by Mike Ashley
The fears of the passengers had been calmed and they went quietly back into the saloons and shut the doors, all of them quite unaware of their terrible danger, and quite satisfied with the engineer’s assurances that all was well. Now they made jokes at the expense of the company. All fear of a panic was over, and Harward was at last free to race back into the blackness of the tunnel to the isolating-switch, which he knew was a hundred yards or so in the rear.
The farther he got from the train the more clearly came to his ears a humming sound, hollow and indistinct. By the time he reached the isolating-switch the humming had become a roar — deep, rumbling, menacing. The engineer understood; it was the roar of the sea, still a long way off, but advancing steadily, always advancing to claim its prey. And now an acrid smell, still almost imperceptible, tainted the heavy atmosphere of the tunnel; it made Harward cough. What could it be? A stronger whiff dissipated his doubt. It was the unmistakable odor of chlorine! But then — how? Yes! That was it of course; the electric current running through the sea-water decomposed it and chlorine was thus liberated, and this terrible asphyxiating gas was diffusing itself through the tunnel.
Feverishly Harward manipulated the apparatus. Immediately the lights reappeared on the train; the current, now cut off from the sea, was restored. Running as fast as he could the engineer regained the train, and in a moment they were going full-speed ahead.
Was this salvation? Earnestly James hoped so. Behind the train the sea was steadily creeping up; before long the section on which the train was running, would be immersed, there would be another short circuit, the sea would again absorb the current. “We must manage to get off this section and then isolate it before the fatal moment when the sea reaches it,” thought Harward. But the next isolating-switch was at the sixteenth mile, over three miles distant, and the sea even now was gaining, gaining, gaining! It was almost on them. They could never do it! Even at full speed they could never do it! And there was nothing to be done nothing! The motor-man had the lever in the last notch; the speed now depended on the power-house above. Ah, perhaps there was a ray of hope there! Harward unhooked the receiver.
“Yes, we are running. We managed to cutoff the damaged section, but we are not making enough speed. Can you raise the voltage? Yes, every ounce of power you can manage. If the sea reaches us we’re done for. That’s it. Not a moment to lose. What’s that? No, the passengers don’t guess anything’s wrong. For a moment, yes, there was the beginning of a panic. I was able to reassure them. Halloa! Mr. Glencoe is there, you say? Yes? Well, tell him that Mrs. Glencoe and his daughter are on the train. Good-bye.”
Harward hung up the receiver. Almost at once the lamps burned more brilliantly, the humming of the motors increased; the works were sending more power. The train, like a sentient thing, seemed to make a last effort to escape its implacable pursuer, hurling itself forward on its mad race to safety.
Overjoyed, Harward noted the flight of the miles — thirteen, fourteen, fifteen; a few more moments and the menaced section would be left behind; a few more revolutions of the wheels —
Then his blood seemed to freeze and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The lights were going down!
For the second time the lamps went out and the train was plunged in darkness. For a second time the motors were silenced.
One glimmer of hope remained to James and the mechanician; perhaps their own momentum would carry them off this cursed section. Very slowly they glided towards the sixteenth mile-mark, and then the two men had to renounce this last hope. The wheels, with a grinding noise, ceased to revolve. Again the sea had vanquished the man, again the train was in dire peril.
What was to be done? There were no means here of isolating the rail behind the train; the tremendous current which the power-house was supplying flowed into the treacherous water, while the train, immobile for want of that wasted current, seemed to wait the coming of the sea — the coming of death.
Dismayed, the engineer and the motor-man looked at each other helplessly. A sudden clamor roused them from their speechless contemplation of the calamity. The passengers, now thoroughly alarmed were demanding explanations. Some of them, wild with fear, wanted to escape along the tunnel on foot.
“It is four miles from here to the tunnel-end,” said the engineer.
“Well; what of it? That’s only a short walk. One can easily do that.”
