The Titans by John Jakes
Dr. Durant recognized a major problem confronting the Union Pacific. A record of accomplishment was needed to attract capital and reverse unfavorable public opinion. Accomplishment! Track laid! The line wouldn’t even be in business permanently unless the hundredth meridian was reached.
But slogans and rallying cries weren’t enough to overcome the obstacles facing the U.P. First, every bit of equipment, food, water, and rolling stock had to be brought to Omaha by freight wagon or by steam packet from St. Joseph or St. Louis. The two nearest railroads east of the Missouri, the Rock Island and the Cedar Rapids & Missouri, both stopped a good hundred and fifty miles short of the river—as Michael had discovered when he’d journeyed west from Chicago. He, Murphy, and the other Paddies had completed the last stage of their trip by coach and on foot.
No bridge existed between Council Bluffs and Omaha. Anything arriving by wagon had to be ferried around the Missouri’s dangerous sandbars. The line’s very first Danforth and Cooke locomotive, the Major General Sherman, had been shipped in sections on a riverboat and laboriously reassembled at its destination.
The Central Pacific had been luckier on a couple of important counts. The forested slopes of the Sierras provided all the hardwood the line needed to fuel its engines—and for ties. The Nebraska plains, by contrast, had no trees except the porous and unsatisfactory cottonwood.
The C.P. also faced no immediate threats of Indian trouble along its first miles of roadbed. But the line had to traverse mountains—blasting and tunneling through, or creating torturous switchback cuts that wound around the peaks. Charles Crocker, the line’s construction boss, had found a solution to the unwillingness of some men to risk themselves in such hazardous work. Crocker had begun to hire Chinese. The so-called Celestials proved to be first-class powder monkeys, expert at working with the explosives used to blast a path through solid granite.
Michael had read that not a few of the white men working on the Central Pacific hated the Chinese. But Crocker was delighted with them. They worked diligently, and had one appealing moral virtue their white brethren lacked: they drank nothing stronger than tea. Crocker’s inspiration had been lauded in a toast that amused Michael: “To the Pacific Railroad—the only piece of crockery ware made out of China.”
In spite of minor successes, such as Crocker’s discovery of a workforce that could plow through the Sierras without fear and without delay, Michael knew skepticism about the concept of a transcontinental line remained widespread. Even four short years before, the Union hero of the Georgia and Carolina march—the very man for whom the Union Pacific’s Engine Number 1 had been named—had greeted the first Railroad Act with the comment that he wouldn’t care to spend money on a coast-to-coast ticket to be used by his grandchildren.
Both railroads were drawing their share of press criticism, though for some reason roving correspondents treated the Central Pacific less harshly than they did the eastern line. Headquarters was reportedly still grumbling about articles by the editor of the influential Springfield, Massachusetts, Republican. He’d written that the job of laying track across the relatively level plains was “baby work.” He and other Eastern pundits couldn’t fathom why the Union Pacific was progressing so slowly—unless, as many said, it had been destined to fail from the beginning.
But now 1866 looked to be a watershed, thanks to the arrival of the Casement brothers, John S. and Daniel T. Jack Casement had been brevetted to brigadier in the Union army. He was almost constantly at the railhead. Daniel remained in Omaha, calculating how many five-hundred-pound rails or chemically treated cottonwood ties were needed each day, or journeying out to the supply bases at Fremont and Kearney to coordinate the schedules of the iron trams.
To be accurate, the Casements didn’t work directly for the Union Pacific. Nor did Michael or Murphy and/or any of the other rust eaters. The actual work of building the road was contracted by a company called the Crédit Mobilier. In French the name meant movable loan. The Crédit Mobilier sold its services directly to the U.P. Some said its prices were never questioned.
That rumor tended to validate another Michael had heard about Dr. Durant and some of his fellow U.P. directors. It was said they also served secretly as directors of the subcontracting firm. If that were true, Michael saw no reason why a mile of track couldn’t be billed at twice or triple its actual cost. One pocket, in effect, would pay another. In a cynical way he almost admired the suspected scheme. It would make thievery on a stupendous scale not only possible but easy.
