The cowcatcher, headlight and forward trucks of the
engine were blown to smithereens, but fortunately the boiler did not
burst and there she stood like some powerful monster wounded to the
death. The mob, imagining that their fiendish work had been complete,
became emboldened and rapidly gathered around the little body of
bluecoats. It began to look rocky, and Brainerd came limping over to me
and said, "Bates, I'm pretty badly bruised about the legs, and can't
climb, but if you're able, for God's sake climb that telegraph pole and
cut in and ask department headquarters to send us down some help. I'll
form the men around the bottom of the pole and shoot the first damned
man or woman that throws a missile. We're in a devilish bad box."
I took the little instrument, nippers and wire and up I went. There were
side steps on the pole so the ascent was easy. What a scene below! Five
or six thousand angry faces, besotted, coarse and ill-bred looking
brutes, gazing up at me with the wrath of vengeance in their hearts; and
held at bay by a band of fourteen battered and bruised bluecoats, a
wounded engineer and fireman, commanded by an almost beardless boy.
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