by Terry, Mark
“Then let me explain it to you again, Mr. Tesla. This train isn’t going anywhere. I can’t put it on the Burlington track. I have explicit instructions that the track is to remain available for high priority freight.”
“Well, when will this high priority freight be coming through?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know where it is, Mr. Tesla. I have no record of anything coming in today, tomorrow, or the rest of the week.”
“You have other trains running on the track, correct?”
“Yes, sir. We have a scheduled Kansas City line through here three times a day.” The manager flipped through his log book.
“And are they delayed as well?”
“No, sir, as far as my orders go, those lines are not interfering with any of our emergency freight runs.”
“But there are no emergency freight runs! You said so yourself!”
“Whether any trains are coming through this yard, Mr. Tesla, doesn’t make no difference. We are told what to expect, we are told what to make way for, and we do it. We don’t ask questions, especially when it comes from Mr. Rockefeller's office.”
Tesla had sucked in a deep breath about to respond when he heard the Rockefeller name. His face went ashen, then red, and his hands balled into fists. “Edison’s financier,” he muttered.
“Did you say Rockefeller? John D. Rockefeller?” Ida asked, stepping closer.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He owns this track?”
The foreman shrugged. “As of today, apparently. I got a call from the Burlington office and the vice president got on the phone and talked to me personally. He said to expect a telegram from Mr. Rockefeller’s office, he’s in charge, and to do whatever it says.”
The foreman held up the paper.
“It says,” he cleared his throat and then read, “until further notice, all non-scheduled train runs are to cease immediately unless cleared with the home office.” He shrugged. “I sent them the request for your train a half an hour ago with the rest of the week’s runs. They approved every one but yours.”
“There’s got to be something you can do,” Ida implored.
“Ma’am, there’s nothing anyone can do. Do you know what Rockefeller means to this town and this state? Standard Oil brings in all of the kerosene used in every home and business. Not just here, but in every city, town, and parsonage from here to the state line. Hell, as far as I know, Standard Oil moves and sells the kerosene for the entire country.” The foreman looked at Ida helplessly. “Not only is there nothing I can do, but you sure as hell couldn’t get the governor of this state to let this train go, and I would bet my wife you couldn’t get President Cleveland to move it either.”
“I know Standard Oil quite well,” Ida said, shaking her head.
“Then you understand, ma’am. Nothing I can do. This train can’t move. I haven’t a track to put it on. I haven’t even been allowed to park it on a siding. If I get a telegram telling me to tip it over because it can’t sit there anymore, I will have to do that!”
“This corruption is a scandal!” Ida exclaimed.
“We have to find another way to get to Denver, Ida,” Tesla said.
“Do you understand what Americans are doing to their country?” Ida asked loudly to the foreman and the engineers. Several others from inside the train office who had come to the door in curiosity stepped out.
“The railroads owe the American people bonds twice that of our national debt. Standard Oil’s monopoly prevents competitors in this country from shipping oil and kerosene and has cost thousands of jobs in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Missouri. Under the name of the South Improvement Company, Standard Oil made a deal with the railroads to double the freight costs of oil for everyone else and pay the South Improvement Company a dollar for every barrel of oil its competitors ship.”
She stepped over to a fruit crate and rose onto it.
“American citizens shut down the railroads for paying unfair wages. They shut down the Baltimore and Ohio, and within hours, states like Maryland, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois were closing up. No place to send their goods, no way to get more goods. Without remuneration coming in from businesses, their banks stopped lending money. The lifeblood of the cities depends on the trains. And the trains depend on the men and women who work them. The people run the railroads. The railroads don’t run us!”
“Woman will ignore precedent and startle civilization with their progress one day, Miss Tarbell.” Nikola put a hand on her arm and pulled her down. “Just not today. We need to go.”
Interlude 42
Friday, March 17, 1893, 12:02 p.m.
St. Louis Union Station
Tesla looked at his watch nervously.
The ticket line spread more than ten deep when a voice called out from behind the iron bars of the ticket booth. “I’m sorry folks, the Burlington to Kansas City is all sold out. Next train will be the Golden State Limited this time tomorrow!”
Tesla and Ida looked at each other with annoyance. As the crowd in front of them dissipated, they walked to the ticket counter where a small man with a crooked back and slight tilt to his stance stood.
Tesla approached the window, and he looked around briefly before turning to Ida. “We must have something, some way to go. We could take a cattle car.”
The ticket agent looked around quickly. “Sir, are you serious about the cattle car?”
Both Ida and Tesla looked at him with surprise.
“Will that get us on the train?” Ida asked, unsure.
“Absolutely,” the little man behind the counter nodded. His eyes danced around suspiciously.
“And space on the luggage car as well?” Tesla asked.
The ticket agent nodded again.
Tesla pulled out his wallet, but Ida’s hand came out before his could move all the way to the window. Her hand hovered above his, but just putting her hand in the air had stopped his movement. “How can we be sure we will get on the train if we pay you?” Ida asked, suspiciously.
“Madam!” The little man behind the counter looked aghast at the suggestion. “I will take you to the train myself. You can count on me!”
