by David Healey
And then the skiff was in shadow, swallowed up by the darkness cast by the cliffs of the Maryland shore, hidden from the Yankee gunners. A third shot spewed flames and thunder across the river's surface, but the ball threw up a gout of spray several yards to their left. The darkness protected them better than any armor, and the gunboat wouldn't dare chase them close to shore for fear of hidden snags and shallow water.
"Looks like we lost them," Percy said, peering back over his shoulder. He could see the gunboat clearly in the starlight, its lamps shining and the water shimmering as it cascaded off the paddle wheel. On deck, men were cursing, throwing taunts at the night. Smugglers and Yankee patrols played a constant, deadly game here on the navigable portion of the Potomac, and this time, the smugglers had won.
"That was terribly close," Fletcher said in a quavering voice.
Percy suppressed a laugh. He almost felt sorry for Fletcher, who had seen no combat in the service of the Confederate Signal Bureau. He supposed Fletcher was trying to master the fear that gripped most men the first time guns were fired at them.
"We'll be lucky if the Yankees let us off as easy as that the next time," Percy said. "Now let's find a place to land this skiff and get moving before some Yankee patrol shows up on shore to see what all the noise was about."
• • •
In his office at the Confederate Secret Service, William Norris read the note from Flynn and smiled at the Irishman’s description. Fine group of misfits. He couldn't have said it better himself.
"The Irish do have a way with words," he murmured to the empty room.
A fire crackled in the small fireplace, making shadows dance on the walls. The only other light came from a single candle on the spymaster's desk. Neither the fireplace nor the candle did much to light the room, and they certainly didn't keep off the cold. Norris was bundled in a shawl against the November chill, with only his hands exposed for writing. The only sound besides the shifting coals came from the scratching of his pen. A glass of bourbon was within reach. His cigar had long since gone out, but Norris kept it clenched between his long yellow teeth.
He stood and walked over to the fire, then dropped Flynn's letter into the flames. It curled up and turned to ash.
Better that there was no record of this mission, he thought. By now the raiders would be in Union territory and if they succeeded, they might help win the war. If they failed, the world might be ready to condemn them for undertaking something as dishonorable as trying to kidnap a president.
Norris walked back to his desk, reached for the glass of bourbon, and raised it toward the flames. "To my fine group of misfits," he said. "You might just hold the fate of the Confederacy in your hands."
• • •
Ellicott Mills, Maryland
November 17, 1863
No one paid much attention to the six men who walked down Main Street toward the train station at the edge of the Patapsco River, which seemed like a stream compared to the mighty Potomac. The old granite building was the oldest train station in America on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line.
"Remember that all of us have a different destination," Percy reminded them outside. "And don't stand around talking once you're in there. No sense making anyone suspicious."
With that, the colonel disappeared into the stone building. He emerged a few minutes later after buying tickets for himself and Hudson, then nodded at Benjamin. Nervously, the boy entered the dark interior of the station. Several minutes passed.
"What the hell is taking that boy so long?" Percy wondered out loud. He looked sharply at Captain Fletcher. "Fletcher, get in there and find out what's going on. At least you sound like you're from goddamn Baltimore when you talk. The rest of us sound too much like Southerners."
Fletcher entered the station. It was cool, dark and spotlessly clean. He saw Benjamin at the ticket counter, fidgeting nervously from foot to foot. One of the B&O ticket agents had come out from behind the counter and was standing between Benjamin and the doorway, as if to block his exit.
Something was obviously wrong.
Fletcher hesitated, near panic, wondering what to do. If there was trouble this early in the mission, it would only mean disaster for them all. He remembered what Percy had said about him being the only one of the raiders who sounded like a Baltimorean, took a deep breath, and called out, "Johnny! Where the hell are those tickets?"
His voice in the empty station echoed like a gunshot and both B&O agents looked up, startled.
"I want to know where those tickets are, boy. I'm waiting."
The ticket agent looked at Benjamin. "I thought you said you only wanted one ticket to Cumberland."
