Opening the iron trail

Seven o’clock in the morning of April 29, 1869.

Since before daybreak the people from the U. P. camp had been streaming westward down the grade, toward the C. P. camp. Afoot, ahorse and by wagon they hastened along, to arrive in time for the track-laying contest.

Track Boss Paddy Miles was here, with Big Mike the grading boss, in a graders’ wagon; George had found a mule for hire, and had ridden over with Terry; the two Muldoon lads were here, on their gaunt rail-truck nags; half of Promontory was here; General Dodge, General Casement and his brother Dan Casement, Superintendent Reed, Major Hurd—they had come up from below; and there was a delegation of U. P. surveyors and Mormon citizens, from Ogden and even from Salt Lake City.

The edge of the plateau was alive with wagons, carts, horses, mules, and figures on foot, forging on for the Central end o’ track.

The Central folks seemed to be in no great hurry. The sun was above the Wasatch Range, pouring his beams upon the plateau and ridges of Promontory Point. At the very tip of the Central track waited the C. P. rail-truck, or iron-car—a low flat-car shorter than the U. P. rail-trucks. It was heaped high with rails, spikes and fastenings; and on either side of end o’ track were other piles of iron.

A long iron-train, and the boarding-train behind it, stood with steam up, as far forward as they could get. Ranged along the iron-truck the rail-placers were ready; they were white—for, as Pat said, “yez can’t get along widout the whites, no matter how many Chinymin yez have!” Behind this squad were the first spikers and bolters (“white min, too, mark ye!”) and two groups of Chinamen, also with sledges and with wrenches. And behind these extended, in parallel lines two deep, still more Chinamen—the ballasters with spades and picks.

A host of other Chinamen were gathered, chattering and laughing, to watch the work begin.

Now the U. P. men had a good chance to size up the C. P. track-crew and grade-builders—mainly those “haythen Chinese” who lived on tea, rice and pork (and rats, as Pat asserted); who fed no “roaring” towns, who did not get drunk, who gave no trouble to the bosses, and who asked only their dollar-a-day, and tended strictly to business; but who had been buried by snow in the Sierras, had worked in the fire-light on the soda-whitened Nevada desert, and now were arrayed to “show the Melicans.”

The track boss was white—Hi Minkler; Mr. H. H. Minkler, that is. He was passing to and fro, with sly words to keep the crews on edge. The man who met the U. P. officials and ushered them on to Governor Stanford and the other Central officials was Mr. James Campbell, superintendent of the C. P. Salt Lake Division. Mr. Strobridge, the C. P. construction superintendent, shook hands with the U. P. superintendent, Mr. Reed; and Mr. Crocker, the C. P. chief of construction, who ranked the same as General Casement, bustled anxiously here and there, on last inspections.

“Gee! They’d better begin,” spoke George.

“Longer they wait, the better for us,” proposed Terry.

“Don’t you want ’em to win out?”

“I dunno. Why—yes, sure! If they can do it, let ’em. I guess they deserve it, and ’twon’t harm anybody. The U. P. is through. We beat to Promontory.”

Mr. Strobridge had been looking at his watch. He snapped it shut, instantly caught Track Boss Minkler’s eyes—“Go ahead!” he barked.

“Lay to it!” roared Boss Minkler.

The air rocked to a sudden peal of cheers; but before the first note had issued, four rails at once were being laid; the nearest two rails on either side of the rail-car had been seized, each, by two men with tongs or nippers, carried forward at a run, and plunked down upon the ties as a starter!

Right away, without waiting for spikes or bolts, a crew of other men had put their shoulders to the little car and rolled it onward to the end of the second pair of rails; the first spikers and bolters jumped to set a couple of spikes, clap on the fish-plate fasteners, and thrust a bolt or so through, while the gaugers measured and two crow-bar men stood ready to line up.

The Chinese spikers and bolt-screwers were on their heels, to drive the spikes and tighten the fish-plate bolts—but before this another pair of rails were down and the rail-car had advanced again!

In their parallel double lines the Chinese ballasters were coming, like a well-drilled company. They numbered fifty. The inner lines carried spades, the outer lines carried picks. The spades scraped and shoveled and tamped, between the ties; the picks rose and fell, piling up the dirt along the ends; thus the ties were settled and the track leveled, like lightning.

