The Day Steam Died Part 1

THE DAY STEAM DIED.

d.i.c.k BROWN.

The Day Steam Died is dedicated to my high school cla.s.smates, many families and friends who grew up in this thinly disguised little railroad town.

Spencer was left behind by the introduction of diesel engines, but failed to die with the steam engine.

It fought tenaciously and now is home to the North Carolina Transportation Museum attracting thousands of tourists each year.

The Southern Railway's mainline steam engine repair shop that left the town without jobs it had provided for over fifty years, is now giving back to those who kept its legacy alive.

The town setting is real with some name changes, but the story is fictional except for the strike which was a major event in the town's history.

I would also like to dedicate it to my deceased high school English teacher, Mrs. Evelyn Tichenor, who appears in the book.

She was always pus.h.i.+ng me to be a better student.

I'm sure she would be proud of this accomplishment that she always told me I was capable of.

Acknowledgements.

To my wife, Penny, without whose patience and support this book wouldn't have been published. She was the first one to tell me I had written a romance novel. She should know because she reads about one a week. Many thanks to her for instilling confidence in me to keep plugging away after forty-two rejections.

To Susan Muller, whom I met at the annual Book Fest at Lone Star College, Montgomery County, Texas. Susan was one of a panel of authors and encouraged me to submit my ma.n.u.script to her publisher, Soul Mate Publis.h.i.+ng.

To publisher, Debby Gilbert, who liked my book so much she wanted to publish it, when so many others didn't. Many thanks for her confidence in my writing and story-telling ability. She is one of a kind.

Prologue.

From the desk of Rick Barnes.

Raleigh Times Herald.

Inner Office Memo.

Date: July 6, 1966.

To: Dan Jenkins, Editor.

From: Rick Barnes.

Message: Dan, I will be spending a few days covering Senator Johnson's speech accepting the donation of the Coastline Railway Shops in Bankstowne as a historical site for the new Steam History Museum. I have some unfinished business to settle with our Senator that will shock the entire state. Thanks for giving me the time to investigate this story; I think you will agree it was worth it. You can read all the details in Sunday's paper.

Bankstowne, Sat.u.r.day noon 1966.

Beads of sweat rolled down Tank's puffy red face as he surveyed the crowd in similar discomfort from the sweltering mid July heat. His breathing was shallow and rapid from the extra forty-five pounds added since his glory days, playing football at Bankstowne High and University of North Carolina. With his ballooned figure, he looked even more like his high school nickname, Tank. Everyone who knew him in Bankstowne still used the name.

He sighed, mopped his brow, and then swore under his breath as if that would hurry the mayor's welcoming speech.

Coming home was a return to a simpler time when his main pursuits were scoring touchdowns and making Rick Barns' life as miserable as possible. He was good at both.

Now, Tank was tired after nearly four years in the North Carolina General a.s.sembly, and his heart wasn't in his re-election. He would rather have played football for the Was.h.i.+ngton Redskins, who made him their first round draft pick after his All-American years at Carolina, than going to law school. Being a politician was his father Sam's plan, who'd a.s.sured Tank's election by pumping a half-million dollars into the campaign. He sold Tank on the idea that running a campaign for senator was just like running a play on the football field and would take him straight to the state a.s.sembly and gave him a lot of reasons, like a career ending injury could end his professional football dreams.

Sam ended up using him to protect a lucrative smuggling business by maneuvering favorable legislation in the General a.s.sembly, and Tank resented every false campaign promise and staged photograph since his election.

Current poll numbers showed him lagging behind his opponent, Lamar Grissom, by six percentage points. But bad campaign news meant he might be freed from his indentured political servitude. He just wanted to get it over with, stand up to his father, and pursue a career as a sports a.n.a.lyst or coach.

Tank fanned himself with his speech notes and prayed the mayor would soon run out of hot air. Even Mayor Gus Barnhart's const.i.tuents were restless. They weren't responding to his effort to lift their spirits with his overblown jovial front and weak attempts at humor. To Tank, it sounded more like a sermon, or worse, a eulogy, as the heat was sweating the last bit of life from the crowd.

