by K. M. Tolan
Burly arms reached down to help them up on the dock.
“Welcome to Lima, boys,” the largest among them boomed. The man looked like a misplaced sea captain in a workman’s apron with his salt-and-pepper beard. “Boss Shannon sent word on the wireless you’d be a’comin to bedevil the Taylorists. Name’s Fergusson. Robby Fergusson. I’m foreman and union steward here.”
Timepiece shook the man’s hand. “Timepiece. This here’s my esteemed partner, Brass. I think you’ve met our rider.”
Robby offered a leisurely smile. “Don’t see too many ’bo’s up this way, but Freedom’s friends have a place at my table. Speaking of which, where is her ladyship? Shop Three’s fixing to wake the beauty they’ve been working on these past months and would have your rider help do the honors.”
Seeing no evidence of his sister flitting near the cart, Vincent shrugged. “Last I saw, she was dancing around with others of her kind.”
“Well, let her know we’re having the Wakening tonight around seven in Shop Three. You fellahs are welcome to come along. Plenty to eat and drink. Son, you need that head of yours looked at?”
“Just a bump,” Vincent assured them, imagining the impression he was giving with his head wrapped up.
“Suit yourself. I’ll put this little steamer of yours in the maintenance shed around back.”
“Much obliged,” Timepiece answered.
Vincent looked forward to something approaching a warm bed. He followed Timepiece along a back sidewalk consisting more of gravel than cement, passing by a row of buildings whose windows sparkled from the flare of welders’ torches.
Timepiece pointed out a red, green, and white shield embossed above the double doors of an otherwise nondescript structure across a busy intersection. “My union hall is along Shay Street where most folks come for what’s needed. We’ll get some rooms for the night. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch someone’s tongue flapping.” He fished a card from an inner pocket of the old blue coat he wore and motioned Vincent across the road. “Nothing about me losing my train, you hear?”
The sharpness in his voice harkened back to when they first met. Vincent looked around. “Just hope nobody’s heard anything else, either, such as who we’re really looking to find. For coming in all quiet-like, we’re doing a lousy job. Having Boss Shannon blab about us over the wireless didn’t help any.”
“Been thinking that myself. Might want to keep your sister out of the conversations too while you’re at it.”
Vincent found the union hall more presentable on the inside, with worn but serviceable black leather benches surrounding an antique receptionist’s desk. Belt fans turned in lazy circles overhead. Yellowed train schedules lined wood paneled walls, and a towering oak grandfather clock brought attention to the timeliness involved in a conductor’s profession. The steady swing of the brass pendulum blended with an ambience of wood polish and fine cigars. It was hard to sit there and not nod off. There was also, if he saw things correctly through a pair of swinging doors, a bar in the back part of the building.
Despite a couple of jerked thumbs toward Vincent, Timepiece convinced a bored-looking broom mustache behind the desk of their legitimacy. The upstairs room turned out to be an imitation of a caboose’s cramped quarters—two narrow beds accompanied by a brief desk and potbellied stove. Vincent collapsed on a bunk and knew no more.
He woke to a warm moistness pressed against his cheek. Startled, Vincent sat up, narrowly averting a painful meeting between his skull and an overhead pipe. He didn’t see Timepiece through a thick mist having no place in this room. Of course, the perpetrator was Freedom. Wearing a foggy gray dress and her usual top hat, she smiled at him from beside the bed.
“What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing to the vapors around them.
“I’m gathering for the Wakening,” Freedom replied in her whispery voice. She drifted closer. “Here, Vin, take my hand.”
He closed his fingers around hers in an insubstantial grip. Vincent sensed the movement of air about her, tiny filaments of mist circling in toward her.
“Shut your eyes, silly. Feel with your heart.”
He tried, and felt the awkwardness of a voyeur peeking in on someone’s family dinner. A sense of belonging came to him, wrapped in bursts of exultation and frustration as artists poured themselves into their work. A wide array of faces bent to their task, and along with each person came a chain of memories reaching back into the lives that had brought them to this place.
