Westward the Dream (19 page)

“Have ya no better sense than to be manhandlin' a lady?”

“A lady wouldn't be standing here with the likes of this mob,” the soldier countered. “If you're her nursemaid, then I suggest you get her out of here.”

“Now, wait just a minute—” It was the man who'd helped get them to the front, and he wasn't at all happy with the soldier. “This lady has just as much right to see the enemy marched out in defeat as anyone else. You apologize to her.”

The man leveled his rifle at the crowd. “This is the only other word you'll get from me on the matter. I said move back and I mean it. This enemy isn't marching to defeat. They're marching back to their homes and will no doubt be back in the war within forty-eight hours. At least one of them will probably attempt to kill one of us before the trip is over, and I don't need the distraction of
ladies
 . . . or gentlemen for that matter.”

“We shouldn't be exchangin' prisoners for any reason,” one of the nearby observers offered. “Should've just put a bullet through their heads and been done with it.”

No one replied to this. In fact, the crowd around Jordana became rather quiet and, surprisingly enough, seemed to move back a pace from the street. It was almost as though the reality of the matter had finally sunk in.

Jordana suddenly realized that Caitlan's grip had become quite painful. “Caitlan, you're hurting me.”

“Oh!” Caitlan replied, putting her hand to her mouth. “And for sure I'd almost forgotten what I was doin'. I'm sorry.”

They could hear drums beating out a cadence, and both turned to see the gray-clad soldiers being herded through the icy Chicago streets. Some men seemed scarcely able to stand, much less keep step with their comrades. Jordana hadn't known what to expect, but what she saw there was more disturbing than she had imagined it would be.

The men were ragged, their uniforms torn and dirty—sometimes not even complete. They must have been freezing in their threadbare coats and shoes with large holes. They blended together in a hodgepodge of colors ranging from gray to tannish brown to a butternut. Different-styled hats and coats were apparent, and very seldom did more than two or three men appear to be dressed alike, but they all shared the same weary expression.

Worse still, some of the men had been gravely wounded. Many slipped along on crutches, often missing a leg or foot, the flap of their pants leg blowing awkwardly to and fro. As they drew closer, Jordana witnessed the evidence of other wounds. One man wore a patch over his left eye, and his right sleeve had been pinned up because there was no longer an arm to fill it.

“You Johnny Rebs should've died in the field,” a man nearby was yelling. Others joined in.

“My brother's dead because of the likes of you. I hope you die slow like he did. I hope you know the pain and suffering you've caused!” someone else called out.

“The Union forever!” the man standing next to Caitlan yelled. This drew a rousing chorus of voices who chanted the same.

Jordana grimaced at the hatred. The crowd seemed to cheer each curse and suggestion of death.

The soldiers were now directly in front of where she stood. Row after row, somber faced and silent, they marched by, hardly seeming to notice the crowd that jeered and called out names. Someone threw a tomato at one soldier. He glanced down at the splattering of red, then looked up at the gathering of people. Jordana met his stare and saw the emptiness in his eyes. His devastated expression took her breath.

The Union guard, who only moments earlier had threatened her, now stepped forward to nudge the idle soldier with the bayonet affixed to the end of his rifle. The southerner remained stoic, glancing only at the guard for a moment before wiping the tomato pulp from his coat. This done, he resumed his place with his comrades and hobbled off toward the transport that would take them home.

Jordana felt ill and longed only to get away from the scene. She backed up against Caitlan and turned to her. “Come on,” she said simply.

Caitlan nodded, immediately understanding.

They slipped from the crowd, believing themselves to be unnoticed, but the man who'd so kindly helped them to the front now followed after them in protective concern.

“Are you all right?” he questioned Jordana.

“I had hoped we were there to see something wonderful,” Jordana replied. “Instead, I'm ashamed to have even been a part of that crowd.”

The man nodded. “I have a carriage. Allow me to take you wherever you need to go.”

“I hardly think that would be appropriate, Jordana,” Caitlan whispered. “Ya don't even know the man.”

But Jordana felt weak in the knees, and she longed for nothing more than the privacy of her hotel room in order to think through the events of the past few moments. And the cab they had taken there was now gone. “I'm Jordana Baldwin,” she said, extending her hand. “And this is Caitlan O'Connor.”

