The Trainmasters Read online

  Later still, a cry went out for Egan to sing. Egan loved singing, and he knew all the old songs as well as some new ones. Most of the songs made the men laugh, though their laughter hid their rue and sadness.

  Egan sat upon a rough table and began to sing. One of his songs, “Pat Works on the Railway,” was about men like himself and therefore one everyone loved. Everybody sang along lustily, and afterward Egan called out to the crowd, “Shall 1 sing ‘No Irish Need Apply’?”

  “Aye, by God, you shall,” came more than one voice from among the men. Then there were cheers and the rumble of feet stamping on the hard dirt floor. The men also liked this song, for it was about a prejudice they all knew too well. Yet the Irishman in the song fought against the Americans who would keep him down, and the Irishman won. This inspired the men, and Egan went on to sing ten other songs.

  He ended each song with “Inis Fal,” an old Gaelic tune his namesake and relative, Egan O’Rahilly, wrote after the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. After that cursed defeat, Irish resistance to William III and to the hated English had been crushed. The following years and decades were for Catholic Ireland a time of scarcity and want, persecution, torture, torment, and then famine. And yet the Catholic Irish refused to submit to the English will; they refused to die.

  When Egan sang “Inis Fal, “ the men always grew as still as mourners, for it was like a religious ritual.

  Now may we turn aside and dry our tears!

  And comfort us! And lay aside our fears,

  For all is gone!

  All comely quality!

  All gentleness and hospitality!

  All courtesy and merriment

  Is gone!

  Our virtues, all, are withered every one!

  Our music vanished, and our skill to sing!

  Now may we quiet us and quit our moan!

  Nothing is whole that could be broke;

  Nothing

  Remains to us of all that was our own.

  As always when he sang that song, rage burned in Egan O’Rahilly’s belly. Once it was over, he sat with lips pressed fiercely shut, staring at the rough faces before him.

  There was silence for a few moments, but then Egan cried out, his voice rising and swelling like a cresting wave, “God curse the British landlords! God curse the British gentry! God curse British fields and herds, towns and cities! God curse British wombs!” And then he leapt to his feet: “And may the Queen’s skin make a drum for the indomitable Irishry to beat, and may all Ireland be free from the center to the sea!”

  The men filled the shed with wild cries of agreement and support, and with stamping of feet and clapping of hands.

  But after the cries died down, Tom Henneberry, who was drunk pickled and thus more obnoxious than usual, yelled for attention.

  “Egan O’Rahilly!” he hollered in a slurry, boozy rumble. “Egan O’Rahilly! That’s bullshit! And cowshit, and sheep-shit, and dogshit, and goatshit!”

  “I guess that’s just about every shit you know, Tom,” somebody said. A rustle of laughter was heard in the crowd.

  Henneberry was standing across the hall from Egan, next to the plank laid between two barrels that served as a bar. He was jovial, which was unusual for him when he was in his cups. And, with a self-satisfied look on his face, he was ostentatiously hiding something behind his back.

  “Egan O’Rahilly! I’m sick and fucking tired of your wormshit.” He stopped, obviously pleased with himself. “For the wormshit,” he repeated, “noise you been throwin’ at us, Egan O’Rahilly.”

  “Shut your mouth, Tom,” Egan said through tight lips. “Or else pour something into it. You know you haven’t anything to say. So don’t shame yourself by trying.”

  The other men murmured their agreement. For though Henneberry was one of the bosses belowground, in the groggery, everyone knew that Egan was master.

  “Egan, my boy,” Henneberry said, “I just told you that I don’t need to hear any more of your noise. Now you don’t go on to trying to tell me the same thing. You’re supposed to be smart and all that, Egan O’Rahilly. You’re supposed to know better than to call a man exactly what he calls you. Ain’t that so?” He looked around for support but didn’t decline when none was forthcoming.

  “All right, Tom,” Egan said, with a shrug of resignation, “tell me what’s cooking in that small black kettle on top of your head.” He now realized that Henneberry would not shut up until he spoke his piece. So Egan decided to endure it and get it over with.

