Railroad

by Graham Masterton

  ‘The idea is that the last spike is going to be wired up to the telegraph,’ said Leland. ‘When I hit it with my silver-plated sledgehammer, one single telegraph transmission will announce to all the globe that America has been bridged by a railroad at long last.’

  Jane McCormick, who had been talking to Mary Tucker, came across and offered her arm to Leland like a San Francisco salami on to which someone, for a joke, had tugged a lady’s white glove. Leland took it, and patted it, and gave Collis a patronising smirk.

  Thomas Durant was waiting for them. He shook them all by the hand and then said, ‘You must forgive me. I have a rather severe headache.’

  ‘Too much champagne,’ remarked Jane McCormick, and continued to look pleased with herself even after Collis had scowled at her.

  Grenville Dodge remained in the background, watching the directors of the Sierra Pacific with animosity. He had always thought that Leland McCormick was a windbag, and frequently said so.

  The band music died away. The crowd pushed closer, laughing and clapping and singing. Collis found that he was being pressed so hard on all sides that he could hardly keep his balance.

  A tall thin preacher with a single tuft of grey hair that was blown upright by the wind like the feather in a red Indian’s headband came forward through the crowd. This was the Reverend John Todd, who had come to Promontory on behalf of two religious magazines. He raised both his hands and said a prayer of thanks in such a soft voice that nobody could hear him except Leland, who was standing right next to him, and who kept nodding as if the prayers were personally addressed to him.

  Collis pushed his way over and stood next to the telegraph operator. As the Reverend John Todd sang out an almost inaudible ‘Amen’, he watched the operator tap out the words, ‘We have got done praying. The spike is about to be presented.’

  Charles Tucker stepped up and handed Leland’s two gold spikes to Thomas Durant, who accepted them with a hungover nod. Durant then knelt down and slipped them into the pre-drilled holes in the laurel tie. The reflected inscription on the tie’s silver plaque shone on his cheek: ‘The last tie laid on the completion of the Pacific Railroad, May 1869.’

  Leland spoke for more than five minutes, while the crowd restlessly stirred and pushed. Finally, he raised one hand and called out in his most melodramatic voice, ‘Now, gentlemen, with your assistance we shall proceed to lay the last tie, the last rail, and drive the last spike.’

  Grenville Dodge, who seemed to have cheered up, thanked Leland for his oratory and said, ‘Gentlemen, this is the way to India.’

  The silver-headed sledgehammer was brought up. Leland smiled to everyone around and gave what Collis always called his ‘Presidential wave’. A telegraph wire was attached to one of the golden spikes, and Leland took the hammer and playfully swung it around. Jane McCormick was pink and glistening with glory.

  ‘Well, I’m ready,’ announced Leland, and swung his sledgehammer at the last spike. He missed it altogether, hitting the roadbed. There was a huge roar of laughter from the track layers at the back of the crowd, who had already drunk one whisky tent out of supplies and were ready to move on. Leland, scarlet, stood back.

  Now Thomas Durant, pulling on a pair of workman’s gloves to protect his hands, took a turn with the sledge. He swung hard, with a grunt of effort, and also missed. The track layers were almost hysterical with glee.

  Collis leaned over the telegraph table. ‘What’s your name, friend?’ he asked the operator.

  The operator glanced at him. ‘Shilling, sir. Walter Shilling.’

  ‘Well, Mr Shilling,’ said Collis, ‘I think it’s going to be up to us to complete this great transcontinental railroad, don’t you?’ And he reached across the table and tapped the telegraph key himself, just once.

  Shilling stared at Collis in surprise. Then, quickly, he chattered out the message, ‘Done.’ Collis grinned at him, reached into his vest pocket, and gave him a gold five-dollar piece.

  A great cheer went up from the crowd, much to Leland’s confusion. Hats were tossed in the air, and the two locomotives blasted their whistles until Collis felt as if he were going to go permanently deaf. The band struck up with ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ again, and somebody fired a pistol into the afternoon sky.

  Slowly, the locomotives were brought closer and closer, until their pilots actually touched. Engineers and track layers and whooping bystanders climbed up on to the piston rods and the shining pipework, and bottles of champagne were jiggled up and down and sprayed over the crowd.

  At last, the spectators were held back long enough for the formal photographs to be taken. Grenville Dodge, grave and bearded, shaking hands with Charles Tucker. Leland, with Jane on his arm, trying to look expansive and statesmanlike. Only one of the historic pictures caught Collis; and that showed him next to the telegraph operator’s table, with his head turned away from the camera.

  He was actually asking Shilling to send a personal message to Mr Charles Frémont, of San Francisco. It said simply, ‘You owe me a party. Invite Melford, too.’

  All across America that afternoon there were wild celebrations. In San Francisco, the whole city took to the streets and danced and drank until the following morning. In Chicago, a seven-mile parade of cheering people kept the traffic blocked for hours. In Sacramento, within hearing distance of 54 K Street, thirty new locomotives of the Sierra Pacific Railroad lined up to blow their whistles in triumphant unison.

  And in Utah, Collis Edmonds was standing apart from the hoopla all around him, leaning heavily on his ebony cane, when a red-cheeked boy came running towards him. The boy held up a handful of telegraph messages. ‘They’re for you, sir. Shilling took them down this morning but Mr McCormick said we should wait until now for you to have them.’

  There were three envelopes. Collis tore them open one by one.

  The first read: ‘Congratulations and warmest regards from your fellow directors of the Sierra Pacific Railroad.’

  The second read: ‘A grand and meritorious achievement. Best wishes, President Ulysses S. Grant.’

  The third telegraph read: ‘You are the talk of the town. All San Francisco salutes you and even Father is impressed! I am back at home now, much improved, and shall persuade Father to invite you to dinner. Your favourite, Sarah.’

  The locomotive blew its shrill whistle as Collis flung Sarah’s telegraph exuberantly into the air and made his way into the crowd, in search of champagne. Behind him, the telegraph floated gracefully to the ground and was trampled, obscuring Shilling’s handwriting so that all anyone could have read were the telling words ‘Your favourite’.

  About the Author

  Graham Masterton (born 16 January 1946 in Edinburgh) is a British horror author. Originally editor of Mayfair and the British edition of Penthouse, Graham Masterton’s first novel The Manitou was released in 1976. This novel was adapted in 1978 for the film The Manitou.