The Trainmasters (15 page)

“Actually, Father,” Kitty said, “I told Mr. Carlysle that you’ve been telling me that an Englishman was coming to work with
us. But from the way you’ve been talking, Father, I was expecting… someone much older.”

“I’m glad that I have not met with those expectations,” John said with a smile.

Kitty laughed, too. She liked this Englishman’s sense of humor. He was quiet and earnest, like her father, but he was not
solemn.

“Before you come to think of me as a roaring youth,” he said with another warm and gentle laugh, “you should know that I was
married and have three sons… one of whom is twenty years of age.”

Kitty’s eyes widened. And her voice fell. “And where is your wife?” she said to John.

“I’m afraid that she is dead,” John said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. Her heart actually felt lighter when she heard that, though she was ashamed of herself
for the feeling after it happened.

“After she died, I decided to try my fortunes here in America. And Sir Charles helped me along.”

“He’s helped him most handsomely,” Thomson said to Kitty, “to the tune of a thousand shares of our stock.”

“My, my, a thousand shares,” Kitty said and looked at John with greatly renewed admiration. “That is handsome. Amazingly so.
And from Sir Charles Elliot?” She was about to pursue that question, but before she could, her father spoke.

“All of you are standing,” he said, somewhat abashed that he might be thought a bad host, “and looking extremely uncomfortable.
Please sit.” Everyone complied. Kitty looked at the empty place next to John on one of the hard benches. But she decided it
would be more proper for her not to sit next to him.

“And Herman?” Thomson spoke to the superintendent, “find us some whiskey. I expect we all need it by now.”

While Haupt went to the cabinet where Thomson kept his whiskey, John Carlysle spoke.

“Are you able now to tell us the news from Gallitzin?” he asked.

“I’d much prefer not to, but you have a right to hear it,” Thomson said, shaking his head. There was a grim set to his lips.
“It’s not good. Not good at all. There are many deaths. Though God only knows how many. The cave-in was toward the end of
one of the headings being worked from the eastern shaft. And there were several men working behind it. It’s a damned bad business.

“I’m going up there later this afternoon,” Thomson said as he took a glass from Haupt, who was handing them around. “I’m leaving
as soon as a locomotive can be made ready. I should be in Tyrone by morning, and from there I’ll ride up on horseback.”

Tracks had not yet been laid as far as Gallitzin.

Kitty stared again at the Englishman. His face was lit by an intense and driven expression. Clearly he was most keen to join
her father when he traveled to the tunnel.

He spoke what his face had already revealed to her. “I hope there will be a place for me with you.”

“Absolutely,” Thomson said. “I’d welcome your presence. Can you be ready by late this afternoon… or at the very latest early
this evening?”

Kitty looked hard at her father. “Are you
really
needed up there, Father?” she asked him.

“It appears so.”

“That means you will be gone for several days?”

“Several days at least.”

“But what if,” she paused, “you are more needed here on Wednesday? What if…” She left the thought unfinished.

“What if?” John asked, recalling their earlier conversation outside on the platform.

Herman Haupt broke in before she could answer. “I think, Mrs. Lancaster, that it would be better if we do not discuss that
right now.” He obviously did not think it was prudent to talk about confidential company matters in John’s presence, for he
was as yet an outsider in his eyes.

“It’s not a secret, Mr. Haupt,” she said, less sure of herself than she sounded.

“No, but the moment is inappropriate and inopportune,” he said and glanced significantly at John.

“Perhaps I should leave?” John asked, offering to do the polite thing. He got to his feet. But it was clear to Kitty that
he was more than just terribly curious, he actually longed to take part in what was going on.

“Oh, no,” Kitty said, “there’s no need for that.”

“Stay,” Edgar Thomson said in a quiet voice. He rose and waved John back to his seat. Then he gave Haupt a nod indicating
that he trusted John. “There’s no harm in speaking openly in this company,” he added.

“Well,” John said, “the three of you have sparked my curiosity.”

“Kitty,” Edgar Thomson said, “since you brought the matter up, why don’t you spell out to Mr. Carlysle the reason you feel
I should stay in Philadelphia.”

And so, with great enthusiasm, for she was obviously convinced that the matter was nearly settled in her father’s favor, Kitty
told John Carlysle about the struggle between her father and William Patterson for control of the railroad, and about how
it would likely bear discussion before the board of directors’ meeting that was scheduled for Wednesday.

As it happened, John had learned everything she had to tell him during his intelligence gathering of the past two weeks, but
he decided that it would not be wise for him to reveal his knowledge at this moment.

“It doesn’t look terribly hopeful for Mr. Patterson,” he said when Kitty was finished. “And that means that you, Mr. Thomson,
will become president of the line, doesn’t it?”

“I would never count William Patterson out,” Edgar Thomson said cautiously.

“Oh, Father,” Kitty said, “you’re such a worrier.” To John she said, “Don’t take him seriously. I’m sure that he will be president
of the Pennsylvania before the end of the week if … he doesn’t throw it all away by running off to the mountains.”

“I’m afraid that I can’t believe that until it happens,” Thomson said, ignoring her final remark.

“You see, Mr. Carlysle, Father is hopeless. He takes nothing on faith.”

“One of the reasons he is a good engineer,” John said with a soft chuckle. “I like to trust engineers who don’t take things
on faith—bridges for instance.”

Thomson laughed at that.

