Harry
Bolton, Sam Thomas, and and I were sitting with Gus on the porch (the one that faces the
railroad tracks) of the Hall Store building in Toomsboro. Gus was relating a weird story about
his railroading days. Like most of his
stories, I knew this one almost by heart, but Gus had a way of changing a story
when he'd tell it over - that made it worth hearing
again. When Gus finished the story and had a big laugh, the
other fellows took their leave. Almost nobody would ever leave until after Gus
had had his laugh, for that was half the fun. After he caught his breath, wiped
his mouth, and lit up a cigarette, Gus asked me, “been fishing
lately, boy?”“I went to the Bauxite pond yesterday, aiming to fish a little,” I said, “but there was so many people fishing, I decided it wouldn’t be worth it.”
“How about Commissioner Creek?” Gus asked.
“I fished off the creek bridge a spell last week, and
didn’t even get a nibble,” I said. “The creek water looks like pure milk. If
they keep draining chalk into that creek like they been doing, there won’t be
anything can live in it, not even frogs. About all that's in it now is catfish
and eels. You know where I’d really like to go
fishing,?” I asked, and when Gus didn't answer, I said, "I'd really like to go fishing off
the Oconee River Trestle.”“You ever been on the Oconee River Trestle? boy” Gus asked.
“Once, on a train,” I said. "Why?"
"Aint no trestle I ever been on like that one," he said. "Did you take notice how long it is and how deep the drop off is to the river and swamp?"
“The train was going too fast for me to judge how long the trestle was, but I remember it looked like a deep drop off,” I said
“You right, boy,” he said. “and I can tell you that trestle’s bout twice as long as Commissioner Creek Trestle. You don’t ever want to let no train catch you fishing in the river from it.”
“You ever get caught on it?” I asked.
“Once, about five years ago,” he said. “I was lucky cause I was bout half way from the middle to this end of the trestle when a freight came up on the far end. When I looked around and saw it, I dropped my pole and bait and outrun it."
"Outrun it to where?" I asked.
"That's a fool question," he said. "to this end of the trestle, and I couldn't have outrun it ten more feet."
“What did you do when you got to the end of the trestle?” I asked.
"That's another fool question," he said. "I did the only thing I could do. I just jumped off the tracks and rolled to the bottom of the bank. I got cuts and bruises on both arms and picked up a passel of briars. I lay there for a long time thinking what if that train would a caught me fishing from the middle of the trestle. I aint been back on that trestle since.”
“There must be something a man can do besides try to outrun a train if it comes up on him," I said.
“Yeah, there is," he said; 'he can jump off or he can get out on one of them platforms along side the trestle and try to ride it out. Either way can be rough on a man. Couple of years ago, Leroy Dawson got caught by a train while he was fishing in the river. They say he ran a little piece and just sailed off that trestle like a bird; broke a leg and a arm. I heard say that a man from Oconee got caught bout ten years ago and he crawled out on one of them platforms to let a freight by; they say he just went crazy and jumped right in front of the engine.”
“What did he do that for?” I asked.
“You ever get close enough to one of them engines running under a full head of steam, you won’t need to ask that question again,” he said.
“You know anybody ever rode it out all the way on one of them platforms, Gus?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know a few," he said; "I even know one man who tied his self to a platform with a piece of trot line and rode it out that way.”
"You think you could ride it out on one of them platforms, Gus?' I asked.
"Maybe, but I don’t aim to get killed finding out," he said
“What if you could find out without risking getting killed?” I asked.
Gus got a curious look on his face; “what you mean by that?” he asked.
“You could just sit down real close to the tracks when a train comes by;” I said; “that way if you get too scared, you can just get up and get out of the way. If you do stay and ride it out, you'll pretty much know you could ride it out on one of them trestle platforms.”
