While Sean slept, curled up in a corner of the boxcar, the big
Mikado locomotive began to slow down as she glided around a broad curve near
the lakefront of Lake Pontchartrain. This broad curve was the longest
railroad curve in the world. The company men knew it, the track supervisors
knew it. The train crews knew it and it was referred to as 'That Big Ass
Curve by the lake'. This curve took the Illinois Central around the lake and
north to Jackson, Mississippi, then on to Chicago, Illinois. The big Mikado
tooted his whistle as he passed a section gang and their small open motorcar
sitting on a siding. Once the long freight had passed, they would finish
their work and return to New Orleans for the day as the sun began to set,
casting a fireball glow across the huge lake. After passing this siding, the
tracks crossed the wooden trestle over the Bonnet Carre spillway and
floodway, the same place that Sean's grandfather Samuel was killed when the
earthen embankment caved in during the flood of 1915. The men of the ICRR
knew one thing - never trust the lake. This whole area was mostly water; New
Orleans was surrounded by it. You had the lake to the north of the city and
the Mississippi River on the southern side. When it rained, you had few
choices; you manned the dikes, toting 100-pound sandbags to protect the
city and your home or you headed for the nearest high ground which was
miles away. The Illinois Central Railroad took over the New Orleans, Jackson
and Great Northern in 1885 and since then had spent more money on trying to
improve the earthen dam and spillway to protect its track and investments in
the huge port and grain elevators located near the waterfront of the
Mississippi River. It was an ongoing war, fought by everyone who lived and
worked in this area. The bridge timbers creaked and moaned under the 150,000
pound locomotive and tender, and the train eased on across and soon was back
on solid ground. The sun had slipped from the sky and now the full moon
hovered over the bayou country, and the bright headlight cut a path of
daylight through the darkness. Sean began to stir awake. He slowly opened
his eyes in the darkness, at first trying to remember where he was. Then he
remembered he was on board a freight train, headed north away from his past.
He rubbed the dirt and grime off his face and blinked his eyelids open,
then closed. The soft long eye lashes gave him a softer than normal boyish
look. He stood and walked across the bouncing, rocking floor of the boxcar
to the open door and sat down.

        Sean watched the rolling landscape as he sat in the open door of the
boxcar. He did not know how long he had slept. The sky was dark and the moon
shining brightly. He saw flickers of light as they passed houses near the
tracks of the Illinois Central line.  The big engine sounded a warning cry
as it passed by a small wood station, which bore the name in white letters -
Akers. The train began to slow as he peered out to see why. He was greeted
with a tall signal up ahead of the train with a bright red light shining
into the darkness. He could tell by the engine headlight that a drawbridge
was in the up position, waiting for a small lake steamer to pass under,
going from Lake Pontchartrain to the smaller lake, Maurepas. The brakes on
the cars screeched as they slowed, then the slack in the cars began to run
in. Each time one stopped completely, there was a large bang as the couplers
clanged together. The big engine let off steam and began to pant, waiting on
the slow steam tug to pass under the raised steel and iron bridge. Sean
smiled and thought 'big boy is getting impatient with his little friend on
the lake'. Sean heard a voice in the darkness; it was the conductor walking
along the side of the train, looking at the brakes and journals on the
trucks where the wheels rolled.

        "They all look good so far, Scott, on this side."

        "Yeah, Joe, they all tight over here and well greased. I don't see
any leaking out the grease from the packing."

        Sean stepped back from the open door of the Western Maryland boxcar.
He was not far from the front of the train, about 10 cars in fact behind the
locomotive.

        "I wonder has John found any up front of the train, like he really
has time to listen for them, but shoveling coal is a pain in the ass," Scott
said as he walked to the next car.

        "Yeah, it is, I did it for two years, then decided I wanted to be a
conductor and ride in the angel's seat of the caboose," said Joe.

        "Hey, Scott, get your butt over here, we might have a hobo on our
train!"

        "What's up, Joe?"

        "This Western Maryland box got a open door on my side. What about on
yours?"

        "This side is closed and locked," called out Scott.

        "Well, come over here and let's see what extra cargo we got to throw
to the fishes while we wait for that old tug to pass under the bridge."

        "A'right, Joe," Scott said, and he began to crawl under the center of
the car.

        Sean heard the two men and knew he had no way out. Would he meet his
parents tonight? He shivered at that dark thought as it raced through his
mind. He heard the one named Scott crawling beneath the car and saw the
lantern the one named Joe was holding at the open door. Sean felt the sweat
forming on his brow and reached deep into his pockets to find the gold
coins. He fished them out and placed them in his shoe. The pocket watch
would just have to stay in his pants pocket where it was.

        Joe stepped closer to the open door as Scott moved beside him, in
case there was trouble. Hobos in general were a'right people, lazy but
pretty much OK with the trainmen, never causing trouble, just looking for a
free ride on the high iron. Then you had your troublemakers who enjoyed
causing as much pain and trouble as they could to the brakemen, engineers,
and everyone else who got in their way. They would build fires inside
boxcars to stay warm. It would burn holes in the floor. They would put ties
across the rails to stop the train so they could jump on. You name it, they
tried to do it.

        Joe nodded to Scott and then opened the heavy wood door some more
so he could look around inside the car. Then he decided he would call out
and see if he had a good bo or a bad bo. "Anyone in here?" he shouted, then
he raised his lantern and looked inside. He got his answer to both of his
questions, the two that raced through his mind. He saw in the right corner
a teenager shivering from fear. He looked at Scott. "It is OK, we got a
frightened boy but no one dangerous."

        "Come on, lad, come here, I want to talk to you. I won't hurt you,
neither will my brakeman Scott."

        Sean stood on shaky legs and slowly walked forward to the man
holding the lantern. He stood in the open doorway.

        "Hop down. I am Joe and this Scott."

        Sean climbed down out of the boxcar and walked over to the two men.
"My name is Sean Davis, sirs."

        "Well, Sean, I have one question for you. Where are you going, son?"

        "Sir, anywhere I can find work and to escape New Orleans."

        "Why do you want to escape New Orleans?" asked Joe, his tone of
voice hard.

