The Day Steam Died

THE DAY STEAM DIED

DICK BROWN

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

THE DAY STEAM DIED

Copyright©2015

DICK BROWN

Cover Design by Leah Suttle

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
657-3

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The Day Steam Died is dedicated to

my high school classmates,

many families and friends who grew up in

this thinly disguised little railroad town.

Spencer was left behind

by the introduction of diesel engines,

but failed to die with the steam engine.

It fought tenaciously and now is home to

the North Carolina Transportation Museum

attracting thousands of tourists each year.

The Southern Railway’s mainline steam engine repair shop

that left the town without jobs it had provided

for over fifty years,

is now giving back to those who kept its legacy alive.

The town setting is real with some name changes,

but the story is fictional except for the strike

which was a major event in the town’s history.

I would also like to dedicate it to

my deceased high school English teacher,

Mrs. Evelyn Tichenor, who appears in the book.

She was always pushing me to be a better student.

I’m sure she would be proud of this accomplishment

that she always told me I was capable of.

Acknowledgements

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

To Susan Muller, whom I met at the annual Book Fest at Lone Star College, Montgomery County, Texas. Susan was one of a panel of authors and encouraged me to submit my manuscript to her publisher, Soul Mate Publishing.

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

Prologue

From the desk of Rick Barnes

Raleigh Times Herald

Inner Office Memo

Date:
July 6, 1966

To:
Dan Jenkins, Editor

From:
Rick Barnes

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

Bankstowne, Saturday noon 1966

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Following Tank’s speech, Engine 1401 would begin its final journey to Washington, D.C. to be displayed in the Smithsonian Institute to be a permanent reminder of Coastline Railway’s contribution to the history of the steam railroad era. But for Bankstowne residents, it was the last symbol of their way of life.

Looking at the engine, Tank couldn’t help thinking it resembled a casket, or at least a hearse befitting the occasion.

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

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

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

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

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

It was as close as they ever came to having a father-to-son talk about the fairer sex, or his deep passion for steam engines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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