The Trainmasters (13 page)

“Easy, man,” said one of the twins, as he braced the foot of the jack with a block of wood.

That wasn’t enough to stabilize it, and Ferdy inserted a stone chip the size of two bricks. The jack then looked steady and
firm.

Next Egan and Geraghty began working the jack, taking the load off of the post to be replaced and putting it on the jack.

As the two of them turned the handle, the ground beneath them groaned and then made a barely perceptible heave.

They stopped what they were doing, alarmed.

Henneberry, no less alarmed than the others, straightened himself up and moved to take charge.

“Keep at your work there. Don’t you be worried. That was just a straightenin’ out of the ground underneath,” he said unconvincingly.

“Huh?” Egan said. “What do you mean by that?”

“That weren’t nothin’ to worry about is what I’m sayin’. I’m sayin’ to git on with your job.”

Another heave then followed, stronger and more pronounced this time, and with it was a deep, grinding boom from below.

“Somethin’s wrong down there!” Geraghty cried, pointing to the floor of the tunnel. He was obviously worried; they were all
terrified of the possibility that millions of tons of earth above them would come crashing down on top of them. They never
suspected that the floor would cave in.

The ground beneath them was supposed to be solid; yet it was moving now…

Suddenly Ferdy screamed: “Look! There!”

About ten feet up the tunnel, ahead of them, the sides and roof, including the support beams and posts, seemed to be twisting
out of shape.

All at once everybody started shouting; many were screaming in terror. They all dropped their tools and tried to run back
toward the shaft.

But nobody in the gang got very far, because just as they began to run, part of the floor of the main tunnel between the pilot
and the shaft to the surface collapsed, and the ceiling of the tunnel that they had spent days of hard toil shoring up broke
through the lagging. Tons of rock and mud smashed down onto several men and closed off the escape of those who were not instantly
crushed.

Then the floor they were standing on sank still more, before pitching downward, throwing the living and the dead on top of
one another.

Dust, grit, and mud droplets so filled the little space now left to the survivors, that it was nearly impossible to breathe.

There were no more screams and cries of terror; they were replaced by moans of pain and whimpers.

Egan was alive, but he could not move. Nothing pained him or seemed broken, and he was thankful for that.

He was grateful, too, that the mountain beneath them had stopped heaving and that the dust, grit, and mud had started to settle,
so that he could at least breathe.

Ferdy O’Dowd was also alive. Egan could hear his voice. Dazed and shaky with pain, Ferdy was reciting an “Our Father.”

Egan listened: “
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will…
”

And then the ground groaned and heaved one more time.

Mr. Abraham Gibbon, attorney at law, maintained offices on the fourth floor of a building on Third Street (near Chestnut)
that was primarily occupied by the Franklin Bank and Trust. But he also maintained a second set of offices, in a much seedier
building, at the corner of Wharton and Second streets in the warehouse district along the Delaware River. In his Third Street
offices, Abraham Gibbon dealt with those clients who desired for the most part to keep in compliance with the laws of the
city of Philadelphia and the state of Pennsylvania, as well as with any applicable federal laws. In his other offices, Abraham
Gibbon saw those clients who might from time to time choose not to comply with some— or most—city, state, or federal laws.

Gibbon was comfortable in either office, just as he was happy to operate on either side of the law. And in fact, not surprisingly,
rather a larger portion of his considerable income derived from activities generated from his Second Street office.

On this particular Monday morning in April, Abraham Gibbon was alone in his Second Street office waiting for a pair of new
and very important clients. One of these was George Kean, a leading teamster in Pennsylvania. At any given time, Kean probably
had almost fifty ten mule wagons operating somewhere between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. He was also active in canal shipping.
Because Pennsylvania teamsters were a clannish group, he had close friendships with most of the other teamsters who ran more
than one wagon between the major cities of Pennsylvania.

The other man Abraham Gibbon was expecting was Tom Collins. Collins was a labor contractor, and he ran the work gang at the
Gallitzin Tunnel, which was the largest work gang on the Pennsylvania Railroad’s mountain division.

Collins was the first to arrive at Gibbon’s office. He was a smallish man with silver-gray hair, a quick, nervous, high-pitched
voice, and an ingratiating manner. But for all his flattery and efforts to please, he was a man who carried an air of authority.
In him the ingratiation was clerical rather than servile. Indeed more than once Tom Collins had been mistaken for a priest
out of cassock. And those so mistaken were not very far off the mark, for in Ireland Tom Collins had been a priest. He had,
however, been defrocked because he liked young girls more than the holy sacrifice of the Mass.

Abraham Gibbon rose to his feet when filins entered the room. “Good day, Mr. Collins,” he said. “Please sit down over there.
You’ll find my furnishings comfortable, though dilapidated. Will you have a spot of whiskey or rum?”

“Thank you, Mr. Gibbon,” Collins said, sliding into the chair Gibbon had pointed out. “I’ll take a drop of your whiskey if
you don’t mind.” He was wearing his best black gabardine suit and a clean white shirt. But he had gone out without collar
and tie, and the last time he had put a razor to his face had been at least a day before. Since he was a man who did not show
a heavy beard, he did not look terribly scruffy; but Abraham Gibbon was unusually fastidious, and consequently he thought
badly of Tom Collins for appearing so unkempt. Abraham Gibbon was a fussy, peevish man who took offense easily and swiftly.
And this morning he was much more peevish than normal because of a searing and relentless pain in one of his back teeth.

Gibbon poured a small portion of cheap whiskey into a glass for Collins. For himself he poured a larger portion (because of
his tooth, he rationalized) of better brandy. He had chosen not to offer the brandy to Collins. Nor would he offer it to Kean
when he arrived, although Kean would be offered a better whiskey than Gibbon had made available to Collins.

