wished to do so, lest any change in their habits should arouse suspicion against them. So Alcohol still maintained his sway over a vast body of loyal subjects in the busy town, and gathered in the spoils of desolate homes, broken hearts, and shattered constitutions.