"One ticket?" Fletcher interrupted, sounding exasperated. "Boy, what are you playing at? I distinctly said to buy two tickets."
"Yes, sir," Benjamin said, sounding dreadfully Southern, with the "sir" drawled out as suhh. Fletcher knew immediately why the ticket agents were suspicious. All through the war, Marylanders who sympathized with the Confederacy had been trickling South. After all, Fletcher had done the same thing himself when it became clear that Maryland would not leave the Union, mainly because it had become occupied by blue-coated soldiers and its pro-Southern leaders had been arrested. A train trip west to the Shenandoah Valley would be the perfect way to join up with Confederate forces.
"Who might you be?" the agent demanded.
Fletcher straightened his back, threw out his chest and put one hand on his hip. If there was one thing he was good at, it was sounding haughty. He was glad he had worn his best pre-war suit on this journey. "I am Robert Fletcher,” he paused to let the name sink in for effect. "Of the Baltimore Fletchers. And if you don't immediately sell my manservant here two tickets to Cumberland I shall report you to John Garrett."
It was as if Fletcher had snapped a whip. John Garrett was president of the B&O Railroad. Fletcher's tone, and the mention of the B&O president, had the agent scrambling to produce the tickets. Fletcher felt pleased that he had once met Garrett before the war and consequently remembered his name.
"We thought the boy might be a Reb," the ticket agent explained hastily. "He sure sounds like one."
"He's from the Eastern Shore," Fletcher said. That was the distant part of Maryland that lay across the Chesapeake Bay and where Southern-style plantation life flourished. "Kent County. They have a Southern inflection there."
The agent obviously didn't know what Fletcher meant, but he agreed, nodding and adding, "Yes, sir."
"Good day," Fletcher huffed, sounding for all the world like the society man he had been. Together, he and Benjamin walked out of the station.
"You was awful uppity in there, Captain," Benjamin said, sounding annoyed. "I ain't never been nobody's servant."
Fletcher ignored him. They crossed the street and went right to Percy.
"That was close," Fletcher said to the colonel. "It was the accent. You'd better have Flynn buy Pettibone's ticket. Those two won't mind an Irishman, but if they hear that drawl of Pettibone's they're going to be suspicious all over again."
Percy turned to Flynn. "You heard him. Buy two."
"Yes, sir."
Flynn soon returned, tickets in hand, and they settled down to wait for the others.
• • •
It was late in the afternoon when the rest of the raiders arrived. Flynn, with a mischievous grin on his face, was waiting on a bench outside the B&O ticket office in Ellicott Mills when Hazlett appeared.
Hazlett glared at him. The sergeant looked tired and dirty after the hard journey from Richmond. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides when he saw Flynn grinning at him.
"You Irish bastard," Hazlett hissed as loudly as he dared on the station platform. "What are you lookin' at?"
"Is that any way to talk to someone you owe a bottle of whiskey to?" Flynn said. "Store-bought whiskey, too, if you don't mind. My stomach don't take kindly to rotgut."
"I'll be damned if I'd give you a bottle of piss, Paddy, let al
one good whiskey." Hazlett practically spat the words.
The smile left Flynn's face, and the eyes that had been twinkling a moment before turned iron gray and cold. The change in expression was so sudden and complete that Hazlett was startled. "I don't want the goddamn whiskey, Hazlett," Flynn said quietly. "In fact, I'd as soon drink piss than take anything of yours, you son of a bitch. And if you call me 'Paddy' again, I'm going to kill you and piss on your goddamn grave."
Hazlett's face turned red with rage, and he stepped toward Flynn.
"That's enough," snapped Colonel Percy, who appeared out of nowhere to step between the two men. "You want to get us all hanged?"
Despite their anger, both Hazlett and Flynn knew the colonel was right. After all, they were deep in enemy territory, and starting a fight now could jeopardize everything if the local constable took an interest. Already, a handful of bystanders had gathered, smelling a fight. Disappointed, they drifted away.