  “I told you. No more of your noise. No more sad songs about the auld sod. I’m sick of the auld sod. We’re outta that place. And I’m glad it’s gone. And I’m glad I’m outta it.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “No,” he said grinning. “There’s more, Eee-gan OOO’ Rahilly.” He drawled out the name as though it were a loathsome obscenity.

  “Yes, Tom,” Egan said, as though to a child.

  “Don’t you like it here in this here country, Egan O’Rahilly, what took you in and give you a good job?”

  “You’re drunk, Tom,” he said. “You’re not making sense.”

  “You must not like it here in this land, you sing so much about the old country.”

  “I like it well enough, Tom. But I don’t see much difference between the Americans and the English. I got the same chances here as I did back home. And so did all the rest of us.”

  Henneberry weaved a bit. “Bullshit,” he said finally.

  “Do you feel grateful, Tom, for the golden opportunity to dig the earth a new anus?” And then to the crowd he said, “I do believe that Tom Henneberry likes digging into arse-holes.”

  The others laughed.

  “So how about some fiddle tunes?” Egan yelled out, changing the subject. “Who wants to dance?”

  “Right!” came voices in the crowd, relieved that the tension was being released.

  “Let’s dance!”

  “How about ‘Galway Girl,’ Egan?”

  “‘Galway Girl,’ it is then,” Egan said and reached behind him on the table where he had set his fiddle down.

  It wasn’t there.

  Egan bent over and looked under and behind the table. The fiddle wasn’t there, either.

  He stood up to his full height, searching for Patrick Geraghty. “Geraghty,” he called out, “where are you? What have you done with my fiddle?”

  Geraghty called back from somewhere in the crowd, “It’s not I that has it, Egan.”

  Tom Henneberry, meanwhile, had worked his way up from the bar to the front of the group.

  “Looking for something, Egan?” he said, with a smirk. He was still hiding something behind his back.

  “He’s got it,” someone else said.

  “That I have,” Henneberry said, lifting the fiddle up over his head. “And I aim to hear it no more.”

  “Give it to me, Tom,” Egan said, moving swiftly over to the larger man. He held his hand out toward the fiddle, but Henneberry snatched the instrument away.

  “Now Egan,” he said, grinning playfully.

  “Hand it over, I said.”

  “Fuck off,” Henneberry said. The hate that he had been unsuccessfully masking, now showed in full force. “Get lost, Egan O’Rahilly.”

  And then he brought his other meaty hand up over his head, and laughing, he snapped the instrument in two and then crushed it.

  Egan was swarming onto Henneberry before he had finished his act of destruction, but he was too enraged in the first instant of his fury to do the bigger man much damage.

  The other men were cheering both of them on, though it was clear who they favored. Tom Henneberry was no favorite with the laborers working the Gallitzin Tunnel.

  And Henneberry, who had managed in the heat of the moment, to shake off some of the confusion of his drunkenness, then wrapped the remnants of the fiddle around Egan’s head.

  “It looks better as a hat,” he said. “Sounds better, too.”

  Egan backed away and
then clawed at his face to get rid of the thing. Those in front of the crowd retreated to give the two men room to fight.

  “Back further off,” Egan shouted, not liking at all the small space he’d have to fight in. His only hope against Henneberry’s strength and size, he knew, was his own speed and quickness.

  A few of the men pushed farther back against those behind them, but because the room was so tightly packed, there was no place for them to go.

  Henneberry must have realized much the same thing, for he came at Egan then with a great, lumbering rush, stumbling a couple of times as he moved.

  That pleased Egan. The booze in Henneberry’s brain was making its presence felt. It would be Egan’s best ally.

  Then Henneberry crashed into Egan, pummeling him with his fists. Egan darted away, flicking four or five jabs into the big man’s gut, but Henneberry kept coming, landing no more than one blow for every three of Egan’s. Yet his every blow hurt Egan greatly.

