The Trainmasters (23 page)

“I’d love a glass of tea, Deirdre.”

“Then you go sit, and I’ll take care of the tea. And then you can tell me what it is that brings you here at this hour.”

Teresa was glad for the delay. She was not eager to tell Deirdre what she had come to tell her.

Peggy, who was three, slipped out of her gown and into her underclothes, then into her dress. She had to be helped with the
buttons, and Teresa was happy to oblige her. Meanwhile, Deirdre had finished preparing the tea, and she poured two glasses
full. She had no cups. After she’d handed Teresa hers, she sat down next to her.

“So you’ve not come to pay me a social call, Teresa, have you?”

“No, Deirdre,” Teresa said, “I haven’t.” She took a sip of her tea, for courage. It didn’t help. “It’s Egan,” she said unsteadily.
“He may be dead.”

Deirdre pressed her lips together. Then she placed her glass on the table and clasped her hands, as though in prayer. At last,
she spoke. “How have you come to find out that?” she asked.

“I’ve just come from the wife of one of the managers of the railroad,” Teresa said with a soft, even, quiet voice, yet still
dreading what she had to say. “While I was with her, I learned there’s been a collapse at the Gallitzin Tunnel.”

“Dear God!”

“It was at one of the two diggings running off the eastern shaft.”

“Where Egan worked.”

“Yes, where Egan worked.”

“Lord!” Deirdre said. “The entire tunnel collapsed?”

“No, not the entire tunnel, though I don’t know the extent of the collapse, Deirdre. As 1 said, what I know is that the accident
happened at one of the eastern shaft headings.”

“So,” she said. But then her eyes showed a spark of hope. “But there are two headings off that shaft?”

“Yes, two,” Teresa said. “So of course Egan may be safe.”

Deirdre’s knuckles were white, but she did not say anything.

Then the two women realized that Peggy was standing beside them.

“What’s happened to Papa?” Peggy asked, and she started to clutch her mother’s arm.

Deirdre looked at her, unable to speak.

“He may be hurt, darlin’,” Teresa said. And then when tears started to form in Peggy’s eyes, Teresa said, “I’m sorry, Peggy.
Truly I am.”

“Will he be all right?” Peggy asked. “Will he come back to me?”

“I hope so,” Teresa said. “God how I hope so.”

“Dear, sweet Jesus, save my Egan,” Deirdre whispered. “Please, save him.”

“He
will
be all right,” Peggy said to her. “I know it.”

Teresa looked at her. Then Deirdre looked at Teresa, her face devastated with helplessness. “I can do nothing for him,” she
said, quietly wailing. “I’m in Philadelphia, two hundred miles away. What can I do for him here?”

“I don’t think you could do anything for him, even if you were at Gallitzin itself,” Teresa said, hoping to calm her with
a dose of sweet reason. “But,” she added, “I have more to tell you. Mrs. Lancaster”—she explained who Mrs. Lancaster was—”is
making arrangements to travel up to the tunnel. I am going to go with her. And you can also come, if you’d like.”

Deirdre looked at her. “I must,” she said.

“Can you be ready by nine o’clock?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good,” Teresa said. “Then I will come with a carriage and driver then.”

She rose to leave. “I must change,” she said, “and gather some clothes.”

“Teresa,” Deirdre said, “tell me. Why is this Mrs. Lancaster doing this?”

“I can’t answer that,” Teresa said. “I’ve only just met her last night.” Then she corrected herself, “I mean this moming …”
Her body sagged, and she tipped a little, almost losing her balance. Deirdre stretched her hand out to steady her. “God, what
a night!” Teresa said. “I’ve never before been through such a night…”

Deirdre looked at her, still holding her with the steadying hand. “Can you tell me?” she asked, with compassion. She had never
before felt so warmly toward her husband’s prodigal sister.

And Teresa, sensing Deirdre’s warmth, wanted to tell her about the previous night’s drama. But she could not. Not yet. It
was all too present in her heart. “I can’t speak of it, Deirdre,” she said. “But I will. I promise.”

“May I ask one further thing then?”

“You can then, surely,” Teresa said, lapsing, as she did only rarely, into the tones and rhythm of Ireland.

“Why are you going?”

“Egan is my brother. I must go to him.”

“But he hates you. If he is alive…” There was pain on her face. Any meeting between Egan and her sister was sure to be unpleasant,
if not explosive.

“Alive or dead, Deirdre. I must go to him.”

“I’m glad, then,” Deirdre said, ushering her to the door. “I will see you at nine.”

“Good-bye,” Peggy said.

“Good-bye, darlin’,” Teresa said.

“You can’t go alone, Egan,” Ferdy O’Dowd said.

“Why not?” Egan asked. “And who is to go with me?”

“I am,” Ferdy said. “I’m doing it with you.”

“How do you figure to do that, injured as you are?”

“I could be worse,” Ferdy said. “And I’m rested. And digging this hole out hasn’t stopped me.”

