Railroad

by Graham Masterton

  ‘You’ve never seen those mountains! It could take us years!’

  ‘Yes, it could,’ said Collis. ‘So we’ll just have to start looking straight away, won’t we? The day we get back to Sacramento.’

  Senator Stride stopped playing. He looked at Collis for a while, as if he was thinking deeply. ‘Do you still believe I killed your father?’ he asked.

  Collis finished his brandy. He set down the glass on the small wine table beside him.

  ‘I’d like to reserve judgement on that,’ he said quietly.

  Senator Stride stood still for a while, saying nothing. Then he gave a little nod. ‘You’re beginning to learn, aren’t you, Mr Edmonds? You’re really beginning to learn.’

  Chapter 10

  They reached Sacramento on 21 April 1858. They were both ill with the grippe, and with intestinal influenza, and for the first week back they were nursed by Annie Jones at Theodore’s house on R Street. She brought them chicken broth, and hot sourdough bread, and as many eggs as she could possibly afford, and by the following Sunday they were beginning to lose their Panama isthmus pallor, and to stay around to talk for whole hours at a time without suddenly shuffling off to the privy at the back of the yard. The sun was warm, and the days were long, and they sat outside the house under the shade of the trees, Collis whittling a whitewood stick and Theodore smoking his pipe, and you could have mistaken them for two old contented men in retirement. The only difference was, they talked between themselves of the Sierra Nevada, and how they were going to find their way through. They spoke of Johnson’s Pass, and Slippery Ford, and Steam Boat Springs. They scratched maps in the dust at their feet, and went over and over the valleys and the passes that Theodore had explored when he was surveying wagon roads to the silver mines in Nevada.

  Collis called in at the store on K Street every morning, and had dinner with Charles and Mary two or three times a week. Charles was blustery and irritable at first, because he thought that Collis had been taking advantage of his friendship by going off to Washington so soon after buying himself in. But one evening Collis walked around to the Tuckers’ house and rang the bell, and when Charles answered the door Collis had that particular look on his face that meant he wanted to talk.

  Charles was in his vest and shirtsleeves, and smoking a cigar. He was looking gingery and hot. He closed the door behind him and stepped out on to the veranda. A couple of puffs of cigar smoke chased each other across the yard. He sat on the veranda rail, his eyes half-closed against the brightness of the sinking sun. ‘You look as if you’ve got something on your mind,’ he said.

  ‘It’s you, Charles, as a matter of fact. You and Leland.’

  ‘No problems, are there? Business is going good.’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way – you’ve got what you wanted out of my coming out here to Sacramento. Fresh blood, new ideas. That kind of thing.’

  Charles inclined his head to show that he certainly conceded that. ‘As long as you don’t make a habit of taking a vacation back East every two or three months, I’d say we’re getting along fine.’

  Collis took out a cheroot. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s that “vacation” I want to talk about. I found out a whole lot of hard realities about life on that trip, and I got a measure of just how difficult it would be to get a Pacific railroad built across the Sierras. Politically, I mean, quite apart from actually laying down the track.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve gone off the idea?’

  ‘Are you hoping I have?’

  Charles inspected the wet end of his cigar and stuck a piece of stray leaf down with spit. ‘In a way. I’m not saying it wouldn’t do something for Sacramento, as far as business goes. But I don’t really believe that it’s possible, not in our lifetime. I think you’re wasting your time, and your money, on something that ain’t going to happen for twenty years.’

  ‘Good,’ said Collis.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘I’m glad you admit that it might be possible, even if we don’t live to see it. That’s better than damning the whole notion outright. You see, what I want us to do, you and me and Leland, and maybe a couple of other Sacramento merchants, is form a railroad company, and have a pass surveyed through the Sierras.’

  Charles looked at him narrowly. ‘You want me to put money into a railroad? That’s like asking me to burn it.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. This survey can’t lose money, even if the railroad never gets built. If we can’t whip up enough political and financial support from Congress, then we simply clear a wagon road through to Nevada Territory, and charge a toll on that.’

  Charles sucked at his cigar two or three times before he realised it was dead. Collis handed him a match, which he struck on the veranda post. He cupped his hands and lit up again before he answered.

