The Warriors (35 page)

Michael and Murphy started, searching for the other members of their five-man gang as two lorry cars—lightweight four-wheeled carts—were lifted onto the track and loaded with the required number of ties, rails, chairs, fish plates, spikes, and bolts. The pair of Irishmen soon located a third—sour, sallow Liam O’Dey.

O’Dey was in his late twenties, but looked twice that. Unable to find work in his native Philadelphia, he’d left a wife and seven children ages six to fourteen. Somehow he’d hoodwinked his employers into thinking he was in good health. A consumptive cough said otherwise.

He dragged a news clipping from his pocket and showed it to Michael.

“Ye’ll have a fine laugh out o’ this. It’s from one of the papers at home. Me old lady sent it.”

Michael scanned the type. Evidently the piece was an editorial, one of the few favorable ones he’d seen. O’Dey coughed, then pointed. “See there? It says we’re engaged in a ‘second grand march to the sea!’”

Michael read the next lines:

Sherman, with his victorious legions sweeping from Atlanta to Savannah, must have been a spectacle no more glorious than this army of men a-march from Omaha to Sacramento, subduing unknown wildernesses, surmounting untried obstacles, and binding across the broad breast of America the iron emblem of modern progress and civilization. All honor, not only to the brains that have conceived, but to the indomitable wills, the brave hearts, and the brawny muscles that are actually achieving the great work!

“My,” Michael said, smiling. “‘Indomitable wills.’ ‘Brave hearts.’ ‘A march as glorious as Sherman’s!’ We’ve come into our own, lads. We’re heroes just like the general.”

O’Dey coughed again, spat on the ground. “At least we are to some pup of a scrivener who ain’t been out here to see the filthy hard work for himself.”

Murphy put in, “No doubt the writer’s opinion will be sharply revised if we fail to reach the meridian before the heavy snows.”

O’Dey crumpled the clipping and thrust it back in his pocket. “Bunch of twaddle,” he said with his usual petulance. “Having Worthing in command, I feel more like one of the victims of Savannah than a conquerin’ general.”

“Ssst!” Murphy gestured. “Here he comes.”

Worthing strode up to them, an angry glint in his eye. He waved his crop at the trio.

“Out where you belong—and snappy! Where’s the nigger and the half-breed?”

A stoop-shouldered but powerful black man in his twenties slipped up to the rear of the group and waved the blue bandana he’d been using to swab his cheeks. The sun promised intense heat before the day was done.

“Right here’s one, Captain,” the black man said, winking at Michael to show that his toothy, truckling grin wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.

“Find that scummy Indian. Get a move on!” Worthing pivoted away, heading for another of the gangs he supervised.

“Mornin’, all,” the black said as the four men began to trot toward the last pair of rails spiked down the preceding night.

“Morning, Greenup,” Michael said. Greenup Williams was a freedman from Kentucky, one of about a dozen blacks in the workforce.

“Captain sure does look thunderous today,” Greenup observed.

“He and Mr. Boyle exchanged a few intemperate words in the dinin’ saloon,” Murphy informed him.

“That so? Well, let’s hope everybody stays peaceable the rest of the day. I got a hankering to visit the whiskey wagon quick as I can.”

O’Dey managed to sound gloomy even though gasping for breath. “Captain Worthing will—no doubt have us—whistled out and too—weak to raise a dipper by the time we see sunset.” He came to a halt as the others trotted on, cupped his hand over his mouth, and bent forward, coughing hard.

The three reached the last pair of rails. O’Dey straggled along a moment later. Down the line, Christian appeared, rushing to join them.

“Hey, Chief, you late.” Greenup grinned as the new arrival dragged his galluses up over his shoulders.

Christian feigned annoyance. “Doesn’t the Union Pacific permit a man to perform his natural functions in the morning?”

Michael spied Worthing striding along behind the Indian. He tried to warn Christian with a glance but failed.

Half a mile back, a cart boy led a workhorse to the first lorry car. The boy was a towhead named Tom Ruffin. He’d run away from an Indiana orphanage to join the great enterprise. The boy tied the horse to the cart, then climbed on the animal’s back.

Christian stretched a suspender and rolled his tongue in his cheek.

“No, on reflection, I guess it doesn’t. The only function that interests himself is the breaking of a man’s spine. Or spirit.”

“Christian—!” Michael began. By then Worthing had reached the Delaware. He jabbed the nape of Christian’s neck with his crop.