        "My entire family was killed two days ago in a fire that swept
through our tenant building. I could not stand the city, being alone. I want
to find a new life far from there as I could. I have no other kin people
except for an aunt and uncle in Chicago. They are on my mother's side but we
have not talked to them in a long time. My mother said there was bad blood
following the Civil War and my grandfather and mother quit talking to them."

        "I see," said Joe. "Well, Scott, we will let him ride in the caboose
with us for a while. No need for the poor boy to ride in the drafty boxcar
all the way to Chicago." Joe did not know if he should believe this kid's
story or not, but with him riding in the caboose, he could find out rather
quickly and, if he was lying, off the back of the caboose he would go.

        The three stood in silence as the steam tug tooted her sharp whistle
as she cleared the open drawbridge with her tow of barges. The big steam
engine blasted a loud toot back at the steamer.

        "Come on, Sean and Scott, time to get back to the crummy before the
bridge tender lowers the span and Bill highballs out of here without us."
The three walked back toward the caboose as they heard the big machinery
kick in gear to lower the bridge. They walked past the 40 cars making up the
rest of the train, then climbed aboard the wood caboose. Joe blew out the
lantern and rehung it on the railing. Then they entered the caboose.
Kerosene lamps hung on the walls and the brass reflectors cast the light
out, lighting the caboose. The big desk had paperwork and the running orders
for the mixed freight train, along with the waybills for each car on the
train. A large leather chair was behind the desk, and bunks for sleeping
lined the wall in the forward section of the caboose. A big tin ice chest
sat against the opposite wall from the desk and a potbelly stove sat next to
it with a pot of coffee on top. The big desk doubled as a table when the men
riding the caboose ate while the train was traveling down the track. There
was even a sink in the corner for washing up and doing the dishes, along
with a toilet located in a small room under the ladder leading to the cupola
and the seats up there. Sean just stood looking around this homely caboose.
Each one was different because each was assigned to its conductor, so each
had a special touch.

        "Very nice caboose, sir," said Sean.

        "Why thank you, Sean. Have ever been in one before?"

        "Yes sir, my father worked in the roundhouse in New Orleans before
he was killed. I would sit on top of the small hill at the beginning of the
yard and watch the trains come in and leave when I had nothing else to do.
Other times I would help out pa in the roundhouse and would get to see a
caboose when it was shoved to the repair track for servicing or repairs."

        "Your father worked in the roundhouse, you say. For this railroad?"

        "Yes sir, his name was Charles Davis. He did mostly boiler work but
sometimes helped the repair men when they were trying to catch up if they
got a busy spell."

        Scott whistled low and softly. "I knew your father, Sean. We used to
play a little poker and would talk in the break room. He was a fine man. I
am sorry you lost him. He was a good friend of mine. I wish I had known
about it sooner and I would have tried to send flowers to the funeral."

        Joe looked over at Sean who now had tears in his eyes as they
streamed down his face. "Sean, I am so sorry for your loss. At first I did
not know whether to trust you or not on your story; now I do. I also knew
Charles; he worked on this very caboose, he fixed the roof on old #600 here
not two months ago." Joe walked over to Sean and hugged him tightly.
"You're safe with us and you can ride as far as we are going. Now, come on,
Sean, let's climb up top to the angel's seat and enjoy the cool night air."

        Sean climbed the iron rungs up to the seats and sat down. Joe
followed him and sat beside him. The big locomotive blew her warning
whistle and Scott on the rear platform raised his lantern in a high arc,
signaling the engineer, giving him the highball sign, then hung the lantern
back on the railing next to the one with the clear globe. The caboose
carried three lanterns, one with a clear globe for walking the tracks and
looking, one with a green globe, the one Scott had just replaced, and one
with a red globe which was used in case of danger on the track and to flag
other trains in case of a accident.

        The engineer gave another short blast on the whistle to signal the
brakeman and the conductor that he saw the lantern and then also to the
bridge tender when the big semaphore raised its red board and the light
shone green, meaning a clear track ahead.

        Scott climbed the rungs and sat down on the other seat on the
opposite side of the car. The center area was open in the cupola to allow
passage from one end of the car to the other. Scott picked up his harmonica
and put it to his lips and began to play old songs. Sean recognized the
first one as the Yellow Rose of Texas. The big engine began to pant harder
as the engineer pulled the throttle back, the big drivers bit into the rail
as air shot sand onto the rails for traction to get the heavy train under
way. The engine began to slowly move and then began to pick up speed, the
couplers between the cars clanged as they were pulled tight and began to
roll. Sean back in the caboose now knew he would have to brace himself as
he heard the couplers clanging up front as the train started to move. He
put his feet against a rail on the floor and held tightly on. Joe smiled,
he was about to mention to Sean about holding on to something when the
train started moving but he saw this was a son of a Railroader. The cars
continued to clang as the engine began to ease across the big bridge, then
came the jerk they were waiting for. Sean was jerked back in his seat as
the caboose began to roll, the click-clack of the rails echoing up to his
ears. 'Ahh,' he thought, 'this is what it is like to ride in the angel's
seat.' He stuck his head out the open window enough so he could see up
ahead. The semaphore and its green light passed a few feet away from his
head and they began to cross the big bridge. Sean waved at the bridge
tender as they passed by; he smiled and waved back, then asked himself
'who was the kid' and smiled again. The big engine whistled again as it
cleared the bridge and began to pick up speed as the rails began to hum
beneath her big drivers. Back in the caboose, Sean was smiling ear to ear
as the wind blew his brown hair back and his eyes began to water from the
coal cinders coming from the stack of the locomotive. He called out to no
one but at everyone, "Pa, I understand what you meant now; once Railroading
does get in your blood, you're a railroad man for life!" Joe looked over
when he heard those words and felt misty-eyed as he thought, 'Sean, my boy,
I know what you mean by shouting out those words. Railroading is in the
blood.' He should know, he was the 3rd generation in his family to ride
these rails and he hoped he was not the last in his family. Joe reached
over and patted Sean on the back. Sean turned and looked at the two
smiling men. As if to have heard Sean's words too, the big engine blasted a
long cry as it passed over a road crossing. Sean looked up into the skies at
the full moon and said softly, "Papa, I hope you can see me now." Scott put
his harmonica back to his lips and started to play the Wabash Cannonball.
Sean just beamed as Joe's voice came in with the words to the song. Joe's
voice was soft, his hair a dirty blond, he stood about 5'9 and weighed about
145; his skin was a pale smooth milky white, with handsome blue eyes. He was
part Italian and the rest all American. Scott on the other hand was slender,
with dark brown hair, deep tanned skin, and stood about 5'7 and weighed
around 155. His hazel eyes seemed to shine when he was happy. These two men
loved their job and were proud of it. They both thought 'who could not be
proud to work for such a grand road as the Illinois Central - The Main Line
of Mid-America.'

