“It appears so.”
“That means you will be gone for several days?”
“Several days at least.”
“But what if,” she paused, “you are more needed here on Wednesday? What if…” She left the thought unfinished.
“What if?” John asked, recalling their earlier conversation outside on the platform.
Herman Haupt broke in before she could answer. “I think, Mrs. Lancaster, that it would be better if we do not discuss that right now.” He obviously did not think it was prudent to talk about confidential company matters in John’s presence, for he was as yet an outsider in his eyes.
“It’s not a secret, Mr. Haupt,” she said, less sure of herself than she sounded.
“No, but the moment is inappropriate and inopportune,” he said and glanced significantly at John.
“Perhaps I should leave?” John asked, offering to do the polite thing. He got to his feet. But it was clear to Kitty that he was more than just terribly curious, he actually longed to take part in what was going on.
“Oh, no,” Kitty said, “there’s no need for that.”
“Stay,” Edgar Thomson said in a quiet voice. He rose and waved John back to his seat. Then he gave Haupt a nod indicating that he trusted John. “There’s no harm in speaking openly in this company,” he added.
“Well,” John said, “the three of you have sparked my curiosity.”
“Kitty,” Edgar Thomson said, “since you brought the matter up, why don’t you spell out to Mr. Carlysle the reason you feel I should stay in Philadelphia.”
And so, with great enthusiasm, for she was obviously convinced that the matter was nearly settled in her father’s favor, Kitty told John Carlysle about the struggle between her father and William Patterson for control of the railroad, and about how it would likely bear discussion before the board of directors’ meeting that was scheduled for Wednesday.
As it happened, John had learned everything she had to tell him during his intelligence gathering of the past two weeks, but he decided that it would not be wise for him to reveal his knowledge at this moment.
“It doesn’t look terribly hopeful for Mr. Patterson,” he said when Kitty was finished. “And that means that you, Mr. Thomson, will become president of the line, doesn’t it?”
“I would never count William Patterson out,” Edgar Thomson said cautiously.
“Oh, Father,” Kitty said, “you’re such a worrier.” To John she said, “Don’t take him seriously. I’m sure that he will be president of the Pennsylvania before the end of the week if … he doesn’t throw it all away by running off to the mountains.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t believe that until it happens,” Thomson said, ignoring her final remark.
“You see, Mr. Carlysle, Father is hopeless. He takes nothing on faith.”
“One of the reasons he is a good engineer,” John said with a soft chuckle. “I like to trust engineers who don’t take things on faith—bridges for instance.”
Thomson laughed at that.
Kitty turned her gaze to her father. “But I wish you weren’t going up to the mountains,” she said. “Not now. Not at this crucial time.”
“I have to go, Kitty. You know that. The men up there depend on me.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t made a mistake,” she said. “I hope things don’t fall apart here while you are gone.”
“It’s all out of my hands anyway, Kitty.”
“Precisely! And that’s why you must be here to take care of it.”
He threw up his hands but said nothing else. He knew his daughter too well to fall into the trap of continuing an argument with her until she was willing to end it. She was as persistent and pugnacious as a bulldog.
She gave her father a devastating look. But she decided not to try to go on, for she knew him well enough to know his mind was made up. “And so, Mr. Carlysle,” she said, “you will be going to the mountains with Father?”
“Yes. Of course,” he said with certainty and confidence. “I’m sure I can be useful.”
“I’m convinced of that,” Edgar Thomson said. “I know you’ll help a great deal. Could you gather some clothes and be back here in, say, two hours?”
“I could make it back by then.” John said. But as he said that, worry lines furrowed his brow. “Except,” he said, “I don’t know about arrangements for my two younger boys.”
“What about the older one?” Charles Lancaster said. “Won’t he be able to handle them?”
“I doubt that I’ll find him,” John said. “I expect him to be… unavailable… for quite some time.”
Kitty noticed tension in his voice. She guessed that for some reason John didn’t always get along with his son. But then Kitty thought of a solution to John Carlysle’s problem.
“What about me?” Kitty asked.
“You?” John replied.
“I’d love to watch your boys for a few days.” Indeed, she was liking the idea very much, especially now that she had lost the battle with her father over whether or not he would travel to the tunnel. For a moment she had considered going with him, but she instantly saw that it wouldn’t be to her advantage to push him on that right now.
“Mrs. Lancaster, I don’t think…” John protested, though actually he welcomed the idea.
“I have plenty of servants,” she continued, overriding his objections, “and no children of my own.”
“A splendid idea,” Edgar Thomson said. “I do want John joining me.”
“Then it’s settled?” John asked, not sure that it was.
“Of course,” Kitty said. “It’s absolutely settled. I have a carriage parked nearby. We will run into town, you will pick up your boys and whatever they will need for the next few days, and I will take them home with me. Then you can come back here.
“And on our way, you must tell me all about yourself and your boys. And your life in England.”
Six
Egan O’Rahilly woke.
His head ached… throbbed. His muscles felt stiff and sore. His arms and legs hurt when he stretched, but at least he could move them.
