Tunnel 6

By Steve Bartholomew

When Geraldine Halloran arrives at the Central Pacific end of track in the winter of 1866, she's resolved not to be terrified. After all, she has a right to be there. She was hired on as regular telegraph operator, though they thought they were hiring a man. She's the only other woman at Tunnel 6, except for Mrs. Strobridge, the superintendent's wife. Tunnel 6 was said by some to be impossible. Nothing like it had ever been done. It was to be a railroad tunnel linking California with Nevada, over 1700 feet long and 6000 feet altitude, dug through solid granite using black powder, nitroglycerin, and more than 5000 Chinese laborers.

 

Geraldine was to discover many things to terrify. There were explosions, landslides and blizzards. However there were some compensations. She got to run her own telegraph key, without being required to wear corsets. And then there was that nice, funny looking boy, Stetson Applegate, whom she might, perhaps, fall in love with. And then a third woman showed up, a strange lady named Georgette Dupriest. Though she claimed to be writing a book, no one could quite understand why she was at a railroad camp. Georgette did seem quite taken by that nice gentleman, Mr. Asa Turner. Geraldine begins to have second thoughts when it gradually becomes clear that someone is trying to sabotage the railroad. And also trying to kill the man she loves.

 

If you read this book, secrets may be revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bartholomew
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215987193

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Tunnel 6

By

Steve Bartholomew

Before: New Orleans, 1863.

The younger man seated himself comfortably in a leather chair opposite the officer at the desk. This other man wore the uniform of a colonel in the Confederate army. He had not given his name. He folded his hands and studied the younger man for a moment.

Thank you for coming, he said, despite the unconventional invitation. What do you want me to call you?

Spider. The younger man did not smile. He suspected the colonel knew his real name, but was wise enough not to use it.

A cognac, sir? We have the best in this town.

Why not? The one calling himself Spider watched as the colonel withdrew a flask from his desk drawer and poured two small snifters. Not to beat about the bush, Colonel, I gather this job has something to do with military intelligence.

The colonel glanced up, then lowered his eyes. He looked at a piece of paper on his desk. My sources indicate you are among our best operatives. Capable of any task, no matter how difficult.

Spider said nothing, just waited. The colonel continued. It is more than just intelligence gathering. We wish to commission you in an act of war.

I am not a soldier, sir. I am a civilian operator.

If you should accept this position, you will be commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Army of the Confederacy. Only not in uniform.

Spider carefully sipped the brandy, then wiped his mouth. Who do you want me to kill?

The colonel gave a short burst of laughter, then his smile disappeared again. I see you are a clever man. You live up to your reputation. We wish you to assassinate Theodore Judah.

Who?

At this the colonel found another paper on his desk and passed it to Spider. It was an engraved sketch of a well-dressed, handsome man, probably in his thirties, with a closely trimmed beard. His eyes seemed to look outward with a quiet intelligence.

Mr. Judah, the colonel said, is chief engineer and surveyor for the newly formed Central Pacific Railroad.

I see. Spider returned the drawing to the colonel’s desk. He had memorized the image. He waited for more.

I don’t know if you’re interested in railroads, the colonel said, but you should be. Before the war, our Southern states were able to prevent the Northerners from building a transcontinental railroad. Of course, if such a thing were built, we wanted it to run through the South. Now, however, Lincoln has decided to go ahead with the project. A machine like that would give the North a great military advantage. Judah has met with Lincoln and has talked him into it.

I see. So you want me to eliminate Judah and stop the railroad.

The colonel took a large swallow of cognac. That would be ambitious. Let’s say we want you either to capture or execute Judah. We are hoping this will delay their project. A few weeks or months could make a difference. Will you accept the job, Mr. Spider?

Where is Judah now?

At the moment, in either San Francisco or Sacramento. He held up a telegram, which Spider saw was in cipher. We do have some agents in California. They are able to wire Washington, where the messages are picked up and sent across the river, then telegraphed to New Orleans. This intelligence is not more than three days old. We believe Judah is leaving for New York shortly by the Panama route. He will be traveling with his wife.

Spider stared into his glass. I was not told about remuneration.

The colonel pushed another paper across. Spider glanced at it. In gold? The colonel nodded. Spider finished his drink. Can you get me to Panama in time?

The colonel leaned back with a faint look of relief. A blockade runner will be leaving this evening. You must be on it. He scribbled something on a notepad. Here’s the pier number and boat. Eleven p.m.