        Sean rode on now with his head propped against the back of the
chair, feet up on the front window seat, listening to the two men as they
played and sang the old railroad song. Sean leaned up for a moment to adjust
the pocket watch in his pocket. Joe saw this as a chance and placed his arm
on Sean's seat. When he leaned back he felt Joe's arm and felt a little more
safe. Joe smiled inside that the boy did not jerk back up when he felt the
arm on the back of his neck. Scott winked at Joe as he continued to play as
the caboose rocked along the tracks at 50 miles per hour. They passed
through the Louisiana swampland, passing the sugarcane plantations and the
rice fields, then on through fields of cotton, passing small towns and dirt
roads and the old plantation houses set off in the distance. Shanty lights
shined from windows as the slow pace of life continued for these humble
people.

        The bell rang as the train passed over the dirt road crossings and
the whistle sounded her mournful cry as they raced along the rails, heading
north. Sean felt the air brakes begin to engage as the train began to slow
down. The big brass bell began to toll as the engine slowed to a crawl and
Sean leaned out the window to see John climb down from the tender and run
ahead to a switch. He pulled out his key and inserted it in the lock.  He
turned the key and the heavy lock opened and he picked up the handle out of
the slot and rotated it and the rails turned to guide the train onto a
siding. John dropped the handle back into the proper slot and boarded the
engine once again and they crept over the switch and into the long passing
siding. The air brakes hissed as they began to slow the train down and brake
shoes screeched as they rubbed against the wheels. Scott flicked on a small
light above his head and opened his silver pocket watch - 8:30. "Joe, we're
right on time for the southbound Cannonball. Sean looked ahead and saw the
home signal, a double semaphore with one of its blades high in the air,
showing a green light, while the other was in lowered position, showing red
for the train he was on. The station sign read Ponchatoula. Scott climbed
down the rungs to the floor of the caboose and Joe motioned for Sean to do
the same; he climbed down, followed by Joe. The three walked to the back
platform to wait on the southbound Cannonball to pass. Joe lit the red and
green hand lanterns while the big rear end markers burned brightly in the
darkness. The big rear end markers served two purposes, to warn trains
following and to let the engineer know that his train was still intact and
that he had not lost part of his train. They showed red toward the rear and
green forward towards the locomotive. Minutes passed as they waited for the
crack passenger train to come down the line. Scott stepped down and began
to walk toward the locomotive to speak with John and motioned for Sean to
come with him. Sean climbed down the rear steps onto the crushed rock and
cinders and followed beside Scott. Scott passed the lantern in his hand to
Sean.

        "There ya go, make you look like a real railroader!" Scott smiled
and Sean beamed. Neither of them saw the expression on Joe's face - it was
a pure smile. Joe thought, 'That is one fine lad walking beside his best
friend.'

        Sean and Scott talked as they walked, learning about each other and
railroading in general. Sean learned that Scott was a 2nd generation
railroad man; his father was a clerk in Jackson, Mississippi. Scott also
told Sean that Joe was a 3rd generation railroader and that his father was
track supervisor on the Grenada district in north Mississippi. They came to
the big panting steam locomotive, her headlight dimmed while waiting on the
passenger train. The Engineer stuck his head out the cab window.

        "Hey, Scott, who you got this time totin' your lantern?"

        "This is Sean Davis from New Orleans. He is riding with us." Scott
smiled.

        "Howdy, I am Bill or, as the boys like to call me, Wild Bill."

        "Nice to meet you, sir."

        "Aww hell, no 'sir' to it, just Bill, my young friend. So why you
riding this here freight train?"

        Scott spoke for Sean. "Bill, this is Charles Davis' son. You know he
was killed two days ago in a fire at his tenant building. Sean here is
escaping the memories of that since he lost his whole family in that fire,
so Joe and I decided he was going to ride with us in the caboose."

        "I am so sorry to hear of the passing of your father, my boy. If
I can do anything, just ask me. I will be more than happy to try and do it.
We'll be on our way once old number 9 passes us here. John is at the
station, talking to the operator, finding out how long we will be stuck
here. This old boy will soon be thirsty and hungry and I like to keep old
1200 here well fed."

        "You know my pa helped build #1200?" spoke Sean.

        "He and the rest did a fine damn job on him too."

        John walked across the track and over to where Sean and Scott stood
talking to Bill. "Hey, Scott, I see you got a helper tonight." John stuck
out his hand after removing his glove. "I am John. Nice to meet you." "Sean
Davis." Sean shook John's hand.

        A long blast from a whistle broke the night as a headlight rounded
the curve. Engine number #946 rounded the curve, her drivers flashing in
the headlight of #1200. The sharp 4-6-0 ten-wheeler sounded her whistle
again as it passed the station, then another at the crew of #1200. Bill
yanked the whistle cord to #946 in reply to the other engine. The
engineer waved at Bill and they all waved back as the steamer roared past,
followed by the dark green Pullman passenger cars with Illinois Central
painted in gold leaf. The 12 cars passed in a flash, the wheels pounding
the frog in the switch. Then there was nothing but the receding red glow
of her markers along the track. They heard the chain of the semaphore
being raised as the board changed from red to green.

        "Sean, go back to the caboose and I will throw the switch and hop
on once I line it back for the main."

        "Aww, hell, Scott, let the boy ride up here to Hammond. It is only
20 miles away. Let the boy ride what his father built with pride. Come on,
Sean, climb aboard." John winked at Scott.

        "Scott, go throw that switch. I got time to make up."

        "Oh, God, not another speed race." And they all laughed.

        Sean climbed the ladder mounted between the locomotive and tender.
He was standing on the gangway that connected the tender and locomotive. It
also gave a place for the fireman as he shoveled the coal from the tender
to the firebox.

