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Chapter Text

Bertram Remembers.

Bertram heard the man door of his shed unlock, and he woke slowly to find his friend standing before him.

“Oh,” he yawned, “Good morning, Huw.”

Little Huw was an old man who lived in town. He’d been hired by the quarry to come up and check on Bertram once a week.  He was a kindly old fellow, but knew little about engines.

He smiled faintly. “Hello, Bertram. How’s the weather been?”

“All in all, well,” Bertram wheezed, “It was windy last night.”

“I’m here early,” explained Little Huw, “I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any damage. So far, everything seems fine.”

A thought crossed Bertram’s mind. “Little Huw.. Can I see the yard?”

“Why?”

He gazed at Huw with old eyes. “I haven’t seen it in so long.”

A little reluctantly, Huw unlocked the big door and opened it.

Bertram was shocked. Most of the equipment was gone. The remainder was rusty. The yard tracks were still there, but the flumes were broken and rotting. A few bushes had sprouted up through the spoils, sickly and skeletal. Grass was everywhere.

Bertram sighed. “I’ve never seen it so bad..”

Little Huw nodded. That was true; though Marthwaite Granite hadn’t been more than a hole in a hill compared to the big slate works in the mountains, it was always well-kept.

The little engine reminisced. “After all the times I saved this place… I couldn’t save it from this.”

Huw knew he’d saddened the engine- but he had an idea. “When was the first time?”

“Hm?”

“The first time you saved it!”

Bertram considered for a moment, then chortled. “Not long after I arrived here!”

“Would you tell me about it?” asked Huw.

“If you have the time..”

Huw took a look in his flask, then nodded. “All the time in the world.”

And this is what Bertram told him.

Chapter Text

Where’s The Fire?

Bertram is Duke’s brother. He was named after Bertram Shaw, manager of a gold mine on the Mid-Sodor. They had been impressed by Duke, and ordered an identical engine to handle their branch line. But the mine never found much gold, and shut during the Panic of 1888.

Bertram was older by then, but still useful. A quarry at Marthwaite saw that, and bought him up cheap. They found him a kind engine, and much easier to work with than the draft horses he had replaced. For many years, Bertram was happy here, making up trains of granite for the Mid-Sodor engines to take to the harbor.

The engines would laugh. “You keep that up, and we’ll be out of jobs!”

They were only joking, but some felt otherwise. 

There was a donkey at the mines named Dudley. A donkey is an upright boiler on skids, fitted to run a winch. They were very versatile, and lasted until the 1950’s in jobs such as logging.

Dudley’s job was to winch blocks of granite to the loading dock, so a crane could load them onto trucks and an engine could shunt them into trains to the harbor, where the granite would be cut. Before Bertram, the MSR engines made up the trains, and thanked Dudley every time they came. Now, they thanked Bertram for making their trains, and forgot all about him. He was jealous- and a little afraid he was being replaced.

One day, Dudley decided to strike. He refused to work, and no matter how much the manager insisted he wouldn’t be replaced, he didn’t listen. When they did get him running, he clanked furiously, and threw sparks. “Now you see,” he insisted, “Now you see where you’d be without me!”

He went on like this the whole day. By lunch break, the workers were thankful for a rest… But looked over to find Dudley’s dry wooden cab smoldering!

The alarm went out: FIRE!

In those days, the fire code wasn’t very strong. The quarry had a single pump mounted on a horsecart and some hose, and drew water from a standpipe by the engine shed. The men mounted the cart, but couldn’t reach!

Bertram was nearby, and saw everything. Thinking quickly, he roared into the yard and slid in next to Dudley. “Peep, peep, peeeeep!” he whistled frantically, “Use my tanks, as quick as you can!”

The firemen did- and within fifteen minutes, Dudley had been put out. He thanked Bertram immensely, and told him he wouldn’t be jealous of him ever again! “You’re a warrior, my son!” he said with no small amount of gratitude, “A blinking warrior!”

After that, Dudley was fitted with a spark arrestor, and Bertram was given a stream-driven water cannon. They sealed his tender to carry more water, and gave him a trailing bogey to support a big coal bunker. “Now,” his driver said jokingly, “You can run to Barrow and back on one tank!” 

