Good morning one and all, and especially DWD (always nice to see a new face)! Looking forward to seeing info on some of your favorite RR companies. Great pix as usual, Mike, and especially enjoyed seeing comments on your research. Looks like one of my pix was incorrectly labeled Jimrice, and glad to have you point out the inconsistancy. I also enjoyed Dave's comments on the subject as well! 117 degrees! I don't even want to think about that!!
Here's a little more stuff from me on this warm & rainy morning:
A heavy Union Pacific freight heads west, working up the 16th St. hill out of Omaha. The lead unit is the new EMD SD60 No. 6065. Interestingly, the balance of the all-EMD power consist reflects the “Triple Merger” of UP with Missouri Pacific and Western Pacific, announced in 1980 and approved by the ICC in September, 1982.
The first unit, No. 6065, is less than a year old in this photo, having been built in April 988. The second unit is No. 2307, a former MoPac locomotive inherited in the merger, and painted in temporary “UP-style” MP lettering, that is, the standard red characters, outlined in black on the yellow locomotive, but spelling out “Missouri Pacific” instead of “Union Pacific” on the locomotive side. This 200-hp unit, built in 1981, is a GP38-2, a model produced from 1972-86; its MoPac number was also 2307. The trailing unit is No. 785, a 2500-hp GP35 built in 1963 (and rebuilt by Morrison-Knudsen in 1981) which came to UP from Western Pacific as No. 3004; GP35’s were produced during 1963-66. Both GP units have left the UP roster; No. 785 now wears that number for Eastern Idaho RR.
As is typical of freight trains in recent decades, most visible cars in this photo are of much higher capacity than in former times, often 70 or 100 tons in place of the 50-ton cars which dominated freight car rosters as late as the 1960s. Accordingly, much more horsepower was and is being used to manage these trains, and a train of, say, 60 cars today carries far more cargo than the same size train 30 years earlier. This today’s railroad moves more freight with substantially fewer trains. George R. Cockle photo, Sept. 10, 1988, courtesy of Union Pacific.
A funeral service is being held for a woman who has just passed away. At the end of the service, the pall bearers are carrying the casket out when they accidentally bump into a wall, jarring the casket. They hear a faint moan! They open the casket and find that the woman is actually alive!
She lives for ten more years, and then dies. Once again, a ceremony is held, and at the end of it, the pall bearers are again carrying out the casket. As they carry the casket towards the door, the husband cries out: "Don’t bump the wall!"
Doug, here's a link to a photo of D&RGW eastbound California Zephyr at Glenwood Springs, Colorado on 11/2/52 http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/archives/cushman/full/P06400.jpg
Jim, your insights persuade me that the Chief is not necessarily the Chief. The title of the photo is "Santa Fe R.R. trains going through Cajon Pass in the San Bernardino Mountains, Cajon, Calif." and from the notes, "Title continues: ... On the right, streamliner "Chief" going west; in the background, on the left, a freight train with a helper engine, going east. Santa Fe trip." Jack Delano was a photographer for the Farm Security Administration and the picture was from the Office of War Information Collection. Here are links to a few more of his color photos from 1943:
Santa Fe freight about to leave for the West Coast from Corwith yard, Chicago http://memory.loc.gov/service/pnp/fsac/1a34000/1a34600/1a34699v.jpg
Westbound freight waiting in a siding to meet an eastbound train, Ricardo, NM http://memory.loc.gov/service/pnp/fsac/1a34000/1a34700/1a34732v.jpg
Servicing engines at coal and sand chutes at Argentine yard, Kansas City, Kansas http://memory.loc.gov/service/pnp/fsac/1a34000/1a34700/1a34716v.jpg
Santa Fe diesel locomotives
http://memory.loc.gov/service/pnp/fsac/1a34000/1a34700/1a34711v.jpg
http://memory.loc.gov/service/pnp/fsac/1a34000/1a34700/1a34736v.jpg
Mike
One of the things I really hate is those guys that are constantly carping about this nit or that nit and I'm afraid I'm becoming one. The Delano picture (don't you love those 4X5 negatives?) shows a Santa Fe heavywt psgr train on the east slope (actually compass south) of Cajon Pass. I've 2 problems w/ the caption. First, the Chief was streamlined in 1937 and, except for the baggage and baggage mail which were frequently heavywt, the 10 car bulk of the train should be stainless steel lightwts. Second, according to my 1945 Official Guide the Chief left Bartstow at 430 AM and arrived at San Bernardino at 635AM. Now it's quite possible that the train might have been running late but if on time the angle of the sun would be considerably lower from the right of the picture and, if winter, not even up.
No. 123 and no 23, the Amarillo and La Junta sections of the Grand Canyon respectively had times of 620AM and 630 AM at Barstow and 830Am and 845 AM at San Bernardino which would be a much better fit as far as the lighting and both would be predominately (if not entirely) heavywieghts.
March 1943, westbound Chief at Cajon Pass, eastbound freight to the left in the distance, photo by Jack Delano (Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division)http://memory.loc.gov/pnp/ppmsc/00100/00186r.jpg
Good morning everyone! Sorry you had a hot day yesterday Dave. It was absolutely gorgeous here for a change with lower temperatures and clear skies. Good thing too, as I helped my son move into his new home. Thanks for the great SP and WP info, and thanks also to Jim for his embellishments. I also liked the tactful way it was handled! Great to see my buddy Al on the thread too! Hope you get your computer issues fixed soon. I'm sure we all know how frustrating it can be!
Here's a little WP info that I happen to have on hand:
From 1939 until inauguration of the California Zephyr in 1949, combined passenger service over CB&Q, D&RGW and WP lines was provided by the Exposition Flyer, trains No. 39 and 40. Here westbound No. 39 meets eastbound No. 40 at Jungo, Nevada (37 miles west of Winnemucca), in 1948. On the point is WP No. 180, built at Schenectady in 1924, one of ten handsome light 4-8-2’s purchased by WP from the Florida East Coast in July, 1936, and mainstays of WP passenger service until the end of steam. Its dark “stack extension” was a WP=design smoke lifter, applied in 1939.
Among America’s legendary passenger trains was the California Zephyr, operated jointly by the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy between Chicago and Denver, the Denver & Rio Grande Western between Denver and Salt Lake City, and the Western Pacific between Salt Lake City and Oakland. The train was noteworthy for its modern Budd stainless steel cars with Pullman and coach accommodations, including numerous Vista domes. It had a schedule designed for daylight transits of both Rocky Mountains and Sierra Nevada scenery; comfortable travel and excellent service were the Zephyr’s watchwords. Inaugurated in Mach, 1949, the train, widely and familiarly known as the “CZ” survived until March 22, 1970, when WP was granted a discontinuance for their segment. For a short time, CB&Q and D*RGW used their part of the CZ equipment to provide service as far west as Ogden, whence passengers had to take Southern Pacific trains over the Sierra.
At the time of the initiation of Amtrak in April, 1971, D&RRGW reached an agreement with Amtrak, and the California Zephyr train name was revived in July, 1983, for Amtrak service over the original Rocky Mountain route. But farther west, the train traversed SP’s Donner Pass line, not the WP’s Feather River Canyon.
This photo shows westbound No. 17 at Stockton, Calif. Headed by passenger-geared F7 unit No. 804, the motive power carries the famous WP passenger paint scheme, and orange and silver body with red nose wings. Beginning with its wartime FT units, Western Pacific became a firm believer in EMD power, and used both F3 and F7 locomotives on the Zephyr. This image dates from about 1952. WP photo.
A man was complaining to a friend, "I had it all - money, a magnificent house, a fast car, the love of a beautiful woman... then, poof! It was all gone!" "What happened?" asked the friend. "My wife found out..."
