Talk about heathens — Bill’s got a Bible above his bunk, but I’ve never seen him open it. I suspect that he can’t even read, because whenever Pa is reading something out loud from the newspaper, Bill listens real careful. Then he spouts the stuff off to someone else like he read it himself, but he always gets everything all tangled up. I swear that man is dumber than a fence post.
October 28
A fight broke out between Bill Flanagan and another Irishman today. It happened during supper after a hard day. Tempers were short, and a man called Dailey swore across the table at Bill. The next thing I knew, Bill was on his feet, and Dailey took a swing at him — a big roundhouse it was, but he missed. Since Bill is always shooting off his mouth, I was hoping that Dailey would bust him in the chops. But before you could blink, Bill gave the fellow a head butt that knocked him out cold. Dailey swayed for an instant, then he fell face forward into his coffee, spilling food and dishes all over the place.
“That’s a Cork man for you,” the fellow beside Bill called out, patting him on the back to congratulate him.
All this County Cork and Tipperary hate talk confuses me. I always thought an Irishman was an Irishman. I knew Pa and Bill hated the Indians, but I can’t believe they hate other Irish. Why should Pa, who was born on the Chicago waterfront, care what county in Ireland someone came from?
November 1
This afternoon, I met a famous buffalo hunter named William Cody. He’s nicknamed “Buffalo Bill.” Since Cody supplies meat for all the workers on the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, he was trying to convince Jimmy Flynn that the U.P. could save a lot of money if they switched to buffalo steaks. Jimmy just laughed and told him that his boys won’t tolerate anything but beef. I know that’s true because Jimmy has tried serving both mule deer and antelope, and the fellows threatened to skin his hide every time.
After he and Jimmy joked a bit, Cody put on a shooting demonstration for us. He tossed three bottles into the air, drew out his six-shooter, and broke every one before they hit the ground. Then for the grand finale, he flicked an ace of spades into the air and drilled it right through.
I had never seen such a display of shooting and was real impressed until I talked to Pa. He just laughed and said that all those trick-shot artists load their cartridges with BBs instead of bullets. No wonder Buffalo Bill could put on such a show. Even my aunt Katie can bust a bottle with bird shot.
November 9
Archer, Wyoming
I cut myself this afternoon. It was a stupid mistake. We were slicing up steaks for supper, and Jimmy Flynn told me to hurry. “Those boys will be in here chewing on you, sonny, if you don’t get some steaks ready pronto.” I hurried so fast that my knife slipped. At first I didn’t think it was too bad. But when I wiped my hand off on my apron, I could see that my palm was opened up pretty good. Though I did my best to hide it, Jimmy noticed the blood dripping onto the floor and got Pa. The whole time I was waiting, I couldn’t help but think I was being punished for wishing all that bad luck on Jimmy. I felt even worse because Jimmy was kind to me for a change and never made any jokes.
I told Pa we could just wrap it up tight, but after one look, he said no. Since our company doctor was out tending to a man on the grading crew, Pa took me by wagon to Cheyenne. When I complained that he shouldn’t bother, his lips got tight and he said, “I don’t want to lose you, son.”
We stopped at the doctor’s office — the sign said, J. ADAMS, PHYSICIAN — and knocked on the door. A lady in a white smock answered, and Pa said, “We’d like to see the doctor.”
She said, “That’s me.”
Not expecting a woman doctor, Pa stood there, not knowing what to say.
She laughed and said, “If the lad wants that bleeding stanched, you’d better bring him inside. I don’t tend my patients in the street.” Then she took me by my good hand and, looking down at the bloody bandage, added, “So what’s this? A bullet hole or a bear bite?”
Her joking relaxed me, and though it was different meeting a lady doctor, Mrs. J. Adams did a fine job of sewing me back together. Pa stood off to the side the whole time, watching to see that she did everything right, but she was a big improvement over Doc Barnes back in Chicago, who never smiles and always has whiskey on his breath.
When she was done, she gave me a hug and made me promise to be more careful with “nasty bladed things” as she called them.
That hug made me lonesome for my mother in the worst way. It’s funny how a little thing like a hug, or the look of a woman’s bonnet, or the laughter of a lady — even if it’s coming from the doorway of a saloon — can remind me of my mother. It’s like for an instant, I forget she is gone, but before the thought is even done, it vanishes. It’s almost as if a person has to die over and over again. Memories do that.
November 10
Ben stopped by and checked on me this evening. He teased me about not being able to tell the difference between my hand and a hunk of beefsteak, and he said that if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up workin’ as a one-armed mule skinner like him.
It felt good to laugh. Pa has been looking at me like he expects me to drop over dead any minute.
November 18
Cheyenne, Wyoming (mile 516.4)
With all the territory these tracks have covered so far, I can’t believe that the engineers can measure the distance down to a fraction of a mile. But they claim that we are exactly 516 and 4/10 miles from Omaha.
There was a big celebration when the U.P. rolled into town. The local citizens had set up a speaker’s stand with a big banner that read, THE MAGIC CITY GREETS THE TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILROAD. Eddy Street was lit with torches and kerosene lamps, and men with suits and stovepipe hats took turns making some long-winded speeches about “progress” and “the promise of the future.”