“Keep back, everybody!” shouted Superintendent Strobridge, as the people crowded and craned.

“In the name o’ the saints, wad yez look at ’em travel!” That was the exclamation of Paddy Miles, who had pressed afoot into the front rank of spectators, and was staring agape.

General Casement had his watch out.

“Five lengths of rail to the minute!” he announced.

“Gee! One hundred and forty feet!” gasped George. “How many minutes to the mile, then?”

“Not much over thirty. They’re liable to do two miles an hour, if they keep up,” Terry calculated.

The rail-truck was partly unloaded; at a bark from Boss Minkler a lot of Chinamen dumped the remaining rails at end o’ track—and back down track rumbled the car, its crew at a dead run, for the near supply while the rail-layers were working.

It had not stopped before it was being reloaded at top pace; and back it charged, for end o’ track again. The Chinamen in its path barely sprang aside; then bent once more to their jobs.

The track had been lengthened by half a mile! “Toot, toot!” and “Toot, toot!” signaled the two engines at rear. Here they came, too, with their fresh supplies, halted upon the newly laid track, dumped more ammunition, and backed out, to clear.

The work never slackened for the trotting rail-layers to ease their arms. The spikers and bolters pushed them hard—the Chinamen rarely uttered a word, as they shuffled forward, machine-like. Every man on the job was dripping with sweat. The car crew—Chinamen, they—strained and panted as they shoved at the heavy car; suddenly at a word they fell out and another crew dived into their places.

Along the squads from rear to front and back to rear hurried the water-carriers, with dippers and splashing buckets, ladling right and left.

To keep up with the rails the crowd had to be constantly on the move, themselves; end o’ track was always getting away from them.

It all was so exciting that time flew, like the track.

“Major Hurd says eight-thirty—one hour,” uttered George. “And now look at where they started, at those last tents. Back a mile and a half, or more!”

“Don’t believe they can keep it up.”

“They’ve got 4,000 men to draw on; mostly Chinks.”

“Only so many can work at once. It takes a lot of practice to lay rails and drive spikes just right.”

“If they do keep it up, they’ll have time to spare. Maybe they’ll go straight on to the U. P. track, fourteen miles!”

The C. P. men were so well drilled that they worked without signals. “Plunk, plink, plink, plank,” sounded the rails, dropped as regularly as a clock ticks—a pair of rails every ten seconds! “Whang, whang, whang, whang whangity-whang, whang, whang!” clanged the sledges, with one continuous rapid-fire. The spades rang and the picks thudded, and the Chinamen grunted. Up to end o’ track, end o’ track, end o’ track again, rolled the iron-truck—every minute, as seemed, boomed back, shoved by its sweating crew, for another supply, and charged in through the midst of the pig-tailed, grunting ballasters, who flowed together again in its wake. The iron-train edged onward, ready.

Track Boss Minkler held the fore, darting from crew to crew, inspecting, scolding, praising, calling the attention of the gang bosses to now this, now that, and seeing that the rails did not lack. He was sweaty and grimy—worked as hard as any other man. Pat Miles could have done no more.

Chief Superintendent Crocker rode restlessly hither-thither, along the whole line from train to end o’ track—appeared to see nothing but the job, and he saw everything there.

“Lay to it, boys. Workee allee time chop-chop, John. No stopee till topside ten miles. Sabee?”

And the Chinamen answered, with shrill little yaps:

“Hi-yah, Meestee Clocky. Workee chop-chop, you bet.”

“Golly! At the third mile-stake, already,” said George, while the procession moved on. “’Tisn’t more than nine o’clock, either!”

“Shucks!” Terry blurted. “These C. P. fellows could build a whole track, grade and all, ten miles in a day, at the rate they’re going. Wonder if they’ll quit for noon.”

“They’ve got the dead-wood on Paddy Miles, sure,” George chuckled. “Look at him, with his mouth open and his pipe out!”

Higher rose the hot sun; still the rails clanked, and the sledges whanged, and the iron-truck rumbled, and the picks thudded, and the spades scraped, and ever and anon the two trains tooted their “coming up” signal. The air fairly quivered with action.