A minor quible on the SP GS-5 post. The GS-5s were delivered in June of 1942. I don't really know when the WPB started supervising eng production or how long it takes to put an engine together but I doubt that the WPB had much to say about the GS-5s. The big difference (in addition to the roller bearings) was the fact that GSC had to make new castings for the frames due to the greater size of the journal boxes.
The metion of WP's (almost) Berkshires got me to thinking(always a dangerous situation). Other than the ex-B&M engines the SP converted from coal to oil were there any oil burning Berkshires. I can't think of any unless Santa Fe converted some of theirs but I think they stayed in the east end, coal burning territory.
Sorry for the absence but my computer at home has been giving me fits. I can read the messsages but can not reply. Sort of like every mans dream for a wife. She can hear you but can't talk back. Anyway am in the office at the present so jut wanted to let you know i should be back on line by midweek just waiting for the tech to drop by.
TTFN Al
Hmmm .... no replies at all yesterday. Here is a helpful guide of old railroad signs for you to practice today!
"That wife of mine is a liar," said the angry husband to a sympathetic pal seated next to him in the bar. "How do you know?" the friend asked. "She didn't come home last night, and when I asked her where she'd been, she said she'd spent the night with her sister, Shirley." "So?" the friend replied. "So, she's a liar. I spent the night with her sister Shirley!"
Good morning Dave and whoever else may be reading. I think I need an Ohmar device that detects who all is viewing this thread, but not posting! If that describes you, then just jump in with any subject you would like and introduce yourself!
I know for a fact though the Metra conductors in Chicagoland mostly get their fares, but there are misses, especially as the train approaches the end-of-the-line. Pretty much anyone who gets on at the next-to-last stop rides free. I wonder how much it all adds up to. I see you have ended your post with a funny or two .... very good sir!
Here's another article about old train stuff:
Setouts and pickups by W.F. Knapke – Aug 1935 Railroad Stories
Among the many things vastly improved by the railroads since they were first used are torpedoes – “guns” or “caps” to the boys on the road. The first one I ever saw was crudely made of paper and sealing wax, with no means of fastening it to the rail. You laid it on the rail, slapped a little mud on it to make it stick, if there happened to be any handy, and if there wasn’t, you trusted to luck.
Then the railroads invented a new kind of tar-dipped torpedo. Through a hole in it a wooden peg had to be pushed into the opening of a rail joint. But since only one space in ten would match up with the peg, the idea wasn’t so hot.
After that came the round, tin-box kind, with lead straps to clamp to the rail. Next the “turtle back,” much the same, but larger and rounder. Some of them had steel springs instead of lead straps. When one of these “wheel busters” exploded, hunks of tin and gravel were scattered for yards. After a number of men visited the company sawbones to have debris removed from their anatomies the present fiber case was developed, and the gravel omitted from its contents. The new ones are just as loud, and they’re a lot safer.
During the time of the steel spring variety, some unsung genius invented what was known as the torpedo fork. The device was much like a four-pronged pitch fork, with the space between prongs Nos. 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 a little wider than the head of one rail. To use it, you put a torpedo between 3 and 4. Then you reached over the rear caboose railing and let down the prongs so they straddled the rail. When the torpedo hit the rail head, the springs were loosened by the impact and caught on the rail.
* One of the few things in common used by the railroads which does not have a nation-wide slang name is the fusee. Once in a while it is referred to as a “torch” or “candle,” but they are rare. Moreover, fusees have undergone a few changes. There used to be certain types, such as the ”fifteen0-minute,” which burned red five, green five, and white five minutes (back in the days when green was caution and white meant clear). But, of course, they are no more. There used to be the five-minute red fusee, for use on the freight trains only (don’t ask me why). Somewhat different was the type with a cap in its head, and which you banged down on the rail to light it. This was fine unless the rail was wet, when you lit it with a match if you could. But outside of these freaks, fusees are about the same today as they always were.
* Once a crew overlooked their orders, two engines smacked each other on the nose, and the “big hook” came to pick up the pieces. Among the pieces was the tank of one engine, too damaged to proceed on its own trucks, with its flare board ripped along the seam joining it to water compartment. It was loaded on a flat car, but darkness had fallen by the time the wrecker was ready to return to the terminal, where, upon its arrival, the entire train was shoved on a track close to the back shop.
Later the same night a passenger train sped over the same track. The postal clerk was alert to catch the mail sack from its crane, and he swung out his catcher. Nothing on the crane.
“Doggone sleepy-headed postmaster,” muttered the clerk, “wonder he wouldn’t wake up and get on the job.”
But when the second, third and succeeding cranes were passed and there were no mail sacks on any of them, the clerk got busy on the telegraph wire, and a little later operators were awakening track walkers and sending them out along the right-of-way, searching for the missing mail.
In spite of a diligent and continued search, the pouches were not found, and the mystery of the missing mail sacks bade fair to go down to posterity. But a couple of days later an employee passing between the wall of the back shop and wrecking train looked up, and there were the missing mail sacks, all nicely wedged between flare board and body of the damage engine tank. The flare board had evidently bent out from vibration, or was not noticed when it was loaded, and stuck out enough to gather in the mail very neatly.
A young lady came home from a date, rather sad. She told her mother, "Anthony proposed to me an hour ago." "Then why are you so sad?" her mother asked. "Because he also told me he is an atheist. Mom, he doesn't even believe there's a Hell." Her mother replied, "Marry him anyway. Between the two of us, we'll show him how wrong he is."
Good thuindering/rainy morning everyone! Thanks for your comments yesterday Dave. I thought you might be interested in a left coast railroad. On the subject of the Epucaurian, I don't have any information on it here. Google doesn't seem to believe in it either. Hate it when that happens!
Here's another post that may be of interest (I hope)
The Ticket Counterfeiting Racket December 1935 Railroad Stories
Fifty years ago Louis Rice was chief clerk for the Mo. P. general ticket agent at St. Louis. He threw up his job and became a ticket scalper, opening offices in several Midwestern cities in partnership with a crooked lawyer named Lands. Rice and Lands soon found that the chief expense in their business was buying the tickets which they sold. “The deuce with this!” said Rice, or words to that effect. “Why can’t we print tickets ourselves?” He bought a print shop in a small town in Illinois.
Rice was not a careless man. He knew just the kind of paper the various railroads used, and got some. He copied all signatures expertly, probably by photography. And he figured out serial and form numbers that would convince the smartest conductor. What prevented it from being a “perfect crime,” however, was the fact that Rice’s ticket numbers were duplicates pf numbers on other tickets. “But that’s all right; nobody will notice,” he said to Lands, who was worried.
The tickets sold well and the slick promoters made thousands of dollars. Rice, who had recently become engaged, dazzled his fiancé with presents.
One day C.G. Warner, general auditor of the Mo.P., began wondering why his road carried so many more passengers than they had sold tickets for. “There is crooked business afoot,” thought Warner, and sent for a mass of used tickets. Ragged and soiled, they were heaped on his desk. Warner had all the numbers copied down and compared. Two were duplicates!
“Our tickets are being counterfeited,” he told the Mo.P. gumshoes. “It’s up to you to get the details.” Suspicion fastened on Louis Rice, as he knew a lot about tickets. It did not take Rice long to discover that the Mo.P. was on his trail. He decided to take a vacation and went to Kansas City. The detective, Thomas Furlong, also went to Kansas City. “Louis Rice? Oh yes – he’s gone to Salt Lake.” Rice was too well known on all the lines. From Salt Lake he visited San Francisco, then Portland. At Seattle he heard much about the attractions of Western Canada, so progressed to Victoria.
His trailer also went to Victoria and spent several hours looking over the scenery; but Rice was not part of it. Rice, in fact, had plunged into the Kassiar Mountains, where the fishing was especially good, to a camp some 357 miles from Victoria. The detective decided to go fishing too, and chose the same camp. Rice was not there.
