The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe

by Patrick Betson

  Mark was forgiven for not working the next day. He went around in a trance unable to focus, nor give any thought to anything outside his impending doom. He thought about visiting his brother in Carson City, but the temptation not to come back would have been too strong. Everyone at the Enterprise was exuberant, greeting him with more affection than he had experienced at any time over the past three years. He greeted their cheery faces with a weak, forced smile. He felt this odious weight of duty, and he vowed if he should, by some miracle, survive tomorrow’s ordeal then he would leave Virginia City for good.

  There had been good times, especially when Artemus Ward had come to visit. He wondered how Artemus would have handled a similar situation. He imagined Artemus holding onto his lapels and saying, “When reality doesn’t add up to much, pretend you’re hiding something. Sow the seeds of doubt!”

  However, Mark was too busy pretending he wasn’t scared, to pretend he was quietly confident.

  Steve Gillis was the only person who really knew Mark’s state of mind, and he was determined to allay his friend’s fears. He went round to Mark’s dwelling early on the morning of the duel, while it was still dark. Mark was lying on his bed, fully clothed; he had watched the flickering oil lamp dance upon the ceiling for hours. His mind was now resigned, which relieved the constant mental anguish of planning some escape. He did not know his opponent Laird well, which was probably a blessing, but he could not remember ever seeing Laird with a gun. That might indicate that he too was not used to firearms. He had determined to let Laird fire the first shot. If Laird missed, then he would miss too, on purpose (if he could!)

  “Sam, are you ready?” Mark jumped, even though Steve’s voice was barely a whisper.

  As Mark opened the door he said with some indifference, “Is anyone ever ready to die, Steve?”

  Steve walked into the room and looked hard at his friend in the flickering light. “Enough of that Sam, you are not going to die. I won’t let you.”

  Mark managed a small smile; his friend’s words smacked of sincerity. Steve’s confidence was what he needed now above all else.

  “I told you we would have some target practice. I spent two bits on a watermelon and it will make a fine target. There’s Hampton’s barn on the edge of town just before Gold Hill, and we’ll place the watermelon on top of the barn door. I’ve got my service revolver, my Colt 45, and plenty of bullets.”

  The early morning air was cold as they arrived at Hampton’s barn, the pale light of dawn just visible above the distant hills in the east. Gillis placed the watermelon on top of the door of the disused barn. He had Mark stand some thirty paces away and went through the basics of aiming and firing a weapon. Mark thought he had a pretty good idea of the basics, but felt he was a little unknowing on the finer details. Steve emphasized that a duel was not like a gunfight. Quite often a gunfight depended on who fired the quickest. A duel was a more measured affair. In a gunfight, a gun might be fired from the hip; in a duel, one had to aim, by raising the pistol with an extended arm and to look along the barrel. It was important to be deliberate: a dueling pistol fired in haste often resulted in missing the target and then having to suffer an excruciating wait while your opponent took his time. Neither protagonist was allowed to move until both firearms were discharged.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder, Steve Gillis gave his service revolver to Mark. In effortless fashion, Steve pulled out his Colt 45 from its holster and shot a hole, straight through the center of the watermelon. Mark was dumfounded, “What was all that nonsense about aiming?”

  “I have a feel for guns. I used to hunt rabbits when I was seven years old. You will need to aim your firearm, so take your time and try to hit the watermelon.”

  Mark took aim with the service revolver and then for some unknown reason, he closed his eyes. His shot missed. He not only missed the watermelon, he missed the biggest barn in the county. Steve looked wide-eyed at his friend. Not even in his wildest imagination did he think Mark could be that bad. “Alright Sam, first of all don’t close both your eyes. You need to keep at least one eye open. Keep your mind firm, keep your hand firm, and keep your weapon firm. Shut everything else out of your mind but hitting the target.”

