The Trainmasters Page 16

  “Yes, but…” She stopped, unable to find another excuse.

  Kitty could see that the girl’s objections did not come wholly from her heart: She wanted to go to the tunnel.

  “Well, Teresa?” Kitty asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I do want to go. And yes, I do want to leave the city.”

  “Then it’s done!”

  “But…”

  “Yes?” Kitty sighed.

  “Egan is married. His wife…”

  Kitty picked up on that. “You want her to come?”

  “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  “By all means,” Kitty said, feeling very good. “Can you get her to the train by ten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then sleep for a while. Bridget will show you to a bed.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Kitty did not go to bed immediately after Bridget led Teresa away. She was much too excited to fall asleep. So she checked first on Graham, who was sleeping soundly now. Then she looked in on the two younger boys, who had not stirred, it seemed, during all the commotion.

  Finally, she looked in on Teresa O’Rahilly. She was lying in her bed, but she was not yet sleeping.

  “Are you all right?” Kitty asked. “Will you be able to sleep?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lancaster,” Teresa said. “I’m fine.”

  “I could bring you some laudanum.”

  “No, really. I’m fine.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to your sleep.”

  “Bridget will wake me in time to reach Egan’s wife?”

  “You can count on her,” Kitty said. She was about to shut the door; but then, yielding to a sweet impulse, she moved across the room to Teresa, bent over her, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  “Good night, Teresa,” she said. “Sleep well. I’m very glad I’ve met you. I hope we can become friends.”

  Teresa smiled. “Good night, Mrs. Lancaster. And thank you. I’m glad I’ve had the chance to meet you, too.”

  “Please call me Kitty.”

  “Kitty,” Teresa said and closed her eyes.

  “Egan?”

  Egan O’Rahilly turned toward the sound of the voice calling him. He couldn’t see who it was, for it was black in the little pocket deep under the mountain as the darkest terror. But he knew the voice was Ferdy O’Dowd’s.

  Egan had been dozing for a little while. At least it was his impression that he’d been dozing only a little while.

  “Yes, Ferdy,” he said.

  “Are you all right, Egan?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve been calling you for hours,” Ferdy said. “It seemed like days. But you never answered me.”

  “I was catching a bit of sleep, Ferdy,” Egan said. “But I don’t think I was gone long.”

  “I don’t know what you call long,” Ferdy said, “but I also slept. And after, I’ve been saying my beads. And I said the entire rosary, the whole blasted thing—joyful, sorrowful, and glorious mysteries—five times. And after each time, I tried to wake you, and you didn’t wake up.”

  “Is that the truth?” Egan asked.

  “As God is my witness,” Geraghty broke in. “I heard every ‘Hail, Mary,’ ‘Glory Be,’ and ‘Our Father’ out of Ferdy O’Dowd’s mouth. He must have said ten thousand prayers.”

  In spite of himself and the pickle he was in, Egan laughed. “What a lovely coat to clothe yourself with, Ferdy, when you walk before Saint Peter,” Egan said. “All those rosaries to be wearing to cover your sins.”

  “It was something to do,” Ferdy said, modestly, “while I was waitin’.” He was a pious man even when his life wasn’t in such pressing danger. But he was also a humble man. He didn’t like to broadcast his piety.

  “Is that you blabbing, Egan O’Rahilly?” It was Tom Henneberry.

  “Yes, Tom, it’s me,” Egan said.

  “Then maybe you can answer me a few questions.”

  “Why not, Tom,” Egan said, with a sigh.

  “Would you maybe know who cracked me on the head not long ago?”

  Egan realized that Tom didn’t remember that Egan had told Francis Quigley to shut Tom up.

  “Did you hurt your head, Tom?” he said. “I’m most sorry to hear it.”

  “I’m askin’ you to tell me if you did it, Egan O’Rahilly.”

  “No, Tom, I did not. It is powerful dark in this spot we’re in, Tom. Don’t you think that you did it yourself in the dark? Or maybe during the tunnel collapse?”

