1886 Ties That Bind: A Story of Politics, Graft, and Greed

By A. E. Wasserman

It is 1886 as Englishman Lord Langsford travels by train to San Francisco. Newly widowed, Langsford is desperate to escape his grief, demons, and life in England. As Langsford completes the last leg of his transcontinental journey, his life unexpectedly changes once again when he crosses paths with Miss Sally Baxter, a beautiful rancher who packs a pistol in her purse.

Sally has made it her mission to find the men who robbed a train and killed her brother. Unfortunately, no one—not even the owners of the Southern Pacific Railroad—seem to care. Unable to resist her pleas, Langsford offers to help Sally and soon becomes entangled in a web of politics, corruption, and greed. As murder, threats, and attacks ensue that endanger both Sally and Langsford, influential men in both California and Washington, D.C. jockey for positions of power. Langsford, who finds himself oddly attracted to Sally, now must sort through criminals and politicians alike to discover the truth behind her brother’s death and prevent his own murder.

“Not only is this a fast-paced historical mystery, 1886 Ties That Bind offers commentary on the political and social issues that are still relevant today.”
– Helga Schier, PhD, author and founder of With Pen and Paper

Wasserman’s writing is atmospherically rich. Very strongly recommended.
– Historical Novel Society, London, critical review of 1884 No Boundaries

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480836631

A. E. Wasserman

A.E. Wasserman wrote her first novella at age 14 and never stopped writing. She graduated from The Ohio State University and lived in London and San Francisco before settling in Southern California, where she lives with her family and her muse, a Border Collie named Topper. She recently received top honors from Writer’s Digest for her work. Visit the author’s web site at www.aewasserman.com

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Part One

Rails and Ties

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Two

Politics and Power

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Part Three

Agendas and Motives

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Part Four

Consequences

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Afterword

Sources

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Dedicated to my father,

the consummate wordsmith

There is nothing new under the sun

~Ecclesiastes 1-9

Porte Cochère, the carriage entrance of the Palace Hotel c. 1890

Restoration by Bennet Hall Photography, San Francisco Images

PROLOGUE

The Central Valley, California, United States

August, 1886

The passengers waited on the Delano Station platform for its arrival; some relaxed on crude wooden benches, while others stood in anticipation, ready to pick up their suitcases to board as soon as they could. The hot California sun danced on the metal rails while the motionless air under the depot’s overhang hung heavy with heat.

They saw it first, a dark dot where the rails converged. Those sitting stood in anticipation, gripping their bags with tight fists. Everyone as a unit slowly moved toward the edge of the worn wooden planks, leaving the stale shade of the overhang so they might encroach upon the edge above the gap, where shiny rails on dark ties lay embedded in gravel deep below. Not too close, for that felt dangerous, but close enough to peer up the track as the dark dot rapidly enlarged into the locomotive they expected.

The black steel mass burst forth into the station, as promised, but failed to fulfill its duty to stop. Indeed, failed to even slow. It monstered through, roaring indignation. The would-be passengers instinctively took a step back under the protection of the short roofed area and away from the now-filled gulf as the wheels spun on hidden rails. The whizzing blur of noise and black roared, followed by a dark-gray car flashing square windows as it clacked past, rapid rhythm, the wind-wake whipping onto the depot platform. Everyone stood frozen with the force of the noise and braced against the hot gust that slammed their bonnets, hats, skirts.

Then it was gone. Silence. A void—above the rails and within their senses. Quiet.

Stunned by the sudden unexpected, they all gasped in unison; a communal breath. Wide-eyed, they tried to speak as they slowly began to recognize what they had just seen fly past.

Two men standing nearest the wooden edge exchanged horrified looks. Clad in dungarees and cotton shirts, they adjusted their wide brimmed hats, and as if practiced, simultaneously turned. Someone has to stop that train! The second replied, Let’s go! They ran inside the depot sprinting toward the front door and out onto Main Street.

The rest remained on the platform. Some had dropped their valises; mothers stood with babes tight in their arms, or children held against their skirts. Husbands shielded their wives as they all began to react.

Did you see what I saw? Was that real? Were they …?

Those who spoke would finish with their hands over their mouths for what they had seen, was, in fact, unspeakable. The image burned in their minds, like the lingering light in an eye after a lamp’s extinguished wick.

The raging engine had held no engineer. Instead, draped upon the coal bin behind the cab was a body. The car flew by, a body or two leaned awkwardly on a seat, and in one case, flung with shoulders, arms and head hanging through a window, flopping with the speeding rhythm of the iron beast.