At first, Bertram thought it was a bit excessive, but as time went on, fewer people mistook him for Duke- and that, he liked! Besides, if there was another fire, he could always be a warrior.

Chapter Text

Duke’s Dog.

One hot summer, a ragged old wolfdog started hanging around the Mid-Sodor line. Every morning, it’d stand by the fence beside the grade. Duke’s fireman had come to work hung over one day and thrown his lunch pail at it; now, it ran along passenger trains trying to beg food.

Jim is the goods engine on the Mid-Sodor. Every day, he pulls a stopping freight, delivering groceries to the towns and empty trucks to the mines and quarries. On the return journey, he takes the loaded trucks and empty grocery vans back to Arlesburgh Harbor. 

One day, Jim was late coming back, so Bertram took the trucks to town. It was an easy job- a quick run down a sloping grade- and the trucks gave him no nonsense. When he got there, Falcon, Duke and Albert, being prepared for their next runs, were discussing the dog.

“That dog,” grumbled Falcon, “Is a right nuisance!”

“I think it’s rather cute,” confessed Albert, “Though it doesn’t come after me nearly as much as Duke, it knows I don’t have food.”

“It’s going to cause an accident,” Falcon insisted, “It’ll ruin my reputation for reliability!”

Duke chortled. “You do enough to ruin it already, Falcon!.. A dog won’t cause you harm. It just likes us- humor it!”

But Falcon thought it liked food better.

Bertram hadn’t seen dogs in years, as he’d mostly worked in the quarry. He’d heard plenty from the workmen though- and so he quizzed his driver all the way home.

“Dogs are loyal,” the driver said, “They help herd sheep, or drive cattle to market.”

Bertram laughed. “Engines do too!”

“Yes,” said the driver, “But dogs have been around for much longer- and there are legends about their loyalty.. I once heard a story about a privateer’s dog in Harwick, who waited for his master for years- but his master never returned- his ship was sunk by the Spanish fleet.”

This worried Bertram. “But, what happened to the dog?”

“It sat waiting for him until it died,” sighed the driver. “It’d come back to the same spot every day, and wait for his return. People fed it, but it just got too old.”

Bertram didn’t like the story, but thought about it long into the night.

As it turned out, Jim had blown a piston in the mountains, and needed help getting home. That meant the next day, with no other engines to spare, Duke had to take the goods.

The manager was worried- Duke was getting old, and wasn’t as powerful as the other engines. “Can you manage the train, old boy?”

Duke just laughed. “I’ve seen tougher! I’ll do my best, Sir!”

The journey started out well, but it was thirsty work. Duke puffed heavily on the grade outside of Arlesburgh, and topped it at walking speed. “Not so easy,” he wheezed, “But I’ll manage, I’ll manage!”

“Don’t worry, Duke,” called his driver, “We’ll drop Bertram’s trucks and get you a drink at the next station! Then we’ll get help on the mountain road!”

But the next water column was dry. It hadn’t rained much that summer, and by middle-August, this column had no water left. So, Duke soldiered on, hoping he could make it to the next station.

Bertram had seen Duke’s state, and was worried for him. And, for whatever reason, when an old dog came running into the yard at lunchtime, he knew it had to do with him!

The dog barked furiously at Bertram and his crew, lunging in the direction of the exit.

His driver recoiled. “Is it rabid?”

“No,” insisted Bertram, “It wants us to follow!”

And so, reluctantly, they did.

It led them to a sorry sight. Duke, stalled halfway up a slight grade before Arlesdale Green, was wheeshing severely. 

“Thank goodness you came,” called his driver, “Duke’s low on water! He needs it badly!”

Bertram pulled away the trucks, and chuffed up behind; his driver unwrapped his fire hose and dropped the nozzle into Duke’s tank.. Bertram, with his bigger tanks, had water to spare, and with a whoosh from his pump, gave Duke a long drink.. When he stopped wheeshing, the two continued to Arlesdale Green, where, thankfully, there was a working water column. From thereon, Albert helped Duke up the mountain- though he needed little of it.

