The Trainmasters (39 page)

“Well then, now, Mr. Carlysle, isn’t it a fine day?” He had placed himself very close to John, uncomfortably close. So close
that John felt invaded. Yet, at the same time, there was no trace in Collins of the sarcasm or the hostility of a few days
earlier. The man was a priest, or at least was once a priest. He was well familiar with repentant sinners. When they returned
to the fold, he welcomed them with elaborate courtesy and without rancor. Though naturally he looked down on these returnees
from the loftiest of heights, especially when they came back to his flock. Then their position sank even lower than ever in
his eyes.

“It is a nice day,” John agreed. “The sun is warm and pleasant.”

“And you yourself are most elegantly turned out, just like a Mayfair gentleman among London bluestockings.”

“I thought these clothes would be appropriate for the occasion,” John said.

“Then you must be ready for our little do?” Collins asked with a broad grin on his face.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” John said evenly.

And then, smiling even more broadly, Collins slipped closer to John and laid his arm across John’s shoulder. The arm resting
there was as pleasant as a rattlesnake, and John tried desperately to mask his revulsion.

“You know, John—” Collins said, giving John’s shoulder the smallest, yet most intimate of squeezes, “it’s all right to call
you by that name, isn’t it?”

“By all means,” John said.

“That’s good..
.John
. Lovely, to be sure. You’ll call me Tom, then?”

“Of course, Tom.”

“Well then, John, I’m delighted to welcome you to the flock. It’s a truly marvelous thing that you’ve come to see reason.
And I’m glad to have your backing—and the railroad’s too, that’s for sure—for what I have to do.”

“I’m glad myself,” John said, with as much repentance in his voice as he could plausibly muster, “to be on the right side.”

“Lovely! Lovely!” Collins said. His arm was still intimately draped across John’s shoulder. “I won’t just say it! I’ll proclaim
it, by Jesus! It’s truly glorious, by Jesus, to have you with me!”

“I have to admit,” John went on more darkly, “that I’m worried about the men. The ones out there,” he pointed, and in that
move he managed to slip free of Collins’s arm, “look ready to riot.”

“Leave all those worries to me, John,” Collins said expansively with the authority of a man of great importance, a bishop
perhaps. “I know ‘em all better than their mothers. I’ll take care of ‘em. You can be sure of that.”

“I hope so,” John said nervously. “I don’t want to see anyone hurt. And I’d be in very hot water, indeed, if there’s damage
to company property.”

“Just keep yourself calm, John. Everything’s in the very best of hands. And a bet on that’s a sure winner.”

And then he shifted his gaze out to the mob in front of them. “Well, John, do you think they are ready for me?”

“They’re as ready as they’ll ever be.”

“Then I’ll tell ‘em what they need to hear.” With that, he climbed up on board his pulpit. As soon as he did that, twenty-four
armed men carrying rifles and pistols, as well as wicked-looking billy clubs, arrayed themselves in a row a few feet before
the pulpit. They would be Collins’s choir.

The men before them were no longer as quiet as they’d been ten minutes earlier. They were shifting nervously on their feet
and talking edgily and irritably among themselves.

They were not, John noted, standing side by side like a congregation, though that was surely what Collins expected. Standing
to the front and center was Egan O’Rahilly. Close by were Patrick Geraghty, Francis Quigley, and Ferdy O’Dowd, their wounds
long since healed. But to John’s surprise, Teresa O’Rahilly was also alongside her brother, on his right.
This is not a proper scene for a woman to play a part in
, John thought, but he couldn’t help but admire her courage. His son Graham and Francis Stockton were not in the crowd. They
had another part to play.

Egan, standing there, could not take his eyes off John Carlysle. And the look in those eyes was baleful. His face brimmed
over with hate. And the light in Teresa’s eyes was no less full of anger.

What fabulous actors those two are
, John thought to himself with a shiver of worry that it was not acting that he was witnessing.

Once he had placed himself in his most impressive oratorical stance, Collins made several slow scans of the men with penetrating
eyes. His stare was meant to unnerve the workers just as it had his parishioners. And it worked. The men grew less restless,
and the talking among them ceased.

“Good day to you all, then,” he said in a loud, orator’s voice. “And welcome to you.” He glanced around once more, smiling.

