The Trainmasters Read online

  “No. I’m going to make good on the stock.”

  Vanderbilt just stared again. He didn’t know how to deal with this situation… In fact, he was beginning to suspect that Thomson was hiding something from him.

  He was right. Thomson was. But not for long.

  “I’m going to issue you good stock,” Thomson repeated. “And that will serve you as valid collateral against the loans that Patterson contracted. If you somehow recover the money, then you will naturally return the stock to us and not to him.”

  “Fat chance that that will ever happen,” Vanderbilt said.

  “I agree,” Thomson said. Then he turned away from Vanderbilt and lifted his eyes up to the ceiling. He kept his focus there for the space of several long breaths.

  Finally, he said, “There’s something else you should know about that stock.”

  “What’s that?” Vanderbilt asked, more than a little suspicious.

  And Thomson told Vanderbilt about the massive short sales. After that, he asked John to tell the Commodore about the accidents and labor troubles the railroad had recently fallen victim to.

  Vanderbilt listened to both men without comment until they had finished. But his face showed great interest, and even excitement. He was like a detective assigned to a fascinating and difficult case. He lit up with curiosity and eagerness. Then he spoke, “You’ve got somebody plenty smart mounting a major attack on this railroad.”

  “That’s right,” John said. He had so far spoken little when both Thomson and Vanderbilt were present together. But now he decided that it was the right moment for him to begin taking part. “Someone has sold our stock short,” he continued, “after making sure that the railroad has suffered enough misfortunes to cause its stock to decline.”

  “And that means,” Thomson said, “that the stock I’m making available to you may prove to be practically worthless.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Vanderbilt asked cautiously, suspiciously.

  “For a time,” Thomson replied coolly, “I thought you were the one who was doing us all the damage.”

  “Me?” Vanderbilt laughed. “I ain’t that smart,” he said, falling into the rough, uneducated speech that he sometimes used when the effect might suit his ends. “Someone like your man Carlysle here,” he pointed. “That’s a man who could of done shit like that—somebody that’s got his eddi-cation and upbringin’ in Europe. But me? I’m just a sea captain who’s made a little money by investin’ and workin’ hard.”

  “You’re too modest,” Thomson said.

  “I don’t know what to make of your assessment of me,” John said. “Should I be flattered… or should I challenge you to a duel?”

  “Neither, Mr. Carlysle,” Vanderbilt said with an amused snort. “Neither. It was a sincerely meant compliment.” He looked at Thomson then, but he dipped his head in John’s direction. “I’ve heard some talk about the goings on up at your tunnel construction site in the mountains. And I realized after some talk with your man Carlysle here that he was the one who managed the affair up there. So while you was away talkin’ to your law twister, I twisted outta him a little bit about what he did up there. And, by God, I’m impressed by him.

  “But like I said, a man who could do that could engineer the shit that’s gone wrong with your railroad. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that he did it.”

  And then Vanderbilt turned his full attention back toward Thomson. “So why did you tell me about the stock going bad?”

  “Because I want to stop that event from happening. And I think you can help us stop it.”

  Vanderbilt dragged his fingers through his thinning hair. “You think I can help you?”

  “Yes,” Thomson said, “especially now that you have cause to.”

  Vanderbilt smiled. “You’re putting on me a little polite blackmail and extortion?”

  “Nothing that nasty,” Thomson said. “It’s much simpler. If we stick together, we all stand to save ourselves considerable amounts of money. Even John here owns a fair amount of Pennsylvania stock.” He looked at John. “A thousand shares, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. A thousand.”

  “Enough to hurt if it goes bad,” Vanderbilt said, sympathetically.

  “Any amount is enough to hurt if it goes bad,” John said.

  “Yer damned right!” Vanderbilt acknowledged. Then he turned instantly serious. “You know, I’m already tied up in ships… and in the Nicaragua thing.” He directed these last words to Edgar Thomson. “I don’t have much slack now to be playing with a railroad.”