Kitty turned her gaze to her father. “But I wish you weren’t going up to the mountains,” she said. “Not now. Not at this crucial
time.”

“I have to go, Kitty. You know that. The men up there depend on me.”

“Well, I hope you haven’t made a mistake,” she said. “I hope things don’t fall apart here while you are gone.”

“It’s all out of my hands anyway, Kitty.”

“Precisely! And that’s why you must be here to take care of it.”

He threw up his hands but said nothing else. He knew his daughter too well to fall into the trap of continuing an argument
with her until she was willing to end it. She was as persistent and pugnacious as a bulldog.

She gave her father a devastating look. But she decided not to try to go on, for she knew him well enough to know his mind
was made up. “And so, Mr. Carlysle,” she said, “you will be going to the mountains with Father?”

“Yes. Of course,” he said with certainty and confidence. “I’m sure I can be useful.”

“I’m convinced of that,” Edgar Thomson said. “I know you’ll help a great deal. Could you gather some clothes and be back here
in, say, two hours?”

“I could make it back by then.” John said. But as he said that, worry lines furrowed his brow. “Except,” he said, “I don’t
know about arrangements for my two younger boys.”

“What about the older one?” Charles Lancaster said. “Won’t he be able to handle them?”

“I doubt that I’ll find him,” John said. “I expect him to be… unavailable… for quite some time.”

Kitty noticed tension in his voice. She guessed that for some reason John didn’t always get along with his son. But then Kitty
thought of a solution to John Carlysle’s problem.

“What about me?” Kitty asked.

“You?” John replied.

“I’d love to watch your boys for a few days.” Indeed, she was liking the idea very much, especially now that she had lost
the battle with her father over whether or not he would travel to the tunnel. For a moment she had considered going with him,
but she instantly saw that it wouldn’t be to her advantage to push him on that right now.

“Mrs. Lancaster, I don’t think…” John protested, though actually he welcomed the idea.

“I have plenty of servants,” she continued, overriding his objections, “and no children of my own.”

“A splendid idea,” Edgar Thomson said. “I do want John joining me.”

“Then it’s settled?” John asked, not sure that it was.

“Of course,” Kitty said. “It’s absolutely settled. I have a carriage parked nearby. We will run into town, you will pick up
your boys and whatever they will need for the next few days, and I will take them home with me. Then you can come back here.

“And on our way, you must tell me all about yourself and your boys. And your life in England.”

Six

Egan O’Rahilly woke.

His head ached… throbbed. His muscles felt stiff and sore. His arms and legs hurt when he stretched, but at least he could
move them.

It was completely dark now. He fought down the terror.

One side of his face was in mud. And his lower half had somehow landed on higher ground than his head during all the tumbling
about.

Cautiously—so as not to dislodge any poorly supported mass of mountain—he moved to an upright, sitting position. And then
he realized he was breathing.

For a few moments, he listened to that—to himself taking in air. How wonderful, just to breathe! he thought.

Then he wondered how long he had been unconscious.

He listened for others, and he thanked God that he heard the sound of breathing that was not his own.

Slowly he became aware of crying. Or rather, it was someone making a sound somewhere between a low, sobbing moan and a child’s
undulant wail. He realized that the cries had been going on since he’d woken up, but he had blocked them out, so absorbed
was he in other, more immediately pressing, sensations.

“Tom, shut up,” he called out.

The cries did not cease.

“Damn it, Tom, shut up so that we can see who is still alive.”

But Henneberry either did not hear, or else he didn’t care.

Egan decided not to waste effort with Henneberry. There was nothing he could do about him in the dark.

“All right,” he said in the calmest, steadiest voice he could manage, “I’m going to call roll. Answer when I say your name.”

He began. “I know Tom Henneberry is here.” At the sound of his name, Henneberry’s wails increased in volume. “Oh, fuck it,
Tom, quiet down!” Egan said, but it did no good. So he went on, “Ferdy O’Dowd.”

There was a pause, then a painful, “Aye.”

“Grand,” Egan said. And he continued. “Owen Blake.”

There was no sound.

“Owen?” Egan repeated.

Silence.

“Cornelius Blake.”

Silence.

“Patrick Geraghty.”

Aye, Egan.”

“Thank God.” He continued: “Martin Kinvan.”

Silence.

“Tim McTier.”

Silence.

“Francis Quigley.”

“Aye.”

“Grand, Francis. Dennis Browne?”

Silence.

“Michael Moore.”

“Aye.”

“Grand.”

He went down through the names. But the only ones still among the living were himself, Henneberry, Ferdy O’Dowd, Geraghty,
Quigley, and Moore… out of twenty men.
And how many in the other gangs?
he wondered.

“And so what’s to become of us then, Egan?” Moore asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess we’re still alive. For now.”

“Should I make an act of perfect contrition now, Egan?” Geraghty asked, his voice, like Ferdy’s, tinged with pain. “Or is
there time yet for me to fill in a few sins?”

Egan smiled.
Geraghty will be giggling in his grave
, he thought to himself. “If I were you, Pat, I’d work on contrition.”

Henneberry wailed.

“Who’s near Tom?” Egan asked.

“I am,” said Quigley.

“Do you think you can shut him up?”

“I’ll try.”

“I’d be most glad if you would.”

A few seconds later, Egan heard the slap of a stone against what was probably Henneberry’s skull. Then the wailing finally
stopped.