  “No, Egan O’Rahilly, I do not,” Henneberry said. “And, what’s more, I’ve got a second question. I kind of think the same answer belongs to the second question as the first one.”

  “Yes, Tom.”

  “Why are my arms and legs tied?”

  “I don’t know, Tom. Are they tied?” He wished he had thought to do it.

  “You lyin’ bastard, you think you’re so fuckin’ smooth.”

  “It’s God’s truth, Tom,” Egan said. “But this is the first I’ve heard of your misfortune.” Egan maintained his poise as he said that, but then he couldn’t control himself any longer. And, swept away by a tide of silliness, he burst into giggles.

  This, of course, incited Tom Henneberry to even greater rage. The big man’s roars of rage filled the darkness. “Egan O’Rahilly, when I get my hands and legs loose from these ropes, I’ll wrap them around your neck and squeeze until your eyes pop out.”

  “Henneberry… Tom Henneberry.” It was Francis Quig-ley.

  “Who’s that?” Henneberry asked, not recognizing the voice.

  “It’s Francis Quigley, Tom,” Egan said. “Don’t you know the men that work for you?”

  “Shut your mouth, Egan, you dumb bastard.”

  “Tom,” Quigley said. “I’ve somethin’ to tell you.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was the one that put you out with the stone. And then I tied you.”

  “You what?”

  “I hit you and then I tied you, like I said.”

  “What did you do that for?”

  “Because you’re a danger to the rest of us. And because I couldn’t stand hearing your loud, stupid voice. And I figured that if I was going soon to my maker, I’d just as soon not have you to listen to.”

  There was a long silence from Tom Henneberry. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and compelling. “Well then, you can just let me loose now, Francis Quigley. Because I’d best be seein’ about gettin’ us all out of here. Since I’m in charge.”

  There were some noises of movement.

  “Leave him,” Egan said, fearing that Quigley was actually doing what Henneberry requested.

  “I wasn’t about to do anything different,” Francis Quigley said. “It’s just that I saw I was kind of close to Tom’s feet. So I was just slipping away from him some. He’s tied, but the big fool can still kick.”

  “O’Rahilly! You fuck!” Henneberry muttered, finally realizing that his position was hopeless. “It’s you that have done this to me. Even if you didn’t strike me with the stone or tie me with the rope.”

  “If that’s what you want to believe, Tom,” Egan said, “then you go right ahead and believe it. I’ll take responsibility, just because it was the right thing to do, by God.”

  “Well, Egan, when we get out of here, I’m going to chop you into fine pieces.”

  “I’m thinking that the mountain might beat you to that, Tom,” Egan sighed.

  “Tom?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Geraghty, Tom,” Geraghty said. “You know, Tom, we all wanted you to shut up. Every one of us. We couldn’t bear your yelling.”

  “That’s right,” Ferdy O’Dowd agreed.

  “Every one of us as much as lifted the stone and tied the rope,” Geraghty continued.

  “And if you don’t shut up now, then we’ll all do it again,” Ferdy said.

  Tom Henneberry grumbled. But he shut off his flow or de
mands and his invective.

  Egan suddenly realized that they should have used up all the air by now. Yet they hadn’t. “Have any of you wondered at how we could have been trapped down here for the better part of a day in this tiny sack of open space… and we are still breathing? Has any one of you considered that we have air down here?” Egan asked the others excitedly.

  “What’s that?” Geraghty asked. “My God, you’re right!” And the others rustled about and whispered as they understood what Egan was saying.

  “We haven’t smothered,” Egan went on. “Air is coming in from somewhere.”

  He thought a little longer about that. When the tunnel collapsed, it wasn’t the roof that fell down on us, it was the floor that gave way. And that is just plain impossible—unless there is a cave or cavern or sink hole or some other open space beneath the tunnel.

  “Egan,” Geraghty said, “tell me what you are thinking.”

  He told them.

  “Jesus,” Geraghty said, “I think you’re right.”

  “What does it mean for us if you are right, Egan?” Francis Quigley asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know… It gives us a chance, maybe. But think: If there are caves and it’s not just an isolated cavity, and if the caves lead to the surface, and if we can find our way through them, then we have a chance to live.”