The railway tried to find the dog’s owner and thank him, but the farmers said they didn’t know. They tried to give the dog to a stationmaster, but it ran away in the fall, and wasn’t seen again. Everyone called Bertram a hero, too- but all he could think of were the stories his driver had told him about the pirate’s dog. And he wondered if they were true.

Chapter Text

The Black Prince and The Old Warrior.

The Black Prince was a coal mine- the only one on the line. They’d put it up on a branch near Kirkleas, and leased an engine from the MSR to run it.

Atlas was a squat, little orange pannier tank with no cab. He was a well-meaning engine, but a little plain. Even so, he was a hard worker, and when Bertram would meet him at the harbor, they’d have long talks about mining, working and their lines.

After a while, however, things became concerning. One day, Atlas came down with a different man on the footplate, looking very worried.

“Morning, Atlas!” Bertram huffed, “Driver out sick?”

“No,” Atlas replied, “The workmen are on strike- driver too..”

“Strike?” Bertram was puzzled. “Whatever for?”

Atlas offered a small smile. “Manager says they’re just lazy… colonists!” But he didn’t sound sure.

“Oi,’ Atlas’s new driver grunted, “Cut the chatter.” And they began to run round their train.

“Peep, peep! Goodbye, Bertram!”

Bertram whistled a parting. “Goodbye, Atlas!” But, he was worried.

Later, Bertram asked the workmen about The Black Prince- and they all seemed irritated.

“They’re not communists,” argued his driver, “They’re in a union. They’re striking for safer conditions.”

“The Black Prince,” grunted one, grizzled miner with an eyepatch, “Is a deathtrap. Say a prayer for the men who work up there.”

The workers seemed silent- and Bertram was too- but he wasn’t just thinking about the men- he was thinking about Atlas.

The strike went on for three weeks. During this time, Atlas was very scarce. Occasionally, he’d clank down with some odd man at his controls and a shorter-than-usual train, but very often he wasn’t there at all. Eventually, the situation returned to normal- or, nearly normal. His driver said the strikers had caved.

On a damp, fall day, Bertram brought his trucks to the the station, to find a great deal of alarm. Townspeople were throwing hand tools into one truck, and climbing into the next few. At the front of the train, Jim was whooshing excitedly, raring to go.

“My goodness,” exclaimed Bertram, “Whatever has happened?!”

“There’s been a cave-in,” Jim hollered, “The Black Prince collapsed! We must go help!”

Bertram’s driver sprang into action. “Drop your cars and find some empty trucks. We’ll need them.”

Bertram obeyed, and once the townspeople had finished boarding, both engines set off up the branch.

It was a hard journey, but finally they arrived- and to Bertram’s horror, the damage was immense.

Huge rocks covered the entrance of one shaft, dust belching from between them. Men with shovels ran round and round, trying to do something but far too scattered. A man in a waistcoat and black trousers- the manager- looked on, too shocked to do anything or too scared to help.

The men dismounted the trucks and got to work immediately- one of them was the old one-eyed quarryman, and he soon got the operation in order. Jim and Bertram marshalled their cars toward the mines, so that the men could pile the stone into them, But there was a massive boulder wedged in the middle of the shaft, about twenty feet down. The people strained and strained with big bars, but to no avail.

“It’s no good,” huffed the old foreman, “We can’t budge it..”

Jim looked to Bertram, plucking up courage. “We can.”

With a sledgehammer, they drove two railway spikes into the top boulder. Tying lengths of rope round each, they tied them off to Jim’s bufferbeam. Bertram lashed up to Jim, and, on the signal, both gave a mighty heave- but it still wouldn’t budge.

They tried again, but with a great strain, the ropes snapped and the two shot backwards, Jim derailing and Bertram’s tender coming off on a curve.

“Quickly,” called the men, “We need a crane!” But the Black Prince’s crane had a bucket, and it was so old it hardly made steam. Furthermore, the men hadn’t time to lever Jim back on, and were trying to desperately to dig out men in the other shafts.

“It’s no good,” grunted Bertram’s driver, “We’ll have to get the breakdown gang.. And something that can budge that boulder.”

“What about Dudley?” wheezed Bertram.

His driver punched his cab and laughed. “Of course!.. Quickly, there’s no time to spare!”

A few men levered Bertram’s tender out of the way, and without it, he set off thundering down the line. 

