by David Healey
"Tickets," the conductor said, and Flynn handed over both his own and Benjamin's. The man looked from the tickets to the two men in the seat. "Cumberland. Well. Not many folks headed that way in these times. You hardly know from one day to the next whether it's a Union city or Confederate."
"Let's hope it's Union at the moment," Flynn said. "I've had my fill of fighting those damn Rebs."
Beside him, Benjamin stiffened. Flynn prodded him with the toe of his boot.
"You're a veteran, are you?" the conductor asked with sudden interest.
"Took a bullet at Gettysburg on the third day," Flynn said. "Now that I'm out of the hospital down there to Washington City, I'm on my way to visit my people."
The conductor nodded sympathetically. "I took my bullet at First Bull Run," he said. "That was enough of the war for me. I've been running trains since then."
As he handed back the tickets, the conductor stopped and scowled.
"I don't allow drinking on my train," he said gruffly and loudly enough for the other passengers to hear. "Veteran or not, I don't play favorites."
Startled, Flynn realized the conductor was staring at the neck of a pint bottle of whiskey poking from his coat pocket. Flynn had no idea how the bottle had gotten there. As the conductor moved on with a disapproving air, Flynn felt Colonel Percy's eyes upon him. He looked up and met Percy's angry glare. The colonel had forbidden any drinking—they were soldiers on duty—and the steely eyes held a promise of wrath to come. Besides, the whiskey bottle had attracted unnecessary attention to Flynn.
He was still stumped as to how it had appeared in his pocket. And then he remembered Willie Forbes bumping into him on the station platform. Of course! It was an old pickpocket's trick, only Forbes had used it to put something in Flynn's pocket, not steal something out of it.
Why would Forbes do that?
Hazlett. He must have put Forbes up to it. Forbes would do anything the sergeant told him. Pettibone had warned him Hazlett was a sly bastard. From now on, Flynn knew he would have to watch his back.
Flynn noticed the conductor had nothing but an unfriendly look for the dandy across the aisle. "You again," Flynn overheard the conductor saying to the man. "I remember you from last month. I won't trouble you about your tickets this time."
As the conductor moved on, the man stared at his back, muttered something, and flipped open his jacket to reveal the butt of a revolver.
"Charles," the woman whispered harshly, just loudly enough for Flynn to overhear, and flipped the jacket back over the handgun.
Flynn wondered what it was all about. He was careful, though, not to appear too curious.
The conductor finished checking all the tickets, then moved on to the next car.
"You didn't have to go making friends with him," Benjamin said. "If he hadn't seen that whiskey bottle, I reckon he might have invited you home to supper."
Flynn laughed. "Always make friends when you can, lad. There's more profit in it than in making enemies. After all, when you meet a strange dog, don't you give him your hand to smell first? It will be hard for him to bite it later. It's the same with men."
Outside, the scenery rushed past. It was rough, hilly country, and the leaves were mostly gone from the trees, leaving the landscape bare and brown. The tracks followed the Patapsco River, which twisted and turned through the valley as it led deeper into the countryside. There were far too many curves for the train to move with any real speed, so the raiders bided their time, each mile feeling like an eternity.
As the train rolled on, the raiders in the car exchanged anxious glances.
"Not long now, lad," Flynn whispered to Benjamin.
• • •
8 a.m., Sykesville, Maryland
At last, they steamed into a sleepy town ringed by more of the same rough terrain, with houses built into the hills rising above the river. A main street ran perpendicular to the Patapsco, crossing the river at a newly built bridge. J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry had burned the old bridge a few months before on their roundabout ride to Gettysburg.
The biggest building in town was Sykes's Hotel, a four-story tavern near the banks of the river that served as an unofficial train station. The train halted more or less in front of the hotel and the passengers began to get off and amble toward the establishment, which offered hot coffee and buttermilk biscuits with ham to hungry travelers.
"Breakfast!" the conductor called, bursting into the car and striding down the aisle. "Last stop we'll make between here and Harpers Ferry! We leave again in half an hour. Don't be late, ladies and gentlemen."