“Lovely feeling, isn’t it, Vin?” Freedom gushed, echoing his own thoughts. “Tonight I’ll imbue the locomotive with these people’s lives. Every cog. Every stitch and rivet. This is how engines wake up, Vincent. This is how our world endures against those who would turn men into machines, and machines into nothing more than metal.”
He pulled away from her disorientating and somewhat embarrassing touch, knowing he hadn’t earned any of the pride flowing into her.
“This is my life, Vincent. Feeling these good people and helping them give birth to something beautiful.”
The regret in her voice exacted a reluctant exhale from his lungs. “I know what you’re saying, Katy, but we’ve got no choice, remember? Either you become human or Dad’s stuck on that train.”
“I’m going to miss this, Vin. You have no idea how much.”
“Look, maybe it just takes one talk with Mom to give Dad peace. You can change back with the next train you see.”
“I’m sure the transformation will be as easy as you make it out to be.”
He frowned at her disingenuous smile. “You can revert back, can’t you?”
“Maybe. Dad made the whole thing sound rather permanent.”
Dad should’ve made Mom a believer and not let her run him off. He removed the unnecessary bandage from around his head with care while searching for a better subject. “Where’s Timepiece?”
“I think he’s mourning his lost train a bit too much this evening. I wouldn’t want him to miss the party. These people barely trust you two as is without adding insult.”
“You seem to be the one whose coattails we’re riding,” he agreed.
“Tonight you’ll see why. Now go fetch our conductor before he drowns himself in whiskey. I’ll be joining one of my sisters over at Shop Three.” She dissipated, taking the fog with her.
The downstairs saloon looked inviting enough. Beneath the dim glow of hanging railroad lamps, booths and chairs appeared well used but not shabby. Barony logos adorned the walls along with pictures of various steamers and crews. A scattering of patrons wore either blue uniforms or striped dungarees. The stares aimed his way, even from the beanpole bartender, told Vincent his visit needed to be a short one.
Fortunately, Timepiece made himself obvious by hunching over a clutch of shot glasses at the bar. Vincent gestured to the proprietor and pointed at the besotted conductor. Timepiece still had the presence of mind to return an acknowledging look over his shoulder. Encouraged, Vincent walked in, ignoring the narrow-eyed glances.
“Don’t like ’bo’s in here, Brass,” Timepiece half-muttered as Vincent came up to him. He tossed down the last bit of amber liquid from the glass he held.
Vincent scowled at the fleeting sobriety in Timepiece’s eyes. “We ain’t got time for this. The Awakening’s about to begin and Freedom sent me to fetch ya.”
Timepiece batted him away. “Why in hell do I want to see somebody else’s train? My Blue. That Hudson’d run rings around these coffee pots. Berkshires couldn’t pull a setting hen off her nest.” He executed a shaky salute toward a Santa Fe coat of arms hung behind the bar.
“Think you’ve had enough,” Vincent quickly added, but from the sound of chair legs scraping behind them, the offering came too late to appease other ears. He turned to face three tight-jawed men in smudged overalls.
Their leader, a wild-looking type with disheveled black hair, eyed Vincent as if the first pile driver already started its swing. “Best get a move-on, tramp. Take that pin
puller with ya before he gets his mouth shut.”
“No coal heaver tell’n me my business,” Timepiece slurred, not bothering to turn around.
The bartender squinted at him. “Ain’t you the one whose crew fought off those yegg last year at Blue Island?”
“Go to hell,” Timepiece returned, and promptly went face-first on the bar.
Vincent guessed it was the bartender’s last remark that convinced the big fireman he faced off with to help carry the conductor out. The man introduced himself as “Jake” and offered to assist the semi-conscious conductor to the festivities.
“So where you boys from?” Jake grunted while they made their way down the sidewalk with Timepiece hung between them.
“Chicago,” Vincent replied. Sensing an opportunity, he threw out a feeler. “Union sent us up here. They heard there was a scab shop being run by Hamiltons.” He braced himself, having no idea if he might be talking to one of them. The guy definitely had this feral look about him.
“Hamiltons.” The name spat out like a wad of sour tobacco. “What union you talking about? Wobblies?”
“Wobblies?”