In fact he’d reflected that such an arrangement might one day attract the interest, and money, of Mr. Louis Kent. Louis was at home among men willing to take not altogether legal risks for immense gain. One such venture—a trading company formed to do business secretly with the South during the early days of the war—had been exposed by Michael, Jephtha Kent, and the Boston banker, Joshua Rothman.
Jephtha had published a series of newspaper articles on Louis’ company, Federal Suppliers. In those days Jephtha had been Washington correspondent for the Kent paper, The New York Union. But Jephtha had rashly warned Louis about the series prior to publication, hoping the matter could be settled quietly. Michael had told Jephtha that Louis would never dismantle a profitable business solely because of a threat, and he’d been right. Jephtha had been discharged from the Union, and Rothman had been forced to arrange for the articles to appear in Greeley’s Tribune.
Michael’s role had been that of a corroborative witness. Along with Rothman, he’d been present when Louis made his original proposal about setting up the company. Thus he was able to verify Rothman’s statements in Jephtha’s copy.
The company had vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived. Louis had suffered severe public embarrassment, though no actual prosecution had been launched by the government since the company was not in existence long enough to engage in a provably illegal act. If there had been a desire in Washington to prefer charges against Louis, Michael had never heard of it. After disconnecting himself from the Kent’s longtime law firm, Benbow and Benbow—like the Rothman Bank, too scrupulous an institution for his taste—Louis had hired other lawyers. Michael suspected he’d sent one or two of them hustling to the capital to distribute cash and make sure any contemplated government action was quashed.
Louis had also avoided substantial monetary loss simply because he’d planned to set up Federal Suppliers with funds that were not actually his. He meant to use the California gold money Amanda Kent had pyramided and left to Jephtha, her cousin Jared’s son. That money would one day pass to Jephtha’s three boys.
Rothman had balked at the proposal. He was chief steward of Amanda’s California holdings, and refused to permit Louis to manipulate the accrued profits. Out of the conflict came Rothman’s conviction that for the sake of the family’s honor, Louis must be stopped—no matter where he finally secured his capital. He had been stopped.
Even though Louis had experienced no depletion of his personal fortune, the scandal was enough to earn Michael, Jephtha, and the banker the undying enmity of the young financier. That was another reason Michael had been glad to leave the East. He wasn’t so much afraid of Louis as sick of him and all he represented. Rather, all he failed to represent after the Kent family had built its fortune and reputation through a combination of idealism and honest, unashamed enterprise.
Michael seldom thought about Louis anymore—or any of the eastern Kents, for that matter.
Except Julia.
A vivid image of her face troubled him again as the line edged forward to the dining car. The image vanished when he became aware of someone watching him from a similar line at the car’s far end.
It was the crew boss he and Murphy had discussed earlier. The Virginian, Captain Leonidas Worthing.
ii
Worthing wore a straw hat and faded gray duster. A stump of cigar jutted from his teeth. He claimed to have served with Mosby’s Partisan Rangers. There were a great many veterans in Jack Casement’s little
The light spreading over the Prairie lit Worthing’s unfriendly face as men began to leave the dining car, their turn at the tables over. Worthing tossed away his cigar and elbowed his way to the head of the line. A workman objected. Worthing said a few words that made the worker flush and back away.
The Southerner turned his back on the man he’d intimidated. He stared at Michael again, tapping a leather riding crop against his faded trouser leg.
Lord, how Michael detested that swaggering oaf! Twice he’d protested when Worthing badgered some member of Michael’s gang, which was only one of several gangs the Virginian supervised. One argument had nearly reached the point of violence. Then General Jack Casement had stepped in. Casement stressed cooperation. The work was arduous enough without personal feuds being added to the burden. But Leonidas Worthing didn’t share Casement’s philosophy.