The conductor himself was soon hurrying toward the hotel with his engineer and fireman.
Flynn leaned close to Benjamin. "Best get ready, lad. It's beginning. Just don't shoot anyone you don't have to."
Not everyone got off the train. Some thrifty passengers had brought their own food, while others appeared content to go without. Flynn noticed the dapper couple from Baltimore stayed put, their breakfast consisting of a few quick nips from a flask passed between them.
Flynn's eyes slid to Percy. He was expecting some sign from the colonel. Benjamin fidgeted on the seat beside him, nervous as a damn puppy. The other passengers talked among themselves or produced their breakfasts from baskets and bags: biscuits, apples, a cold chicken drumstick or two.
"I believe I'll get some air," Percy announced to no one in particular, but loudly enough for all the raiders in the car to hear. "Sykesville, is it? A lovely town."
He stepped out the door.
"What's he playing at?" Benjamin hissed so loudly the dandified couple looked his way. The man had tiny scars at the corners of his eyes, a sign that he had been in his share of fights. He'll be a tough bastard, Flynn thought. Once again, he wondered what the couple was doing aboard the train.
He didn't spend much time wondering, though. He turned to Benjamin. "Do as Percy says, lad," Flynn said quietly. He stood up, stretched, sniffed. "Take the air like a proper gentleman."
"I wish I knew what in hell was going on," Benjamin whispered.
"You will, lad, soon enough."
They left the train and joined Percy on the platform, or what there was of one. Sykesville was not a big town and its train station was minimal, especially considering that the damage J.E.B. Stuart's men had done while riding through last summer had yet to be completely repaired. There was a platform of rough-sawn boards so passengers could get on and off the train without stepping in the mud. The railroad had come to town in 1831, but the closest thing to a train station was Sykes's Hotel.
Outside on the platform, Percy was staring off to the other side of the river. Flynn followed his gaze and what he saw made his breath come out in a gasp.
"Sweet Jesus," he muttered.
"Damn," said Benjamin, seeing it, too.
Flynn realized he had been so busy studying the town as the train arrived that he hadn't bothered to look across the river.
Percy just stared. Captain Cater was now on the platform, as were Wilson and Pettibone. They were soon joined by Forbes and Hazlett.
All of them fixed their eyes on the meadow beyond the riverbank, where a full regiment of Yankees was camped. Across the river, several bored soldiers eyed the train. All of them had rifles in their hands.
Pettibone spat. "At least it ain't cavalry."
But there were nearly a thousand infantrymen, and the Patapsco River separating them from the railroad tracks was so shallow after a hot, dry autumn that the soldiers could easily splash across at the first alarm. The platform was well within range of the enemy's Springfield rifles, although it was doubtful the Yankees would open fire with civilian passengers still aboard the train. The raiders had counted on the Chesapeake stopping for breakfast, but not on a regiment of Yankees using the town as a campground.
That wasn't the worst of it. Three soldiers swung down from the baggage car and walked out onto the platform. All three carried rifles with fixed bayonets. They eyed the men on the platform suspicio
usly. Hudson came out of the car and sat on the iron steps. Behind the soldiers' backs, he held up three fingers, pointed at the Yankees, then pointed at the car and made a circle with his fingers to indicate no one else was inside.
"Who the hell are they?" Forbes asked.
"Guards," Percy said. "Lincoln's on the train, remember? It makes sense they didn't send him entirely alone."
"Now what?" Pettibone wondered out loud, speaking for all of them. They hadn't planned on hijacking the train in plain view of a Yankee regiment.
Percy just stared across the river, thinking
Chapter 10
"Look at all them Yankees," Hazlett said. "We can't steal the damn train now. Ain't that right, Colonel?"
Percy appeared not to have heard. He was busy studying the Yankee camp across the river. When he finally spoke, it was to give orders: "Captain Cater, take Private Cook with you and go to the rear of the train and get up on the last car. If anyone chases us, they'll try to jump on the back. Don't let them."
