Work Text:
May 10th, 1869
When America arrived in Promontory Summit, a large crowd of people met her. Some stood spread out along the edges of the group, keeping their distance away from two locomotives at the heart of the crowd, but most had packed themselves in as closely as they could, shoving and forcing their way to the front to try and get a glimpse at history in the making. America debated on whether or not to force her way through, to make her way to the front as she would’ve in the past. Excited and enthusiastic for the innovation the ceremony represented - one step toward the future. But America didn’t feel excited. Instead, she felt more like she’d walked into a funeral, mournful and solemn despite the low hum of the exhilarated crowd of rail workers surrounding her.
No , she thought resignedly, ducking and weaving her way through all of the people to get closer to the center. No, I have to see this through .
Just as she made it to the front of the crowd, lined by men in much finer suits sweating their asses off in the heat of the late Utah spring, it started. A middle aged man, carrying a long, wooden box, made his way towards the gap between the two locomotives. There wasn’t much pomp to his movements, but they were deliberate. When he came to a stop, another man came up, cracked open the box, and pulled out its contents carefully. Leland Stanford, the ex-governor of California and a staunch businessman by reputation, took the golden spike in hand and held it up to the light, letting it glitter and gleam underneath the sunlight for the massive crowd.
Even America felt herself smile a little at the sight of it - the last railroad spike representing six long years of near endless work of the men around her. Work started amidst the most tumultuous time in her history and completed mere years after the dust had barely begun to settle. Mr. Lincoln had championed hard for its inception and had even created the Union Pacific Railroad Company specifically for the sole purpose of connecting a rail from east to west. She hadn’t understood it at the time. Why put the effort into connecting out west when the Union was falling apart at the seams? Why waste the resources when her men - her people - were being slaughtered on the battlefields? Some to desperate to leave her that they’d rather die than stay -
“The railroads are the lifeblood of the land,” he’d told her. Her mind had been mottled, twisted, noisy, but she’d heard him. “Like the arteries from the heart, bringing nutrients to the body. Connection to the heart is important, Amelia. We must not let them think we do not care, so we must put in the effort to care.”
Your own people discarded you like garbage , the voice in her head mocked viciously . That is all anyone will ever do. Use you and then throw you away when you have nothing left to give. You will never be good enough for anyone. So why try?
America felt a hot tear run down her face and she made sure to wipe it away quickly before anyone saw it. The war was over , the southern states had returned to the Union, and she was whole. Mr. Lincoln had given everything to make sure of it. So why did she still feel so shattered? So fragmented? Like a doctor had put a bandage over a gaping wound but had done nothing to stop the bleeding?
That feeling was why she was here, why she needed to see that his railroad was properly finished. A naïve part of her hoped that seeing it would mend something in her, and finally grant her the ability to put one of the final remaining pieces of Mr. Lincoln to rest.
On the track in front of her, Stanford gave a short speech, lamenting about how momentous the occasion was for the people of the nation, and placed the spike upright in its place, hammer heavy in his hands. It was almost insulting, in a way, to watch him drive the last spike into the ground. The workers behind her had done the real work and had driven thousands of spikes into the ground to cover those nineteen hundred miles in track, but here was someone else taking all of the credit yet again. His first strike rang loud and clear over the eager crowd.
CLANG .
America winced as the sound struck deep in her chest and the spike lodged itself into the ground. Since when had such a sharp noise made her flinch so harshly? Stanford lifted the hammer again, its head glinting in the light as he brought it down, and America braced herself for the sound.
CLANG .
The spike inched its way deeper into the ground, the metal of the spike screeching against the tie. Stanford wound up for his final strike.
CLANG .
As the ring of the final strike faded, the rich business men and curious politicians around her began their congratulatory clapping and the crowd behind them became uproarious with delighted cheers. Their work was finally over, and now their feat could be displayed for all the country to see. America couldn’t help but smile as well, briefly spurred by their joy and enthusiasm, and her heart just a little lighter than it had been before.
The railroad was done. Finished. The western coast was now connected, at least in part, to the eastern half of the country, and the treacherous six month journey across the wild frontier was now a mere week of travel by train. Connection and unity, just like Mr. Lincoln had wanted. If only it had come a few years sooner, then he’d have been standing there as that final spike had been driven and given a much more rousing speech to drive home his goal of reunifying the country.
It was odd to think that such an anticipated and long-awaited event was over within a matter of seconds but here they were. Shouldn’t there have been some grandiose speeches or flashy fireworks or celebratory music? Instead the moment felt dead to her, more solemn than cheerful, even when someone pulled out a bottle of champagne and began handing out bubbling drinks to anyone who would accept the glass. America politely declined when they offered her a glass, looking at it as if it’d been poisoned with their hollow intent.
This was wrong. It was all wrong.
The completion of the railroad was supposed to help her, not remind her of what she’d lost. Not tear her open all over again. This was supposed to be a happy moment, a milestone for her people, so why didn’t she feel happy? Why was that sickening, aching, festering hole in her chest still there?
Disappointed and upset, America pushed her way back through the crowd and left, her mind a blur of wild emotions. She’d seen what she’d come here to see, and even though it certainly hadn’t had the impact she’d hoped it would, she was glad to have seen the small part of Lincoln’s legacy secured. Even if it meant exposing her shredded heart to more hurt than she cared to admit.