The train raged away, diminishing in size as quickly as it had emerged for its arrival.

The metal parade was a dead man’s train.

PART ONE

Rails and Ties

Chapter 1

Transcontinental Railroad, Sierra Mountains California, United States

Miles to the northeast, high within the sharp Sierra Mountains, another locomotive labored up a steep grade, passenger cars obediently following as it wound steadily higher toward the pass.

Sitting in a first-class compartment, Englishman Lord Langsford relaxed, watching the pine trees speed by his window. He was a handsome man, a full six feet, trim with a short cropped beard and stylish moustache. Just twenty-three, he was an aristocrat, wealthy, and well educated. He was also newly widowed, his bride of two years passing during childbirth not quite ten months past. This trip, traveling across a foreign land, was his escape from grief, from his own demons, and his life in England. Here he was determined to put everything behind him so that upon his eventual return home, he could begin life anew. He would outdistance his grief until his past could no longer follow him.

He watched the California sun dance on dark-green pine needles and glint off the still lingering expanses of blinding snow. Even the Alps seem civilized compared to this wilderness, he thought, keen on seeing every twist and turn through these saw-toothed peaks.

Across from him sat his own coachman, Tom Pelham, a dozen years older, a few inches shorter, and clean shaven. His warm smile and happy disposition made him good company. Pelham was first and foremost an outstanding carriage driver, excellent with four-in-hand teams—a natural talent with horses. His physique, solid and broad-chested, made him ideal as a guard against the common thief one encounters during travels. Langsford was convinced that his mere presence had deterred more than one robber’s desire for the Englishman’s purse. Thus, on this journey, his primary role was that of bodyguard, and when necessary, driver. Over the last few years, the social boundary between the two had become more and more permeable due to shared circumstances. Langsford might liken Pelham to the older brother he never had, willing to lend an ear and, if asked, offer advice. If pressed, however, the English lord would merely admit that he enjoyed the company of this favored employee.

Traveling across the vast American continent alone hadn’t appealed to Langsford, so when he planned this journey, he insisted Pelham accompany him for safety concerns, as well as playing valet, for his own was old. Besides, he wasn’t inclined to travel with more than one servant. He abhorred fuss. The four black horses left behind in London could be tended by the groom, Langsford reminded Pelham, who had been reluctant to leave his charges.

What? he’d mocked his servant. My horses’ well-being is more important to you than my own?

No, m’lord, except you can brush your own hair while they can’t, so they require more tending, unless you wish I simply turn them loose on the Scottish moors to fend for themselves.

So if they need the help of opposable thumbs, doesn’t my groom, Mike, have two of those? Surely he can hold the brush they cannot, to keep their black coats shiny.

Well, Mike is—

—a well-trained groom, for whom you receive the credit since you taught him. It’s settled then. You accompany me to ward off thieves, drive when I need to be driven, and fasten my cuff links. There it is.

Shortly afterward, all was organized, tickets procured, and they embarked on this long venture, crossing the Atlantic to New York in only eight days. After some time in New York City, they headed toward San Francisco. For this transcontinental trip, Langsford had had to encourage Pelham to be in first class with him. Who sits in what class here in the United States is a matter of money, not peerage, he’d stated. Frankly, he was tired of conversing solely with strangers, first class or not, and he enjoyed the company of his own man.

The two of them had been through much together over the past decade, including the death of each of their wives. Pelham had hit the bottle after the loss of his, and Langsford, mourning the death of his father during the same cholera epidemic, understood how empty one’s life could be afterward. A bond had formed: Langsford patiently letting Pelham find his own way back to a routine of normal, while Langsford learned to carry the heavy mantle of responsibility passed on to him from his father and grandfather, and all the fathers before him for centuries—the inherited title, and the vast wealth that accompanied it. Together, this coachman and this lord had emerged from their darker days, silently acknowledging the role each had played in the other’s recovery. They fell into an unusual employer-employee companionship that, while still maintaining a minimum of required demarcation between a lord and his servant, nonetheless acknowledged the fondness and trust between them. When Langsford lost his lovely Regina and newborn son last October, it was Pelham who stood by, ready to listen when needed, and yes, black horses aside, ready to accompany Langsford across the ocean, if that’s what was asked.

Thus, Pelham sat across from him, thrilling at every new sight, amazed at the vastness of the land and the height of the mountains. They had already crossed the wild prairie and the Rocky Mountains. Langsford chuckled at the name, for what mountains weren’t rocky? Today they rode over the last barrier to San Francisco, climbing up and through the Sierra Mountains. The sharp peaks bespoke the appropriateness of the name, a variation, Langsford recognized, of serra, Latin for a serrated blade.