"That's Mr. Lincoln's car, sir."
"Yes, but don't worry yourself about that. Lincoln and whoever else is with him will stay holed up in that car like gophers, which is just where we want them. No one is supposed to know they're aboard, remember? Lincoln isn't about to show himself."
Percy quickly gave the rest of his orders. He sent Cephas Wilson and Hank Cunningham to the locomotive and told them to get the train underway. He ordered Hazlett, Forbes and Pettibone aboard the tender, to help the railroad men in any way they needed.
"If there's any shooting that needs doing, you men take care of it and let those two run the train," Percy said.
"What about us, Colonel, sir?" Flynn asked when he found that he, Benjamin and Fletcher were the only ones left on the platform with Percy.
"Fletcher, you and I will take the first passenger car," Percy said. He nodded at Flynn and Benjamin. "You two take the second car. If any of the passengers cause trouble, shoot them."
"All right," Flynn said. He looked toward the Yankee soldiers on the platform. "What about the guards?"
"Hudson will take care of them."
The massive driving wheels of the Chesapeake began to move, and a fresh gout of smoke filled the air. Inside the locomotive's cab, Cunningham opened the blower and increased the air flow to the locomotive's firebox so the wood could burn hotter.
The train was still under steam, and using both hands, Wilson took hold of the Johnson bar, which was about three feet tall and jutted straight up from the floor of the locomotive right beside the engineer's seat. He shoved it forward, putting his weight into it, and the train began to roll.
He pulled back the two-foot long throttle lever, gave the locomotive a burst of steam, then shoved the throttle forward again, shutting off the steam. He repeated this action three times, which got the locomotive rolling more effectively than opening the throttle wide open. That would only have caused the wheels to slip uselessly on the rails. Still, the driving wheels spun as they sought purchase on the well-polished rails. Wilson reached up and pulled a handle at the end of a long bar which ran the length of the locomotive to the sand box atop the forward end. Tubes ran down the sides of the locomotive, spitting sand on the rails just in front of the wheels to give them traction.
As the train began to move, Flynn ran for the second car with Benjamin close behind him. The boy had already pulled out the Colt Navy revolver, and Flynn stopped and gently laid a hand on the gun before they reentered the coach.
"Remember, lad, I gave you that gun to shoot soldiers, not old ladies. Best put it away till you need it. And need it you will, before the day is out."
"Goddamnit, Flynn— "
Flynn glared at him. "That's Sergeant Flynn to you, lad, and I'm tellin' you to put that gun away. No use in causing trouble just yet."
Benjamin gave him a sullen look, but did as he was told. They returned to the car they had ridden out from Ellicott Mills. Already the train was moving, groaning, shuffling ahead like an old man.
As the train began to roll, the three soldiers on the platform ran for the baggage car.
"It's leavin' without us, fellas," one of the men shouted.
The guards had no reason to think the train was being stolen, so they did not shout for help to the soldiers across the river. Hudson was no longer sitting on the steps, but was waiting just inside the open doorway of the car. As the three guards crowded onto the narrow walkway at the front of the car, Hudson jumped out and used his massive arms to grab up all three startled guards in a bear hug. He hurled them off the train before they could even cry out in protest.
The guards landed in a heap on the far side of the train, out of sight of the encamped soldiers. One man writhed on the ground in pain, holding an arm that was twisted at an odd angle. Another guard jumped up and ran at Hudson, but he kicked the man neatly in the jaw and the soldier flopped to the ground.
The third man ran toward the train, bayonet at the ready, but he backed off when he saw the Colt revolver in Hudson's hand. The guard raised his rifle to fire, but the train was picking up speed, and Hudson was already out of sight, giving the guard the side of the car as a target.
"Thieves!" he shouted, although the train drowned him out as it rolled away from the platform. "Thieves!"
• • •
"Biscuits and coffee for us," George Greer said to Mrs. Sykes, scooting his chair closer to the table in the dining room of Sykes's Hotel.