“You won’t have time to do it,” replied Harward.
“What do you mean? Not time? What threatens us?”
“Is it fire?” Cried one.
“Is the roof giving way?” Gasped another.
“What is it? What’s the danger? What do you fear-? Tell us! Speak — speak!”
Harward remained silent. Rage at his impotence was shaking him as with an ague. The circle of faces closed in on him, pressing closer. The carriages were almost emptied; panic-stricken, the passengers crowded on to the line. Their cries filled the tunnel, echoing and re-echoing strangely along the dark roof.
“Will you say what the danger is?” Some one shouted.
“The sea,” Harward said, grimly, at last.
“The sea!”
For a moment silence fell on the crowd. Then the frightened questions recommenced, and the engineer explained the situation to them. The guests grew pale. Harward, himself pallid from the strain, clenched his fists in an agonized effort to think out a way of escape. There was none! None! There was absolutely nothing to be done. Must they die here like rats in a sewer? Alas! What miracle could give power to the motors lying there inert?
Then suddenly the too-well-known odor floated again to his nostrils. Denser, thicker than at the first stop, the fumes of chlorine swept up, poisoning the air, tickling the threats of the victims it would soon suffocate. The cup of horror was full and running over.
Instinctively obeying James Harward’s order, the terrified passengers returned to the carriages and the doors and windows were tightly shut. Alas! Was it not merely putting off the final catastrophe?
At this moment Blanche Glencoe touched Harward’s arm.
“Mr. Harward,” she murmured, in a low, firm voice, “is there no chance for us? Is there no hope?”
Harward gently shook his head. He could not speak just then. The girl understood the hopelessness of the gesture.
“It is the end, then?” Went on the girl, as she drew nearer to him. “We must wait here for death.” And, as the man still made no reply, Blanche tenderly took his hands in hers. “James,” she whispered, creeping still closer to him, “I can tell you, as we are going to die. James, I have always loved you.”
Harward bent his head. Blushingly the girl leant her forehead against his shoulder.
“I love you, James. It is a consolation that we can at least die together.”
The sense of inevitable doom had filled the engineer with rage and shame; rage with fate, shame at his own impotence. Now the girl’s words added revolt to his other feelings.
“No!” He cried, with kindling eyes. “No, you shall not die, my darling. I have an idea. We’ll get out of this yet.” And almost roughly he hurried the girl into the last car.
Springing into the observation-car, he bent over the tool-box and drew out a heavy hammer; then, running like one possessed, he disappeared down the line, and was swallowed up in the darkness of that suffocating atmosphere.
The third rail ran along the line at the side. By the light of a torch the engineer searched out a joint between two lengths of rail; having found one, he placed his torch on the ground. Then, though hardly able to breathe in the awful atmosphere, he raised the sledgehammer and dealt the joint a mighty blow. Panting for breath, again and again he swung the hammer in both hands, striking the rail with herculean strength; he was pitting himself against the elements for the girl he loved.
The joint resisted. Another mighty blow, and something gave way; a splinter flew; another — and the massive piece of steel was dislocated from its support. One more prodigious, super
human effort, and a large rent appeared in the rail. But the electric current, thus rudely broken, flared into a roaring arc of flame whose crashing noise echoed terrifyingly down the gallery.
Confused and blinded, Harward fell back. Denser than ever the invading gas swept up, extinguishing the torch James Harward’s body disappeared in unfathomable darkness.
Algeciras awaited the coming of the train. This was a great day for the town. The front of every house was decorated; on stately public buildings and humble private houses flags flaw and rustled gaily in the wind. In the bay, gay awnings flaunted on slender yachts and spread themselves gaily over the decks of the more bulky steamers. A great crowd; all got up in their Sunday best, strolled leisurely about the streets. But the greatest interest centered round the magnificently-decorated Tunnel Station and the works and offices of the Gibraltar Tunnel Railway. Here the crowd was thickest; here it was excited and impatient. Within, the high officials of the company entertained the haute monde of the town. The crown of completion and success was to be placed on this immense undertaking; the first train from Africa, running through the Gibraltar Tunnel, was about to arrive!