"This ain't the end of it," Hazlett said. He gave Flynn a look of pure malice, then pushed on past into the office to buy his ticket. Percy followed him in.
Pettibone and Benjamin were standing a few feet away and had witnessed the confrontation.
"You've just bought yourself trouble," Pettibone said in his matter-of-fact way. "Hazlett ain't one to let things lie."
Flynn smiled icily. "Neither am I."
"Hazlett don't fight fair," Pettibone warned. "Hell, I reckon I shouldn't even care, considerin' why you're here. But if I was you, I'd watch my back."
Benjamin stepped forward. "I'll stand with you in a fight," he said. He flipped back the tails of his long coat to reveal the Colt revolver in its holster. "Hazlett ain't nothin'."
"Lad, if there's a fight, you keep out of it," Flynn said. "I'll deal with Hazlett when the time comes. I gave you that gun for shooting Yankees, and Yankees alone. And keep that damn gun out of sight. Percy's right, the last thing we need is any more attention."
• • •
Despite Colonel Percy's orders to the contrary, Willie Forbes bought a bottle of whiskey. He, Hazlett and Cook sat near the river and drank it. If Percy caught them, he would be furious, especially after the incident between Hazlett and Flynn, but from where they sat they had a clear view up Main Street of anyone coming toward the river. In the distance, they could see Flynn on the sidewalk, talking with a young woman.
"That goddamn Flynn is plenty full of himself," Hazlett said, then took a long pull from the bottle.
"I reckon we're drinking his whiskey, by rights," Forbes said.
"Shut up, Willie," Hazlett said. "You want me to tell Percy you got a drunk on? He'll skin you alive."
Forbes snickered. He was a small man, and the whiskey was already going to his head. "He'll be madder than hell."
"Then you best shut up."
Hazlett watched Flynn cross Main Street in the distance. He hated uppity Irishmen. To him, the Irish were a threat. They came here with nothing and worked for next to nothing, taking jobs from decent Americans. And some of them were smart, oh so goddamn smart, like that bastard Flynn. He didn't know his place. Already, it was easy to see how much the colonel favored him.
Hazlett had an idea. He flipped a coin at Forbes.
"Willie, go get me another bottle of whiskey."
"If the colonel finds out— "
"You let me worry about the colonel."
Forbes scurried off, and Hazlett smiled. He had an idea that would take Flynn down a notch or two.
Chapter 9
Ellicott Mills Station
6 a.m., November 18, 1863
Percy's men were waiting at dawn when the Chesapeake steamed into town.
Earlier, they had seen another train come through—just a locomotive and tender. The locomotive had slowed, but had not stopped. The station master had come out to watch it pass.
"That's the Lord Baltimore,” the man said, admiring the locomotive. He lifted a hand in greeting and the engineer waved back. "She just came out of the factory and she's on her maiden run."
"Where's the passenger train?" Percy asked.
"Should be along any minute now," the station master said, consulting a large, gold pocket watch. "She always runs right on time."
The new locomotive disappeared, and the raiders stood around in the crisp morning air. They could hear the train long before it arrived in Ellicott Mills. Finally, it came into sight, huffing clouds of smoke as it followed the bend in the Patapsco River and slowed for the station. It was a short train, only made up of the locomotive, a tender car loaded with firewood, two passenger cars, a baggage car and a fourth, private car at the rear.
"Don't look like much," Pettibone muttered.
"Sure, and that's just what the Yankees want you to think," Flynn said. "Did you think they'd have flags flapping and trumpets blowing? Lincoln is traveling in secret, don't forget."
Nearby, Hazlett hawked and spat to show what he thought of Flynn's opinions.
Percy was in no mood to listen to anyone's speculations. "Shut up and pay attention," he grumbled at his men. "It's all about to begin."
Willie Forbes moved toward the tracks for a better look. He wasn't watching where he was going and bumped right into Flynn. Briefly, he got tangled in Flynn's long coat.
"Steady, lad," Flynn said, catching a sniff of stale whiskey. "What you need is a drink."
Forbes laughed nervously and moved away.