        "Hop up in John's seat on the fireman's side. You can ring the bell
and John will sit in the brakeman's seat, since we only got one brakie on
this run."

        Sean sat down in the seat that was still called the $2.00 seat
from the old days when firemen made $2.00 a day, building the transconti-
nental Railroad. "Ring the bell, Sean. See that cord? Pull on it, my boy,
pull." John smiled as Sean grabbed the cord and pulled. The bell began to
toll as the big engine released her brakes and began to move forward as
Bill pulled back on the throttle. The big engine snorted and began to roll.
They passed Scott standing at the switch and Sean waved at him and he
saluted Sean. The big engine crossed the frog and the wheels clanged
against the rails as it passed over. Once again they were on the main line.
They eased ahead as they pulled out. Once the caboose had passed the
switch, Scott lifted the handle and lined it back for the main line and
mounted the caboose. Bill looked back and saw the high ball signal and
then he pulled the throttle open. The big locomotive surged forward as
more steam was let into the pistons that drove the connecting rods and
they began to flash as they picked up speed. "You can let off that bell
now, Sean," said John.

        "OK." Sean let go of the rope.

        "Since you're riding in my seat, here's what you got to do while
I feed this old boy. See those big gauges in front of you?"

        "I see them."

        "Good, you have three right before your eyes. They are called
sight glasses. The two with water in them are your most important; the one
on the left shows how much water is in the boiler and covering the crown
sheet. If it drops below that red line we're in trouble; that means there
is not enough water to keep the crown sheet covered and the firebox is
overheating the metal that separates it from the bottom of the boiler and,
young man, you know what that means."

        Sean looked at John, his eyes wide, "Yes, sir, it means we're
going to have a boiler explosion and we won't be here to see the wrecking
crew coming with the crane."

        "Very good and correct. The one beside it shows the amount of water
in the tender. When full, the tender holds 14,000 gallons of water as you
can see on the gauge. We have about 4,000 gallons back there now, enough to
get us to Hammond. Now here is your job for now. See those gloves on the
toolbox beside your seat. Put them on because your task is this." Sean put
the heavy wool gloves on and listened as John told him which way to turn
the metal wheels to let more water from the tender to the boiler and how to
watch the gauges showing air pressure for the train brakes, engine brakes,
and other functions of the fireman. "Also you must be alert. After a few
miles you will begin to hear this old boy talking to you like I am now. It
will let you know when you don't do something right and Bill over there
will yell at you when he sees his steam pressure dropping. Then when we get
to Hammond he will scald both of our asses for making him lose time.
Passenger train #9 was the first of four we will pass tonight on our way to
Jackson, Mississippi and it is a sin for a freight train to delay one of
them for a second. Same goes for the banana trains and the hot shot and red
eye freights. This is a 3rd class train so we got three other classes to
watch out for. Now the most important thing to remember. Following us is
the pride of the line on a crack schedule; we do not delay her for one
second. I repeat, we DO NOT DELAY THE PANAMA LIMITED. If we do, all of our
asses on this freight train will be on the carpet in front of the Division
superintendent. He will want an explanation of why we delayed her and if we
do not give him one to his satisfaction, Bill, Scott, Joe, and me will be
laid off for 30 days for that sin. Do you understand?"

        Sean looked at John, then in his proudest voice he could muster
under the stern gaze of the fireman, "Yes, sir, I will do my damnedest to
get old #1200 into Hammond on time."

        John smiled, "That is the spirit!" John picked up his fireman's
scoop and started to feed lump coal into the firebox. The big door swung
open every time John threw another shovelfull into the raging fire,
highlighting him in a crimson glow as the heat flared up and out. Sean
watched and learned as he watched the gauges before him and he watched
the track through the tall narrow window in front of him at the front of
the cab. He watched the mile markers flash by, and the telegraph poles
looked like a picket fence as Bill poured on more steam. Sean looked over
to the right side of the cab at Bill. He had a broad grin on his face,
with his left hand on the throttle lever and his right on the window
seal. He looked over at Sean and yelled, "Let's make John work for a while
now, my boy," and he tugged the throttle open a little more. His speed
gauge hovered on 65 miles per hour as the landscape flashed by. Sean
watched ahead and learned when to start ringing the bell when they came
to a road crossing and when to stop ringing it. He watched the gauges
and, most of all, felt the pride inside himself swell. Here he was at 15,
riding the High Iron in a locomotive that his very father had helped
build and breathe life into. He was riding on the same rails that his
grandfather passed over, headed north on the long freight trains on #99.
'Yes,' he thought, 'I know what it means to catch Iron Fever. I hope it
never lets go of me, either.'

        "Get that bell ringing, my boy. Ponchatoula is straight ahead!"
Bill eased back on the throttle and the big engine began to slow and Sean
watched as the boiler pressure began to rise since the big engine was not
sending as much to the pistons that drove the 60" drivers.

        Sean reached up and grabbed the bell cord and began to pull it.
Over the noise in the cab he heard the crisp ring of the bell tolling their
arrival. John sat down in the other seat behind Sean and wiped the sweat
off his face. "Damn, you boys are trying to work me to the bone."

        Sean looked at John as he continued to ring the bell. "How did I do,
John?"

        "You're doing fine, Sean, you're a born railroader!" John slapped
Sean on the back.

        Sean beamed at the compliment from John. They watched the small
wood station come into view on their side of the tracks. A small 2-6-0
Mogul was sitting there on the siding, steam floating up from her generator
powering the headlamp, light trails of smoke puffing from her stubby stack.
The little engine was a relic in many people's eyes, built before the turn
of the century in 1890, but she still did her job daily, switching the
sidings and industries around this small town. The big Mikado glided past
on the mainline, tooting the whistle at the little steamer and the short
train of three cars and a caboose. The little steamer answered back with a
short toot. The big double-armed semaphore showed a green light and the
train passed by, with Sean ringing the bell until it passed the small wood
station. Once past, Bill again picked up speed as he pulled the throttle
back - ten miles to Hammond.