"Lots of coffee und butter for the biscuits," added Oscar Schmidt, the engineer. He still had a hint of his German accent, even though he had lived in Baltimore for twenty years, and pronounced his "W's" as "V's." "It vill be a long journey to Cumberland."
"Hungry work," agreed Walter Frost, the fireman. It was his job to keep water in the Chesapeake's boiler and a steady supply of wood in the firebox. He was not a large man but he was sinewy and muscular. His hands were like leather, the fingers square-tipped stubs from handling cordwood all day. He had washed before entering the hotel, but ash still clung to the creases in his face and to his hair.
The three railroad men had made the run to western Maryland many times. Greer and Schmidt had worked together for years and knew each other almost as well as they knew their own wives. Frost wasn't married, although there was a war widow he got on well with in Baltimore.
"What do you reckon is in that last car?" Frost asked. It had been attached to their train in the early morning hours as they left the city. An officer had told them it was being added to their train and that they should leave the car alone. He had been emphatic about that.
Greer shrugged. "Army business," he said.
He was just as curious as Frost, of course, but he knew better than to be too inquisitive where the military was concerned. B&O officials assisted the military whenever possible, because they counted on the army to guard the tracks against marauding Confederates. Consequently, his bosses would not look kindly upon a nosy conductor.
It was bad enough that they were carrying the payroll for the Cumberland garrison. Greer guessed the mysterious car held nothing more interesting than good whiskey for the general at Cumberland, or possibly even a couple of Baltimore whores for the officers. He had heard of such things, and while he didn't necessarily approve, he knew better than to question them out loud.
Schmidt spread butter on a biscuit, wolfed it down, then slurped noisily at his coffee.
"Damn goot," he said. "This should hold me until lunch in Harpers Ferry."
Greer laughed. "Always thinking of your belly, aren't you, Oscar?"
"A man can't work on an empty stomach."
The three men laughed and went on eating.
As Greer went to take another sip of coffee, his gaze settled on the train across the river. He stopped laughing, and his coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth.
"What is wrong?" Schmidt asked.
Greer barely heard him. He was busy watching a plume of thick, black smoke coming from the Chesapeake’s funnel, a tellta
le sign that someone was stoking the firebox.
"Look at that," he said, aghast. His two companions turned, just in time to see the train lurch ahead, then start down the tracks.
Schmidt swore. "Someone's taking our train!"
In the distance, they could barely hear someone shouting, "Thieves! Brigands!"
Suddenly the dining room exploded into action as the three men jumped up from the table. Coffee spilled, chairs fell over and a plate of biscuits clattered to the floor.
"Where are ya'll goin' ?" called Mrs. Sykes, running from the kitchen in alarm, but the railroad men were already out the door, sprinting for the bridge across the Patapsco.
• • •
Aboard the train, the passengers appeared only mildly concerned that the Chesapeake was slowly rolling out of Sykesville, even though several of their fellow passengers were still having breakfast at Sykes's Hotel.
"What's going on?" a fat matron demanded of Flynn, who had just come from outside.
"Not to worry, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat. "I believe there's something to load on the last car, and the engineer had to pull the train ahead a few feet to bring the car even with the platform."
Flynn spoke in a voice loud enough for the other passengers to hear, and his explanation seemed to satisfy the woman, who settled back down in her seat.
"Well, we're going awfully fast," she huffed.
The train gathered speed. Flynn expected at any moment to hear the shooting begin, but all was quiet except for the growing noise of the iron wheels turning ever faster on the rails beneath them.
"Young man, I don't believe we're going to stop," the matron spoke up, sounding annoyed, as if she knew Flynn had misled her.
"The engineer must be drunk," he said lamely. "It's been known to happen."
No one took exception to that. It seemed as good an explanation as any. Flynn looked out the window. They were moving much faster. The train rolled past a man on foot, quickly outpacing him. Trees flickered past. The brown autumn grass was a blur.
