Nonetheless, the Sierra Pacific was already running dangerously short of money. In 1863, the greater proportion of native Americans had never travelled further from their homes than a good day’s walk, and the notion of riding in a train for days on end at twenty-five miles per hour was too fantastic to be imagined. Even railroad experts were sceptical, particularly in the East, where the vast expanses of the western frontier seemed as remote as the moon. Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was in the middle of taking over the New York Central and Erie Lines between New York and Chicago, said, ‘Building a railroad from nowhere to nowhere at public expense is not a legitimate enterprise.’

Even as the first Sierra Pacific locomotive whistled a shrill note of celebration, and the wet bunting snapped in the cold afternoon wind, Theodore stood with his gaze directed at nothing further away than the damp planks of the platform beneath his feet. Annie held him as if she were supporting him, keeping him up under the great weight of his disillusionment and exhaustion.

Leland raised his hand for silence and said loudly: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Sacramento … and visitors, surreptitious or otherwise …’ at which there was general mocking laughter. ‘I shall not speak for long, because of the vagaries of the weather … but I do wish to say that this day marks a practical beginning to the greatest social and mechanical enterprise ever undertaken by man … This locomotive is only the first of a whole fleet of glittering iron horses which will draw passengers and valuable freight into and out of this city of Sacramento … and later into San Francisco … these few feet of track are only the first of miles of shining rails which will span deserts, canyons, mountains, and rivers …’

Leland went on for ten minutes, and Collis listened in silence. The fine rain ran down his face and made it look as if he were crying. Actually, he was thinking about Leland’s boasts of building up a fleet of trains, and of crossing the West with track. They were fine boasts, but the truth was that the war had led to massive inflation and chronic shortages. The small locomotive which chuffed and steamed in front of them now had cost him $13,688 — compared with the pre-war price of a big ten-wheeler of $10,000. A ton of rails which had previously cost $60 had risen to well over $112, and that was the price he had to pay in Boston. Freight charges around Cape Horn were extra, and punishingly high.

Shovels, wheelbarrows, picks, rail spikes, explosives, and signalling equipment were all in desperately short supply, and there was the ever-present risk that they would be requisitioned by the army for use against the Confederacy.