by K. M. Tolan
Boss Shannon’s voice grew dangerously soft. “Did she now?”
Timepiece produced a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his glasses. “In theory, a hybrid diesel could run on Hobohemia’s live rails, no small feat for a soulless engine. They usually derail within minutes when the track rejects them.”
“A bloody abomination anyway you look at it,” Shannon agreed, joviality lost. “Faith, but we need to put a stop to this. I’ll send word to Robby Fergusson. He’s the shop steward up at the Works. He’ll make sure you boys get all the cooperation you need. Robby’s the man you’ll be tell’n where this scab shop is. The rest you leave to his lads.”
A hefty gout of steam suddenly boiled up over the embankment, followed by an irate shriek and determined clang of metal against metal.
“Sounds like Danny’s about done,” Shannon ventured with a wince. He stood and stretched. “Let’s see what she’s got for ya.”
About time, too, Vincent added to himself. The idea here wasn’t about rescuing yet another girl, helping King Willy, or getting involved in union troubles. He just wanted his sister and a piece of this railroad baron who ordered Dad’s death. Both goals were getting further away with each new bit of “help”.
He followed Shannon and Timepiece up to where mechanics busied themselves. He had felt it best to stay out of their way over the last days. Watching them cut the cart in half in the first hour didn’t offer much encouragement to follow their progress further. His flagging confidence transformed into a mental rebuke as soon as he saw what waited on the rails.
He couldn’t call their stolen transport a cart anymore. Not with its center section replaced by elongated trusses and new plating, converting the handcart into a vehicle twice its original length. The added steel beams served to support the weight of a cross between whiskey still and clockwork. Gleaming brass fittings capped a round potbelly iron tank the size of a large stove. Copper pipes fed into a small brass casing from which a bright silver push rod extended to a new set of driver wheels beneath the small boiler. Cinder blocks kept the cart’s wheels suspended inches off the rails beneath them.
A small figure in grimy blue overalls wiggled out from beneath the cart. “I told you there wasn’t enough tension on that coupler, you thick-headed yard goose.”
Only when the worker stood and smoothed dirty red hair with an angry jerk did Vincent realize the speaker was a very irate female sporting wild green eyes behind crooked wireframe glasses.
Unfortunately, his bemused surprise didn’t escape notice.
“What’re you looking at?” she spat, nearly hitting a co-worker with the spanner she flung aside. “You’re the one named Brass, right? Freedom’s gandy dancer?”
“That would be me,” he volunteered, not liking the way both Boss Shannon and Timepiece edged away from his side.
“Well stop lying about and let me have that nickel you’re hiding. You think I’m going to do a pressure check by blowing air out my arse?”
“Now, Danny,” Shannon said in a reasoning voice. “You be nice to our…”
“You ask for a fit engine in only a couple days and you want nice?”
“Nobody else could’ve done it but you, darlin’”.
“Go crawl back into your Guinness, you old lush.” The girl glared at Vincent, a grubby hand extended.
“Best you do the honors,” Boss Shannon said with a diplomatic smile, motioning Vincent forward.
“I gave her a fine reception cylinder,” Danny added, a measure of politeness smoothing her tone. She swung up on the machine and seated herself on a green padded bench beneath a canvas bonnet. Reaching forward, she tapped on one the glass panes comprising what looked like a railroad lantern fitted over a gas burner. A single pipe looped up and into the rotund boiler.
He dug the hobo nickel from his coat’s inner pocket and set the coin into a feeder tray Danny slid it into the chamber. She introduced some water with the twist of another valve and nodded. “She’ll do the rest.”
He assumed “she” would be Freedom. “She can power this whole thing by herself? Is that what we’re doing here, because I don’t see any firebox to stuff coal into?”
The pursed lips on the mechanic’s face weren’t promising. “You said your name’s Brass, right deary?”
Sighing, he nodded.
Sure enough, she didn’t disappoint. “Well, you’re thick as a brick’s worth of it. A rider in her stride can hurl any locomotive down the line like a rocket.”
