INTRODUCTION & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I grew up amid railroads. Great-grandpa Marvel finished out his career as a Colorado & Southern conductor five years before I was born. Burlington’s 38th Street Yard was just a vacant lot from my grandparents’ back porch. Union Pacific’s Denver–Cheyenne trains hustled past my great-aunt’s house in suburban Henderson. Rio Grande’s big 3600-class malleys were a constant presence on family fishing trips and vacations. When we moved from West to East Denver, the sound of slamming boxcars in Rio Grande’s Burnham yards was exchanged for the nightly departure of UP’s Kansas Division mixed. Through my open bedroom window I could always tell whether a steamer or a diesel was in charge.

But the Rock Island was an exotic stranger. It rolled into town from across the High Plains, from places I could only guess at. My first encounter came while I was watching a softball game with my father. A rumble arose from behind the grandstands and I turned just in time to see one of Rock’s magnificent red and maroon TAs trundle by from the Burnham roundhouse, on its way to Union Station to take the Rocket east.

I never forgot that apparition. So naturally, when I turned my attention to railroads in a serious way, the Rock Island was a favorite. Other fans hung out at the C&S, which was still switching Rice Yard with steam, or headed down to the Joint Line for the parade of C&S and Santa Fe freights and the daily passage of Missouri Pacific’s Eagle. I was as likely to point the hood of my battered ’49 Ford east, to Sandown or Sable or Strasburg, where, if I was lucky, Rock Island FTs or FAs, or even an exotic BL2 would be on the move. What a great way to run a railroad, I thought, never realizing that it was because of poverty that Rock was still running first-generation power when every other road in town had moved on to GP20s and -30s.

The cab window is open and the weather is balmy on this fine April morning in 1965 as a rush-hour commuter run heads for La Salle Street behind BL2 No. 429. The BL stands for Branch Line, obviously not the service in which it now finds employment. Marty Bernard

Some liked it, some loathed it, but the railfan-designed bicentennial paint scheme for E8A No. 652, the Independence, looked better than the patriotic costumes that adorned most other roads’ diesels in 1976. The year after the whoopla, the unit oozes steam on a frigid February morning as it makes a quick station stop at Joliet. Dan Tracy

This book, in a way, is the story of that poverty and how and why it came about.

To help tell the story I leaned on the work of more than a dozen photographers, some of them shooting buddies, others known only by reputation and the quality of their work. All came through gloriously, as these images show. The bylines will identify them, but I owe special thanks to Ron Hill, Dale Jacobson, and Paul Dolkos, with whom I have had the pleasure of sharing happy days at trackside. Ed Seay Jr. and Lloyd Keyser dug into their personal collections. The others whose work is displayed on these pages went to great lengths to provide the images I asked for, entrusting me with irreplaceable slides. Many went to the trouble of scanning images and sending me discs. Thanks, gentlemen—this is as much your book as mine.

Eunice J. Schlichting, chief curator at the Putnam Museum in Davenport, Iowa, and Coi Gehrig at the Denver Public Library Western History Collection smoothed the way to those important collections. The DeGolyer Library at Southern Methodist University provided a refuge, a reading room, and access to one of the best railroad libraries in the country. Victor F. Kralisz, manager, Humanities and Fine Arts Divisions of the Dallas Public Library, made precious writing space available in that library’s writer’s room when my dining room table overflowed.

CHAPTER ONE

THE BRIDGE

The Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific Railroad began, fittingly, with a journey across the Mississippi River. The small group of prosperous businessmen was crossing by boat, not bridge. That would come soon enough. For the moment they were focused on a swifter, more modern kind of transportation: a railroad. The year was 1845, and on this sultry June afternoon, they were headed from the Iowa to the Illinois side for a meeting with the wealthiest and most powerful man in the region, Colonel George Davenport.

The first Rock Island bridge, between its April 21, 1856 completion and May 6–when the steamboat Effie Afton struck just right of the draw span, setting the bridge on fire. A contemporary view of the Iowa side shows the draw span, right, and bustling Davenport, left, where Antoine LeClair donated his house and land for Rock Island’s station and yard. Putnam Museum of History and Natural Science, Davenport, Iowa

Davenport beckons from across the Mississippi in this 1858 Rufus Wright lithograph depicting the arrival four years earlier of the first Rock Island train in its namesake city. Steamboats Ben Campbell and Tishomingo stand offshore. By 1856, a bridge will span these waters. Putnam Museum of History and Natural Science, Davenport, Iowa

Davenport had been railroad-minded ever since 1839, when he and a 300-pound half-Potawatomi Indian named Antoine LeClair laid out the town that would bear Davenport’s name. Canals were fine, and Davenport had promoted his share. However, they froze in winter and were subject to drought and flood in summer. A railroad, on the other hand, could reach out from canals and rivers, link them, and even cross them. A network of railroads was already racing across the land from Baltimore. Soon it would reach Chicago. If riverfront towns like Rock Island and Davenport were to thrive, they too would have to reach out, not just downriver to St. Louis, but east to Chicago and eventually to the West, where the nation was headed. Iowa’s population was already 96,088; in a year and a half, it would be a state.