        The ten miles flashed by as Bill gave the big locomotive as much
steam as he dared to. The train crews lived by the working timetable
listing all the trains on the line and where they had to meet and pass
each other. Bill knew he had plenty of time to meet the southbound Panama
Limited which was screaming through the night toward New Orleans at 100
MPH. He also knew there was a northbound #10 at Hammond, a local passenger
train that he was to pass. He knew there were four passenger trains on the
line and over 50 freights that he would have to meet before reaching
Jackson, MS. Hammond was 53 miles from New Orleans. Sean watched the gauges,
doing his best to please both John and Bill. He watched the sugarcane
fields turn to corn and cotton fields as they headed north and into higher
land elevations, leaving the swamps and bayous behind and, with each turn
of the big drivers, a little farther from his smoking past, the moon shining
brightly on the rails ahead. The tracks curved in and around hills and
hollows and in other places straight as an arrow for a few miles, then
another curve. Sean soon began to notice the flickering of lights scattered
in the distance, then the switch to the yards. Bill closed the throttle on
the big Mikado as he slowly engaged the air brakes on the engine and the
rest of the train. The heavy steel shoes began to heat up as they rubbed
the flanges of the wheels as the train slowed. Sean was ringing the bell
when Bill looked over at him and nodded his approval of how fast Sean was
learning the tricks of the trade. The harder you pulled the bell cord, the
bell would ring faster and, if you pulled hard enough, the bell would start
to swing on its own and you no longer had to pull it constantly. Up ahead
at the station stood number #10 and her 10 car train of mail and passengers.
Number 10 left New Orleans ahead of their train and would switch over to the
western line running to Baton Rouge. Hammond was also the pick up point for
freight for #1200 and its crew. The big Mikado eased up to the brick
station, bell ringing to warn away the passengers waiting to board #10. The
brakes hissed as they stopped. John told Sean to continue to ring the bell
because of the passengers walking along the station platform and the
surrounding areas of it. Bill had stopped his big Mikado pilot to pilot with
the small 4-6-0 ten wheeler. The engineer of the ten wheeler stuck his head
out his cab window and waved at John and Sean.

        "Howdy, John, who's your new helper?"

        "This is Sean Davis of New Orleans. He is earning his ride to
Jackson, MS. He has."

        "Sean Davis, son of Charles Davis who was killed in a tenant
building not two days past?"

        "Yeah, Keith, same young man."

        "I am so sorry to hear of your father's death, my boy. He was a
great man and wonderful mechanic. There will be no one to replace such a
fine man as he was."

        "Thank you, sir," replied Sean.

        "Keith, I will tell you this. Sean is a born Railroader. He has
been riding in that seat for the last 20 miles and I swear old #1200 here
used less water and coal than on any run before tonight. He has kept the
boiler full and gauges under close eye and, boy, can he ring a bell. You
heard Sean tolling the bell, pulling in tonight I was enjoying the ride
for once." John smiled as he spoke and saw Sean's face turn crimson red.

        "Yes, he is then, if that hog uses less fuel and water, he must
be a born railroader. But, boys, you will never match old #956 here. I
will race you any day and leave you in a cloud of smoke and cinders."
Keith patted the throttle of his engine. "So, Sean, where you heading
after Jackson?"

        "Anywhere far away from New Orleans, sir."

        "Starting a new life for yourself? That is a fine choice, my boy.
But I take it old Joe found you hitching a ride on one of his cars. Good
thing he has a soft heart for young boys." Keith winked.

        "Yes, sir, I was, Joe found."

        "Stop, you damned kid, come back here!"

        They all turned to look at the station agent chasing after a young
blond headed boy about Sean's age. Scott and Joe stepped down off the back
of the caboose to watch the chase. The station agent was a tall slender man
with light gray hair and wire rim glasses. The boy ducked under a boxcar
about halfway down the train from the locomotive. The station agent
followed after him but when he came up on the other side of the car, the
kid had vanished. The station agent stood and brushed off his coat and
readjusted his hat. Joe walked up to the agent.

        "What'd he do?" asked Joe.

        "Damned brat tried to sneak on board Number 10 there. Sorry son of
a bitch."

        "I see," said Joe, as he opened his pocket watch. "9:15. You're five
minutes late giving #10 her high ball to depart." Joe spoke in a sharp, hard
voice.

        "I be God damned." The station agent started to crawl back under the
boxcar to save time getting around the long train.

        "Umm, sir, you know the rules do not allow Railroad employees to
crawl under loaded freight cars while coupled to a train with a locomotive
coupled and not blue flagged. I would hate to have to report you to division
headquarters. Now number 10 is seven minutes late departing and if I
understand correctly, according to the timetable I am supposed to pick up 10
loaded boxcars from the yard switcher and you're delaying my train. Please
walk around the locomotive and not crawl under my cars like a common tramp,
my good sir."

        "I be damned." The agent stood straight and walked down the line of
freight cars until he was in front of the engine and was beginning to walk
across the track, when Bill yanked the whistle cord. The station agent froze
in his tracks for a second, then hurried across the track and into the
station. The semaphore raised its board from red to green, giving #10
permission to depart the station to the junction switch located farther
along in the yards.

        Keith waved and wished Sean good luck in his travels. Then he pulled
the whistle cord on #956 and pulled the throttle lever. The big drivers
slipped and spun, then made purchase on the rail, and the heavy train pulled
out of the station siding.

        Sean looked over at John. "Why did we stop here if we are going into
the yard to pick up cars and to refuel?"

        "Well, Sean, it is simple. The yard crew has the main blocked while
they sort any yard cars bound for other trains and industries and shops
here. Bill made it ahead of schedule just like he promised and with our
help he made better time than he thought. The yard crew has the junction
switch lined and locked for the Baton Rouge route. Once they clear the main,
we will pull in the yard and water and coal our engine while they do the
switching of our train." The rear markers of number 10 disappeared in the
darkness and they heard her whistle at the yard crew as she swung around
and entered the west track for Baton Rouge. The yard crew flashed their
headlight at Bill and whistled two long blasts to enter the yard. Bill
answered with one long blast and released the air brakes. He opened the
throttle and turned on the sanders that shot dry sand under the driving
wheels to keep them from slipping as they started the heavy train once
more.

        Sean looked puzzled. "Why did #956 spin her drivers with a shorter
train pulling out and here Bill was easing forward without a slip of a
single wheel?"

