The Trainmasters (22 page)

“Yes, but…” She stopped, unable to find another excuse.

Kitty could see that the girl’s objections did not come wholly from her heart: She
wanted
to go to the tunnel.

“Well, Teresa?” Kitty asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I do want to go. And yes, I do want to leave the city.”

“Then it’s done!”

“But…”

“Yes?” Kitty sighed.

“Egan is married. His wife…”

Kitty picked up on that. “You want her to come?”

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

“By all means,” Kitty said, feeling very good. “Can you get her to the train by ten?”

“Yes.”

“Then sleep for a while. Bridget will show you to a bed.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Kitty did not go to bed immediately after Bridget led Teresa away. She was much too excited to fall asleep. So she checked
first on Graham, who was sleeping soundly now. Then she looked in on the two younger boys, who had not stirred, it seemed,
during all the commotion.

Finally, she looked in on Teresa O’Rahilly. She was lying in her bed, but she was not yet sleeping.

“Are you all right?” Kitty asked. “Will you be able to sleep?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lancaster,” Teresa said. “I’m fine.”

“I could bring you some laudanum.”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your sleep.”

“Bridget will wake me in time to reach Egan’s wife?”

“You can count on her,” Kitty said. She was about to shut the door; but then, yielding to a sweet impulse, she moved across
the room to Teresa, bent over her, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Good night, Teresa,” she said. “Sleep well. I’m very glad I’ve met you. I hope we can become friends.”

Teresa smiled. “Good night, Mrs. Lancaster. And thank you. I’m glad I’ve had the chance to meet you, too.”

“Please call me Kitty.”

“Kitty,” Teresa said and closed her eyes.

“Egan?”

Egan O’Rahilly turned toward the sound of the voice calling him. He couldn’t see who it was, for it was black in the little
pocket deep under the mountain as the darkest terror. But he knew the voice was Ferdy O’Dowd’s.

Egan had been dozing for a little while. At least it was his impression that he’d been dozing only a little while.

“Yes, Ferdy,” he said.

“Are you all right, Egan?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“I’ve been calling you for hours,” Ferdy said. “It seemed like days. But you never answered me.”

“I was catching a bit of sleep, Ferdy,” Egan said. “But I don’t think I was gone long.”

“I don’t know what you call long,” Ferdy said, “but I also slept. And after, I’ve been saying my beads. And I said the entire
rosary, the whole blasted thing—joyful, sorrowful, and glorious mysteries—five times. And after each time, I tried to wake
you, and you didn’t wake up.”

“Is that the truth?” Egan asked.

“As God is my witness,” Geraghty broke in. “I heard every ‘Hail, Mary,’ ‘Glory Be,’ and ‘Our Father’ out of Ferdy O’Dowd’s
mouth. He must have said ten thousand prayers.”

In spite of himself and the pickle he was in, Egan laughed. “What a lovely coat to clothe yourself with, Ferdy, when you walk
before Saint Peter,” Egan said. “All those rosaries to be wearing to cover your sins.”

“It was something to do,” Ferdy said, modestly, “while I was waitin’.” He was a pious man even when his life wasn’t in such
pressing danger. But he was also a humble man. He didn’t like to broadcast his piety.

“Is that you blabbing, Egan O’Rahilly?” It was Tom Henneberry.

“Yes, Tom, it’s me,” Egan said.

“Then maybe you can answer me a few questions.”

“Why not, Tom,” Egan said, with a sigh.

“Would you maybe know who cracked me on the head not long ago?”

Egan realized that Tom didn’t remember that Egan had told Francis Quigley to shut Tom up.

“Did you hurt your head, Tom?” he said. “I’m most sorry to hear it.”

“I’m askin’ you to tell me if you did it, Egan O’Rahilly.”

“No, Tom, I did not. It is powerful dark in this spot we’re in, Tom. Don’t you think that you did it yourself in the dark?
Or maybe during the tunnel collapse?”

“No, Egan O’Rahilly, I do not,” Henneberry said. “And, what’s more, I’ve got a second question. I kind of think the same answer
belongs to the second question as the first one.”

“Yes, Tom.”

“Why are my arms and legs tied?”

“I don’t know, Tom. Are they tied?” He wished he
had
thought to do it.

“You lyin’ bastard, you think you’re so fuckin’ smooth.”

“It’s God’s truth, Tom,” Egan said. “But this is the first I’ve heard of your misfortune.” Egan maintained his poise as he
said that, but then he couldn’t control himself any longer. And, swept away by a tide of silliness, he burst into giggles.

This, of course, incited Tom Henneberry to even greater rage. The big man’s roars of rage filled the darkness. “Egan O’Rahilly,
when I get my hands and legs loose from these ropes, I’ll wrap them around your neck and squeeze until your eyes pop out.”

“Henneberry… Tom Henneberry.” It was Francis Quig-ley.

“Who’s that?” Henneberry asked, not recognizing the voice.

“It’s Francis Quigley, Tom,” Egan said. “Don’t you know the men that work for you?”

“Shut your mouth, Egan, you dumb bastard.”

“Tom,” Quigley said. “I’ve somethin’ to tell you.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I was the one that put you out with the stone. And then I tied you.”

“You what?”

“I hit you and then I tied you, like I said.”

“What did you do that for?”

“Because you’re a danger to the rest of us. And because I couldn’t stand hearing your loud, stupid voice. And I figured that
if I was going soon to my maker, I’d just as soon not have you to listen to.”

There was a long silence from Tom Henneberry. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and compelling. “Well then, you can
just let me loose now, Francis Quigley. Because I’d best be seein’ about gettin’ us all out of here. Since I’m in charge.”

There were some noises of movement.

“Leave him,” Egan said, fearing that Quigley was actually doing what Henneberry requested.