  There was little improvement over the next half an hour. Mark fired more than twenty shots and hit the barn seven times, but he never did hit the watermelon. Steve was now genuinely worried; it was impossible that Laird could be worse than his friend. Steve was thinking that Sam’s only hope was for Laird not to show. However, less than half a mile away, on the other side of Gold Hill, a bucket was hanging from a nail at the entrance of a disused mine. Laird and his second had hung the bucket there for a target. (Each bullet that hit the bucket had produced a ringing echo from the shaft.) The bucket was full of holes; Laird had hit his target more times than he had missed, and when he did miss the bucket, it was never by much

  Satisfied with his preparation, Laird and his second started to make for the base of Gold Hill; on their way they would have to pass Hampton’s barn. As they approached the barn, they could hear a rapid firing of shots. In his frustration, Steve had hastily put several holes in the watermelon. Mark had not fired a shot in the last couple of minutes; he was mesmerized by Steve’s sudden activity. Mark had stood there frozen, pointing his gun at the watermelon while his friend had virtually cut the melon in half.

  Just as Laird was able to make out Twain’s figure from a distance, Steve had also seen Laird out the corner of his eye. Gillis quickly moved to Mark’s far side and shot off the head of a mud-hen that happened by the barn. It fluttered and fell to the ground right below the watermelon.

  “Yes, nice shot, Sam. But if you’re finished with the watermelon there’s no need to shoot off the heads of defenseless birds!” Gillis raised his voice in order for Laird to hear. Laird could now see the headless mud-hen flapping in the dirt by the barn door.

  Laird turned to his second, who stared open-mouthed and started shaking his head. Laird looked first at the headless bird, and then back toward his adversary. To take a mud-hen’s head off in mid-flight was an unbelievable shot.

  After a brief discussion with his second, Laird walked up to Twain and begged his indulgence. He told Twain that he had no wish to commit suicide, and that if it was all right he would quietly leave town and there would be no need to continue with this affair. Gillis was just about to speak, but Twain clamped a hand on his shoulder to silence him. Twain gave a conciliatory smile to his opponent and told Laird that he had no wish to kill him either. The two shook hands, and Laird and his second turned to leave.

  After they were safely out of view, Mark sank to the ground. His heart had been racing the whole time and how he had managed to present a calm exterior to Laird was in it-self remarkable. However, he knew he owed everything to his friend, whose ability with a gun had been matched with some very fast thinking. Mark sat on the ground and looked up at his friend.

  Steve smiled a broad smile “I told you I wouldn’t let you die!”

  The old Chinese woman had gone as far as the old stone bridge. She walked with difficulty, but she wanted to be with her son a little longer before she said goodbye. She felt it would be the last time they would ever see each other. The son was feeling the same pain of separation, but knew he could not stay in the village he had grown up in, because it would be the village he would die in, if he did not take this opportunity to go now. His father had died a few years earlier, a poor and a prematurely old man who had known nothing except a hard existence scraping a living from the land. Jung Lo did not want the same fate. He kissed his mother at the bridge and turned. He did not look back. He walked rapidly with his Chinese queue bouncing from side to side behind his head. From the bridge the old woman watched his disappearing figure, until she could see him no more.

  Jung Lo was born just outside Hangzhuo, in China’s Zhejian Province, in 1844. His family had been poor farmers for centuries and his only real prospects were to become a poor farmer too. As a sign of
his poor background, Jung Lo wore the pigtail of serfdom. Slightly built and barely five feet tall, he was, however, very fit. He had a natural ability for gymnastics, and as a youngster often thought of joining an acrobatic team. But his teenage years had come and gone without realizing that dream. He had made the journey to Shanghai on several occasions, and while in the city he heard of the new land of America. Wonderful stories of great wealth and unlimited opportunities. After one of his visits to Shanghai, he told his mother he wanted to go across the sea to California. The year was 1866.

  The Central Pacific was losing railroad workers to the silver mines of Virginia City at an alarming rate. Those that didn’t leave for the mines were lost to days of drunken inactivity, which was markedly worse after the men were paid. Charles Crocker, one of the pioneers of the Central Pacific, was told the only reliable workers were the Chinese. They only drank tea and hardly ever fought among themselves. Building the railroad out from Sacramento, the Central Pacific needed to get as far east as possible before the Union Pacific, building the railroad out of Omaha, got too far west. First, though, the Central Pacific had to overcome the unfriendly Sierra Nevada Mountains. Several tunnels would have to be knocked through their impossibly hard granite.

