One of the spikers, a gentle, red-haired fellow named Michael Kennedy, said, “Give it a swing if you like.”
I must have looked hesitant, because he said, “Go ahead. There’s nothing to it.” He even walked over and started a spike for me with two quick taps.
When he handed me the maul, I got up on my toes and swung as hard as I could. The maul grazed the head of the spike, and it flew sideways down the tracks. What’s worse, the handle of the maul smacked across the rail and broke clean off.
With my mouth hanging open, I stared at the shattered hickory in my hands. I expected Mac O’Grady to step forward and throttle me. Instead, the whole spiking crew burst out laughing. “And I thought it was the Injuns who was dangerous,” said a man in a Union army cap who bent to pick up my spike, which had ricocheted off the toe of his boot. When he tossed it back toward me, they laughed even more. I’m glad Pa wasn’t around.
Michael Kennedy was the only fellow who showed any kindness, and even he was grinning. Kennedy explained my mistake, saying, “You’ve got to keep your eye on the target and swing smooth. Otherwise you’ll be sending a maul to the carpentry shop every time you miss.”
The fellows were still chuckling as I picked up my buckets and headed back to the wagon.
August 27
Pa heard about me breaking the spike maul. Mac O’Grady teased him at breakfast about having a son “not worth his salt.” But my pa spoke right up and told him to shut his mouth or he’d shut it for him.
As we were walking off to start our day’s work, Pa took me aside and said, “Never mind that O’Grady. He’s Tipperary trash. You may not be strong enough to wield a spike maul yet, but be patient. I was a skinny pup, too, when I was your age.”
I looked up at all six foot three inches of Pa. He was a square-shouldered giant of a man with a giant temper to match. It was impossible for me to imagine him being either patient or small, and he knew it. When he saw the doubt in my eyes, he smiled. “Well, maybe I wasn’t quite as slim as you” — he clapped me on the back and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze — “but you’ll come into your own sooner than you know.”
After I took my seat beside Ben and we drove his wagon all the way to the water tank, I could still feel the spot that Pa had squeezed. Lord save the man who ever gets in the way of Patrick Sullivan’s fist.
August 28
I had a strange experience this evening. Pa and I were walking to the dining car when we heard a buzzing sound. We stopped, and the buzzing got so loud, it almost hurt. The next thing I knew, the sky went black, and Pa whispered, “Locusts.” We ducked back into the tent just in time.
I peeked through the flap as a big bunch of them swooped down and started munching up the dry grass stalks. As sparse as the grass was, I could hear those hoppers chewing as they worked their way along. Fellows who’d been caught outside were slapping at their shirtsleeves and collars as they ran for cover.
I had seen big swarms of grasshoppers before — a neighbor once paid John and me a dime to clear out his corn patch — but I never would have believed there could be this many in one place. Even after the best part of them had moved on, they were still so thick on the rails that when an engineer tried to pull his locomotive forward, the wheels spun like they’d been greased.
I really wish John could have been here to see it, because telling it in a letter isn’t going to be the same. I sure do miss him.
August 29
Antelope, Nebraska (mile 451)
Today we reached Kimball. I noticed that the assistant engineers and foremen talk a lot about the total miles of track the company has laid. I asked Pa why, and he says that depending on the difficulty of the terrain, the government pays the Union Pacific $16,000 to $48,000 for every mile of track they finish. With that much money at stake, I can see why there’s so much excitement over the race between us and another railroad called the Central Pacific. They started laying track east from Sacramento, and they want to beat us to the Rockies in the worst way. So its the U.P. versus the C.P., and we’re not only fighting for money in the bank but for pride. We aim to prove we’re the best.
We are exactly 451 miles from Omaha. (They measure from Omaha because that’s the place where the U.P. first started laying track two years ago.) According to Pa, we’re not even halfway done, and he says the toughest and meanest country is yet to come.
Dead grasshoppers crunch under our boots wherever we go.
September 5
During some slack time this morning, Mr. Casement asked me and Ben to help clean out a passenger car that some visiting dignitaries had been using. They call it the “Lincoln car” because it belonged to the president before the Union Pacific bought it. I’ve never seen such a fancy interior. The upholstery was plush green, and the whole car was decorated with crystal chandeliers and gold-trimmed mirrors and velvet curtains. The ceiling and walls were a rich, dark-grained wood that was polished and carved like furniture.
As we cleaned up the cigar butts and the spilled whiskey, I told myself that if anyone ever invited me to stay in a fine place like this, I would be polite enough to pick up after myself.
I got a letter from John today. Pa says the mail is slow to arrive sometimes here at the end of the track. John did a lot of complaining, but it still felt good to hear from him.
Dear Sean,
Thanks for your letter.
You are lucky to be working on the railroad now that it’s canning season back here. I’ve picked enough beans for Aunt Katie to put up ten thousand quarts. It’d be different if I liked beans, but I gag just looking at all those jars lined up in the cellar. I don’t care whether beans are fresh or string dried or canned, they taste awful to me. As you know, I don’t mind helping with the sweet pickles, but Aunt Katie prefers to put up mainly dills. Next we’ll be making applesauce and pressing cider.
