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Authors: Nancy Moser
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were all men, they were hired to work like machines. Or animals. He only hoped they would become neither.
“Here we go,” Raleigh said as he headed to the end of the line. “Another day, another dollar.”
“Three dollars,” Hudson corrected. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
Within half an hour, the work began in earnest. A horse-drawn lorry car filled with iron approached the end of the line. Four men removed each rail and trotted forward, laying it on the ties. When the lorry was empty, a man unhitched it from the horse, and it was pushed off the rails, into the ditch, making room for another one to move forward.
The men who’d been assigned to be “bolters” and “gaugers” stepped forward. The first group fastened the rail sections together, the second aligned them.
Then it was Hudson’s turn. As a “spiker,” he hammered the rails into place. The feel of the heavy maul racing through the air and hitting the spike made his muscles ring, as if the sound itself became physical. The music of metal hitting metal sounded like an anvil chorus.
“Come on, men,” the general yelled. “Spikers, keep the handle horizontal or you’ll bend the spike and ruin the head. Three strokes to a spike, ten spikes to a rail, four hundred rails to a mile that runs over three thousand ties. It should only take you thirty seconds for each section. In twelve hours we should lay three hundred tons of rail.”
One of the rail layers yelled out, “Yer making me tired just listening to you, General.”
Hudson saw two young boys run past, dumping the iron spikes on the ground on either side of the track. They were in constant motion, dumping and running back for more. The way everybody was working together made Hudson want to move faster.
But by the end of the day, the music of the anvil chorus had turned into a dirge of moans. Two hundred men sat shoulder to shoulder on the benches in one of the dining cars, their shoulders slumped, their heads hanging heavy. A hunk of meat and a pile of cubed potatoes lay on each plate, and each plate was nailed to the table.
“I can’t even pick up my fork,” Raleigh complained as he flexed his raw fingers.
“It’s my arms that are a’hurting,” said another man, who’d had to carry the rails into place with tongs.
“Shoulders,” was all Hudson could manage. He focused on the meat. He’d never been so hungry, because he’d never worked so hard. Back at the mill they worked long days, and though it also involved repetitive movement, it wasn’t backbreaking work. Tedious and boring, but not backbreaking.
A man across the table pointed his fork at Hudson’s plate. “You want yer potatoes?”
“I believe I do.” He stabbed a chunk to claim them.
“Did you even chew, Oscar?” Raleigh asked the man.
“I chewed,” the man said. “But I need more.”
Just then a kitchen worker came into the car carrying a platter and bowl.
Second helpings were had by all.
“Come on, Hudson. There’s whiskey to be had.”
Hudson settled in the empty dining car with his paper and pencil. “I need to write to Sarah Ann.”
Raleigh shook his head. “You’re one strange man, choosing letter-writing over whiskey.”
“So be it. Don’t you think you should write Mum and Da?”
“You say my howdys for me.”
Hudson looked up at his brother, his little brother who was a man. “Behave yourself, all right?”
“I most certainly will not.” Raleigh winked and hurried away, joining the throng of men who were finding solace in the saloons of Columbus.
Sarah Ann. She was Hudson’s solace.
He smoothed the page and wrote the date and salutation:
June 4, 1866. My dearest Sarah Ann . . .
But then he hesitated. What should he tell her? If he was truthful about the grueling work, she’d worry. So he looked out the window and wrote about
that
.
The Nebraska plains go on forever, a softly undulating tan spotted with low-growing grasses and fields of wildflowers, bowing in the breeze.
“Here we go,” Raleigh said as he headed to the end of the line. “Another day, another dollar.”
“Three dollars,” Hudson corrected. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
Within half an hour, the work began in earnest. A horse-drawn lorry car filled with iron approached the end of the line. Four men removed each rail and trotted forward, laying it on the ties. When the lorry was empty, a man unhitched it from the horse, and it was pushed off the rails, into the ditch, making room for another one to move forward.
The men who’d been assigned to be “bolters” and “gaugers” stepped forward. The first group fastened the rail sections together, the second aligned them.
Then it was Hudson’s turn. As a “spiker,” he hammered the rails into place. The feel of the heavy maul racing through the air and hitting the spike made his muscles ring, as if the sound itself became physical. The music of metal hitting metal sounded like an anvil chorus.
“Come on, men,” the general yelled. “Spikers, keep the handle horizontal or you’ll bend the spike and ruin the head. Three strokes to a spike, ten spikes to a rail, four hundred rails to a mile that runs over three thousand ties. It should only take you thirty seconds for each section. In twelve hours we should lay three hundred tons of rail.”
One of the rail layers yelled out, “Yer making me tired just listening to you, General.”
Hudson saw two young boys run past, dumping the iron spikes on the ground on either side of the track. They were in constant motion, dumping and running back for more. The way everybody was working together made Hudson want to move faster.
But by the end of the day, the music of the anvil chorus had turned into a dirge of moans. Two hundred men sat shoulder to shoulder on the benches in one of the dining cars, their shoulders slumped, their heads hanging heavy. A hunk of meat and a pile of cubed potatoes lay on each plate, and each plate was nailed to the table.
“I can’t even pick up my fork,” Raleigh complained as he flexed his raw fingers.
“It’s my arms that are a’hurting,” said another man, who’d had to carry the rails into place with tongs.
“Shoulders,” was all Hudson could manage. He focused on the meat. He’d never been so hungry, because he’d never worked so hard. Back at the mill they worked long days, and though it also involved repetitive movement, it wasn’t backbreaking work. Tedious and boring, but not backbreaking.
A man across the table pointed his fork at Hudson’s plate. “You want yer potatoes?”
“I believe I do.” He stabbed a chunk to claim them.
“Did you even chew, Oscar?” Raleigh asked the man.
“I chewed,” the man said. “But I need more.”
Just then a kitchen worker came into the car carrying a platter and bowl.
Second helpings were had by all.
“Come on, Hudson. There’s whiskey to be had.”
Hudson settled in the empty dining car with his paper and pencil. “I need to write to Sarah Ann.”
Raleigh shook his head. “You’re one strange man, choosing letter-writing over whiskey.”
“So be it. Don’t you think you should write Mum and Da?”
“You say my howdys for me.”
Hudson looked up at his brother, his little brother who was a man. “Behave yourself, all right?”
“I most certainly will not.” Raleigh winked and hurried away, joining the throng of men who were finding solace in the saloons of Columbus.
Sarah Ann. She was Hudson’s solace.
He smoothed the page and wrote the date and salutation:
June 4, 1866. My dearest Sarah Ann . . .
But then he hesitated. What should he tell her? If he was truthful about the grueling work, she’d worry. So he looked out the window and wrote about
that
.
The Nebraska plains go on forever, a softly undulating tan spotted with low-growing grasses and fields of wildflowers, bowing in the breeze.
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