        John laughed when he answered. "Keith was showing off because the
station agent delayed his train, that's why."

        Sean smiled, "I see."

        The big Mikado eased down the track to the yard, Joe and Scott
riding the back steps of the caboose and the blonde haired, blue eyed kid
riding the roof of a Pennsylvania boxcar.

        The blonde haired, blue eyed kid hugged the roof walk of the 40-foot
boxcar, wondering what had he just done. All he wanted to do was to run, and
he did that fine, from a father and mother who did not care if he lived or
died. He was alone now, his father a drunken, out of work steamboat's
captain, his mother nothing more than a slut who served drinks in a seedy
bar along the riverfront. His parents had lost one child to the state and
now no one knew where he was, an older brother he never got to meet. He was
big for his age. He was thirteen but could pass for a boy fifteen or
sixteen. He weighed 140 pounds and stood 5'6".

        He lived a hard life, but three days ago he said enough was enough
when his father tried to make money by selling his boy to some British
aristocrat. His father did make 50 dollars from the rich snob who met his
father in the seedy bar called the Steamboat Inn and he was dragged against
his will to the Hotel Lafayette. The aristocrat introduced himself as a
Lord Oliver. Greenbacks exchanged hands and he was left with this strange
acting man with even a weirder voice. The man forced him to strip off his
rags after they were alone in the locked, overly hot room. The tall man then,
after saying he only wanted to look at his naked body lying there on the
bed, had tricked him into spreading out his arms while this man rubbed his
naked flesh. He never saw the gold tassels hanging from the bedposts being
slipped around his wrists and when he realized what was going on, it was too
late. He tried to get off the bed and the golden cords tightened around his
wrists; the more he struggled, the tighter they became. The stranger tied
his legs to the lower part of the bed. Now he was helpless. All he could
think was 'I am going to kill the bastard before he leaves the city.' The
cool air floated through the hotel windows after Lord Oliver cast them open
to catch the night air. "This time the boy would not escape like the olive
god did that afternoon." He heard the words spoken in that clipped British
accent that sent chills down his naked sweating body. Then the stranger
towered over him again. Then the stranger bent over him and started to rub
his chest, the long fingernails leaving faint red lines wherever they
crossed his chest. He did not like this feeling. It made him feel dirty and
slimy, the perfectly clipped fingernails to go along with that weird
clipped voice of this stranger who now had control over his body. The boy
tried to move again and again but he knew it was no use. The ropes held him
down like a slave before a master and he realized that's what he was. He was
bought and paid for just like he was a slave in an antebellum slave market.
The boy wanted to cry but held his tears; he would show no weakness to this
bastard. What he needed was a plan and it was forming in his mind. All he
had to was....

        The stranger known as Lord Oliver thought and pondered a question
in his mind as he looked at the helpless naked boy tied on the big bed. He
was different from the bronze god that was here that afternoon. Quite
different in fact. This boy was a fighter but with little will power; the
other one had both. The blue eyes of this boy showed fear and an
uncertainty of what would happen next. Maybe it was because of how he got
here against his will as his father dragged him up the back stairway of the
hotel, a gag in the boy's mouth to keep him from screaming at the top of
his youthful lungs. Lord Oliver rubbed the tenting crotch of his tailor-
made britches as the boy lay there looking up at him, sweat beading on his
milky white skin as it trickled down his forehead and beaded on his smooth
chest. The boy was almost hairless except for under his armpits and his
crotch, where fine blonde hair covered the white skin, the hair barely
visible on his powerful young legs. The boy's chest rose and fell as he
breathed, stomach muscles tight under the skin. He reached down and grabbed
the boy's limp penis and began to stroke it while his other hand reached
under the boy's balls to stroke the tender area leading to the young virgin
ass and the cherry he would claim as his. He clicked open his watch - ah,
time was money and he had a card game soon to go to. The night was still
young and so was his captive slave, lying on the bed. The boy's soft penis
began to stiffen as he rubbed his fingers over the cut shaft, making it jerk
at his will. The tight muscles of the boy's anus were firmly clinched shut
like a vise. That would soon change as his cock claimed another boy cherry.
Something about all of this gave him a power money or rank could not buy.
He stopped rubbing the boy's now hard cock and unfastened the buttons on
his britches, letting his own member free from its clothed prison. He
reached down to untie the boy's feet to allow him access to the boy's ass.

        The boy watched the man as he undid the ropes on his legs. He did
not move, he waited until he could get the man in the right position, then
he would strike. He waited and he watched. The man moved between his spread
legs, lifting them high in the air to access his asshole. Here was his one
chance to pull it off. He brought his powerful left leg up and, before the
man could move, slammed his foot in the man's groin. The man grunted and
gripped for his nuts as he tumbled off the bed. Now the damn ropes on his
wrists. He did not know what to do for a moment and panic almost seized him.
Then he just let out a powerful roar deep inside himself and jerked with all
his will and the right cord snapped. He quickly undid the other one and
yanked off the cords. He reached in his pants pocket and found what he was
looking for, a small bottle of white powder he knew was some bad shit; his
friends has warned him about it, telling him what all it would do to a
person if given a large dose at one time. He pulled the cork stopper out,
walked over to the stranger, and grabbed him by his hair, jerking the man's
head back. He was about to let out a scream when the boy poured the white
powder down the man's open mouth, then he closed the man's mouth and made
him swallow the powder. The man struggled with him at first but a heel to
the man's already aching balls stopped the struggle as the man gripped them
tighter. The boy, now free from his bonds, yanked on his pants and shoes
and grabbed his shirt and raced out of the room and down the back stairs. He
would remember that night for the rest of his life. His brother's birthday
was May 12th and the night his father tried to sell him was May 12th. The
next two and a half days he roamed New Orleans, staying far away from the
hotel and waterfront. He hid around the Texas and Pacific's railroad yards
until a cinder dick spotted him trying to steal food from a reefer. So he
ran until he saw the local passenger train pulling out of the station near
downtown. He raced along beside it until he saw his chance. The train had
to crawl over a set of tracks leading into the station from another line,
so he ducked under the moving passenger car and grabbed ahold of the iron
rods running beneath the car body. He quickly pulled himself up on the rods
and made himself as comfortable as possible and rode the train all the way
to Hammond until the agent spotted him coming back from taking a piss
behind the station. So he raced to where he was now, high in the air on a
boxcar as it rumbled into the yards.