  ‘How much do you need for this survey?’

  ‘Thirty, maybe thirty-five thousand. If seven of us put in five thousand each, that should see it through.’

  There was another long silence. Then Charles said, ‘You’ve done something to me. Do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well,’ said Charles, trying to find the words, ‘before you came here, I was one of the kings of this city, me and Leland both. But ever since I met you, I get the feeling that I’ve been pushed into the background. Don’t think I don’t like you. I do. I like what you are, and I like the way you work. The moment I saw you on the wharf that first day you came to San Francisco, well, I knew we’d get along then.’

  ‘But?’ asked Collis gently.

  Charles shrugged. ‘I don’t know how to say it. But the store’s running your way now, and even Mary’s not so disapproving of you these days. Wang-Pu put it the best. He said to me last month, when you were away in Washington, “That Mr Edmonds, he’s going to have us all riding trains across America whether we like it or not.” ’

  Collis lowered his eyes. The shadow of the trees was silently swaying on the boarded veranda floor.

  ‘Maybe Wang-Pu’s right,’ he said, and his voice was slightly hoarse. ‘But maybe something’s happening to this nation and we’re all just a part of it. Maybe we don’t have any choice. Not you, nor Leland, nor me.’

  Charles didn’t answer. He smoked for a while, and then he stood up and opened his screen door. ‘Mary’s expecting some folks around later to sing some psalms. I’d better go in and wash up.’

  ‘What about the railroad company? Do you want to think about it?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘No. I’ll have a note for the five thousand drawn up tomorrow.’

  ‘Then you’ll do it?’

  ‘For some reason I can’t explain, Collis, I will.’

  ‘How about Leland? Will you talk to him?’

  ‘Sure. He’ll do it if I do.’

  Collis brushed his hair back from his forehead with his hand. ‘Well,’ he said, and he felt strangely unsteady, ‘thanks.’

  Three days later, in the sombre mahogany offices of Leland McCormick’s attorneys on H Street, eleven men gathered for the drawing up of the articles of the Sierra Pacific Railroad Company. Behind a large desk with a green leather top, on which were spread the company’s papers, sat Mr Frederick Drew, the attorney, in a high starched collar and pince-nez, while beside him sat a scruffy clerk who kept bending forward and scratching his ankle.

  In a variety of chairs, in a rough semicircle, sat Collis, Charles, Leland, Theodore, and a young lawyer from San Francisco with peeling sunburn, who represented Andrew Jackson Hunt. There were also five other Sacramento traders in dark frock coats – Edward Willard, Jr., Stanley Montrose, Bryan W. Meadows, Percival Giddings, and John Dunthorpe. There was a great deal of coughing, and taking of snuff, and scratching of nibs. On the window-sill were stacks of sun-yellowed legal papers.

  Leland McCormick was appointed president of the Sierra Pacific, while Charles Tucker was named construction chief, Collis Edmonds was treasurer, and Andrew Hunt was secretary. Theodore Jon
es was formally hired as the new company’s official engineer and surveyor.

  Afterwards, the assembled men went across the street to Murphy’s Hotel, where they drank a solemn toast to their enterprise, and Leland made a ponderous speech about the pioneering spirit of those who lived and worked in Northern California. Collis stayed at the end of the bar with a glass of whisky, which he hardly touched. Theodore, his cheeks flushed with success, looked across the room at him and raised his eyebrows in an expression which meant: ‘What’s wrong?’

  Collis gave him a quick smile which meant that everything was fine. He couldn’t have told him how much he was thinking of Hannah and Delphine, a few last glimpses of scented memory before the Sierra Pacific Railroad overwhelmed them altogether.

  ‘Sacramento,’ Leland was saying, ‘as its just reward for this day’s work, will soon be likened to the fabled marketplaces of the Orient, thronged with the busy denizens of two hemispheres, brought here by the great highway of nations upon which we have so confidently embarked.’

  He said nothing about his unshakable conviction that, though it might be profitable, the Pacific railroad would never reach any further than Nevada.

  Collis looked down at his whisky. Then he picked up the glass and swallowed the drink in one gulp.