Somewhere along here is a pass where the American pioneers were stranded one winter back in the ’40s. Pelham imparted a fact he had picked up from either another passenger, or the conductor. They became cannibals, they did.

Thus you worry if Americans in California are uncivilized and eat one another?

I’ve known since Chicago there are savages out here that could scalp us. I never heard of cannibalism, though, except in darkest Africa.

Imagine this in the winter. Langsford looked out at the tenacious patches of snow still covering the north facing slopes in August. No wonder they needed snow sheds built over the tracks so trains could travel in winter. Winter is brutal up here, I’m told. Snow is often over twenty feet deep. From what I read, people in the Donner Party—the settlers who were stranded—had already frozen to death before they were eaten. Survival is a very strong urge.

I hope we don’t get stuck here, then. I’m for San Francisco, myself.

You want an edible, non-human cuisine, you’re saying? Langsford bantered.

"Right now, anything that isn’t fellow man sounds good, m’lord."

Langsford chuckled. Pelham’s mere presence was a welcome distraction that kept him from sinking into despair.

The train crawled toward the apex of the pass above a small alpine lake, the uphill climb nearly over. The grade became so extreme that the train was required to travel through a long rock tunnel, blacking out the day. Finally bursting from the darkness, Langsford blinked at the bright snow, but before his eyes could fully adjust, the steep descent began toward San Francisco, the port on the western edge of America, far from New York City.

Langsford smiled, remembering one New York dinner party with William Vanderbilt. Eager to impress the English lord, Vanderbilt had been quick to explain his position regarding modern transportation. In this country, the man had declared, railroads are not run for the benefit of the dear public, but for men like you who invest your money and expect a fair percentage of the same.

Langsford knew America’s privately owned railroads were built by government issued bonds, purchased by foreign investors. In fact, London’s market held an exchange specifically for American railroads. These investments had indeed proven profitable, but he had wondered at Vanderbilt’s remark. The main purpose of European trains was to provide transportation for everyone, which is why government-owned trains were built. The fact that American trains made money for investors was simply an additional benefit, he’d thought. At the time he’d felt Vanderbilt’s thinking on the matter was narrow, but after meeting other wealthy Americans of industry, he recognized it was first and foremost about the money. Always about the money.

New York had proven exciting, filled with many dinner engagements and parties hosted for him. The energy and enthusiastic bustle of New York exhibited its sense of importance, tainted with a unique frivolousness he had not experienced in European cities. Perhaps this levity and lightheartedness was not confined to New York, but indicative of America. Would San Francisco prove similar?

Grinning, Langsford asked Pelham. Do you wish San Francisco to be a ‘Wild West’ town or more like New York City?

I’m thinking New York City was wild enough itself, m’lord. People there seem to laugh and say whatever they want. No one even knew how to address you, m’lord. They lacked refined manners, if you ask me. Heaven only knows what San Francisco has in store for us.

It isn’t a cow town. It’s a port; the end of the transcontinental railroad, he laughed and pulled out his pipe to fill, tamping the tobacco as the train wound down into the Sacramento Valley. But we shall soon see.

The final few miles of the transcontinental trip were fascinating, eliciting both worry and wonder from Pelham when they were only fifty miles from their destination. They stopped at a little place called Benicia, but it wasn’t a depot. It was a ferry slip, and the train would be carried by boat across the water.

You mean this whole train just drives right onto a steamer and we don’t sink? The locomotive and everything?

That’s what I understand, Langsford replied, trying not to smile at his coachman.

And we don’t sink.

No. We float.

Langsford had to admit that it was fascinating that this huge ferry, christened the Solano, could carry a train. Passengers remained on board while it was uncoupled in the middle, the locomotive pulling the first dozen cars onto the boat. A switch engine pushed the last dozen onto the second set of deck tracks with little effort. In no time they set sail across the broad and choppy Carquinez Strait, the huge paddle wheel churning through white caps as the four smoke-stacks spewed gray-black plumes. Effortlessly, the Solano handled her load for over a mile. Once docked at Port Costa on the south side of the strait, the train drove off onto terra-firma tracks, the last half of the train recoupled.

See, Pelham, we didn’t sink after all, Langsford chuckled, the train back up to speed and on its way once again. In fact, it was an enjoyable interlude to the monotonous click-clack of the past three thousand miles.

I admit I held my breath when we got on that ferry boat. I don’t know why we didn’t sink.