Christian spun, one hand dropping toward the sheath of his Bowie knife. Worthing grinned.

“You’re right about that, Injun. And I just put you on my list. Now shut up and get ready to lay some track.”

Shoving Christian aside, he stalked by.

The Delaware fumed. Sean Murphy pressed a palm against his belly and bowed to the Virginian’s back. “Yes, sir, yer majesty, yer eminence.”

Michael smiled. Greenup Williams laughed aloud. Worthing’s head jerked. The back of his neck grew pink. But he didn’t turn or break stride. He kept walking east, ready to signal the cart boy to bring the lorry car.

O’Dey looked unhappy. He seldom fraternized with the others and resented the bickering that frequently interrupted the flow of work.

Despite Worthing’s threat in the dining car, Michael felt surprisingly devilish all at once. Sarcasm and laughter were weapons Worthing didn’t understand, and against which he had no defense.
Your majesty. Your eminence.
He’d have to remember those.

By now Worthing had assembled all of his gangs. They were gathered along both sides of the last section of track. Worthing shouted and waved his crop. A half mile away, Tom Ruffin kicked the horse with his bare feet. The rope snapped taut. The cart was jerked forward.

Sparks shooting from beneath its iron wheels, the cart came rolling toward the waiting workers, the mounted boy hallooing and thumping the animal with his heels. As the cart neared the end of the track, men sprang forward, seized it, and dragged it to a halt. Two of the men shoved wooden chocks under the wheels while Tom Ruffin leaped down, quickly unfastened the rope and led the snorting horse off the roadbed.

Each of the waiting gangs knew its specific job. The moment the horse was clear, a second large group surrounded the cart. Pairs of men lifted ties, ran them out ahead of the last rails and lowered them to the hard-packed grade. Back where the supplies had been dumped, another cart boy was restraining his fretful horse and awaiting his signal. The rails went down at the rate of two every sixty seconds—no interruptions.

Worthing shouted a command. Other men beside the cart grabbed chairs, positioned them on the ties. Then, on Worthing’s next order, Michael’s five-man gang on the south side of the grade and another gang on the north converged on the cart.

Michael and Christian grabbed a twenty-eight-foot rail and began to haul it forward. The rail slid easily because the cart bed was equipped with greased rollers. As soon as the rail was halfway out, O’Dey and Greenup Williams took hold. Sean Murphy caught the tail end. Simultaneously, a second rail had been unloaded by the gang working from the other side.

At a fast walk, the five-man gangs carried the heavy lengths of iron over the new ties. Michael could already feel the first strain in his shoulders. By day’s end, it would turn to pain.

Murphy shouted,
“Down!”
His opposite number on the other gang was only a moment behind with a similar command. Both gangs lowered their rails into the chairs waiting on the interspersed hardwood and cottonwood ties.

Men with notched wooden gauges jumped in, jamming the gauges down while Michael and the others in the two rail gangs kicked and shoved. Finally the rails were fitted tightly in the notches.

Meanwhile, the cart had been dragged off the tracks. Tom Ruffin rehitched his horse and started back for more supplies.

Other men positioned the fish-plate joints and began bolting the new sections of iron to the old. Next, the spike gangs moved in with their mauls.

Workers crawled ahead of them, dropping spikes into holes, and scuttling on as the mauls came down. Michael continually marveled at the intricate timing of the operation. A careless spikeman could brain a spike handler if he swung too soon. But in all the time he’d worked at the railhead he’d never seen it happen.

The tie, chair, and rail gangs left the spikers behind and ran forward. In a moment the second lorry car arrived on the newly laid track. A new section of ties went down—and the process of removing the rails from the cart was repeated.

A familiar rhythm established itself while Captain Worthing stalked up and down, shouting, cursing and demanding that the various crews under his command go faster, to make up for time already lost.

The morning advanced, the sun climbed, and Michael began to sweat. The labor was monotonous, mindless. But the five men on his gang had learned to work well together and took pride in their efficiency. Every man was important to the total effort. Behind the perpetual train, and interrupted only by the arrival of supplies, other crews would be finishing yesterday’s track by shoveling and leveling fill between the ties.

South of the Platte an emigrant wagon packed with household goods rolled by in a haze of dust, the driver wigwagging his rifle. A woman and a small girl in sunbonnets waved.

