The Metropolitan Clan, Ch. 41
Recommended Listening:
The Ballad of John Henry
John Henry stretched his muscles in the gathering dawn light of the Nevada desert.
He'd heard, back in Maryland, that the Central Pacific Railroad, coming from out California way, was going to put tunnels through some of the hardest, highest mountains in the world. Mountains twice as big as any in the Appalachians and made out of tougher stone. He'd heard that the pay would be fit to match. California was where gold came from, wasn't it?
Working and planning his way on steamships down into the sweltering Caribbean, walking along trails across the jungle of Panama with its own hills- they talked of a canal, and
that would be a job to daunt even him- and back up the Pacific coast hadn't been easy or simple, but he and Elizabeth had managed it. And finding a job on the line had been easier than he'd feared.
He'd heard the stories. After problems with drunkenness, unreliability, and desertion among the white workforce, the railroad's construction boss, Mr. Strobridge, had started hiring anyone he could get. Mostly Chinese, mostly. That had been going on long enough by the time John even arrived, that all he'd had to do to get a job driving steel at good pay was put a rusty spike through a railroad tie.
He'd heard talk of the company bringing up Luthor steam drills to speed up the tunneling. Now, John reckoned he could beat any machine ever made, but he hadn't had to. When the prototype showed up, and the Steam and Steel man who'd come to market the drills got one up against a rock face, the drill shattered against the cold, hard granite of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Mr. Strobridge had laughed, then, and told him that he wouldn't be bothered. Though he'd bought a few of the little wood-fired donkey engines, to wind winches and haul cables. Those helped- but it seemed only men could fight the mountains.
He'd faced twenty-foot snowdrifts along with the Chinamen, snow so deep that locomotives couldn't plow it off the tracks; they simply derailed. Men had been forced to build miles of covered roofs along the tracks, to keep the snow off. They'd faced avalanches, and cold more bitter than a Maryland boy had ever imagined. The cold of these mountains could freeze a man to his soul. Could freeze him solid in November, lost and snowbound, and leave him like a statue of ice to be found by his friends, as the white drifts finally melted and drifted away in the spring.
And in the face of all that, he'd battled his way through the mountains along with swarms of little Chinamen. Thousands of them. Most of them worked as hard and as well as any men he'd ever seen, be they black, red, yellow, white, or green with purple stripes. The Chinese handled gunpowder and the mysterious, greasy chemical oil called 'nitro-glycerine' with courage and skill, they teamed up and got jobs done without too much nonsense and squabbling. And John Henry had been working right along with them, driving holes into the rock with chisel and sledgehammer so that it could be shattered by charges of explosive.
They'd slammed a tunnel through the summit of the mountains, high above the pass that had claimed the Donner Party, a third of a mile long if it was an inch. They'd done it with sledgehammers and cold-steel tools that ran back and forth to the blacksmiths' shops in camp in endless succession, worn down by the hard rock.
That was just the Summit Tunnel. There were fourteen more. And through it all, he'd driven steel.
He'd worked like three men, and made the pay of a man and a half. And near every penny of it, he'd mailed back to Sacramento and his wife Elizabeth, and his newborn son. He hoped she could save it up- because that would make it all worth it.
Mid-Morning
Running. Running. Under the noonday sun of the desert.
The rails were handled by teams of eight men, and John Henry hadn't been surprised when he'd been picked. Quadruple pay was attractive enough and then some.
He gripped one end of the rail on the flatcar with tongs- even his fingers might slip and drop the five hundred pound rail on a foot without them- and
jerked. Hauling it along by main force, he felt it as the burly Irishmen behind him laid their own tongs on and steadied the thing- though the three of them bunched towards the rear, and he felt as though he was doing half the lifting by himself.
They advanced at a trot that was automatic by now, manhandling the rail ten, twenty, thirty yards- careful, careful, THUMP as they laid it on the ties into the track gauge, resting on the ties that had already been dropped into place by men working from horse-drawn wagons. Then
run back to the wagon for the next. And the next. Again, and again, unloading wagon after wagon of heavy iron rails while the platemen bustled behind them, plying their own heavy tools and bucketloads of plates, bolts, and spikes to fix the rails in place. Again, again.