“You getting right smart, boy. I like what you come up with. Yeah, that’s a real good idea; I’ll just set down on a stool right out there by the tracks,” he said, and pointed toward the spot where Georgia State Highway 112 crosses the Georgia Central Railroad tracks.
“It was me who thought it up, Gus, so I want to be with you when you decide to do it,” I said. “If we ride it out alright, we can go fishing on the Oconee River trestle anytime we want to - without worrying about getting caught on it by a train.”
“Hold on, boy,” he said, “if your mama was to find out you pulled such a stunt, she'd get mad as a settin hen, not just with you, but with me too."
“She won’t find out if we wait till after dark to do it,” I said.
“We can’t do it at night,” he said, “aint nothing but diesels come through here at night, and there ain’t nothing to them diesels. Naw, we got to do it in the daytime.”
“I’m game if you are”, I said. “We'll just have to take the chance that mama won’t find out.”
“Alright, you sold me,” Gus said. “Be here Wednesday
before 3:00 O’clock and bring a stool with you.”I knew we'd be waiting for Engine 132; it was a fast freight that came through town about 3:15 on Mondays and Wednesdays and it didn't slow down for nothing. If I could ride Engine 132 out, I could handle any of the rest of them, steam or diesel. “Okay, Gus, see you Wednesday,” I said and walked over to my bicycle, which was parked on the sidewalk in front of the O. C. Weaver Grocery Store.
Before I went to bed Tuesday night, I slipped out the back door, took one of the stools from the back porch and hid it in a bush at the edge of the front yard near the street. Starting at One O’clock Wednesday afternoon I stayed out of mama’s sight because I didn’t want her to give me some chore to do that was bound to spoil my plan. I kept track of where mama was and kept track of time. She started cutting up a chicken about five minutes before three O'clock that she planned to fry for supper, and I eased out the front door, laid the stool across the basket of my bicycle and headed up town.
When
I got within sight of the crossing, Gus was standing in the middle of it. There
was a stool setting just off the veneer mill side of the main road and just off
the main railroad tracks on the opposite side from the depot. I leaned my
bicycle against the side of the Hall store, got my stool, and started walking
toward the crossing. Gus spotted me and motioned for me to set my stool down on
the same side of the tracks as his stool but on the other side of the road. I
guessed he wanted me between him and the direction that the train would be
coming from - so he could watch me. I set the stool down and turned slowly around so I got a 360-degree view of town. I didn’t see anybody
else out and about, and I was glad for that because I didn’t need somebody
reporting to mama. Then I remembered that lately people had been coming out of
the stores at the last minute to watch Engine 132 come through town, now that it
was one of the last steam engines operating on the main line of the
Georgia Central. People are like that; they don't pay much attention to a thing
until it's about to leave the scene, and some don't notice till the things
already checked out.“Now you listen to me, boy,” Gus said; “what you and me are about to do is risky and scary, and if you want to back out, now’s the time, and if you do, I promise I won’t look down on you for it.”
“I don’t aim to back out,” I said. I stepped out into the crossing beside Gus and looked down the tracks just in time to see a tiny speck come out of the tunnel of trees in the distance. Gus pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it, and said, “yes sir, boy, she’s right on time, and as sure as the sun’s gonna come up tomorrow, Engine 132's gonna cross right here where you and me are standing - at almost exactly 3:15 – and it won’t make no difference if you and me are still standing here.” He threw back his head and laughed a long hearty, deep-throated laugh that bounced off every building in town before it finally died out.
“It’s time,” he said; “let’s you and me set down and get ready.”