Rice did not care much for the Kassiars, so went back to Seattle and then to Portland. Then he got a job in a bed spring factory; it is possible that he had always wanted to know how bed springs were made. Or maybe he thought such a factory was the last place a detective would set foot in. He put on dirty overalls and let his beard grow.
“Mr. Louis Rice?” It was the persistent Furlong. Rice was nabbed at last! On his way to St. Louis the fugitive told all. The nervous Lands was also arrested. “I have friends,” warned Lands, “who will get me out of this.” “That,” said Furlong coldly, “is not my worry.” A short time later both Rice and Lands were exonerated by a friendly judge, who remarked: “Forged railroad tickets have no intrinsic value.”
Rice gave up ticket printing. The life was too strenuous. He got married moved to Iowa, and sold insurance. Lands died shortly afterward. Ticket faking was made illegal in most states. It would take a very shrewd crook now to evade these laws – and the railroad detective force is still on the job. – Jim Holden.
Two soldiers were having a chat during their free time. First Soldier: Why did you join the army? Second Soldier: I didn't have a wife and I loved war. So I joined. How about you? Why did you join the army? First Soldier: I had a wife and I loved peace. So I joined.
Hi everyone, and especially Dave for his afternnon post. Thanks for the great information. It's hard for me to believe that a car costing a million dollars to build could ever pay for itself. Did it?
Here's an article having to do with US left coast:
The Ocean Shore Comes Back by G.H. Kneiss, Dec. 1935 Railroad Stories
When a railroad is abandoned, it is usually gone forever. And yet, in California, a railroad is being reborn after fifteen years of complete abandonment.
The Ocean Shore Railway was planned as a fast double-track electric line between San Francisco and the resort city of Santa Cruz, 80 miles to the south. Construction started in 1905 and involved much heavy rock work around the cliffs. However, progress was rapid and plans for a grand opening were being made when the earthquake of 1906 came along and toppled much of the roadbed into the Pacific Ocean.
This was a bitter blow, but the management set bravely to work at reconstruction. Reluctantly they pared down their double-track electric project to a single track steam line, and in 1907 two unconnected sections were opened for business – from San Francisco south to Tunitas Glen, 36 miles; and Santa Cruz north to Swanton, 15 miles.
The northern division appeared to be an immediate success. Vast crowds overtaxed the second-hand rolling stock which the road had purchased, and it became necessary to equip flat cars with wooden benches to handle the throngs. A real estate boom caused new towns to spring up overnight. “Developments” were marked off into fifty-foot lots and sold so fast as the surveyors could drive in their stakes. Dance halls, bath-houses, and amusement piers were built as quickly as carpenters could knock them together. The San Francisco terminal at 12th and Mission streets was incessantly busy.
From this point the trains were handled by an electric locomotive through the streets to the city limits, where the steam engines took over the job. Halfway down the single-track line the trains entered the wye and backed the rest of the way to Tunitas Glen, there being no room there between the mountains and the Ocean to turn the trains.
But the Ocean Shore Railway, despite its huge traffic, was in desperate straits. The work of rebuilding after the earthquake had been a severe financial strain, and on the southern division another hard blow had been received.. The main reason for opening this short stretch had been to get traffic from a large cement mill near Swanson. But the Southern Pacific constructed a branch from Santa Cruz to the cement mill and, because of its through connections, took the cement traffic away from the struggling Ocean Shore.
In 1911 the sytem was reorganized as the Ocean Shore Railroad Company. For a while everything was rosy. Freight traffic was developed on the northern division, the line passing through the finest artichoke fields in the state. Other garden products, rock, and sand were the main tonnage. In 1914 the road carried more than 300,000 tons of freight and nearly 200,000 passengers. It bagan to look as if the gap between Tunitas Glen and Swanton could soon be closed and through trains run to Santa Cruz.
Then came Old Man Gasoline. A bus line paralleled the railway, using the fine new paved state highway. Trucks began to solicit the artichoke traffic. Ungrateful shippers, secure in their belief that the railroad would always be there if they needed it, began to patronize the new form of transportation. By 1919 freight tonnage had fallen off more then 75 percent, and passenger traffic had been cut in half. The Ocean Shore was beaten by Old Man Gasoline. In 1920 the State Railroad Commission issued an abandonment order.
This railroad went out of business. Locomotive whistles no longer mingled with the roar of breakers on the rocky shore. Rails were torn up and the rather old hand-me-down rolling stock, some of which had graced the Pennsy’s fast trains in the seventies, was sold. The Ocean Shore became a glorious memory.
It seemed that the iron horse was craving revenge. Inhabitants of the region discovered what it meant to lose their railroad. The fine “developments” developed no further but fell into decay. Most of the “city lots” were sold for taxes. The blank windows of vacant dwellings stared hopelessly at the desolation of the abandoned railway stations that had once been crowded with happy, care-free crowds. The country “went back.”
And now, like dawn after a dismal night, comes news of the resurrection of the Ocean Shore. Rights to the abandoned roadbed have been purchased by a new organization. Reconstruction will begin as soon as an agreement can be reached with the California Highway Commission, which has been seeking part of the right-of-way.
The complete line to Santa Cruz will be put into operation. Instead of the antiquated steam equipment of the past the new management plans to use light roller-bearing gasoline cars and trailers for the frequent passenger service.
Prime reason for the rebirth of the Ocean Shore is the opening up of the Butano Forest, containing more than a billion feet of redwood lumber. This is located on the never-built section between Tunitas Glen and Swanton. There is a possibility that this stretch will be built after all.
Have the inhabitants of this region learned their lesson from the fifteen years without a railroad? One rather thinks – and hopes – they have.
A man is at work one day when he notices that his co-worker is wearing an earring. This man knows his co-worker to be a somewhat conservative fellow, so naturally he's curious about the sudden change in fashion sense. The man walks up to his co-worker and says, "I didn't know you were into earrings.""Don't make such a big deal, it's only an earring," he replies sheepishly. "Well, I'm curious," begged the man, "how long have you been wearing an earring?" "Er, ever since my wife found it in our bed."
Good morning all, and nice to see Dave stop in with the second part of his train trip! I almost got a copy of "REd for Danger" on E-Bay, but it proved to be a bit more popular than I was willing to pay. One of these days ..... Welcome to route_rock, who appears to be another astute rail historian for correctly identifying the 6 spot! Care to share any info on her? I guess I should change the avatar to something else for y'all to try and figure out. Welcome aboard sir! Check your mail Eric, and we'll see if we cant get those pix of your to work!
Here's another wreck related post for y'all:
A Mysterious Explosion by Bert Lanning – Aug 1975 Railroad Magazine
One chilly fall evening in 1924, No. 11, the regular night train for Vancouver, B.C., stood at the Canadian Pacific station in Nelson, B.C., waiting for departure time, 9pm. Its five day coaches and two sleepers were nearly filled to capacity. A powerful coalburning Pacific belched black smoke into the clear darkness as her fireman swung scoops full of coal into the white-hot fire.
The hogger, having finished his inspection and oiling of the running gear, had climbed back into the cab and was listening for the air-whistle signal to make the mandatory standing brake test. Then, with that important, but routine task done, he adjusted the flow of oil from the lubricator and relaxed on his leather seat to await the highball.
Right on schedule, two beeps sounded just above his head. His left hand eased out the throttle while his right hand released the independent engine brake. Soon the string of coaches was clattering over the yard switches on its westbound journey. With a full moon shining brightly overhead, plus the brilliance of the engine’s headlight, visibility was excellent. They picked up speed on the single-track Kettle Valley line.