And again and again, Muldoon's beaming grin. Muldoon, the Irishman across the tracks from him, a figure of prodigious strength himself. Many a man in the railroad camps had bet on who would win between them in an arm wrestling match. John Henry and Muldoon had eyed each other and with a mutual nod of agreement,
not decided to find out.
To this day they'd never tried, though John Henry reckoned he'd win. Probably, so did Muldoon. Either way, though, now they were working together. How far had they gotten? Four miles of track? Five? Six? John Henry had long since lost count of the time and the rails.
Even
he was starting to ache.
But he was part of the Central Pacific crew- and they had a bet to win.
A bet against Mister Luthor, no less. The rich man had- well, had through his agents- dealt fairly enough with John Henry in the last year of the war, sure enough. But the year before
that, Luthor had owned the chain on his ankle- and him, too. That wasn't a thing a man forgot about.
It wouldn't do John Henry any harm, to know he'd helped wipe a grin off Mister Luthor's face.
Lunchtime
The ringing chorus of hammers pounding rails into curved shapes against the jig blocks laid on the ground sounded across the moving 'site' as teams of Chinese started preparing the afternoon's track.
John Henry eyed the Chinese, dressed in a style that no longer seemed odd to him and shaded by from the desert sun by the straw hats that were seldom far from their hands. Then he spoke, in a quiet voice that was followed by Muldoon's quiet exhalation of disbelief.
"That's sledgehammer work." John stood up, stretching and feeling as if his arms would reach the sky. "Reckon I can lend a hand, if they'll have me."
Ogden, Utah
April 29, 1869
Union Pacific Railroad Telegraph Office
Leland Luthor had bounced out of bed early, with a boyish eagerness. Sims had wired him the day before yesterday that Crocker and the Central Pacific were massing resources for their push. He could imagine it well enough, from his own success hardly a week earlier. Train after train for mile. No doubt Crocker and his man Strobridge had done the best they could.
He smirked. John Ericsson couldn't out-ironclad him, when he got a head of steam on. John Garrett couldn't out-boardroom him. Alfred Nobel couldn't out-chemist him- he'd figured out the secret of the man's vaunted "dynamite" easily enough. And nothing the
famous General Lee could think of could out-fight his land ironclads.
Charlie Crocker couldn't out-railroad him.
Oh, surely the man was no fool or weakling. Surely, he'd given it a good try. He'd probably driven his little Chinese like Luthor had driven his own men, from before dawn until the stroke of midnight. Maybe driven them harder; Leland
had done his best to make sure none of the boys dropped dead of the exhaustion. But even so, he knew in his belly that Crocker, like Ericsson, Garrett, Nobel, and Lee, had done his best to match Leland Luthor. And
lost. Because if the Central Pacific couldn't even manage seven miles last time, how would they beat a nine mile record-
The telegraph began to chatter. Leland's Morse code was good enough by now that he recognized the telegrapher's fist, tapping the message out.
...That was the recognition code. Leland had no intention of allowing himself to be pranked or tricked....
Leland felt his mind float loose. This couldn't be happening. He'd misheard the message. Somehow. He looked down at the operator, even more practiced following Morse than he was. Surely he'd-
The operator's face was white, and his hand shook slightly as he scrawled out the message in shorthand.
He hadn't misheard the message.
With a cry he flew to the map table in the next room, nearly crashing headlong into a file clerk carrying a box of papers. He looked down at the route tacked onto the map of northern Utah with string, snatched up calipers, drawing-table reflexes keeping his arm steady. Eleven miles- eleven and a quarter, call it… That… that would put the Central Pacific barely two miles from Promontory Point!
He could beat eleven miles. He could. He'd find a way. Except… except…
There weren't eleven miles, nor yet ten, between the Union Pacific railhead and Promontory Point.
There wasn't
distance for him to break this record. Even if… even if he could,
somehow, beat the nine mile record that he could have sworn took every ounce of skill he and all the men under him could attain…
He… couldn't… win.
"Mister Luthor! Mister Luthor, are you all right?"
Leland Luthor turned to another clerk, a rather more senior and distinguished one. He forced his teeth into some parody of a smile.
"I owe Charlie Crocker ten thousand silver dollars."