The newspaper reporters figured that the C.P. iron crew had lifted well over two million pounds of iron by the end of the day. I heard those iron men got four days’ wages for their work. That comes to six or seven dollars per man, which sounds pretty good until you compare it to the $10,000 that Crocker won.
April 29
Today we figured out why Crocker took so long to take up Durant on his bet. That old fox waited until we were closer than ten miles to Promontory, knowing there would be no way we could match his record.
April 30
I saw a line of naked Chinamen tonight. Actually, they weren’t all naked at once; they were just taking turns, walking up to a big tub of water, dropping off their dirty clothes, and taking a quick bath. On the far side of the tub each fellow was issued clean clothes. I wasn’t spying or anything, but I can’t believe anyone would take a bath every single day. That is taking cleanliness to an extreme. Though I’ve got to think that it would be a lot better than working around some of my crew, who smell like they’ve lived their whole lives in a horse barn.
May 1
The big celebration for joining the rails is scheduled for May 8. All of the company officials from both sides will be here to brag up the occasion. I hope the speeches aren’t too long.
I wrote to John and told him that we’ll be headed home before the month is out.
May 3
The work has slowed to a snail’s pace. More men are being laid off each day, but a lot of them are sticking around to watch the final ceremony. The men say that the railway officials have got two solid gold spikes ready for the occasion. Boy, would I like to take a swing at them.
Durant and a bunch of fancy gents and reporters — as if we need more newspaper people around here — will be traveling by special train to attend the ceremony.
May 6
The celebration has been delayed due to a kidnapping! Some workers back in Piedmont who haven’t been paid for months have taken Durant hostage. They’ve switched his personal car onto a sidetrack and chained the wheels to the rails. According to our telegraph man, they aren’t going to let him go until they get every dollar of their back pay — in cash.
It couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow.
May 7
With nothing else for the fellows to do, there’s lots of drinking and fighting going on. Two little tent cities called Deadfall and Last Chance have sprung up near here. Twenty men have been killed in the last twenty days.
May 8
Durant finally got money shipped in to pay off the workers in Piedmont, but it didn’t do him a lick of good because he’s now being held up by his own bad tracks. The bridges are so weak in Echo Canyon that they are hauling in carloads of lumber to make repairs. And the trestle is so bad at Devil’s Gate that an engineer is refusing to drive his train over the bridge until it is reinforced.
Pa was sure right to worry about the shoddy track.
May 9
Promontory Summit, Utah (mile 1,086)
The C.P. and U.P. crews are now within a rail’s length of each other but we are waiting for the arrival of officials from both companies. The C.P. directors were delayed by a log that fell across the tracks near Truckee, California, and damaged their locomotive. They are sending out another engine to fetch them.
May 10
Last night General Casement pulled a fast one on the C.P. Though the government declared Promontory Summit as the meeting place for the two railroads, they didn’t say who had the right to build a station here. So when Casement heard that the C.P. was planning to put in a siding at daybreak, he did them one better.
He got us moving shortly after dark, and we worked through a good part of the night to put the tracks down. When the C.P. work train pulled up at dawn, they found our locomotives and cars parked on a half mile of finished siding. They took it pretty well, and seeing as how they had so recently broken our tracklaying record, I considered it a well-deserved comeuppance.
A few people started gathering for the ceremony early in the morning, but the main crowd didn’t form until shortly after lunch. Along with Durant and Leland Stanford, a reverend, a bishop, four governors, and two congressmen were all waiting to take their turn at blessings and speeches. In addition to the two golden spikes there was a silver one from Nevada-Comstock, and a mixed silver, gold, and iron one from the Arizona Territory. A laurel-wood tie was waiting to receive the final spikes, and there was even a fancy silver sledge for the pounding.
When the big moment arrived, two bands struck up a march, and a double-file procession of soldiers aligned themselves along the tracks. U.P. workers set a rail in place on our side as a group of Chinese clad in neat blue smocks and wearing “coolie” hats picked up another rail and stepped toward the open place on their side. Just then Bill Flanagan called out, “Shoot,” to a photographer, meaning he should take a picture. The Chinese fellows, who thought “shoot” meant something else, dropped their rail and ran for cover. The fellows in the crowd roared.
As I stood there watching Pa and Bill and the rest of them laugh, I felt sorry for those Chinese fellows. I caught the attention of a young man who had run past me, and waved for him to come back. I picked up his hat and handed it to him. When the Chinese gathered back together, I helped them carry the rail over and set it in place.
As I stepped back, Pa looked at me strange. I couldn’t tell whether he was mad or not. Both crews began driving plain iron spikes down the length of the last two rails. They were saving the gold and silver ones for that special laurel tie.
Our fellows had just hammered the last spike down on their side when the Chinese man I’d helped tapped me on the shoulder. He handed me his maul and pointed toward a spike that he’d already started. I shook my head, but he motioned toward the spike again and smiled. I had no choice but to step forward.