        The blast from the steam whistle brought him back to the present
and he looked out again from his perch high on the swaying boxcar. The air
brakes began to engage and he felt himself being thrown forward on top of
the car. He braced himself on the wooden walkway 12 feet above the rail
head. He tried to make himself invisible when they passed the yard switcher
sitting on the main line as they crossed the junction switch and then
entered yard track #1. The big engine crawled along the well worn and
beaten rails and the cars bounced and swayed even more on this yard track
that did not have to be kept up to main line standards. The Mikado stopped
short of the switch leading back out to the main line and he looked behind
him. He had not realized that the caboose was no longer on the rear of the
train but sitting on the main line. Scott had uncoupled it as the train
eased into the yard track.

        The slim little 0-4-0 switcher with her sloped back tender eased
up to Caboose #600 with Joe standing on the front end, his foot propped up
on the railing. Scott threw the switch, lining it back up for the main line
and the couplers clanked as they joined. Joe spun the handbrake on the
caboose, releasing the brakes, and the little switcher shoved it back down
the line to a siding in front of the warehouse. So while the yard switcher
shuffled cars like a riverboat gambler, Joe could stock up on ice and coal
for his caboose along with drinking water and other supplies he may need
before reaching Jackson. Joe stepped down off the front platform and down
the steps to the side of the car and walked forward. He lifted the heavy
uncoupling bar that ran across the end to the other side. It had a link
and chain running down to the center of the knuckle coupler and connected
to a pin in the center. He yanked the bar up and the coupler opened, the
little steamer tooted her whistle 1 short blast to signal she was beginning
to back up. The little 0-4-0 eased back and the yardman threw the siding
switch as Scott and Joe began to inspect the journals on the wheels. The
bearings of the wheels rolled inside the journal box, a square box with a
hinged top. Scott picked up a long-spouted oil can and began looking at
each one to check the packing of the bearing. The packing was wool or
cotton waste, called dope by the railroad men. He opened the lid and looked
in and then, turning the spout of the oil can, began to soak the dope of
each wheel, while Joe refilled the oil lamps on the back of the caboose and
the lamps inside.

        While Joe and Scott worked around the crummy, the crew of #1200
pulled down to the coaling tower and began to fill the tender with black
diamonds. The tender held 30 tons of coal. John had climbed up on the top
of the tender and lowered the coal chute. The black coal began to pour down,
filling the bunker of the tender while Sean and Bill waited on the
locomotive. Once the tender was loaded up to her boards, the chute was
raised and, with John riding the top of the tender, they eased down to the
water tower. The water tower stood on large wooden posts, its wood tank
holding 500,000 gallons of water that was pulled from the ground, using a
steam pump. On both sides of the tower a large green diamond was painted,
with the words Illinois Central painted through the enter. The old
lettering fading below it read New Orleans, Jackson and Great Northern.
Bill watched for John's signal to stop when he lined the spout up with the
water hatch located behind the coalbunker of the tender. Once John gave the
signal, Bill stopped the big engine and locked the engine brakes. "Follow
me, Sean," said Bill.

        They climbed down the ladder in the connecting gangway between the
cab and tender. Bill carried another large oilcan with a long narrow spout.
They walked around the engine, oiling the bearings in the slide rods and
connecting rods of the big engine, then the journal boxes on the tender, as
John stood on the back of the tender, holding the weighted water spout in
the hatch opening. Bill was doing a running dialog on why they oiled this
part and that part, explaining that a hot box on one of the bearings, if
not caught in time, would cause an axle or a pin to overheat and it would
break, causing a derailment. Bill also carried a small 5-pound hammer to
drive loose pins back into their proper position on the connecting rods.
Sean had offered to help oil the engine but Bill politely refused the offer,
telling Sean he could help John but when it came to this, old #1200 was his
engine and nobody laid a hand on it unless it was going to the shops for an
overhaul or maintenance.

        As Bill and John and Sean watered and fed the snorting, puffing
iron beast, the little 0-4-0 was working the yard tracks. The main consist
of the freight was to stay the same and more cars added. The little
switcher crossed back and forth across the yard tracks, selecting the
loaded freight cars to be added to the consist of #1200 and its crew. Each
time a car was added, the blonde boy on top of the boxcar felt the jolt as
the cars coupled together and heard the muffled voices of the brakemen
hooking the air hoses together. He had to get off the top of this car and
hide, but where, he wondered. There were too many people around for him to
risk the climb down from the roof without being seen again. He remembered
seeing a boy about his age riding the big engine; was he part of the crew
or a son of one of the men? He remembered the harsh tones used by one of
the men who rode the caboose when he was speaking to the old agent at the
station. Was he just being rough to him because he was breaking rules or
did the man want him to escape? He wished he knew these answers. He looked
ahead and saw the big locomotive clanging its bell as it slowly backed back
down to the siding where the freight cars sat, the tender light burning
brightly, casting a bright yellow glow on the rails. The fireman was still
riding the top of the tender. The boy ducked down once again to hide. He
thought the fireman saw him but was not sure. He would have to stay here
and take his chances. He saw the fireman wave his hand toward the cab of
the locomotive and then he felt the jolt as the big engine coupled onto
the train. Every time he felt a jolt it shoved his crotch against the
rough wood of the walkway.

        As the blond haired, blue eyed boy watched everything from the top
of the boxcar, it looked different from Sean's viewpoint. He and Bill had
finished walking around the big engine and wiping it down and oiling all
the journals and connecting rods. When they climbed back into the cab, John
was just releasing the weighted spout of the water tower when he gave the
signal to back up. John looked up from the top of the coal pile in the
bunker and he swore he saw something on top of a boxcar about halfway down
the train. He was not sure from where he was standing, and the full moon
sometimes played tricks on the eyes of a tired man, so he gave his slow
reverse signal and watched as the big engine crawled backward to the
waiting line of cars. He gave the signal to stop when he heard the clang of
couplers and felt the jolt as the big engine stopped at the head of the
train. Now they would wait until the switcher added the last five cars of
lumber and cotton, then they would shove the caboose back to the rear and
couple it back on.

