THE RAILROAD BARONESS
The Lost Collection
Jayne Douglas
MENAGE EVERLASTING
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
THE RAILROAD BARONESS
Copyright © 2010 by Jayne Douglas
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-933-3
First E-book Publication: June 2010
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1862, an act of Congress granted land and subsidies to two railroads, with the goal of laying tracks across the country. The Union Pacific Railroad from the east and the Central Pacific Railroad Company from the west met at Promontory, Utah, on May 10, 1869, creating the first truly transcontinental railroad. The Golden Spike National Historic Site commemorates the event.
Dry-plate photography didn't come into wide use in the United States until the late 1870s, about a decade after the initial setting of The Railroad Baroness. Vastly superior to wet plates—which required the photographer to coat the glass plates, expose them, then develop the prints on the spot while still wet—dry plates could be exposed and developed at the photographer's convenience. I've taken the liberty of moving the technology back to make Conn Maguire's life a little easier.
While many resources were tapped in the writing of The Railroad Baroness, Makin’ Tracks: The Story of the Transcontinental Railroad in the Pictures and Words of the Men Who Were There, by Lynne Rhodes Mayer and Kenneth E. Vose (Preager Publishers Inc., 1975), was of particular help. It's an amazing, and very readable, book.
-- Jayne Douglas
THE RAILROAD BARONESS
JAYNE DOUGLAS
Copyright © 2010
Chapter 1
“Huffing and puffing and belching a banner of black smoke, carrying a load of the demon drink and women of questionable virtue along with the much-needed supplies to lay the track West, far be it from this correspondent to dispute the iron beast’s well-earned moniker of Hell on Wheels.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
October 1867
“Here she comes.”
Charles Lowell Adams looked up from the sheaf of foolscap balanced on his thigh. Conn Maguire’s typically laconic observation, the distinctive Irish accent rolling the words together to form “harshecooms,” was freighted with anticipation.
Charles straightened on his folding stool as a roaring whistle sounded in the distance. The mule hitched to the boxy black carriage didn’t so much as twitch an ear. Charles’s horse, however, whickered nervously and tried to toss its head. Jerked up short by the halter tethered to the bench seat, the bay horse bared its teeth, mouthed the bit and gave another jerk before subsiding to flip its tail in restless arcs. The mule gave the horse a disinterested stare over its shoulder, shifted its weight from one rear leg to the other and huffed out a sigh before stretching its neck to tear up a mouthful of yellowing grass. It chewed placidly as another whistle rent the cool fall air.
Setting his papers aside, careful to anchor them with a rock to prevent a stray breeze from blowing them away, Charles left his seat and joined his partner at the crest of the rolling hill they’d staked out. Using one hand to shade his eyes from the noonday glare, he looked to the east. The black, man-made beast rushed towards them on rolling feet, sun sparking off silver-brushed fittings as its tail snaked off into the distance. A thick column of smoke pearled away from the single stack on its head, a whitish-gray banner against a brilliant blue sky. It let out another roar, louder, closer, and for an instant, it was easy to believe the bellow came from the darkest pits. Easy to believe that hell on wheels was coming for them. Hallelujah, pass the whisky.
Charles snorted softly at his wayward imagination. Beside him, Conn bent to give the legs of the tripod holding up his boxy camera a final shake. Satisfied they were firmly planted, he grunted and stood up. Striding over to the carriage, he flung open the wooden doors at the rear of the custom-made vehicle.
“A hand here.” It wasn’t a request. Conn Maguire never requested anything. Charles slanted him a look but ambled over to join him. Pushing aside the black curtains that served as added protection inside the rolling darkroom, Charles grasped the scratchy rope handle on one side of the crate just inside. Conn mirrored his actions on the other and together they hoisted it out of the carriage. Watching each step, they carried the heavy crate and its fragile cargo to the tripod and carefully set it on the ground. Conn pried the top panel of wood free and leaned it against the side of the crate. Next, he folded back the heavy felt packing and carefully took a thick pane of glass from its slotted nest. With brisk efficiency, he slid the dry plate home in the camera’s body. Then he hunched his brawny frame down behind the camera and flipped the black drape over his head and shoulders.
“So, what’s it to be then,” Charles asked. “A woman or a whisky?”