Modern engineering is indeed a marvel.

How long until San Francisco?

Not long. The train actually stops in a place called Oakland. We take a ferry to San Francisco.

Another boat? Pelham gasped.

"This time, sans train, my man. I’m afraid our dangerous adventure is behind us and the mundane stretches ahead." He finished tamping his tobacco and began lighting his pipe.

Pelham relaxed, leaning back in his seat and sighed. That’s good news.

By the time Langsford finished smoking his pipe, they had arrived at the Oakland Mole, a mile-long spit of land that reached out into the San Francisco Bay. There, all passengers and their luggage boarded the railroad’s Bay City ferry that took them the final three miles across the water to the San Francisco’s Ferry Building at the foot of Market Street.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they disembarked. The two stood in front of the Ferry Building, watching the hubbub of the wagons and travelers wend their way through heavy traffic. Langsford inhaled the crisp salt air as the cool breeze from the bay buffeted him.

In no time, the driver of the hackney carriage, sent by the Palace Hotel, found them. Langsford was impressed as he seated himself inside the coach. The hotel had arranged for their bags to be transported directly to his rooms. Excellent service. San Francisco was already proving to be civilized.

The carriage horses trotted up Market Street toward a massive building boasting seven stories of bay windows, outstanding as the largest structure around. Beautifully designed, its marble-clad exterior sparkled in the California sun.

The driver soon wheeled the carriage left on New Montgomery Street and immediately swung right, entering the hotel’s porte cochère, the carriage entrance. If the exterior had been grand, the heart of the hotel was nothing short of exquisite. The carriage passed through the arched gateway, and Langsford craned his neck out the window to see the interior garden court, an elegance the Palace Hotel cleverly concealed like a pearl inside an oyster shell.

Stepping from the hack, he found himself within a white columned marvel in the center of the building itself. Layer upon layer of white balconies rose above, topped with a crystal ceiling floating a breathtaking seven stories above. The Palace promised to exceed what its name implied.

By early evening, Langsford had settled into his suite and he had arranged for Pelham to rent a carriage and drive him to a home on Nob Hill. There he was to dine with Senator Stanford and Mr. Crocker, two of the three famous Associates, as they referred to themselves, the owners of the Southern Pacific Railroad. He was looking forward to meeting these men who had risen from merchants on the periphery of the California Gold Rush, and climb their way up to become railroad tycoons.

Langsford knew they would welcome him, like Vanderbilt had, as much for his potential sterling investments as for his aristocratic background as an English lord. Americans seemed fascinated by nobility, perhaps because they had none here. He realized that to Americans he was both a financial opportunity as well as a curiosity. He expected the same reactions this evening.

What he did not expect was the curious person he would unexpectedly meet that night.

Chapter 2

San Francisco, California

Miss Sally Baxter was grateful she owned no gloves for they would have gotten filthy from the grime on the train to San Francisco. That fine soot from the smoke filtered into everything, coated every crevice, and left her feeling in need of a bath. Even the moist San Francisco air failed to refresh her. Wearing her best dress, a pretty blue cotton print with puffy sleeves, her mother’s brooch pinned at the throat of the high neck, she’d thought it ideal for traveling on a warm summer day. On advice from a neighbor who warned that San Francisco could be chilly, she had brought along a light coat.

Coming into the city, the train had passed places like Union Machine Company, and USA MFG and Millworks. She had no idea what any of these companies were and she felt somewhat overwhelmed by the size and strangeness of a real city. It was just before the close of business by the time she disembarked from the train, gripping her purse, parasol, and satchel. She found herself at the busy passenger depot, a good mile south of the Ferry Building on Market Street where the transcontinental trains from the east terminated. This San Francisco station was the hub of all trains going north and south, with multiple arrivals and departures each hour.

In spite of it being August, the air was cold, and she quickly donned her coat as she got her bearings. She was anxious to speak with Mr. Stanford. Or Mr. Crocker. She trusted they wouldn’t leave before six and she could still find them there. As her ma would say, It’s time to get down to brass tacks.

Aware of the time, she rushed across the street to the corner of Fourth and Townsend, headquarters of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company.

I’m sorry, Miss, the thin secretary who sat stiffly behind his wooden desk replied to her inquiry. "Neither is available. In fact, Senator Stanford spends much time in Washington. And Mr. Crocker has many other affairs to attend. He opened a large book that appeared to be a calendar of sorts. Did you have an appointment?"

No. I wrote and also telegraphed, but never received any reply. Where can I find Mr. Crocker, if Mr. Stanford isn’t in town?