        Sean watched John standing on top of the tender, looking up at the
roofs of the boxcars. What did he see up there? Then he too saw something on
top of a boxcar. Yhe flickers of the bright light on the tender and the full
moon showed patches of yellow high up on the car and a dull white like a
cotton T shirt. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He continued to pull
the bell cord, making the 30-pound bell toll slowly as they backed down the
track to the cut of cars. They watched John as he gave the stop signal for
the coupling as the big engine slammed her tender into the lead boxcar and
the couplers clashed and locked together. John climbed down and Sean
followed him. He watched John as he picked up the two air hoses hanging
between the two cars. He picked them up and lined them, then locked them
together, then reaching over, he slowly opened the valves and let the air
from the locomotive flow into the brake lines, charging them.

        John and Sean stepped back from the coupled cars as the little
0-4-0 pushed the last of the new cars to the rear of the train and they
heard the clang of the couplers mating and the hiss of air as the brake
lines connected to the rest of the train began to charge the reservoirs on
the new cars. The soft ringing of the bell on the little switcher and the
long toot signaled once again it was backing up down the yard tracks. It
passed the siding where the caboose sat and entered the siding behind the
caboose, the hand brakes were released, and the trim little switcher shoved
the caboose to the waiting train and it was coupled on. Now the waiting
began. The big air pumps on the locomotive geared up as they began to build
the pressure in the lines to 110 pounds per square inch. Bill climbed down
from the cab and met Joe at the front of the caboose. Sean and John were
walking side by side, talking in low voices about what they had both seen on
top of the boxcar. They decided to tell Joe and Bill and figure out what to
do about it. They met Bill and Joe standing at the caboose, drinking hot
coffee as the air brakes charged and they could depart Hammond for Kentwood,
the next meeting place for their train, 33 miles north of Hammond, where
they would meet a fast freight.

        "Joe, me and Sean think that that kid who raced under the boxcar to
get away from the station agent is riding the roof walk. Sean and I both
saw something on top of that Pennsy car."

        "OK, boys, we'll have a look. John, you climb the (B) end of the
car while Scott covers the (A) end, and Bill, Sean, and I will keep a watch
on the ground."

        They gathered the lanterns hanging on the caboose railing and lit
them. Then they headed up the train to the Pennsylvania boxcar. They walked
slowly, speaking in soft whispers as they approached the boxcar. John
climbed the rungs to the roof of the car as Scott climbed the other end.
They saw the blonde kid lying low on the roof walk. He looked up and tried
to back away from John, then he turned and saw Scott.

        'Shit,' he thought, 'no place to run, no place to hide.'

        "Hey, kid, we're not going to hurt you." The look in the boy's eyes
showed his fear and distrust of these two men.

        "You sure gave the old station agent a run for his money and at the
same time he pissed off Joe and that is not nice to do. Man, Joe gave that
agent a dose of his own medicine," spoke Scott.

        The boy looked at these two men and smiled slightly. They seemed
like nice people.

        "Scott, you know, most trips we never have a hobo and tonight we got
two and they both find the damnedest places to ride."

        "Yeah, John, you should not be complaining. Sean turned out to be a
damned good fireman for #1200."

        The boy did not know what to think. The young boy in the cab was a
hobo and they let him ride with them.

        "Kid, this is Scott and I am John. Come on down from here and meet
the rest of the crew and we'll give you some hot coffee and let you ride
with us. We're not going to tell a soul why you were sneaking a ride on the
varnish."

        "Varnish?" asked the boy.

        "Yeah it what us railroaders call a passenger train."

        "Come on down and meet our other friend Sean, who was riding inside
one of our boxcars," smiled Scott as he spoke. The two men started back
down the rungs of the ladders and the boy followed. What did he have to lose
in trusting two men he had never met? They seemed nice humble people.

        As they reached the ground, the boy felt an arm wrap around his
waist and he was helped to the ground; it was Joe. "Hello, my friend. I am
Joe, that is Bill. You met Scott and John, and here is our friend Sean.

        Sean and the blond boy looked at each other in silence. Then the
blond boy stuck out his hand. "Hi, my name is Jamie."

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Dear readers, thank you for the E-Mails I have received on both No Greater
Love and High Iron. Thank you even more for putting up with the delays in
the new chapters. Sometimes life and Railroading get in my way.

This chapter is dedicated to my friend Jamie, who on a hot autumn night took
a ride with me on the HIGH IRON of my line. We did not plan it, nor did he
buy a ticket. It started with a plea for help and a runaway boy of 12. The
boy was Jamie. As I raced down the rails, looking for this young boy, I did
not know the full reasons of why he had left his home. I would learn later
about the abusive father that had beat both his wife and son after losing
his job. The boy ran and I guess you could say I followed and I found him
headed west toward the Big Black River bridge. There were many questions
racing through my mind as the cool night air blew in my face. I saw the
answers to some of my questions when I first spotted him standing beside
the track. I could do only one thing - I hugged him and brought him home.
He told me things I will never forget as long as I live. As the weeks
passed, I took a trip to Ohio and later on I found that my little friend was
sent to a foster home in south Mississippi. From there he escaped once
again, headed north along the HIGH IRON. Only this time I was not there to
find him or save him. I got a call following the search for the boy. They
found him dead in a river not far from a railroad bridge in south MS. There
will be questions I ask myself now and for the rest of my life but it really
boils down to one, "WHY, my friend, WHY?"

Jamie, this one is for you. I saw friendship in your soul, I saw dreams in
your eyes, but when I search myself, I will always and forever ask why? I
know you're in a happy, better place now. Flying free with the angels.
Looking down upon me. When I look up in the skies as I ride the railroad of
life, I hope you're watching out for me. There are many questions I will
never know the answers to. But, my friends, never give up hope. And this
is a plea for help. If you need me, please E-Mail me. If I can help, I will.
But never, never ever give up hope. Because no matter who you are, where
you are, someone loves you.

I would like to thank Ed for his help with this chapter and my friend Willy
B. for his support.
Stephen

As always I love to hear from you, my readers. At Swarri1349@AOL.COM

Peace and joy to all.
A special Hello to my angel in California