the signal man

Halloa! Below there!'

When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was

standing at the door of his box, with a flag in his hand,

furled round its short pole. One would have thought,

considering the nature of the ground, that he could not

have doubted from what quarter the voice came; but

instead of looking up to where I stood on the top of the

steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned himself

about, and looked down the Line. There was something

remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not

have said for my life what. But I know it was remarkable

enough to attract my notice, even though his figure was

foreshortened and shadowed, down in the deep trench,

and mine was high above him, so steeped in the glow of

an angry sunset, that I had shaded my eyes with my hand

before I saw him at all.

'Halloa! Below!'

From looking down the Line, he turned himself about

again, and, raising his eyes, saw my figure high above him.

'Is there any path by which I can come down and speak

to you?'

When I came down low enough upon the zigzag

descent to see him again, I saw that he was standing

between the rails on the way by which the train had lately

passed, in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to

appear. He had his left hand at his chin, and that left

elbow rested on his right hand, crossed over his breast. His

attitude was one of such expectation and watchfulness that

I stopped a moment, wondering at it.

I resumed my downward way, and stepping out upon

the level of the railroad, and drawing nearer to him, saw

that he was a dark sallow man, with a dark beard and

rather heavy eyebrows. His post was in as solitary and

dismal a place as ever I saw. On either side, a dripping-wet

wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky;

the perspective one way only a crooked prolongation of

this great dungeon; the shorter perspective in the other

direction terminating in a gloomy red light, and the

gloomier entrance to a black tunnel, in whose massive

architecture there was a barbarous, depressing, and

forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this

spot, that it had an earthy, deadly smell; and so much cold

wind rushed through it, that it struck chill to me, as if I

had left the natural world.

Before he stirred, I was near enough to him to have

touched him. Not even then removing his eyes from

mine, he stepped back one step, and lifted his hand.

This was a lonesome post to occupy (I said), and it had

riveted my attention when I looked down from up

yonder. A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose; not an

unwelcome rarity, I hoped? In me, he merely saw a man

who had been shut up within narrow limits all his life, and

who, being at last set free, had a newly-awakened interest

in these great works. To such purpose I spoke to him; but

I am far from sure of the terms I used; for, besides that I

am not happy in opening any conversation, there was

something in the man that daunted me.

He directed a most curious look towards the red light

near the tunnel's mouth, and looked all about it, as if

something were missing from it, and then looked it me.

That light was part of his charge? Was it not?

He answered in a low voice,—'Don't you know it is?'

The monstrous thought came into my mind, as I

perused the fixed eyes and the saturnine face, that this was

a spirit, not a man. I have speculated since, whether there

may have been infection in his

In my turn, I stepped back. But in making the action, I

detected in his eyes some latent fear of me. This put the

monstrous thought to flight.

'You look at me,' I said, forcing a smile, 'as if you had a

dread of me.'

'I was doubtful,' he returned, 'whether I had seen you

before.'

'Where?'

He pointed to the red light he had looked at.

'There?' I said.

Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without

sound), 'Yes.'

'My good fellow, what should I do there? However, be

that as it may, I never was there, you may swear.'

'I think I may,' he rejoined. 'Yes; I am sure I may.'

His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my

remarks with readiness, and in well-chosen words. Had he

much to do there? Yes; that was to say, he had enough

responsibility to bear; but exactness and watchfulness were

what was required of him, and of actual work— manual

labour—he had next to none. To change that signal, to

trim those lights, and to turn this iron handle now and

then, was all he had to do under that head. Regarding

those many long and lonely hours of which I seemed tomake so much, he could only say that the routine of his

life had shaped itself into that form, and he had grown

used to it. He had taught himself a language down here,—

if only to know it by sight, and to have formed his own

crude ideas of its pronunciation, could be called learning

it. He had also worked at fractions and decimals, and tried

a little algebra; but he was, and had been as a boy, a poor

hand at figures. Was it necessary for him when on duty

always to remain in that channel of damp air, and could he

never rise into the sunshine from between those high

stone walls? Why, that depended upon times and

circumstances. Under some conditions there would be less

upon the Line than under others, and the same held good

as to certain hours of the day and night. In bright weather,

he did choose occasions for getting a little above these

lower shadows; but, being at all times liable to be called by

his electric bell, and at such times listening for it with

redoubled anxiety, the relief was less than I would

suppose.