Half a dozen Paddies came clattering down the steps. The car was emptying quickly. As Michael and Murphy moved forward again, they saw one of their crew walking toward them from the head end. Evidently he’d already eaten; he was picking at his upper gum with the point of a Bowie knife.
“Hallo, Christian,” Murphy called, waving.
“Morning, lads.” The young man nodded, wiping his knife on the sleeve of his old wool shirt.
Christian was lean and dark, with high cheekbones and straight black hair that reminded Michael of Jephtha. Christian admitted to being a Delaware Indian and hailing from Ohio, but that was all anyone knew about him. Startling blue eyes suggested at least one white parent or grandparent. Whether he’d been given his name as a symbol of a hoped-for religious conversion, or merely because it had a pleasing sound, was a mystery. But he was soft-spoken, well-mannered and mule-strong. He amused Michael because he liked to sprinkle his conversation with words and phrases picked up from the Paddies.
“How’s the beef?” Murphy asked him.
“Tougher than usual. Beans about the same. Potatoes overcooked. Boiled to mush, practically.”
“Ah, that’s plenty good enough for you, Chief,” another man in line laughed. Christian took it in good humor:
“Don’t sauce me, spud-grubber, or I’ll utter my celebrated bloodcurdling whoop and summon the tribe to relieve you of your none too attractive hair.” Less cheerfully, he leaned close to Michael. “I had the misfortune to run into himself as I was coming out.”
“The captain?”
Christian nodded. “Keep clear. He’s in a nasty mood.”
Murphy sighed. “When is he not?”
“Nastier than usual, I mean. See you presently, lads.” The Indian drifted away.
Murphy shook his head. “He talks prettier English than men born to it. Bet his old man was a missionary who went wild in one of them Ohio villages where the savages beat the drums an’ dance nekkid all night.”
“Sean, don’t ever visit Ohio.”
“I passed through Cleveland on my way to Chicago. Never seen the natives, though.”
“The natives, as you call them, would sorely disappoint you. They don’t beat drums, nor do their dusky daughters dance under the moon. In fact they don’t have dusky daughters. They’re just a lot of proper second-generation farmers and mechanics who hop after the coin six days a week and pray on Sunday.”
“Just good Americans, huh?” Murphy said, grinning. Then he yelled at some Paddies who’d stopped to chat in the car entrance, “Will you kindly get your fannies down here so those of us still waitin’ can have a chance at the elegant fare?”
“Oh, don’t be in no hurry, Sean Murphy,” one of the group called back. “You’ve no surprises waiting.”
There were seldom surprises at mealtime. Though wholesome enough, the morning, noon, and evening menus were the same seven days a week, except when an occasional band of independent buffalo hunters rode in to sell a fresh kill. But the Union Pacific bread was always newly baked and warm, the coffee strong—and at the moment Michael was ravenous, perhaps because of the crispness of the air. It smelled of autumn.
He wondered if they really would reach the meridian before the first heavy snow. If not, the line would probably go under. Winter on the plains was reported to be brutal; he already knew construction would be halted during the worst months.
Finally the car entrance cleared, and the line moved faster. Michael followed his friend inside. A long table ran from end to end, with benches on either side. A little sunlight leaked through grimy windows, but hanging lamps were still needed.
Two Paddies on the far side finished their meals. To leave, they climbed on the bench and walked across the table, incurring the wrath of a cook’s helper bringing in a fresh platter of beef and a wooden bucket of steaming coffee.
Other helpers with long-handled rag swabs darted in and out among the men who were scrambling to find places. Each tin plate was nailed down, only the coffee cups standing free. The helpers used the swabs to wipe each plate quickly.
Michael and his companion wedged in among the workers spreading out along the benches. Experience had taught Michael not to hesitate. He planted himself in front of a plate, grabbed a fork, and stabbed a slab of beef. Another fork from the other side narrowly missed his wrist.