At first the official bulletins of the train’s progress created tremendous enthusiasm and kept the people amused. But now there had been no news for some time. The managing director had disappeared. The chief engineer of works, but lately so assiduous in his attentions to the ladies, was not to be found. Only the small fry of officialdom were left, and all they could say was that the train would arrive to time.
“No news is good news,” said a youthful electrician, swaggeringly conscious of his brand-new cap of office, addressing a journalist.
“But why have they stopped telephoning?”
“They have nothing to say: I suppose.”
“Lopez,” interrupted the chief electrician, “get to the power-house-quick!” The journalist’s ears were pricked and he addressed himself to the chief. “Any fresh news, sir?” He asked; with an amiable air of innocent interest. “No — oh no — none,” was the reply. “All the engines must be got to work, that’s all.”
He moved off.
“That’s all!” Murmured the reporter. “I think this is worth looking into.”
He went towards the power-house. No employees lounged about the door now. A glance inside discovered to the reporter an abnormal activity. Something was evidently wrong. In one corner the high officials of the company were discussing something excitedly. On tip-toe the reporter approached them.
“Train at a standstill — lost! — Level rising — unheard of! — Engines overloaded — delay — catastrophe!”
The journalist withdrew and made for the telegraph office. On reading his message the telegraphist looked scared. A few moments later all Algeciras knew that the Gibraltar Tunnel Express was for ever entombed at the bottom of the tunnel!
Then a clamor broke out — the ferocious and yet lugubrious howling of a Southern crowd in face of death. They charged the works; the barriers went down, the gates flew into a thousand pieces. The crowd hurled itself against the walls of the powerhouse, excited, despairing, mad, wildly demanding details.
‘’News! News! Give us news!”
Mr. Glencoe, pale and anxious, appeared at a window. Silence fell — a deathly silence.
“The train has started again,” he announced. “The delay was only momentary and of no grave importance. The train will be in the station in a quarter of an hour.”
And now mad joy took the place of rage and despair; joyful cries, hurrahs, replaced the cries of woe. The surging crowd gave themselves up to wild exultation, mad rejoicing; they surged backwards and forwards, yelling, laughing, shrieking, even sobbing out their relief.
But all too soon apprehension returned, bruising hope and darkening the world. Sinister rumors spread among the people. Again arose the cry for news, news!
The managing director did not appear again.
A wave of despair surged over the crowd. The train had again come to a standstill in the bowels of the earth. Why?
“New! News! Give us news!”
The cry became insistent, menacing.
A man appeared and tried to make himself heard.
“The telephone is no longer working!”
The last link connecting the doomed train with the world above-ground was broken!
Then madness seized the people. Some wave of impulse turned them away from the now useless works and flung them in a headlong stampede towards the mouth of the tunnel. Gathered there they regarded the yawning aperture with haggard, resentful eyes, as if waiting for it to reveal the drama that was being enacted below, as if the despair of the living might succor the unfortunate victims of disaster.
At this moment the air in front of the tunnel became a little foggy and a slight smoke issued from the mouth, rolling slowly out on a level with the ground. Then the volume increased and grew thicker, and it was seen to be of a greenish hue. The first ranks of the crowd fell back, choking, on their fellows. Terror overwhelmed their bodies; agony of mind gripped their souls.
“Sulphur!” Whispered the people, with a shiver of superstition. “Sulphur!”
It was chlorine!
The shrill cries of women, the sobs of bereaved mothers, sounded for an instant above the hoarse clamor of the mob. And above the sun shone brilliantly from an unclouded vault of deepest, loveliest blue. A soft sea-breeze gently swayed the flags and flowers, the great steamers and graceful yachts swung peacefully at their moorings, while little boats skimmed lightly over the sparkling wavelets under the burden of their snowy sails, symbols of peace, of calm, and of prosperity.