He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk

for an official book in which he had to make certain

entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and

needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken. On my

trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and (I hoped I might say without offence)

perhaps educated above that station, he observed that

instances of slight incongruity in such wise would rarely be

found wanting among large bodies of men; that he had

heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in

that last desperate resource, the army; and that he knew it

was so, more or less, in any great railway staff. He had

been, when young (if I could believe it, sitting in that

hut,—he scarcely could), a student of natural philosophy,

and had attended lectures; but he had run wild, misused

his opportunities, gone down, and never risen again. He

had no complaint to offer about that. He had made his

bed, and he lay upon it. It was far too late to make

another.

All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet

manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me

and the fire. He threw in the word, 'Sir,' from time to

time, and especially when he referred to his youth,—as

though to request me to understand that he claimed to be

nothing but what I found him. He was several times

interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages,

and send replies. Once he had to stand without the door,

and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal

communication to the driver. In the discharge of duties, I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant,

breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent

until what he had to do was done.

In a word, I should have set this man down as one of

the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for

the circumstance that while he was speaking to me he

twice broke off with a fallen colour, turned his face

towards the little bell when it did NOT ring, opened the

door of the hut (which was kept shut to exclude the

unhealthy damp), and looked out towards the red light

near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those occasions,

he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon

him which I had remarked, without being able to define,

when we were so far asunder.

Said I, when I rose to leave him, 'You almost make me

think that I have met with a contented man.'

(I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead

him on.)

'I believe I used to be so,' he rejoined, in the low voice

in which he had first spoken; 'but I am troubled, sir, I am

troubled.'

He would have recalled the words if he could. He had Three Ghost Stories

10 of 97

'It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficult

to speak of. If ever you make me another visit, I will try to

tell you.'

'But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say,

when shall it be?'

'I go off early in the morning, and I shall be on again at

ten to- morrow night, sir.'

'I will come at eleven.'

He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. 'I'll

show my white light, sir,' he said, in his peculiar low

voice, 'till you have found the way up. When you have

found it, don't call out! And when you are at the top,

don't call out!'

His manner seemed to make the place strike colder to

me, but I said no more than, 'Very well.'

'And when you come down to-morrow night, don't

call out! Let me ask you a parting question. What made

you cry, 'Halloa! Below there!' to-night?'

'Heaven knows,' said I. 'I cried something to that

effect—'

'Not to that effect, sir. Those were the very words. I

know them well.'

'Admit those were the very words. I said them, no

doubt, because I saw you below.

For no other reason?'

'What other reason could I possibly have?'

'You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you in

any supernatural way?'

'No.'

He wished me good-night, and held up his light. I

walked by the side of the down Line of rails (with a very

disagreeable sensation of a train coming behind me) until I

found the path. It was easier to mount than to descend,

and I got back to my inn without any adventure.

Punctual to my appointment, I placed my foot on the

first notch of the zigzag next night, as the distant clocks

were striking eleven. He was waiting for me at the

bottom, with his white light on. 'I have not called out,' I

said, when we came close together; 'may I speak now?'

'By all means, sir.' 'Good-night, then, and here's my

hand.' 'Good-night, sir, and here's mine.' With that we

walked side by side to his box, entered it, closed the door,

and sat down by the fire.

'I have made up my mind, sir,' he began, bending

forward as soon as we were seated, and speaking in a tone

but a little above a whisper, 'that you shall not have to ask

me twice what troubles me. I took you for some one else

yesterday evening. That troubles me.'

'That mistake?'

'No. That some one else.'

'Who is it?'

'I don't know.'

'Like me?'

'I don't know. I never saw the face. The left arm is

across the face, and the right arm is waved,—violently

waved. This way.'

I followed his action with my eyes, and it was the

action of an arm gesticulating, with the utmost passion and

vehemence, 'For God's sake, clear the way!'