Looking the little man up and down, Ida dropped her hand. Tesla handed over a wad of bills. The little man counted out several and handed the rest back, hesitated, then handed back a few more bills. Without another word, he pointed toward the train.
Interlude 43
Friday, March 17, 1893, 1:24 p.m.
St. Louis Union Station
The track conductor pulled out his stopwatch and furrowed his brow. The 4-2-2 slowed, its brakes having been applied almost a half mile out. “The Thirty-Nine is an hour late for Oklahoma City and Albuquerque,” he mumbled.
As the train crossed under the threshold of the St. Louis station, Thomas Edison and John Randolph leapt off before it came to a complete stop. Several yards away, teeming masses milled about on the Union Depot midway. They held pennants aloft in their hands, along with bats and gloves. Several kids wore team jerseys, and somewhere towards the center of the throng a small quartet of instruments played “The Bat and Ball March.”
Edison fumed. “Insufferable bores!” he growled. “Prattling on about baseball this and baseball that.”
The train whistled loudly. Brakemen leaned out of the cars with their clubs and turned the damper wheels which slowed the train to a complete stop. The crowd roared.
At the far end of Union Depot, a loud, belching hiss erupted as the boiler of another steam engine kicked alive. Edison and Randolph looked at it, looked at each other, and made a beeline for the doors.
The two men waded through the crowd in their afternoon finery and entered the main Union Hall. They paused for a moment and then finding the ticket windows, rushed towards them. Edison halted about a dozen paces away when he saw that the window was closed. Then he stepped up and knocked.
The small man behind the glass didn’t look up. Ed
ison knocked again. Harder. The ticket man’s eyes couldn’t be seen behind his dark glasses. He gave a wave-off. Edison pounded on the glass again.
Peering through his dark glasses, the ticket man shrugged, leaned over the counter and raised the glass. “The Golden State Limited is the next train out,” he said irritably.
“When does that leave?” Edison took out his wallet.
“Tomorrow,” the man said with a slight smile.
Edison’s face grew beet red. “How about that train?” He stabbed the air in the direction of the other train starting up.
The ticket taker cleared his throat and shrugged. “That’s the Burlington to Kansas City. But like I said, the Golden State is the next availa—“
“Now look,” Edison cut in, “my name is Thomas Edison. I know Mr. J.P. Morgan,” he began counting off on his fingers, “Mr. Rockefeller, past Presidents Hayes and Garfield, and current President Cleveland! PERSONALLY!”
The bearded man rocked back and straightened up.
“I suggest, if you want to keep your job, you find me two seats on THAT train.” Edison pointed again.
The ticket agent stood silent for a moment. He looked around. “Well, I’m not supposed to do this,” he smiled sheepishly, “but there are a couple of seats for the brakemen. They have been known to…” he shrugged, “give them up for the right price.” He smiled again. “The brakemen will just have to stand all the way to Kansas City.”
Edison laid his wallet on the counter. “Do what it takes. Get me on that train.”
The man held up a hand and then disappeared.
“Randolph, find a young man with fruit and candy and,” Edison waved his hand, “maybe a couple of root beers to take on the train.”
The ticket agent returned to the window. With a glance to the left and to the right, he slid two tickets across. Edison responded with a wad of bills. The glass slid shut and Edison followed after Randolph for sustenance.
As Edison disappeared into the crowd, Milo sneered, taking off his railroad smock and dark glasses. He stepped off the two milk crates stacked behind the counter. An unconscious young man with a thick shock of black hair laid tied and gagged under the ticket counter, a shining bruise over his right eye. Milo nodded at the figure before taking a pile of unsold tickets and stuffing them in his pockets.
He stopped at the doorway, watching Edison and Randolph enter the Pullman. He tossed the stovepipe onto a nearby bench and departed.
Edison and Randolph followed the funny looking porter with the stovepipe and the limp towards the forward end of the train. They were having a bit of trouble keeping up with him, even though he carried all their luggage across his narrow shoulders. The porter tossed the baggage up to George, who then escorted them to their seats. Oddly, the porter set the bags down in a first class booth with its own table.
Edison and Randolph sat for a moment, and then looked around. No other passengers were in view. At that moment, the all-clear whistle sounded, and the platform conductor gave the final, “All aboarrrrrrd!” Then with a gentle shove, the train got underway.
A few moments later George came back by and Edison held up a hand. “I don’t think these are our seats.”
George shrugged. “Don’t make no nevermind. You’re the only ones on this damn train!”
As the train fully emerged from St. Louis Union Station, Milo boarded a four-horse carriage, waved his arms, and it took off with a fury. The little man swayed on the seat next to the driver, holding on for his life.
Interlude 44
Friday, March 17, 1893, 2:14 p.m.
The Burlington to Kansas City Line
Over fifty thousand stock cars in the United States shipped animals by rail to thousands of destinations. Stock cars were longer than the average boxcar, which had long been used for a variety of freight needs. At thirty-four feet, they attached to passenger trains instead of freight trains, so their holding times at terminals would be far shorter than freight lines. They had roof fans for ventilation, backup generators for the times they sat uncoupled from the rest of the train, and special ramps for loading and unloading their cargo.
