In which the express train travels the Pacific Railroad
‘Ocean to ocean’ is how the Americans put it – and this phrase really should be the best way of referring to the grand trunk line that crosses the United States of America at its widest point. But in fact the Pacific Railroad is divided into two quite distinct sections, the ‘Central Pacific’ between San Francisco and Ogden, and the ‘Union Pacific’ between Ogden and Omaha. That is where five different lines meet up, making regular travel possible between Omaha and New York.
New York and San Francisco are therefore now linked by an uninterrupted metal strip stretching for no less than 3,786 miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railroad crosses territory that is still the haunt of Native Americans and wild animals, a vast tract of land that the Mormons began to colonize around 1845 after being driven out of Illinois.
In the past it took at best six months to go from New York to San Francisco. Now it takes seven days.
It was in 1862 that, despite the opposition of representatives from the southern states, who wanted a line further to the south, it was decided that the route for the new railroad would run between the forty-first and forty-second parallels. The late, lamented President Lincoln himself chose the town of Omaha in the state of Nebraska as the starting-point of the new network. Work began immediately and was carried out in typical American style, without too much paperwork or bureaucratic fuss. The speed with which the track was laid would not at all affect the quality of its contruction. Over the prairies the work progressed at a mile and a half per day. A locomotive running along the track that had been laid the previous day transported the rails for the day after and worked its way along them as they were being laid.
The Pacific Railroad has various junctions along its length, with branch lines going off into the states of Iowa, Kansas, Colorado and Oregon. After leaving Omaha it follows the south bank of the Platte River as far as the mouth of the North Platte, follows the South Platte, crosses the territory of Laramie and the Wasatch Mountains, skirts the Great Salt Lake, arrives in Salt Lake City, the Mormon capital, goes deep into the Tuilla Valley, runs along the edge of the Great Salt Lake Desert, Mounts Cedar and Humboldt, the Humboldt River and the Sierra Nevada and goes back down to the Pacific via Sacramento, and over its whole length the gradient never exceeds one in fifty, even when it crosses the Rocky Mountains.
This was the long line of communication that trains took seven days to travel and that would enable Phileas Fogg, Esq. – at least that was what he hoped – to be in New York by 11 December to catch the Liverpool steamer.
The carriage in which Phileas Fogg was sitting was a sort of long omnibus resting on two undercarriages, each with four wheels, which because of their mobility made it possible to negotiate tight bends. Inside there were no separate compartments. Instead there were two rows of seats facing each other, situated at right angles to the axle and separated by a passageway that led to the washroom and toilet with which every carriage was provided. Throughout the train there were platforms that connected the carriages, so the passengers were able to go from one end of the train to another, with at their disposal saloon cars, observation cars, restaurant cars and buffet cars. All that was missing were theatre cars, and even they must only be a matter of time.
People were constantly moving up and down the platforms, selling books and newspapers, spirits, food and cigars, all doing good business with no shortage of customers.
The travellers had left Oakland station at six o’clock in the evening. Darkness had already fallen: a cold, thick night with overcast skies and clouds that were threatening snow. The train was not going very quickly. Allowing for the stops, it wasn’t doing more than twenty miles per hour, but this was still fast enough to enable it to cross the United States on schedule.
There was little talking in the carriage. In any case, the travellers would soon be asleep. Passepartout found himself sitting next to the police inspector, but he didn’t speak to him. Since recent events, relations between them had noticeably cooled. There was no longer any fellow feeling or closeness between them. Fix’s manner hadn’t changed at all, but Passepartout on the contrary was extremely reserved, ready to strangle his former friend on the least suspicion.
An hour after the train had left it began to snow. It was a fine snow, which very fortunately would not slow down the train’s progress. All that could be seen through the windows was an immense white covering of snow, which made the unfurling coils of steam from the locomotive seem positively grey.
At eight o’clock a steward came into the carriage and informed the passengers that it was time to go to bed. The carriage they were in was a sleeping car, which in the space of a few minutes was transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats folded down, carefully made-up couchettes opened out thanks to an ingeniously devised system, and within the space of a few minutes a series of cabins had been put together so that each traveller could enjoy a comfortable bed with thick curtains to protect their privacy. The sheets were white and the pillows soft. All that remained was for them to get into bed and go to sleep, which they all proceeded to do as if they were in the comfort of a cabin on a steamship. Meanwhile the train sped along at full steam across the state of California.
