by David Healey
“It ain’t right,” Frost agreed.
“Let’s go.”
Greer set off at a run down the tracks, cursing at his engineer and fireman to keep up the pace. Frost was young enough that he hardly broke a sweat as they moved through the dappled November sunshine. He was in good shape from hauling wood from tender to firebox. Greer decided Frost could most likely run all day long, but he only seemed to have one speed and it wasn’t fast enough.
Schmidt was another matter. He was fond of his German wife's cooking, and he washed down his schnitzel and sauerkraut with great quantities of beer from Baltimore's breweries. His huge belly bounced as he ran and his lungs chugged like the steam locomotive he normally operated on these same tracks.
"Mein Gott," he panted. "Let them have the damn train."
"Shut up and save your wind," Greer snapped. "We've got to catch these damn thieves."
"What will we do if we catch them?" Schmidt huffed. "They killed two passengers. What do you think they’ll do to us? We don’t even have a gun."
Before finding the bodies, it hadn't occurred to Greer that the train thieves probably had guns. Neither he, Schmidt nor Frost were armed. Well, he decided, they would worry about that when they found the train. With any luck, the thieves would abandon the train as soon as it ground to a halt.
Greer thought they would have found the Chesapeake by now. They were already three or four miles out of Sykesville. There might have been enough steam left in the boiler to get the train moving, but someone aboard knew something about running trains to get her this far.
He still believed that deserters had taken the train, even if the surly young captain back in Sykesville had claimed otherwise. Many men were making a career of signing on for the bonus money offered new recruits, then deserting and signing up yet again to collect more money. A train would be a handy means of escape for men like that. Deserters might also be desperate enough to commit murder, knowing that a hangman’s rope or a firing squad most likely awaited them if they were caught.
One of the deserters must have had some knowledge of trains to keep the Chesapeake running this far. Still, at any moment, Greer expected to come across the train stopped on the tracks. He braced himself to deal with the irate passengers who would be spilling out from the cars, wondering what had happened.
The train thieves would be long-gone, and Greer would have to back the Chesapeake the few miles into town to pick up the passengers left behind at Sykes's Hotel. The incident would be embarrassing, but not disastrous.
They ran another mile, but there was no train. Not even a sign of the Chesapeake. No screech ahead of wheels on iron rails. No plume of smoke above the treetops. The train had vanished.
"Bastards," Greer cursed the thieves. He was sure the owners of the B&O Railroad might just be inclined to fire a train crew who had allowed a locomotive and several cars to be stolen, all because they had stopped for breakfast. “Why would they take my train?”
“Payroll money,” panted Frost, struggling to keep up. “Must have been several thousand dollars in that baggage car.”
Greer dismissed the idea. “If thieves wanted the payroll money, it stands to reason they would have taken the money, not the entire train,” he said. “Besides, the baggage car had been well-guarded.”
It never occurred to any of them that the last car, mysteriously attached to the train during the night, had anything to do with the morning's events.
“Whatever the reason, the directors of the B&O Railroad aren’t going to be happy about what had happened,” he added.
Anger gave him new strength and he ran faster, determined to find the Chesapeake. He knew it was the only hope of redemption he, Schmidt and Frost had.
"Nobody steals my goddamn train," he panted.
"For pity's sake, Greer," Schmidt gasped, sounding close to collapse. "I can't keep this up much longer."
"Shut up and run," Greer growled.
Chapter 12
8:45 a.m., Hood's Mill, Maryland
A few miles up the tracks, the Chesapeake was coming to a halt, not because it had run out of steam, but because Colonel Percy had ordered it. The train crept across the Washington Road and stopped.
"Keep her under steam," Percy told Wilson. "We'll only be here a few minutes, just long enough to cut the telegraph wires."
Percy jumped down from the locomotive and ran back to the cars. He was anxious to get as far as possible before there was any sign of pursuit, but he hoped cutting the wires would increase their chances of escape. Several of the raiders were leaning out the windows to see what was going on.
"Keep one man in each car to guard the passengers and the rest of you get down here," Percy shouted. "We have work to do. Forbes! Where the hell are you?"
A head appeared in a window. "Here, sir!"
"Get out here. I have a job for you."
The raiders quickly jumped down and gathered near the locomotive. Lieutenant Cater came running up from the last car, the one that held Lincoln, but Percy waved him back.
"All right, boys, we're going to do two things while we're stopped—cut the telegraph wires and pull up a couple of rails in case the Yankees send a train after us. First, I want to know how the passengers are behaving."
Flynn spoke up. "Well, sir, we had to shoot two of them."
Percy blinked in surprise. "Dead?"
"Yes, sir. I got one and the lad got the other."
