Irish Gandy Dancer: A tale of building the Transcontinental Railroad
By Ryan Collins
()
About this ebook
There are almost no published journals, diaries or correspondence of workers that built the Intercontinental Railroad following the closure of the Civil War. This is somewhat a paradox considering so many records exist on both sides, North and South that give us a grass roots view of the conflict that had ripped the country apart just a few months before.
The Union victory in the Civil War had the effect of cementing the relationship between the Northern and Southern states, albeit it was at best an uneasy and conflicted partnership. In a similar fashion, the construction of the transcontinental railroad had a similar profound effect of permanently tying the Eastern and Western United States together, clearing the way for expansion of the country that had recently reaffirmed its status as an indivisible nation.
Most of the historic accounts of the construction of the transcontinental railroad take a top down view of the events, places and people that influenced the story. The story that follows approaches the tale differently, taking a bottom up approach of the events and attempting to explain them through the perspective of a young Irish laborer. Second, many historic accounts are top heavy with dates, facts and places, forgetting that the people who make history are flesh and blood human beings with flaws and heroic abilities, all rolled into the same package. They experience feelings of elation and boredom, fear and anger, apathy and pride. I believe it is critical to flavor the tale with these emotions because emotions, not the intellect are what drive us to be the people we are.
The aim of this book quite frankly is to build a bridge between readers of the 21st century with the young, poor and adventurous people of the post Civil War era who literally had nothing but their names and strong backs to sustain them. It is unquestionably a daunting task because the conditions these young laborers endured to make a better life for themselves seem Herculean by modern day standards. Still, it is these people who went before that set the standard for those that followed, all the while building a nation and doing so with no individual memories of record for those who sacrificed so much.
Ryan Collins
Ryan Collins is the pen name of Michael Collins, a writing teacher at Northern Arizona University. Collins has collected a wide array of tales regarding the public works of the late nineteenth century. Fusing his travels throughout the western United States, training as a teacher and experience as a journalist, Collins weaves a collection of stories into an entertaining narrative. Collins has advanced degrees in Education and Public Administration. He makes his home in Arizona.
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Irish Gandy Dancer - Ryan Collins
Irish Gandy Dancer
A tale of building the Transcontinental Railroad
by
Dr. Ryan Michael Collins
Irish Gandy Dancer:
A tale of building the Transcontinental Railroad
Published by Dr. Ryan Michael Collins at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Dr. Ryan Michael Collins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
The Story of John McGlinchey
Epilogue
References
Glossary
Photographs located in the middle of the book
To my daughters Rebecca and Sarah.
May you and your children appreciate this collection of tales the same way I did with my father.
Author’s Note
There are almost no published journals, diaries or correspondence of workers that built the Transcontinental Railroad following the closure of the Civil War. This is somewhat a paradox considering so many records exist on both sides, North and South, that give us a grass roots view of the conflict that had ripped the country apart just a few months before.
The Union victory in the Civil War had the effect of cementing the relationship between the Northern and Southern states, albeit it was at best an uneasy and conflicted partnership. In a similar fashion, the construction of the Transcontinental Railroad had a similar profound effect of permanently tying the Eastern and Western United States together, clearing the way for expansion of the country that had recently reaffirmed its status as an indivisible nation.
Most of the historic accounts of the construction of the transcontinental railroad take a top down view of the events, places and people that influenced the story. The story that follows approaches the tale differently, taking a bottom up approach of the events and attempting to explain them through the perspective of a young Irish laborer. The reasons for this approach are that it will hopefully offer a different point of view than the traditional broad based view so pervasive in historic accounts. Secondly, history is always viewed through one set of eyes and the historian by nature compiles data and makes an estimate of what everyone saw. The result is often diluted and diminishes the personal effect events have on the players. Third, many historic accounts are top heavy with dates, facts and places, forgetting that the people who make history are flesh and blood human beings with flaws and heroic abilities, all rolled into the same package. They experience feelings of elation and boredom, fear and anger, apathy and pride. I believe it is critical to flavor the tale with these emotions because emotions, not the intellect are what drive us to be the people we are.
One other noteworthy aspect of this story is the style of the narrative. Many contextual references found here are balancing acts between the Victorian language prevalent for the day and that easily understood by readers in the 21st century. This means the colloquial speech used by 19th century Irish laborers, reflecting their world view and prejudices were employed whenever it had the desired effect while at the same time striving for clarity for the modern day reader.
The aim of this book, quite frankly, is to build a bridge between readers of the 21st century with the young, poor and adventurous people of the post Civil War era who literally had nothing but their names and strong backs to sustain them. It is unquestionably a daunting task because the conditions these young laborers endured to make a better life for themselves seem Herculean by modern day standards. Still, it is these people who went before that set the standard for those that followed, all the while building a nation and doing so with no individual memories of record for those who sacrificed so much. As one of the heirs who has benefited from their sacrifice, I would like to thank those who took up the shovel, pick and maul to make a better future for their children, grandchildren and all others who came behind.
Personal effect of
John Joseph McGlinchey
December 1865
This is the written account of John Joseph McGlinchey, born March 13, 1846 in Donegal, County Donegal Ireland, migrated to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania at the age of 3. It is my very own hand that is recording this account of my life that I shall begin during the recent troubles. I was a drover during the War Between the States, bringing cattle to the Union Army, riding drag at the age of 15, mainly for the 116th Pennsylvania Regiment that was fighting throughout the South. After the war, many a man, including myself, could not find employment earning wages beyond those that kept a man out of the poor house and certainly nothing to support a wife and children. My fellow countrymen continue to pour into the cities such as Philadelphia, New York and Boston off the coffin ships, looking for work and willing to do it for half the wage a man should. I managed to hold on to my wages that I earned during the war but have nearly exhausted what remains. Soon, I was thinking to myself, I shall be like my newly arrived countrymen with the clothes on my back and nothing in my stomach.