“I’m not gonna waste your time or keep you long,” he went on. “And I’ve things to do myself that are more pleasant than this.”

“More pleasant than you,” cried a voice. It belonged to Egan O’Rahilly’s friend Ferdy O’Dowd, John noted.

“So I’ll get to my point fast,” Collins said, ignoring Ferdy’s remark. “I hired you men to work on this railroad, and—” he
gave a glance in John’s direction, “the work’s not gettin’ done.”

“No thanks to you, Tom Collins,” Egan O’Rahilly yelled. And there were shouts of agreement from the crowd.

Collins turned his eyes on Egan, despising him, yet he only allowed pity and regret to show.

“The
work’s
not gettin’ done,” Collins repeated, “on account of there are men who are standin’ in the way of it, like there are men standin’
in the way of me speakin’ right now.”

“Is that so?” Egan asked, dripping sarcasm. “You’re talking two things, Tom Collins, out of both sides of your mouth, just
the way you usually do. You’re the one who’s standing in the way of the work. But I’m not standing in the way of you talking;
I just don’t want to hear you.”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” Collins said.

Egan laughed. “I already know what you’re going to say, Tom Collins. It’s what I’m going to do about it… that’s what’s going
to be interesting.”

John moved forward. “Here, you there, O’Rahilly,” he said in his best lord-of-the-manor tones. “Let the man have his say.”

“Fuck off!” Egan said. “You fucking, betraying English limp prick!”

“I won’t stand for that kind of talk, O’Rahilly,” John said.

“Well then, don’t,” Egan said. “You have my permission to leave. You work for the railroad. Take a train. But get out of here.
Out of my life.”

“Now, now,” Collins said smoothly. “I’m going to move on.”

Egan chose not to challenge him again then.

“Like I said,” Collins continued, “the work’s not gettin’ done. Why not?” He paused to let the question sink in. “Because
there’s not enough discipline.”

There were shouts of disapproval and rage. But again Egan kept his mouth shut.

John took that moment to slide a glance at Teresa. And for a couple of seconds, her eyes caught his. During that time, she
gave him a slow, knowing wink.

“I’ve tried to go easy on you men,” Collins said, “because I’m kind and humane. And I feel pity for you. And I was hopin’
that the ones who was causin’ all the trouble—and you all know who they are—would see the light and reform. But that hasn’t
done the trick. Kindness did not get the job done. So I’ve got no choice—-”

“No choice!” Egan broke in. “I’ll ‘no choice’ you, you bastard. I’ll make you drink your own piss, and you’ll have no choice
about that.”

There were cheers from the men when he said that.

“Shut you dirty mouth,” Tom Henneberry said, raising his rifle up, threatening.

“You too, Henneberry,” Egan said, laughing. “I bet you must be well used to drinking piss, hanging around with Tom Collins
the way you do.”

Henneberry moved toward Egan.

“Wait, Tom,” Collins said to Henneberry, his hand upraised in peace. “Don’t give in to that thug. Hold yourself in. Please.”

Henneberry quieted down. “Stupid bastard,” he muttered.

“But,” Collins said to the crowd, “this stuff O’Rahilly’s up to only proves my point. How can any work get done when men like
him are up to their antics. It’s criminal. That’s what I say.” He looked at John.

“I agree with you,” John said.

There were shouts and curses from the crowd when John said that.

“There it is!” Collins said, beaming. “The
railroad
agrees with me, too.”

“I’m behind you down the line,” John said.

“You wicked, betrayin’ Englishman!” Egan shouted.

“Get on with what you have to do,” John said to Collins, grim-faced.

“I’ll do that now, and gladly,” Collins said. “So what I’m goin’ to tell you now is the way things are goin’ to be from now
on. First: There’s goin’ to be no more breakin’ of my work rules. You’ll all do what the rules say. Or you’re out of here.
Next: There’s some of you goin’ to be out of here right now, today.”

“Not us, Tom Collins,” Egan said. “You.”

“Lord forgive you, O’Rahilly,” Collins said, withdrawing a paper from his pocket. Slowly, deliberately he unfolded it. Then
he made a show of smoothing out the creases.