They found the breakdown gang and their cranes rerailing Falcon near Arlesdale Green. He was cross, but forgot all about his woes when he saw Bertram thunder in.

“Peep, peeeeep,” whistled Bertram breathlessly, “Cave-in… Black Prince…! Come along!”

And they did, leaving the Falcon’’s crew to lever him back on.

Back at their home quarry, Dudley was short of breath himself. He’d been asked to drag a huge block of granite and was refusing. “It’s much too heavy,” he fussed, “And I’m much too short of steam. Either you give me a break and a drink, or we’ll be going nowhere.”

Suddenly, Bertram rocketed in, whistling frantically. “Wake up, Dudley..! We must be going! There’s been a cave-in!”

Dudley quivered in his frames. “Of course,” he panted, “Of course, just give me a moment!” And his fire roared with determination.

The cranes set him on two well cars, and with much wheelslipping, Bertram set off for the mine.. But it was slow going; it was uphill to the junction, and train was quite heavy.

“I can do it,” he panted, “I can do it, I can do it…”

But his driver wasn’t so sure. “It’s steeper toward Kirkleas,” he warned, “Save your steam for the big hill!”

He was right- and by the time they’d begun the climb, the dark clouds gave way to rain.. Gentle at first, it drove harder and harder, until it was, pelting Bertram with hailstones.

All the while, the little engine soldiered on, but he kept slipping and slipping! “I… can’t do it!” he puffed, giving way to another screeching slip, “I can I can I can I can, I… can’t! ”

Despite Bertram’s valiant efforts, he ground to a halt halfway up, simmering unhappily. Thinking of all the trapped miners, he wheezed in despair. “I’ve… failed… I’ve failed, I’ve…”

Two whistles howled in the distance, growing closer quickly. “Hm?... Who’s there?”

It was Duke and Falcon, buffered up and coming from behind with another train of workmen!

Duke sneezed in the rain. “Well, well, old warrior!... Thought you could go it alone?”

Falcon snorted. “How dare you leave me behind!.. I was coming to help too, you know! It’s not a competition..”

Bertram was too busy building steam to reply.

“Need a push?” queried Duke’s driver.

“Of course, man,” snapped Bertram’s driver, “Now get us moving!”

Falcon sizzled with determination. “I can manage our train, Granpuff… You help Bertram!”

And it was so.. With a bit of slipping, the two old engines- with a push from Falcon here and there- eased the train all the way up to the top.

When they got there, Dudley was unloaded anchored to the ground. He’d been building steam on the journey, and now felt like Hercules. With a mighty clanking, he wrenched the boulders free, and a great cloud of dust began to pour from the now-open shaft. Covering their faces the best they could, the men continued their efforts.

Now, men were being pulled from the mine, streaked black with coal dust. The engines brought long lines of coaches, and they kept busy into the evening running them into town. On his way back up, toward the evening, Bertram heard a tiny, shrill whistle- and when he got there, he found Atlas the mining engine, battered, bent and blackened, sitting on a flatcar on the breakdown train.

“Jeezum crow,” howled Bertram, “You look like death warmed over!” But Bertram was laughing, and so was Atlas.

The one-eyed foreman stood amazed. “This engine saved six men,” he said, “They sat under him during the collapse. They’ve only minor injuries..”

“You’re a hero,” shrilled Falcon, “A bloody hero!”

“You’re a hero too, Falcon,” Duke rumbled, “You worked harder than I’d ever seen from you.”

And Falcon let off steam, blushing.

That night, as all the engines finished cleaning up the mess, the Mid-Sodor’s manager and the owner of Bertram’s Quarry came to see them.

“You’re all heroes,” Manager declared, “Without you, many men would have died. You have done well, and deserve a rest…”

“And you,” growled the one-eyed Quarryman, approaching the owner of the Black Prince- he’d been well far away, sulking in his office, and came out to see the mess- “You louse, you started this. We’d ought to roll you down the mountain.”

He said nothing at first.

“Well?” The quarryman gave him a shove. “What have you to say for yourself, you evil man?”

“I thank the Lord,” he groaned, “That the Old Warrior came to save them…”

And after that, everyone called Bertram the Old Warrior.