Spider took the note, glanced at it, then dropped it on the desk. He rose and turned toward the door, but paused as he was about to exit.

There’s more to this than military, isn’t there?

The colonel had also risen. Why do you say that?

For the first time, Spider smiled. The amount of remuneration. It suggests there is a great deal of money involved somewhere. Possibly someone’s  private investments.

The colonel allowed himself the faintest of smiles. You are indeed a clever man, Mr. Spider.

THE BLOCKADE RUNNER, a fast sloop, slipped out of the harbor and past the Union pickets without lights or noise. The voyage to Panama lasted thirteen days. On the way, the man known as Spider speculated on the identity of his employer. He assumed the colonel was merely a go-between. Someone with heavy investments in the Panama railroad would, of course, have an interest in delaying the Central Pacific as long as possible. Opening the Transcontinental would divert much traffic away from that small road across the isthmus of Panama. Or the affair might be more complicated; machinations in Washington or, for that matter in the Confederacy, were as tangled as a nest of vipers. Not that it mattered. Spider would have liked more information because more was better than less; but he knew his job and would carry it out, regardless.

The sloop dropped anchor at the town of Aspinwall, called Colon by the natives. Spider had a distant admiration for a man like Aspinwall, who would found a city and name it after himself. During the voyage, Spider had remained in his cabin, dining alone and with minimum contact with the captain or crew. He was the only passenger. Someone had gone to great expense to carry out this mission. Spider would do his part.

Before leaving New Orleans, he had visited the French Quarter and gone to a shop run by a woman calling herself Queen Olympia. He’d had dealings with this lady in the past. He told her what he needed, and after thinking for a moment or two, she went into the back of her shop and returned with a small jar. Inside he could make out a few ounces of a brown powder.

Is made from very bad toadstool, she said. "C’est tres mal. One pinch will be enough. It is come from Africa, hard to find."

How much? He winced when she named the price. He offered her half, but she merely made as if to put the jar away. Never mind, I haven’t time to haggle. I’ll pay.

He had the jar in his coat pocket as he debarked to Aspinwall. The town had only one real hotel; it was full up, but a moderate bribe found him a room. A few more bribes around town during the next two days promised to bring him news of Theodore Judah. As it turned out, his timing was perfect. Judah arrived by the afternoon train on the third day. He and his wife both checked into a reserved suite in Spider’s hotel. They might have to wait there for a few days until the next steamship bound for the north. Spider had a messenger deliver his calling card and a brief note.

Greatly desire to confer with you on a matter of investments in Central Pacific. When can we meet?

He signed the name he was using in Panama: John Grendel. The purpose of Judah’s trip was no secret—he was seeking financiers to buy out the Big Four of the Central Pacific: Stanford, Hopkins, Huntington, and Crocker.  They had eased Judah out of the railroad project, and he wanted back in. He was looking for money. Spider guessed the Four would be happy enough to sell at this point, provided they could recoup their own investments.

Spider could scarcely believe how easy Judah made his job. They met the next day at noon in a nearby restaurant. Judah said, I was here on my last trip to Washington. The food is excellent; fresh fruit and fish. You should try the bananas, if you have never had one.

Thank you. Perhaps I shall.

Over a bowl of sopa de lima, Judah remarked, "Forgive me, but I find your surname interesting. It puts me in mind of that ancient tale, Beowulf. From your accent, I take it you’re from England."

Spider laughed. Beowulf is right. I suppose my family does go back that far, though we seem to have lost any titles we may have had. In fact, my parents were English and I am still a British subject, but I have not spent much time there in recent years. I find opportunities are greater in the New World.

Indeed. Which brings us to the subject of business.

Ah. I prefer to wait for our after-dinner wine before getting into specifics. However, I will mention that I represent a small group of investors who are greatly interested in building your Transcontinental Railroad. That is, if it can be done.

It can be done, all right, if I am to hold the position of chief engineer. I firmly believe I am the only man who knows how.

Spider nodded and made some noncommittal sound. Judah went on, The problem is, the Big Four are too cautious, too conservative. They are not yet convinced we can build the railroad over the Sierra, using Donner Pass. I have surveyed the route personally. I know it can be done. And I know how.

Spider nodded again. Perhaps they simply don’t want to see you paid fairly for your efforts.