When I bent down and tapped the spike to make sure it was firmly set, Mac O’Grady called out, “No cheating,” meaning I had to drive it down in just three hits. I looked over at him, ready to scowl, but I was surprised to see him grinning alongside Pa. “He’s right, Sean,” Pa called, smiling as big as I’d ever seen him smile. “Take it down on your own.”
As I balanced the hickory handle in my hands, I remembered Pa’s advice about letting the maul do the work, and I also thought back to the Chinese crew I’d watched working last month. I wanted that same easy rhythm.
I lifted my arms and swung smooth. A clear, metallic ping rang out over the heads of the crowd. Keeping that tempo, I swung a second time and hit it clean again. Then for the final blow, I did the same, snapping my wrists down hard at the last second. The clink told me that I’d buried the spike tight against the rail. The U.P. fellows let out a little cheer, and that Chinese man clapped me on the shoulder as he took his maul back.
Then the officials stepped forward for the final show. Since they didn’t want to ding up those gold and silver spikes, Governor Stanford and Durant took turns tapping them into four predrilled holes in the shiny laurelwood tie. Then, as soon as the pictures were taken, some workers slid a regular tie into place and hammered home all the common iron spikes but one.
As a telegraph operator stood ready to signal the final joining of the rails to the rest of the country, Governor Stanford took the first swing. He lifted the spike maul way above his head and pulled down clumsily. He missed by six inches, and his maul clanged on the rail. The boys roared, and this time, I laughed right along.
The governor sheepishly handed the maul to Durant, who pushed up the sleeves of his black velvet coat and took a turn. Durant’s swing was even more feeble than Stanford’s, and he missed the spike completely, too. As Durant’s maul dinged against the rail, the fellows yowled.
Bill Flanagan hollered, “We’da never made it outa Omaha with spiking like that!”
To finish things off, our chief engineer, Sam Reed, and Strobridge stepped in and made quick work o
f the last spike, saving the final hit for Strobridge’s wife, Hannah. When she outdid both Stanford and Durant by nailing the spike with a solid rap, everyone cheered and applauded.
Finally, with men crowded onto every deck and platform, the U.P.’s Engine 119 and the C.P.’s Jupiter nosed together over the newly joined rails. Though the greenand-black 119 was a bit plainer than the Jupiter, which had a big balloon-stack chimney and red-spoked drive wheels, every piece of brass on both engines was shining. The engineers, each holding a bottle of champagne, climbed up beside their headlights as the fellows on the ground hooted and hollered over the hiss of steam.
The loudest cheer of all went up when they broke the bottles over the front of each engine, and U.P. engineer Sam Bradford tipped his cap to the crowd. Following the explosion of foam and glass, both engineers shook hands and returned to their cabs. The Jupiter backed up a few hundred yards so Engine 119 could pull its passengers into C.P. territory. Then the 119 returned the favor.
The only disappointment came when A. J. Russell, the photographer who’d gotten a perfect shot of Durant missing the spike, dropped his glass exposure plate on the ground. It shattered into a million pieces, destroying the picture that would’ve proved what a puffed-up bunch of incompetents these rich folks are.
May 11
There’s something sad about a job — even a tough job like this — being over. It doesn’t help that the camp has been so quiet all day. Yesterday, everything was in a constant ruckus. As soon as the ceremony was over, people went crazy for souvenirs. They took jackknives to the “last” tie and cut it up into so many little slivers that we had to replace it three times. I hope they keep a close watch on those golden spikes.
Today, most of the fellows were suffering from too much celebrating, and they lay in bed until way after lunch. The two railroads had made the mistake of footing the bill for an end-of-the-job celebration, and the boys got more carried away than usual.
Pa and I had a long talk tonight while we were walking back from the dining car. I was afraid that seeing this job end might bring back the war memories that used to put him into those long, black silences. But he’s been more talkative than ever lately. He said, “Building this railroad was something big, Sean. Not only have we played a part in changing this country forever, but I’ve had the chance to see my water boy grow into a heck of a spiker.”
He went on to talk about how the Northern Pacific was going to build a rail line all the way out to Seattle by way of Montana. “They plan on starting next year,” he said. “We might want to think about signing on. Why, we could even ask your brother to come along. That would make us a real family again.”
I thought about how excited John would be at the invitation, as Pa stared down the tracks like he was measuring the miles of rail we’d laid. Then, almost in a whisper, he added, “I know your ma woulda liked that.”
May 12
It’s way too quiet around here. I always thought I’d be so happy when this job was done. A month ago, I could picture myself throwing my hat in the air and letting out a big “Yahoo” when we put the last spike down. But now that the day has come and gone, I can’t help but feel sad.
One day, I’m working on the top rail crew; then, I wake up the very next morning as a boy without a job. Stopping all this tracklaying so suddenly has given me a hint of what a shock it must have been for Pa when the Civil War ended.
May 19
After the final joining of the rails, Pa and I worked an extra week “mopping up,” as he called it. Then we caught a train bound for Chicago.