A tinkling rattle interrupted his rejoinder, the glass chamber’s sides fogging. Steam vented from thick grills near the pipe.
“A warm house for her come-hither,” Danny remarked, her mood brightening.
“That it is, lass,” Boss Shannon added, joining Timepiece alongside the cart.
Vincent sat back, watching the vapors jet up in a sudden chuff before whooshing back inside the machine.
“And we’ve a proper escape valve for your ladyship,” Danny added before twisting the pipe’s valve to shut the vents. A series of dials along the left side of the cart jumped to life. “Welcome aboard!”
A bright steel cylinder atop the boiler erupted with the ferocity of a runaway pressure cooker. Jetting steam formed into familiar female proportions, complete with beaming face and top hat. “Another masterpiece, Danny,” Freedom gushed.
Her gray face froze for a moment before she flowed down the boiler’s side to face Vincent. “I thought you gave my nickel to King Willy.”
“I was about to and…”
“It’s not yours to give.”
He threw his hands up in defeat. “I said you could take it back, remember?”
“It’s not yours to decide that, either.” Freedom sniffed. She turned as if catching sight of Danny for the first time. “Lovely engine. Those new glasses?”
Amazingly, the short-tempered mechanic took Freedom’s babbling in stride. “The third pair since last month. Ready for a pressure check?” She jerked a thumb toward Vincent. “He wonders if you have enough steam to power this thing. Shall we show him?”
“Silly gandy dancer. I christen this engine Teapot.” Laughing, Freedom pushed her hat low on her forehead and drew herself back up the boiler’s side.
Vincent half-rose from the seat as pipes groaned and creaked. Gauge needles snapped over to quiver dangerously near the red zone.
Danny grabbed a red lever extending from a gearbox below the gauges. Steam bellowed from a breadbox-sized piston tipping the silver shaft, the engine huffing with a chain smoker’s exuberance. The new driver wheel spun inches away from the rails until its spokes were but blurs.
“Freedom can power a whole fleet of Berkshires!” Danny shouted in exultation above the racket. “You’ve no idea what she can do, Brass. No idea at all.” She eased off the throttle, settling the engine down to a bubbling hiss of contentment.
A geyser erupted from the escape valve to envelop Vincent in hot fumes.
“No idea at all,” Freedom repeated with a humid chuckle. “Why am I? Who am I? Your questions are so loud you can’t hear the answers.” She twisted around him and shot back into the boiler before he could toss a rejoinder after her. A steam whistle made itself known among the cart’s other pipes with a jeering toot.
Timepiece put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder and offered an intervening smile. “Hey, how about we get on down the line?”
Six
“Switch is set,” Timepiece called out ahead of the cart.
Vincent studied the cluster of levers. Damn, which one was the reverser rod again?
A puff of steam whispered over his head. “Last lever on your left.”
“Got it.” He squeezed the handle and shoved the bar forward. “Thought I was supposed to be a gandy dancer, not an engineer.”
“You don’t even know what a gandy dancer is,” Freedom snickered. “You will, though. It’s in your blood, after all. Teapot’s throttle is on your right, by the way.”
“Let’s hope so.” He e
ased the control forward, the boiler burbling in response. Giving a hearty chuff, the little steamer edged onto the main line.
“Way is clear,” Timepiece said, swinging himself up on the slow-moving cart after resetting the switch. “Won’t be another freight coming down until late tonight. We should make the sidetrack east of Fort Wayne by then. We can get ourselves some shuteye and arrive early the next morning.” He settled himself on the bench. “Open her up, but be slow about it. I’m guessing this thing is about to rattle our teeth out.”
“So much fun,” Freedom laughed, crouching atop the boiler in a cloudy rendition of a giggly schoolgirl. Wisps of steam swirled atop her widened eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”
The conductor’s prediction of a rough ride wasn’t far off. Vincent gradually pushed on the throttle until the piston puffed like a maniac, sending them down the rails in a ringing exultation of steel-on-steel. He appreciated the added padding on the bench with every click and clack. The little steamer ran true, wind plucking at his hair and flapping the ends of his duster. One by one, the other tracks curved off, leaving them with a single metal highway cutting eastward through the Indiana countryside. He grinned up at the blue sky. A person could get used to this kind of independence.
