BIO: Conrad Knepley, Tillard Pen Pictures, 1911, Blair County, PA

Contributed April 2003 for use in the USGenWeb Archives 
by Judy Banja <jbanja@comcast.net>

Copyright 2003.  All rights reserved.
http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm
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                Pen Pictures of Friends and Reminiscent Sketches
                                by J. N. Tillard

             Altoona, PA: William F. Gable & Co., Mirror Press, 1911 

                         A Railroader of Ye Olden Time

  CONRAD KNEPLEY Pulled The Throttle When The Locomotive Was Fired With Wood
                 and The Engineer Started With "Get There" Orders

THE youngster who mounts the cab of a locomotive on the Pennsylvania Railroad 
these days, clad in overalls and jumper, to make his first trip as a fireman, 
has a much bigger machine through which he must keep pulsating the fiery 
breath that spells power and speed, but he performs his task under conditions 
that are vastly different from those that confronted his grandfather. The 
work may produce as many blisters on his hands and put as many crimps in his 
back, but it is all cut and dried and he need not be nearly so resourceful as 
his progenitor of the early fifties. And when he has crossed the cab and took 
command of the monster, his duties will be almost as different, in many 
respects, from those of the engineer of that time as the difference between 
those of the captain of the old-time sailing vessel and the modern ocean 
greyhound that races through the well-defined lanes of the sea, regardless of 
wind or tide.
  It is true that the locomotive has always been confined to the parallel 
lines of steel, but in the beginning it was not a well-charted way, protected 
by block signals, innumerable telegraph towers and all the appliances that 
now render railroading about as safe to life and limb as the average 
occupation. Those were rough-and-ready days and rough-and-ready men were 
required to take all the long chances of piloting a train over long 
distances, through long hours. The fiery steed, instead of receiving 
sufficient fuel from a well-equipped wharf to last to the end of the trip, 
was obliged to depend upon wood stations, that sometimes were as elusive and 
uncertain as the vagrant breezes upon which the skipper of the old sailing 
craft depended for his motive power.
  The perils of the way can be best learned and realized by listening awhile 
to the practical experiences of one of the old-timers, who got into the 
business when the science of railroading was in its infancy. One of these is 
to be found in the person of Mr. Conrad Knepley, now a resident of the Sixth 
Ward. Born in Dauphin County in 1831, when twenty-two years old, he went to 
Pittsburg, and on August 28, 1853, stepped aboard a Pennsylvania Railroad 
locomotive to fire the machine from the Smoky City to Harrisburg, and 
sometimes to Columbia, for a day's work. It was a wild and venturesome task 
and no man who was not endowed with plenty of courage and great physical 
endurance was equal to the job. It required the same kind of nerve coolness 
under difficulties that qualify the sailor and soldier, and the fact that 
after five years he was promoted to the rank of engineer is the best evidence 
that Mr. Knepley was there with the qualifications. When he pulled open the 
throttle on his first long run, he realized that he must literally find his 
own way through the numerous perils of the road, and, while he was in but 
little danger of being disciplined for a slight breach of orders, for the 
reason that from the time he pulled out of the Pittsburg yards until he 
reached his destination with a freight train, there were but few superiors 
who knew anything about his movements, except in a most general way. While he 
was comparatively free from espionage, so were all his fellows, and between 
long hours that wore men out and left them asleep at the switch, bad rails, 
washouts, land-slides and rear-end collisions, there was plenty of things to 
occupy his time and attention besides looking out for technical violations of 
the rules. The prime consideration when he started was to get to the other 
end with as little damage as possible.
  As an illustration of how things were apt to turn out, the following 
reminiscence, told by Mr. Knepley, will serve: One night, on leaving Altoona, 
eastbound, he was instructed that Philadelphia Express was wrecked somewhere 
between Tyrone and Petersburg, and that after leaving Tyrone he would have to 
"hunt the wreck." Now, that was a great place to go hunting in, as that bunch 
of Juniata bridges, most of them then single track, and a beautiful lot of 
sharp curves offered all sorts of possibilities in the way of unexpected 
finds.
  With a loose, jerking, jolting train behind him and the tank hand-brake, 
all that he had to depend upon in case of a sudden emergency, the prospect 
was not a pleasing one, but it all went in the night's work and, slipping 
along as carefully as might be, when in the vicinity of Birmingham, he saw a 
red light standing along the track and brought his train to a standstill 
before he had gone much past it. Hurrying back, he found a flagman sleeping 
so soundly that it was with difficulty that he was aroused. Long hours 
without sleep had so exhausted him that tired nature could stand no more, no 
matter what happened. Mr. Knepley shook him up and, as his own conductor came 
forward, demanding explanations, the engineer, notwithstanding the peril that 
he had so narrowly escaped, skillfully lied in order to save the derelict 
flagman. He had never seen the man before and had no personal interest in his 
fortunes, but, realizing that his future career as a railroader depended upon 
his getting out of the scrape, he would not squeal. However, when the 
conductor had gone, he gave the frightened young fellow a shaking down in 
language more forcible that elegant, and let it go at that.
  The story had a sequel. Many years after, when Mr. Knepley was no longer an 
engineer, he was going west on a Panhandle train and when the conductor 
scanned his pass, he took a look at the old gentleman and inquired:
  "Do you know me?"
  "Not from a side of sole-leather," said Mr. Knepley; "never saw you 
before."
  "Yes, you do; you shook me up one night, east of Tyrone, when I was doing 
my best to let you pile into a wreck. I never slept on the job since that 
night, and I have never forgotten what you said to me."
  But the carelessness of the other fellow got Mr. Knepley at last, for, on 
July 22, 1863, when hauling a passenger train west, some one had left a car 
of lumber stand on a switch at Nineveh Station and he side-swiped it. When he 
was taken out of the wreckage, it was found that he had received such a 
frightful injury to his head that he was judged to be incapacitated from 
further service on the road, and when he recovered he went to work in the 
Altoona Round House, under Foreman Andy Vauclain, and for thirty-eight years 
he worked in the Altoona Machine Shops, in various capacities, until he was 
retired eight years ago. He had many a personal wrangle with Andy Carnegie, 
who was his superintendent in the early days, and engineers of his type were 
not in such fear of the superintendent that they hesitated in the least to 
express their opinions in regard to the operation of the road in the most 
forcible language. Carnegie might be boss, but he was running the engine, and 
that was all there was to it. But, if they had quarrels, the old man was not 
held in disrepute or forgotten, for when the Carnegie pension fund was 
established, Mr. Knepley came in for $20 per month, which he still receives.
  There are not many of his kind left - the men who pioneered the new road 
and steered the iron horse through his devious way - but they were no 
weaklings, else they would never have held the job, and these heroes of 
industry are as much entitled to the homage of their fellows as those who 
fought the battles of their country in other fields.

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