“George Pullman,” the man replied, tipping his hat. “Say, you wouldn't be related to those railroading Baldwins, now, would you?”

Jordana nodded and gave him a weak smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. My father is James Baldwin. He has involved himself heavily with the building of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and there are other Baldwins, distant relatives of his, who are also fond of the rail works.”

“I know of them all. You see, I have great plans to affix my name alongside theirs.”

“In what way?” Jordana forced her mind to focus on this man's words, trying hard to forget the nightmare behind her.

“I have plans to create a glorious sleeping car. It will be the finest you have ever seen. A hotel on rails. I only need to raise about twenty thousand dollars to put it all together.”

Jordana studied the man carefully. He appeared to be more a common laborer than a businessman. “And that is what you are doing here in Chicago?”

“Oh, not just now,” he admitted. “I was here in the fall to help mud-jack the city. And I have stayed on to see what might come of the various railroad commissioners meetings.”

“How interesting.” Then Jordana shivered as a gust of wind blew over them.

“Come,” he said with a smile. “Let's get out of this cold. We can visit as I take you home. My buggy is right here.”

Jordana looked briefly at Caitlan, who appeared to be totally against the idea. “Very well, Mr. Pullman. Since you are a railroad man, I shall put my trust in you.”

He laughed. “Well, I sincerely hope to be a railroad man.”

She let him hand her up into the carriage, then watched as he did the same with Caitlan before joining them himself. It was a tight fit, but Pullman did not seem to mind.

“Now where to?” he asked, picking up the reins.

“The Tremont Hotel,” Jordana replied.

“Ah, are your people here for the railroad commissioners convention?”

“No, not really,” Jordana said, trying to remember what Brenton had told her to say if questioned about their presence. “We're on our way to California.”

“Well, you have a long trip ahead of you. Maybe you could wait until the Pacific Railroad is put into place,” he said, smiling. “That's why the commissioners are here. They started with a meeting in September and have been arguing ever since. They're deciding all manner of issues related to the transcontinental railroad.”

“Do tell,” Jordana said, glancing at the man briefly. “Perhaps you will have your sleeper cars in place when the railroad is completed.”

“That would be my dream,” he admitted. “But for now I've received some satisfaction in seeing the city of Chicago made healthier.”

“And how have you done that?” Jordana asked.

“We've raised the elevation of the city by some six feet, bringing the houses and businesses up away from the water. Doctors believe there are dangerous fumes coming from the river and lake. By raising the elevation we hope to give folks better air to breathe.”

“We smelled some of those dangerous fumes today,” Jordana replied. “But I daresay you will need more than six feet to clear that stench, which I understand is worse when the lake is thawed.”

“Aye, that's to be sure,” Caitlan finally joined in, appearing to relax a bit now that she was bound to the situation.

Before long Pullman reached the Tremont. He halted the horses at the curb and jumped down. “Let me help you,” he said kindly as Caitlan began to dismount. She allowed his help, as did Jordana.

“Thank you so very much, Mr. Pullman,” Jordana said. “I hope we shall see more of you and your sleeper car in the future.”

He tipped his hat and smiled. “I pray it might be so, Miss Baldwin. It was very nice to meet you. Give my best to your folks.” With that, he jumped up into the buggy and was gone.

“A very nice man, don't you think?” Jordana commented as she began walking toward the hotel.

“Yar too trustin',” Caitlan chided. “Yar brother will have yar hide for such a spectacle.”

“He doesn't have to know,” Jordana replied with a wink. “I won't tell—if you don't.”

21

To the best of Brenton's knowledge, the sole purpose of the Chicago railroad gathering was to continue creating a foundation for the Union Pacific Railroad and Telegraph Company. Congress had passed the Railroad Act last year, and Lincoln had signed it into law with the most generous of details put into writing. From there, one hundred and fifty-eight commissioners from twenty-five states and territories were somehow to transform the dream from paper to reality. They would meet along with five additional men, appointed by the secretary of the interior to represent the government's interests.