The sight was fascinating: the rail-layers, four on a side, always on the run; the gaugers, clapping their gauges to each pair of rails as soon as dropped; the rail-truck, with its load projecting fore and aft, and its pusher crew straining with bowed backs; the spike and bolt placers, who never straightened but scurried, head down, on the heels of the pushers; the Chinese sledge men and wrench men, pressing closely; the two double lines of ballasters, as busy and as orderly as marching ants; Boss Minkler and Big Boss Crocker prancing and urging; the iron-train dumping ahead of time and pulling out for more; and all the grassy, sagy slope, under a blue sky and fringed by desert mountains, thronged with the intent spectators wearing every sort of garb, from Governor Stanford’s broad-cloth and General Dodge’s corduroys, down to the U. P. red-flannel shirts and the C. P. cotton blouses.

“Great Scott! More than five miles, and they aren’t going to stop for noon,” Terry gasped.

They didn’t. They went right along, for another hour—they went along, until on a sudden Mr. Crocker reined his horse at end o’ track, raised his hand, dropped it sharply, as if driving a lance—

“That’ll do. Knock off.”

The men straightened, and stared about dazed, while they wiped their brows.

“The six-mile stake, and the new station of Victory,” shouted Mr. Crocker, to the crowd around. “One thirty o’clock. Six miles of track laid in six hours. We’ll take an hour’s rest.”

“B’ jabers, yez’ve earned it,” Pat bawled, just as a great cheer answered the announcement. “Take two hours; take thray.”

Mr. Crocker again raised his hand, for silence.

“There’ll be dinner for all, right here. Superintendent Campbell is bringing up the boarding-train.”

The exhausted track-gang tossed down their tools, and staggered aside, to drink, and wash, and throw themselves down, also, for a breather until the cooks beat the dinner gongs.

The dinner was served upon long tables set up in a jiffy in the open air—but the Chinamen squatted around their big kettles of rice and stew and tea. The U. P. officials dined with President Stanford and the other C. P. officials at a separate mess, near the headquarters private car.

“What are you going to do? See it through?” asked George, of Terry, while they cleaned their platters.

“I dunno. Guess there’s no doubt about those ten miles.”

“Well, I should say not! Only four miles yet, and five hours to do them in. But let’s stick around.”

“All right. We’ll stay as long as General Dodge and the two Casements stay. Down on the plains we used to think three miles was a big day’s work; but, gee, these Central gangs can double that in half a day!”

“So could the U. P. gangs, if they wanted to show off,” George asserted. “Look what we did on the Red Desert, and in the mountains last winter. We could start in and lay twelve miles tomorrow, if we had the chance.”

At two-thirty o’clock prompt the whistle of the iron-train tooted one shrill blast. The C. P. track-crews had been stationed for five minutes, poised and waiting. The sweat had dried on them—they were a bit stiff and tired; but they were game for the finish. Like a machine when a lever has been pulled, at the sound of the whistle they all broke into motion again.

Some of the spectators left. It seemed to be a certainty that the ten miles would be won, although of course there might be a hitch. Four miles to be added to six, in the shank of a day, was a chore.

On marched end o’ track, carried by these C. P. cracks, and escorted by the expectant crowd; to the seven-mile stake—and the eight-mile stake—but backs and arms, and eyes also, were getting tired.

The sun was sinking toward the desert ranges in the west; end o’ track was moving forward more slowly.

Terry measured the distance between sun and mountains.

“Dunno whether they’ll do it or not. They’re pretty well petered out. Those track-layers are plumb tuckered. Reckon their hands and feet, both, are blistered.”

“The spikers’ tongues are sure hanging out,” added George. “’Twon’t be fair for ’em to work by night. They’ve got to finish inside of a day.”

The U. P. officials were still here; so was Pat, and Big Mike the grading boss, and quite a bunch of other spectators who, like Terry and George, had resolved to “stick it out.”

The nine-mile post! The sun now was low over the western edge of Promontory Point.

“One more stake, boys,” hoarsely urged Boss Minkler. “Plenty of time, if you just keep at it.”

“No stopee, John. Keep chop-chop. Almost topside,” shouted Mr. Crocker.

“Hi-yah, Meesty Clocky. Keep chop-chop, make topside, you bet,” panted the Chinamen.

The sun of April 29 was touching the western ridge; the shadows of workers and spectators stretched long—the rail-layers’ shadows seemed to lead on, marking the way.

“What time is it?” Pat demanded.