The day settled into a rhythmic clatter set against chugging steam and droning wheels, the surrounding landscape a blur of fields and woodlands. The conductor kept Vincent on his toes, insisting he pay attention to every rise and curve the track offered. He found himself anticipating the terrain in order to adjust the throttle ahead of the need to change speed, as the inertia of their travel required a few minutes to lose or gain momentum. The ride might not be comfortable, but the discovery of canned stew in the box behind the canvas bonnet proved adequate compensation.
Then there was Freedom. Maybe it was the boredom of a particularly uninspiring stretch of track. Or perhaps an errant bubble of thought erupting beneath her smoky top hat. Not content to stay inside the boiler, she augmented her flitting about the cart by treating him like a newly discovered ball of string.
She approached him with mischief in her eyes. “So tell me, Brass. Did you lose yourself after losing your sister?”
He stared at her in disbelief, the cutting question delivered with an innocent lack of malice. “I didn’t lose her.”
The vapors around him dispersed, only to gather themselves again to display a sympathetic countenance. “You sound like you’ve had to say that a lot.”
The truth in her words hurt. He batted at the cloud, ignoring Timepiece’s warning glance. “Can’t you find something else to do?”
She stuck out a misty tongue. “No.”
“Look, I’m trying to drive an engine here.”
“Her name’s Teapot.”
“Isn’t there a bottle you can crawl into?”
Her humor vanished. “Try a vacuum canister. That’s how the baron captures us.”
“Tempting,” he growled, Timepiece’s horrified expression making him immediately regret the remark. She certainly knew how to bring out the worst in him.
The steam child only chuckled. “You’ve too much good in you for that, Brass. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be out here looking for your sister. So how is your mother, these days?”
Vincent let out a long breath. Crawling inside a bottle looked more attractive by the moment. “None of your business.”
“Does she miss Katy?”
Vincent took another vain swipe at the mist in front of him. “You mind finding someone else’s heart to cut out?”
His retort only brightened her face. “You know I free slaves, don’t you? Maybe I’ll free you someday.” Laughing, she ignored his flailing arms and dispersed, only to reappear above the black pot as a translucent gray sprite.
Timepiece clamped an uncompromising hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “That’s enough, kid, unless you want to find yourself pushing this crate down the rails. Don’t take riders too seriously, ok? They ain’t got our baggage to carry anymore.”
“Seriously, what are they? Ghosts?”
The conductor shrugged. “Something this side of too much whiskey and pink elephants. Hell, I don’t know. Steam child can make a ’bo dance the jig or sing the blues. They’re a temperamental lot too, so mind yourself.”
The boiler’s huffs grew more pronounced.
“We are simply unfettered,” Freedom clarified, returning from her vantage point to hover before them once more. “We soak in the love of every craftsman who makes an engine, and use their adoration to breathe the locomotive’s first breath. We’re the reminders the rails need to keep themselves alive.” Her wispy voice sighed. “We’re also dwindling in number. Vanishing in the slave boilers once the last bit of joy leaves our souls. We have our own…baggage, as you so crudely put it. Ghosts can’t die. We can.”
“How about something livelier?” Timepiece interjected, getting between her and Vincent. “Brass, you ever hear a rider sing?”
Realizing the conductor was steering her away from a darker mood, Vincent shook his head. “Got something for us, Freedom?”
Eyes fixed on Vincent, she gathered herself with the suddenness of a summer storm until a spectral woman-child drifted over the instruments. A vaporous Victorian dress blended with a nymph’s allure, Freedom’s hair twisting in gray wind-swept strands. Her lips pursed together before widening into an approving show of teeth. “Fine, a song, then. How about something good, but born out of sadness? Much like you, Brass.”
Not sure if she complimented him or not, Vincent kept one eye on the track and another on her. The cart’s steam whistle issued a harmonic accompaniment to the rhythm of the rails, blending its tones into a melody born of sorrow.
