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Wreck of the Bridleway Limited (Part 5)

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Chapter 5: Mixed Signals



Perspective: Locomotion



The 729 paused at Windy Vale for a few minutes to allow the coal train to clear the following section, and as soon as we were given a “green eye”, as we railway ponies call it, Uncle Steamer drove her onwards until we reached Horse Junction, 57 miles away from Ponyville by rail. Horse Junction is perhaps the loneliest part of the whole route, but quite a busy station nonetheless; the Rainbow Falls branch line starts here, and there is also a turntable for the use of banking and pilot engines from either side of the mountains. Because of its somewhat exposed location, the turntable is surrounded by a wall of sleepers to prevent a repeat of a rather bizarre mishap almost a century ago, when the fierce winds blew it out of control and sent an engine spinning.

We arrived at Horse Junction about quarter to eleven, well over one and a half hours after leaving Ponyville. Two other engines had already arrived from the opposite direction, a Centaur Class 2-8-2 and another Mustang, and while the latter was being turned, the former was simmering quietly by the branch-line platform. As soon as we had come to a halt on the lay-by loop, Promontory got down from the cab and went to speak with the signalpony about how long we would be up here. While he was gone, Uncle Steamer turned round and congratulated me on a job well done.

“Monty and I might not have made it up the grade if it hadn't been for you,” he told me. “I owe you big time for this.”

“Thanks, Uncle Steamer,” I replied, still a little weary. “I tell you what, though, I could really do with a day off after all that.”

“I'll bet,” mused my uncle. “Never mind; as soon as we get back to Ponyville, you'll be able to get a good night's rest and maybe a lie-in tomorrow morning.”

I smiled weakly in response as I mopped some of the sweat from my face, and the two of us sat back to await Promontory's return. It was a cool, quiet evening, and the gentle simmering sound of the 729 seemed rather calming – almost hypnotic, even. I gazed laxly out of the cab window, half-closing my eyes as I enjoyed the stillness.

“Whose engines are those just being turned?” I asked after a few seconds. I knew it was of little consequence, but I was just curious is all.

Uncle Steamer paused, also taking a peek out of the cab. “That'd be Nos. 669 and 1074 of Delamare Sheds,” he explained at last. “They must have been working similar turns to our own.”

That, I thought, would make perfect sense; springtime traffic requirements meant heavy loads on most of the goods trains, so naturally more engines would be needed to help them over the heavier gradients, including those on both sides of the junction. This in turn meant that Switcher, the signalpony on duty that night, would have a lot more light engine movements than usual to deal with.

Switcher, whom Uncle Steamer and I know personally, is a competent and dedicated worker, but not the sort who's used to working night shifts. The only reason he was working the box that night was because the one who usually worked the 10pm to 6am shift was on vacation for a week, and there was nopony else to take over in his absence.

Promontory soon returned from the signalbox, and told us that Switcher was just crossing the Mustang, No. 669, back to the branch-line platform and would attend to us as soon as the Centaur, No. 1074, had been turned. Since we were to be held in the loop for a further quarter of an hour, I decided to head over to the station and phone home to tell my parents where I was. I wasn't all that long at the station building; once I had explained to Dad about my emergency firing turn, he just said “Okay, I'll see you when you get back” and promised me an easy day afterwards, and then I went straight back to the 729, where Uncle Steamer and Promontory had fried some eggs, hay bacon strips and hash browns for the three of us.

After letting a semi-fast passenger train through, the 1074 crossed over to the turntable and was turned around to face the direction of Delamare. That done, it returned to the branch-line road to rejoin the 669, and the two engines paused while an eastbound goods train stopped to drop off some wagons. This left the station less than a quarter of an hour later, and as soon as a westbound goods had passed through the station, the the two Delamare engines moved out onto the Down line and up to the “advance starter” (the final signal before entering a specific section of track) to wait for the eastbound train to clear the road ahead. Shortly afterwards, we too were cleared to cross over to the turntable road.