For the first 25 miles they roared slightly downgrade as they followed the fast-flowing Kootenay River, paley lit by moonglow. For long periods the fireman was able to take life easy on his seat. Then, after No. 11 had made several stops along the way, the well-loaded train pulled into the busy junction point of Castlegar, where a branch line swings southward to the city of Trail, B.C.
At 10:30pm they rumbled across the big bridge that spans the Columbia River, with hollow thunder that silenced the hoot owls and tree toads, and then rushed toward the steep two-percent grade of Farron Hill, some 15 miles ahead. Now, the fireman started to build up an extra-good fire, making sure the back corners of the firebox were well banked, ready for the hour-long battle o the summit of the Christina mountain range.
With a satisfactory grade of coal in the Pacific’s tender, keeping up a full head of steam was no problem. Nevertheless, for the next hour it was hard sluggling for the fireman, with little time to relax on his seat. As the grade grew steeper and their speed decreased, the hogger widened on his throttle and dropped the Johnson bar forward. Exhaust blasted through the surrounding dark mountains. Checking his watch at intervals, the hogger noted that they were on time and should arrive at Farron siding according to schedule.
Meanwhile, back in the day coaches, some of the passengers had headed for their berths in the two sleepers at the rear. But many remained in the five day coaches, mostly those who had destinations before Vancouver and were content to make the all-night journey sprawled out over plush seats.
Near midnight, the Farron mileboard swam into view and the hogger reached for the whistle cord to give the usual long single blast for the station ahead. Soon they reached the summit and rolled slowly to a stop over the ash pit, where the fireman was allowed ten minutes to shake down his fire and dump the ash pans. On that necessary job he was assisted by the night watchman on a pusher engine stationed there.
Apart from the pusher’s crew and the telegraph operator and his wife, nobody lived at the desolate siding where the Farron depot stood. After checking around his engine, No. 11’s hogger climbed back into his cab and, when he saw the fire cleaning was done, eased his train past the depot, where the order board showed green.
Soon the string of passenger cars was rolling down the far grade, the fireman enjoying a well-earned rest on his seat. With a two percent downgrade, the engineer had to shut off his throttle and bring the Johnson bar back to the center position. As they sped swiftly around the many curves, he made a couple of light applications on the trainline air to steady his train and to keep down to a safe speed.
On one of these curves the engine crew were startled to hear a sudden loud boom come from somewhere to their rear. Immediately the trainline brakes went into emergency. As they ground to a stop, the man at the throttle gave the necessary whistle blasts, telling the crew to go out and flag. Then as a necessary precaution, he yanked the Johnson bar over to the reverse position and set the independent engine brake to help hold his train on the steep grade.
Being on a sharp curve prevented the engine crew from seeing what had happened back along the coaches. But soon a brakeman came running up to inform them excitedly that an explosion had occurred in one of the day coaches, completely wrecking it! Grim-faced, he said that some of the passengers had been injured, if not killed, and the conductor was using the head-phone hook-up to get help. He advised the engineer to close the airline valve at the head of the wrecked coach, which would let him control the rest of the train’s brakes.
Then, after arranging for the fireman to go on ahead to protect that train, he hurried back to assist the rest of the crew in caring for the victims. An hour or so later, a special train, carrying doctors, nurses, food, and medical supplies arrived from the Grand Forks, some 40 miles ahead. They found that the explosion had killed eight passengers and injured a dozen or so more. After they had been taken to the nearest hospital, a wrecker removed the damaged coach to let No. 11 continue its run.
An investigation into the cause of the explosion proved beyond a doubt that dynamite had caused it. Although several theories were suggested, the mystery of that fateful moonlit night was never solved.
A couple drove down a country road, not saying a word. An earlier discussion had led to an argument, and neither would concede their position. As they passed a barnyard of mules and pigs, the wife sarcastically asked, "Relatives of yours?" "Yep," the husband replied. "In-laws."
Hey Barndad is that the 6 spot from over in Mt Pleasant in your avatar? If not which loco is it? BTW great shots of the work going on, and old stories. I got hooked on them old railroad story pulps after getting some at RR days in G town.
Yes we are on time but this is yesterdays train
Doug Great post on the Pullmans and the very sad 3 part Spuyten Duvil Wreak it is sad that it took bad accidents for the railway companies to bring in new safty rules and safer equipment. In the UK in the 60s there was a book brought out by railway and canel enthusiast named L.T.C. Rolt called Red for Danger which listed the major railway accidents in Britain investigated by the Board of Trade from the early days and the improvements that were made.
The book was published in paper back, I dont know if I have still got a copy back home if so I will bring it over.
Good to see you Dave thanks for the kind words.
Mike What great photos of Waverley station. I have made reference to them in my post below. the second of the photos at the north end shows two 0-6-0 diesel-electric shunting(swicher) locos which became class 08, there are still some in service on BR today they were introduced in 1953. the train in center has two class 26s locos these were built by the Birmingham Railway Carriage& Wagon Co. the class all finished up in Scotland. they have finished their main line work although a few are preserved. In the photo they are probably on an Inverness working where 2 locos would be needed for the climbs north of Perth. On the right is an Inter-city Diesel Multiple Unit most likely working a Glasgow fast service. The route between Edinburgh and Glasgow as seen some interesting developments in motive power. I will have to look a bit more in to it.
Here is part 2 of the trip in June
Tour to Scotland 2006
Part two Newcastle to Stirling
At Newcastle the 7:30 AM from London King’s Cross terminated and after a few minutes 91120 hauled the Mk IV coaching stock off to Heaton Depot for servicing. After the platform was clear the Edinburgh train arrived, having left King’s Cross at 8 AM but with a couple less stops, hauled by electric loco # 91102 Durham Cathedral. An on time departure past the Newcastle Keep which looked over a grand sets of diamond crossings in steam days, the track layout as been much simplified nowadays.
The train is soon speeding north past Heaton depot now mainly serving Diesel Multiple Units. Further north is a triangular junction which is a freight only line heading east and serving and area which was the Northumberland coalfield the area from which the Stephenson’s came from and is known as the “Cradle of Railways”.
Past a couple of lines serving open-cast coal pits and pleasant scenery the train approaches Berwick coming from the south the famous Royal Border Bridge (Mike had a great link showing the bridge in one of the posts at Our Place) is visible from the train as it as to make a long 90 degree turn. Over the bridge our train makes the only stop on this trip at Berwick-On-Tweed.
The reason I took the East Coast route to Scotland was that I had not traveled over the line north of Newcastle for many years. Leaving Berwick the train soon passes into Scotland and onto a part of the line, which runs on top of cliffs alongside the North Sea, this scenic bit of line does not get a lot of publicity unfortunately.
With Edinburgh bay to the east the train is soon slowing for Waverley station.
The station as been extended in the past and is quite difficult to navigate if not a regular user. We had arrived at platform 20, which is separated, from the main part of the station by a wall. So it was over the footbridge in to the main part. I though the train to Stirling would be leaving from one of the North Bays but it was due to leave from the south end of one of the through platform. Luckily it was a couple of minutes late and I was able to make the connection.
Waverley station was known to be tricky in the early days and by tradition the clock on the North British Hotel, by the station in Princes Street, runs two minutes fast.The hotel and clock can be seen in the top left corner of Mike’s first Waverley station link
There is a couple of great links to photos of Waverley in Mike’s post.
Heading north from Waverley the line runs through a shallow cutting with Edinburgh Castle high on a hill on one side and Princes Street on the other, after two tunnels the train calls at Haymarket station. On departure of the station Haymarket loco depot is passed. In steam days it supplied the top-link locos for the East Coast, including the A4 loco for the Non-Stop Elizabethan Edinburgh to London express a duty shared with King’s Cross depot. Later it looked after the Diesel fleet including 8 of the legendary Deltic Express Passenger Diesel-Electrics. Today the modernized depot looks after a large part of the Scottish Diesel Multiple Unit (DMU) fleet, of classes 150/2, 156 158 and 170/4.
