The Trainmasters (56 page)

“GODDAMN IT TO HELL!” Daniel Drew yelled, his face livid and contorted with rage. The man he was screaming at was Leonardo
Grimaldi, who was standing in front of Drew’s desk with his head bent down—the perfect image of a man lowering his head to
place his neck on a block. “WHAT KIND OF TRICKS HAVE YOU BEEN PLAYING ON ME?”

“I’ve played no tricks on you, Mr. Drew,” Grimaldi said. “I followed your instructions to the letter.”

“Impossible!” Drew said. “Inconceivable! There has to have been a betrayal. And you’re the logical traitor. There’s no other
explanation for it.”

He was referring to the recent rise in the price of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. It was now being quoted at fifty-one. And
rumors were circulating that it might go up to sixty or even seventy. If that happened Daniel Drew and Leonardo Grimaldi both
knew that Drew would be pretty nearly ruined.

‘There’s been no betrayal by me,” Grimaldi repeated. “Or by Sutherland either, if you’re thinking of him. We both took care
of your business, exactly as we agreed.” Sutherland had taken a recent opportunity to travel to Savannah, where he had business
interests.

“Damn!” Drew said. “If you’d done that, the stock would be selling at twenty-five! So now I want to hear how come it’s not
selling at twenty-five? Can you tell me that?”

“The exchange is a marketplace, Mr. Drew,” Grimaldi said. “Somebody offers something for sale, and somebody else makes a bid
to buy it. And if somebody else bids higher, then he gets the deal.”

“Don’t give me no fucking lectures, Mr. Grimaldi. I know how the exchange works.”

“Please forgive me, Mr. Drew, for seeming to remind you of truths you already know. But those are still the facts of the case.
There were moves to unload Pennsylvania stock, just like we knew there’d be. But every time a block of Pennsylvania was unloaded,
a buyer would come and pick it up. There are many people, it seems, who still want to acquire Pennsylvania stock, in spite
of all we did to make the company appear unsound. There was nothing further we could do to change their minds.”

“You still ain’t telling me anything I don’t know,” Drew said.

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“That’s because you’re stupid and incompetent.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Well, shit,” Drew said, shaking his head with frustration and anger. “That’s exactly the way I feel. And you’re not going
to help me through it. So get out of here so I can work something out.”

Grimaldi obeyed swiftly, leaving Drew to work out his ,plans… and to turn his wrath on himself. Grimaldi didn’t need any more
of Drew’s rage. He’d had enough for a lifetime during the past three weeks.

And Daniel Drew racked his brain for some brilliant new scheme that would pull him out of the fix he was in.

But his mind remained that day and for several months afterward empty and unencumbered by brilliant new schemes.

At precisely noon on the first day of November in the year of Our Lord 1855, train service between the cities of Philadelphia
and Pittsburgh was inaugurated. The first official train connecting the two largest cities in Pennsylvania departed Philadelphia
on the newly completed main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Before the inaugural train began its journey, various dignitaries—state and city officials, men of the cloth, and officers
of the railway—delivered inspiring, or at least impassioned, speeches. And as the train started up, bands played rousing marches,
and choirs sang soaring hymns.

Hundreds of people stood beside the rails, cheering the powerful new locomotive and the grand, gleaming passenger cars. Flying
above the locomotive and cars, as the train proceeded west, were bright-colored flags and banners; red, white, and blue bunting
was strung beneath the windows along the sides of the cars; and flags, banners, and bunting lined the right of way.

The celebration on board the train showed no sign of slowing even after the train had pulled many miles out of Philadelphia.
There was as much champagne and wine and whiskey and beer as any person could possibly desire, as well as food, from the daintiest
of tidbits to the heartiest of roast beefs. The party was boisterous and happy. All were glad to be aboard.

Not far out of Lancaster, a reporter from the
Nyles Weekly Register
took the chief engineer aside to ask him a few questions. In order to avoid the din, they conducted the conversation outside
on the rear platform, even though it was a chill, raw, autumn day.

The chief engineer was not much impressed with the reporter whose name was Bill Richardson, when the two initially met. Richardson,
a cadaverous man, burning with a dark hunger for a truth more hidden and mysterious than mere facts could provide, approached
the subjects of his interviews as though no other person could come near his own intellectual or moral stature. So the chief
engineer contrived to disappoint him as much as he was able.

“Mr. Carlysle,” the reporter said, “this is quite an impressive scene. You must be quite excited.”

“It’s been a good deal of work to come this far,” John Carlysle said. “I’m glad that it’s finally seen fruition, and we can
all reap the rewards of it.”

“You’ve been working on the Pennsylvania for several years, haven’t you?” Richardson asked, glancing at his notes. “Since
1852?”

“Since the spring of ‘52,” John agreed.

“And so you participated in the events of 1852?”

John smiled. “What events?”

“Well, for starters, there was the collapse of the Gallitzin Tunnel,” he said, glancing at his notebook. “And then I understand
that there was a great deal of labor trouble. And this was followed by near open warfare with a group of disgruntled teamsters.
And then there was a run on your stock.”

“It
was
an awfully busy year,” John acknowledged blandly.

“I’d be much obliged if you would give me your version of those events, in your own words.”

John looked away from him for a time and stared down the tracks vanishing behind him. “There’s so little for me to tell, really,
Mr. Richardson. I’m neither a teller of tales nor a maker of them. I’m an engineer, a practical man. I work with machinery
and processes and not with people.”

“I’m sure you saw much of what happened during that extraordinary year,” Richardson pressed on. “I’m sure you could talk to
me about the things you’ve seen. And participated in.”