What is this regarding?

She didn’t care for this stuffy man’s unfriendly demeanor. Where she came from, people tried to help one another.

I have questions about a train in the Central Valley. The Delano train?

Delano? He cleared his throat. Excuse me. Delano? You should speak to someone directly connected to Delano. I suggest you contact the station agent there.

I tried that, she replied, irritated. Mr. Saxe has no information. I also checked at the Hanford depot and Mr. Gordon also knows nothing. Both suggested I come to San Francisco.

The skinny man closed the book, then tented his hands. You should probably try Mr. Anthony across the street at the depot. He is the station agent there.

But what would he know about trains elsewhere?

He knows the schedules of all trains.

No! I don’t want the schedules. She stomped her foot in irritation. I want to know about the investigation of the murders on the Delano Train. Last month. Surely you know? The Delano train—where everyone was shot?

Oh that one. The robbery. He shrugged his shoulders. I’m afraid there is no one here who can help, Miss. That’s a matter for a sheriff.

"The sheriff said it was a railroad matter—he’s done all he can."

Sorry, there is nothing I can do.

Then make an appointment for me to see Mr. Crocker in the morning, please.

He has no office here, Miss. He tends to many affairs, the snooty man repeated.

Gosh-darn it all! She’d expected the Southern Pacific railroad owners to be at the Southern Pacific offices. What was she going to do now? Can you please tell me where he might be tending to his many affairs?

I’m not able to divulge that information. The secretary set the book aside and began writing in a ledger.

What a rude little man! Exasperated, she stepped away from the desk and looked around. There—a friendly man in a fancy suit had just walked out of an office, going toward the exit.

Excuse me, sir.

He stopped and held open the outer office door for her. Good afternoon, Miss, he nodded.

Are you employed here?

His laugh pleasant. Yes. I’m Mr. Towne, the General Manager.

Then you know Mr. Crocker and Mr. Stanford?

He chuckled. I would say so. I run the company for them.

Oh, I see. Her heart raced. Here was someone who might get her in to see one of them. You see, Mr. Stanford came to my hometown, Hanford, a few years ago to talk about the railroad, so I was hoping to meet with him today, but I’m told he isn’t here.

And why would a pretty little thing like you need to see the Senator?

Focused on her mission, she ignored his flirtatious comment. An idea struck her. Her teacher at school had said senators worked for all the people. Stanford was a Senator, so she had a right to see him. So what if that snooty secretary had blocked her.

Oh, it’s an issue about, ah, our land, she fibbed, worried she’d be put off if she mentioned the Delano Train again. Yes. I was hoping to find the Senator in the office.

Mr. Towne escorted her out into the hall toward the stairs.

Actually, he’s at his Nob Hill mansion. He and his wife are welcoming a European guest tonight with a formal dinner. It’s already late, he said taking his watch out and looking at it. Six o’clock. I suggest you send a message to his home in the morning. He will probably return a message to handle your concerns.

Thank you, sir. I’ll do exactly that.

They reached the first floor. He held the heavy office door open onto the busy city street. She bid him good day as he tipped his hat and watched him walk away down Townsend.

Not one to waste time, she knew she wouldn’t bother with a message, even if she’d known how to send one. No. She would go pay a visit instead. She’d already spent the better part of the day riding north on the Southern Pacific train, so a few more blocks and a bit more of a wait was nothing, she supposed. On the sidewalk outside the offices, she saw a young worker passing.

Excuse me. Can you tell me where Nob Hill is?

He stopped short with a smile and tipped his cap. Of course, Miss. Just head up Fourth here, he pointed north. It doglegs and becomes Stockton at Market, but stay on Stockton up the hill to California Street. At the top of California—that’s where the Nobs all live.

Nobs?

Short for snobs. The rich robber-barons have their ugly mansions up there. But if I were you, I’d wait ’til morning to sightsee and take a cable car. Otherwise, it’s an uphill climb; a good bit more than a mile, and the fog’s already rolling in.

Fog?

See, it’s already up above Mount Parnassus and Twin Peaks. He pointed west. She saw what appeared to be a dark storm cloud, spilling downhill.

I’ve heard San Francisco is foggy in the summer.

Yes, and it’ll chill ya to the bone. So sightsee tomorrow during the day. Spend this evening inside, warm. Enjoy your visit, Miss.

He tipped his cap again and walked on toward the depot.

Fog couldn’t stop a body, she figured. She gathered her skirt, holding her purse, parasol and tapestried satchel securely with her bare hand and crossed the street to walk north. She couldn’t