A Memory of Steam, Smoke, and the Road of Iron
They called her The Monarch Limited. She was a hard train, black with coal smoke and proud with her whistle, and she carried me west one autumn night when I was young enough to believe the miles could change a man.
I couldn’t have said for sure what I was chasing—work maybe, or just the promise that waits on the far side of miles. The train was enough. It carried me forward, and that was all I needed.
Night came hard. The lamps burned low, glass rattling in their brackets. Folks slept where they sat. The soldier across from me kept his bag in his lap like it was his life. The woman in the hat never took off her gloves. I didn’t sleep, wondering what lies ahead. I listened to the wheels beat the rails, steady and true, with a jolt now and then that reminded you how quick it all could end. Boilers blew. Bridges failed. Trains went down. Still, we rode.
At dawn, the smoke lay low over the fields. The whistle called once, and a boy on horseback reined up to watch us pass. He held his hat in his hand. The horse shied, but the boy didn’t move. He just watched and waved as we vanished into the morning.
We slowed at a small station—a platform, a shed, a handful of people waiting. I stepped down with my bag on my shoulder. The ground felt strange, as if the train’s motion was still in my legs. Steam rose around me. For a moment, I thought of climbing back aboard and letting the rails take me farther. But I stayed.
The whistle called again, two longs and a short. The Monarch Limited moves on.