  Since 1849 Vanderbilt had been one of the chief promoters of a scheme to build a canal across Nicaragua. A route that would allow ships to bypass South America had for a long time been seen as necessary… and it would clearly now reap enormous profits for its owner, especially in view of California’s growing prosperity. But until recently, such a canal was out of the question. No one knew how to build it. Now, however, the explosion of engineering and construction technology had made such a route possible — if expensive. Current estimates for the Nicaragua Canal placed costs at $32,000,000. There was also competition: Many powerful people favored the Panama route.

  “I am well aware of your commitments in Central America,” Thomson said. “I won’t ask you to extend yourself in any … financial… way to us. What I’m after from you is your knowledge, skill, and experience.”

  But by now Vanderbilt was persuaded. “Yep,” he said, with a strongly affirmative nod of his head. “You’re right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I must know who is doing the stock manipulation.”

  “Yep. I’ll check into that. It’ll be a few days.”

  “We don’t have a great deal of time,” Thomson reminded him.

  “It shouldn’t take me long,” Vanderbilt said. “I just have to ask around on Wall Street a bit… discreet like.”

  And then he gave Thomson a sharp look. “But what makes you think I’m not the one that’s after you?”

  Thomson grinned. “You came right away to try to make good on the bad stock,” he said, repeating for the others the thoughts he had had earlier. “Since I didn’t know about that before you came, it seemed to me a good reason to take you out of suspicion. But if you were shooting at larger targets, then you wouldn’t have said anything about the bad stock. You would not have come to me. You would have treated it simply as a small loss on the way to a large gain.

  “I can’t imagine anyone so Machiavellian that he would do what you did in order to remove himself from suspicion.”

  “Yep,” Vanderbilt agreed. “You’re thinkin’ clear.” And he was thinking, too. A moment later, he put his own thoughts into words. “I wasn’t the only one that took that bad stock as collateral.”

  “I realize that,” Thomson said.

  “Dan’l Drew was the other.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you thinkin’ he’s the one?” Vanderbilt asked.

  “He’s your friend,” Thomson said carefully. “Would a friend of yours do such a thing?”

  “Yep. He’s my friend,” Vanderbilt said. “But Dan’l would do anythin’ to make a killin’.”

  “So where is your own loyalty?” Thomson asked. Then he added pointedly, “My friend.”

  “I’m loyal to my stock. And to my possessions.”

  “Good. Then we might have a chance to get out of this thing without being hurt too bad.”

  Vanderbilt rose to go. “I’ll say good-bye to you now. But I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Thomson and John Carlysle rose, too, to see him out.

  “And you, Carlysle,” Vanderbilt said. “If Edgar Thomson gets tired of you, call on me. I’ll find good use for you.” Then he looked at Thomson. “I might even just steal him from you,” he said.

  The previous evening, Monday, during supper at Edgar Thomson’s home, John and Kitty had informed Kitty’s father that the two of them were considering a more serious and long-lasting r
elationship. Neither John nor Kitty offered to commit themselves beyond that rather diplomatic statement.

  Nor did Thomson expect anything more. Their announcement did not come as a surprise to him. He liked and respected John Carlysle greatly. He could imagine no one whom he’d rather have as a potential son-in-law. And, deep within his soul, in chambers he would scarcely dream of entering, wounds were beginning to heal, wounds that had opened and festered over a year ago when Kitty had become dangerously involved with Francis Stockton.

  After supper John and Edgar retired to Thomson’s study. And there, helped along by brandy and cigars, they talked late into the night.

  In time their talk touched on Francis Stockton. From John’s point of view this conversation only added to his own feeling of mystery about what had actually occurred between Kitty and Francis. And yet, on the face of it, Thomson actually opened up to John about that affair more than he had ever opened up to anybody, including himself. Thomson actually admitted to John what he already knew, that it was the reason why Thomson hated Francis.