“You’d be disappointed with what I could relate to you. I’d bore you with facts and figures… miles of road graded and track
laid, and such matters.”

“Surely you were present when the runnel collapsed?”

“Oh, no,” John said. “I was in Philadelphia then. I wasn’t actually employed by the railroad at the time.”

“But you must have been on the payroll by the summer of ’52, during the time of the labor crisis?”

“One of the contractors went beyond his brief, and the laborers resisted. The matter was solved relatively easily, and to
everyone’s satisfaction.”

“You were not involved in that?”

“I was present at Gallitzin when the difficulties arose. But I was there as an engineer. I tried not to concern myself with
the labor force.”

Richardson glanced again at his notebook. “My information is that you were much more involved in those events than you are
telling me.”

“Most stories magnify in the telling.”

“And after that,” Richardson said, moving on, “you were, according to my informants, very closely involved in leading the
action to stop the teamster raids on Pennsylvania property and equipment, isn’t that so?”

“As I told you earlier,” John said, “it was a most busy time. And many of us were involved in doing what we could to keep
the line going. But I was hardly as involved as many others—Mr. O’Rahilly, for instance, the labor contractor. He’s on the
train now somewhere. You should talk to him. And so is Mr. Stockton, the chief engineer of the western division. He’s also
on the train. Or my son Graham, though he is, unhappily, not here now. He and his wife moved west last year. Or Mr. Thomson
himself. All of them would be much more competent to talk to you than I am.”

“You’re not being very helpful to me, Mr. Carlysle,” Richardson said, as though that were a moral failing.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Richardson. But you’d do much better to talk with those who are more competent to discuss
these things than I am.”

“Do I take it that you are refusing to tell me your part in the events of that year?”

“I didn’t say that at all. There are many events of 1852 …and 1853, 1854, and 1855, for that matter… that I would be more
competent—as an engineer—to talk to you about.”

“For instance?”

“The digging of the Gallitzin Tunnel.”

“What can you tell me about that?” Richardson asked, hiding his impatience imperfectly.

“After the collapse of the tunnel in the spring of ‘52,” John said, “and after the labor reorganization of the summer of that
year, work proceeded on the tunnel at a record rate. And indeed, in spite of all trie difficulties we encountered, the tunnel
was completed on schedule.”

“Really?” he sighed.

“Yes. The Gallitzin Tunnel, in fact,” John continued, “was open for business in February of 1854, later than we expected.
And I’d be delighted to provide you with the tonnage of rock and soil removed from the mountain during the tunnel excavation.”

“Very interesting,” Richardson said, closing his notebook and stifling a yawn. “And I suppose you could provide me with more
of this sort of information… if I should require it?”

“As much as you can handle,” John said with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlysle.”

“It was my pleasure.”

A few seconds after the reporter returned to the party, Mrs. Carlysle made her way out to the rear platform in order to join
her husband there. She was convulsed with laughter.

“You are a terrible, terrible man!” Kitty Carlysle said to John. “Mister simple, dull, practical engineer! I heard you through
the door—I kept it cracked open—every word.”

“What do you mean, ‘terrible’?”

“You treated that poor reporter like an ignoramus,” she said. “You led him on a leash, and you told him nothing at all worth
repeating.”

“But,” he said, smiling, “isn’t that the way reporters deserve to be treated?… Assuming, of course, that I treated him badly.
I don’t think I did, as I think back on what I said. I’m an engineer. I told him what an engineer should tell him. No more,
no less.”

“You teased him, darling. And every time he rose to the bait, you put on an innocent face and protested ignorance.”

“I wouldn’t do a thing like that,” he said. “I’m much too simple for that sort of thing.”

“I didn’t marry a simple man,” she said fondly.

“Oh, really? I thought you married me because I was an engineer, like your father.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s exactly why I married you.”

At that moment, the train drew to a clanking and rattling halt. They were out in the middle of nowhere, and there was no apparent
reason for the stop.

But the mystery was soon ended when Kitty’s father passed through the cars making an announcement. “Would everyone please
be kind enough to descend from the train? We have a man on board—Mr. Mathew Brady—who has come with photographic apparatus.
He’ll make daguerreotype photographs of the members of the party. And he’d like to try to place the train and the party within
a rustic setting. So we’ve stopped here for him, in the country.”

“Sounds like a lovely idea,” Kitty said to John. “Have you ever been photographed?”

“Never,” John said, as he climbed down the steps to the ground. “And I’m not certain I want to be.”

“Why not?” she asked, with a teasing scowl. “You’re so shy and stuffy! And you’re such a prude!”

“Give me your hand.”

She extended her hand so he could help her down. “Why not?” she repeated.

“It steals your soul.”

“You’re mad. It does not,” she said. “It immortalizes you. Who could quarrel with that?”

And he laughed. “Perhaps. But still, I’d rather not be caught forever on some photographic plate.”

“It’s not you, darling, it’s your image.”

“That’s what frightens me.”

“Oh, look,” she said, glancing about. “We’re the first outside of the train. We can be first to have our daguerreotypes taken.”

They were not, however, completely alone, for Mr. Brady and an assistant were setting up the photographic apparatus in a field
along the side of the track.

“You heard your father,” he said, correcting her. “Mr. Brady won’t be taking us one at a time. It will be the whole group.”

“Oh, drat,” she said. “I don’t want to be one of a crowd.”

“But I do,” he said, “in a photograph, at any rate. There’s safety in numbers.”

“You’re just being difficult, John,” she said with a laugh, “because you didn’t like that reporter.”

“I’m never difficult with you, Kitty. You know that.”

“Playing the innocent yet again, Mr. Carlysle?” she said with a roguish twinkle in her eye.