“Close on seven o’clock.”

“B’ dad, an’ they’ll make it, then; for yon’s the ten-mile stake. Yis, an’ I hope they do, even if I have to pay the $10,000 myself.”

Rail by rail it was, with the sweaty forms staggering after, in the wake of the little rail-truck. Rail by rail—only a few more needed——

What! The ten-mile stake? Hooray! And seven o’clock precisely! Ten miles of track, laid in ten and one-half hours’ working time, or almost at the rate of a mile an hour! A world’s record, by the Central Pacific Railroad.

“Finish out the truck-load, boys,” bade Mr. Minkler. “Give the U. P. good measure.”

And they finished the truck-load.

“Ten miles and 200 feet extra, gentlemen,” Mr. Crocker announced. “Are you satisfied?”

“You win,” smiled General Dodge.

The track-crews eased their weary back, and tried to smile, too; but they drooped as they leaned upon their tools. The panting rail-carriers threw themselves flat, exhausted.

“That was a giant’s feat, gentlemen,” proclaimed Mr. Crocker. “I want to introduce to you these eight men who carried ten miles of rails in one day, without a pause except for nooning. Their names are Michael Shay, Patrick Joyce, Thomas Daily, Michael Kennedy, Fred McNamara, Edward Killeen, George Wyatt, and Michael Sullivan. They’ve moved bodily over a million and a half pounds of iron.”

The crowd cheered.

“An’ sivin of ’em are Irish, an’ the other ought to be,” shouted Pat. “So it’s all in the family, an’ we don’t begrudge yez the job. Faith,” he added, to his rival, Track Boss Minkler, “a trifle over 2,000,000 pounds o’ iron have your gangs handled this day. For hiven’s sake, send your min to bed, or my brain’ll burst wid lookin’ at ’em. B’ dad, an’ wance I thought we could skin yez at the track game. Mebbe we can—I’m not sayin’ we can’t, but we’re lucky to quit before-time.”

“It’s laid and well laid,” Division Superintendent Campbell was remarking, to General Casement. “And to prove the fact, I’ll engage to run a locomotive over the entire distance in forty minutes.”

So he did, on the return to the C. P. camp; but only a few of the visitors remained, to witness. The sun had set, soon the darkness would gather, and the bulk of the crowd commenced to stream eastward, for Promontory, the U. P. camp, Blue Creek, and even beyond by wagon and train.

General Dodge and General Casement and Mr. Reed stayed, to be the guests of Governor Stanford at supper.

“What do you reckon Pat meant by his 2,000,000 pounds?” George queried, as he and Terry cantered on their way to camp. “All those figures sound like heap talk.”

“Let’s ask Major Hurd.”

They dropped back to Major Hurd, the U. P. assistant superintendent of construction.

“Crocker knows, and Pat made a shrewd guess,” said Major Hurd. “It’s quickly figured. I have the items right here.” And he consulted his pocket memorandum book. “The C. P. are using thirty-foot rails, weighing fifty-six pounds to the yard. In one mile there should be 352 rails, each weighing 560 pounds, and the total weight for ten miles sums 1,971,200 pounds, in rails alone. The ten miles calls for 55,000 spikes, 7,040 fish-plate fasteners, 14,080 bolts; and while they may not bring the total quite to the 2,100,000 pounds, we’ll call it that in round numbers. And every pound of the iron had to be handled—and handled several times.”

“Whew!” sighed George, as if the very thought made him tired. “Wonder when the next big show will be.”

“Which?” Terry asked. “Pat counting the ties with his nose? There are over 26,000 of them.”

“No. The joining of the tracks. The C. P. have only four miles to go.”

“The wedding of the rails, you mean?” prompted Major Hurd. “May 10 is the date suggested, I understand. That will give both roads time to arrange for a program and for bringing in the people who’ll wish to come, from the East and West. General Dodge is talking the matter over with Governor Stanford now, so as to report to New York.”

“Thank you. We’ll stick around, then, I guess,” George asserted. “I’ll have to stick, anyway,” he added, to Terry, as they two rode ahead, “till the men are all paid off. And maybe so will you.”

“Haven’t been paid, myself, for a month,” laughed Terry. “But that doesn’t count. I’m going to see this thing through. The wedding of the rails is liable to be a regular humdinger of a celebration.”