Have you seen any Indians? Are there lots of buffalo out there? The boys at school say that the big bulls chase the trains, and whenever they get a chance they hook fellows with their horns and trample them into the ground.
By the way, school has started up again, and my teacher is a big crab.
Your bean-picking brother,
John
September 15
We’ve just had our first snowstorm. Growing up in Chicago, I thought I was used to cold, but the wind can really rip out here. A little skim of ice even formed on the pond beside the tracks. It looks like winter crowds right in on the tail end of summer on these plains.
I can tell by the way that Ben has been rubbing his bad arm lately that the cold really pains him, but he never complains.
One good thing about this weather — the fellows drink a lot less water.
September 18
I’ve been promoted. At least my pa calls it a promotion and tells me he’s real proud. He says that the job of water carrier is reserved for the youngest and greenest boys on the railroad, and this is a step up. But I think my new job is lots worse. My official title is “dish swabber.” As a water carrier, I got to go up and down the roadbed in Ben’s wagon, but now, except when we haul lunch out to the men at noon, I am stuck in the kitchen and dining cars.
A dish swabber does exactly what you’d guess — he cleans the dishes. But it’s not like a normal dishwashing job. The work train moves so often that the plates and cups would fall out of cupboards. To make things simple, they nailed the tin plates right down to the tables. Just one nail in the middle was all it took. It was our head cook’s idea — his name is Jimmy Flynn — and he’s proud of what he calls his “permanent set table.”
So instead of bringing the plates to the dishwasher, I bring myself to the plates. They give me a bucket of water and a rag, and I have to hustle up and down the line, wiping off each one as quick as I can. I’ve got to work fast because our dining car seats two hundred fellows, and they eat in shifts. When a new group is ready to sit down, th
e fellows don’t want to wait so much as a fraction of a second, or I hear about it.
September 19
I could barely open my eyes this morning. Though everyone else gets to sleep until the bell rings at half past five, the kitchen crew has to roll out of bed at four o’clock to get breakfast started. I can’t get used to being up when it’s still near pitch dark outside.
What makes it even worse is that everyone wakes up hungry and ready to growl if their food isn’t waiting for them. The heavy sleepers are the orneriest, because the foremen have to kick them out of bed. The bosses aren’t shy about using their boots to get the laggards moving, either. I’ve even seen them pitch rocks at fellows who are sleepin’ in tents that are set up on the roofs of the cars.
First we put out big buckets of coffee — the men just serve themselves by dipping their tin cups in — and then we lay out platters piled up with bread and huge plates of meat. The fellows stick their forks into whatever happens to be close by, so I keep my hands clear. The amount of food that the men eat is enormous. It’s like trying to feed a herd of cattle.
Since Mother and Aunt Katie both prided themselves in setting a neat table, it’s hard for me to get used to such bad manners. When the men are done, they just clomp off without so much as a good morning or a thank you for the grub. Some of them even step right across the table on their way out the door. O’Grady left a dirty boot print right beside his plate today, and you can guess who had to clean it up.
September 20
General Casement has everything on the Union Pacific organized like an army. Pa says Mr. Casement treats the men on his work train like the soldiers he commanded during the war. Though it’s hard to describe, there’s something about Mr. Casement that makes men want to follow him. And it’s more than just his bullwhip and six-shooter that gets people’s attention.
His goal is two miles of track a day, and he pays us double every time we make it. Since the boys are already making more than a dollar a day, the promise of those bonuses keeps them flying. Pa is especially glad for the extra money because he is sending most of his pay home. They started me at $18 per month.
General Casement gets riled anytime the work slows down. This afternoon we were hauling the lunch out to the men when Ben Wharton’s wagon, which was directly in front of us, got stuck in a deep rut. While Ben urged his team to pull, me and two other fellows pushed on the wagon, but it wouldn’t budge.
Ben was going to get some wood to block up the wheel when Casement rode by. He swung down off his horse, saying, “Let’s get on with it, lads.” Then he bent down and put his shoulder to the back of the wagon. I was just thinking how’s a little fellow like that gonna help when the wheel popped out of that hole so fast that the three of us fell face first into the dirt. Before we could even dust ourselves off, the general was back on his horse and gone.
Ben had a good laugh over that.
September 21
Tonight after supper, I asked Pa how a man as small as Casement could be so strong, and he said it was more a matter of mind than muscle. “When a thing needs to happen,” Pa said, “he wills it to be.”
“You mean like in Julesburg last summer?” Bill Flanagan interrupted.
Normally I hate when Bill butts in, but when Pa tried to hush him up, I got curious. It took a few questions on my part, but I finally pried out of him what had happened in Julesburg.
So many U.P. men were getting busted up in town — it was right near the end of the line back then — that Casement decided to clean out the ruffians. Julesburg had become a refuge for every wanted man in the territory, and the local law was afraid to do anything about it. So Casement armed a crew of men and took them into town. (Bill admitted that he went along, but my pa wouldn’t say one way or the other.) When Casement asked the outlaws and gamblers to clear out of town, the surly rascals laughed right in his face. That was a mistake. There was a gun battle, and after the smoke cleared, General Casement had thirty men hung. Those who were still alive were begging for a chance to pack their bags and clear out of town.
