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The train was going ever faster as the incline steepened.
Monk made a desperate effort to claw himself forward and catch up with Baltimore. The coal rolled underneath him. A large lump unsettled and fell sideways, and he slid after it, narrowly missing injuring his shoulder against the mound above.
He heaved himself up, disregarding his torn hands, and threw his weight forward.
Baltimore was almost on top of the stoker.
Monk yelled at him, but his voice was drowned in the roar and crash of steel on steel and the howl of the wind.
Baltimore fell forward and the stoker went down with him.
Monk hauled himself up and swung around to land on his feet.
The brakeman was staring at him, his face streaming sweat as he struggled with the lever and felt it yield. The driver was coming toward them, waving his arms.
Suddenly, Monk knew what to do. He had done it before, hurling his weight and his strength against the brakes, and feeling them rip out just as they were now. He knew exactly what it was, and the memory of it turned him sick with terror. Only then he had been in the rear wagon of the train, and the impact had thrown him off, to roll over and over, bruised and bleeding down the slope but alive—while the others died. That was the guilt that stabbed through his mind with pain—he had survived, and they had not—not one of them. They had all been crushed in that inferno of flame and steel.
“Stoke!” he yelled with all the power of his lungs. He swung his arms. He understood now what they must do, the only chance. “The brakes are gone! They’re no use! Go faster!”
Behind him, Baltimore and the stoker were struggling to their feet. He swiveled around. “Stoke!” he mouthed to Baltimore. “Faster!” He swung his arms.
Baltimore looked terrified. The stoker made to move forward and catch Monk and restrain him physically. Baltimore charged at him. The two of them rocked and swayed as the train roared through the gathering dusk, pitching like a ship in a storm.
Monk picked up the fallen shovel and started to heave more coal into the boiler. It was already yellow hot at the heart, and the blast from it scorched his face, but he threw in more, and then more. They had to pass over the viaduct before the other train came; it was the only chance. Nothing on earth could slow them now.
Baltimore was shouting behind him, waving his arms like a windmill. The stoker was stupefied. Suddenly his kingdom was invaded by madmen, his train was screaming through the twilight like a rocket on fire, and the single-track viaduct lay ahead with another train due on it in minutes.
Then at last the brakeman understood. He had felt the brakes tear out and knew how useless it was to hurl his weight or strength against them anymore. He picked up the other shovel and worked beside Monk.
They were going faster, ever faster. The sound was deafening, like a solid thing against the head; the heat seared the skin, burned the eyelashes; and still they threw the coal on, until the stoker grabbed Monk by the arm and pulled him back. He shook his head. He held his arms across his chest, then flung them wide.
Monk understood. Any more and the boiler would explode. There was nothing to do now but wait, and perhaps pray. They were going as fast as any engine on earth could take them. Sparks were flying in the air, steam like clouds tore from the stack and shredded in the wind. The wheels on the track were one continuous roar.
The viaduct was in sight, and the next moment they were on it.
Monk looked at Baltimore and saw the terror in his face, and a kind of jubilation. There was nothing now but to wait. Either they would make the end of the single track in time, or there would be a crash that would explode and send the wreckage a thousand yards in every direction until there was nothing human left to find on the rocks below.
The breath was torn from their lips; the wind burned and stung with ash, smuts, red sparks like hornets. Their clothes were torn and singed.
The noise was like an avalanche falling.
But Monk had been right: Dundas was innocent, the brakes were as he had said. He had paid a terrible price for it, but knowing it, willing it, to save a young man he had loved profoundly, selflessly, and without limit—love greater than Katrina’s hate, to be held in the heart forever.
And now his name would be vindicated!
There was a darkness, an even greater noise, and something rushed by them so quickly it was gone before Monk even realized they were on double tracks again. It had been the train in the other direction. They were safe.
Around them, the other men let off a cheer, but he could hear nothing of it, only see in the furnace light their upraised arms and the triumph in their blackened faces. The driver staggered back against the wall, the controls barely in his grasp. The stoker and the brakeman clasped each other.
Jarvis Baltimore held out his hand and Monk took it.
“Thank you!” Baltimore mouthed. “Thank you, Monk! For the past, and the present!”
Monk found himself grinning idiotically, and could think of nothing at all to say. Anyway he could not have spoken; his voice was choked with tears.
