Until the Last Spike Read online

  We wrote to my pa three or four times, but he was marching with a general named Sherman, and our letters didn’t catch up with him until two months had passed. When Pa finally came home, he was lost in his sadness for a long time. I think he felt guilty because Mother had been having trouble with babies for a long time. “I shoulda been here,” he’d said, and no matter how much Katie and Willy tried to convince him that the war had left him no choice, he’d just shake his head and say, “I woulda run off if I’d knowed.”

  At times, I’d find Pa staring off into blank space. I’d talk straight at him, but it was like I wasn’t there. Once when he was standing by the parlor window in the dark, I even heard him whispering to himself.

  After a while, Pa went back to work on the railroad — he’d hired on with the Chicago and Alton line before the war — and when General Jack Casement came through town and offered to hire him on as a foreman for the Union Pacific, he declined at first. But my aunt encouraged him to sign on. She promised to take good care of us and said that working on the Transcontinental Railroad was a duty as important as the war had been.

  I was mad at Aunt Katie for convincing him to go, and even when she explained why it was important for Pa, I only half understood. “Your pa needs to find a part of himself that he lost in the war,” she said. “The West may be the answer.”

  Now when I see my pa out here, laughing and talking again, I know she was right.

  I can already tell that working on this railroad isn’t always going to be simple, but this journal should help me think things through. Sometimes Pa used to say that a man could accomplish a heck of a lot more with a shovel than a pen, but Mother wouldn’t let him get away with it. “Patrick Charles Sullivan,” she’d say, putting her hands on her hips and looking him straight in the eye even though she had to tilt her head way back since my pa is so tall, “I don’t want a son who’s all brawn and no brains. We are entering the age of the machine, and a man’s mind is going to get him a blamed sight further than his muscles.”

  August 9

  When Pa told me that I’d have to start at the bottom, he wasn’t kidding. My job is water carrier. Pa is proud to be a Union Pacific foreman, and he doesn’t want anyone to think I’m getting special treatment because I’m his son. Since I’m already fifteen, I had hoped I could do more than boy’s work.

  Pa introduced me to Jack Casement, the contractor for all of the Union Pacific Railroad’s tracklaying. Though Pa figures Mr. Casement is only five feet four inches — that’s six inches shorter than me — he looks a lot taller. Maybe it’s the stiff and upright way he carries himself that gives him extra size. He’s got a wild, bushy beard, and dark eyes that pierce right through you. A big-handled six­shooter sticks out of his belt, and he wears black riding boots with mean-looking spurs. Since Mr. Casement was a general during the war, many of the men still call him “General.” My pa tells me that he’s tough driving but fair.

  When I looked at the long bullwhip that he was carrying in his hand, I believed the first, but I guessed I’d have to wait and see about the second.

  August 10

  I’m too tuckered out to write. Luckily it’s Sunday tomorrow, and we get the day off.

  August 11

  I’m getting tired of Pa reminding me to work my hardest. Last night, he must have told me for the one thousandth time, “Everything I got in this life I earned by the sweat of my brow, and you can do the same.”

  Pa comes from a long line of what he calls “pick-and-shovel” men. His own father died in an accident while digging the Erie Canal, and as a young man, Pa earned his keep working as a “bog trotter” on the Chicago waterfront. He’s fond of saying, “People who stroll down Michigan Avenue and look in those fancy shopwindows shouldn’t forget that street was a mosquito-infested swamp until we Irishmen carted in six feet of solid fill.”

  Most of Chicago was built up from a marsh. In my section of town, wooden planks and steps were everywhere because some people had raised their houses up to the six-foot level of the main street and others had only raised theirs partway or not at all. So the boardwalks were pitched at crazy angles, and my uncle Willy, who has a fondness for the bottle, often said, “Chicago’s a nightmare for a tippler.”

  After only two days on the job, I’ve discovered that being a water carrier is bad for two reasons: l. Water buckets are very heavy. 2. Men develop a powerful thirst in this dry country.

  August 13

  I swear my arms have stretched two inches. I’m finally getting used to lugging the water buckets around, but the first couple of days my muscles ached so bad that I could barely lift my hands above my waist.

  I have discovered one good thing about my job! I get to see every part of the U.P.’s rail-laying operation. Ben Wharton, the wagon driver, and I deliver water to all of the men working within five miles. At least once a day we take the wagon out to the grading crew — they’re the fellows who level the roadbed for the ties. It’s so flat around here that it’s easy for them to stay ahead of the track­layers, but Ben says that once we reach the mountains, there’ll be enough digging and blasting to keep an army busy. He said that there are already hundreds of men out way ahead of us, working on some tunnels that will take two or even three years to bore all the way through.

  The favorite part of my day is bringing water to the spikers. They are a special crew I really admire. Lots of them can pound a spike down in only three swings. They use special hammers with tapered heads called “spike mauls,” and their rhythm stays the same all day long. Each time they go after a spike, the steel of their maul rings out clear twice, and then there’s a final, flatter ping as the spike catches the rail and bites down hard into the wood. Someday I want to drive spikes like that.