The Bankstowne Railway Shops, simply called the Shops by locals, were the town's only industry for over fifty years. And now they were gone.

Flowery political speeches by the favorite son, state senator wouldn't replace lost jobs or disrupted lives. Working for the Coastline Railway was all the town had ever done.

And like a eulogy, Mayor Barnhart propped up the idea of new life, of taking stock of what is and not being satisfied with what has been. This was supposed to be a festive occasion, to celebrate the past and move on to the future. A new museum would bring in tourist money to revitalize the few struggling restaurants and stores that weren't boarded up.

The high school band played march tunes in an attempt to liven the crowd. The speaker's stage was draped in red, white, and blue bunting in stark contrast to the glistening green, gold, and silver paint of the last steam engine to pa.s.s through the Bankstowne Shops. The restored engine was the pride of a fleet of hundreds that had served Coastline Railway faithfully for five decades.

Following Tank's speech, Engine 1401 would begin its final journey to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. to be displayed in the Smithsonian Inst.i.tute to be a permanent reminder of Coastline Railway's contribution to the history of the steam railroad era. But for Bankstowne residents, it was the last symbol of their way of life.

Looking at the engine, Tank couldn't help thinking it resembled a casket, or at least a hea.r.s.e befitting the occasion.

Rick tuned out Mayor Barnhart's speech as he thought how glad he was his daddy wasn't there to witness the closing of the shops. It would have killed him as surely as the stifling summer heat and damp winter cold of those drafty old buildings where the acrid fumes of his acetylene torch seared his nostrils for forty-two years.

But it was lung cancer from smoking two packs a day that finally choked the life out of him. Rick remembered how proud his daddy was of his perfect work attendance record. He never missed a day except for during the strike.

Repairing those old steam engines was a pa.s.sion for Roy. Most of them were older than he was. Rick never forgot the brief conversation, the only kind they ever had, one Sunday afternoon while still in high school.

He was gliding back and forth in the front porch swing when Roy reared back in his chair, propped his feet on the banister, and lit an unfiltered Camel. Rick stopped his swinging, and Roy inhaled a lungful of smoke. Each was trying to think of something to say that would break the silence.

"Son," Roy said, blowing smoke from of his nostrils, "those old engines are like women." He took another deep drag; Rick knew from experience that more words would follow. "No two are alike, and they have to be handled real gently to get the best out of them."

It was as close as they ever came to having a father-to-son talk about the fairer s.e.x, or his deep pa.s.sion for steam engines.

Having Tank speak at a serious occasion like this was laughable. How could he, who led such a pampered life, understand the hards.h.i.+ps of these people? His daddy was Chief Forman of the Coastline Shops and railroad owner John Thadeus Bank's enforcer that broke the union's strike and eventually closed the Shops down.

Being a big football star at Carolina and getting into law school was the only worry he ever had. And he really didn't need to worry about that. Rick knew from Coach Marshal that Sam's generous donations a.s.sured him no other college would sign Tank away from Carolina and paid for an army of tutors to get him through law school. Making All-American at Carolina and getting him elected to the General a.s.sembly was just the first phase in Sam's game plan. The end goal was to put Tank in the governor's mansion as the youngest governor in the state's history.

The museum dedication was just another photo-op Tank couldn't care less about; he'd probably leave town as soon as he finished his speech, but not before smiling and waving to the TV cameras. He didn't understand the townspeople were mourning the loss of a way of life. The day would be remembered by generations of Bankstowne families as the day steam died, and most-including Rick-thought Bankstowne would soon follow.

"And now the moment we have all been waiting for, my friends," Mayor Barnhart said, drawing a deep breath. "It gives me great pleasure to introduce our very own Cornelius 'Tank' Johnson, our voice in the Raleigh General a.s.sembly. Come on now, let's give him a warm Bankstowne welcome."

Strained but polite applause greeted the one-time local hero as he stood, waved, and then waddled to the podium.

"Thank you, mayor. If the welcome was any warmer I don't think I could stand it." Tank smiled as he mopped his brow again. A few chuckles skittered across the stone-faced audience and sweltering dignitaries seated on the stage behind him.