  It was Central Pacific’s ambition to beat Union Pacific to the Utah/Wyoming border. Union Pacific was laying track west from Nebraska, but they too had their fair share of problems, not the least of which were hostile Indians. However, Central Pacific’s progress through the Sierra was extremely slow. The tunneling was measured not in feet but in inches. Several accidents had happened with black powder, and the men wanted more money………., money that the Central Pacific could not afford. In the need for speed nitro-glycerin replaced the black powder. But then accidents increased in number and severity. Many went on strike over conditions and more pay. The company agreed only to stop using the nitro-glycerin.

  Despite the complaints of their white counterparts, the Chinese didn’t voice their objections. So it became almost the exclusive job of the Chinese to hammer, drill, and set charges. They worked in teams of three: one man would hold a drill bit against the granite, a second would pound a six-inch hole into the rock, and a third filled the hole with powder. Several teams of three worked side by side, as an indentation twelve-feet wide and ten-feet high slowly took shape.

  At the beginning of 1866, there were more than a thousand Chinese working on the Central Pacific. Despite their efforts, work was still progressing too slowly for the owners. Charles Crocker wanted more Chinese to join the railroad. News of this reached Shanghai in the spring, and many more Chinese boarded ships bound for San Francisco. One of those that heeded the call was Jung Lo. He spent several weeks at sea in cramped quarters with other Chinese men. Despite poor sanitation, seasickness, dysentery, and the odd case of Yellow Fever, the men never complained. The Chinese cared for their sick, cleaned their quarter’s every day, and buried their dead at sea.

  In San Francisco, the ships were met by Central Pacific representatives. Jung Lo and the other Chinese coming off the Pacific clipper were transferred to boats headed up the delta to Sacramento. From Sacramento they went by rail to Dutch Flat, and then by ox carts up to where the gangs were laying beds for the new railroad. Hundreds of tents were spread over the immediate area. As the Chinese arrived they were largely ignored by the white workers. They were met at camp by a half-dozen Chinese who had been working on the railroad for a while. They were given tea and told what their jobs would be. Half a dozen men would share one small tent, and their work would go around the clock and continue through all types of weather. Each man was given two blankets and shown to the tent they would share. They would observe the work in progress and were expected to imitate what they saw. They were told not to have anything to do with the mostly white track-layers and to ignore their insults. Their pride was to come from their work and how quickly it was finished. They were to be paid at the end of the month at three dollars a day, in gold coin.

  Jung Lo watched and observed how his fellow Chinese worked. He saw a man holding a drill bit grimace when he was accidentally hit by a hammer, but through the obvious pain the man didn’t cry out. He noticed more than a couple workers were missing fingers. He watched everyone retreat a safe distance when charges of black powder were primed and lighted. Following the explosions, he observed how quickly the men cleared the debris and repeated their tasks. Jung Lo was teamed up with two of his tent mates. It was mid-summer and they were told of the necessity for speed. With the influx of new Chinese workers, it was decided to work on tunnels from both directions. More than two hundred Chinese were transported by ox wagons over the summit to make a new working encampment above Donner Lake. Jung Lo and his two companions were part of this new eastside crew.

  As the railroad proceeded eastward over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, telegraph poles were erected directly along-side the track. By the time the Chinese were transported to the new operations, the telegraph wire was already strung to the top of the trail. The wire had been temporarily rerouted, while the tunnels were being built, to a hut on the western side of the summit. The single hut was manned by two permanent telegraph operators that updated Sacramento on how work progressed. As yet, the wire did not go beyond Donner Summit; it wouldn’t be extended down the eastern range of the Sierra until the track and tunnels were completed. One of the telegraph operators, Ralph McPherson, stood at the open door of the hut as the ox carts filled with Chinese workers, bound for the new operations, went by. Ralph waved as he recognized the big frame of the Irish foreman, who sat beside the driver of the lead cart.