  August 14

  Another thing I like about my job is Ben. Some of the men who were in the Union army during the war call him “Reb” or “Confederate” ’cause he fought with the South. Ben said he was just a cook for his regiment until the commander saw what a good shot he was with a squirrel gun and moved him right up to the front lines. Other fellows say Ben is a “mudsiller.”

  When I asked Ben if they called him a “mudsiller” because he was a Negro, he threw back his head and laughed. “No, that ain’t it at all,” he said. “We was so poor back home that our cabin had a puncheon floor and a packed-dirt sill under the door to keep out the wind and rain.”

  My family never had much money back in Chicago, but at least we had solid wood floors.

  Ben has only one good arm, but he works harder than anyone I’ve ever seen — harder even than my pa. Ben’s right arm was shot off at the elbow in the Battle of Droop Mountain, so he’s learned to do everything with his left hand. He can drive a mule or a horse team like no one else. Most of the mule skinners use their whips a lot, but Ben talks to his animals instead. “Morning, Flossie,” he’ll say to his favorite mule, and her ears will perk up like someone had just offered her a peck of sweet apples. And toward the end of the day, when the animals are plumb worn out, he’ll just whistle and say, “Ain’t much farther to the barn, Honey Chile.” And lo and behold, though there isn’t a barn within twenty-five miles, those animals will trot double time all the way back to the work train.

  August 16

  I am amazed at the number of men working on this railroad. The center of activity is General Casement’s work train. It is like a small city on wheels. The front cars are loaded with tracklaying materials: switches, timbers, steel rods, lining bars, wrenches, barrels, iron plates, cables, etc. The next car contains a complete feed store and a saddle shop. The third one is a carpenter shop and washhouse. The fourth holds sleeping quarters for the mule skinners, the men who drive the teams. Next in line is a sleeping car that holds 144 bunks. The sixth and seventh are dining halls — the larger one can feed two hundred men at once! Right after that comes a combination kitchen car and telegraph office, followed by a store and eight
more sleeping cars. A supply car and two water cars pull up the rear. Five hundred head of beef trail along beside the train to keep us supplied with meat.

  One thing that makes me nervous is all the guns. The ceiling of every bunk car is lined with rifles — Pa says there’s a thousand of them loaded and ready to go. With all these former Union soldiers just waiting for a chance to use them, how can the Indians be a threat?

  August 17

  Last night I found out why the Indians are still so dangerous. It happened just as we were getting ready to bunk out for the night. Pa prefers sleeping in a tent in the hot weather, and I’m glad because those bunk cars smell worse than a pig farm. Lots of guys with stronger stomachs than me complain about the stink, and the bedbugs are awful, too. The fellows will do just about anything to avoid the bunk cars. Some have pitched tents on top of the roofs, and a few guys are even sleeping in hammocks they’ve slung under the flatcars.

  Pa and his buddy Bill Flanagan were playing cribbage like they usually do before they go to bed when a bullet whizzed through the side of our tent. I didn’t even realize what had happened until a shaving mug exploded on a shelf just above my head. Then a fraction of a second later we heard the report of a rifle, followed by a far-off war whoop. We dove for the floor, but I know it would have been too late if the bullet had been a foot lower.

  Pa crawled over to make sure I wasn’t hurt and handed me a rifle. Then he tossed Bill his Colt, and we hunkered down tight, waiting for another shot. But the night was dead calm. Someone hollered to see if we were all right, and a few minutes later Pa and Bill slipped outside. Pa’s last words were, “If anyone touches that tent flap without whistling first, you let ’em have it.”

  I kept the Winchester leveled at the door, with my thumb on the hammer, ready to cock it at a moment’s notice. I sat in the dark — Pa had blown out the lamp — waiting for a volley of shots, but I only heard a lone coyote calling in the distance.

  What seemed like a long time later, Pa whistled and called, “You okay, Sean?”

  When I answered back, he stuck his head into the tent. “Not a sign of a livin’ soul out there,” he said. “They must’ve lit out for the next county.” Then he added with a grin, “Just remember, you don’t have to worry about the bullets you can hear.”

  Bill laughed and said, “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Pa and Bill crawled into bed without even bothering to pick up the broken pieces of that mug. They started snoring right away, but I lay awake for a long time after. The moon was bright on the prairie, and the shadows of bats and bugs were flickering across the canvas above my head. I couldn’t help but wonder how awful it would be to take a stray bullet in the brain and never know why.

  August 18

  I got a close look at my first Platte River Valley storm this afternoon. Pa had warned me how quick they can blow up, but it was hard for me to believe that it ever rained in this dusty country. It was near quitting time, and Ben and I were heading back to the work train in an empty wagon. It had been hot like usual, but the air was more humid, and the sky had an eerie yellow tint to it. I heard a far-off rumble of thunder, and some puffy, kettle-shaped clouds started swirling in the west. Ben looked over his shoulder and urged his team to hurry. Though we were within sight of the train, I knew we were in trouble.

  Just then a jagged trail of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a big crashing clap of thunder. A gust of wind lifted up the left side of the wagon and nearly flipped us over. Ben threw on the brake and hollered, “We best take cover.”