Judah did not respond to this. After a moment Spider said, I apologize for not asking after the health of Mrs. Judah. I believe she accompanies you on this journey.

Yes, she does. Thank you for inquiring. Anne is quite well, though she intensely dislikes the tropics. I’m not sure why. New York’s climate is worse in the summer and the food is terrible. I suppose she’s worried about all those stories she’s heard about tropical diseases and snakes and such.

Spider chuckled. I shouldn’t concern myself. In any case you will soon be on your way. Although, having heard my proposition, you may decide your trip is not necessary.

Then they were done with their meal and Judah asked the waiter to bring a carafe of red wine. It’s from Colombia, but it may surprise you, he said. At that point Judah did something that made Spider’s job so easy. He patted his lips with a linen napkin and got to his feet. Please do excuse me a moment. I am anxious to hear your proposal, but I find I must first visit the facility out back. Don’t wait for me before sampling your wine.

Spider had been tentatively planning to accompany Judah on the steamship going north, awaiting a suitable opportunity. Now the chance was dropped in his lap. His luck was holding. The waiter delivered the wine, pouring two glasses. Spider sniffed at the aroma of his glass, then sipped. A heady, strong bouquet. That was good, it would hide other flavors. He slipped the little vial from his coat pocket, twisted out the cork, and poured a quarter teaspoon into Judah’s wine glass. Queen Olympia had told him a pinch would do, but he wanted to make sure.

Judah returned and they talked business for several minutes. Spider named a price. Judah nodded. I think that will satisfy them nicely. Then he picked up his glass and drained the wine. Hmm. Slightly bitter, almost an earthy taste. But one could get used to it, don’t you think?

Yes indeed. Allow me to pay the bill here.

If you insist. I’m afraid they’re a bit highly priced, though. A meal is nearly a dollar.

Spider grinned. Well worth it, though.

AT FIRST SPIDER THOUGHT the toadstool powder had not worked. Judah went quietly back to his hotel and presumably a quiet rest. The next day a steamship arrived in port to re-coal and transfer passengers. There were a great many headed west to California, not so many going east. Spider purchased a ticket along with Judah, saying he needed to make final arrangements for their bargain in New York.

Judah appeared not to be feeling well and said he thought something he’d eaten did not agree with him. By the time they reached New York, Judah, having remained in his cabin, looked seriously ill. A few days later he was dead. His obituary appeared promptly: Death was believed due to Panama fever.

Chapter One

Geraldine

From the journal of Geraldine Halloran , November 3, 1866:

I resolve not to be terrified. I am told this will be a dangerous place for a woman. But Ma told me I can decide whether to scare or not, and I choose not. This train is cold despite the blanket around me; snow covers all outside. How can the engine even move through this snow? The few men aboard give me strange looks. One of them has told me there is but one other woman in camp, that being Mrs. Strobridge, the supervisor’s wife. Perhaps I have made a terrible error in coming here, but I resolve to see it through, without fear.

The work train bore no conductor to carry her bag or to help her down the steps. Fortunately she had only one small bag to carry, and that with all her worldly possessions. The engine sat snuffling and clanking and complaining, as engines will.

Geraldine Halloran looked around for help. She could see a few sheds and some tents, and a great deal of snow. Parked on a siding were three passenger cars. She decided to head in that direction, but a large man on horseback cut her off. He was a really large man, wearing a voluminous fur coat that made him look bigger.

What are you doing here?

She would not show fear. She put down her bag and tilted her head back to stare up at the man. I have every business to be here. I am hired on.

The man folded his arms and spat out a plug of tobacco, which steamed a moment in the fresh snow. We have no need of maids or laundresses up here. This is a railroad work camp.

Yes, sir. I know that. And I will not be needing a maid nor a laundress either. I hear you have a Chinese laundry here. I am hired on as telegraph operator.

What?  The man unfolded his arms. I hired a telegrapher myself, yesterday. That is, I ordered our office in Sacramento to hire one and send him up. He withdrew a rumpled telegraph form from an inner pocket. ‘Telegrapher arrive tomorrow work train. Name Jerry Halloran.’

Yes, sir. That would be me. Geraldine Halloran, formerly of Western Pacific Telegraph Company, Sacramento branch. I can send and receive twenty words per minute.

