The Trainmasters Read online

  “Egan,” Teresa said, “this is Graham Carlysle.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Egan,” Graham said.

  “Graham,” Egan said, shaking Graham’s hand. And then, “Carlysle, did you say?”

  “That’s right,” Teresa said. “Graham Carlysle.”

  “John Carlysle’s son?”

  “That’s right,” Graham said.

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” Egan O’Rahilly said. “I not only sit down with my sister, I find out that she has taken up with the son of John Carlysle.”

  “There are indeed signs and wonders in these times,” Francis said in a mockery of a preacher’s portentous tones. “I wonder what’s in the stars for me.” As he said that, he glanced at Teresa O’Rahilly. He found her a damnably attractive woman.

  John and Kitty, by this time, had reached the crest of the ridge. The late afternoon was turning glorious. The rain had stopped, the clouds that had persisted for the past two days had finally begun to break, and the sun now lit the moun-taintop with liquid, golden light.

  Kitty stood for a long time, holding John’s hand, her eyes closed, her face lifted up so it captured the light and heat of the sun. Then, raising her other hand to shield her eyes, she began to speak.

  “I’ve known Francis Stockton for quite some time,” she said. “We were very, very… close.” Her voice was unwavering, deep, and resonant. But John Carlysle had no doubt that the admission she was making was coming painfully to her.

  “I sensed something like that,” John said, “when we were inside.”

  “But I broke with him. I want you to know that, John. I’ve had nothing else to do with him after that. I had almost forgotten that he was here in Gallitzin.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about this,” John said carefully and gallantly, although he wanted very much to hear her story if she cared to talk about it.

  “I’d like very much to tell you. It’s very important for me that you know.” And then she stopped, and, turning away from the sun, she looked at John.

  “We haven’t—you and I—known each other for very long,” she said. “But ever since you and I were in the carriage the other day, I’ve felt that we were … or could be, at least… close.” She caught his eye, searching for acknowledgment.

  He gave her a slow nod. “Yes,” he said, cautiously, “I think so. I think we could—”

  “My husband and I,” she interrupted, her eyes still locked in his, “were not close. I’m sorry Charles died, but I’m not sorry that he’s no longer in my life. Francis came after Charles… and I was not sorry for that. He’s a fascinating, vital, exciting man.”

  “Your father doesn’t like him,” John couldn’t resist saying. “He tells me Francis is undependable.”

  “You’ve talked to Father, then, about Francis… and me?” There was a trace of alarm in her voice at that.

  “No,” John said, assuring her. “Hardly. Your father hasn’t breathed a word about Francis and you. But he didn’t fail to give me his opinions about Francis. He doesn’t have much use for him.

  Now I’m beginning to understand why.”

  “Father is protective.”

  “He has a daughter worth protecting.”

  She looked at him. “I’m grateful, of course, that he is protective,” she said, passing over John’s observation without acknowledging it in words. But the look she gave him as she spoke showed her actual feelings. “But he has never accepted Francis for what he is.”

  “What is that?”

  Her lips curled into a smile. “Lovable and impossible,” she said. “Father only saw his impossible side. And it was that same side that made me realize I could never live with him.” At that her voice trailed away, and her eyes clouded. All the old memories and painful moments seemed to flood her mind. “And then,” she added under her breath, “there was Boston…” She stopped herself, realizing she had let slip out more than she wanted to.

  “Boston?” he asked.

  She caught his eyes again. “It was a very bad time.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Would you hate me,” she said earnestly, “if I don’t?”

  “If you won’t hate me for being curious about it,” he said.

  And then her fingers reached up to his face, and she touched him in exactly the same way he had touched her in the carriage the other afternoon.

  “Thank you, John,” she said. “Someday…” She did not finish that thought.

  And before John could begin to collect himself, he became aware of the sounds of other people talking and laughing, climbing up toward the place where he and Kitty were standing. He twisted around until he could see who was coming. And what he saw strung out down the hillside was the entire company of those who were inside the groggery. In the lead were Alex and David, rushing headlong, overwhelmingly delighted to be finally released from their confinement of the past two days. They were closely followed by Peg O’Rahilly, who was gamely trying to keep up with the boys. Then Francis Stockton, solitary, preoccupied, taking long, smooth, effortless strides. Then Teresa O’Rahilly and Graham Carlysle, who were smiling and chatting happily as they approached. Graham moved carefully, now and again wincing with pain. But John was still gratified to see him up and about. After Graham and Teresa came Egan and Deirdre O’Rahilly. And last, Tom Collins.

  Off in the distance, down below the groggery, John could make out still another man he recognized—Harold Harrison. He had what appeared to be a paper in his hand and he was moving in John’s direction.

  “Father, Father, there you are!” David called out. “We’ve found you. Where have you been?”

  John smiled and held out his hand to David, then he stretched his other hand out to Alex. When the boys reached him, they each slipped under an outstretched arm.

  “David, Alex, 1 haven’t seen much of you for the past few days.”

  “No, you haven’t,” David said.

  “But I’m sure you’ve been well attended to.”

  Both boys nodded yes.