  And yet, John was left with the undeniable feeling that there was more to the tale than he was being told. And so he was left in a quandary. Should he pursue the matter further? Or should he leave the whole thing alone, as something past and, hopefully, dead?

  John, for his part, didn’t hide from Thomson that he had fears of his own about the relationship between Kitty and Francis.

  “But,” John said, “Kitty says that there’s nothing between them now, and 1 believe her.”Then John gave Thomson details concerning the mission he had assigned to Stockton and his son Graham as well as his reasons for choosing to place such great trust in Francis.

  “I would never have done what you are doing with that man,” Thomson announced.

  “Do you think he’ll betray us out of jealousy? Because he sees me as a rival for Kitty?”

  “I think he would betray us for the sport of the treachery. His rivalry with you would simply make the sport more piquant.”

  “I don’t agree,” John had said.

  And Thomson had no reply to that.

  The next day, not long after Cornelius Vanderbilt had left, Francis Stockton appeared at the Pennsylvania’s headquarters. When it was announced to John that Stockton was outside waiting for him, John was with Edgar Thomson in Thomson’s office.

  “So,” Thomson said to John with a mischievous twinkle. “Here is your Francis Stockton.”

  “I’ll go take care of him, then,” John said, making as though to leave.

  “No, no,” Thomson said. “Bring him in here. I’m sure he’ll have news that I will want to hear, too.”

  John gave Thomson a look. “You won’t…” His voice trailed off.

  And Thomson smiled at that. “I won’t try to make a fool of him,” Thomson said, “or be overtly aggressive. Is that what you couldn’t bring yourself to say?”

  “Something like that.”

  “No, John. Nothing like that. I promise to be on good behavior. And I promise to restrain myself from treating him like Benedict Arnold… until I see compelling evidence otherwise.”

  Francis Stockton was ushered in. He was predictably ill— at-ease when he saw both men. But Edgar Thomson proved to be perfectly courteous and clearly eager to hear his story.

  Could it be, John thought—and hoped—that Thomson is now satisfied that Kitty is in good hands? Could it be that whatever wounds he himself suffered might be starting to heal? John had already come to realize that Kitty was not the only one who had suffered from the relationship with Francis. Her father also had been hurt. And the nature of the hurt constituted another mystery for John.

  The story that Francis told justified Thomson’s interest. And John Carlysle’s as well.

  After Tom Collins and John Carlysle had surrendered to Egan O’Rahilly, Collins and Tom Henneberry had reunited. Apparently Collins did not place any great blame on Henneberry for deserting him earlier. The other guards, however, no longer wanted to have anything to do with either man. Then the pair were given horses, and they rode off toward Tyrone.

  Graham Carlysle and Francis Stockton had followed them at a discreet distance. They were careful to stay well out of sight and earshot; and their care was justified though it hardly proved necessary, for Collins and Henneberry scarcely looked behind them after they left Gallitzin. They stayed for the night in Tyrone, while their two pursuers camped outside of town. And early Monday morning they set out along the main road down the Juniata Valley toward the Susquehanna and Harrisburg. They traveled quickly and purposefully, and Graham and Francis both began to think their journey might end in Philadelphia, but at the small town of Huntington they turned north and proceeded once more up into the mountains.

  About five miles farther they reached a large, sprawling log-and-stone structure. At first the two pursuers, who had stationed themselves among the trees on the low ridge that overlooked the place, thought it might be an inn, for there were a number of horses and wagons gathered around it. But it was not an inn; it was too far off the main roads. There were also three or four men patrolling it. After Graham and Francis had thoroughly scanned the area, they began to realize that this was not merely a good, solid, sturdy structure; it was for all practical purposes fortified.

  “What do you make of all this?” Graham asked at last.

  “I think we’ve found what we’ve come looking for,” Francis said.

  “But who,” Graham wondered, “would have a place like this?”

  “We’ll watch and find out.”