  Collis was shaving in the bedroom of his apartments on J Street when there was a frantic knocking at the downstairs door. He heard Watkins, the black cleaner, shuffling along the corridor to answer it. The knocking came again, louder and more insistent. Collis pulled down his cheek with his fingertips and carefully shaved his side whiskers. The outside door was opened, and he heard voices. He rinsed his hollow-ground razor.

  It was early October, nearly seven months since the Sierra Pacific Railroad Company had been formed, and the summer had passed uneventfully. The political news from Washington was that Congress was still in a furious ferment over slavery, but Senator Stride, in a short letter to Collis and Theodore, had dismissed most of the talk of civil war as ‘hysterical nonsense’. He had asked how the railroad survey was progressing, and whether there was any sign of a negotiable trace through the High Sierras. Collis had yet to reply. The truth was that Theodore was still preparing his equipment for the survey, and was still relying on topographical probability rather than hard rock. The Sierras glittered in the late sunlight every afternoon, as impassable by steam locomotives as ever.

  Collis emptied his floral-patterned washbasin and wiped it out with his towel. Then he walked through into his sitting-room, where his clean white shirt was hanging up on the window valance. As he put in on and buttoned it up, there was another knock, this time at his own door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called. ‘I’m dressing.’

  ‘It’s me, Theodore!’ He sounded breathless, and unusually excited. ‘You must open the door! It’s wonderful news!’

  Collis went to the door and unlocked it. Theodore came bursting in like a bear, his coat collar folded back the wrong way, his necktie still untied, and his eyes wide with enthusiasm. He was holding up a letter and waving it around. ‘The most marvellous thing! You’d hardly believe it! The most marvellous thing has happened!’

  Collis closed the door and walked back across the room tucking his shirt-tail into his pants. ‘Well?’ he said dryly. ‘You’d better tell me what it is.’

  ‘I had this letter this morning. It’s from Dutch Flat, in the Sierra foothills. You must read it. Read it, please.’

  Collis took the letter and opened it out. It was written on cream-coloured paper with the printed heading: ‘Dutch Flat Drugstore. Daniel F. Kates, Proprietor. Pharmaceuticals, Toilet Articles, Notions.’ Beneath the heading, in sepia ink, a firm and literate hand had written:

  Dear Mr Jones,

  I am acquainted with your articles and pamphlets on the subject of a Pacific railroad, and I am impressed by your ideas of a locomotive highway to link California with the Eastern plains. There is no question in my mind that our commercial fortunes would be much enhanced by such a link.

  With the intention of trying to find a wagon route eastwards out of Dutch Flat, to connect my small town with Nevada Territory over the Sierra crest, I recently came upon a corridor through the rock which to my inexperienced eye is considerably less demanding in gradient than the old emigrant trace.

  It occurred to me that you might be interested in making a preliminary survey of the corridor, which runs south of the Donner Lake but north of the peaks above Lake Bigler. I am here at my pharmacy at most times, since I am doctor, drugstore proprietor, and general servant of this small community; and I would be honoured to guide you up into the Sierras at your earliest pleasure.

  I remain your servant, sir,

  Daniel F. Kates.

  Collis put the letter down. ‘Well?’ he asked Theodore. ‘Do you believe there’s anything in it?’

  ‘It’s a chance, that’s all that counts. And a chance that actually pans out could save us years and years of surveying. If this is genuine, we could draw up a route in a matter of twelve months, maybe sooner.’

  ‘Don’t get yourself too excited,’ warned Collis. ‘He’s only a pharmacist, not a railroad surveyor. What looks like a good railroad route to him may look like nothing more than a donkey track to you. I mean, what does he know about curves and grades? What does he know about anything?’

  Theodore took the letter back and carefully reread it. ‘He seems like a sobre enough man to me. And if he’s read my pamphlet, he must have some kind of idea what I’m looking for.’

  ‘All right,’ said Collis, ‘I’ll admit that. But there’s only one way to tell for sure, isn’t there? Go take a look for ourselves.’

  ‘You’ll come?’ asked Theodore.

  ‘Sure I’ll come. I’m the treasurer of the Sierra Pacific Railroad, aren’t I? And I want Wang-Pu along, too. I want him to tell me if his Chinese workers can cope with the kind of country we’re going to have to face up there.’