In the works anxiety was extreme; the very air was tense with the strivings of men and machinery. Mr. Morton, the chief electrician, was engrossed in his dynamos, which were running at full pressure, overloaded in the endeavor to supply the torrents of electricity demanded by the train below. Apprehensions as to his precious plant diverted his mind somewhat from the possibly imminent catastrophe. The chief engineer of works, Mr. Harlow, in a fury of rage at his own impotence, stormed up and down, cursing the elements, the treacherous soil, and the invading sea, which he had thought to hold in leash.
Mr. Glencoe had completely broken down. It had become second nature to him to give orders and have them blindly obeyed, to impose his will on everyone, to insist that he knew best on every subject, technical as well as financial. All must bend before his will. A latent antagonism, a secret resentment, had divided him from his staff, and more especially from James Harward, who would not always admit the director-manager’s omniscience. Now, in the hour of danger, Mr. Glencoe’s authority seemed to fall from him; he had no suggestions to make, no orders to impose today.
Returned from the telegraph-office, the prying reporter set himself to fathom the tragic problem, to find out the exact circumstances of the catastrophe. He prowled bout, waiting on chance and scanning the faces of the officials.
At this moment the news was brought that the tunnel was vomiting forth torrents of chlorine.
“The current has electrified the sea-water,” said the electrician: “Those poor people below will be asphyxiated.”
“Hadn’t we better stop the dynamos?” Put Mr. Harlow.
The managing director was silent. The journalist addressed him sharply.
“Are you going to do nothing? Are you not even going to attempt anything? Surely something — something can be done! Are you made of stone? Or don’t you care? Think — think of those unfortunate people! Ah, it is easy to see you are not one of them!”
“My wife and daughter are in the doomed train,” Mr. Glencoe replied, in a strangled voice.
The reporter bowed his head.
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, after a moment, speaking now in a gentler voice. “But can nothing be done? Can’t someone go down into the tunnel?”
“The shaft indicator shows the water to be less than four miles from the mouth,” replied Mr. Morton. “It would take an hour and a hal
f to walk it; and in a quarter of an hour all will be over. Besides, even if there was time, the chlorine would not allow of our reaching them.”
“Is it the electricity that produces the chlorine?”
“Yes.”
“Well, switch off the current.”
“How is one to decide!” Burst out the managing director, in agonized tones. “If we don’t switch out, every soul will be asphyxiated; if we do, we destroy the train’s last chance of salvation.”
A heavy silence fell upon the little knot of men. There was nothing to be done. The situation was beyond their control. Unable to bear the tension one by one they rose and silently left the power-house, making a melancholy little procession in the direction of the tunnel-mouth.
The chlorine was now belching out in huge greenish volumes, driving back the mob. Surely no one could exist down there in such an atmosphere!
“Suppose the passengers have left the train?” Said someone.
“Perhaps they may yet escape on foot,” suggested the reporter.
“Do you believe that possible?” Asked the engineer.
“Anyway, I think the current ought to be switched out.”
“Yes, cut the current! Stop the current!” Some voices in the crowd took up the cry.
“Switch it off! Switch it off!”
“Perhaps — yes,” acquiesced the managing director. He turned to go towards the works. At this moment enormous waves of chlorine burst from the tunnel, as if driven out by some hidden force, and a dull, rumbling sound could be heard; louder, louder it grew, till the earth shook with its reverberating clamor, and at a hundred miles an hour the menaced train crashed out of the tunnel!
At that moment the current was switched off.
The train gradually lost its momentum and came to a standstill, revealing this dreadful spectacle. There, on the driving-seat; still gripping the lever back to the last notch, a dead man sat, his face horribly contorted in the last agony of asphyxiation. In death, and after death, the motor-man had done his duty!
