Griggs on the Line

St. Paul, Minnesota 15 April, 1894

Spent another afternoon at Union Depot. Visited the train yard as per usual. I thought I better note down more than my usual observations of the engines on-hand or the cars and their freight. No one pays me any mind—they are so used to spying me admiring this or that piece. And I, for my part, know how to amble around without putting myself in anyone’s way.

Now, as I’m home with my tea, I am wondering whether or not I should have crossed paths with someone or other to share what I think I may have seen. Then again it might have been nothing. I’m only an amateur enthusiast, after all, allowed to wander by the authority of bearing my father’s last name and reputation.

Yet, those men loitering by that particular locomotive—one bearing the esteemed name of the Great Northern Railroad no less!—didn’t look like they belonged in the train yard, either. Neither were dressed as one might expect a laborer to be nor conducted themselves as company men or engineers on inspection. I would know as I’ve spent time shadowing both around any length of rail I might. They know that world of transportation and industry and steam power that has birthed this great beast that is the railroad and all it encompasses. The two men I saw today looked like they knew nothing of those things and everything about mischief.

Could be their business was private, with one another. Or perhaps the Depot was a meeting ground, and they’d both returned to independent offices. That was and is entirely possible. I simply cannot be at peace with the attention they were giving the locomotive, however. If I had the desire to waste my inheritance, I’d bet they were discussing the train itself.

Though, who does not discuss the railroad these days? The rumors regarding Pullman and potential mayhem with the ARU—not that everyone is convinced the union will try and make any disruptive moves—have been on many lips, and Americans near and far travel every which way aboard one track or another. True, last year’s Panic has had its repercussions, but the industry and motion of this nation will not be curbed. Even if the ARU compiles demands and a strike commences, the rails will not be going anywhere.

What genius it is to have discovered the steam powered engine and then to apply it to this mighty contraption that is the locomotive! Oh, that I wish I had been clever enough to have thought of such a machine, but, alas, my place in history appears that of a doting and devoted bystander—a role I relish to the utmost degree. Since I was a boy and father took me to tour and ride upon the rails, I have watched in awe and wonder at the advancement of the railroads and the refinement of the trains. A man might live and travel with all the comforts of home while traversing the entire country at great convenience.

Even more so since our very own Mr. Hill completed his line to the West. What a feat for the ages! And what a man to admire at the helm of it all. Everyone knows of Mr. Hill’s humble beginnings on the river, and look at all he’s built since then. A family, a house fit to host royals, and a transcontinental rail! One of these days I must get out to see where the Great Northern greets the Pacific ocean. I’m keen to see the infrastructure en route through the mountains. Mr. Hill appointed a brilliant engineer whose oversight and instruction on how to tunnel through the Cascades I’ve heard is a marvel. Steven’s Pass, they’ve named it, after the man himself, and I simply must see it.

Perhaps I ought to take myself back to the Depot tomorrow to consult the schedules and see which locomotive will be the next one to make such a venture.

St. Paul, Minnesota 16 April, 1894

A most unusual time at the train yard. Actually, this time. I should have followed my hunch yesterday.

When I arrived at the Depot, the station master sought me out before I could spot him and pass along the usual greeting. An officer of the law was with him.

“Mr. Griggs,” my old friend said, as he pulled me aside, “might we trouble you for a moment?”

“Certainly, Larson.” Shaking the officer’s hand, I said, “Henry Griggs, sir. Pleasure to meet you.”

The officer’s grip was firm, his gaze steady. “Officer Lindquist. Sir, we have a few questions we’d like to ask you.”

What information I could possibly have that’d be useful to them was beyond me, but I was not going to hinder whatever they were looking into. When your father is a judge, you learn quickly the best course of action, when it comes to figures of the law, is to not be difficult. Father’s word, not mine.

“Is it true you were here at the depot yesterday?” asked Officer Lindquist.

“Yes, for a spot following the noon hour. Out in the yard.”

“Excellent. Will you walk us around where you were?”

I spared a glance at Larson, who met my eye but radiated uncertainty. What could have occurred here to put him ill at ease? My attention went back to our officer—a sturdy specimen of a man, clean-shaven, creased around the eyes like he was someone who spent a fair amount of time squinting either into the sun or the snow. Or who frowned often. He didn’t look old enough to be grizzled by life and the wider world, but, if he spent his days traipsing after criminals or any other sort of nefarious activity, who was I to say precisely what had or hadn’t weathered him?

Out to the yard we went. To be as helpful as possible, I retraced my steps exactly, which could be done thanks to the touchstones provided by the station itself. The cars and engines I’d ogled were placed here because they weren’t specified for use just yet. So, all that I’d seen the previous day was right where it’d been purposely left until such time of need. Except for one.

“There.” I pointed ahead. “A locomotive was there yesterday, and now it’s not.”

Not just any loco, either, but that of the Great Northern. That of suspicious conversation by two strangers.

Larson crossed his arms over his chest and faced the officer. “So, it was still here twelve hours ago. That’s hardly surprising. I told you—”

“Yes, you believe it happened late last night. I never claimed to disbelieve you. We’re narrowing the timeline with proof. That’s all. This is how I work.”

I looked between both men, who clearly shared a secret, and said, “You’re under the impression a thief was here. I may have seen them—both of them.”