  Theodore pulled nervously at his beard. ‘This is really extraordinary,’ he said. ‘This is really wonderful. You’ll need a heavy coat, of course, and stout boots. And a hat, with flaps to cover your ears. I’m sure that Percival Giddings can supply all that. I can scarcely believe it. Oh, and don’t forget your warm underwear. It’s very cold up there, even this early in the winter. Collis, this marvellous!’

  Collis buttoned up his pants. ‘Do you want to join me for breakfast?’ he asked. ‘I was thinking of ham and scrambled eggs at the Western Rooms.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Theodore. ‘I must make some preparations. I must tell Annie what clothes I’m going to need. I must get out my good theodolite.’

  ‘All right,’ said Collis. ‘When do you want to leave?’

  ‘It’s, what, Thursday today. We should set out on Monday morning. Don’t forget gloves, either.’

  ‘No,’ said Collis. ‘I won’t forget gloves.’

  Theodore opened the door. Then he paused. ‘Oh, and one more thing. I know it sounds morbid, but I think it’s better to be well prepared for the worst. It can be dangerous up there, especially if it snows. So if there’s anyone you want to write to – well, it’s worth thinking about.’

  Collis looked at him with a patient, indulgent smile. ‘You sure you don’t want me to take a shroud in my knapsack?’

  ‘It’s not a joke, Collis. Remember what happened to John Frémont’s expedition.’

  ‘Very well, Theo. I’ll write to my mother and sister, make a will, and order my headstone from Grosser and Buch. And in the meantime, I’ll go talk to Wang-Pu, and see what he thinks about coming along.’

  Monday morning was bright, dusty, and windy. They drove out of Sacramento on a buckboard with ‘Tucker & McCormick’ painted on the side in faded black lettering. They had two fresh chestnut horses from the K Street stables, and enough blankets and coats and changes of clothes to last them for two weeks. Collis wore a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat and a brown wool coat, while Theodore was dressed in a blue cotton jacket he used to wear
on the railroads and a straw Panama. Wang-Pu, who sat in the back amid all the bedding, looked as if he were going to his uncle’s wedding, in a black tailcoat and a tall black hat.

  They didn’t say much as they travelled. They passed stubbled wheatfields and stands of rusting deciduous trees. Then, as the road climbed through Folsom and Rocklin, up the valley of the American River, it became winding and uneven and strewn with stones, and they jolted through the midday dust with aching backs and pained expressions of acceptance. Collis smoked, and wiped the sweat from his face, and occasionally took a swallow of sherry and whisky mixed, from a bottle he kept under the buckboard’s seat.

  This was gold-mining country. As they followed the trail upwards, past sloping fields of dried grass, they came at last through groves of widespreading oaks, under which the sunlight winked in heliographic spangles, and out into a raw landscape of canyons and ridges that had been laid bare by hydraulic mining. There was nothing but wind, glare, and silence. All around, the ochre soil had been sluiced away from the foothills by thousands of gallons of high-pressure water, until the rocks were exposed like the jagged teeth of an old-time pioneer, and the bones of the Sierras showed through.

  Alongside the trail, for mile after mile, wooden flumes carried fast water down out of the mountains to the mines below, leaving the silted bed of the American River, which appeared and reappeared below them at turn after turn in the trail, as a winding yellow ribbon of mud. It was this mud that was seeping westwards into the Sacramento River, and down into San Francisco Bay, staining the water and polluting the oyster beds. ‘There used to be trout in that river,’ Theodore remarked. ‘These days, I wouldn’t give a catfish any chances.’

  Collis squinted out over whole fields that were nothing but picked-over boulders, shimmering with winter sunlight. He saw abandoned arroyos, with derelict mining huts and collapsed flumes that still spouted cascades of white water. And for hour after hour, there was nothing but hollows and spines of rock that had been scratched at and scraped at until every fragment of loose topsoil had been worried free. There were hillsides that had been blasted with huge charges of powder, twelve or fifteen hundred kegs, until they collapsed and could be washed over with nozzles for the tiniest specks of gold.