Perspective: Octavia



The encounter at the station left me even less able to sleep than before, and I spent another quarter of an hour sitting glumly in my compartment, having given sleep up altogether. In the end, I couldn't take any further torment – I had to clear my head somehow, and the only way I could, I realised, was through the one thing I had been putting off for fear of reprisal by the railway company. Furtively checking that nopony else was in the corridor, I quietly picked my way to the luggage van, right at the front of the train, and began searching the racks for the one possession that meant anywhere near as much to me as she did. I could only hope I wouldn't disturb the other passengers with what I was about to do...

“Can I help you, ma'am?” asked a voice. Taken unawares, I spun round and saw the guard standing right behind me with a perplexed look on his face.

I suddenly felt rather awkward. “Terribly sorry, sir,” I stammered, trying to explain myself. “You see...I was wondering if...could you possibly tell me where I might find my cello?”

The guard paused for a moment, and then smiled kindly. “Play the cello, do you?” he said. “Why, did you feel like playing something?” I merely nodded in reply, endeavouring to apologise most profusely for the intrusion; but before I could, he added, “Well, ma'am, you're most welcome to play it in here. I'm quite partial to a bit of cello music myself,” and he guided me to the shelf where all my belongings were stowed away. I was most grateful for his patience and assistance, and even happier when I withdrew my prized cello from its case. Hello, old friend, I thought blissfully as I began playing a gentle, heartfelt solo sonata which I had intended as my own special serenade for her, but sadly never completed before she departed Canterlot.

The musical number in question, which I call “Opera con Amore” despite it being a sonata, has never been played in public for the sole reason that I wanted it to remain ours and ours alone, even if we never met again. It was meant to consist of three movements – the first, lasting six minutes in total, was a retelling of how we first met, how our relationship built up, and how I had cherished her mere presence; whilst the second, a shade less than eight minutes long, reflected on all the hardships she had faced. I could never find the motivation to write the final movement after she left, and while I eventually rewrote the second one to express my hope that I would be reunited with her for all time, the overall composition was but a shadow of its former self, and one that brought solemn tears to my eyes whenever I played it.

But at the same time, it brought a small, sad smile to my face. She was such a wonderful young mare, nothing like the musicians with whom I work, and I was lucky to have met her at all, no matter how briefly. By the time I brought the music to its de facto climax, the therapeutic effect of the cello was starting to soothe and lull me into a state of relaxation, and the guard was clearly enjoying the sound of my cello, so I continued my performance with a recital of one of Bach's finest works. This in itself lasted a good quarter of an hour, all without the slightest hint of disturbance to the other passengers; and by the time this too had finished, I finally felt like I would be able enjoy the nice, peaceful, plentiful, undisturbed slumber that I sorely needed. Since the guard was busy writing what I believed to be a report of some kind, I decided that it would be inappropriate to thank him at his busiest, and instead I quietly packed my cello away, returned it to the shelf among all my other luggage and took my leave.



Perspective: Locomotion



Once the 729 had been turned, we drew off the turntable and waited for Switcher to pull the signal “off” for our return journey. Another westbound goods train had already been signalled through, so we were kept here for a further half-hour until both trains had cleared the section. As we stood behind the signal, I gazed patiently upon the two Delamare engines waiting behind the advance starter, hoping to catch them setting off for Delamare MPD.

But they didn't – the signal remained at “danger”, and the 669 and 1074 stayed firmly put. After about a quarter of an hour, I began to worry; those two had been standing there for well over twenty minutes, yet nopony from either engine had gone back to the box in accordance with Rule 55.

“Something on your mind, Loco?” I snapped out of my reverie and saw Uncle Steamer looking upon me with an expression of concern.

“Those light engines,” I explained, a little uneasily. “They've been standing at the advance starter for nearly twenty-five minutes now, and I still haven't seen anypony go back and alert Switcher.”