  Henneberry had a cut over his eye and in his mouth, and he was breathing hard and heavy. Egan’s jabs were taking their toll.

  Tom stumbled again, and then he seemed to stagger. And Egan let down his attention for a moment. But the bigger man recovered in a flash—indeed the whole move was a feint—and suddenly his arms were around Egan’s arms and body in a crushing vise of a grasp. There was no way Egan could retaliate as long as Tom held his grip. And if he didn’t get out of it, he would be in trouble, for the breath was being squeezed out of him.

  The crowd groaned.

  Henneberry was trying to force Egan to the floor, and Egan seemed unable to stop him. The big man roared to celebrate his success. Then he squeezed harder. Egan gasped and choked, overwhelmed by a sickening rush of unconsciousness.

  Now it was Egan’s turn for a surprise move: He stopped struggling against Henneberry’s attempts to force him to the floor. Instead, he threw all of his own energy and momentum downward, and the two men crashed into the dirt. Before Henneberry could recover, Egan had squirmed away and leapt to his feet. And while the big man was pulling himself together, Egan kicked him in the head.

  Henneberry swung a paw unsteadily at Egan’s leg but missed his aim by several inches, and Egan kicked him again. And again. This time in the gut. Henneberry was roaring, but in pain this time. Still, he wasn’t beaten yet. One of his flailing hands finally caught Egan’s pants’ leg, and with a quick twist, Henneberry brought Egan down once more into the dirt. Then his other hand snaked out and grabbed Egan’s shirt below his throat. He turned and pounded Egan’s face with his other fist, but Henneberry was too hurt and tired and drunk to do Egan serious damage. Then Egan once again slipped away from him and was back on his feet, kicking the other man in the head and body. He kicked Henneberry until he stopped moving. Then he backed away and circled the big man, making sure he was truly unconscious.

  The crowd sent out a raucous, happy cheer. They yelled again when Egan made a break through the circle the crowd had made for the fighters. As he moved among the men, their faces blurred in his unclear vision. He suddenly saw a glass in front of his face. It was brimful of rum. A hand was attached to it. The hand belonged to Patrick Geraghty. He was saying something, but Egan was having a hard time making out his friend’s words.

  “Drink this, boy. It’ll do you powerful good,” Patrick said.

  Egan waved his friend off once he finally understood. He wanted fresh air now.

  Moments later, outside, Egan stood and breathed in the air, gasping. Then he walked a little way and stopped to look up at the sky. The stars were lovely, and they seemed so close. There was a sliver of the moon overhead, shining brightly in the clear sky.

  He threw up, heaving again and again until there was nothing left inside of his stomach. After that he walked up the hill and found a large flattened boulder, and he collapsed onto it.

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them, young Ferdy O’Dowd was standing over him. Ferdy held a damp rag in his hand, and he began washing Egan’s bloody, grimy face.

  “You all right, Egan?” he asked softly, with concern in his voice.

  “Not bad,” Egan said. He tried to sit up, but he failed. “And not good.”

  “Tom Henneberry’s still out cold, I guess. At least he was when I left.”

  “Aye.”

  “When he wakes up, he’s goin’ to come lookin’ for you.”

  “I know.”

  “You stayin’?”

  “Aye. I’ll work Monday. That’s for sure.”

  “You’re mad, Egan O’Rahilly. I’d go. I’d run a thousand miles away. That man will try to kill you. And he has hundreds of ways to do it.”

  “He’s been in fights before. He’ll be in fights again. One fight to him is pretty much like any other.”

  “But he hates you, Egan. Don’t you see that? It’s not just any kind of brawl. It took evil in his heart to break that fiddle of yours.”

  Egan looked at the boy, agreeing with him but not able to bring himself to say it. Henneberry was going to be more dangerous than a bear uprooted from winter’s sleep. But Egan was not going to run. Not from him.

  And then grief over the lost fiddle swelled up in his heart —not just for the fiddle itself but for his father, whose fiddle it had been and who had taught him to play, and for his mother and his two younger sisters. All lost.