I
sat down on my stool and
looked back down the tracks to where I could see Engine 132. I could make out a
then trail of smoke strung out behind it, and I could just hear the faint
rhythm of the steam exhausting from the engine’s pistons. A haunting melody
drifted into my head and mingled with the sound of the train, and I searched
through my mind, trying to
remember what is was and where I'd heard it. Then I remembered
it was Wednesday, and what I heard was the chimes atop the Baptist church
playing "Sweet Hour of Prayer" - reminding the faithful and the lost to come to prayer meeting later that evening. The first
warning whistle of the train engine
interrupted my thoughts of prayer meeting, and I looked back down the tracks to
the engine and figured that it was just about half way between the point where
I’d first seen it and the Commissioner Creek Trestle. At that
moment, there was another whistle, but it didn't come from Engine
132, but from the steam whistle at the veneer mill - up the tracks from town. I was
surprised because it was still more than an hour before the mill whistle would
signal the 4:30 shift change. The whistle kept on blowing, one long blast after
another, and I realized that it was the mill's emergency signal, the one that
usually meant that somebody at the mill had got hurt. A
moment later, the siren on the top of the town's police station went off,
and seconds later another siren joined in. That siren was higher-pitched than the
first, and I figured it was on a car or truck that was bringing the hurt mill worker to town to see Doctor Ware.I looked to my left and saw that Gus had wrapped each of his hands around a rung of his stool and was looking straight across the tracks. Beyond Gus, I could see a cloud of dust moving down the road beside the railroad, and even without the wail of the siren, I would have guessed it was the vehicle from the mill. The car skidded and almost turned over as it bore slightly right at the Wilkinson County Bank; it lunged across the main street and disappeared from my view behind the Hall store. The car’s brakes screeched and I knew it had stopped between the post office and the drug store, the building where Doctor Ware had his office. The car had stopped, but nobody turned off the siren. Its high-pitched whine, the lower-pitched wail of the town siren and the scream of the veneer mill whistle combined to turn the town into a monstrous chamber of echoing and reechoing noise. I put my hands over my ears, but it didn't help much. I looked over at Gus; he still had his hands on the rungs of his stool and was still staring out across the tracks. I figured he had no notion of what was going on around him.
It was a wonder that I even heard the second warning whistle of the train,
but I did hear it, and it reminded me that I'd come here before the chimes, the
mill whistle, and two sirens had intruded - to wait for Engine 132. I looked down the tracks and
saw that the train had covered a lot of distance since the last time I'd looked at
it, and I figured it was just coming up on the last trestle before town. At that
moment a movement caught my eye off to the left and across the tracks. I turned
my head to see a car a little beyond Clyde Dixon' store come creeping up the
road toward the crossing. From it's slow jerky motion, I figured the car must be
in low gear with the motor running at idle speed. If it didn’t choke down and
kept moving, even at the same slow
speed, it was bound to get to the crossing eventually. I jumped up and ran
across the tracks waving my arms, trying to get the driver's attention. The
car crept on, and I ran to the driver’s side and when I saw that the window was down, I
yelled at the driver at the top of my lungs, “stop the car - a train’s coming!.” I
barely heard myself yell, and when I saw it was Mrs. Mattie Lucas in
the car, I knew it was no use to try to get her to stop.
She looked wild-eyed and confused, and I figured I must have looked the same way to her. I leaned over
into the car, and I figure
Mrs. Lucas thought I was trying to attack her, for she fought back like a tiger,
scratching my face and arms. My feet came off the ground and I almost toppled
into the car head first. I managed to reach the ignition with my right hand,
turned the key and pulled it out. The car lurched once more
and stopped - with the front tires between the rails of the side
track closest to the main track.I looked across the main tracks to my stool and then over to Gus's stool and saw that Gus wasn’t sitting on it. Then something else beyond his stool caught my eye; it was a man standing on the sidewalk right in front of the bank. I couldn’t tell who it was because he was holding a big black object in front of his face. Then I figured it out; he was holding a camera and taking pictures. I didn’t have long to ponder who the man might be or the whereabouts of Gus, because at that moment the whistle on Engine132 screamed a final and urgent warning. I turned and saw that the engine was passing Miss Addie Jean Cason’s house. It was bearing down on the crossing like a long, black beast, snorting gobs of black smoke from a snout on its back and spitting jets of snow-white steam from its flanks. An instant later it roared into the crossing, so close I felt I could touch it. What little hearing I still had was snuffed out by a thousand different sounds, all competing to be the loudest - and what little nerve I still had was sucked out of me by the sudden increase in heat and pressure. In another instant, the terrible, majestic sound and fury that was Engine 132 was hurrying away from the crossing and up the tracks -toward the veneer mill and its final destination, Atlanta. I leaned against Mrs. Lucas’s car and watched the long string of boxcars roll through the crossing, each one right on the heels of the one ahead of it.