Brenton had studied the basic details of the act and understood most of it. Congress had decreed that work on the transcontinental railroad would begin simultaneously from both a western and eastern site. The Central Pacific Railroad Company, apparently headquartered in Sacramento, California, would have permission to run track east from Sacramento to as far as the company could manage. Of course, they would have to contend with the granite barrier of the Sierra Nevadas from the very start.

The Union Pacific was to create a main line and central branch that maintained a close proximity to the forty-first parallel. However, to everyone's amazement, the railroad terminus was not to be fixed at the Missouri River, as most had assumed it would be, but rather somewhere around the one hundredth western meridian, which placed it some two hundred fifty miles west of Omaha.

“You look deep in thought, Mr. Baldwin.”

Brenton glanced up from his notes to find a man whom he'd met earlier at breakfast. “Mr. Madison, correct?”

“That's right.”

Brenton considered the man for a moment. He was tall and lean but younger than most of the other men in the crowded lobby. Perhaps it was his youth that had drawn him to seek Brenton's company; after all, neither one seemed overly suited for the argumentative business of the day.

“My father is tied up with the commissioners,” Madison told him.

“Ah, so you're here with your father?” Brenton inquired.

“Yes. He's quite delighted by this railroad expansion business. How about you?”

“I'm a photographer. I'm recording some of these events for posterity.”

“How fascinating. But I see no equipment.”

Brenton put away his paper and pencil and smiled. “I'm still arranging for some of the settings. These things must have a very definite order.”

Madison nodded. “So what do you discern of this affair? Quite a bit of madness, don't you think?”

“I suppose so. I am curious about one piece of information I learned,” Brenton said, deciding to just come right out with some of his questions. Surely Madison wouldn't concern himself with why Brenton cared about the details of the railroad.

“And what would that be?” Madison replied, chest puffing out a bit as he threw his shoulders back, obviously pleased to be treated as an equal.

Brenton nearly smiled at the sight of the man, who was so easily made to feel important. “I wondered about this issue of putting the Union Pacific eastern terminus in the middle of the one hundredth meridian. What is that all about?”

Madison nodded as if he had anticipated Brenton's question. “The problem is the rivalry of Missouri River towns. Kansas City, Sioux City, Omaha, Council Bluffs, St. Joseph, Atchison, Leavenworth. All of these were in fierce competition to become the starting point for the main stem of the UP. So Congress stipulated that they could all build branch lines to the UP. Some will be direct branches; others will be spurs into those branches. But in order to avoid another war, one which would have rivaled the current one, I might add, they have decided that the president will appoint the starting point for a central branch to join the main line. This branch will be set somewhere upon the Missouri River in or around Iowa. All in all, the establishment will allow for the eastern railroads already in place to be easily aligned with this transcontinental railroad.”

“I see,” Brenton replied, hoping he could remember all the details for his notes. No doubt the cities with branch lines would be of just as much interest to Billy Vanderbilt as the main line's starting terminus.

“I believe what they will find, however, is that the central branch appointed by Lincoln will take precedence over the others. This is supposed to be fair because of the central location and the fact that much of the Nebraska prairie has been surveyed for the purpose of building this railroad, but there are already shouts of foul from those visionaries who believe it will change the course of their town's history.”

“But serious building surely can't take place until the war is behind us,” Brenton commented.

“My father says the war won't be a deterrent. Determined men will accomplish their will.”

“I suppose so,” Brenton replied.

“Baldwin, isn't it?” a short, stocky man inquired as he joined the two younger men.

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe you're one of the photographers we have here on the premises,” the man stated rather than asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I need to speak to you on the matter of taking some pictures.”

Brenton excused himself from Madison. “It was good to talk with you again. I hope we get another chance before this is all settled and you've gone back home.”

Madison gave him a slight bow and went off in the opposite direction while Brenton turned his attention to the portly man at his side.

“Have you ever seen such disorganization?” the man muttered. He waved his hands at the madness around them. “It was less trouble creating the world.”

Brenton grinned. “Yes, but the one in charge knew what He was doing.”

The man laughed at this and slapped Brenton's back. “I like a man with a sense of humor.”

With his equipment in place and a full gathering of the commissioners arranged in a frosty outdoor courtyard, Brenton found himself one of three photographers vying for their attention. The air of anticipation was thick, and the men seemed well aware of the profound task before them. The course of a nation would be changed with the decisions made by these men. Brenton marveled at the thought.

