The president hadn't come. He'd expected as much, but General Grant's absence was still disappointing, and even the sheer number of other officials who'd made the trip out here to the middle of nowhere could not offset the loss of the president.
It was getting hard to hear, and he assumed that meant that the ceremony would be starting soon. Three bands seemed to be playing at once, and because there were enough people here for twenty band concerts, the sound was cacophonous. Someone somewhere let out a whoop and fired a shot in the air, and Harrison knew that once that golden spike was driven into the rail, the air would be filled with celebratory gunfire.
A boy came to get him and bring him to the spot where the last rails were to be laid. Coins had been tossed and it had been decided that Stanford and Durant were to do the honors, but all of the partners needed to be present for pictures. Flashbulbs started going off the moment he approached the tracks.
The official ceremony began, and the last two rails were laid, Chinese workers carrying one, Irish workmen the other. Bands played, the crowd cheered, and photos were taken from every which angle as the steel rails were put in place. Poses were struck, more photos were shot, and a half hour later, Stanford and Durant finally drove in the golden spike.
Americans could now ride the rails from coast to coast.
It was indeed a glorious day, and Harrison imagined he could almost hear the people celebrating all over this great nation. There would be fireworks tonight. And drinking. And, for the single men, carousing. It would be a party to remember, and appropriately so, for the project that had been completed here today would change the face of transportation-and the face of America-forever.
Still, despite the congratulations from friends, enemies and peers, despite the constant flash of cameras and the hearty praise from unknown society gentlemen, he found himself glancing over at Chester Williams, who stood by himself, an unnerving smile on his broad florid face as he stared across the tracks at the tent encampment of the Chinese.
Williams was up to something. He was sure of it.
The man had some sort of plan, some sort of scheme he was hatching. Harrison was curious-who wouldn't
be?-but the more he looked at that unsettling grin, the more he decided that it was probably best not to know.
The crowds were gone, the trains departed, and only the workers, the militia and a few straggling souls were
left behind. The soldiers were supposed to have left, too, and some of them had, but a hefty number remained.
Because Williams had paid them to do so.
Despite his contacts, despite his power and influence, his attempt to make headway with those politicians in Washington had come to naught. They'd been too afraid to act, some citing moral qualms, others bringing up constitutional concerns, others simply admitting that unless their brethren went along, they would not sponsor such legislation. He had tried to play upon their antagonism with the president, but that hadn't worked either, so he'd gone straight to the source and hired members of the U.S. Army to do the dirty work. He knew already that the boys in uniform were underpaid. He knew as well that some of the younger ones who had yet to see action, having come along after the end of the war, relished the idea of killing some enemies.
It was a match made in heaven.
The deed could be done only after the public was gone, though, after the press had left. This "operation," as the general Called it, had to be performed with the utmost secrecy.
Williams had had the translator tell the Chinks that because they had done such a wonderful job building the railroad, there was another job in the offing, one that paid twice as much. Many of them still left, going back to their families in San Francisco or even back to China, unhappy with the life of a navvy and unwilling to take on such a burden again. Others had departed with the Irish crews and the other workers, dispersing eastward.
They could be taken care of another day.
But a lot of them stayed, and Williams estimated there were at least two hundred in the east camp and significantly more in the west camp. Quite a few of these were slaves, men who had been brought, bought and beaten into submission. Others believed the lie and were willing to remain behind an extra few days for the chance at earning more money and forging a better life.
They struck at dawn.
Most of the Chinks were asleep in their tents, and when the cavalry came galloping through, ripping apart the canvas with swords and bayonets, they ran screaming out onto the field, where other soldiers rounded them up like cattle and herded them away from the tracks. Williams watched it all from his post atop a hillock, using a spyglass the general had lent him, and he smiled with delight as the soldiers beat and kicked the men, whipping them when they got out of line as they drove the heathens northward. Clearly it paid to hire professionals.
He followed behind as they headed away from the camp, as the soldiers gathered the Chinese together in the center of the plain and began circling around. He wasn't sure how large the militia was, but their horses kicked up enough dust to blur the rising sun, and soldiers encircled the hundreds of workers with only a few feet between each.
At the general's command, rifles were raised.
And fired.
The noise was deafening, and smoke from the rifles joined the dust in the air to create a haze as deep as fog that temporarily obscured everything. Several Chinks bolted from between the horses, figuring they had a better chance outside the circle on the open plain, but they were quickly shot down. A few small figures attempted to crawl away, and in the dust and chaos a couple actually got pretty far, but eventually they, too, were hunted down and killed.
The slaughter was not quick. An hour later, the soldiers were still reloading and firing, although by that time most of them had come down from their horses and were walking over broken bodies to stalk wily bands of survivors. The smell was overpowering, a sickening stench that not only made Williams gag but had several of the younger soldiers vomiting onto the chaparral. Emulating some of the older, more experienced fighters, he pulled his shirt higher, buttoning it over his mouth and nose so the cloth acted like a filter. He smelled dirt and his own sweat, but it was vastly preferable to the disgusting scent of blood and death.
Sometime later, the general came to him and said the deed was done: the Chinese were no more. He invited Williams to come with him and tour the battlefield.
He went in with his knife.
And helped finish off the ones who were still moving.
Summer 1869
It was a new day.
After their success at Promontory Point, Williams followed the line east. He heard through friends that the righteous slaughter of the heathen Chinee had been kept quiet, that the president himself had arranged for the site to be cleaned up and the bodies burned, and had decreed that no one was to know what had happened in Utah. Williams took a grim satisfaction in knowing that his adversaries were so highly placed, but what the president said did not affect him. He did not have to abide by any presidential order. He was Chester Williams, man of means, and he would still be so when Ulysses S. Grant was once again a retired drunken general.
And while the newspapers might be persuaded not to report what had happened, he himself was bound by no such constrictions. He could say whatever he wanted.
And did.
His words incited a riot in the ordinarily peaceful town of Spellman, Wyoming, encouraging citizens to ignore the namby-pamby police chief and take matters into their own hands when the chief declared that the Chinese family living in a tent by the Baptist church was entitled to full protection under the law. The townspeople stormed the jail, locking the chief and two policemen in a cell; broke the windows of a grocer who had sold fruit to the Chinks; smashed the printing press and equipment in the newspaper office; and, finally, set the Chinks' tent on fire. The family attempted to escape, the mother carrying a baby and the father pushing two other children out in front of him, but they were beaten back with sticks and rakes, brooms and pitchforks, forced to return to the fiery tent. When they tried to dash out the other side, where flames had already destroyed the canvas, they were again beaten. This time, the baby, its clothing already burning, was knocked out of the mother's hands and flew onto the hard ground, where it remained still and lifeless. The mother refused to be deterred by the blows rained upon her, attempting with single-minded determination to reach the body of her infant even as a hoe cracked open her head. The rest of the family were battered as they endeavored to escape the growing flames, and one by one they fell. In Stanton, Nebraska, three Chinese men were brought bound before Williams almost as soon as he'd entered the town. They'd stayed behind after the railroad crew had passed through, and had been captured