“President?” Osgood Hennessy asked Bell, as the room erupted in applause and the band played loudly.
“Sounds that way, sir.”
“Of the United States?”
Preston Whiteway called out, “That’s right, Mr. Hennessy. We gentlemen of California pledge our considerable support to Senator Charles Kincaid, the ‘Hero Engineer.”’
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Surprised me, too!” shouted a wealthy redwoods lumberman from Marin County. “He fought us tooth and nail. Practically had to hog-tie him before he agreed.”
Preston Whiteway acknowledged the laughter, then said, “I believe that Senator Kincaid has a few more words on the subject.”
“Just a few,” said Kincaid. “I’ll be glad to go down in history as the president who gave the shortest speeches.” He acknowledged their laughter, then grew sober. “As you say, I was honored but hesitant when you first broached the possibility. But the horrific events two weeks ago in New Jersey and New York City persuaded me that every public servant must rise to the defend the American people from the Yellow Peril. That dastardly explosion was detonated by a Chinaman. The streets of the city were littered with broken windows. As I went to the aid of the stricken, I will never forget the sounds of the ambulance tires crunching the glass. A sound I will never forget …”
Isaac Bell listened closely as Kincaid went on in that vein. Did Kincaid believe what he was saying? Or was his warning about the Yellow Peril the kind of political claptrap his supporters expected? Bell glanced at Marion. A mischievous light was igniting her eyes. She felt his gaze on her and looked down, biting her lip. Lillian leaned behind her father to whisper to her, and Bell saw both women cover their mouths to stifle laughs. He was happy, but not surprised, that they had taken a liking to each other.
“… The Yellow Peril we face, the tidal waves of immigrating Chinamen taking American jobs, frightening American women, was suddenly driven home that terrible night in New York City. That dastardly Chinaman exploded tons of dynamite in a busy rail yard near a crowded city for his own unfathomable reasons that no white man could ever begin to understand …”
IN THE SHADOW OF a string of freight cars, Philip Dow watched the lighted windows of the railroad president’s special. Senator Kincaid had given him the dining schedule for the employees who lived on the train. He waited until the diner crew had served the guests. Then, while they were eating their own suppers with the porters and the white train crew ate in the baggage car, he climbed aboard the front end of Car 3. He checked the layout in Car 3 and Car 4 and traced escape routes through the train and off each.
Car 4’s porter station was a small closet with a curtain for a door. It was crammed with clean towels and napkins, cold and hangover cures, a shoe-shine kit, and a spirit stove to heat water. Dow unscrewed a lightbulb to cast shadow on the short length of corridor along which he would dart to Marion Morgan’s Stateroom 4. Then he rehearsed.
He practiced watching the corridor through the porter’s curtain, tracing the route Isaac Bell would take from the front of the car toward the rear. Then he practiced stepping silently into the corridor and swinging his sap. Restricted by the confines of the narrow space, he swept it underhanded. The momentum of running the three steps, combined with a long reach that started well behind, would accelerate the heavy pouch of lead shot with deadly force into Isaac Bell’s temple.
ISAAC BELL PRESSED FINGERS to his temple.
“Headache?” Marion murmured.
“Just hoping this ‘short speech’ will be over soon,” he whispered back.
“Anarchy?” shouted Charles Kincaid, building steam. “Emperor worship? Who knows how the Chinaman thinks? Hatred of the white man. Or deranged by smoking opium, his favorite vice …”
His supporters leaped up, applauding.
Preston Whiteway, red-nosed on good wine, bellowed in Osgood Hennessy’s ear, “Didn’t the Senator nail the Yellow Peril threat square on the head?”
“We built the transcontinental railroad with John Chinaman,” Hennessy retorted. “That makes him good enough for me.”
Franklin Mowery stood up from the table and glanced at Whiteway, muttering, “Next time your train glides through the Donner Summit, cast your eye on their stonework.”
Whiteway, deaf to dissent, grinned at Marion. “I’ll wager that old Isaac here applauds Senator Kincaid’s understanding of the threat, since he’s the hotshot detective who stopped that opium-maddened Chinaman in his tracks.”
Bell thought that Whiteway’s grins at Marion were getting dangerously close to leers. Dangerous for Whiteway, that is.
“The motivation appears to have been money,” Bell replied sternly. Dodging Marion’s kick under the table, he added, “We have no evidence that the man who paid him smoked anything stronger than tobacco.”
Mowery gathered up his walking stick and limped toward the porch.
Bell hurried to hold the door for him, as his young assistant had not been invited to the banquet. Mowery tottered across the covered porch and leaned on the railing that overlooked the river.
Bell watched curiously. The engineer had been acting strangely all day. Now he was staring at the bridge piers, which were lighted by the electric arc lamps. The old man seemed mesmerized.
Bell joined him at the railing.
“Quite a sight from down here?”
“What? Yes, yes, of course.”
“Is something the matter, sir? Are you not feeling well?”
“Water’s rising,” said Mowery.
“It’s been raining a lot. In fact, I think it’s starting up again now.”
“The rain only makes it worse.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“For thousands of years, the river has descended from the mountains at a steep gradient,” Mowery answered as if lecturing from a textbook. “At such a gradient, countless tons of debris tumble in the water. Abrasive materials-earth, sand, gravel, rocks. They grind the riverbed deeper and wider. In doing so, they dredge up more debris. Where the river’s gradient decreases, she deposits this material. Crossing flats like the one this town’s built on, the river spreads out and meanders. Her channels interweave like braid. Then they bunch up here in the gorge, laying down tons and tons of sediment. God alone knows how much lies between here and bedrock.”
Suddenly, he looked Bell full in the face. His own features reflected skull-like in the harsh electric light.
“The Bible tells us a foolish man builds his house on sand. But it doesn’t tell us what to do when we have no choice but to build on sand.”
“I suppose that’s why we need engineers.” Bell smiled encourag ingly, sensing that the engineer was trying tell him something that he was afraid to voice.
Mowery chuckled but did not smile. “You hit that nail on the head, son. That’s why we trust engineers.”
The door opened behind them.
“We’re heading back up to the train,” Marion called. “Mr. Hennessy is tired.”
They thanked their hosts and said their good-byes. Charles Kincaid came with them, giving Franklin Mowery an arm to lean on. Isaac took Marion’s hand as they walked through the rain to the foot of the steep freight line.
She whispered, “I am going to plead weariness from my long journey and slip off to bed.”
“Not too weary, I hope, for a knock on your door?”
“If you don‘t, I’ll knock on yours.”
They boarded the Snake Line passenger car in which they had arrived. Three engines in front and two in back huffed them slowly up the steep switchbacks to the plateau where Hennessy’s special was parked on its siding, windows glowing in welcome.
“Come on in, gents,” Hennessy ordered. “Brandy and cigars.”
“I thought you were tired,” said Lillian.
“Tired of businessmen blathering,” Hennessy shot back. “Ladies, there’s champagne for you in the diner while the gents have a smoke.”
“You’re not getting rid of me,” said Lillian.
Mrs. Comden stayed too, quietly needlepointing in a corner chair.