  “They have both been completely polite and well behaved,” Kitty Lancaster said.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” John said.

  “Let go of us, Father,” the boys demanded. And so, with a smile, he released them. And the two of them bounded off into the trees, closely pursued by Peg O’Rahilly.

  “You stay here with us,” Deirdre O’Rahilly called out to her, but Peg did not seem to hear her mother.

  Francis Stockton, Graham, Teresa, Egan, and Deirdre now reached the crest, and then Tom Collins. And they all gathered around John and Kitty.

  Everyone chatted gaily and amiably—with obvious exceptions—until Harold Harrison arrived, breathless, bearing a telegram for John.

  It was from Edgar Thomson. It read:

  MEETING OF DIRECTORS COMPLETED STOP WILLIAM PATTERSON HAS SUCCESSFULLY ACQUIRED FINANCING AND HAS BEEN GIVEN VOTE OF CONFIDENCE AS PRESIDENT STOP WILL COMMUNICATE FULLY SOON STOP THOMSON

  After reading the message, he handed the paper to Kitty.

  “Oh, my,” she said when she finished reading. Her voice sounded like doom. “Oh, my,” she repeated. “Those words are so cold and empty on their surface, aren’t they? But I can sense so much fire… These few, simple words are so like him… Beneath his cool surface, there is headstrong will and a drive to command and to lead and to dominate … I wonder what he will do now.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, my father.”

  “He’ll survive this setback,” John said. “I’m sure he’ll prevail in time.”

  “He will, won’t he?” she said. Then she took his hands in hers and her eyes held his in a bond steel could not break, compelling him to unwavering, absolute concentration upon her. “He trusts you, doesn’t he?” she said. It was not a question but an act of faith.

  “I’d like to believe it.”

  “It’s that,” she said, “that gives me hope.”

  And then the children
reappeared from out of the forest, whooping and hollering like Indians. At their front raced Peg O’Rahilly, leaping and twirling and cavorting as she ran, her face painted with yellow clay—chevrons across her forehead and lightning streaks below her eyes. The boys had made her their Indian queen.

  Part II

  Ten

  Summer, 1852

  Tom Collins and Tom Henneberry ascended the short staircase that led to the porch of the administration building in Gallitzin. As they climbed the steps, they grew more and more apprehensive, for they expected a serious confrontation once they reached their destination inside. Henneberry’s apprehension was expressed in a heavy anxiety. Whenever he was brought before those he considered his superiors, he expected to be punished. Collins’s apprehension, however, was of a very different sort entirely: At the moment Collins thought of himself as a general poised before a decisive engagement. And he was very pleased with his prospects for victory because he held the superior position.

  They crossed the porch and entered the building, then passed through the dining room and moved into the long corridor with its row of office doors on either side. The last door along the corridor had a brass plate fastened a few inches below eye level. There was no name inscribed on the plate, only a title: DEPUTY CHIEF ENGINEER.

  Collins tapped lightly on the door, and he was asked to enter. He opened the door and walked inside. Henneberry followed.

  John Carlysle stood in front of one of the office’s two windows. Although he was restless, he stifled all impulses to move, to act. He had to keep in control of this meeting with Collins and Henneberry.

  “Would you sit down in one of the chairs, Mr. Collins?” he asked, tight-lipped, when he saw Collins.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” Collins said, in his smoothest, most ingratiating tones. “And I’ve brought my superintendent with me.”

  “You sit down too, then, Mr. Henneberry,” John said.

  “Thank you, sir,” the big man said. Henneberry had an abject, braying voice, like a much-beaten dog. But he used it only in the presence of those he felt were his betters. When he was among the men working under him, Henneberry had a domineering and imperious manner.

  Collins had promoted Henneberry soon after the tunnel cave-in. He had put him in charge of all the workers in the tunnel, much to their dismay. It was a promotion that John Carlysle didn’t approve of, but he had no say in the decision. Collins was an independent contractor who did as he liked with the laborers who worked for him. As long as the work progressed at a rate that fell within the limits dictated by the contract, Carlysle would have to be satisfied with Collins’s management.

  Yet the work was not progressing according to the directives laid out in Collins’s contract. Even allowing for the setback caused by the tunnel catastrophe, the work was far behind schedule. Collins had been called to answer for the delays.

  John turned away from the window to face the two men. But still he did not speak. He waited in silence, with an easy and casual, yet expectant, look on his face. John had learned from Sir Charles Elliot a number of tactics for dealing with subordinates. One of these was what he called the hawk’s tactics: wait high in the air, motionless, watching for the prey to move and betray its presence. Then plunge for the attack.

  John would not reveal his intentions quickly. He would not ask too many questions or force Collins in any way. He would wait, keep calm, and let Collins talk on his own, in his own way, in his own time. If Carlysle interrogated forcefully, he would most likely hear nothing more than what Collins wanted him to hear.

  And John was far from certain as to what his course of action would be. At the moment he had very little power he could bring to bear against the little man. A construction schedule was often more a matter of hope than of solid, ironclad expectations. Every contractor knew this, and every construction contract reflected it. Thus, if the construction of the line was falling behind, as it was now, the contractor could—and would—marshal up any number of reasons, justifications, or excuses to explain the delays. That gave Collins his power now.