He cleared his throat then took a sip of warm water that had been ice water only moments earlier. He scanned the audience for familiar faces. There were several he recognized. One in particular caught his attention: Rick Barnes, his old adversary. When their eyes met, Tank nodded his recognition and wondered why he'd come all the way from Raleigh for this low-priority news event.

Tank dismissed Rick's presence along with the Channel 3 TV crew in the crowd.

Rick had worked towards this day for years and planned to enjoy it to the fullest. TV cameras would be trained on Tank for the six o'clock news. But it won't be the press conference he expects after Rick's groundbreaking announcement.

Tank grasped the podium with both hands and began his oration to a pensive audience hoping for a miracle.

"The steam engine has been the workhorse of this nation and the life blood of this community," Tank said with a sweeping gesture covering the audience, "for all of you, your daddies and your granddaddies . . ."

Chapter 1.

"Fifty-two years ago John Thaddeus Banks saw great potential for his Coastline Railway and bought the land we are standing on today to fulfill that potential."

Bankstowne, North Carolina 1955.

"Roy, we need more room," Mary Beth said in an unusually stern voice to Roy as the family ate breakfast. The mother of two was a victim of her own good cooking and carried a few extra pounds around her waist. But her face was pretty with few age lines and usually wore a smile.

Their tiny apartment made for cramped sleeping arrangement, with the two boys sharing the sitting room as their makes.h.i.+ft bedroom.

Rick cluttered his corner with clothes, leaving them on his unmade bed that was supposed to be folded into a couch by day. His brother Wil's clothes were always neatly folded in his drawer. His day bed would pa.s.s the strictest military inspection of bouncing a quarter off the tightly drawn cover sheet.

Rick, the older of her two teenagers, had a slight build and stood almost six feet tall, like his father. Unlike his father, he had no interest in becoming a machinist at the Shops. He wanted to be a journalist. Rick wasn't athletically inclined, lacking the desire to play sports, but he loved to write about football as editor of Bankstowne High School's weekly newspaper, The Railroader.

Taller and more muscular, Rick's younger brother, Wil, could have played any sport he wanted to, but his interest was in law enforcement. He wanted to be just like Sergeant Friday on the TV show, Dragnet.

"We've lived in this cramped one bedroom apartment since the boys were babies," Mary Beth fussed. "They're teenagers and need their own rooms. You can hardly walk in the sitting room with them sleeping in there."

Roy Barnes had moved his young wife to North Carolina from Mississippi to go to work at the Bankstowne Shops before they started their family. The depression was over and the threat of war brought twenty to thirty families a month to work for Coastline's thriving railroad. The rapid growth taxed Bankstowne's ability to provide housing for its now bustling city.

They were fortunate to find the small one-bedroom apartment, which was barely large enough for two let alone four. They shared a bathroom at the end of the center hall with the Nestlebaums across the hall. The apartment house stood next to the sprawling Coastline rail yard had become too crowded years ago. Decent housing in Bankstowne was still hard to find on Roy's wages, but Mary Beth had combed the cla.s.sifieds every day for the past year.

"There's a house for rent in town with three bedrooms, a living room, sitting room, and a large kitchen. I saw it advertised in the newspaper this week." She spoke without taking a breath while Roy listened patiently as he drank his coffee. "You made Machinist Grade III last month. With the raise we can afford it . . . if we're careful. I've been saving a little along for the deposit and a down payment on some new living room furniture."

"Well," he said, "Mary Beth, I hope this house has a bathroom with a heater in it. I'm tired of the freezer locker we share with the Nestlebaums. Red pees all over the place because he's too drunk to stand up straight. You'd think as cold as it is in that bathroom, he'd sober up quick enough."

Red worked at the Shops too and drank when he wasn't working. He was a large man whose red nose glowed against his ruddy face that always looked like it needed was.h.i.+ng. A bottle of cheap Wild Turkey was all he needed to stay warm in the winter. His wife Alice, daughters Ann and Jo Lee-named for the boy he wanted but never got-wore coats or sweaters in the house to keep warm. It wasn't unusual for Red to drink up the money they needed for coal to feed the Heatolator in their living room. His false German-Jewish pride wouldn't let Ann and Jo Lee go down to the rail yard like the Barnes boys to pick up coal that spilled from the hopper loader filling up the twenty-plus trains a day that came in for inspection and repairs.