Uncle Steamer blinked, and looked out towards the other engines. “Yeah, that is pretty odd,” he agreed; but before he could say anything else, we heard a dull clunk, and the next thing we knew, the signal had risen to the “all clear” position. The two engines each gave a barely audible toot on their whistles, steam hissing from their drain-cocks as they set off for their home sheds. Uncle Steamer promptly let his guard down with a small smile; “Ah well, at least they're off home now,” he mused.

I nodded in reply, but somehow I still had a bad feeling that those two engines were headed for disaster. Only when they were halfway over the Horse Gill Viaduct, immediately to the east of the station, did I notice something even more disturbing.

“Hang on a moment,” I exclaimed, “shouldn't that signal have returned to danger by now?”

“What's up, Loco?” Promontory crossed the cab with a confused look on his face.

“You know those two light engines that had arrived here before us?” I said anxiously. Promontory nodded his affirmation. “Well, they've been signalled off, but the advance starter is still at clear.”

Raising a perplexed eyebrow, Promontory leaned out of the cab. “Good grief, you're right, Loco!” he remarked. “Same with all the other Down signals, for that matter! What the hay does Switcher think he's up to?”

“I dunno, Monty,” said Uncle Steamer, “but he can't have just pulled them off and left them unless another train was due.”

That was when alarm bells starting ringing inside my head with ever-increasing volume. What if there really was another train coming? What if Switcher had accidentally sent it straight into a trap with the two light engines as the bait? A distant whistle, long, deep and powerful, confirmed my worst fears, and with what I suspect might have come across as a pale expression of dread, I glanced back at Uncle Steamer.

“What is it?” he asked.

I found it difficult to say anything I was so trepid, but I still managed to get something out nonetheless. “How long will it take those two engines to clear Hock Hill Tunnel?” I stammered.

Uncle Steamer paused. “All the time in the world, I'd say. Why do you ask?”

I didn't say anything, but simply cocked my head towards the direction of the whistle. We couldn't see much, but there was a thick plume of smoke and steam rapidly approaching the station.

Promontory goggled in horror. “It's the Limited!” he blurted out.

And it was. The mighty City Class engine that I'd been helping to prepare only four or five hours previously was pounding her way across the vast Buckskin Mountain countryside, and behind her were the eleven coaches that made up the Bridleway Limited that night. All three of us watched the train with growing tension, praying to Celestia that Switcher would realise his mistake and reset his signals to danger – but it didn't happen. The express came closer and closer, and still the signals remained in the “off” position.

“Something's not right,” I said grimly as the train approached the Down distant. “Wait here, guys, I'm gonna go to the signalbox – try and work out what Switcher's up to.”

“Okay, but see if you can stop the train by hoof signal first,” instructed Uncle Steamer as I started to descend from the cab. Deep down, I wasn't sure that anypony on the footplate would take me seriously even if I did try to warn them, but I nodded obediently and ran towards the main line with my front hooves raised high, yelling for them to stop.

As chance would have it, the driver, John Bull, was leaning out of the cab to get a better view of the signals; but just as I feared, when I tried to intervene with my own, he didn't seem to realise that it was meant as a warning. He just waved cheerfully at me, and the next thing I knew, the throaty bark of “City of Coltenburg's” exhaust became louder and more vigorous as he opened up the taps for the short climb to Winsome Peak Summit, seven miles away to the east of the junction. All I could do was watch helplessly as it passed the advance starter and rumbled over the viaduct towards Hock Hill Tunnel and the unsuspecting light engines.

Realising that a collision was now all but inevitable, I turned and did what I knew I should have done in the first place – I went to the signalbox to warn Switcher of the danger. As I approached, I saw that he was in the process of signalling to the next box along that the train had entered the section, and was about to reset his signals as per the standard procedure. Fat lot of good that'd do now, I'm thinking to myself as I enter the box – if he'd only known to do so before the Limited passed through, then we wouldn't be in this mess!

Just as I'm about to speak up, though, Switcher stops what he's doing and turns to face me. “Hullo,” he says. “Sorry I had to keep you waiting for so long; I was told to give those two extras priority over all other trains. The road should be clear for you and your uncle to return home with the 729 by now.”