“And how is your family, Mr. Gibbon?” Collins asked affably, after Gibbon had resumed his seat behind his large, though shabby
desk. There was a slight trace of brogue still in his voice, even though he had been twenty years on the western side of the
Atlantic.

“My family, sir?” Gibbon asked, petulantly. “What do you know or care about my family? I should think my personal life would
be of little interest to you.”

“I’m sure I know nothing at all about your family or your personal life, Mr. Gibbon,” Collins said, a wide charming smile
spreading across his face. “I was only starting out our conversation this morning by, as it were, passing the time of day.
Truly, I wish you and your family well, Mr. Gibbon. And if you would prefer not to talk about them, then I would be most pleased
to pass the time of day talkin’ about something else. That is, of course, until the other gentleman arrives. On the other
hand,” Collins went on pleasantly, “if you’d like to talk your business before he comes, then by all means let’s set to that.
Because I’m here at your service, and that’s for sure. Make no mistake about that.”

“That’s quite all right,” Abraham Gibbon muttered uncertainly, not sure why he felt a bit belittled.

“I, of course, have never had the good fortune of marrying, and so I don’t have the blessing of children.”

Or the curse of children, Gibbon thought but did not say. He was recalling his older son Jeremy, who had gone to California
to look for gold. He had only been at his diggings a month before he discovered what turned out to be his true mother lode—gin
and whores. He had returned to Philadelphia addicted to drink and riddled with syphilis.

“I have children,” Gibbon said abruptly after a long and uncomfortable silence. “Two daughters and a son. The two daughters
are of marriageable age, but they are unmarried and ugly. My son will never be married. And my wife is dead.”

“It is indeed fortunate,” Collins replied, making the most he could out of Gibbon’s misfortune, “that you have two fine women
to take care of you. You will be soon at an age, I’m sure, where you’ll need more than ever the care of women.” Collins’s
charming smile never deserted him.

“Twin harpies!” Gibbon muttered into his glass as he took another large gulp of his brandy. Collins’s whiskey was scarcely
touched.

He was about to offer Mr. Gibbon another encouraging thought when George Kean arrived. Kean was a large, rough, outdoorsy
man with a loud voice and few words.

After the introductions and dispersal of whiskey, Gibbon announced his business.

“A client has approached me who has asked me to keep his identity most confidential, but I can assure you that he is a man
of the highest stature and… urn,” he coughed, “integrity. This man of, as I say, wealth and position has asked me to provide
certain discreet services for him. And after a careful search of possible candidates to execute those services, I have settled
upon the two of you.”

George Kean nodded cautiously, but Tom Collins spoke.

“That’s most kind of you,” he said. “I’m sure that your confidence will be well rewarded by good and faithful service.”

“That may be as it will be,” Gibbon said mysteriously.

“Go on,” said George Kean to Gibbon. “State the business.”

“At any rate,” Gibbon said, “my client has approached me with a proposition. I should add that he has significant interests
in various enterprises specializing in shipping and transportation. And he views with alarm the successful completion of the
Pennsylvania Railroad’s main line across the mountains to Pittsburgh.”

“So do I,” George Kean said. “The bastard will ruin my business.”

“Exactly!” Gibbon agreed. “It will destroy the enterprise you have constructed by the sweat of your brow.”

“And may the good Lord spare you such grief, to be sure,” Tom Collins said.

“And now,” Gibbon said, “my client has no illusions that the Pennsylvania can be stopped. But it would serve all of our purposes,
as you will soon learn, if the successful completion of the Pennsylvania’s main line can be delayed for a year or two, or
perhaps if all goes well, three.”

Kean nodded.

“You do know that I am employed by the railroad,” Collins said, his face lighting up with scarcely concealed shrewdness.

“That, sir, is exactly the source of your usefulness to my client,” Gibbon said.

“Keep talking,” Kean said.

“Both of you could be instrumental in delaying the railroad. And my client would be pleased to pay you both a fair price for
your help in accomplishing that goal.”

“Keep talking.”

“You, for instance, Mr. Kean, could easily mobilize a number of teamsters who feel as you do about the railroad. Together
you could, I’m sure, use your imaginations to find ways to hinder the construction.”

“I’ve had a thought or two about that,” Kean said in a low, quiet voice.

“Of course you have. Of course you have.” And then Gibbon turned to Tom Collins. “And you, Collins, because of your responsibility
as contractor for the largest work gang on the mountain division, are in a position to, umm, encourage strife among the laborers.
And instill in them in any other way you can devise the desire to loaf and malinger.”

Collins thought a moment. “First off,” he said, warming to the task, “there’s not enough whores an’ booze. We’ll need more
whores. An’ more booze.”

“Yes, precisely!” Gibbon said brightening, nearly forgetting in his excitement his painful tooth. “That’s the time! I’m sure
we can provide a limitless supply of both commodities.”

“And you would like my teamster friends to rough them up?” Kean asked.

“I trust you to devise your own suitable solution to my client’s problem. It helps of course that his aims and yours so nicely
coincide.”

“What will he pay?” Kean asked.

Collins looked up sharply.

Gibbon rolled his glass back and forth a few times between the flattened palms of his hands. “One thousand dollars,” he said
finally. “Five hundred now. And five hundred on the successful completion of our enterprise. You, Mr. Kean, would of course
stand to profit doubly from our project.” He paused again, rolling his glass. “There will be papers, that I have drawn up
for each of you to sign. These will commit you to the project and ensure your loyalty to it. I will keep these papers in a
safe place, and they will be returned to you when our enterprise is completed.”