The Tay Bridge Disater Sunday December 28th. 1879
A recent assignment was to write a short story about the aftermath of the Tay Bridge disaster.
On the night of 28th. December a train started off across the bridge during a terrible storm. The bridge, only one year old, had not been designed to withstand the storm strength wind, and a large section fell into the river taking the train with it. There were no survivers, an estimated 75 dead. How to write a story about such a thing? That’s the problem!
“There’s a hole in the sky”, Daniel can see it plainly.
“No son, the bridge is gone, half down in the storm, and a train with it, into the water.”
Daniel laughs loudly
“Trains don’t go on the water. Boats go on the water.”
His father frowns and he is silenced for he knows the frown means he has said something wrong. He has learned to shut his mouth, his childish mind has grasped that. He follows his father over the wet cobbles and down to the boat. He is used to the boat, and the other crewmen are always glad to have him. His mind might still be a boy’s, but he has the strength of his twenty five years, and can row with the rest. And they like him, he cheers them, though not today, not now when there is a hole in the sky.
Their fishing boat Mary Ann is one of the first in the water. The boat has been safely moored and has survived the storm, but there are other craft, not so lucky, marooned up on the banks like the skeletons of giant fish. It is dawn, but a dark miserable dawn, and the river still wild from last night’s storm. The water is sullen black and swollen with parts of the metal girders of the bridge floating dangerously; monstrous teeth to catch and bite. Who knows what they might hit below the water, or what they will find out there.
Out in the river they see their first body. It is Daniel who sees the floating rags and points and cries out. Heaving and sweating in their heavy oilskins it takes three men to bring the sodden thing on to the boat. He is a big man, prosperous, his heavy overcoat, neatly trimmed beard and the gold rings on his fingers all tell that. They will not search the body, not touch the gold watch, the leather wallet, the heavy silver cigar case; the silver cigar case that has done its job well. The cigars inside it are perfect.
A heavy wind still beats and blows around them, and the seabirds scream above waiting for carrion. Only Daniel hears the voices among the turmoil, voices in the howling wind.
“Henry Morgan, Jute Manufacturer, returning from business in Edinburgh; returning to my wife Margaret and the children and bringing gifts home for Hogmanay. I like to combine a little business of a different sort in Edinburgh, a man in the prime of life after all, needs a little extra. Not with some street woman, discreet and clean is Peggy, and welcoming. She will do things I wouldn’t dare ask Margaret to do, wouldn’t want her even to know of, and she knows the envelope will be on the table when I leave. I’m a generous man, and I can afford to pay for my pleasures. Tonight she held me back, promising a little more in the warmth of her bed. I stayed, I could always catch the next train home, no harm done, Margaret would keep my dinner warm ….”
They are further out into the river now, the boat rocking violently but their boathooks are out into the water, and haul in a woman and a child. Poor people, woollen clothes, simple, well mended, clinging together inseparable in death; mother and child. One of the crewmen gently smooths the woman’s skirt into place over her naked legs as she lies in the bottom of the boat.
“Mary McGuinness and my little boy Billie, returning to Dundee from the annual visit to my mother. Once a year is all we can afford, and only one child to accompany me, one of the seven still living. Each time I leave my mother I wonder if this will be the last time that I see her. This time I know it, she is so worn and frail, the bones in her face like fine chicken bones, her skin stretched over them thin and white as paper, eyes dark and sunken. I am cut in two as I hurry away. I should stay with her, but I must go home to my children. There can be no lingering goodbyes, I cannot look back, though I know she will be there at the window watching. We must hurry or miss the train …”
The child sobs:
“ Though shalt not steal”, “Thou shalt not steal”, we learned it at Sunday School, but I took it, Jamie’s new ball, new and shiny blue, hid it in the hedge to come back for. I just wanted that ball, I never had such a things of my own. I never went back for it though and nobody saw me take it. Oh why did I take it? Jesus saw me, Jesus knows ….”
Sharp stinging rain is coming at them now, and mingles with the unheeded tears on the faces of the men. The sight of the woman and her child has been too much even for them. Only Daniel openly weeps, the silent are only speaking to him.
One more, there is room in the boat bottom for one more before they turn into the biting wind and the icy rain to home. This one comes in easier, a young man, thin, no coat, just a threadbare cheap suit beaten ragged by the waves.
“John Deacon, travelling home to Dundee. The clever son, pride of my parents, their savings spent on Articles with an Edinburgh accountant. No slavery in the jute mills for me. Oh but Edinburgh is a big cold place. Lonely and homesick in that grey vaulted office with people who thought nothing of me; mocking my cheap clothes and my Dundee speech. Easy then, to enter warm gas lit bars offering a kind of friendship, and linger. Work and money slipped away. My father had to send me the money for this ticket, I have the change , a few heavy copper coins in my pocket to serve their purpose. The train has started over the bridge and I go out into the corridor. A man stands by the door smoking a cigar, a big man, in a heavy rich overcoat, but he looks at me kindly and offers me one of his cigars from his shiny case, and asks me if I am going home for Hogmanay.
I need him to go.
He moves away and I am able to get to the door. The train is rocking badly but I manage to open it. The noise is terrible; the howling wind, the creaking of the train, the rattling and moaning of the bridge. Now, now, before the train gathers speed. I jump down and am thrown against the hard metal of the bridge by the force of the wind. I climb up onto the girders, beaten and deafened. Even the bridge itself seems to be moving, urging me on. I cannot face my dear family. I close my eyes. I jump …”
It is hard backbreaking work to get the Mary Ann back to the shore. The tide is pulling back out to sea now, but they make it, and hands reach out to help them unload their cargo. The bodies are being laid out on the wet ground, not many as yet, and the tide will take those in the water farther out to sea now. Bigger boats are circling, cranes and divers have come, and they are glad that they will not have to go out again. Their shoulders slumped and weary, their metal tipped boots striking loud on the cobbles, they trudge home.
Where is Daniel? His father looks around for his son, anxious, and sees him kneeling on the quay beside the little boy and his mother. He leans forward and whispers to the child.
“Jamie doesn’t mind the ball, you can keep it”.
He rises weary and stiff, and hastens with his awkward shambling run to catch up to his father. In spite of their heavy clumsy sea clothes they keep close, arm in arm up the hill. They walk In silence, but they are together, going home.