  Michael Sullivan was the bearded Irish foreman put in charge of this crew. Sullivan would oversee all aspects of the Chinese work. On his signal, fuses were lit, and when he blew his whistle everyone knew to take cover. Fuses were set alight by flint lighters, and even though Sullivan had only one hand he was capable of using a flint lighter quicker than any two-handed man. Sullivan had fought for the Union during the Civil War and had his left arm amputated after being wounded at the Battle of Fredericksburg. Like many ex-soldiers, he had drifted west after the war. Most of the rail workers working for the Union Pacific out of Omaha, Nebraska, were Civil War veterans. However, in California the Chinese became an ever-increasing presence. Sullivan did not socialize with the Chinese, but he had grudging respect for their work ethic and sobriety.

  Jung Lo learned a few English words. He knew the meanings of “good” and “no good.” All the Chinese learned the phrase “Fire in the hole.” Still, Sullivan would always blow a whistle when charges were ready to be to be lit. Accidents became less frequent as the crews educated themselves and the teams worked in harmony. Jung Lo and his two compatriots soon became proficient at the work. His two tent partners took turns holding the drill bit and packing the powder, but because of his strength it was always Jung Lo who swung the hammer. The work was still arduously slow, but with teams now on opposite sides of the summit, overall progress was now twice as quick.

  Summer faded into fall, and the days became cooler and the nights became cold. The skies became cloudier and the wind whistled around the mountain peaks. Vast amounts of logs were cut and split for the campfires. Fires were kept burning through-out, day and night. In November, the snows became more constant. More Chinese came, and separate crews were dedicated to shoveling snow.

  By the end of 1866, the number of Chinese had grown to several thousand. Interested visitors from Sacramento and San Francisco would come to see the work, and their first sight was of smoke coming from more than a hundred campfires. There was the noise of a hundred hammers, followed by an eerie silence, followed by half a dozen heavily accented voices shouting, “Flien tha hal,” Sullivan’s whistle, a succession of explosions, and the sound of rocks being thrown out of the way. Through this the Chinese drank huge quantities of tea specially brought over from China and ate a steady diet of noodles and steamed vegetables. While one crew worked, another crew slept in their tents, ready to
take over at the start of their shift. The routine continued around the clock. Sullivan worked most of the daylight hours and was relieved by another foreman working a twelve-hour shift. After dark the crews worked by torchlight.

  In January, the snows became heavy and work was markedly slower. On snowy days there were more men clearing snow than there were making the tunnel. Between storms the sun would usually shine, and work progressed at a better rate. However, in the middle of January it snowed for six days straight. That was followed by a warmer spell and days of rain. The snow began disappearing on the lower mountain, but at the higher elevation it snowed more. Unknown to the Chinese and Mike Sullivan, there was unbearable pressure building from the excessive snow on top of the mountain and the supporting snow that was disappearing downhill.

  Mike Sullivan initially thought the rain was a blessing, and was even more delighted when the sun eventually shone on a crisp late January day. Everything seemed to be progressing well, but then Sullivan heard a distant noise above the workings. Casually, he glanced upward and saw a ridge of snow give way. The initial noise was followed by several more, as more ridges gave way. The Chinese were largely unaware of the noises and the impending disaster that would kill most them. Sullivan started feverishly blowing his whistle, which caught the Chinese by surprise. Those who had stopped working saw Sullivan pointing up at the mountain, Sullivan was shouting “Avalanche!”, but few Chinese knew the word. Some, however, could now see a huge volume of snow rushing down toward them. While others were transfixed, Jung Lo dived behind a large boulder.

  He covered his face with his hands and kept his head down where the boulder curved at its base, giving him a pocket of air to breathe. The noise of the onrushing snow was deafening, like the roar of several freight trains. It was the loudest sound that Jung Lo had ever heard. There were sounds like pistol shots as trees snapped and broke. Jung Lo could not hear the muffled cries of his fellow countrymen being swept away. Dozens were tossed and dragged several hundred feet down toward the lake, and most of them were dead before the avalanche stopped. As the rivers of snow flowed all around him, Jung Lo feared his life would soon end.