  Collins, of course, and Tom Henneberry had long been inside the building by the time Graham and Francis placed themselves on the ridge. Neither man showed himself outside again for a long time.

  “Goddamn the guards,” Graham muttered about halfway through their wait. “I’d like to get closer.”

  “You’d like to listen under a window?” Francis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It wouldn’t work. That only works for children and suspicious wives.”

  “Was it a suspicious wife who taught you that lesson?” Graham said, with a low, soft laugh.

  “It was a husband,” Francis said, unsmiling.

  It was late afternoon by the time anybody but the guards showed up. More than a dozen men poured out of the house; they had all evidently been drinking. Collins and Henneberry were among them. But there was someone else that Graham recognized—Matthew Kean. Francis recognized the older man who stood next to Matthew. It was George Kean, the most prominent of the Philadelphia teamsters.

  “What does this tell you?” Francis whispered to Graham.

  “The same thing that it tells you,” Graham said. “Here is the other side of our mystery. These have to be the people who are hurting the railroad.”

  “Have you seen enough then? Should we go now?” Francis then moved on before he received an answer. “I wonder.”

  “What do you wonder?”

  “Look,” he pointed. Tom Collins and Matthew Kean were saddling horses. “What are they up to?”

  “I wonder,” Graham said.

  They decided to follow them. But on the way back to Huntington Graham and Francis decided to stop and question them.

  Francis and Graham concealed themselves behind a large mass of boulders at a turn in the road. As Collins and Kean negotiated the turn, Francis and Graham rode out and confronted them. The rest was easy. Neither Collins nor Kean wanted to challenge a man with a gun pointed at his belly.

  In no time both men were unable to move because rope bound their ankles and wrists.

  Matthew Kean was relatively silent throughout all this activity. He was no ignoramus; he recognized instantly who had fallen on him. Graham interested him especially. He understood why Graham was there but kept his mouth shut and abided his indignity stoically.

  But Collins chose the opposite tack. He protested. He complained. He made threats. Then he cursed.

  But none of this did him any good. His two antagon
ists went about their business smoothly and efficiently without paying him any heed. First they made a fire—a small fire, so as not to attract undue attention. Then Francis inserted a large bowie knife he carried with him up to its hilt in the glowing coals.

  “What’s that for?” Collins asked.

  “You,” Francis said, matter of factly.

  Matthew Kean just glared balefully.

  “Is this something you learned at West Point?” Graham asked.

  “Nope,” Francis said. “I learned it from a Cherokee in Texas after the war with Mexico.”

  Then, with a rag wrapped around his hand as insulation, Francis withdrew the big knife. “We have a few questions for you,” he said to Collins, holding the red-hot knife half an inch from his cheek.

  And Collins started talking without any more persuasion.

  Graham lost the opportunity then to find out what Francis learned from the Cherokee in Texas. In fact, Francis didn’t even actually have to touch Collins with the knife… It turned out to be a very gentle piece of persuasion. And Collins told all he knew about the operation against the railroad, from his first meeting with Abraham Gibbon and George Kean to the present moment.

  He and Matthew had been on their way to Philadelphia when Francis and Graham set upon them. They were going to see Gibbon, to find out what Gibbon’s superior would want them to do now that Collins was no longer part of the picture at Gallitzin.

  When Collins finished explaining that, Francis turned his attention toward Matthew, whom he had so far ignored. “Why did you decide to go with Collins on this trip?” he asked. “His presence or absence doesn’t change what you and your father and the other teamsters do or don’t do.”

  Kean shrugged. He looked as though he was debating whether to tell them anything at all. Then he seemed to relax, apparently having decided that it didn’t make much difference one way or another. “Do you know Gibbon?”

  “No.”

  “If you did know him, you’d know why my father wanted someone to be with Collins when they talk. I’d trust Collins in bed buck naked with my wife sooner than I’d trust him alone with Abraham Gibbon.”