September 22
I can’t put that Julesburg story out of my mind. Thirty hangings in one afternoon? It’s hard enough for me to think back on the dead man’s face that I saw last month without gettin’ the shakes, but I can’t imagine thirty bodies swaying in the wind.
I sure hope Pa wasn’t there.
September 24
The longer I work in the kitchen, the more amazed I am that somebody doesn’t die of an awful disease. Nothing is clean. And that includes the plates I’m supposed to be swabbing. I do the best job I can, but by the time I get to the end of the table, I know I’m leaving chunks of food. Some of the guys wipe their plates off with their sleeves before they heap them full, but most of ’em dig right in.
I feel bad, but with two hundred hungry track men hollering at me, I can’t clean any better. The sad thing is that the dirtiest spot on every plate is right smack in the middle, because my rag is always catching on those nails. With all the slimy stuff that oozes off my rag, who knows what could be growing under those nail heads?
September 26
I’m tired of getting up so early.
October 1
I never thought I’d consider butchering cleaner than cooking, but I do now. To get out of that filthy dish swabbing, I volunteered to help with the meat cutting. And I can honestly say that hacking up steers is a blamed sight more appealing to me than wiping crusty food off those plates.
October 4
I suspect that every job, no matter how good it might look to everyone else, has a bad side. Anyone could guess the bad side of butchering, but there is something worse than all the blood and guts. That something is named Jimmy Flynn.
October 6
It’s Sunday, but I don’t feel much like writing because my hands are cramped up pretty bad. Pulling the hides off those big beef cattle, even when you get ’em fresh, really wears you out.
Jimmy Flynn is not a clean person.
October 8
What I said the other day is too polite. Jimmy Flynn is a pig. And I mean pig in the worst pig-rooting-on-a-manure-pile sense. Though Jimmy has a beautiful mustache that he waxes up and twists into tiny curls at the ends, that’s as far as his good looks go.
He wears a dirty apron that’s stained black with blood and who knows what else, and he refuses to take it off. Today one of the other helpers whispered to me, only half joking, that he heard Jimmy slept in that apron.
The rest of Jimmy Flynn is just as ugly as his apron. His hair sticks straight out from under his flat-crowned hat, his shirttail is always flying out behind him, and his boots are always dragging through the slop on the floor of the car.
And you’d think a butcher would wash his hands, but I’ve never seen Jimmy go to the bucket and rinse himself off even once.
October 10
If some fellows have chips on their shoulders, Jimmy Flynn has a huge pile of bricks sitting on his. He’s just a little guy, and I suspect he’s always grumping and growling at the world because everyone is taller than he is.
Being that my pa is a big, broad-shouldered fellow and I lean toward the thin side, Jimmy ribs me a lot about being adopted. “You’re as skinny as a twenty-pound rail,” he says. We measure the size of the rails by pounds per yard, and a twenty-pound rail is real puny. “Patrick must’ve got you from the leprechauns.”
Teasing is one thing, but I don’t like him making leprechaun jokes. That reminds me too much of my mother. Because whenever my brother and me got to fighting and wouldn’t quit, she’d say, “Stop now, you rascals. It’s leprechauns that come to get bad little boys.”
October 15
As ugly and mean as Jimmy Flynn is, I have to admit that he can wield a knife like no one else. He starts by taking a half-dozen quick passes across his butcher’s steel, and then without breaking that rhythm, he goes right to work. His bl
ade is a silver blur when he slabs out steaks or chops up stew meat. The amazing thing is that he gabs the whole time and never looks at his work. I keep expecting him to take off his hand, but he’s never slipped once. A man can still hope, though.
October 21
Me and two other fellows were lifting a side of beef off a meat hook this morning when it slipped out of our hands. It knocked me right down, and Jimmy laughed his head off. “You gonna fetch that meat, boy? Or are you gonna dance with it?”
I wish someone would cut out that man’s tongue.
October 26
Hillsdale, Wyoming (mile 496)
Though we are officially in the Dakota Territory now, most of the men call this place “Wyoming” because everyone expects it will be made into the Wyoming Territory real soon.
Pa and all of the fellows brag that we will have no trouble beating the Central Pacific because their workers are mainly Chinese. Pa says, “Those runty Celestials ain’t got a chance of beating us County Cork boys.” “Celestials” is a name they use for the Chinese because lots of the fellows call China the Celestial Empire.
I know my mother would’ve hated to hear him going on like that about the Chinese, but if you can believe it, Pa is polite compared to most of the guys. The other day, Bill Flanagan heard about a terrible accident that killed several Chinese C.P. workers. It sounded like they were hanging over a mountainside in a wicker basket to set a black powder charge when they were blown right off the face of the cliff. Bill just laughed and said, “That’ll learn ’em. A little stiffer charge mighta blowed them heathens all the way back to China where they belong.”
Until the Last Spike Page 3