'One moonlight night,' said the man, 'I was sitting

here, when I heard a voice cry, 'Halloa! Below there!' I

started up, looked from that door, and saw this Some one

else standing by the red light near the tunnel, waving as I

just now showed you. The voice seemed hoarse with

shouting, and it cried, 'Look out! Look out!' And then

attain, 'Halloa! Below there! Look out!' I caught up my

lamp, turned it on red, and ran towards the figure, calling,

'What's wrong? What has happened? Where?' It stood just

outside the blackness of the tunnel. I advanced so close

upon it that I wondered at its keeping the sleeve across its

eyes. I ran right up at it, and had my hand stretched out to

pull the sleeve away, when it was gone.' Into the tunnel?' said I.

'No. I ran on into the tunnel, five hundred yards. I

stopped, and held my lamp above my head, and saw the

figures of the measured distance, and saw the wet stains

stealing down the walls and trickling through the arch. I

ran out again faster than I had run in (for I had a mortal

abhorrence of the place upon me), and I looked all round

the red light with my own red light, and I went up the

iron ladder to the gallery atop of it, and I came down

again, and ran back here. I telegraphed both ways, 'An

alarm has been given. Is anything wrong?' The answer

came back, both ways, 'All well.''

Resisting the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing out

my spine, I showed him how that this figure must be a

deception of his sense of sight; and how that figures,

originating in disease of the delicate nerves that minister to

the functions of the eye, were known to have often

troubled patients, some of whom had become conscious of

the nature of their affliction, and had even proved it by

experiments upon themselves. 'As to an imaginary cry,'

said I, 'do but listen for a moment to the wind in this

unnatural valley while we speak so low, and to the wild

harp it makes of the telegraph wires.' That was all very well, he returned, after we had sat

listening for a while, and he ought to know something of

the wind and the wires,— he who so often passed long

winter nights there, alone and watching. But he would

beg to remark that he had not finished.

I asked his pardon, and he slowly added these words,

touching my arm, -

'Within six hours after the Appearance, the memorable

accident on this Line happened, and within ten hours the

dead and wounded were brought along through the

tunnel over the spot where the figure had stood.'

A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did my

best against it. It was not to be denied, I rejoined, that this

was a remarkable coincidence, calculated deeply to impress

his mind. But it was unquestionable that remarkable

coincidences did continually occur, and they must be

taken into account in dealing with such a subject. Though

to be sure I must admit, I added (for I thought I saw that

he was going to bring the objection to bear upon me),

men of common sense did not allow much for

coincidences in making the ordinary calculations of life.

He again begged to remark that he had not finished.

I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into

interruptionsThis,' he said, again laying his hand upon my arm, and

glancing over his shoulder with hollow eyes, 'was just a

year ago. Six or seven months passed, and I had recovered

from the surprise and shock, when one morning, as the

day was breaking, I, standing at the door, looked towards

the red light, and saw the spectre again.' He stopped, with

a fixed look at me.

'Did it cry out?'

'No. It was silent.'

'Did it wave its arm?'

'No. It leaned against the shaft of the light, with both

hands before the face. Like this.'

Once more I followed his action with my eyes. It was

an action of mourning. I have seen such an attitude in

stone figures on tombs.

'Did you go up to it?'

'I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts,

partly because it had turned me faint. When I went to the

door again, daylight was above me, and the ghost was

gone.'

'But nothing followed? Nothing came of this?'

He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice or

thrice giving a ghastly nod each time:That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I

noticed, at a carriage window on my side, what looked

like a confusion of hands and heads, and something

waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver, Stop! He

shut off, and put his brake on, but the train drifted past

here a hundred and fifty yards or more. I ran after it, and,

as I went along, heard terrible screams and cries. A

beautiful young lady had died instantaneously in one of

the compartments, and was brought in here, and laid

down on this floor between us.'

Involuntarily I pushed my chair back, as I looked from

the boards at which he pointed to himself.

'True, sir. True. Precisely as it happened, so I tell it

you.'

I could think of nothing to say, to any purpose, and my

mouth was very dry. The wind and the wires took up the

story with a long lamenting wail.