Providence reached out to me one day and I was recruited as part of a work gang digging grades and filling cuts for the tracks from Omaha, Nebraska Territory for the Union Pacific Railroad. The work promises to be hard and dangerous as the Indians in the territories often attack those that venture into their hunting ground with ferocity and efficiency. All of Philadelphia is astir with the thought of joining the country together in a grand project such as this. Those who are organizing this scheme are looking for strong backs to dig at upwards of two dollars per day with meals and a place to sleep off the ground. Compared to my recent employment of riding drag while droving cattle, the possibility of being struck dead by a Tennessee sharpshooter or slowly starving in the familiar surroundings of Philadelphia, I fear there was little difference if I should stay put and face certain doom or cast my lot with this adventure and head west.
My older brother James, who is born near two years before me gave sound counsel regarding the perils of the decisions to be made. Having no surviving relatives other than James my brother and another brother Michael, still residing in Donegal in Ireland, it was decided the best option would be to head west where I would join the Union Pacific work crew, save my wages and buy a place of my own, God willing this come to pass, with the money I earn and save.
Should I perish and this account be found upon me, please forward to James McGlinchey, at Fitzwater Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Fremont Nebraska - First Day
As I look out on this day, I wish my brother James could be here and see the look of the prairie. It is nothing at all like Philadelphia and I expect even less like Donegal in the old country even though I don’t remember it at all. There is nothing but endless miles of grass in every direction and thankfully for our work crew, things are a bit flat, making the prospect of quickly advancing the track westward more likely.
That may be the good news but I am not so sure my back and hands will hold long enough for me to make the whole way to California. The blisters on my hands from swinging a pick all day have broken. Up and down, up and down all the day. I can barely open my hands from clutching the handle all day. My back is sore and I am exhausted. The walking boss is on you quick enough if you slow the pace to a rate that causes him to notice. Several Swedes were thrown off the crew this afternoon because the foreman simply didn’t like the sound of ‘their gibberish’ according to him.
Men from the both the Union and Confederate forces have made their way out here, as many are still wearing the coats they had when they was fighting each other during the rebellion. Nobody has said nothing yet about it ‘cause I expect each man needs the work and is unlikely to start a fight this early in the building of the road. Still, I expect it won’t take long ‘til one or the other gets a bit of courage brought on by the drink and says something that will offend the other. Meself, I want no part of stepping into a fight that has already been settled but there are some who are not content to let well enough alone.
I expect I will need a new hat and boots soon enough because even though this land don’t look too hard, the sun will wear a fellow out in no time at all. The boots I had since during the war are wearing out and I expect it would take a mighty gifted cobbler to keep these repaired all the way to California.
They have us sleeping in these specially built railroad cars with bunks stacked one on top of the other. I picked out one in the middle so that I don’t have to sleep too low or too high but the down side is I look out when I wake up and see someone’s arse staring me in the face. I guess you have to take the good with the bad.
This is all the energy I have to write for now.
—JM
Dennis Quinn
A new man joined our crew today from County Wicklow that goes by the name of Dennis Quinn. He reminds me of my brother James with little tolerance for nonsense, whether it be from his work mates or his betters. He doesn’t share a lot about himself and even though I would like to ask, ‘taint none of me business.
A man carrying on that way is normal for men round these parts. Many of the lads are starting a new life and it is just as well in their mind to leave the old one behind, so they don’t care to spin yarns about the past. Another thing about Dennis that reminds me of James is his laugh which could shake the earth itself. He is a strong man that can do the work of two yet will only do so to help another man to keep the foreman off his back.
Dennis mentioned that he might care to head to Texas when all this is done but I am afraid that if he keeps up with the gambling the way he does, all he will have is the shirt on his back and long walk ahead of him. Still he is a capable man that is quick witted, good with numbers and afraid of nothing. Sometimes when he is digging, he’ll spew out a line of Shakespeare, complete with the oratory gestures to the bewilderment of all around him and cause the walking boss to call down curses upon him. He will laugh that laugh of his, smile and pull his hat down around him and pitch another shovelful of dirt as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
We are making great progress building little over a mile of track per day. It seems with the small army of men that we have working on this project we should be moving faster but there are so many obstructions to get past in this wilderness that on the balance of things, it is going quite well.
—JM
Birthday
Today was my 20th birthday and it passed by uneventfully with an ordinary day of work filling grades and shoveling dirt with our crew. I didn’t tell anyone about this being my birthday except my friends Quinn and a darky we call Hoppin’ John. That’s not his real name, it’s just that a while back, he mixed up a batch of rice and black eyed peas the slaves used to eat and we asked him what it was. He told us that is was called Hop ‘n Johns so of course he got the nickname Hopping John. His real name is Methuselah Elisha Claypool. The first two names are what his mammy named him and his Christian name belongs to his former master.
If the other men around here heard it was my birthday, they might contrive to get me over to the rolling town that is always camped nearby that is known as ‘Hell on Wheels.’ Every kind of vice imaginable occurs in this shanty town and it seems to attract every kind of evil Satan let loose on the planet. Men are murdered there nearly every day with their pockets picked cleaner than a chicken’s neck.
We are making great progress on the construction of the road and haven’t had any signs of Indians in quite a while. That is quite pleasing to Sgt. O’Halloran but he is not too hopeful this trend will continue. He and his men cut signs of many unshod Indian ponies not too long back and the