  Tom Henneberry laughed. “You’re a fool, Egan. You are a true fool. Do you really believe that?”

  “Shut up, Tom,” Ferdy O’Dowd said.

  Tom Henneberry snorted, but he did shut up.

  “I’m going to light my candle,” Egan said. “And then we can find out how we stand.”

  He took out his flint and steel and lit the candle he kept in his pocket. And, once his eyes had grown accustomed to the light, he looked around. Ferdy, Geraghty, and Francis Quigley were sprawled out more or less where they’d been when Egan had last lit the candle. Henneberry, of course, was tied up with some spare rope. Michael Moore, whose hip had been crushed, was dead. In the dark, no one had noticed.

  “Oh, my Lord, Michael’s dead,” Quigley said, when they all realized what had happened. “And he was my dear friend.”

  “Poor Michael,” Geraghty said. “And he’s left a wife and three kids, too.”

  Goddamn this mountain! Egan thought. Goddamn it!

  “Should we say an ‘Our Father’ for him?” Ferdy asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Egan said. “Will you start it, Ferdy?”

  Ferdy began, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  And the others joined in, even Tom Henneberry, “Hallowed be thy name…”

  When they had finished, Ferdy added, in Latin, “Requies-cas in pace, Michael.”

  Then Egan crawled to the end of the long, narrow pocket that confined them, the part that bent like an elbow. He slipped around the bend and held the candle in front of him. There was a small passage in front of him, leading down. It was too tight for him to wriggle through.

  But Egan could tell there was something there, and it was surely through there that the air was coming.

  Deirdre O’Rahilly, Egan’s wife, and his daughter, Peggy, lived in a cellar room on Broad Street in Moyamensing. It was small, cold, and damp, but it had its own private entrance to the outside, and its own stove, which helped dispel the chill. And there was a table and some chairs and a comfortable bed. And, most important, they had the cellar all to themselves; they were not forced to share their meager space with another family. The O’Rahillys’ lodgings, in other words, compared to the quarters of other Irish workers, could almost be called comfortable.

  The night was changing into a gray, rainy dawn when Teresa O’Rahilly arrived outside Egan’s house. She paused at the steps that led to the cellar door, apprehensive. Deirdre would not welcome her, she knew. But then she gathered her strength and descended the stairs. At the bottom, before the door, she looked down. Yes, a light was shining beneath the crack. Deirdre was awake. She knocked.

  “Who is it?” Deirdre called.

  “It’s me, Deirdre; it’s Teresa.”

  “You, Teresa,” she muttered, “what brings you here at this godless hour?” But, despite her obvious misgivings about Teresa, Deirdre opened the door for her.

  Deirdre was a small, quick, and nervous woman, with brown hair and a harassed-looking face. She stood for a moment inside the door with a put-upon expression, disapproving of Teresa. Still, she moved aside to let her in.

  “Who’s there, Ma?” the little girl Peg said. She was wearing a torn but clean nightgown and nothing else. Deirdre was already dressed for the day.

  “It’s your Aunt Teresa,” Deirdre said. “Well?” she said, stern-faced. But before Teresa could answer, Deirdre realized that Teresa must be very cold—she was obviously very wet—and so she melted a little. Teresa was, after all, her husband’s sister, in spite of everything else that she was. And she had surely come this morning for some serious reason. “But why don’t you sit by the stove, at least, and warm yourself, Teresa,” she said. “And I am making a pot of tea. Would you have a glass?”

  “I’d love a glass of tea, Deirdre.”

  “Then you go sit, and I’ll take care of the tea. And then you can tell me what it is that brings you here at this hour.”

  Teresa was glad for the delay. She was not eager to tell Deirdre what she had come to tell her.

  Peggy, who was three, slipped out of her gown and into her underclothes, then into her dress. She had to be helped with the buttons, and Teresa was happy to oblige her. Meanwhile, Deirdre had finished preparing the tea, and she poured two glasses full. She had no cups. After she’d handed Teresa hers, she sat down next to her.