In this part of the country between San Francisco and Sacramento the land is fairly flat. This section of the line, called the Central Pacific Railroad, first took Sacramento as its startingpoint and then went east to meet up with the line coming from Omaha. From San Francisco to Sacramento the line headed directly north-east along the American River, which enters San Pablo Bay. The distance of 120 miles between these two large towns was covered in six hours and towards midnight, while the travellers slept soundly, they went through Sacramento. They therefore saw nothing of this sizeable city, the seat of the legislature of the state of California, with its handsome wharves, its wide streets, its splendid-looking hotels, its squares and churches.
After Sacramento the train, once it had gone past the stations at Junction, Rochin, Auburn and Colfax, entered the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It was seven o’clock in the morning when it went through the station at Cisco. One hour later the dormitory was once again an ordinary carriage and the travellers were able to catch a glimpse through the windows of the picturesque panoramas of this mountainous region. The route taken by the train followed the twists and turns of the Sierra, at times clinging to the mountainside, at others hanging over precipices, avoiding tight corners by cutting bold curves, rushing into narrow gorges with apparently no way through. The locomotive sparkled like a box of jewels, with its great lantern that gave off a yellowish light, its silver bell and its cowcatcher that jutted out like a spur, and as it went the noise of its whistling and roaring mingled with the sound of the streams and waterfalls and its smoke twisted itself around the black branches of the fir trees.
Tunnels and bridges were few and far between on the route. The railroad went around the sides of mountains making little attempt to go in a straight line or to find the shortest distance between two points, thereby respecting the natural surroundings.
Towards nine o’clock the train entered the state of Nevada through the Carson Sink, continuing in a north-easterly direction. At midday it left Reno, where the travellers had twenty minutes to eat their lunch.
From this point the railway line, running alongside the Humboldt River, headed up towards the north. Then it turned eastwards but still following the course of the river as far as the Humboldt Ranges, where the river takes its source, almost at the easternmost point of the state of Nevada.
After eating their lunch Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and their companions went back to their seats in the carriage. Phileas Fogg, the young woman, Fix and Passepartout were comfortably seated and were looking out at the varied scenery that went past them: vast prairies, a backdrop of mountains and creeks that poured forth their foaming waters. Sometimes a large herd of bison gathered in the distance, forming what seemed like an encroaching tide. These innumerable armies of ruminants often present an insurmountable obstacle to passing trains. It has been known for thousands of animals to take hours to move across the railroad. The locomotive is forced in such cases to stop and to wait for the line to become clear again.
This is precisely what happened on this occasion. Towards three o’clock in the afternoon a herd of 10,000 to 12,000 head of cattle blocked the railroad. The locomotive reduced speed and attempted to drive its ram into the side of the immense column, but it had to stop in the face of this impenetrable mass.
These ruminants, which the Americans wrongly call buffaloes, could be seen lumbering along, sometimes bellowing loudly. They are bigger in size than a European bull, with short legs and tail, prominent withers that form a muscular hump, horns that are set well apart at the base, and a head, neck and shoulders that are covered with a thick mane. It was pointless to even think of stopping this migration. When bison have decided which way to go, nothing can stop them or alter their path. They are an advancing tide of living flesh that no barrier could hold back.
The travellers watched this curious spectacle from the vantage point of the platforms. But the person who was in the greatest hurry of all, Phileas Fogg, had remained in his seat and was calmly waiting for the buffaloes to agree to let him through. Passepartout was furious about the delay caused by this congregation of beasts. He would have liked to empty the contents of his whole arsenal of revolvers on them.
‘What a country!’ he exclaimed. ‘Trains brought to a standstill by a few bulls, which wander off in procession without being in the least hurry, as if they weren’t holding up the traffic … Good heavens! I’d like to know if this setback was catered for in Mr Fogg’s schedule! And what about this engine driver, who doesn’t have the courage to drive his machine straight through these obstructive beasts!’
The engine driver was certainly not tempted to remove the obstruction and this was wise of him. He would certainly have managed to crush the first bison with the ram of his locomotive, but, however powerful it may have been, the engine would have been brought to a standstill before long, a derailment would have been inevitable and the train would have been left stranded.
The best thing was therefore to wait patiently, even if that meant having to make up for lost time by driving faster afterwards. The procession of bison lasted for a good three hours and the track was not clear again until midnight. Only then did the rearguard of the herd cross the rails while those at the front were disappearing below the southern horizon.
And so it was eight o’clock by the time the train crossed the narrow passes of the Humboldt Ranges and half past nine by the time it entered the territory of Utah,2 the area of the Great Salt Lake and the strange land of the Mormons.