No one broke the rhythm of work, but there were some shouts, inviting the older woman to pause for the night, and earn a pile of extra money. Michael was thankful the family couldn’t hear the cheerfully filthy remarks.

Such raillery was common enough whenever the rust eaters sighted a wagon with a woman in it. But the bawdiness upset Worthing. He considered any deviation from routine a violation of his authority. After the wagon passed from sight, Greenup Williams didn’t help matters by starting to whistle “Marching Through Georgia.”

“Better”—breathing hard, Michael was lowering a rail on Murphy’s signal—“better pick a less partisan tune, Greenup.”

“Oh, shoo,” Greenup said, grinning. “I ain’t no chained slave on the captain’s little old plantation.”

“True,” Christian observed as the gauge men moved in. “But if himself would get it through his dumb skull that his side lost, we’d be a lot better off. But no, he—”

Suddenly Michael saw a long shadow behind the Delaware, then Worthing himself. The captain’s gray duster was wet with sweat. Droplets glistened in the stubble on his cheeks.

“No singing, nigger,” Worthing said. “And no remarks from you, either.”

Flick.
The crop stung the side of Christian’s cheek. A spot of blood shone in the sun.

Christian nearly lost his grip on the rail. Michael felt a tearing strain in his shoulders as he absorbed an extra share of the five-hundred-pound weight. He braced the rail on his knee and got it to the ground without mishap.

Bent nearly double and trying to help, Christian said through clenched teeth, “Yes,
sir.”

“Your eminence,” Michael added, realizing too late that he’d let his temper slip.

With the rail down, the five men darted back to, help those with the notched gauges. Worthing extended the crop, touched the bloody place on Christian’s cheek, affected a sympathetic smile.

“Tickled you a mite harder than I intended.”

Christian glowered, one hand perilously near the hilt of his Bowie. Worthing glanced at Michael, then back to the Delaware.

“Tell you what. You rest ten minutes. Yonder’s the water bucket. Wash off that cut, and we’ll let Boyle handle the head end of the next few rails.”

Christian started to protest. Worthing fanned himself with his straw hat.

“Go on, Christian,” he said. “Take care of yourself. Paddy Boyle’s strong enough for a bit of double duty.”

“Hold on, Captain!” Murphy exclaimed. “One man can’t haul the front of a rail all by—”

“Be quiet,” Worthing snapped. “Paddy Boyle can. Can’t you?”

Suddenly Worthing’s face twisted. His smile grew fixed and ugly. He jabbed the end of the crop into Michael’s throat.

“Answer me,
boy.”

It was all Michael could do to keep from tearing the detestable crop out of the Virginian’s hand and using it on him. But he swallowed, backed up a step.

O’Dey yelped. Michael ducked, nearly brained by the backswing of a spiker’s maul.

Alarmed, Sean Murphy and Greenup Williams pulled him down the slanting side of the roadbed, out of danger. Worthing kept watching as he put his wide-brimmed straw back on his head.

“You can do it—can’t you,
boy?”
he asked. Every syllable carried insult.

“You’re damn right I can,” Michael growled, and turned his back, awaiting the next lorry car.

He saw Christian by the water bucket, slopping the contents of a dipper over his cheek. The Delaware’s glance was sympathetic. Michael tried to ignore it—as well as the ache in his shoulder blades and the mumbled lamentations of O’Dey, who hated trouble.

“You drop any rails,” Worthing called, “I’ll see you’re docked a week’s wages. You hear me,
boy?”

When the cart arrived and the gangs moved in, Michael seized the rail with both hands and yanked. The other three men tried to give him as much help as possible. But the moment the length of iron was lifted free of the rollers, an excruciating pain shot through his shoulders and down his arms.

He staggered on the hard-packed bed, nearly stumbled over a tie. The noises of men shouting, horses neighing, mauls thudding, metal clanging became a torturous din.

“Down!”

Michael groaned as he bent, dropping more than lowering the rail onto the ties. He staggered back, his chest heaving and sticky with perspiration. He snickered in a humorless way at the thought of the Philadelphia clipping. He seriously doubted old Billy Sherman had ever enjoyed such a glorious drenching of sweat while conducting his glorious march. And the editorial writer probably kept himself comfortable in a saloon bar while composing his rhapsodic sentences about brave hearts and indomitable wills. The only accurate statement in the account was the reference to brawny muscles. A man needed those and, to deal with a Worthing, iron balls besides.