The two of them had managed to expand and prop up the tiny opening that Egan had found so that a man could slip through it.
He hoped the passage beyond the opening would lead into a cave system that would exit out of the mountain. It was their only
chance of escape.

Egan decided not to protest Ferdy’s desire to accompany him any more. In fact, he wanted Ferdy with him very much, but he
didn’t want to be responsible for him if his injuries proved to be too severe to allow him to complete what was sure to be
a strenuous and hazardous journey.

“And,” Ferdy concluded with his final, and most telling argument, “will I be any better off here?”

“No, you won’t,” Egan admitted.

“So then I’m coming.”

“Yes, you’re coming.”

I wish the others were coming, too, Egan thought. I hate to leave them. One has a separated shoulder. The other has a broken
arm. And the last is Tom Henneberry. I will never go with Tom. But I’ll be back for them if I make it out. By God, I’ll come
back!

They gathered what supplies they could carry, leaving what they could spare for the three who were to remain.. They took the
lantern, even though that left the others in darkness. They had two coils of rope, a pick, and a shovel. What remained of
their food they left with the three who were to stay … Egan and Ferdy hoped to be out in the open air before they starved.

“All right, then,” Egan said, when they had finished putting together what little they had to help them survive. “I guess
we had better go.” He crawled over to Francis Quig-ley. “Good-bye, Francis,” he said, “stay well. And safe.”

“So long, Egan,” Quigley said, and then he reached out and pulled Egan close to him. “Do it, all right, Egan? You do it.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

Then he turned to Geraghty. “I’m on my way then, old man.”

And Geraghty also reached out for him and wrapped his arms around Egan in a strong embrace. “Bye, Egan. I’ll pray for you.”

“Good-bye, Ferdy,” they both said.

“Safe journey,” Geraghty said. “And successful.”

“Good-bye, Tom,” Egan said to Henneberry.

“Good-bye, Egan,” Henneberry said.

“Will you shake my hand before I go, Tom?”

“I will not.”

Egan’s face grew pained, even though he expected nothing else from Tom. “Then I’m off.”

And Egan led Ferdy through the opening they had made into the dark.

Eight

When John Carlysle first opened his eyes on Tuesday morning, he was more than a little disoriented. The bed he was lying in
was only a narrow cot—it swayed and jerked, though not altogether unpleasantly—and the building around him was rattling. And
when he raised his head to look out of the window at the foot of the cot, the landscape outside was
moving

But then he caught on to what was happening: He was in one of the tiny cabins in Edgar Thomson’s private railway car. And
the car was now moving westward through the midsection of Pennsylvania. He looked out of the window, but he didn’t see a great
deal, only misty rain, moisture-shrouded trees, and a rocky hillside. So he lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes
for a moment, in order to clear his head.

A few minutes later he checked his pocket watch, which he had placed, as was his habit, beneath his pillow: Five thirty-six,
it read—close to the usual time he woke up. And now that he had gotten over his initial disorientation, he realized that he
felt quite refreshed after a good night’s sleep, in spite of the jostling of the train car.

He sat up on the bed and looked out of the window once more. This time they were passing through farm country, lush and fecund
land. Since it was April, the fields were freshly plowed and planted; but there was already a haze of green covering them,
which would become wheat or Indian com in two or three months. They were now in the valley of the Juniata, he guessed (under
the assumption that the train had kept to its schedule). In another couple of hours they should reach Tyrone and the end of
the line.

John rose out of the cot, slipped on his trousers, and opened the door to his little cabin. A moment later a servant appeared.
His name, John knew, was Horace. Horace was wearing a crisply pressed white jacket and a military-style cap, and his wide,
clear eyes showed that he must have been awake for at least an hour.

“Can I bring you a cup of coffee, Mr. Carlysle?” he asked. “Or some hot water for you to wash and shave?”

“I’ll take the water, and then the coffee,” John said.

“Yes, sir,” Horace said, nodding, and he walked off.

John watched him as he left, admiring the quality of the service. Edgar Thomson knew how to do things right, he thought. Even
the smallest of details, such as the uniforms of the servants, were well done. John was impressed with the way Edgar Thomson
had set up his own personal car, not only because he was pleased to have his own immediate needs so capably handled, but because
so much thought had been put into the design of the car itself. In years to come, considerable intelligence and effort needed
to be directed toward the design of American railway cars. And this particular car, John felt, ought to become a kind of model
for the train service of the future—with sleeping cabins and parlor rooms and space for enjoyable dining.

Horse drawn coaches had been the primary means of transportation before the railroad. The first railway carriages had imitated
the hard bench seats jammed closely together characteristic of coaches. But with locomotives growing more powerful, larger
cars and longer trains would offer comfort—and even pleasure—to passengers.

John had so far traveled only twice before on an American train; he had gone from Philadelphia to New York City and back.
Actually, he had traveled to the New Jersey side of the New York harbor, and from there he had taken the ferry to Manhattan.
He had not been impressed with the experience. The cars were drafty, cramped, uncomfortable, and filthy. And the railway personnel
had been as slovenly as the cars had been foul; they had been seemingly indifferent to the passengers in their care.