Conn grunted.
“You’re right. It is difficult to decide. The hard bite of alcohol or the tender nibbling of some lady fair.”
Again, an indistinct no
ise from under the drape.
“Care to wager on what sells out first?”
“Working here,” Conn finally said, impatience lacing his tone. Charles grinned. He knew how much it irked his friend to be distracted while he worked. It was why Charles did it.
Satisfied, he closed his mouth and waited. He figured Conn owed the boy he paid to keep a lookout for this particular train’s arrival a little something extra for giving them enough warning to move Conn’s equipment to the top of the hill beside the tracks. Charles was eager to see what the hell on wheels brought. It was always exciting when the supply camp moved up the line to set up at the end of the tracks.
Conn’s instinct for timing was, Charles noted, as impeccable as always. With practiced skill, the photographer removed the lens cap to expose the photo plate just as the creeping engine came even with their vantage point. Charles could make out the engineer’s soot-streaked face as he leaned out the side window. The engine’s whistle battled for supremacy with the squeal of metal wheel on rail as the engineer applied the brakes. The train slowed further in ragged shudders. Funnels of steam shot from the pistons as the iron behemoth stopped rolling with a final groan. Charles was so distracted by the noise he almost missed Conn’s shouted words.
“Charlie! Wake up, man!” Charles jolted around in time to take the glass plate Conn shoved at him, remembering to handle it carefully. Conn took another plate out of the crate and loaded it into the camera box. Reminded of his assigned task, Charles hunkered beside the crate, ready to take the next plate out.
“You need an assistant.”
Conn grunted. “Have you, don’t I?”
Charles registered the protest more by rote than any real annoyance. In truth, Conn usually did his own carting and hauling. But when time was of the essence, such as catching the hell on wheels rolling into camp after months of—by comparison—living without the hint of civilized amenities, he really didn’t mind lending a hand. He passed Conn the next plate.
A coating of dust dulled the paint of the locomotive. Once a gleaming black that would have made his father’s valet weep with envy, it and the parade of cars were various shades of brown. The grime wasn’t enough to hide the scrolling gilt letters painted on the engine’s side that spelled out Great Western Rail Company. Their employer. While Conn was the company photographer for the western expansion project, it was Charles’s job to keep the investing public interested in the effort. Without those moneyed investors, not to mention the intrigued voters who kept the Great Western Rail Company in the minds and hearts of the politicians the company needed to authorize payments and land allotments, they’d both be out of a job. Them and thousands of others.
The years of the war with the south had been lean ones for many. Soldiers weren’t the only ones in need of a source of ready dollars. Farms and livelihoods had been devastated. The government coffers may have been depleted, but they weren’t empty.
The politicians in Washington spoke long and eloquently about the need to unite the nation and give Americans a chance to heal the wounds of the past with hope for the future. They embraced the dream of opening the west. New lands, new purpose. Charles supposed it was much easier to dream when one wasn’t wearing the same undergarments for weeks on end.
Above the immediate racket of escaping steam and cooling metal, Charles heard the distant shouts of the rail workers as they greeted the train’s arrival. He again traded photo plates with Conn, storing the used one in the padded crate.
The two cars immediately behind the engine were loaded with wood and water to fuel the boiler. Then there were the supply cars, the ones that carried the raw materials to lay the track and feed and shelter the workers. Behind that came the true hell on wheels. The peaks of more than a dozen prebuilt and portable buildings arched out of the open cars. Unloaded and assembled into larger structures, they would give the men on the line the comfort of hot baths, fresh-laundered clothes, menus with a wider selection than salted beef and overcooked potatoes, liquor for those who wanted it and, most importantly, women.
Like an automaton, Charles handed Conn a fresh photo plate. Women. Lord, he’d never hungered for soft female flesh so much in his life. His cock stiffened at just the thought of scenting something other than unwashed—very unwashed—male, let alone touching it. He briefly closed his eyes and thought of burying his face in long, feminine tresses as he listened to quickening gasps of pleasure in response to the driving force of his plunging hips. The pressure behind the front placket of his trousers became abruptly uncomfortable. Charles forced his eyes open and his thoughts away from the painted women who made their living on the iron road. No doubt, his mother and sisters would be horrified to find out what had become of the gentleman they thought they knew.