It was completely dark now. He fought down the terror.
One side of his face was in mud. And his lower half had somehow landed on higher ground than his head during all the tumbling about.
Cautiously—so as not to dislodge any poorly supported mass of mountain—he moved to an upright, sitting position. And then he realized he was breathing.
For a few moments, he listened to that—to himself taking in air. How wonderful, just to breathe! he thought.
Then he wondered how long he had been unconscious.
He listened for others, and he thanked God that he heard the sound of breathing that was not his own.
Slowly he became aware of crying. Or rather, it was someone making a sound somewhere between a low, sobbing moan and a child’s undulant wail. He realized that the cries had been going on since he’d woken up, but he had blocked them out, so absorbed was he in other, more immediately pressing, sensations.
“Tom, shut up,” he called out.
The cries did not cease.
“Damn it, Tom, shut up so that we can see who is still alive.”
But Henneberry either did not hear, or else he didn’t care.
Egan decided not to waste effort with Henneberry. There was nothing he could do about him in the dark.
“All right,” he said in the calmest, steadiest voice he could manage, “I’m going to call roll. Answer when I say your name.”
He began. “I know Tom Henneberry is here.” At the sound of his name, Henneberry’s wails increased in volume. “Oh, fuck it, Tom, quiet down!” Egan said, but it did no good. So he went on, “Ferdy O’Dowd.”
There was a pause, then a painful, “Aye.”
“Grand,” Egan said. And he continued. “Owen Blake.”
There was no sound.
“Owen?” Egan repeated.
Silence.
“Cornelius Blake.”
Silence.
“Patrick Geraghty.”
Aye, Egan.”
“Thank God.” He continued: “Martin Kinvan.”
Silence.
“Tim McTier.”
Silence.
“Francis Quigley.”
“Aye.”
“Grand, Francis. Dennis Browne?”
Silence.
“Michael Moore.”
“Aye.”
“Grand.”
He went down through the names. But the only ones still among the living were himself, Henneberry, Ferdy O’Dowd, Geraghty, Quigley, and Moore… out of twenty men. And how many in the other gangs? he wondered.
“And so what’s to become of us then, Egan?” Moore asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess we’re still alive. For now.”
“Should I make an act of perfect contrition now, Egan?” Geraghty asked, his voice, like Ferdy’s, tinged with pain. “Or is there time yet for me to fill in a few sins?”
Egan smiled. Geraghty will be giggling in his grave, he thought to himself. “If I were you, Pat, I’d work on contrition.”
Henneberry wailed.
“Who’s near Tom?” Egan asked.
“I am,” said Quigley.
“Do you think you can shut him up?”
“I’ll try.”
“I’d be most glad if you would.”
A few seconds later, Egan heard the slap of a stone against what was probably Henneberry’s skull. Then the wailing finally stopped.
“Thank you, Francis,” Egan said. “Now we can think of doing something about the fix we’re in.” As he finished saying that, Egan stifled a sob of his own: The terror was ever only inches from the surface.
But then he remembered he was carrying a bit of candle in his vest pocket. It was always with him down in the tunnel, as a kind of good-luck charm. He also carried a flint and steel.
“All right,” he said. “1 have a candle. I’m going to try to light it.”
“You’re an angel, Egan,” Geraghty said.
“Not yet,” Egan said, “I hope.”
After a few tries, he had the candle going; and he could look around.
What he saw was not encouraging. The six men were apparently trapped in a long, narrow pocket made when the cave floor collapsed. There were a few tools, which was good, and one intact lantern along with an extra can of lamp oil. That was good. They could keep the lantern and oil in reserve for after the candle burned out. But God only knew how much mountain lay between the six of them and life and safety.
Their space was not large. Egan knew that they would soon run out of air.
That left Egan a dilemma: Should they all lie back and conserve their air? Or should they try to do something?
In a moment, he decided to do something.
That meant he had to find out the extent of the others’ injuries. Could they take action, provided there was enough air and that he could think of some action to take?
He checked the others for injuries. Henneberry was unconscious. Ferdy was hurting inside. That could be dangerous, or maybe it wasn’t serious at all. They would just have to wait. Geraghty’s left arm appeared to be broken. Quigley had a separated shoulder. And Moore’s hip was crushed.
Egan himself was the only totally fit man among them.
Damn it to hell!
He looked up the pocket and saw that the end of it away from him bent out of sight. There was not much space there. Still, it was worth exploring, he thought.
But he did not explore it. He snuffed the little candle out and gave in to his despair and terror.
Once the meeting in Edgar Thomson’s railroad-car office ended, John Carlysle and Kitty Lancaster walked out of the rail yard to the spot where Kitty’s carriage was waiting.
On the walk through the yard, Kitty hardly spoke to John. To him, her face looked dark and preoccupied, though not unfriendly. John in fact welcomed her silence, for he himself was not eager for communication. The recent events were too full of tension and drama to encourage easy conversation.