After heading north for a few miles we head west towards Glasgow, leaving the line to the Forth and Tay bridges and Aberdeen. The magnificent Forth Bridge can be viewed in the distance from this line. I have heard that it is illuminated at night by floodlights a sight I would love to see.
Through Falkirk and a tri-angular junction it is not far to Stirling a pleasant enough trip on the 2-Car class 158 DMU although with the slowest approach to the station stops I can remember in quite a while. The last time I arrived in Stirling was on a steam special after a 10-day tour of Scotland. After a good lunch and a visit to Stirling’s oldest pub for a good pint of Dark Island which is brewed on the Isle of Orkney, then passing a shop that was selling T-Shirts that said “ Please God Anyone But England” a reference to the Soccer World Cup which was taking place at the time (Scotland didn’t qualify) which I must admit made me smile. I have always found the Scottish people very friendly and warm hearted and so it was on this trip
Stirling station front.
From the platform at Stirling showing the fine array of semaphore signals a rear sight in the UK nowadays. the steam loco depot was at the distant left of the photo. Click to enlarge.
I will do part 3 soon Hope you enjoy this Pete.
Hi Dave, and it's great to see you back! Nice to see Sir Mike too, and thanks for the Spuyten Duyvil jpeg link. Check out the difference between your picture and the one in my pulp book
Scene of Spuyten Duyvil wreck, looking toward northeast, just after the railroad tracks had been cleared. In the foreground is the creek which marked the boundary line between Spuyten Duyvil and Manhatten. In the center are shown Kilcullen's Hotel and Saloon, to which the victims were taken.
My picture is yellowed because it's from a 1935 edition in poor shape. Your picure of Mr. Wagner is better too, by the way. Here is the rest of the story:
The Wreck at Spuyten Duyvil By H.R. Edwards – Dec 1935 Railroad Stories
Aboard the wrecking train were General Superintendent Toucey, who was in charge of the entire N.Y.C. & H.R. Railroad between New York City and Buffalo, and Division Superintendent Charles Bissell. Both officials remained on the scene of the wreck all night, personally supervising the rescue work and disposal of the ruins.
By 4 A.M. the two tracks were cleared sufficiently for trains to run in both directions. The trains from New York brought a throng of newspaper reporters and curiosity seekers. Kilcullen’s thirst emporium did a land-office business, scores of men all day long drinking and playing billiards on the very spot where bodies of the wreck victims had been laid a short time before.
The first of the dead to be identified was Senator Wagner. The famous inventor had perished in the Idlewild, with which he had sought to equip with every appliance of safety and comfort. Sorrowfully his son-in-law, Conductor Jay Taylor, claimed the body. One of the Wagner cars was draped with black and coupled onto a special train taking the Senator back to Palatine Bridge where he was born sixty-four years before, and where he had served the railroad for seventeen years as station agent.
Another of the dead was the Rev. F.X. Marechal, chaplain for Blackwells Island, New York City – the spiritual advisor for inmates of the workhouse, the insane asylum and the almshouse. He, too, was burned to death in the Idlewild.
So were Mr. and Mrs. Park Valentine, a young bride and groom who had been married the night before at a fashionable society wedding in New England. He was twenty-two; she was nineteen.
Conductor Hanford was the last person to see the newlyweds alive. Forcing his way into the shattered and burning car, he saw the devoted pair standing together in the wreckage. Mr. Valentine was trapped beyond all hope of being extricated. His bride was clinging to him; only her clothing was caught in the wreckage.
Hanford said later that if she had been willing to slip out of her clothing and leave her husband she could have been saved. This he urged her to do, but the hysterical girl refused to obey. The heat was too intense for Hanford to stay in there long enough to force her to do this, to save the woman in spite of herself, and so the young couple died together.
Immediately after the accident, according to A.H. Catlin, who had charge of the road’s air-brake equipment, the brakes on the wrecked train were examined and found to be in good working order. Just who had pulled that cord, at the height of revelry back there in one of the cars, will probably never be known.
Mr. Toucey, however, picked on Conductor Hanford and Brakeman Melius, particularly Melius, as the prime scapegoats.
“The collision,” said he, “was a direct result of the violation of Rule Fifty-three.” Following is the rule he referred to, as stated in the N.Y.C. & H.R. Railroad rule book:
Whenever a train is stopped on a road, or is enabled to proceed at slow rate, the conductor must immediately send a man with red signal at least half a mile back, on double track, and the same distance in both directions if on single track, to stop any approaching train, which signal must be shown while the detention continues.
This must always be done whether another train is expected or not. In carrying out these instructions the utmost promptness is necessary; not a moment must be lost in inquiry as to the cause of stoppage or probably duration; the rear brakeman must go back instantly. Conductors will be held strictly responsible for the prompt enforcement of this rule.
At the coroner’s investigation, the attorney for Melius asked the general superintendent: “Suppose one of the employees cannot read. How should he know what the rules are?”
Mr. Toucey replied: “If there is such a man he ought to leave the employ of the road.”
“Do you know of any such?” persisted the lawyer.
“I do not,” said Mr. Toucey.
Then the truth came out. Although George Melius had been employed in train service on the New York Central & Hudson River Railroad for more than twenty years, he could neith read nor write!
It did not take the coroner’s jury long to reach a verdict. They held that eight persons had been killed “by criminal means and culpable negligence in the performance of their several duties” on the part of brakeman Melius, Conductor Hanford, Engineers Stackford, Buchanon and Burr, General Superintendent Toucey, and the railroad company itself.
Later the grand jury indicted Hanford and Melius on the charge of manslaughter in the fourth degree, and recommended:
(1) Discontinuence of the use of mineral oil for illumination in cars.
(2) Use of steam of hot water or hot air heating of cars instead of heating be direct radiation.
(3) Extension of the block signal system
(4) Larger train crews
(5) Employment of signalmen at all dangerous cuts and curves
(6) Trainmen and others holding responsible positions should be required to read and write.
(7) Inclusion of water pails and tools boxes containing axes, etc., on every train.
(8) The practice of giving free passes to legislators and others holding office under our state and city government is contrary to all proper ideas of good public policy and should be prohibited by law.
On account of the death of Senator Wagner, who had been a member of important railroad committees, the Senate of New York State also made an investigation. Its report, June 1, 1882, was vague and obviously written by politicians; but was definite about one point, namely, putting the blame upon brakeman Melius and not upon any of the railroad officials.
An aftermath of this disaster was revealed in a recent letter from Richard McCloskey, of Co. 3, Veterans Administration Home, Va., who wrote to Railroad Stories on his seventy-fifth birthday, June 10th, 1935: “I was a witness of the wreck at Spuyten Duyvil and knew George Melius. About a year after the wreck I boarded a horse car on Second Avenue, New York City, and recognized Melius as the driver. E was well disguised by a long growth of whiskers.”
*** still no joke, as it just isn't appropriate for this subject ***
Barndad's Roundhouse, you must have been shaving when you thought up that one.
Doug, if this link goes through, it's to an illustration of Wagner's train wreck from Harper's Weekly, Jan. 21, 1882. After you've seen it, remember, the set-up is different now, so don't click the "X" to close the window, but do hit the "back" button to return to this page.
http://www.catskillarchive.com/rrextra/wksdhw01.jpg
Pete, these links are very, very slow to load at dial-up speed, but it's a good view of the tracks at Waverly Station in Edinburgh, June 15, 1961, and a locomotive, hopefully reminiscent of your train ride from London.
http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/archives/cushman/full/P12312.jpg
http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/archives/cushman/full/P12314.jpg
Dave, I'm fresh out of Espee pix but, as always, I enjoyed reading your posts on that subject.