  The whole world went black as a wall of rain hit us head-on. We crawled under the wagon, but water poured through the slats in the bed and soaked us through. The wind picked up a notch, and I heard a terrible crashing up ahead. In the next lightning flash, I saw a wagon, framed like a picture between the legs of those mules, splintering to pieces as it rolled over and over.

  The storm stopped as quick as it started. I could’ve kissed Ben’s mules for hunkering down and holding their ground. If they’d bolted, we would have come out a lot worse than drenched and muddied up.

  I miss my brother, John, more than I ever thought I would. I wrote him a letter tonight, and printing out my return address — Sean Sullivan, End of Track, Union Pacific Railroad — made me more lonesome than ever.

  Dear John,

  As anxious as I was to see the West, I have found it to be hard country. I used to complain about hauling firewood back home, but that’s nothing compared to what they have me doing out here. From dawn to dark, I’m carrying water buckets to the work crews. The fellow I work with is nice enough, but all the other men do is holler, “Bring that dipper here, boy.” And no matter how quick I get there, they complain. “This water tastes like pond scum,” a fellow told me yesterday. I felt like telling him to get his own drinks, but I thought the better of it.

  I miss the sight of blue water. Out here on the prairie, the streams and rivers are all muddy. Even the sky isn’t the same sort of blue that I’m used to. With the wagon teams and grading crews kicking up dust all day long, the air is always filled with a dull haze.

  Are the apples getting ripe over at Clarkson’s orchard? I sure am hungry for a piece of Aunt Katie’s pie. I’d give a week’s pay just to sit down to a meal of her fried chicken.

  Your brother,

  Sean

  August 19

  I never get tired of watching the tracklayers work. There’s a rhythm to the operation that makes it look graceful, almost like a dance. The “joint-tie men” are out ahead of everyone. Working in twos, they bed a tie every fourteen feet. “Fillers” then set the rest of the ties for the eight “iron men,” who slide out the 560-pound rails and, at the command of “down,” drop them into place. Next come the “spikers,” who gauge the width of the rails and pound down the spikes. Once the fishplates are bolted tight at the rail seams, the “track liners” use crowbars to adjust the final alignment of the rails.

  As the spikers are driving their last spikes, “back iron men” are pulling the next load of rails forward on a horse cart. As soon as the rails are slid off the rollers, they dump the empty cart to the side and hustle back to reload. It all starts just past sunup and goes on all day — the rails thunk down, the spike mauls ping on steel, and the dusty wheels of the supply wagons creak up and down the right-of-way.

  When the rails are going down, I’ve got to be close at hand with my water pail and tin dipper, especially during the heat of the day. If the fellows want a drink, they’ll yell if I’m not Johnny-on-the-spot.

  The orneriest fellow I’ve met so far is a big man named Mac O’Grady. If I’m more than two steps away, he’ll growl, “Is that damned water boy napping again?” Then he laughs if I trip on a rail because I’m hurrying so much.

  The men are meanest on Mondays because they’re still feeling the effects of their weekend whiskey. It’s a wonder that the fellows don’t get sick from the water. By the time we haul it from the main tank at the rear of the train, it’s a little muddy, and after a few tobacco-chewing fellows have dribbled their spit into the bucket, the stuff is foul enough to choke a horse.

  I’d like to move up to a better job, but Pa says I need “seasoning,” and that being a “bucket boy” is a good start.

  August 25

  Today is Sunday, the only day of the week we get to ourselves. Most of the men are worn out from last night’s celebrating and are still in bed. Those who hitched a ride into Julesburg are in the worst shape. Bill Flanagan, for one, begged Pa to shoot him this morning. “Put me out of my misery, Paddy,” he moaned, and as green as his face was, I think he was only half kidding.

  Ben Wharton invited me to go fishing in Lodgepole Creek, a little stream that runs alongside the railroad grade. He’s got a couple of willow sticks that he uses for poles, but they work just fine. Since the fish all congregate in the pools when the water’s low, we had pretty good luck.
Ben told me how he loved to fish back in the mountains where he came from. “The Greenbrier River was my favorite place,” he said. “You just touch the tip of your worm to the water, and a speckled-sided brook trout — they’s as pretty as a fresh-opened flower at dawn — will shoot out from under a rock or a cut bank.”

  Sitting beside that dusty little stream made me lonesome for home and for real water. Back in Chicago, me and my brother, John, could walk over to Lake Michigan and catch all the fish we wanted. My mother was always proud when we brought home a nice stringer of walleyes for supper. Even though we were little fellows and couldn’t help dragging the fish in the dust, she never scolded us once, even when she was feeling poorly from her baby troubles, which came along pretty regular. The rivers were good fishing, too, especially in the spring. During spawning time, we could spear as many as we wanted right out of the Chicago River.

  August 26

  This afternoon, just when I’d brought the head spikers their water, there was a short stoppage in the tracklaying. The back iron men had accidentally dumped a pile of rails off their cart, and Pa was helping them load back up. While the spikers were waiting, I picked up a new maul that was lying beside the tracks. It had a smooth hickory handle and a shiny steel head.