North, however, was not to be lulled into a false sense of security. He divined that some ulterior move was projected. So it proved. The Indians, instead of concentrating their energies upon the destruction of the forces at the railhead, decided to attack the long line of communication at various points, to surprise and destroy the supply trains. A guerilla war broke out, and this baffled North, for he could not bring them to a pitched battle.
The Indians clung like limpets to the grade, and woe betide any stragglers who fell into their hands, for they were cruelly tortured and put to death. Time after time, as the supply train was puffing along slowly, the plain on either side suddenly would reveal hordes of ferocious savages, who had crept through the tall grass unobserved to within a few feet of the track. The men on the train secured any shelter possible behind the transported goods, and blazed away furiously. Brisk skirmishes and opportunities to display marksmanship occurred nearly every day to relieve the tedium of swinging hammer, pick-axe and shovel. Major North happened to be attacked in this way one day, though the enemy were unaware of his presence. But they were so dismayed at the spirited reception that they received that they broke and fled, with North in pursuit. He chased them for hours, and inflicted such losses that the tribe surrendered. A few days later a large number of the vanquished enlisted under the railway-builder’s banner, assisted in the building of the grade, and became law-abiding citizens.
There was one point which was a tempting prize to the Cheyennes. This was a depot 372 miles west of Omaha. Its safety was entrusted to North’s friendly Indians, and they proved too watchful to enable a raid to be made with success. The Cheyennes were determined to secure its capture, and, quietly gathering reinforcements, one day made a supreme attempt to rush it with a thousand men. It was a desperate battle that ensued, but the defenders, being entrenched, secured the advantage, and after fighting desperately for several hours were left in possession of the hundreds of tons of supplies.
These tactics had to be pursued for some 500 miles, but the engineers in time became wearied at the daily round of working and fighting. Besides, they were approaching the Rocky Mountains, where the physical difficulties would be so great as to demand their entire concentration in order to lift the metals over an obstacle 8000 feet above the sea. It was realised, also, that the broken slopes would give the Indians every advantage to prosecute their guerrilla warfare to distinct advantage. The outlook was so depressing that a halt was called. The situation was urged upon the Government, and, as a result, General Grant decided to interview the Indians in person, with a view to placating them. He made a hazardous and exciting journey along the railway to the heart of the enemy’s country. There, with pow-wow and peace-pipe, an honourable treaty was drawn up; the Indians promised to abandon their opposition, and to permit the railway to go forward.
Another difficulty the builders had to battle against was the scarcity of labour. The Californian Gold Fields were too magnetising to cause the men to stay long on the grade. They preferred to woo the fickle goddess of fortune in a scramble for the yellow metal, to a steady, daily round of toil at a regular wage. As a last resource the sheet-anchor of the railway-builder had to be called in—the Chinaman. The Orientals stuck to the work, and under their efforts the line progressed with greater speed than had been possible before their advent. At one time the rails were laid so speedily that the teams could not bring up supplies fast enough to meet the needs of the graders and track-layers.
The permanent way was crude. It was a pioneer line in very truth. The earth was thrown up roughly, the sleepers were dumped on its crown, and the rails were hastily spiked to their bed. The line was little better than what one sees hastily improvised for the transportation of spoil on large engineering works. It writhed and twisted among obstructions in a fantastic manner, for the engineers, having neither funds nor time at their disposal, merely ran round or over humps, whichever method was the quicker. Speed and comfort were negligible considerations. The line, once communication with the coast was established, could be overhauled and strengthened later at leisure. Consequently, travelling was rough, the oscillation was severe, and the danger of derailment always existent. It was these conditions that prompted a phlegmatic Englishman, who essayed the journey shortly after the line was opened, to remark that “the train travelled more smoothly when it was off the rails!”
Some idea of the speed with which work was prosecuted, the innumerable drawbacks notwithstanding, may be gathered from the fact that the whole 1,800 miles of line were built and opened to traffic within six years from the turning of the first spadeful of earth at Sacramento. For the greater part of this distance the monthly average was 50 miles—truly a magnificent feat. In order to maintain this high pressure, 25,000 men and 5000 cattle teams were required, and the total cost of the work was $115,000,000, or, roughly, £23,000,000.
The dawn of the year 1869 saw the two advancing arms racing towards the Great Salt Lake. The Central Pacific, upon encountering this inland sea, debouched to the north and plunged into the broken Promontory Range. Here, at an altitude of 5000 feet, the two arms met, and, amid the wild huzzas of over a thousand people, the last gap was closed, and golden spikes were driven into a sleeper of polished laurel by Leland Stanford and Thomas Durant, the presidents of the respective divisions, to admit the passage of a train, waiting close by with steam up, to pass from the Central to the Union Pacific Railway. The precise point at which the opposing armies met is indicated by a board standing beside the track, the inscription on which runs—
LAST SPIKE,
COMPLETING FIRST
TRANS-CONTINENTAL RAILROAD
DRIVEN AT THIS POINT,
MAY 10, 1869.
The occasion was one of great rejoicing, especially among the citizens of San Francisco. The town went mad with excitement. The festivities commenced two days before the golden spike was driven, and was continued for two days afterwards. Literature contributed its quota to the commemoration of the historic event in the form of a poem from Bret Harte.