For what else could I have accidentally detected, if those strange men reeked of mischief and, though it hadn’t explicitly been stated, an engine was now missing when it shouldn’t have been? I should have mentioned it to Larson before I’d gone home. I should have raised his perception ahead of time.

“Though,” I mused aloud, thoughts needing to be verbally processed despite my companions loaded expressions, “it had to have been more than two. They would have needed a third, if only to serve as a look-out. Yes, that could work. One as the driver, manages the controls. One as the stoker, to supply ample fuel. And one to ensure they were in the clear. But why would they make off with an object such as this?”

Larson cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Mr. Griggs, now is the time to share what you saw.”

Well, there wasn’t much, aside from trying my best to relay the suspects’ features. I confess that, in a yard filled with these wonderful machines and cars, people will hardly be retained well in my memory.

“I think that will be all, Mr. Griggs,” Officer Lindquist said following my unfortunately vague descriptions of two men, not especially tall, fair of skin, and dark of hair.

“May I ask, before I go, why was this particular locomotive off the schedule?”

“I believe,” Larson said, “it was in need of routine maintenance. Oh, and I wanted to tell you, sir, you might not want to leave before you’ve taken a look at the newest that came off the line this morning. Another engine in need of repairs.”

I followed the direction in which Larson pointed, and would you believe my luck but another piece from the Great Northern? Fresh for my eyes? I tipped my hat in gratitude and strolled that way. When I glanced over my shoulder, the station master and officer were starting back toward the Depot.

Which left me with the freedom to poke around as I pleased—and, of course, I did. There’s no one to stop you from climbing up in the car and taking a closer inspection. There’s no one to know, either, if you happened to tuck some tools into your coat pockets and aim to use them to peer about, just a little closer. It’s not every day, after all, that you have the opportunity to examine even a piece of such a great engine. Not even every day for me. It’s been more like every other, which is quite unfortunate.

And to get a glimpse of the engine installed in this locomotive? Simply wonderful. A regular old 2-8-0. A Consolidation built for the purpose of hauling freight. Popularized here in America by the Pennsylvania Railroad, of course, though we can’t forget the Erie’s contributions. That was years ago, so it’s no wonder Mr. Hill has these in use with his company. Nearly all those in operation do.

I found myself wondering if the stolen locomotive was of a similar engine? Or had it been built for passenger service? Was freight the target—or people?

A cough sounded from right outside the locomotive’s window followed by, “Sir? We’re going to need you to come with us.”

When I looked, two men—decidedly not of the readily mischievous sort but of the more stern, official kind—stood peering up at me. Their dark, crisply-pressed suits and tidy mustaches told me that they were used to being listened to.

I could only hope they worked for the railroad.

In-transit, 4-4-2 “Atlantic” 17 April, 1894

Had to stop where I was in order to pack or else I should have been late. Late for what, you ask? Late to catch a train is what!

I’m well on my way to Duluth as I write, though what precisely will take place in that lakeside city is to be seen. When father asked where I was dashing off to, I had done as I’d been instructed and told him an old friend had sent for me. I let my hastiness lend itself to the idea that I might be hurrying toward a possible emergency or deathbed. He’s in possession of a brain. I let him imagine what he will.

These men in the suits and with the stern brows were the ones who gave me my instructions, but that was only after they’d whisked me away to a back office at the Depot and ensured I wasn’t in league with the thieves. They could hardly understand that I was entirely at my leisure, looking about at the internal pieces of a locomotive.

“Why, doesn’t everyone wish to see a train engine from time to time?” I’d ask.

“No,” they’d said, and I still don’t believe them.

I suppose that doesn’t matter because what we discussed was of far graver concern than a people’s curiosity. These gentlemen are working a covert mission—a notion I only truly bought once Larson was brought in and vouched for its authenticity. The man cannot lie, wears every irritation or embarrassment or what have you on every sleeve available. He, apparently, is assisting in his position, keeping a special eye out for—

Well, I haven’t mentioned what or who they’re looking for or even why a covert mission is necessary. It all has to do with sabotage. Yes, that dirty, bitter word. I never cared to play any part in a man’s ruin, but this is not that. If the efforts of these operatives come to fruition, preservation will be the end result. And not just that of a man but that of the railroad, which is of the utmost importance.

For, you see, there’s more than just the rumors swirling around the unrest at Pullman. Across the nation, in every corner where a railroad runs through, there’s plotting. The success and riches of the Great Northern, the Pennsylvania, the Central Pacific—all of it is in the sights of these looters, bandits, and ne’re-do-wells. They scheme to destroy it.

As for me, why am I on my way to Duluth? What will I be doing there to play my part in protecting this great system and these mighty machines? Well, I’m not sure, but they’ve made me believe I have something they need. Two things, actually, and they are time and knowledge. 

I know trains. I take every opportunity to be at the depot, go down to the yard, study reports and diagrams, be a passenger in any available car that aligns with my calendar. And that calendar? I know only too well—though not as well as my father—how empty it has been. 

I have no clear idea just what awaits me in Duluth nor how truly big these nefarious schemes may be against this establishment I admire. I suppose, I’ll find out when I get into town.

That’s for the near-future, though. As for my travels now, I must speak with the conductor and see what access I may be granted on this train. There are ever so many mechanical pieces to take a closer look at, and there’s not a moment to lose. After all, I get the feeling that soon, very soon, my time upon the rails will cease to be such fun and games.

To be continued…