He jerked the beef to his plate, then shoved his cup through a thicket of hands around the coffee bucket. He managed to dip out a full cup without spilling any. He lifted a leg over to the bench, ready to sit down, and felt a tap on his shoulder.
Across the table, three men grabbing handfuls of potatoes quieted suddenly. Sean Murphy, already seated, glanced behind Michael, then directly at him, with a look of warning. Michael’s scalp prickled.
With deliberate slowness, Michael laid his fork beside his heaped plate. Then he put the coffee cup down. He turned to find Captain Leonidas Worthing pushing up the brim of his straw hat with his riding crop.
“Boyle, you’ve taken my spot. Move somewhere else.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.
Chapter III
The Captain
i
“BOYLE, I’M WAITING.”
Leonidas Worthing said it with an insincere smile that revealed brown teeth. At the right corner of his mouth, a sore glistened. A little souvenir from one of the soiled doves of Omaha, perhaps?
Michael held his temper. “I see no place cards, Captain.”
“True, but I decided to sit here so I can speak to Murphy about speeding up the work of your gang. Of all the ones I’m in charge of, it’s by far the worst. Too many weak sisters.” He left no doubt that he included Michael. “Fellows who’d rather bellyache than earn a day’s wages honestly.”
Michael knew what the Virginian meant by bellyaching: remarks he’d made over a pipe after working hours. They’d evidently reached the captain through someone who toadied to him. But the remarks were truthful.
Still getting no response, Worthing grew impatient. “If you intend to dispute my right to this seat, Boyle, kindly tell me.”
On the other side of the table, one man nudged another expectantly. Michael refused to be forced into a quarrel.
“Captain,” he said quietly, “why is it you’re always hunting excuses to fight?”
Worthing surprised him with a laugh.
“Because I believe in doing a good job!”
“And because you’re not partial to Yanks?”
“If you expect me to be partial to your kind, you’re a fool. I rode with Colonel Mosby, you know.”
“Aye, so we’ve heard,” Murphy sighed. “A score of times.”
“But I never told you the circumstances of my capture, did I? I had the misfortune to lose my mount and get caught by some of General Custer’s glory hunters. You know what those kindly fellows did before they loaded me on a prisoner train? They gave me a dose of their favorite punishment. Tied me to a wagon wheel. Arms over my head—” The crop shot up as he pantomimed it. “Legs s
“Jaysus, Captain,” Murphy gulped. “I was attemptin’ to enjoy my breakfast.”
The Virginian paid no attention. “One of my fellow prisoners on the train said that when I was put aboard, I had spit—foam—all over my chin. I couldn’t remember my own name for the best part of a day. Handsome treatment for an officer, wouldn’t you say?”
Michael shrugged again. “I can’t excuse it. But I wasn’t there. I’m not to blame.”
“Oh, yes.” Worthing jabbed the crop into his chest. “You wore the blue.”
“You’re going to harass every Union man in this outfit just because you were treated badly?”
“Harass! Mighty fine word for a slum Irishman.” Another jab with the crop. “Mighty fine!”
Michael’s temper was heating. He seized the crop and pushed it down. “Of course I forget one fact. You don’t limit yourself to harassing men. Last week you practically whipped that lorry-car boy to death with this thing. And merely because he was a little clumsy handling the horse. You surely didn’t learn much from John Mosby, Captain. You didn’t learn men work better when they’re led, not driven. I suspect you’re too stupid to learn anything so simple.”
Livid, Worthing swung the crop. “You damned high-assed mick!”
Michael’s right hand shot across to catch Worthing’s forearm. The dining car was completely silent.
There was a test of strength as Michael struggled to hold Worthing’s arm steady. His face reddened. Veins rose thick on the back of his hand.
Worthing tried to wrench away. Michael held him. But his anger had subsided a little; he thought it best to bring the confrontation back into saner limits.
“Captain, if we keep this up”—a quick gasp for breath—“we won’t be ready to work at six thirty. What do you say we both try to forget the war’s over?”