Tesla had mentioned a cattle car to the ticket agent, which is exactly what he got. Grgor and Simon were wheeling several large crates from the Cannonball across the ramp and into the car. Although the car didn’t have any cattle, it sure had a cattle smell.
When Ida got closer, she jerked her head up and wrinkled her nose. “The stench!” she exclaimed.
Tesla pressed a button high on the inside of the door and the roof fan whirred. Several of the smaller crates lay on their sides and Tesla sat down on one. “You’re right, Ida. Not suitable surroundings at all!” he said, grinning.
“Is that a grin, Nikola?” she queried with a withering glare.
Tesla unfurled a blanket across a couple of crates and gestured at Ida.
“I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable. We’ll arrive in Kansas City early this evening. It’s not a long trip.”
Grgor and Simon opened one of the larger crates, examined some of the equipment, and talked in hushed tones to Tesla. Tesla responded in hoarse Croatian. The two burly men shrugged and shook their heads. This appeared to perplex Tesla. He walked past Ida toward the end of the stock car furthest from the engine and started up a ladder.
“Where on the Earth are you going now?” she asked, annoyed.
“I am going to inquire in forward car,” he said. He pushed open the panel in the roof and disappeared.
Edison and Randolph made their way towards the back of the train, through the third passenger car, only to find each successive car as devoid of other passengers as the first.
“What the hell is going on?” Edison muttered, as he stared out the backdoor of the Pullman. A pair of legs dangled from the small separation that led to the next Pullman. Then the full body came into view.
Randolph began stuttering “I—he—what?”
Tesla stepped through the rear door, glanced at Edison, and then looked around the car.
“No one else?”
“We— the—”
“Randolph, pull your senses together!” Edison barked, glaring at the bookkeeper. Randolph sat down and Edison turned on Tesla.
“What the hell is going on?”
“We had to book passage in a rear stock because there were no more seats to be had.” Tesla took one long glance around again, and his eyes came back to Edison’s. “But that doesn’t appear to be the case.”
Edison shook his head. “If this is some kind of trick?”
Tesla turned. “I’m going to bring Miss Tarbell over. And a few things.” he looked back, “I think it’s a good idea for us to stick together.”
Edison and Randolph looked at each other.
Grgor and Simon settled a large crate at the far end of the Pullman car then walked back up through the aisle without a word or a glance. At the gap between cars, they clambered up and out of sight.
Tesla pulled several instruments out of the crate and set them on a table nearby.
Edison came over and looked around. “You’ve got quite a laboratory here, Tesla.”
Tesla nodded, looked at Ida, and went back to moving his clothing and personal items into the berth he had chosen. He moved his suitcase to an overhead storage compartment and settled onto a couch on the opposite side of the car, next to Ida’s berth.
Edison inspected a curious round device. He turned it over several times, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, examining closely. Then one eyebrow raised. “Is this a magnetic field generator?” Edison said, taken aback.
Randolph came up behind him and peered around one shoulder.
Tesla looked up, nodded, and laid his head back and shut his eyes. “In a way.”
“I’ve heard of one, but I’ve never seen one operate, let alone something this size. How does it work?”
Tesla sighed and glanced over at
Ida, who nodded in Edison’s direction, urging him on. “It’s really a resonant transformer,” he said, getting up.
“A resonant transformer. I don’t understand.”
“It’s a wireless transmitter of energy.”
“Wireless?” Edison exclaimed.
Tesla turned the machine on and a burst of high frequency current arced out from the device into the static air. “I can conduct several experiments in electricity, phosphorescence and transmitting energy without wires with machine.”
Edison and Randolph both jumped back.
“Don’t worry. Is perfectly safe. Magnetic field is no danger to humans. Arcs on this machine are too low right now. Wouldn’t even singe your hair. If I turned it up, you would want to stay at least twenty feet away though!” Tesla studied the device closely.
The small machine hummed and throbbed with electric life, tiny arcs emitting from the spark gaps.
Edison, awed, stepped closer.
Interlude 45
Friday, March 17, 1893, 4:35 p.m.
Eureka, Missouri
The small village of Eureka occupied a flat, level spot along the transcontinental line. It consisted of about a hundred homes, holdovers from when the railroad workers had passed through. Hardy souls had decided to remain behind. A sign at the town limits read, “Site of the future St. Louis Children’s Industrial Farm.”
The four-horse carriage raced along the wagon trail that laid the path for the coming railroad. The town came up as a small blur, and then the driver madly yanked back on the reins trying to bring the exhausted horses to a stop as quickly as possible.
Milo, snoozing next to him, toppled forward and unable to catch himself, hit the ground with a thud. When Milo looked up, he saw the familiar boots and six guns. “Master,” he let out painfully.
Wedderburn smiled, standing over him in the center of the road. “Get up, my friend. I need you.” The American Gunslinger extended a hand, a glimmer of amber crossing his pupils. He helped Milo to his feet and held a hand up to the carriage driver. “Give us a few moments, won’t you?”