“I have a list here of the men who’ve held the work back. They aren’t goin’ to have the chance to do that any more.”

“They’re goin’ to have the chance now to do good work, instead of the shit you throw at us, you bastard!” Egan said. When
he said that, he moved menacingly toward the pulpit. And the clusters of men to his side and behind him surged ahead along
with him.

The bodyguards lifted their rifles, nervously.

“The names on this list—all of you—I want out of Gallitzin in an hour,” Tom Collins said, with steel in his eyes. He was no
longer playing the benevolent father.

He turned to John again.

“Get on with what you have to do, Tom,” he said. “Get it over with so that we can all get some work done tomorrow.”

“There’ll be no work here tomorrow if he does it,” Egan said.

“No work for you,” Collins said.

“Read your list, Tom,” John said quietly.

“First off—and nobody has any doubts about what name it is—Egan O’Rahilly,” Collins read.

At that moment a small stone flashed through the air and struck Collins in the cheek.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph!” he yelled, lowering his head like a turtle into his shoulders and shielding it with his arms. Then
another stone hit him, this time in the shoulder. The stones were not heavy or sharp; they were hardly more than pebbles.
But they were damnably annoying.

More stones rained on the administration building porch and down among the bodyguards. John backed off a bit, out of the rain
of stones, but he still stayed on the porch, waiting to see what would happen next.

The next moments would be crucial to his plan. If he was lucky—and if the plan worked—no one would be hurt.

Or at least badly hurt.

The rain of stones stopped falling. As soon as they stopped, Collins looked around. He raised himself up to his full height,
about five feet four, and threw his chest forward and his shoulders back.

“Well then,” he said, “that must of given some of you some bit of pleasure. But now I’ll be about my business again.”

You have to give it to the man
, John thought,
he’s plenty brave
.

“Stop right there, Collins,” Egan said, stepping forward. He was now no more than ten feet from the porch and the pulpit.
The other men made as if to draw closer with him, in solidarity, but he motioned them back. He was determined to be the sole
spokesman. And they were more than willing to let him do that.

But they were not expecting that peaceful talk was going to end this day either. Many of them were bending over or crouching
down, searching for more—and heavier—stones to throw in case there was more violence.

Others raised rifles, muskets, and pistols above their heads to make sure those on the porch and their bodyguards could see
that many of the workers were armed with more than rocks.

John didn’t like this, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to trust in his belief that Egan could control them.

“Stop? Me?” Collins asked innocently. “Why?”

“Because no one is going to be let go from this job today.”

“
You
are telling
me
that?” Collins asked, still innocent.

“That’s right. And no one here is leavin’ within the hour,” he paused and waited, pointedly, “except you and your goons and
your English arse wiper.”

Teresa O’Rahilly, John saw, was grinning at that.

“That’s enough,” Collins said. “I’ve had enough of your shit, O’Rahilly.” He raised his arm like a biblical prophet and pointed
his hand straight at Egan. “Out with you. Now. Immediately. Go!”

Egan laughed.

And then Collins leaned over toward Henneberry. “Make an example of him, Tom,” he said. “Go throw the cheeky bastard out of
this place.”

Henneberry motioned for three of the guards to come with him, and then together, with pistols cocked, they started to march
toward Egan.

Fast signals passed from Egan to Ferdy to Geraghty and Quigley. And these three passed the signals on to others behind them.
And then the stones rained down again. Heavy stones.

Henneberry screamed and fell. The other three fired their pistols. But none of them had the presence of mind to take aim,
and so nobody was hit.

But the workers—even Egan, Teresa, and Egan’s friends —had already started to back off. There were over five hundred of them.
But because of the way they were initially organized, they were able to retreat swiftly and in some kind of order.

The other armed guards, meanwhile, were kneeling down, starting to take aim.

“Hold it!” John ordered.

“What do you mean?” Collins asked, incredulous. But nobody fired. They all held up.

“Don’t fire. Wait.” He had to give the workers time to move back out of range of Collins’s weapons.

“It’s time for teaching a lesson,” Collins said.

And then Henneberry staggered up to the porch. He was hurt, but not badly. It was mostly cuts and bruises. “What’s a matter,
railway man,” Henneberry said. “You yellow?”