“Never mind the 729,” I blurted out, trying my best not to lose my cool, “do you realise what you've just done with those two light engines that were supposed to be headed for Delamare?”

Switcher gave me this odd look as if I'd just asked him the most obvious question imaginable. “They'd already left for Delamare half an hour ago,” he replied, clearly confused.

“No they hadn't!” I retorted indignantly. “Those two engines were still waiting for a green eye after twenty-five minutes. They didn't move off until you lifted the boards for the Bridleway Limited, which, by the way, is now headed straight for them.”

Somehow, I got the suspicion that Switcher thought I was having a joke with him, because he just scoffed in reply, muttered something like “Youth of the day” and turned to his log book. “Look, they're already well on their way back to Delamare,” he insisted, showing me the relevant page. “There's the entry that says so.”

But when I looked into the book, I couldn't see anything about the two engines leaving. I kept shooting incredulous glances between Switcher and the book, wondering if perhaps I'd missed something – but all the signs were there. Eventually, I fixed upon Switcher, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “What entry?” I asked dubiously.

Switcher turned the book around, apparently so that he could find the entry he was talking about. “The one that says they've left the...oh,” he said, cutting himself off in mid-sentence.

“The latest entry I can see that relates to those two engines is the one where they crossed over to the main line,” I explained bluntly. “There's absolutely nothing in there about them leaving the station.”

An awkward silence followed for a few seconds. It was Switcher who eventually broke it; “I think I'd better call up Winsome Peak and see where they are,” he replied, and turned to his telephone.

“Yes, I think maybe you should,” I agreed firmly. “For all we know, those two engines could be sitting ducks by now.”

“I'm sure they're fine,” muttered Switcher; but even I can tell by the tone of his voice that my warning has sown a seed of doubt in his mind. He certainly wouldn't have gone ahead with calling up Winsome Peak Signalbox if it hadn't. “Hullo, Semaphore? Where are those two light engines I sent on?”

Through the speaker on his phone, I can just about make out the reply from the Winsome Peak signalpony as being, “What are you talking about? You haven't given me any.”

A look of consternation then spreads its way across Switcher's face, and he promptly adds, “Has the Bridleway passed through yet?”

“No sign of it just yet,” replied Semaphore.

That was probably the moment when Switcher realised what he had gotten himself into. He set the receiver down on the desk and stared at me, a look of horror stamped on his face.

“I told you,” I said in a fearful yet slightly reproving tone.

Predictably, though, Switcher refused to believe that there was no saving the Limited, and instead stared anxiously out of the window. “There's still time,” he nervously tried to convince himself. “Surely they can still clear the section before the express catches them.”

“Not from where I'm standing they won't,” I murmured. In my mind, I could already picture what was happening, almost as if I was there to see the whole thing for myself; the screeching of brakes, the frantic puffing sound of the two light engines desperately trying to escape the massive top-link predator racing towards them, the terrified shrill of the whistles...louder...louder...closer...closer......



Perspective: Octavia



As I left the luggage van, I paused to look out of the window again, taking in the sight of the vast mountain scenery through which we were now travelling. The wild, barren peaks towered above the train, and in the distance, one could just make out the most majestic rainbow waterfall spilling out of a cloud and down towards the tallest of these mountains. It was little wonder that both of these had earned the name of Winsome.

We were passing through another station at this point; I could tell by the dim display of lights dancing past the train like a swarm of fireflies, and judging by the powerful staccato of the locomotive, we were shortly to surmount an uphill gradient beyond. I was just about to head back to my compartment when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something unusual – running alongside the train was a red unicorn colt of around eight or nine years of age. He was dressed in the same uniform as most of the engine drivers I'd seen in my time, and appeared to be shouting frantically, though what he was saying I couldn't hear over the rumble of the carriage wheels. I could only stare in confusion, wondering what he was trying to tell us, or why the railways would even let somepony so young work among their ranks in the first place. Surely a railway was not the sort of environment you could call foal-friendly...was it? And wasn't there legislation against this sort of cheap labour?