Ted and Eric, hope to see you guys soon again.
That's about it, too hot to think, 95 to 100 degrees here.
Good morning, and here's part II of:
But Senator Wagner did not live to see the merger consummated. And all because of that hilarious group of politicians who were riding in his drawing-room cars from Albany to New York on Friday the 13th. At least, that’s what the train crew maintained in the investigations that followed, although no one came forward to name the guilty person.
Everybody agreed that there was quite a bit of drinking among the passengers that afternoon on the Chicago Express, and even two or three of the porters showed signs of intoxication. As Conductor George Hanford testified later:
“We had a lively party on board. All through the cars they were passing bottles, drinking freely, smashing hats, and signing songs. Apparently they were sober when they boarded the train in Albany, but many became drunk after the train started. I had no control over them. Someone, I don’t know who, pulled the rope connecting with the air brakes, and the train came to a standstill, to enable the engineer to pump out the air.”
If pulling the rope was intended to be a joke, it proved to be a ghastly one. The train had stopped a little to the north of Spuyten Duyvil, on the outskirts of New York City. At that point there was a deep cut through a ledge that obstructed a view of the station. On one side rose rocks and high ground. The other side sloped down toward the Hudson River.
Just before entering the cut a south-bound train had to round a long curve, and see what was around that curve ahead of them. Previously the N.Y.C. & H.R. had kept flagmen on duty at both ends of the cut, Bill McLaughlin and Richard Griffon, paying them each about thirty dollars a month, but in a wave of economy they had discharged McLaughlin, leaving the dangerous stretch of track insufficiently guarded at the north.
At the moment the express cam to a sudden stop, Senator Wagner was talking to some of his political companions in the Empire, the second car from the rear. One of them was saying:
“I’ve got a couple of friends here who want to get passes from you.”
Nobody knows whether or not the inventor had a presentiment of tragedy on that occasion, but he certainly betrayed uneasiness over the unscheduled stop. He rose and remarked:
“Well, gentlemen, I think I’ll take a look through the train. These confounded railroads have a passion for smashing up my best cars.”
Mr. Wagner left the Empire and hurried back into the end car, the Idlewild. That was about 7 p.m. It was the last time he was seen alive.
Edward Stanford, engineer on the first locomotive, who had been employed on the New York Central for twenty-five years, made several attempts to start his train, but only succeeded in breaking the drawbar connecting the two engines.
The second engineer on the doubleheading express, Archibald Buchanan, who had eighteen years of engine service on that road, said later that he had seventy-five pounds of air on, and it had dropped at once to forty when somebody back on the cars pulled that cord, and he had tried to relieve the brakes by pumping them off. Recharging an air cylinder, he pointed out, took about fifteen minutes.
Meanwhile, George Melius, the hind brakeman, swung into action. This was his story:
: A minute or two after our train stopped I got my lamps, white and red, and walked back to protect the rear. I stood behind my train about two minutes, and then started back around the curve about six or seven car lengths behind my train. It took me about five minutes to walk that distance” – at the investigation later he was made to walk the same distance, which took only two minutes – “and I stood there perhaps two or three minutes.”
“I waited there ecause I considered the distance sufficient to stop any train. While I was on duty at that poit, the Tarrytown local came in sight, seven or eight car lengths from where I stood. Instantly I started waving my red lantern across the track. I think there was time enough to stop the train, even though I judges she was making about forty miles an hour.”
His brother, who was a conductor on the Poughkeepsie train, advised Brakeman Melius to modify that speed estimate in telling his story to the coroner’s jury – “because,” said Conductor Melius, “the Tarrytown local had just stopped at the Spuyten Duyvil depot and could not possibly have picked up so much speed in that distance.” So George modified his story for the official investigation.
At 6:40 p.m. the southbound local had left Tarrytown, N.Y., fourteen miles away, with Frank Burr at the throttle and Patrick Quinn wielding the scoop. Both were men of years experience in engine service on the N.Y.C.
“We were five minutes behind time when we pulled out of Tarrytown,” Burr explained, “because we had waited for the Chicago Express to pass us there. The express went by at 6:15 at high speed, evidently making up for lost time. We stopped at Spuyten Duyvil depot at 7:04. We were then thirteen minutes behind the express.”
The number “thirteen” seems to run like a theme song through the history of this occurrence. It was Friday the 23th, there were thirteen cars on the express, and the local was running thirteen minutes behind the express.
:After leaving Spuyten Duyvil,” said Engineer Burr, “we entered the cut at the rate of eighteen or twenty miles per hour. There was no danger signal or warning of any kind in the cut. And, I might add, Kilcullen’s Hotel, standing close to the right-of-way, completely shut off our view of the curving track until we were almost on top of the stalled train.”
“We passed out of the cut into the curve – I was looking ahead at the time – when I saw a flagman (Melius) with red and white signals in his hands. He was swinging the red across the down down, upon which we were. At the same time I saw the rear of the express before me.”
“When I first noticed the red light, the flagman was standing not more than two car lengths ahead of me, and the train was not more than thirty-five feet beyond the flagman. Altogether I was not more than three and a half car lengths behind the express when I first sighted her.”
“I put on the air brakes at once, reversed the engine, pulled the throttle wide open, blew the whistle, and did all in my power to stop. But a collision was inevitable. I remained at my post until the engine finally plowed into the rear of the express and stopped there. Then I got out and did what I could do to help with the work of rescue.”
The locomotive of the Tarrytown local was only slightly damaged. Her overhauling was estimated later to be not more than a fifty-dollar job. She was embedded in the parlor-car Idlewild. Her headlight, broken but still shining, had pushed its way a dozen feet within the luxurious car, casting a weird glare upon the terrified passengers.
The Idlewild, in its turn, had been partly telescoped into the car ahead, which was the Empire. It was not known then how many persons had been killed or injured, but the engine had a full head of steam and a boiler explosion was feared. An explosion under those circumstances would have added frightfully to the casualty list.
James Kilcullen, proprietor of the small saloon and hotel near by, had viewed the catastrophe from his doorway, and was one of the first to hasten to the rescue with a ladder, an ax, and a couple of water buckets. Said he:
“If you want to use a shutter or two to carry the victims on, don’t hesitate to tear them off my house.”
Survivors of the wreck who had managed to scramble out of the cars, aided by a number of husky fellows who hurried to the scene from near-by villages, formed a bucket brigade and threw water from the Hudson River onto the last two parlor-cars, which had caught fire almost immediately after the collision.
Engineer Burr was the first to recognize the damage of a boiler explosion. Seizing the fireman’s scoop from Patrick Quinn, he commenced piling great shovelfuls of snow into the furnace. Fortunately, although it was mid-winter, the weather was rather mild, and the snow was soft enough to work with.
Water carriers who had been emptying their pails onto the flaming cars, followed Burr’s example and dashed them against the locomotive boiler instead. Eventually the fire in the firebox was quenched, and attention was turned once more to the Empire and the Idlewild, from which came the agonizing cries of victims who were slowly burning to death.
Conductor Hanford, of the express, noticed that the occasional pailfuls of water were doing very little to check the blaze. “For God’s sake, hurry!” he cried. “Throw snow onto the fire!”
And, although badly burned about the face and hands, Hanford started to roll a snowball toward the terrible mass of burning timbers and hissing metal. Soon hundreds of willing hands were pushing great mounds of snow toward the danger spot. Some, braving the fierce heat, ran alongside the blazing cars and tossed the snow in through the windows. Others risked death themselves to drag out both the living and dead from the fiery hell-holes.
To enable rescuers to keep at work while removing the victims, their companions deluged them with water and pelted them with snowballs.
At the moment of impact, the lamps in one end of the Empire went out. Those in the other end gave a light which, pale and sickly though it was, proved to be a blessing. With this illumination every occupant of the Empire was enabled to get out or be carried out alive before a wall of fire made exit impossible; and no one perished in that car.