For over a week he'd listened to the stories and conversations of the various commissioners. He heard talk of the land beyond Chicago and of the great Rocky Mountains. He listened intently to the conditions of the Railroad Act and how the government would lend money against the building of this great work of giants. Public lands would be given to the railroad companies for each mile actually built; timber, stone, and earth along the way would be open to the railroad's use. The only thing denied them on these lands was the mineral rights.

Brenton thought the offerings were quite generous. So, too, did Billy Vanderbilt, who was enthusiastic about the variety of properties that would likely be affected by the new transcontinental line. He was recruiting more investors as the days passed by, and enthusiasm for the project increased within the hearts of the eastern dreamers.

Brenton also found himself stirred to interest in a way that he'd not been before. As each new detail or complication was resolved, Brenton gained a better understanding of the plans put before them. He could imagine that his parents' joy at seeing the Baltimore and Ohio come to fruition was similar to what he was experiencing as he watched the transcontinental line take shape. He could very nearly put himself in their place, watching and wondering what the new railroad would mean to them and their families. A transcontinental line would allow travel from the East Coast to the West in a matter of days rather than weeks, or more often than not, months. And these men gathered in Chicago would be the ones to see it through.

Brenton studied the commissioners with an artistic eye, but he also tried to see them with an infinitely broader perspective. These were men like Vanderbilt—men like his own father, James Baldwin. They were people who accomplished great deeds and lived life to its fullest. These were men who were unafraid to take chances, or if they were afraid, they buried their fear inside and refused to give in to its destructive power.

He admired their drive—their confidence. Silently he wished he shared more of their characteristics. What made the difference between him and them?

Shaking his head, Brenton rechecked his equipment. The collodion process he would use for this photograph was one that required a great deal of preparation. First he had to secure a nearby room in which to work at preparing the glass plates. The room would be used again to process the photograph after the picture was actually taken.

The trouble with collodion photography was that the plate had to be wet with the solution when exposed to light and, subsequently, the subject matter. Brenton had worked long hours to learn the tricks of evenly distributing the collodion—a mixture of guncotton dissolved in ether and alcohol—but it was ever a challenge to keep the plate wet long enough to be sensitized, exposed, and developed.

He noted that the other photographers were using the simpler calotype process, the one Brenton had used for many of his traveling photographs. With that process, he could prepare the paper negatives ahead of time, expose them on location to whatever scene he chose, then develop them when he returned to his room or wherever else he had managed to set up shop. But because this was more a portrait photograph, Brenton wanted the cleanest image possible. Calotype photography was good, but collodion was better, needing less exposure time and resulting in crisper images. The only problem that worried Brenton was that the air might be too cold.

Seeing the men were ready, Brenton went into his darkroom and began his preparations. The calotypes would require more exposure time, so he felt confident that he could coat the glass plate and return to take the photograph with time to spare.

When he finished, Brenton knew he would have the best photograph of anyone in the group. He hurried his equipment back into the darkroom, where he bathed the glass negative in a carefully prepared solution. Developing the photograph required a bevy of chemicals, most of which were highly flammable, if not downright explosive. Pyro-acid, glacial acetic acid, alcohol, ether, and potassium cyanide were among the tools of Brenton's trade. It was imperative that he maintain his concentration and not lose track of a single element required for his duties. It might have seemed an oppressive task for some, but Brenton delighted in his work. When later he would hold the finished product in his hand, he couldn't imagine himself doing any other job in the world. This would be his legacy to the rapidly growing nation.

Two weeks later, with a package of photographs, including the one of the commissioners, safely off to William Vanderbilt, Brenton found himself wondering exactly what they would do from this point forward. Billy had indicated that he might be joining G.W. in Europe, where he had been sent to convalesce, and if he did so, what would Brenton, Jordana, and Caitlan do in the meantime? Then, too, Brenton realized he would have to speak to Jordana sooner or later about G.W. He had hoped he wouldn't have to tell her of his continued illness; he had figured he could wait until G.W. was on his feet and fully recovered. But from the sound of Billy's letters and telegrams, that didn't seem likely anymore. G.W. might well not recover at all, and to keep that information from Jordana was unthinkable.