  He wept softly, while Ferdy O’Dowd stood and helplessly watched.

  Late that same Saturday evening, long after the dedication ceremony had ended and the Carlysles had returned to Sturdivant’s Hotel on Chestnut Street, Kitty Lancaster was sitting in the parlor of her father’s home. After her husband had died, Kitty had returned to live with her father. She needed a home and he needed her, for her mother had died when Kitty was still a girl.

  Kitty held a book in her hands, and now and again she read from it. But her mind was not really on the novel. She was waiting restlessly for Edgar Thomson to return. Her father was not only the chief engineer of the Pennsylvania line, he was a member of its board of directors. He and the other directors of the line were attending a dinner meeting that evening. And Kitty was most interested in finding out what had gone on there, for the dinner meeting was vital to the railroad’s immediate future. It was the primary reason for the presence in Philadelphia this day of the financiers William Astor, Daniel Drew, and Cornelius Vanderbilt.

  The Pennsylvania needed money—a lot of it, at least five million dollars—in order to complete the mountain division. In the past, the state of Pennsylvania and the cities of Philadelphia and Pittsburgh had provided the major part of the capital the line required. In consequence, the state and the cities owned nearly half of the railroad’s outstanding stock. But that source of capital was almost spent. The state and the cities had invested in the line to the limit of their revenues.

  This meant that William Patterson, the railroad’s president, had to find other sources of capital. So far, at his direction the line had issued sixty thousand new shares of stock. But there had been few takers. If these shares didn’t sell quickly, or if some other source of funds was not found, then work on the mountain division would have to be halted.

  On the other hand, if William Patterson failed in his efforts to bring in new capital, the board of directors would surely have to replace him. And his most likely successor was John Edgar Thomson.

  Kitty believed that William Patterson was cheerful, amiable, and agreeable, but weak. He was more suited in her mind to preside over church functions and civic banquets than to run a precarious—and exciting—new enterprise. He placated government officials with skill and finesse; he was a pleasant companion at gatherings of the Philadelphia business community; and he struck a nice pose when necessary, but he was not ruthless enough for Kitty Lancaster, nor ferocious enough in his ambition. He was more interested in being liked and respected than in planting the Pennsylvania’s rails across the mountains and making the resulting line the richest and most powerful one on the continent. He was not, in shor
t, anything close to the man her father was.

  So if he failed and was thrown out, Kitty would be quite pleased. She wanted her father to become the president of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

  Kitty was dressed for bed, wearing a robe over her sleeping gown. The day’s excitement had exhausted her, yet she was instantly wide awake when her father finally arrived home. It was after midnight.

  Edgar Thomson smiled broadly when he saw that she had waited up for him. He was delighted to have companionship after the trying board meeting. Edgar Thomson adored Kitty Lancaster. He had no friend better than Kitty. Their was no one who could give him greater comfort, or who could heal his wounds as she could.

  In her entire life she had only failed him three times: she had been born a woman; she had married Charles Lancaster, a man who at first had looked promising, but who turned out to be weak and lacking in ambition; and for a time, she had let herself fall in love with a man who had hurt her. This relationship had come not long after Charles’s death, and perhaps that explained why it happened at all. But, to Edgar Thomson’s immense relief, the relationship had fortunately ended, for the man was an employee of the railroad.

  Thomson stood in the doorway of the parlor before entering the room. He waited there until Kitty noticed him.

  “Hello, Father,” she said, finally looking up from her book.

  “Hello, Kitty,” he said. “You waited up for me?”

  “I couldn’t sleep tonight. Not with all that is going on.”

  She made a move to turn down the lamp that was on the table beside her chair, but Thomson raised his hand to stop her. “Don’t do that, Kitty. You look very good sitting there under the light,” he said. “It turns your skin into gold, and your cheeks into roses.”

  “I should have married you,” she said, smiling at his compliments. “I would have, if that were possible.”

  “I like you as you are,” Thomson said. “You are utter perfection as my daughter.”

  She smiled again and blushed. “You’ve been reading?” he asked.