Roy thought about the house Mary Beth wanted all day at work. When he got home, he went through his daily ritual of dusting the soot off his denim jacket into the coal scuttle by the cook stove and hung it on a hook by the door.

"Tell the boys to go pick up some coal tonight," Roy said. "It's almost as cold and drafty in here as that old Back Shop building. I can't stay warm even when I'm using my torch all day down in the pit." Still warming his hands over the stove, he asked in submission, "When can we go look at the house?"

Roy seldom argued with Mary Beth, mostly because she was usually right, but also it just wasn't his personality. He went along quietly as long as it was a fair compromise. But, when provoked, he could show his temper. Like the Sunday morning after church at a Deacon's meeting. He was the only one who voted against the addition of a youth center to the church building while they were still in debt for the parsonage they'd bought. He let his feelings be known, stood up quietly, bid them good day, and then walked out of the meeting.

"Next week," Mary Beth answered. "I already called Miss Gobble, and she's expecting us after supper Thursday. She wanted us to come Wednesday, but that's prayer meeting night."

"Fine. When will supper be ready?" he asked on his way to the frigid bathroom.

"By the time you get cleaned up," she answered, "just like every other day."

Rick came into the kitchen from their bedroom where he'd lost an Indian wrestling contest with Wil to see who would clean up the room-they needed s.p.a.ce to do homework after supper.

"Momma, we can go pick up the coal now while Daddy is cleaning up," Rick said.

Will had come into the kitchen just in time to hear Rick volunteer him to help pick up coal. He shot Rick a dirty look but said nothing.

"Okay, but don't take too long. You know how he wants everybody to be at the supper table on time. And wear your hats and gloves!" she called after the two boys half way out the door.

"Speak for yourself next time. It's too cold out here," Wil complained as he took stairs three at a time to catch up with Rick.

"Shut up and come on. Old man Carnes will be down at the barn milking when we pa.s.s by, and I brought my peashooter for Bossie. I bet I can get her to kick the milk bucket over again."

"You're going to get us into real trouble one of these days," Wil said, a stickler for going by the rules. "What if they tell momma you made Bossie kick a full bucket over? They won't sell us any more milk, and I'll be in trouble because of your stupid prank."

"Scaredy cat. He has to catch us first. He's deaf as a stump post and didn't even know we were around last time."

"Just the same, I think we should pick up the coal and go home. I'm cold," Wil swung his coalscuttle as they approached the barn in the open field between their house the rail yard.

"Shhh! Listen. He's already milking. Come on, let's go around to the door on the other side."

The brothers circled the barn. They peeked around the corner to find Bossie tied up and Mr. Carnes sitting on his milking stool hidden on the other side of the cow.

Rick sat his coalscuttle down quietly. "Stand out of sight." He raised his peashooter, took aim, and drew in a big breath to send a dried green pea on its way.

"Gotcha this time!" Glen, the Carnes' youngest son, growled as he grabbed Rick by his coat collar, forcing him to swallow the pea. He dragged him and Wil into the barn. "So you're the ones making Bossie spill Pa's milk."

"Humph. Won't your folks be proud to know their boys just cost them a gallon of milk," Mr. Carnes grunted between tobacco-stained teeth as he let fly a brown stream of warm tobacco juice that barely missed Rick. "Let's go, boys. We need to pay a visit to your folks."

"Please, Mr. Carnes!" Wil pleaded. "Can't we pick up our coal first? We were headed to the-"

"Shoulda thought about that sooner," Mr. Carnes interrupted. "Glen, hold on to those two and let's see what momma and daddy have to say about their hard working boys."

Glen, who worked as a "car-knocker" rebuilding wooden boxcars at the Shops, held Rick's shoulder in a grip that kept getting tighter and tighter until he winced in pain. "Aww, is the little baby's arm hurting? That ain't all that's gonna be hurting if I catch you down here again."