Until a year and a half before the accident the N.Y.C. & H.R. had lighted cars with candles. General Superintendent John M. Toucey maintained that these were safer than oil lamps; but the traveling public had complained that they could not read by such light, and so oil lamps were substituted.
The cars were heated by the Baker patented process, not by stoves, and the heating apparatus was concealed from view. Nevertheless, according to Conductor Hanford, who had been in train service on that road for eleven years, this system was the cause of the fire, though oil lamps added to the conflagration.
Tons of snow were thrown upon the two cars, and in a short time the volunteer workers had the hills and roadway scraped almost entirely clear of snow. Even this, however, seemed hardly able to abate the heat. Late at night relief came with the arrival of the fire department from Carmansville, a wrecking train from the Thirtieth Street depot, and two or three ambulances made a long and terrible drive through the dark over snow-covered, muddy roads.
The fire apparatus, pumping water from the Hudson, soon put the fire out. But before this happened, the cars had been reduced to a shapeless mass of charred wood and twisted metal.
James Kilcullen threw open his place to the victims, dead and wounded alike. When the grim casualty list was finally counted, there were found to be eight dead – most of them burned beyond recognition – and nineteen persons were seriously injured.
The bodies were carried into Kilcullen’s saloon and there were laid, a ghastly spectacle, upon the floor and billiard tables. Two rival undertakers who had hurried over from Yonkers, N.Y., quarreled with each other as to which one should take charge of the bodies.
*** no joke for this post ... it would not be appropriate ***
Wow...talk abouit your "slow day." No posts since early AM. Well, if the thread doesn't work, then it doesn't. I still won't throw in the towel for awhile. SO maybe this next post will generate some interest or discussion. Here's part I:
A light snow was swirling around the Chicago-New York Express as she double-headed out of Albany at 3:06 – twenty-six minutes late – on a gray January afternoon of 1882, straightened her “string of varnish” after leaving the yards, and settled down for the 142-mile run to New York City.
It was Friday the 13th. Although there were thirteen wooden cars in that train, the possibility of a jinx didn’t seem to worry the seventy-seven politicians who were traveling southward from the New York State Capital on free passes given by the New York Central & Hudson River Railroad.
They laughed and rough-housed like schoolboys on a holiday. As a matter of fact, that’s just what it was. The State Legislature had adjourned for the weekend, and they were going back to the big city – back to the bright lights of Broadway and the three-story brownstone mansions of Twenty-third Street.
Just behind the two locomotives were coupled two mail cars; then a baggage car and four passenger coaches, all the property of the railroad. Lastly, and most important, came six parlor cars: the “Red Jacket,” the “Sharon,” the “Vanderbilt,” the “Minnehaha,” the “Empire,” and the “Idlewild” – all built and owned by the Wagner Drawing-Room Car Company, of New York; each valued at about $17,000.
Mr. Wagner himself was riding that train. Webster Wagner, of Palatine Bridge, N.Y. (some fifty miles west of Albany). Inventor of the sleeping-car, president of the Wagner Company, five times elected to the State Senate, and an influential member of its railroad committees.
Mr. Wagner was sixty-four. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a high forehead and blue eyes, and possessing rare vigor for a man his age. His young son-in-law, Jay Taylor, was riding the same train as parlor-car conductor in charge of the Wagner rolling stock.
The newspapers that day were filled with rumors of a proposed merger between the Wagner Company, capitalized at five million dollars, and the Pullman Company, capitalized at ten million, which soon would be twelve and a half million. Such a combination would monopolize the field, revolutionize railway travel, and bring immense revenue to the stockholders of both concerns. It was expected to be the crowning triumph of Webster Wagner’s long and useful career.
Newspaper reporters were trying to get a statement from Mr. Wagner; but, like the good politician that he was, he shook their hands with a genial smile – and talked about other subjects. As the Chicago Express rumbled through deepening shadows of the late afternoon, winding along the snow-covered bank of the Hudson, he passed around cigars to the political news-hounds and told his life story.
Mr. Wagner revealed that he was born at Palatine Bridge on the second of October, 1817, became interested in transportation at an early age, and was apprenticed to his brother James as a wagon builder. Later the two brothers went into partnership, but Webster soon decided there was more of a future in railroading, so he resigned and got a job as station agent at Palatine Bridge.
He held that job from 1843 to 1860. During that time he watched the long through trains of comfortless cars go by his station, and one day stumbled upon the idea that brought him fame and fortune.
“I never thought of the sleeping-car,” Mr. Wagner admitted to reporters, “until I saw one of a very clumsy pattern built by a man living near Palatine Bridge. The man had no capital, no capacity, and not much inventive genius. I saw right away that his idea was good, but had to be developed.”
“I hadn’t much capital, either, but I applied to William H. Vanderbilt for permission to use an old passenger coach to illustrate my notion of what a sleeping-car should be. I knew that the Hudson River Railroad was sharing a large amount of business with night boats that it should have for itself. Men who needed all the time they could get begrudged the five or six hours lost in traveling between New York and Albany by boat. It seemed to me that much time could be saved by providing accommodations for merchants and others who would be glad to sleep while they traveled rapidly.”
He broke off abruptly, opened the window and peered out. The snow had stopped falling. A tiny station rushed by in the gathering twilight.
“The air feels good!” he exclaimed, and closed the window. “It was quite a problem for me to get the right ventilation in those cars. Oh, yes, as I was saying, my request for an old car was granted, and I went to work to fit it with berths. It took me months to finish that car. Even then it had to be approved by Commodore Vanderbilt before it could be used on this road. I urged his son, William H., to persuade the old man to look at my car. At first the Commodore ignored my request, but finally consented.
“It was a critical Sunday morning in 1858 when old Vanderbilt and his son were to visit the Thirtieth Street depot in New York to look at my new-fangled contraption. Before they arrived I walked through the car a dozen or more times to see that everything was all right. After the Commodore had made his inspection he asked: “How many have you got of these things?” “There is only one,” I told him. “Go ahead!” he said. “Build more! It’s a devilish good thing, and you can’t have too many of them.”
“I realized then that my fortune was made,” Senator Wagner continued. “With my brother’s help four cars were built at a cost of thirty-two hundred dollars each, and they began running on the first of September, 1868. The first car had a single tier of berths, and the bedding had to be packed away in a closet at one end of the car, thus occupying much valuable space. Too much in fact. The one tier of berths was not profitable enough, so another was installed. Thus the modern sleeping-car came to be.”
“What did you do about ventilation?” one of the reporters reminded the inventor.
“Oh yes,” was the reply. “At first the ventilation system was found to be imperfect. The upper berths were too close, as the roof was flat. To overcome that objection I devised and applied the pitched roof, much higher than that of the old cars; thus securing ventilation and eventually the swinging upper berth which was adopted later and is in use today.”
Incidentally, the invention of the elevated roof proved so useful that it was applied not only to sleepers, but also to day coaches. On August 20th, 1867, Mr. Wagner put into operation his first drawing-room car for day travel. He made several trips abroad to study the English, French and Swiss passenger cars, survived two or three wrecks, and finally, in 1882, was looking forward to a merger with the rival interests of George M. Pullman.
