The Iron Road by Jane Jackson

Author:Jane Jackson [Jackson, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0096JX5V2
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2012-09-04T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

James cantered past the ballast tip. He expected to see vast undulating mounds of crushed granite and men shovelling more from the long train of wagons hauled up that morning from the quarry at Penryn. But there were no wagons. Instead the men were scraping together what remained of the depleted heap. It contained barely enough ballast for two more days’ work. Where were the wagons?

He passed carts returning to the tip for fresh loads of ballast, and gangs of men fixing rails to newly laid sleepers. Further on, a team of two horses dragged a wide metal and wood scraper heavily weighted with boulders to flatten the stone bed on which the rails would lie. Ordinarily, more rails and sleepers were delivered to the railhead each morning along track laid the previous day. A gang should be unloading and stacking them now. Where were they? James’s irritation increased. This was Pascoe’s responsibility, not his. Where was the contractor?

Up ahead he could see Paddy Maginn’s gang working on the embankment. Reining in his sweat-darkened horse, he hailed the ganger in charge of the ballast crew.

‘Has Mr Pascoe been by this morning?’

‘Haven’t seen him. Wagons coming, are they?’

After an instant’s hesitation James called, ‘They’re probably on their way.’

‘They better be,’ the ganger bellowed, and the men leaned on their long iron bars and shovels, grunting agreement. ‘Bleddy ridic’lous, it is. First bit of dry weather we’ve had for weeks, and if they wagons don’t come soon we’re going to be sat here with bugger-all to do.’

‘Keep going as long as you can. I’ll find out what’s happening.’ Wheeling his horse, James headed back the way he’d come, irritation darkening into anxiety and suspicion.

Back at the shanty village the tally shop was still closed and shuttered. The number of women waiting had increased, and they were angry. Ignoring their shouts and demands to know what was happening, and why Pascoe hadn’t come to open up, James examined the door then turned to the watching women.

‘Has anyone got a crowbar?’ Awe and excitement rippled through the crowd. One woman offered a small chopper obviously used for cutting firewood. Another, mocking that as a toy fit only for a child, dragged over an axe with a handle three feet long and as thick as a man’s wrist. Warning them all to stand back, James took a swing, smashing the lock and splintering the wood. Leaning the axe against the wall, he pushed the door wide.

Light spilled in, illuminating the safe. For a moment James hoped, but as he took a step forward, he realized it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut, opening easily as he grasped the handle. The cash tins lay upside down on the top shelf: empty. His stomach roiled queasily. Then, like a terrier shaking a rat, cold rage gripped him. He had warned them, but they’d refused to listen. Now they would expect, no demand he sort out the mess.

Taking a deep breath he deliberately set aside his seething anger.

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