His eye caught on the four cars bringing up the rear of the train. Unlike the others, which were dirty, dented and strictly utilitarian, these were painted a rich forest green. Yellow stripes, bright despite the obligatory coating of dust, flowed horizontally along the cars with elegant flare. Black wrought-iron railings surrounded the platforms at either end of each car.
The final car was the most glorious of all. Wide windows topped by shallow, decorative awnings dotted the sides. Interior drapes had been drawn across the windows. A large, elaborate monogram— TSW—was visible midway up the side of the car, near the rear railing. One curtain twitched aside, and Charles caught a glimpse of a pale face peering back at them, there and then gone as the curtain dropped back into place. It was too fleeting to tell if the face belonged to a man or a woman. He was at least certain that it wasn’t the mutton-whiskered face of Theodore S. Worthington, president and primary shareholder in the Great Western Rail Company.
Charles stared at the last car, wondering who it had brought. Then railroaders converged on the train to begin the mundane task of unloading it.
Conn tossed off the black fabric cape and stood up. He unloaded the used plate and returned it to the crate with all the care of a mother setting a baby in a cradle. Replacing the lid, he grasped the handle and looked at Charles expectantly.
“Well, then?”
Charles shook off his bemusement and gripped his own handle. “At your service, Mr. Maguire.”
Together, they returned the crate to the carriage. Conn retrieved his camera gear and stowed it inside the confined space. While he did so, Charles folded up his stool and secured it to his saddle. Now that the train’s whistle was silent, the bay had joined the mule in its desultory foraging of the wiry grass. Tipping the rock off his papers, Charles stowed the foolscap and pencil in his portable writing case. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, he went to the open doors of the carriage. Inside, Conn was already setting up his chemicals. Wrinkling his nose at the pungent odor that filled the gloomy, cramped interior, Charles suppressed a sneeze.
“You don’t want to do that back at the crew car?”
“Too long. Better do it now, away from the swarm. There’s just too many blasted people down there at the moment.”
“Not interested in meeting the newcomers?”
Conn flashed him a rare grin. “Newcomers, is it? That what you’re calling the womenfolk these days, Charlie lad?”
“Like you haven’t felt the need for congenial feminine companionship every bit as much as I have.”
Conn shrugged. “They’ll still be there when I get back. Unlike you, my work won’t wait. If I don’t get these developed on the quick, might as well not’ve shot them at all.”
“Fine, then.” Charles repositioned the strap of the wooden writing case to rest bandolier-style across his chest. “I’ll head in on my own. No doubt Worthington will want to see us as soon as he’s settled.”
“Oh, aye, the boss man himself. Fancy rolling carriage he came in on, no? You can let him know I’m hard at work, earning my coin from the company.”
Charles flicked his fingers in a salute. “Certainly, sir. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Get yer arse out of here,�
� Conn said, reaching for the doors. Charles quickly stepped aside as his partner yanked them closed. He heard the inside bolt slide into place, a precaution against anyone opening the door and unwittingly destroying the undeveloped photographs with sunlight.
Shaking his head, Charles grinned, amused as always by Conn’s rough comradeship. Who would have thought he’d ever come to call such a man his friend. Not his high-in-the-instep friends and family back in Boston. A Brahmin and a Paddy? The horror! But then, he’d never been one to do what was expected of him.
Charles untied his horse’s lead and stepped easily into the saddle. Nudging the animal around, he guided it into a fast trot back to camp. As he did so, he couldn’t get that pale face out of his thoughts. There was something familiar about it. Soon, he’d find out what.
Chapter 2
“Life is never still at the end of the line. Shifts of men work from early morning to late at night, shaping a sometimes unforgiving terrain to make way for the iron road. But there are moments of lightness, too.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
Lillian Worthington Cabot let the curtain fall back into place and faced the man seated on the settee at a right angle to her own. The custom-made furniture was as elegant as that found in any respectable drawing room in Boston. The difference was the clever latches that secured it to the floor of her private car. Like the rest of the car’s furnishings, the settees could be latched down for travel, or disengaged and moved to whatever arrangement suited best.
The Railroad Baroness Page 1