  “So you’ve not come to pay me a social call, Teresa, have you?”

  “No, Deirdre,” Teresa said, “I haven’t.” She took a sip of her tea, for courage. It didn’t help. “It’s Egan,” she said unsteadily. “He may be dead.”

  Deirdre pressed her lips together. Then she placed her glass on the table and clasped her hands, as though in prayer. At last, she spoke. “How have you come to find out that?” she asked.

  “I’ve just come from the wife of one of the managers of the railroad,” Teresa said with a soft, even, quiet voice, yet still dreading what she had to say. “While I was with her, I learned there’s been a collapse at the Gallitzin Tunnel.”

  “Dear God!”

  “It was at one of the two diggings running off the eastern shaft.”

  “Where Egan worked.”

  “Yes, where Egan worked.”

  “Lord!” Deirdre said. “The entire tunnel collapsed?”

  “No, not the entire tunnel, though I don’t know the extent of the collapse, Deirdre. As 1 said, what I know is that the accident happened at one of the eastern shaft headings.”

  “So,” she said. But then her eyes showed a spark of hope. “But there are two headings off that shaft?”

  “Yes, two,” Teresa said. “So of course Egan may be safe.”

  Deirdre’s knuckles were white, but she did not say anything.

  Then the two women realized that Peggy was standing beside them.

  “What’s happened to Papa?” Peggy asked, and she started to clutch her mother’s arm.

  Deirdre looked at her, unable to speak.

  “He may be hurt, darlin’,” Teresa said. And then when tears started to form in Peggy’s eyes, Teresa said, “I’m sorry, Peggy. Truly I am.”

  “Will he be all right?” Peggy asked. “Will he come back to me?”

  “I hope so,” Teresa said. “God how I hope so.”

  “Dear, sweet Jesus, save my Egan,” Deirdre whispered. “Please, save him.”

  “He will be all right,” Peggy said to her. “I know it.”

  Teresa looked at her. Then Deirdre looked at Teresa, her face devastated with helplessness. “I can do nothing for him,” she said, quietly wailing. “I’m in Philadelphia, two hundred miles away. What can I do for him here?”

  “I don�
�t think you could do anything for him, even if you were at Gallitzin itself,” Teresa said, hoping to calm her with a dose of sweet reason. “But,” she added, “I have more to tell you. Mrs. Lancaster”—she explained who Mrs. Lancaster was—”is making arrangements to travel up to the tunnel. I am going to go with her. And you can also come, if you’d like.”

  Deirdre looked at her. “I must,” she said.

  “Can you be ready by nine o’clock?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good,” Teresa said. “Then I will come with a carriage and driver then.”

  She rose to leave. “I must change,” she said, “and gather some clothes.”

  “Teresa,” Deirdre said, “tell me. Why is this Mrs. Lancaster doing this?”

  “I can’t answer that,” Teresa said. “I’ve only just met her last night.” Then she corrected herself, “I mean this moming …” Her body sagged, and she tipped a little, almost losing her balance. Deirdre stretched her hand out to steady her. “God, what a night!” Teresa said. “I’ve never before been through such a night…”

  Deirdre looked at her, still holding her with the steadying hand. “Can you tell me?” she asked, with compassion. She had never before felt so warmly toward her husband’s prodigal sister.

  And Teresa, sensing Deirdre’s warmth, wanted to tell her about the previous night’s drama. But she could not. Not yet. It was all too present in her heart. “I can’t speak of it, Deirdre,” she said. “But I will. I promise.”

  “May I ask one further thing then?”

  “You can then, surely,” Teresa said, lapsing, as she did only rarely, into the tones and rhythm of Ireland.

  “Why are you going?”

  “Egan is my brother. I must go to him.”

  “But he hates you. If he is alive…” There was pain on her face. Any meeting between Egan and her sister was sure to be unpleasant, if not explosive.

  “Alive or dead, Deirdre. I must go to him.”

  “I’m glad, then,” Deirdre said, ushering her to the door. “I will see you at nine.”

  “Good-bye,” Peggy said.