The Signalman

The signalman at Manor House,
A guiltless instrument of evil,
Should pity in kind hearts arouse,
Made a cat's-paw for the devil !

I deem the Fates were very hard
On the signalman that night ;
First, his needed rest they marred ;
Next, they killed his heart's delight.

His baby Rose ; then they denied
To him, themselves had made unfit,
Reprieve from duty, though he cried
To be relieved that once from it ;

Referring to the railway accident at Thirsk,
So drove the rushing train to doom,
And that one broken man to gloom
Of vain self-torment : oh ! great God !
Didst Thou not drive us where we trod ?

In tear-choked accents hear him tel'
How, coming from the iron road
That morning home to where they dwell
In their small orchard-girt abode.

His wife and family, he learned
From her that something ailed their Rose :
But, since who works by night hath earned
The daytime's leisure for repose,

" Let the child lie snug with me,"
He bade ; "for school make ready Ted :
You can bring me up my tea,
Then take our Rosy from my bed."

But four bare hours of sleep are all
The weary signalman can steal ;
For then he hears his wife loud call
She fears poor Rose is very ill.

So he must tramp the country round
To find a doctor, if he may ;
Yet ne'er a one the father found ;
And the child lay cold and grey

On his return ; the wife declares
That she can never bide alone
With that dead darling child of theirs
In the house, when he has gone,

To-night ; he walks to wire the news
To his old mother ; " Take the train
At once, and come to wife," he sues ;
Then, fearing the unwonted strain.

Next he seeks the station-master ;
" I'm in bad fettle for my work,"
He tells ; and why he dreads disaster.
If unrelieved ; "yet I'll not shirk,

" In case you find no substitute."
Alas ! not one to take his place.
But, after having urged his suit.
Home again with quickened pace

He walks to comfort his poor Jane,
And find a neighbour to sup with her
That night, in case the expected train
Should bring no mother ; hastening thither,

Among the new arrivals her
He finds not ; therefore, heavyhearted,
From that station-platform-stir
He, weary, full of care, departed

For his post, the signal box ;
Tries to think of trains, and lever,
And semaphore, and signal blocks,
Using all his best endeavour

Not to fret for wife so ill.
Or little Rose so sudden taken,
With all her merry prattle still :
" I'm drowsy, but this tea may waken ! "'

It was a cold November night.
Now and then the fog in drifts
Enshrouded the glass cabin bright,
Whose fires made moonstone glows in wefts

Of wandering vapour ; all went well
Until the earlier Scotch Express,
One chaos of blurred lights and steam,
With earthquake tread rushed past ; " I bless
The Lord because so clear doth seem

" My head now ; I have entered all
The signals in my book, the trains — "
Then, mocking him, the shadows fall
All unaware ; nought clear remains ;

For though he raised the danger red
When that first " passenger" went by,
Sleep held him bound in bonds of lead
Ere the fatal "goods " drew nigh ;
Which, finding the line blocked, stood still.
He hears no snort, no lumbering tramp,
No clash and clang ! there halts, to kill.
The shrouded Terror, with red lamp
Threefold at tail of it, that feigns,
Dim-burning baleful through the damp,
To warn the doomed onrushing trains.
Head fallen on his arms he sleeps,
By the gleaming, levered frame ;
A needle clicks, the clock's hand creeps,
Flaps the cabin's coalfire flame.

While yonder train swings, sways and leaps,
Bounds eager, urged by Destiny,
By sleeping home, and leafless tree,
Through the mist-enfolded gloom,
With wailing winds on ruined lea ;
Who voyage in yon cars of doom ?

The child sees visionary toys.
While Ambition's air-wrought scheme,
Or lighter bubbles' fleeting gleam,
Amuses older girls and boys ;
Soon they will meet dear friends, they deem. . . .

But grim Death, at the signal box,
A few yards further, waits and mocks. . . .

" I wonder if the mother's come.
And if that neighbour came to sup.
Poor Jane I poor Jane ! would I were home I . . .
That signal arm wants putting up. . . .

" Come, Rosy, baby, come and play
Under the apple-bloom ; ' Tand back.
The Expess ! the Expess ! ' what's that you say ?
' Don't tand there. Daddy, on the tack ! '

" But, Rosy, something seems amiss
With you, and yet you look so well !
Come and give your dad a kiss. . . .
. . . What's that you've got ? Why it's a bell!

" A harsh, shrill bell! — sounds very odd —
Why, 'tis the electric telegraph I
My mate at Otterington ! O God !
I thought it was dead Rosy's laugh !

" Be ready ! that must be the quick
Scotch train, — and I have never sent
Line clear for that — the fog's more thick
In me than there." His instrument

He straightway works, and turns to white
Red lamps that blocked the line; the "goods"
Snorts slowly on then — wildered fright
Holds him a moment, while he broods.

On memory flashed the second part
Of that Express now ; and he heard
The heavy " goods " go ; with a start
Flung wide the cabin-door, and peered ;
Could see those three red baleful eyes
Slow, murderously slink to gloom . . .
... A whirlwind-winged volcano flies,
The engine huge, that drags to doom
The fated human hecatomb,
Shrieks madly, like a damned, lost soul,
Foreseeing ; plunges to the goal,
Wrecked, shattered ; one red ruin piled.
Wood crushed with twisted iron, child,
Man, woman mangled, all one wild
Dread, kneaded chaos ; now a cry,
Such as makes hell's revelry,
Peals ! maimed victims pointing halt.
Thronged round the signalman; "Your fault!
Your fault! your fault!" fierce flames devour
At ease dead, living, in their power . . .

" My fault ! " he sobs in telling it ;
" I warned them that I was not fit ;
There was a young child killed and burned ;
Badly hurt too was his father ;
The man recovered as I learned ;
He said he would have died much rather."