When they reached the carriage and John gave her his hand to help her into it, Kitty trembled slightly, as though she was suddenly startled. But John steadied her, and she was then able to slip easily into her seat. Once there, she looked thankfully at John but still had no words for him. After she was safely settled, he followed after her. And she called out to the driver to take them to Sturdivant’s Hotel.
The carriage was a landau, and John was grateful for this, for it gave him the opportunity to sit opposite rather than beside Mrs. Lancaster. Even though she was now much more subdued than he had yet seen her, he did not want to sit close to the rather vivacious, vivid, and ardent young lady. At least not now.
He was not indifferent to the lovely and fascinating Kitty Lancaster. He just wanted to sort out his feelings. He could easily see himself liking this woman very, very much. But she was also Edgar Thomson’s only daughter. And Edgar Thomson was not only John’s superior; he was also likely soon to become president of the railroad.
Once they were settled into their seats and the carriage was rolling along, Kitty withdrew a linen handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her cheeks and forehead.
After that she slipped her bonnet off and placed it on the seat beside her, closing her eyes and then shaking her head enough for her hair to toss gently. When she did that, John became acutely aware of the scent she was wearing. It was spicy and sharp, but delicate. Though very much present, it was by no means overwhelming.
She inclined her head against the top of the seat cushion. She remained that way until they had ridden past one block, and John, aware that he, too, was very tense, let his own limbs and muscles relax. He absently watched the street traffic that they passed.
The landau rocked tranquilly, and the gentle motion, the quiet, partial solitude induced John to drift into a light trance.
When he found his attention once again directed at Kitty Lancaster, he saw that her eyes were gazing intently on his face.
“Do you ever grow accustomed to tragedy?” she wondered in a low voice, nearly a whisper.
“Do I ever grow accustomed, do you mean?” he asked. His voice was no louder than hers. “Or are you asking whether anyone can?”
“Either actually—or both. I really wasn’t thinking that precisely,” she said.
“I wonder whether the tragedy is worse for the ones who actually experience it, or the ones who have to go on after it.”
“You’re thinking of the accident at the tunnel,” he said.
“Yes, the accident,” she said, and her head slipped back against the seat, but her face was still tilted toward John. “It must be unimaginably horrible for the men trapped in the tunnel,” she said. “Tons of dirt and stone falling down on top of you. Or else a slow death by suffocation or starvation.” Her eyes were marked by real concern, which surprised John, for she had seemed up until now much more concerned with the tunnel disaster’s impact on her father’s chances to become president of the railroad than on the fate of the trapped men.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed.
“And yet, what about the wives and mothers and children who remain? Aren’t their lives shattered more?”
A flower girl carrying bunches of tulips appeared beside the landau. She walked along in pace with them. “Lovely tulips,” she said. “Bright flowers for your table?” The girl thrust a particularly pretty and fresh-looking bunch over the side of the carriage. “Take these, miss,” she said to Kitty.
And then Kitty said, with a sudden smile, “I believe that I will.” And she searched in her bag for a coin.
“How much?” she said to the girl.
“A nickel, miss.”
“Here, let me buy them for you,” John offered, searching in his pants for the right amount. He kept forgetting what a nickel was, half a dollar, he thought.
“No, no, please,” she said, producing finally a dull gra
y coin and handing it to the girl. The girl then passed the tulips to Kitty.
“They are lovely, aren’t they?” she said.
“Yes, they are,” he agreed.
She laid the flowers across her lap. “There,” she said. “Yes, I like that—flowers.” She looked fondly at them for a moment. Then her somber mood returned.
“You must know what I mean,” she said.
A look of incomprehension filled his face. “I must know what you mean?”
“You lost your wife.”
“Yes. She died.”
“Did you ever get over that?”
His eyes left her face when she asked that, and he glanced first at the tulips in her lap, then outside at the traffic in the street, then back at the tulips.
He didn’t like her question, which he thought was much too forward and personal for someone whom he had known so briefly. And yet her obvious earnestness, sincerity, and sympathy disarmed him.
And so he brought himself to answer her. “No,” he said. “I have never gotten over losing her.”
“How did she die?”
“Cholera.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was over swiftly,” he said. “Her pain was brief.”
“Yes,” she said. “For her. For you the pain goes on, doesn’t it?”
“Really, Mrs. Lancaster,” he said abruptly, “I’d rather not… talk about this.”
Then she turned away from him and looked at the flowers. A blush spread over her face, and she reached out for his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ve embarrassed you.”
“No, not really,” he said, not daring to admit that she had. “The direction of your conversation has only caught me off guard, that’s all.”
“Again, I’m so sorry.” She released his hand and sat farther back in her seat.
When Kitty released his hand, John felt freed within himself, although he didn’t understand why.
Consequently, he suddenly felt the urge to talk to Kitty Lancaster about his lost wife. Somehow Kitty had opened one of the deepest, most hidden, most closely guarded strongholds of his memory.
“She was not beautiful,” he said. His eyes were on the flowers. Her fingers idly stroked the crimson, gold, and indigo petals, delicately, the way she might have fondled a kitten’s chin.
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