Chapter Text

The End?

Little Huw stood up, swigging the last of his flask and dropping it. The old fellow was red in the face and tearing up.

“You’re a treasure, old boy,” he mumbled, and hugged Bertram’s cold firebox, “And y’don’t deserve this…”

Bertram didn’t know what to say,

“I swear on my mother’s grave,” he continued, “I’ll find a place for you. I know I will.”

“Thank you,” Bertram murmured, but he didn’t know how.

The next few weeks, the weather got better. Little Huw brought out a scythe, and the new Owner- the farmer who’d bought the Quarry after its closing- came out to visit Bertram. He didn’t understand engines, and didn’t want Bertram. It was costing him money to keep an eye on him. But when he heard Huw’s story, he agreed fully: A better fate should come to this engine.

Every visit, Huw would clean the place up a little. He brought a scythe, and cut the switchgrass that grew between the rails. After a while, The Farmer hired a middle-aged fellow named Franklin out of the town to take over the groundskeeping, while Huw cleaned Bertram up. He brought out polish and buckets of water, coming much more frequently, and it wasn’t long until the little engine shined dimly in the light of the shed.

After a couple weeks, they filled his tanks, lit a fire, and brought him up to steam. It had been a long time, and Bertram had cramps, but a little oil and some exercise in the yard changed that. When they first pulled him out into the sunshine, they were all dazzled. Even grumpy Franklin couldn’t help but smile.

“He’s a beauty, Huw.”

The next few days, people came to visit him- Wealthy people, poor people, noble people, common people. Some wanted to buy him, but most just wanted to see the engine under steam. It got to the point, as the legend spread, that the Farmer considered charging admission!

At last, a young man in a fancy old car came to visit. He wore a brown tweed suit and had bushy blonde hair. He’d tried to grow a mustache, but it was really quite laughable.

He looked around Bertram, having a hard time containing his excitement. He spoke at length with the farmer, and then, taking off his coat and borrowing a pair of much too big overalls, took a ride in his cab. With glee, he pulled the cord, and Bertram’s whistle croaked through the morning air for the first time in a long, long while.

At last, he stepped down to face Bertram, now very solemn. Bertram was worried- had he displeased him?

At last, he spoke.

“My uncle Roger,” he said, “owned the Black Prince Mine. He told me about the cave-in of ‘28, and all of the terrible things he’d done. It cost him much of his fortune- and he donated the rest to the miner’s families… But he told me about you, and how you saved so many people. He called you an old warrior- and he wanted to thank you, but never had the courage.”

Bertram looked sulkily at the man. “Courage was something he lacked.”

To his surprise, Roger’s nephew laughed. “Truly, it was… But not I. I’d like to buy you, Bertram, and lease you to the steelworks in Suddery. They have an internal railway there, and Peter Sam-.. excuse me… Stuart and Falcon .. Worked there for some time. Now, they need another engine. Would you like to be that engine?”

Duke let off steam in excitement, whistling loud. “Oh, yes, sir!”

For many years, Bradley Prince- the nephew of Roger Prince, of the Black Prince Mine- had a managerial position at the steelworks. And for many years, Bertram worked there. The crew were grateful for his help, as the carloads of ingots were too heavy to push with men- and he was so careful and useful that they all were sad when he was replaced by lorries.. But those were the 1970’s, and by then, preservation was all the rage!

Bertram came to live at Deer Park, an old manor house the Earls of Sodor had sold during the Depression- where he ran in Bradley’s garden. He heard all about the Skarloey Railway, as Mr. Prince was a volunteer, and begged to go there.. At last, he got his chance, and was moved there by truck in the Spring of 1993.

Upon his arrival, there was a great chorus of whistles- many old engines Bertram had never seen before were there- but he had heard so much about them! Skarloey, Rheneas, Duncan and Rusty- and there were Stuart and Falcon, now named Peter Sam and Sir Handel!...

And there, idling toward him from back of the shed, was Duke himself, fully restored and back in action!

Bertram gasped. “Brother, you’re here!”

“Well, well, well,” he chortled, “Welcome home, Young Warrior!” Another chorus of whistles went up, and everyone in the yard covered their ears.