By the time the caboose followed the last boxcar through the crossing, I had got most of my hearing back, and the town seemed ghostly quiet except for the church chimes which were still playing "Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Ben Lucas, Mrs. Mattie’s son, came running toward me from the other side of the main tracks and when he got to the car and saw his mother was okay, he thanked me and said he’d take over the situation. I walked across the tracks and headed toward the sidewalk in front of the Weaver store where Gus and several other men were standing in a huddle. Gus looked up and saw me and came out to meet me. “You alright boy?" he asked. “Where you been? I was mighty worried about you. I tell you, boy, it was something else sitting there when Engine 132 rolled through.”
“That’s your tale and I know you’ll stick to it,” I said under my breath. Then I said to Gus, “yeah, I'm okay; who got hurt at the mill?”
“It was a man from over round Wrightsville," he said; “got the thumb and two fingers of his right hand cut off by one them electric veneer-cutting machines. I heard that Doctor Ware said the man would be okay.”
“That’s mighty good news,” I said. “I better get home before supper. I just hope mama don’t hear about me being here today.” I turned and walked over to pick up my stool.
Ben Lucas and the town council gave me a little party at the police station that Friday night, and the mayor made me an honorary member of the council. Gus told me later not to get the big head cause it didn't mean a thing. Mama got up and said she was mighty proud of the way I’d stopped Mrs. Lucas’s car. She went on to say I was still being punished for planning such a dangerous, foolhardy thing as sitting that close to a railroad track on a stool waiting for a train. She grounded me for two weeks - wouldn't let me go fishing or ride my bicycle- not even to deliver the Macon Telegraph newspaper. Ben Lucas sold his mother's car, and he says she wants him to buy her a Harley Davidson motorcycle so she can join the Hell’s Angels. He says she wants to ride across the country to Alabama, or at least as far as California.
The next week, there was a big picture of our railroad crossing on the front page of The Wilkinson County News. The photograph was real clear and you could make out stores and houses all the way down to Will Whipple's Store and Funeral Home, and it showed me standing by Mrs. Lucas’s car. The foreground showed the front end of Engine 132, big as life, just coming into the crossing - and it showed two stools setting out by the tracks. Gus said it was trick photography; he swore he was on that stool when the engine went by, but then again, Gus was always swearing about one thing or another.
“The Wrightsville man who lost a thumb and two fingers at the veneer mill did okay for himself. He got a job with a company that made arm slings and went on to become a manager at the company. The veneer mill installed safety guards on their electric veneer-cutting machines, and nobody else ever joined the mill’s Missing Finger Club.
The railroad company retired Engine 132 and replaced it with a diesel. When Gus heard about it, he said, “what a pity, aint nothing to a diesel; it won’t pull a settin hen off the nest and won’t outrun a terrapin.” He went on telling his stories around town to anyone who'd listen, and he especially liked to tell about the day that we sat down by the tracks to wait for old Engine 132. We never did go fishing off the Oconee River Trestle.
My guess is that day will be remembered as one of the most exciting in the history of Toomsboro. It should rank up there with the Saturday when our baseball team beat Irwinton 1-0 in a game that ended at way after sundown - when Hal Cason hit a home run in the bottom of the nineteenth inning. Some say there was dancing and whiskey drinking in the middle of town that night, but I got my doubts about the dancing.