Then again, I decided at last, there was probably a logical explanation for what I had seen just then. He was probably just playing around in the yard, pretending to be a railway worker, in which case he would probably be in serious trouble with his parents when they found out. That said, it would hardly account for why the driver of the other engine didn't come running over to pull him away from the track, or how he had managed to obtain such an accurate reproduction of a driver's outfit. The ones I usually saw at foals' fancy dress parties were far too whimsical to resemble an authentic cap and cravat. In the end, I dismissed it as none of my business and promptly moved on.

Within another minute or so, the rumble of the train, the barking sound of the engine and the clicking of the rail joints increased in volume as we entered a tunnel, the vast scenery briefly giving way to bricks and rock. Loud though it was, it seemed to lull me even further towards my forty winks, and I decided that now was the time to retire to my snug, warm bed. I stood up gingerly and was just about to make my way down the corridor when I heard the locomotive whistle again, this time a lot more urgently. I thought nothing of it, however – it was probably just for another level crossing. The first I knew of anything wrong was a sharp jolt beneath my hooves, and the cacophonous screeching wail of a banshee as the brakes came hard on.

Suddenly wide awake and on the alert, I remained stock still for a brief moment, wondering what was happening. A second jolt, a much louder screech and the renewed bellow of the engine's exhaust were all it took for me to realise the full gravity of the situation – the train was headed for disaster! This sent me into a panic, and my first reaction was to find the nearest window and see whether it was a rockfall, a monster attack, a stranded train...or even sabotage. I bolted back to my compartment, praying to Celestia that the rest of the group and I would come out of it alive – but just as I was crossing the doorway's threshold, the deafening sound of thunder rang out in my ears as the train lurched violently, and I was flung right off my hooves. My head hit the wall with an agonising thud, and before I could even begin to react, the train lurched again, and I keeled over onto my front left leg with a sickening crack. The last thing I remembered as I was overcome by the excruciating pain was the clanging and screeching of metal, the screams of alarmed passengers and the raucous hiss of escaping steam as the train finally came to rest...



Perspective: Locomotion



At last, I heard a rumble in the distance, as if a high-explosive bomb had just gone off. “That'll be it now,” I muttered fearfully.

Switcher was so alarmed by this that he sounded dangerously close to hysteria as he picked up the phone again. “Semaphore,” he wailed, “has anything arrived yet? Please say there has!”

But once again, the reply was far from what he wanted to hear. “Nothing through yet – wait...I think I heard something just now. Sounds like something's gone into the ditch about a mile or so to the west of my box.”

Almost catatonic with guilt and despair, Switcher slowly hung the telephone back onto its holder and turned to face me once again. He didn't say anything at first, but his expression spoke volumes to me – the very instant Semaphore had finished speaking, he had clearly realised, just as much as I had, that it was all over. The silence that hung over the two of us was almost deafening.

“Well?” I prompted at last. Even though I had been the one to speak first, it still staggers me to think how startled I was at the sound of my own voice just then.

Somehow, Switcher barely seemed able to speak, and even though he did manage to reply, I could almost see his trepidation as if it were a real-life object, something you could touch with your own two front hooves. If indeed you could, I swear to Celestia that it would have felt cold and painful. “Loco,” he asked me in a low, quiet, slightly strained voice, as if he was trying to fight back tears, “will you go to the stationmaster and tell him......I'm afraid I've wrecked the Bridleway Limited?”

I didn't reply – I just legged it out of the signalbox and galloped at full tilt towards the stationmaster's house, hoping to goodness that nopony had been hurt...
Their hard work done, Locomotion and Steamer are now preparing to head back down the gradient towards Ponyville. At the same time, two other engines are waiting to return to their own home depot in Delamare - but the signalpony has forgotten all about them, and the Bridleway Limited is approaching on the same line...

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My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is copyright of Hasbro.

Locomotion, Switcher and Semaphore are copyrighted by yours truly.

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