He resumed. 'Now, sir, mark this, and judge how my

mind is troubled. The spectre came back a week ago. Ever

since, it has been there, now and again, by fits and starts.'

'At the light?'

'At the Danger-light.'

'What does it seem to do?' He repeated, if possible with increased passion and

vehemence, that former gesticulation of, 'For God's sake,

clear the way!'

Then he went on. 'I have no peace or rest for it. It calls

to me, for many minutes together, in an agonised manner,

'Below there! Look out! Look out!' It stands waving to

me. It rings my little bell—'

I caught at that. 'Did it ring your bell yesterday evening

when I was here, and you went to the door?'

'Twice.'

'Why, see,' said I, 'how your imagination misleads you.

My eyes were on the bell, and my ears were open to the

bell, and if I am a living man, it did NOT ring at those

times. No, nor at any other time, except when it was rung

in the natural course of physical things by the station

communicating with you.'

He shook his head. 'I have never made a mistake as to

that yet, sir. I have never confused the spectre's ring with

the man's. The ghost's ring is a strange vibration in the

bell that it derives from nothing else, and I have not

asserted that the bell stirs to the eye. I don't wonder that

you failed to hear it. But I heard it.'

'And did the spectre seem to be there, when you

looked out?' It WAS there.''

'Both times?'

He repeated firmly: 'Both times.'

'Will you come to the door with me, and look for it

now?'

He bit his under lip as though he were somewhat

unwilling, but arose. I opened the door, and stood on the

step, while he stood in the doorway. There was the

Danger-light. There was the dismal mouth of the tunnel.

There were the high, wet stone walls of the cutting. There

were the stars above them.

'Do you see it?' I asked him, taking particular note of

his face. His eyes were prominent and strained, but not

very much more so, perhaps, than my own had been

when I had directed them earnestly towards the same spot.

'No,' he answered. 'It is not there.'

'Agreed,' said I.

We went in again, shut the door, and resumed our

seats. I was thinking how best to improve this advantage, if

it might be called one, when he took up the conversation

in such a matter-of-course way, so assuming that there

could be no serious question of fact between us, that I felt

myself placed in the weakest of positions. By this time you will fully understand, sir,' he said,

'that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question, What

does the spectre mean?'

I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.

'What is its warning against?' he said, ruminating, with

his eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on

me. 'What is the danger? Where is the danger? There is

danger overhanging somewhere on the Line. Some

dreadful calamity will happen. It is not to be doubted this

third time, after what has gone before. But surely this is a

cruel haunting of me. What can I do?'

He pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the drops

from his heated forehead.

'If I telegraph Danger, on either side of me, or on both,

I can give no reason for it,' he went on, wiping the palms

of his hands. 'I should get into trouble, and do no good.

They would think I was mad. This is the way it would

work,—Message: 'Danger! Take care!' Answer: 'What

Danger? Where?' Message: 'Don't know. But, for God's

sake, take care!' They would displace me. What else could

they do?'

His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was the

mental torture of a conscientious man, oppressed beyond

endurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life. Three Ghost Stories

20 of 97

'When it first stood under the Danger-light,' he went

on, putting his dark hair back from his head, and drawing

his hands outward across and across his temples in an

extremity of feverish distress, 'why not tell me where that

accident was to happen,—if it must happen? Why not tell

me how it could be averted,—if it could have been

averted? When on its second coming it hid its face, why

not tell me, instead, 'She is going to die. Let them keep

her at home'? If it came, on those two occasions, only to

show me that its warnings were true, and so to prepare me

for the third, why not warn me plainly now? And I, Lord

help me! A mere poor signal-man on this solitary station!

Why not go to somebody with credit to be believed, and

power to act?'

When I saw him in this state, I saw that for the poor

man's sake, as well as for the public safety, what I had to

do for the time was to compose his mind. Therefore,

setting aside all question of reality or unreality between us,

I represented to him that whoever thoroughly discharged

his duty must do well, and that at least it was his comfort

that he understood his duty, though he did not understand

these confounding Appearances. In this effort I succeeded

far better than in the attempt to reason him out of his

conviction. He became calm; the occupations incidental to his post as the night advanced began to make larger

demands on his attention: and I left him at two in the

morning. I had offered to stay through the night, but he

would not hear of it.