I just read in the paper that Bill Thompson, the fellow I met in Omaha with his scalp in a bucket when I first came West, has returned to England. According to the story, the Omaha doctor couldn’t reattach his hair, but Thompson was so grateful to him for trying that he had his scalp tanned and gave it to him as a present. They say it’s still on display in the doctor’s window.
It’s hard to believe that happened almost two years ago.
Traveling back East, we’ve seen hundreds of brandnew ties and rails and spikes piled up at nearly every station. Pa figures that Durant got money under the table for all the materials he purchased. So the more he bought, the more he filled his own pockets. Most everything will get used, though, because crews have already started to repair some of the shoddy work that couldn’t pass government inspection.
It used to take a half a year to sail the eighteen thousand miles from New York to San Francisco, but these iron ribbons can take a man across this whole country in only a week.
May 20
This morning we passed through Benton, or what’s left of it. Though Laramie and Cheyenne have new waves of settlers arriving daily, Benton lasted less than a month. No one ever hit a good well, so the people all picked up and left. Our conductor calls Benton “the shortest-lived city in the history of the West.”
Julesburg is as dead as Benton. That’s especially strange, since it was one of the liveliest of all the hell-on-wheels towns to spring up along the U.P. line. But Ben once told me that where there’s boom, there’s bust. I can see how true that is. Except for the piles of old broken bottles, rusting cans, and scraps of lumber, there’s nothing left to hint that five thousand people were crowding the streets only a year ago.
Sometimes at night, I lay awake and wonder if they ever caught the man who killed that fellow I found lying with his pockets turned out. I can still see his eyes locked in the middle of an unfinished thought and staring straight up at heaven.
Afternoon
It’s true what Pa told me when I first came West. The wildflowers and the prairie grass are a sight to behold. I guarantee that those long weeks working in the Red Desert have given me an appreciation for all things green and alive.
When we were taking on water this afternoon, I saw a man on horseback approaching from the south. The bluestem grass was so tall that his horse disappeared altogether, and it looked like he was floating over a rippling sea.
There is a rare beauty to this land. In an instant the wind can shift the color of the prairie grass from a whitish green to a deep purple and back again. Splashes of wildflowers color everything up, too. And along with the buffalo that have survived the hunters are big herds of antelope; and flocks of prairie chickens, quail, and doves.
May 21
We stopped for the night in North Platte. Other than the busy rail yard and the locomotive shop, the town looked even more quiet than I remembered. The only sign of fresh activity was the cemetery, which had grown considerably in size. The wooden grave markers were still tilted in all directions — Pa was right when he said that the earth settles fast over a fresh-dug grave.
I read the painted epitaph on a marker and had to fight back a smile. The lines, though they were clearly written from the heart, showed a serious lack of schooling:
Here lies Jeemes Engles
hoo was kild by the Shy-an injuns
Juli 1800 and 68.
He was a good egg.
Who knows what brought James Engles out to these plains? Was he looking for work? Hiding from the law? Like so many of the fellows who came West, his life and death will remain a mystery, but that’s not to say he didn’t count for something.
Ben put it best the day we said good-bye. “Someday you’ll probably be riding in a plush car amongst the fancy gents and ladies, Sean, but don’t never forget that the backbone of this railroad is the boys that we left buried back along the line.”
When I close my eyes, I can see two railroads rushing toward each other and into history, leaving an army of pick-and-shovel men behind. I’ll do my best to make sure that the workers who built this line are not forgotten.
I saw a lone bull buffalo today, galloping along the crest of a hill. When the train whistled, he stopped and turned toward us. He lowered his head and pawed the grass, looking ready to charge. Then, all of a sudden, his tail flicked u
p like a young colt, and he pranced away. Lots of folks say it won’t be long before the buffalo are all gone, but I’m hoping they can hang on. Only time will tell.
Sean and Pa returned to Chicago in May of 1869. The following year, they traveled, along with Sean’s brother, John, to Fargo, North Dakota, and signed on with a Northern Pacific Railroad construction crew.
Ben Wharton went south to work on the construction of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad. He later moved to New Orleans and became a conductor for the Southern Pacific Railroad, where he worked until his retirement in 1903.
In 1871 a fire burned down a third of Chicago. Uncle Willy and Aunt Katie lost their home. The factory that employed Uncle Willy also burned down, and he found work with an old neighbor of his named George Pullman, who was building railroad passenger cars.
Once the Northern Pacific Railroad was finished in 1883, the Sullivan men returned to Chicago. Pa hired on with his old railroad, the Chicago and Alton line. He worked as a section-gang foreman until his retirement in 1898. Sean was surprised to hear that Jimmy Flynn had moved to Chicago and started a steak house that had become one of the most popular restaurants in town.
At a double-wedding ceremony in July of 1884, Sean and John married two sisters named Molly and Margaret Branscomb. Both couples moved to Lake Calumet and were neighbors of Uncle Willy and Aunt Katie. Sean and John went to work for the rapidly growing Pullman Palace Car Company.
Until the Last Spike Page 10