“I.W.W.” The fireman looked across Timepiece’s sagging head at him. “Figured you being a ’bo, you’d be carded.”
“New to it,” Vincent replied, not sure where to go with this particular conversation. At least this big fellow held no love for the Hamiltons. “Heard anything about a rogue shop?”
Jake shook his head. “Can’t help ya, bud. Rumors have those diesel lovers hooking up with the Erie Railroad. You’d be better off not asking around when it comes to that bunch.” He hefted Timepiece up against a light pole along the factory row. “Looks like he’s com’n out of it. Best tell your friend to keep to himself too. This is Berkshire country. Ain’t nobody wanting to hear about Hudson locomotives even with the kind of reputation ol’ Skipper here has.”
“Appreciate the help,” Vincent replied, waving to the man as he walked off.
“Ain’t nothin’ at all,” the fireman threw over his shoulder.
Vincent wished the man had offered to stay on longer. Steering a semi-comatose Timepiece toward the nearest door proved an embarrassing undertaking. “Great first impression you’re going to make,” he muttered, regarding a queue formed up before one of the tall buildings’ entrances. Everybody looked dressed up in their Sunday best, complete with children who ran up and down the line laughing and carrying on. He needed a side entrance. Badly. “Stay put a second, buddy.”
“Ain’t no ’bo’s buddy,” came an answering slur before the conductor plopped down against the curb.
“Next time I’m tying you to a bunk,” he threw back.
Vincent ran over to the celebrants and started asking after Robby Fergusson. He followed a worker to the front of the line where the union steward stood shaking hands beneath an iron archway strung with lights. Vincent hardly recognized the steward beyond his bushy beard. A smart three-piece gray suit with a ruffled lace shirt and a fancy derby hat replaced Robby’s apron and work clothes.
“You look like a lad need’n some help,” Robby observed at Vincent’s hurried arrival.
“A bit of a problem with Timepiece,” he explained, not wanting to state the obvious in public.
Robby pulled the stub of a cigar from his lips and ground it beneath his heel. “Aye, Glory told me your rider’s all up in a lather ’bout your partner being a bit under the weather. He outside?”
Vincent nodded.
“Well, lad, let’s get to it. Been talk’n the both of you up to every ear in the shop. Can’t have this sort of thing now, can we?”
The task of sobering Timepiece began with half-dragging him up a narrow set of stairs in a back alley. Once inside, they crossed a gantry spanning a cavernous room. Vincent’s first impression of the shop mixed in one part church and one part factory with a liberal dash of a mad scientist’s laboratory tossed in for good measure. Resting on rails in the midst of it sat a huge locomotive along with its tender and bright red caboose.
“There’ll be time for sight-seeing after we tend to your friend,” Robby advised with a tug on Timepiece’s other arm.
Ignoring Timepiece’s mumbles, Vincent helped the conductor into a mezzanine office overlooking the factory below.
“Irish coffee,” Robby said, a crooked smile buried within his beard as he poured a pot’s steaming black concoction into a chipped blue mug. He swept aside papers on an old desk, creating a flurry of dust beneath yellow lamps. The foreman gave Timepiece an uncompromising grimace and thumped the mug down on the table. “Drink.”
Vincent set his sagging charge in a cracked leather chair and watched Timepiece force down the brew. For a few moments, he thought the man was going to clear his stomach.
“I’d be after the drink myself if I lost what he had,” Robby remarked with a sigh. “Man’s a hero, ya know. Slowed a bunch of yegg down at Blue Island by using his train to block their path. Ain’t no rail man worth his salt who hasn’t heard the story.”
Clarity slowly returned to Timepiece’s eyes. He wiped at his mustache and regarded his benefactors with something south of gratitude. “I was better off drunk and you people not knowing why.”
“Folks called his engine the Blue Goose ’round most parts,” Robby added. “Used to run between Chicago and Colorado for the Santa Fe. Streamlined. A real beauty, but maybe a bit too prideful for its own good. No engine should run from its own conductor. Especially not after a hard fight.”
Timepiece rose and steadied himself. “She’ll stop running when I find another crew, and not a moment sooner.” He turned to the union steward with a grim smile. “I’m no hero.”