“I wasn’t about to do anything different,” Francis Quigley said. “It’s just that I saw I was kind of close to Tom’s feet.
So I was just slipping away from him some. He’s tied, but the big fool can still kick.”

“O’Rahilly! You fuck!” Henneberry muttered, finally realizing that his position was hopeless. “It’s you that have done this
to me. Even if you didn’t strike me with the stone or tie me with the rope.”

“If that’s what you want to believe, Tom,” Egan said, “then you go right ahead and believe it. I’ll take responsibility, just
because it was the right thing to do, by God.”

“Well, Egan, when we get out of here, I’m going to chop you into fine pieces.”

“I’m thinking that the mountain might beat you to that, Tom,” Egan sighed.

“Tom?”

“Who’s that?”

“Geraghty, Tom,” Geraghty said. “You know, Tom, we all wanted you to shut up. Every one of us. We couldn’t bear your yelling.”

“That’s right,” Ferdy O’Dowd agreed.

“Every one of us as much as lifted the stone and tied the rope,” Geraghty continued.

“And if you don’t shut up now, then we’ll all do it again,” Ferdy said.

Tom Henneberry grumbled. But he shut off his flow or demands and his invective.

Egan suddenly realized that they should have used up all the air by now. Yet they hadn’t. “Have any of you wondered at how
we could have been trapped down here for the better part of a day in this tiny sack of open space… and we are still breathing?
Has any one of you considered that we have air down here?” Egan asked the others excitedly.

“What’s that?” Geraghty asked. “My God, you’re right!” And the others rustled about and whispered as they understood what
Egan was saying.

“We haven’t smothered,” Egan went on. “Air is coming in from somewhere.”

He thought a little longer about that. When the tunnel collapsed, it wasn’t the roof that fell down on us, it was the floor
that gave way. And that is just plain impossible—unless there is a cave or cavern or sink hole or some other open space beneath
the tunnel.

“Egan,” Geraghty said, “tell me what you are thinking.”

He told them.

“Jesus,” Geraghty said, “I think you’re right.”

“What does it mean for us if you are right, Egan?” Francis Quigley asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know… It gives us a chance, maybe. But think: If there are caves and it’s not just an isolated cavity,
and if the caves lead to the surface, and if we can find our way through them, then we have a chance to live.”

Tom Henneberry laughed. “You’re a fool, Egan. You are a true fool. Do you really believe that?”

“Shut up, Tom,” Ferdy O’Dowd said.

Tom Henneberry snorted, but he did shut up.

“I’m going to light my candle,” Egan said. “And then we can find out how we stand.”

He took out his flint and steel and lit the candle he kept in his pocket. And, once his eyes had grown accustomed to the light,
he looked around. Ferdy, Geraghty, and Francis Quigley were sprawled out more or less where they’d been when Egan had last
lit the candle. Henneberry, of course, was tied up with some spare rope. Michael Moore, whose hip had been crushed, was dead.
In the dark, no one had noticed.

“Oh, my Lord, Michael’s dead,” Quigley said, when they all realized what had happened. “And he was my dear friend.”

“Poor Michael,” Geraghty said. “And he’s left a wife and three kids, too.”

Goddamn this mountain!
Egan thought.
Goddamn it!

“Should we say an ‘Our Father’ for him?” Ferdy asked.

“Yes, of course,” Egan said. “Will you start it, Ferdy?”

Ferdy began, “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

And the others joined in, even Tom Henneberry, “Hallowed be thy name…”

When they had finished, Ferdy added, in Latin, “Requies-cas in pace, Michael.”

Then Egan crawled to the end of the long, narrow pocket that confined them, the part that bent like an elbow. He slipped around
the bend and held the candle in front of him. There was a small passage in front of him, leading down. It was too tight for
him to wriggle through.

But Egan could tell there was something there, and it was surely through there that the air was coming.

Deirdre O’Rahilly, Egan’s wife, and his daughter, Peggy, lived in a cellar room on Broad Street in Moyamensing. It was small,
cold, and damp, but it had its own private entrance to the outside, and its own stove, which helped dispel the chill. And
there was a table and some chairs and a comfortable bed. And, most important, they had the cellar all to themselves; they
were not forced to share their meager space with another family. The O’Rahillys’ lodgings, in other words, compared to the
quarters of other Irish workers, could almost be called comfortable.

The night was changing into a gray, rainy dawn when Teresa O’Rahilly arrived outside Egan’s house. She paused at the steps
that led to the cellar door, apprehensive. Deirdre would not welcome her, she knew. But then she gathered her strength and
descended the stairs. At the bottom, before the door, she looked down. Yes, a light was shining beneath the crack. Deirdre
was awake. She knocked.

“Who is it?” Deirdre called.

“It’s me, Deirdre; it’s Teresa.”

“You, Teresa,” she muttered, “what brings you here at this godless hour?” But, despite her obvious misgivings about Teresa,
Deirdre opened the door for her.

Deirdre was a small, quick, and nervous woman, with brown hair and a harassed-looking face. She stood for a moment inside
the door with a put-upon expression, disapproving of Teresa. Still, she moved aside to let her in.

“Who’s there, Ma?” the little girl Peg said. She was wearing a torn but clean nightgown and nothing else. Deirdre was already
dressed for the day.

“It’s your Aunt Teresa,” Deirdre said. “Well?” she said, stern-faced. But before Teresa could answer, Deirdre realized that
Teresa must be very cold—she was obviously very wet—and so she melted a little. Teresa was, after all, her husband’s sister,
in spite of everything else that she was. And she had surely come this morning for some serious reason. “But why don’t you
sit by the stove, at least, and warm yourself, Teresa,” she said. “And I am making a pot of tea. Would you have a glass?”