Pa says that the population of Cheyenne is close to four thousand, though it was a just an empty bend on the Crow River a month ago. And he claims that every gambler and strumpet that got run out of Julesburg last summer has set up shop here.
I can’t believe the crowds. Besides the brand-new depot, city hall, and two-story hotel, there are one hundred saloons all doing a booming business. Town officials have plans to build a church and a school, but by then the U.P. road builders will be long gone.
November 15
Real estate speculation in town is going wild. Lots that sold for $150 two months ago are bringing $1,000 and up.
November 17
Pa went into Cheyenne with Bill Flanagan last night and he never came back. He said that he needed to buy a bottle of liniment and wouldn’t be long, but I waited and waited, and he never showed up.
I shuffled the cards a few times and tried playing a little solitaire. Then I went outside and paced up and down the tracks, wondering what I should do. Midnight came. The men started trickling back to the work train, but no one had any news of Pa.
I finally lay down on my bunk and dozed off, worried that he’d been hurt or killed. A long while later, I woke to the sound of singing. I looked outside the tent, and there were Bill and Pa stumbling along arm in arm and soused to the gills.
I’d been proud of Pa for not drinking and gambling like the rest of the fellows, and I couldn’t figure out why he’d gone and done it. But as he lifted the tent flap and looked me in the eye, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Sean, but it was me and Maggie’s day, you know.”
Then I remembered. November 17 was his anniversary. Next thing I knew, he was crying — not the usual kind of weeping of a drunk — just huge tears running down his cheeks and splashing onto his boots.
As Bill and I helped him into bed, he kept mumbling, “Me and Maggie’s day . . . me and Maggie Montgomery Sullivan . . .”
This morning, Pa got up at his regular time, and to my surprise he showed no signs of last night’s escapade. He simply patted me on the shoulder and said, “Sorry I kept you waiting last night, Sean. I
t won’t happen again.”
Then we went off to the dining car, and Pa downed his usual enormous breakfast.
November 20
We are stuck here in Cheyenne, waiting for supplies. My hand is stiff and sore, but the worst thing is the teasing. Jimmy Flynn is making up for being nice to me on the day I cut my hand. He never lets up, and I’m getting tired of jokes about boys who can’t tell the difference between their hand and a side of beef.
General Casement is pacing a lot lately. Loads of fresh Irish workers are arriving daily — many straight from the old country — and there’s nothing for them to do but drink Red Dog whiskey at a dollar a bottle and fight. There is so much violence in town that a local paper has started a column called “Last Night’s Shootings.” Half our work crews will be dead if the next shipment of rails isn’t delivered soon.
Casement wants to lay the thirty-two-mile stretch to Sherman Summit before we quit for the winter. But that two-thousand-foot rise between here and the summit is bound to be tough going. Everyone is wondering how long the weather will hold.
November 22
It’s gotten so cold that Pa and Bill and I have moved into the bunk car. Some of the fellows snore loud enough to rattle the roof boards. And all of them stink. Pa and I still visit the bathhouse on Saturday to wash up, but most of the fellows are in too much of a hurry to run off to town to get drunk.
November 28
We celebrated Thanksgiving today with a fancier than usual meal. Along with our meat and potatoes, we had squash pie. I only got a little smidgen, but it was fine. I asked Pa why people are fussing over Thanksgiving lately, and he said that it was President Lincoln’s doing. Though George Washington made Thanksgiving an official holiday, people had forgotten about it over the years. But once the Civil War ended, Lincoln decided that we’d better get busy again and show that we were thankful.
November 29
We finally started laying track toward the summit. I say “we” because I just got promoted to the grading crew. We work out ahead of the track men. The minute Mr. Casement asked for extra help, I jumped up quick as a whistle. And you can bet I didn’t waste a lot of time saying good-bye to Jimmy Flynn.
When I told Pa about my new job, he was proud. “Pretty soon you’ll be the chief engineer,” he joked, “and bossing me around.”
We are fast approaching eight thousand feet, and the higher we go, the colder it gets. My cut hand aches some, but it’s knitted back together clean. Whenever I’m tempted to complain, I just remember what it was like being cooped up in the butcher car with ugly old Jimmy Flynn. I like working outside in the open air, even if it gets so cold that I lose all the feeling in my face.
Bleak gray clouds fill the passes, and the mountains are coated with frost plumes. The rails are so slick that the brakes on the trains barely hold. Our engineers just creep along, spreading sand on the rails with their sand pipes and hoping for the best. The fellows I feel most sorry for are the brakemen. They have to ride out in the open on top of the cars and crank down the big wheels that slow the trains. When they jump from car to car, it’s easy for them to slip. I know of two men who fell between the cars this month alone.
It’s easy for us graders to lose our footing, too. It was sleeting yesterday, and when I stepped on an icy rock without thinking, my feet flipped right out from under me. It was pure luck that I caught myself before I kissed the dirt, and the fellows had a good laugh. I was grateful that I didn’t split my head open or skid off the side of the mountain like Seamus McGlynn did on Tuesday. He broke one arm and busted up his kneecap real bad.