*** Neither Wagner nor Pullman invented the first sleeping-car. Back in 1843 the Erie Railroad had 2 sleepers, known as “diamond cars” after the shape of their windows, built by John Stephanson. Even before that in 1837, the Cumberland Valley (P.R.R.) had a sleeper, the “Chambersburg,” with 12 berths in 3 tiers but no bedding. ***
Good morning one and all! As, promised, here is Pullman varnish post that I hope you will enjoy:
By 1887, the facilities of a luxury train had been still further extended. Observation cars, for instance, were coming into vogue and the rear half of the Pennsylvania Limited’s last vehicle was a comfortable saloon with 5 ft-deep plate-glass windows looking out over a verandah with elegant wrought nickel and brass guard-rails. Next to the saloon was a writing room, overhung by palms spreading from pretty jardinières and furnished with secretaire and bookcase; here a skilled stenographer was on call to take and type passengers’ correspondence. The rest of the car was given over to private staterooms, each with its own lavatory, and decorated either in Oriental or Louis XVI style, with varying finishes in Circassian walnut, Tabasco mahogany, English oak, vermillion wood, rosewood or Santiago mahogany.
Next up from the rear of the train came the Pullman sleepers, featuring both standard open-section areas and private drawing rooms with accommodation for two or five. One of the cars even boasted an incredibly ornate bridal suite with white woodwork, leaded glass, extravagant gilt ornamentation and metalwork, and lush velvet drapery. There was nothing strictly functional about the sleeper lavatories either: you stood on a ceramic tiled floor, studied yourself in beveled mirrors and rested between operations on a padded wicker chair to admire polished woodwork that was as finely executed as any in the living accommodation.
Next came the diner, with elegant chairs backed and seated in embossed leather, overhung with more potted greenery and serving cuisine to challenge the finest of Chicago and New York hotels.
The 1905 Oriental Limited’s Pullman diner was supposedly styled to represent an English Inn interior with ceiling beams and leather-backed chairs. (Courtesy Arthur Dubin collection)
And finally a remarkable multi-purpose car, mostly occupied by the men’s saloon. To quote a contemporary description, “it provides a buffet and all the luxury of an elegant, up-to-date club. There are daily papers, magazines and books on the tables, and facilities are on hand for those who care to play cards, chess or other games. Stock Exchange quotations are, with other items of commercial and general news, regularly supplied to the train at its stopping places. Passengers further have the advantage of a hair-dressing saloon, and there are bathrooms for ladies and gentlemen, equipped with the most approved accessories.” And finally, for this was still something of a novelty to be stressed in promotion: “The train was lighted by electricity, the current being obtained from a dynamo supplying the 500 lamps comprised in the installation; but in order to guard against the possibility of a breakdown, Pintsch’s gas fittings can at a moment’s notice be brought to use in any of the compartments. Electric reading lamps are available in the library car and in the observation car, and every section of the drawing room sleeping cars contain two such lamps, which may be used by passengers who desire to read in their berths.” The Pennsylvania’s publicity department had a right to proclaim the “Limited” to be “the newest and most complete Railway Train of this progressive age.”
Many moguls of industry sought something even more palatial than the private rooms of a train like the “Pennsylvania Limited.” The commercially eager Mr. Pullman was only too happy to build and sell the tycoons their own private cars, which they would pay to have attached to ordinary service trains, or in some cases would have hauled free, so humbly grateful were the railroads for such august patronage.. As the luxury train acquired fresh refinements, so – on an even grander scale – did these so-called business cars. The most splendid of them ran to marble baths, hidden safes, Venetian mirrors, and open fireplace burning balsam logs (this was John Pierpont Morgan’s), and even an English butler to supervise the car’s private cellar and the Lucullan output if its kitchen. By the 1920s some magnates were paying as much as a quarter of a million dollars for a single vehicle.
The railroad baron Jay Gould on occasion ran his own complete train of four business cars, the staff of which included a doctor to tend Gould’s fragile digestion, plus a special baggage car at the head-end that served as a byre for the milch cow which was taken on the trip to ensure a flow of milk with butterfat constituency exactly conforming to the great man’s dietary regime. A French nobleman, Count Boni de Castellane, who was invited aboard Gould’s train when he was courting the banker’s daughter, recorded in his diary that full evening dress was de rigueur at dinner and that guests’ private rooms teemed with butlers and valets, footmen, ladies’ maids and grooms of the chambers. Of another eminent financier’s wife it was said she had assumed a journalist that “The only thing that’s economical about our car is the solid gold plumbing. It saves polishing, you know.
In terms of housekeeping the Pullman operation outstripped that of any chain hotelier for scale. At the peak of the company’s business in the 1930s and 1940s its stock of sheets and towels, for instance, was between 3 ½ and 4 million in each case. The activity of its ten company-owned laundries was frequently worth more than three million dollars a year. It refused to rely on outside suppliers for furniture and fittings, and maintained its own workshops to turn out everything from a richly upholstered chair to a toilet seat. The company had its own printing plant, too, from which issued a torrent, not only of working documents and publicity material, but of minutely detailed rulebooks and instruction manuals for Pullman staff.
Afternoon tea service in the ladies’ lounge of Chicago & Alton’s “Alton Limited.” Although not seen in this particular picture, the waitresses were arrayed in full Japanese rig (Courtesy Arthur Dubin collection)
From the start Pullman determined to make the personal service in his cars a byword. Nothing, it was said, could happen in a Pullman car that was not covered by an instruction in the voluminous Pullman rulebooks, which dealt meticulously with every conceivable aspect of hospitality and service to the passenger, whether it be from conductor, porter, maid, barber or bus boy. And the tradition was jealously upheld by the car staff, to the extent that they were perennially the prime quarry for staff head-hunters from the White House as well as upper crust hotels and clubs. The Pullman porter – generally Negro, from the date the first black porter was recruited in 1870 – was justifiably the American symbol of service to the customer for decades. As a mark of Pullman’s infinite care for detail of service, a full quotation of the Pullman service manual’s elaborate step-by-step primer on the basic art of filling an order for a beer is an apt crown to this chapter:
Hey! Someone new! Greetings to Jim who really came to the rescue on the SP numbering question. Very impressive Jim, and I hope this becomes a thread you frequent. Great pix from Pete too, and it's nice to see you also today! As clean as everything is at that station, the pix almost look like a model railroad. It would certanily be an interesting station to have on ones layout, to be sure!
The large diesel in front of the SP 1518 is the UP 6930, which could use a paint job too!
This is the Burlington Northern 5383 U-30C which I spent about 80 hours needle chipping, sanding and wire brushing prior to its being repainted. It’s almost done, and was displayed yesterday. It is the largest working diesel unit we have at the museum. Sorry about only getting pictures of it while it was still inside the diesel barn. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunity to photograph this train at work in the near future.
A man and a woman had been married some time when the woman began to question her husband. "I know you've been with a lot of woman before. How many were there?" The husband replied, "Look, I don't want to upset you, there were many. Let's just leave it alone." The wife continued to beg and plead. Finally, the husband gave in. "Let's see." he said "There was one, two, three, four, five, six, you, eight, nine..."
I plan to start the day tomorrow with a Pullman car article. Let's see where it goes!
Doug great pictures of the SP 2-10-2 steam loco and the SP diesel at the IRM. I really must get to the museum one day.
That is a large UP diesel behind #1518.
Many thanks jimrice4449 for the info on the engine/train number question.
I have 3 photos from the recent trip to England. These were taken in late May at York station on a railfan special.
The train originated at Tysley in the suburbs of Birmingham, England and was steam hauled via Leicester, the Erewash Valley line, Chesterfield (notMO) Rotherham, Pontefract to York. The train carried on to the seaside town of Scarborough.It returned steam hauled to Tysley the same day.
The engine is one of Sir William A Stanier design Jubilee class 4-6-0 3-Cylinder locos A class of 191 locos.Built in the 1930s. 4 are preserved and three of them have run in presveration days. the engine shown is # 5690 LEANDER probably named after a British Warship. It is in the Crimson Lake livery of the LMS. Leander would have been a fairly regular visiter to York in BR days as it was allocated to Bristol( Barrow Road) shed and would of worked passenger and parcel trains on the South West to North East route. Pete
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