That I more than once looked back at the red light as I

ascended the pathway, that I did not like the red light, and

that I should have slept but poorly if my bed had been

under it, I see no reason to conceal. Nor did I like the two

sequences of the accident and the dead girl. I see no reason

to conceal that either.

But what ran most in my thoughts was the

consideration how ought I to act, having become the

recipient of this disclosure? I had proved the man to be

intelligent, vigilant, painstaking, and exact; but how long

might he remain so, in his state of mind? Though in a

subordinate position, still he held a most important trust,

and would I (for instance) like to stake my own life on the

chances of his continuing to execute it with precision?

Unable to overcome a feeling that there would be

something treacherous in my communicating what he had

told me to his superiors in the Company, without first

being plain with himself and proposing a middle course to

him, I ultimately resolved to offer to accompany him

(otherwise keeping his secret for the present) to the wisemedical practitioner we could hear of in those parts, and

to take his opinion. A change in his time of duty would

come round next night, he had apprised me, and he

would be off an hour or two after sunrise, and on again

soon after sunset. I had appointed to return accordingly.

Next evening was a lovely evening, and I walked out

early to enjoy it. The sun was not yet quite down when I

traversed the field-path near the top of the deep cutting. I

would extend my walk for an hour, I said to myself, half

an hour on and half an hour back, and it would then be

time to go to my signal-man's box.

Before pursuing my stroll, I stepped to the brink, and

mechanically looked down, from the point from which I

had first seen him. I cannot describe the thrill that seized

upon me, when, close at the mouth of the tunnel, I saw

the appearance of a man, with his left sleeve across his

eyes, passionately waving his right arm.

The nameless horror that oppressed me passed in a

moment, for in a moment I saw that this appearance of a

man was a man indeed, and that there was a little group of

other men, standing at a short distance, to whom he

seemed to be rehearsing the gesture he made. The

Danger-light was not yet lighted. Against its shaft, a little

low hut, entirely new to me, had been made of some wooden supports and tarpaulin. It looked no bigger than a

bed.

With an irresistible sense that something was wrong,—

with a flashing self-reproachful fear that fatal mischief had

come of my leaving the man there, and causing no one to

be sent to overlook or correct what he did,—I descended

the notched path with all the speed I could make.

'What is the matter?' I asked the men.

'Signal-man killed this morning, sir.'

'Not the man belonging to that box?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Not the man I know?'

'You will recognise him, sir, if you knew him,' said the

man who spoke for the others, solemnly uncovering his

own head, and raising an end of the tarpaulin, 'for his face

is quite composed.'

'O, how did this happen, how did this happen?' I

asked, turning from one to another as the hut closed in

again.

'He was cut down by an engine, sir. No man in

England knew his work better. But somehow he was not

clear of the outer rail. It was just at broad day. He had

struck the light, and had the lamp in his hand. As the

engine came out of the tunnel, his back was towards her, and she cut him down. That man drove her, and was

showing how it happened. Show the gentleman, Tom.'

The man, who wore a rough dark dress, stepped back

to his former place at the mouth of the tunnel.

'Coming round the curve in the tunnel, sir,' he said, 'I

saw him at the end, like as if I saw him down a

perspective-glass. There was no time to check speed, and I

knew him to be very careful. As he didn't seem to take

heed of the whistle, I shut it off when we were running

down upon him, and called to him as loud as I could call.'

'What did you say?'

'I said, 'Below there! Look out! Look out! For God's

sake, clear the way!''

I started.

'Ah! it was a dreadful time, sir. I never left off calling to

him. I put this arm before my eyes not to see, and I waved

this arm to the last; but it was no use.'

Without prolonging the narrative to dwell on any one

of its curious circumstances more than on any other, I

may, in closing it, point out the coincidence that the

warning of the Engine-Driver included, not only the

words which the unfortunate Signal-man had repeated to

me as haunting him, but also the words which I myselfnot he—had attached, and that only in my own mind, to

the gesticulation he had imitated.