The train, glinting in the dawn light, looked no different from the others that had passed through town the previous day. Certainly, it wasn't as fancy as the Lord Baltimore. Percy felt a nagging doubt. Was the Yankee president really on board? He couldn't help but wonder if Norris, back in his office in Richmond, hadn't made some mistake and sent them all on a perilous journey into enemy territory for no good reason.
Whatever misgivings Percy felt, he couldn't reveal any doubts in front of his men. They had come too far for that. He squared his shoulders and turned to the raiders gathered on the platform. They stood a little apart from the half dozen other passengers waiting to catch the train. Behind Percy, the train rolled closer and a ripple of wind carried the smell of grease, smoke and iron toward them.
"Remember," Percy spoke in a harsh, urgent voice. "Don't get on in a bunch. Mix yourselves in with the other passengers and use both cars."
Flynn was first in line, and he made sure Benjamin was second. The boy might be full of bravado when it came to threatening to shoot Yankees, but he was also a farm boy who didn't know the first thing about being a passenger on a train.
"Follow me, lad," Flynn said quietly. "Let the conductor punch your ticket, then we'll find a seat."
Finally, the train coasted to a stop in front of the station with a burst of steam and a squeal of brakes. Flynn practically had to pull Benjamin up the steps after him.
"Come on, lad," he said, and led the way through the car to an empty seat.
Flynn glanced around at his fellow passengers. Much to his relief, there were few young men and no Union uniforms. They would be better off without any hot-blooded heroes. Mostly the car was filled with white-haired gentlemen whose folded hands rested securely on their paunches, and matronly women who held baskets of food for the trip.
The exception was a couple across the aisle from where he and Benjamin sat. The woman was slim, dark, and pretty, and the man was dressed in flashy clothes like a gambler. The dandy's arms and broad shoulders strained against the fabric of the suit, which looked to be a size too small for him, and he had a crooked nose that had been broken at some point and badly set.
Flynn had dealt with enough riffraff in Richmond to know the fellow wasn't any businessman, and the woman wasn't any lady in the proper sense. They would bear watching, Flynn decided.
He swiveled in his seat to look around. Pettibone and Fletcher were two seats behind him, and their eyes met his, then glanced away. Cephas Wilson, the engineer, was already in conversation with a portly gentleman. Percy was the last of the raiders to board, and he
appeared in the car's doorway and casually walked up the aisle, nodding to Flynn and Benjamin in the same way he nodded to everyone else on the train.
Hudson was nowhere in sight. Maryland might be part of the Union, but that didn't mean a black man could travel with the white passengers. He was riding in the baggage car. The rest of the raiders were in the other passenger car.
"This ain't what I expected," Benjamin grumbled in a low voice. "I thought there would be soldiers around, not old men and ladies. I don't want to kill none of them, even if they are Yankees."
"The longer it takes to pull a gun on this train, the better off we'll be," Flynn muttered in reply. He didn't tell the boy, but he was sure they would have a lot more than old men and ladies to worry about before the day was through.
Aside from Percy's men, only a few passengers got on at the station. Soon, the train lurched forward, and the locomotive up ahead emitted a powerful chug. The noise came faster and faster. Before long the scenery of Ellicott Mills was slipping by and cinders from the smokestack began to clink against the window glass like sleet.
Well, thought Flynn. It's begun.
The door of the car opened, and the conductor walked in. He was a bulldog of a man, of average height and stout through the middle. His blue B&O uniform was crisp and the brass buttons gleamed. It made Flynn painfully aware of his own somewhat ragged state after the headlong journey from Richmond.
"Tickets, please," the conductor announced, and began to make his way down the aisle. He took his time, checking tickets, nodding officiously, and answering questions. Flynn recalled the dark car that held Lincoln at the end of the train. How could the man be so calm knowing such an important passenger was aboard?
He doesn't know, Flynn realized. Oh, that's lovely for us.
The conductor was soon at their seat. Beside him, Flynn felt Benjamin go stiff as a bird dog. He touched the boy's knee to calm him.