The steam child lifted her chin and began singing about the journey of a special train out of New York, one carrying only unclaimed children. Freedom’s voice grew heavy with their cries, evoking the desperation of clinging hands and sudden friendships forged in the fear of an unknown fate. Strength entered her song with the arrival of her kin, steam children across the land gathering to bolster shattered spirits. So great was the confluence of riders the Orphan Train shone like the sun at each stop, heralding the hope of those young passengers.
Something in Freedom’s song, or in the steam child herself, reached into Vincent’s chest to pour a soft and wonderful balm over the bitterness there. Each time grateful foster parents claimed a child, he remembered an untarnished moment in Mom’s eyes. The more the Orphan Train lightened its load, the easier came memories he thought forever extinguished. Forgotten hugs. The unspoken bond brought by a kiss on a cheek. What’s Freedom doing to me?
Vincent looked down, not wanting Timepiece or this spell-casting pixie to notice what welled up to blur his vision. Still, he listened, refusing to let go of even a glimmer of better times offered through Freedom’s ballad.
Her song ended with a quick touch of warmth against his cheek. Silence followed, save for the ever-present song of rail and puffing steam. She was gone when he finally looked up. Next to him, Timepiece stared far beyond the tracks ahead.
“Hell of a thing,” the conductor muttered.
Vincent took a slow inhale and returned to the business of keeping them on the rails. “Yeah,” he agreed, wondering what Freedom had tugged out of Timepiece’s soul. “Hell of a thing.”
~ * ~
They skirted the edge of Fort Wayne, Ohio toward evening, the sight of their steam cart eliciting waves and curious looks from factory docks and motorcars alike. Something in the oddity of the buildings and cars compelled Vincent to keep the throttle open. He had never been to this area, but this town didn’t seem right. The place reminded him of miniature porcelain villages displayed by stores around Christmas—minus the snow. Quaint automobiles, sporting too much chrome, purred past a fairytale collection of peaked roofs and decorated eaves. Even the lampposts were gas-lit throwbacks to another time.
He looked at Timepiece. “We somehow end up in Europe?”
The condu
ctor laughed. “Next time it’ll be skyscrapers, or maybe a little log depot. Never can tell. Depends where you want to be, Brass. We’re aiming for Lima, so how we get there doesn’t matter. Some places stay put, like Chicago, and some don’t. That’s Hobohemia for you. Just stay on the tracks and you’ll be fine.”
“What about towns like Detroit?”
“Detroit’s more like the land you came from. Gone cold and corporate, with nobody giving a damn for compassion or common good. Sidling up to such a place is no different from pumping poison into an open wound. In Erie’s case, what came out of Detroit was more like a sickness, Taylorism spreading across the Erie Railroad like a plague. If we can’t stop it at Cleveland, you can bet the rest of the railroad baronies will get sick as well. You can’t compete against that kind of soulless capitalism.”
Vincent nodded. “Which is why King Willy’s after me cutting the line into Detroit.” He eased back on the throttle, mindful of a looming curve in the track. “It’s going to be dark, soon. Any chance someone gave Teapot a lamp?”
Timepiece rubbed his chin. “Not sure anyone thought of that. We should reach the sidetrack before light runs out. Cook ourselves up a nice stew once we get there, and then make Lima bright and early.”
The night drew in on them with the coolness of a gravedigger’s touch. Shadows swallowed the sun’s departure, making Vincent imagine yegg glowering out from every bush or hollow they passed. Even Freedom noticed a sense of unease, the steam child curling protectively around the potboiler in gray loops.
Ahead, Vincent made out a switch jutting up before a divide in the tracks. They found the sidetrack.
“Something’s wrong,” Freedom hissed.
“Slow it down, Brass,” Timepiece cautioned, gesturing to dark rectangles huddled beneath overhanging boughs. “There’s already a train on the side. Odd that it’s running no lights.”
Freedom rose in a spectral column of mist and called out. A steam whistle answered in a weak deathly gasp.
Her cry twisted into pure anguish. “He’s been torn!” She shot toward the sound, leaving behind a pencil-thin contrail.