“Well you’re doin’ a good job of acting like one, Skipper.” Robby extended a broad arm toward the door. “Shall we, gents?”
A long set of stairs angled down to the floor, giving Vincent more time to soak in this temple to manufacturing—complete with an altar consisting of a three-story engine whose thumping pistons gleamed against a cathedral’s worth of windows at the back of the hall. Thick power cables stretched out as if in benediction to adorn giant presses and mills lining the walls with the splendor of steel saints. The air was thick with the incense of metal, oil, and earnest sweat.
What looked like a street festival wound through individual shops nestled in every nook and corner along the factory floor. Each work center had set aside the business of building locomotives for a chance to show off the talent of their artisans. Instead of lamps and windows, Vincent saw a glass shop exhibiting the prowess of its members in bowls and vases crafted for delighted guests. Other work centers stamped or milled everything from small toys to household tools, while stacked behind the workers were examples of far greater endeavors employed in the construction of Lima’s locomotives.
Then there was the Berkshire, gleaming and sparkling like a bride on her wedding day beneath cranes and support beams wrapped in bright green boughs. Rather than be kept at a distance, scaffolding skirted the locomotive, allowing even younger family members to run along the boiler’s walkways and inspect the cabin’s interior.
Robby Fergusson placed his hands on a railing, his booming voice carrying across the shop floor. “Lads and lasses, we got ourselves two men of the open road up here who are fix’n to put a boot up the Taylorists’ arses. On behalf of our union brothers and sisters here at the Locomotive Works, what say you give them a grand welcome?”
Fists rose with enthusiastic cheers, followed by a round of good-natured shouts and clapping.
“These lads are my honorary lieutenants and will accompany my final inspection,” the supervisor pronounced in overly formal tones while tugging at his collar. “Craft masters, if you would be so kind as to join me.”
The crowd around the Berkshire quickly withdrew, a few mothers chasing down sons or daughters still wanting to scamper along the access platforms.
Vincent and Timepiece joined over a dozen men and women who waited with smiles and straightened
backs. The group performed a slow stately walk around the hulking machine, stopping to admire the unblemished steel pipes curling along the lustrous black boiler’s length. Vincent inspected the cabin, awed at seats and side panels finished out in tooled green leather padding. Each gauge shone with a sparkle rivaling a gentleman’s watch. The engine’s driver wheels gleamed with newly milled steel, and even the clear grease along the Berkshire’s mighty pistons smelled fresh.
The foreman gathered everyone alongside the tender for a picture beneath the bold white initials of the Chesapeake and Ohio barony. Vincent noticed two engineers enter the cabin after shaking each other’s hand. Shortly afterward came the muted rumble of a firebox lighting for the first time.
Suddenly, a trio of air horns vented in harmony from the factory’s power plant. Plumes of steam rose from the base of the generator’s pistons, roiling into feminine forms that swooped across the room.
“Our honored guests have arrived!” Fergusson roared. He clapped Timepiece and Vincent on the back. “Come on. Best view is from above.”
They returned to the vantage point in front of the foreman’s office and were met by a gush of steam. Clouds transformed into Freedom’s pixie face. She doffed her top hat in a courtly flourish.
A second ghostly shape materialized beside her, the steam child’s studious face framed by square spectacles and a lace collar bunched high on her translucent throat.
Freedom inclined her head toward Vincent and Timepiece. “May I introduce Glory?”
“A pleasure,” Vincent and Timepiece chorused.
The new arrival studied Vincent with a growing smile. “So this is Brother? A gandy dancer. There are so few of you these days.”
Robby gave Vincent a quick once-over. “Is this true? You a gandy dancer? One of these ladies your kin?”
“Mine,” Freedom chirped.
“Trying to keep that a bit to myself right now,” Vincent added with a warning tone aimed at his gabby sister.
“Well, I’ll not spill a word of it,” Robby assured. “You keep illustrious company indeed, Timepiece. Here I took him for a mere ’bo. Ain’t this the day.” Shaking his head, he tipped his derby toward the two steam children. “The fireman’s warming her up for you ladies.”