  “I cannot be responsible for acts of God,” the little man had said each time John had confronted him during the past two months. “I do the best that I can with what I’ve got.”

  Typically, Collins would then explain how he had been failed by some event or person.

  But John was starting to suspect that there was more to the delays than Collins’s excuses could account for. He decided to probe until he got a satisfactory answer.

  Henneberry fidgeted beneath John’s calm stare. But Collins seemed unperturbed. His hands were joined, and his face was quietly attentive, as though his soul was intent on silent prayer. There was also haughtiness and defiance in that expression, but John chose to ignore these and wait the man out.

  Finally Collins spoke. “You called me in, then, Mr. Car-lysle?” he added in a tone that said he blamed John for keeping him waiting, for wasting his valuable time.

  John nodded. “That’s right,” he said.

  Henneberry pulled repeatedly on the legs of his trousers, just above the knees. His eyes were locked on his hands.

  “Well then?” Collins asked. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Carlysle?”

  “You are on my mind, Mr. Collins,” John said quietly. “You’re considerably behind your schedule. You’ve failed to finish what you’ve contracted to do.”

  Collins looked surprised, as though this were the first time he had had such a minor matter brought to his attention. “Really?” he shrugged. And then he launched into the set of excuses John had heard before. “I suppose one could place that interpretation on things, reading the contract according to its strictest letter, I mean. But you know yourself that we’ve actually done our best. You know we’ve done all we can do”—he glanced toward Henneberry—”considering the quality of the men available to us. And,” he added pointedly, the wishes of you and the other railroad officers.” He made his supervisor’s desires sound merely like whims.

  John nodded as he told himself to stay calm.

  Collins then started on a new tack, one that John had not heard before. “And you yourself, sir, are new to this country and inexperienced in its ways.” He shrugged haughtily, a shrug suggesting infinite disdain. “But I’m sure Mr. Thomson knew what he was doing when he put you in charge…”

  John really had to refrain from hitting Collins after that remark. The little man was so fiendishly exasperating and infuriating that John’s civilized manners came close to deserting him.

  Though Collins was no longer a priest, he had nevertheless retained many pastoral skills. He knew well, for instance, how to put another in the wrong. And he always seemed cognizant of one’s innermost, most humiliating, most sordid, most shameful secrets. He was also skillful in communicating how heavily the frailties of others weighed on his conscience and filled him with sympathy and regret.

  Consequently, in any conflict Collins operated from the premise that he owned all grace, sanctity, and righteousness. He was quite certain that he possessed the very smile of the Divinity himself. His adversaries, on the other hand, were entirely soiled with guilt and stained with shame simply because they were not on his side.

  But John still waited, smiling. The momentary rage had passed.

  “As you know,” Collins said, “the men were far too lax before the tunnel fell in. Even in the best of times, they are weak-willed and self-centered. They will shirk every duty whenever possible; they do not feel obliged by responsibilities to their superiors and betters, and they will take what advantage they can get. But after the cave-in, discipline collapsed entirely. Perhaps the tragedy unhinged them.” He said this in a tone that indicated he did not actually believe such excuses; but he was giving the other side the benefit of his fairness.

  Henneberry broke in then for the first time. “The men don’t do what you tell ‘em to do,” he said. “They don’t obey orders. You can’t get anything done if you don’t get obedience.”

>   Collins gave him a benign, knowing, condescending smile. “That’s exactly the way it is,” he said. “As a result, we have tightened up on our rules and regulations.”

  “Yes,” John said. “I’m aware of those. We’ve talked about them several times.”

  “Talk” was a mild way of putting the kind of discussion he had had with Collins, for John had nothing but contempt for these rules, and he had made that clear to the contractor. John was convinced the rules were more than misguided. They were a recipe for a tragedy, worse than the tunnel cave-in in April.

  John had no illusions about the kind of men who had construction jobs with Collins. They were hard, rough, violent men, and together they were more like an angry street mob than a Methodist congregation. They required order more than gentleness, discipline more than freedom. One had to rule them with firmness and strength, or else they would rebel. But they were men and not slaves, and when they were wisely led, they obeyed loyally, eagerly, and with devoted dedication.

  But Collins’s new work rules were not designed to lead, direct, and inspire. They were instruments of oppression. As in a prison, the men were separated from their friends and set against one another. The men from Cork or Galway or Tipperary or the other counties were no longer allowed to form their own work gangs. The work gangs were now made up by lot; the men were now simply mixed together, dumped together without acknowledging or taking into account any bond that had previously united them. Often, in fact, there was ancient hostility among the men who were forced to work side by side.

  The gangs no longer worked as a team; it was every man for himself. Each man was now responsible for accomplishing his own daily task according to a rigid timetable. In doing so he was required to follow a baffling array of finicky regulations.

  He was ordered—on pain of dismissal—to inform on any of his companions who failed to carry out these regulations. Loyalty and dedication were neither encouraged nor rewarded. The informer became the new nobility among the laborers.