December 1
General Casement has taken to wearing a tall fur cap. He looks just like a picture of a Russian Cossack that I saw in a magazine one time.
December 5
Pa is shaking his head a lot lately. In a rush to get as much track laid as he can, Mr. Casement is having the men set ties right on top of the frozen snow. (Pa says he’s following the orders of the U.P. vice president Durant, who is a real pushy fellow.) Though the rails are going down fast, Pa says the whole job will have to be redone. He’s worried that a train is going to slide off the mountain when the weather breaks next spring.
My hands have never been this cold. I am picking and shoveling as best I can, but it’s tough to keep ahead of the track men. The dirt and rocks are frozen into such hard clumps that sparks fly off the tip of my pick.
December 25
For Christmas, Pa gave me a pair of wool socks and a heavy cap. He also gave me a new journal so I can start 1868 off fresh, and a copy of a new book called Journey to the Center of the Earth, by Jules Verne. It must have been a trick for him to get those books sent way out here. It will be a long while before book and stationery stores try to compete with these saloons. The clothes and book are nice, but the journal is special because it’s not the sort of thing he would normally think to buy. I borrowed some thread from Bill and sewed it right into my old journal.
I bought Pa and John and Uncle Willy winter jackets, and I sent Aunt Katie a pretty scarf. I hope I got John a big enough size, because in his last letter he told me that Aunt Katie says he’s “growing like a weed.” Pa said I spent way too much, but I’m on full wages now — $35 per month — and since I’m not wasting my money on Red Dog whiskey like the rest of the fellows, I’ve got lots of spare cash.
December 31
The tracklaying is done for the year. We never made it to the summit, but we’re within hollering distance. Pa says Mr. Casement plans on stocking up on rails and other materials through the winter and hitting the work hard come spring. He plans on hiring hundreds of more guys, too. I wonder how many miles a day he’s going to expect out of us next year?
January 10, 1868
I’ve already read through my Jules Verne book twice. Though Bill Flanagan cusses me out for staying up late and wasting lamp oil, Pa tells him to leave me be. That book has got me dreaming about creatures living underneath the ground.
To pass the time, Bill and Pa have been telling war stories lately. Back in Chicago, Pa would just shake his head when John and I asked questions about the war. He wouldn’t even say what battles he’d fought in. But I think it’s good for him to talk it out. So he doesn’t feel uncomfortable, I try to pretend I’m not listening.
Pa talked about the day “Old Tecumseh” — that was a nickname he used for his commander, General Sherman — ordered them to set fire to the city of Atlanta. “Fighting battles is one thing,” Pa said, “but burning down all those people’s homes took her a notch too far for me.”
When Bill reminded Pa of Sherman’s famous statement that “war is hell,” Pa asked, “But why did he have to spend his whole life proving it was true?”
January 14
A big blizzard hit yesterday. All the trains have stopped because of the drifts. I feel like I have shoveled off five miles of track in the last two days.
The temperature is thirty below zero. I helped Ben feed and water his mules tonight because I know this weather is hard on both him and his animals.
January 17
I got letters from John and Aunt Katie thanking me for their Christmas presents. Aunt Katie warned me like she always does about staying away from the saloons — I suspect the people back in Chicago have heard about our wild, hell-on-wheels railroad towns. Even Uncle Willy surprised me by adding a little note to Katie’s letter, telling me to be careful. As usual, John’s letter was the most interesting.
Dear Sean,
Christmas was fun back here in Chicago. Your present was the best!
Just before vacation, my class went on a hayride. Bart Jenkins pushed Susie McDougall off the wagon, and she broke her arm. Susie fainted from the pain, and my teacher, Miss Collins, got so upset that she fainted, too. The driver had to lift them both up on the wagon — we boys had to help with Miss Collins as she is rather large — and drive us right back to town. We were ma
d at Bart ’cause as soon as Miss Collins woke up, we had to go back to school and do our spelling. He spoiled our whole day. Bart’s dad tanned his hide good, and I can’t say that I blame him.
Wish you could be here ’cause Uncle Willy is taking me ice fishing tomorrow. I’ll try to hook a big one for you.
Is it still snowing a lot out there?
Your brother,
John
January 20
I haven’t cared to write lately because all I can think about is the snow and the cold. When I am not shoveling snow, I am piling up the materials that are arriving daily. It’s boring to unload carloads of bolts and switch plates and ties and rails, and it’s dangerous, too, because you can get your toes or fingers pinched by the heavy iron.
Last night, Pa and Bill talked about the final months of the Civil War and how General Sherman got meaner and meaner as the war dragged on. He cut what Pa called a “bloody path” all the way from Atlanta, Georgia, to the sea. When Bill said that Sherman’s idea of war was to burn down every house and rip up every rail and kill every living creature in his path, all Pa could do was nod. ‘‘About the only thing I ever saw him spare was a hound dog,” Pa said, his eyes misting over at the thought.
Until the Last Spike Page 4