The little group from across the river must have had something like this in mind as members stepped ashore and made their way to Colonel Davenport’s mansion. Separated from mainland Illinois by a narrow stretch of river called The Slough, Rock Island had been the site of an army fort until 1836, and much of it was still federal property. But with a population of 4,000, the town was growing.

Packed into Davenport’s parlor that evening were LeClair—a crowd by himself—who operated a ferryboat on the river; attorney James Grant; lawyer and banker Ebenezer Cook; and miller and real estate promoter A. C. Fulton. All were from the Iowa side. W. A. Whittaker and Lemuel Andrews were Rock Island businessmen. Charles Atkinson, who had platted the town of Moline, and N. D. Elwood, who had ridden the stagecoach all the way from Joliet, rowed across The Slough from the Illinois mainland to attend. With them was Richard P. Morgan, a civil engineer with some experience in railroads. The men talked late into the night and, when they emerged, they had agreed to send Lemuel Andrews to the state legislature at Springfield to obtain a charter for a railroad company. The line was to reach 75 miles from Rock Island to the banks of the Illinois River at La Salle. From there, boats of the Illinois and Michigan Canal would connect with Chicago.

Eight years before, the Illinois legislature appropriated the then-enormous sum of $10 million for a package of internal improvements that included canals, bridges, and a railroad network. However, a financial panic that year killed that ambitious scheme. Now, a more cautious legislature waited almost two years before issuing a charter to the Rock Island & La Salle Rail Road Company. Capital stock was set at $300,000, and a board of commissioners was chosen to oversee sales.

Almost four years passed before the needed capital was raised from local farmers and businessmen along the proposed route. With the money finally at hand, in November 1850, the commissioners met in Rock Island and elected directors of the new railroad. Two weeks later the directors elected James Grant president. Colonel Davenport did not live to see his dream realized; within weeks of the June 1845 meeting, he was murdered in his home by robbers.

Grant’s first task was to find someone to build the road. With several directors in tow, he traveled to Chicago where he sought out Henry Farnam, who was just building the Michigan Southern Railroad westward toward Chicago. One of the most brilliant civil engineers the young Republic had produced, Farnam had experience laying out and building canals and railroads in the East, and he understood that the future lay with rails. The new venture appealed to him. Almost immediately he set out on horseback to scout the proposed route. When he returned, he told directors he would build their railroad, provided the line extended from the Mississippi River not just to the banks of the canal at La Salle, but all the way into Chicago, where it would meet the rails of the Michigan Southern. The result, he pointed out, would be a continuous line of railroad from the Mississippi to the Atlantic Ocean.

A landmark for decades for Rock Island commuters, the Chicago Board of Trade punctuates the scene at La Salle Street, where RS-3 No. 488 idles in July 1965, before the afternoon suburban rush. Boiler-equipped Nos. 485–499 were geared to run 80 miles per hour and outlasted most of their freighthauling kin. Donald Haskel

The directors agreed and dispatched Grant to ask the legislature in Springfield to amend the original charter to reflect the new destination. Legislators were reluctant. The Illinois and Michigan Canal Company had been built by the state; a railroad to Chicago would siphon off business. Finally, a compromise was reached: The railroad would pay a toll to canal operators on the traffic it carried between La Salle and Chicago. Farnam urged a reluctant Grant to accept the compromise. (As it turned out, the canal operators failed to approve the agreement by the deadline, and no tolls were ever paid.) On April 4, 1851, the directors approved the new charter, reincorporating the Rock Island & La Salle as the Chicago & Rock Island Rail Road. They asked the Iowa legislature to grant a charter for construction of a depot at Davenport—not coincidentally on land owned by Antoine LeClair. Clearly, their eyes were not only on Illinois.

Wearing the shortlived white wings paint scheme, U28B No. 249 is just three months old in June 1966, on its way west from De Pue through the lush Illinois River bottoms. Terry Norton

With Henry Farnam had come a bonus: his astute and resourceful business partner, Joseph Sheffield. If the Rock Island was to build all the way to Chicago, 181 miles, it would need money, and plenty of it, and Sheffield had connections to eastern bankers. In August 1851, members of the railroad’s executive committee met with Farnam and Sheffield in New York to negotiate a contract. The finished document reveals Sheffield’s sharp pencil. The railroad company would buy the right-of-way and fence it. Farnam and Sheffield would build and equip the entire line for $3,987,688. This lump sum would cover grading and track-laying, all rails and ties, bridges, stations, freight houses, engine houses, and 500 feet of docks on the Chicago riverfront. The work was to be completed by January 1, 1856.

The contract was signed in September. A shipment of iron rails arrived from England in December, and in April 1852, construction began in earnest, with Farnam personally overseeing the work.

The contract with Farnam and Sheffield meant that control of the railroad would rest not in the hands of the Illinois businessmen who had first promoted it, but in the portfolios of eastern bankers, the money men. In February, Michigan Southern track gangs spiked down the final