The man muttered something under his breath. Then he climbed down from the saddle, dropping his horse’s reins to the ground. The steed gave a deep cough, relieved of its burden. The man gave a quick bow. Forgive me for my rudeness. Frankly, I would have preferred a man, but the fact is we’re desperate at the moment. Our telegrapher quit without notice, saying he could abide here no longer. Since you’re here, I suppose we’ll have to give you a trial. I have numerous dispatches awaiting transmission. Come with me, please. My name is Charles. Charles Crocker. I own this railroad.

The Morse shack turned out to actually be a box car. It held a telegraph key, as well as a bunk and a couple of chests. A small potbelly stove that had apparently not been lit for a day or so sat in a corner; it felt as cold inside the shack as out. Geraldine gathered her wool shawl about her and sat down at a rough wood table that served as a desk. She rubbed her stiff fingers together a moment, then pulled the key to her and clicked off a quick CQ. After a moment the key clicked back in acknowledgment.

Charles Crocker hovered by her shoulder. She turned to look at him. What do you want me to send?

He pulled a folder from a nearby box and plopped it in front of her. These dispatches have been waiting two days. The one on top is the most urgent. Come and see me at the supervisor’s cabin when you’re done. He waited a moment, watching as her fingers began tapping the key. He turned to go, then paused at the door. I’ll have someone bring some wood and start your fire. He pulled the door open, but paused a second time. And please don’t be startled should you hear an explosion. That will be blasting in the tunnel. He went out, shutting the door behind him.

Geraldine had not paused in transmitting while Crocker was speaking. She barely heard him, registering his words with a separate part of her brain. The urgent dispatch he’d given her concerned shipping more supplies at once. In fact, chemicals: nitric acid, glycerine, sulfuric acid. She had no idea what use those would be; she merely transmitted words. At one point as she paused between papers, the key clicked a brief response: the Morse code meaning please slow down. Geraldine grinned and did her best to comply. It took her nearly an hour to get though the dispatches. When she was done with the last sheet she tapped out GG, GOH. The last three letters were her personal signature. The GG meant I’m going. The key responded with R, RUM, R meaning received, with the other operator’s sign-off. Geraldine wondered who RUM was; she didn’t know anyone with that sign, and there were not that many telegraphers in Sacramento. She shrugged and pushed the key away.

Her fingers were cold and getting stiff, but as she finished she realized the stove was lit and the deadly chill in the shack had lost some edge. She hadn’t noticed anyone come in. Moving to the stove, she held her hands above it. She would have to find her gloves, the ones without fingertips. Next thing was to locate the supervisor’s shack; back out in the snow. As she eased the door open and stepped into the cold, she was startled to find a Chinese man waiting by the door.

Missy Jerry? He was grinning.

Yes. Jerry, Geraldine. Did you light my stove while I was working?

Yes, missy. You please follow me. He turned without another word and walked off. She shrugged and followed, trying to keep up in the several inches of new snow. Her feet were getting wet and cold. Where are we going? What’s your name?

He answered without looking back. Mister Stro shack. Ling.

She took a moment to process the information. Mister Stro would be Strobridge, the chief supervisor. She guessed Ling was the Chinese man’s name. He took her to another, somewhat larger shack on the outskirts of camp. As she was about to enter there was a deep thud that seemed to come from underground. The snow itself seemed to jump.

Ling looked back at her, still grinning. Boom in tunnel, he explained.

Geraldine entered the shack to find a man in workman’s clothes seated behind a crude table. On the opposite side stood two other men, both heavily bearded and dressed. They turned to stare as she entered. The man at the table glanced at her, then turned back to the men. She was startled by the ferocious appearance of his face, which was not helped by a black patch over one eye. It made her think of pirates.

That will be all, gentlemen. I must have a word with our new telegraph operator, Miss Halloran. I’m sure you will see she is treated with the utmost courtesy. I’ll have you both back here in the morning. Both men nodded and went out. Strobridge stood up and gave her a little bow. Please be seated a moment, miss. Those were two of my foremen. Permit me a moment to make some notes. He bent over a ledger and scribbled something in ink, then looked up at her. He was not smiling.

I believe you are here under somewhat false pretenses. Or perhaps just a misunderstanding. We were expecting a male operator.

She shrugged. I had no wish to deceive. There was a call for a volunteer to join the Central Pacific Railroad. I was the only person in my office willing to come here.

I see. He stared at her a moment, his eyes cold as snow. "Well, Miss Halloran. You will find the life here is hard and sometimes dangerous. The pay is better than