Teamsters moved supplies.
Countless groups of workers, including immigrants from many countries and laborers of many backgrounds, contributed to the expansion of American infrastructure.
But he also knew what Irish laborers had done.
Their contribution did not need exaggeration to be enormous.
Thousands worked on railroads.
Others dug canals, paved streets, excavated foundations, cut stone, built bridges, bored tunnels, and performed the exhausting physical work demanded by rapidly expanding towns and cities.
They often did it while living close to poverty.
They often did it while being told they did not truly belong.
That was the wound beneath everything.
America could reject the immigrant socially and depend on him physically at the same time.
The official reopened the ledger.
“Who kept these records?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Patrick thought of the famine stories his mother had carried across the ocean.
He thought of men arriving in American ports with almost nothing except relatives’ names folded into pockets.
He thought of hiring bosses judging a man’s strength before learning anything else about him.
Then he looked at the railroad stretching beyond them.
“Because finished things forget the hands that made them.”
The official stared at him for a moment.
Then he turned toward the gathering guests.
“The workers stay.”
The foreman immediately objected.
“Sir—”
“The workers stay.”
This time the words were sharper.
It was not justice large enough to repair every insult or replace every lost wage.
It did not transform working conditions.
It did not erase anti-Irish hostility from American society.
One decision beside one stretch of track could not do that.
But the foreman’s authority had cracked.
And everyone present had seen it happen.
The laborers remained beside the line.
Some stood awkwardly because they had never expected to be included in anything ceremonial.
Others folded their arms.
Michael retrieved Patrick’s sledge from the ground and handed it back to him.
“Thought you surrendered,” he murmured.
Patrick took the handle.
“So did he.”
The locomotive released another breath of steam.
Visitors moved into position.
There was no magical transformation.
The men were still tired.
Their coats were still dirty.
Their wages would still be small.
Tomorrow’s work would still demand more from their bodies than any speech could repay.
But when the officials looked toward the completed track now, they had to look through the men who had built it.
That changed the picture.
Patrick watched one visitor examine the ledger again.
“May I keep this for the company records?” the man asked.
Patrick’s grip tightened around the book.
For months he had protected those pages from rain, campfires, spilled coffee, careless hands, and men who thought writing anything down was a waste of time.
He shook his head.
“You may copy it.”
Michael coughed to hide a laugh.