"I hope you had good reason."
"They hauled out guns and decided they weren't going to put up with the likes of us. They were Yankee veterans, Colonel, acting brave."
Percy nodded. Nearby, Hazlett sneered, as if Flynn had failed somehow.
"All right," Percy said bitterly. "What's done is done. Let's try not to shoot anyone else. I hadn't counted on there being so many people on board."
"They look just like cattle," Hazlett muttered in disgust, staring back at the passengers watching from the windows.
Percy wasn't finished. He turned to Flynn with a steely glare. "And I better not catch you drinking any goddamn whiskey, Flynn. You sure as hell set off that conductor back there—you could have put us all in danger. I know you were sent to keep an eye on me, Sergeant, but I'm in command of this raid, and you'll do as I tell you."
"I hear you."
That was as good a dressing down as he'd ever had in his previous short career as a soldier. Flynn realized he still had the whiskey bottle in his coat pocket, and he pulled it out and pitched it away. He knew trying to explain to Percy how the bottle had ended up in his pocket was pointless. Flynn glanced at Hazlett, and noticed the sergeant was grinning.
Forbes watched with greedy eyes as the bottle landed with a thud in the bushes, unbroken.
"We could put all the passengers off right here, sir," Pettibone suggested.
"They would have the Yankees onto us in no time," Flynn said. "This is a settled area and we're sitting on one of the major roads out of Washington City. There's another road just three miles south of here that carries all the traffic going west out of Baltimore. Cavalry passes all the time on both these roads."
"Flynn's right," Percy said. "Nobody but the passengers knows who we are, so let's keep it that way for a while."
"We could just let Flynn shoot them," Hazlett said. His gap-toothed smile made him look more wicked than usual.
Percy ignored him. "Let's get moving. If Flynn's right about this road we don't want to meet any soldiers, so the less time spent sitting here, the better. Forbes, borrow that big Bowie knife off Hazlett and cut the wires on those poles." Percy pointed out the two sets of telegraph wires, one running east-west, the other north-south. "Cut the one going west first, since that's the way we're going. Pettibone, you help him. The rest of us are going to pull up some rails."
"With what?" Flynn asked.
"With … hell, I don't know. Our fingers if we have to." Percy turned toward the engine and shouted, "Wilson, you got and pry bars in there?"
The engine
er bent down, reappeared with a hammer in his hand. "That's all there is, Colonel. This and some small tools for the locomotive."
Percy swore. Wrenching an iron rail free of the cross ties was no easy task, especially without a pry bar to give a man leverage. "This is a fine time to be thinking about tools."
"Let's just cut the wires and be gone," Flynn said. "Otherwise we'll only be wasting time. All we have to pull up those rails is rocks and our hands, and that's not enough. Trust me, Colonel. I've put a few rails down in my time so I know something about pulling them up."
Forbes and Pettibone went off to cut the telegraph wires. Forbes was a slightly built man, no more than five-feet, five-inches tall and 110 pounds. Perfect size for a cavalryman, and even better for shimmying up telegraph poles.
Percy turned to Hazlett. "Sergeant, you keep an eye out up and down this road for any Yankee cavalry. No shooting, if you can help it."
"Yes, sir. I'll shout if I see anyone." He looked toward the dirt road which climbed steeply on both sides of the river. "There should be enough dust to give us fair warning."
"Good. Flynn, you come with me."
Together, Flynn and the colonel started down the length of the train. Both men were aware of the passengers watching them out the windows.
"How's Benjamin holding up?" Percy asked.
"He's a bit green to this sort of work, but he'll be all right."
"That's why I put him with you." Percy seemed to have forgotten all about reprimanding Flynn over the whiskey.
"Why not with Hazlett?" Flynn thought he already knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway.
"Hazlett is not an easy man to work with," Percy said. "We go back long before the war. He's a good man to have in a fight, though. Sometimes the best soldiers are the same men you'd want watching your back in a tavern brawl. You of all people should know that, Flynn. I sense you've had some experience in such matters."
"Och, I've cleared out a room or two in my day."
But tavern brawls weren't Percy's style, Flynn knew, and he couldn't help wondering why Percy seemed so loyal to someone like Hazlett. The colonel was tough in his own way, but Flynn could see that he was also a romantic. What some might call a "Southern Gentleman." Virginia was full of men like that who got caught up in the Confederacy's hopeless cause.
Hazlett was none of those things. He was what well-bred Southerners like Percy called "white trash," that class who caught and whipped the runaway slaves or maybe made moonshine out in the woods. The man was downright vicious.
As if reading Flynn's mind, Percy went on, "I suppose I should tell you, Flynn, that Hazlett is married to my cousin. The less illustrious branch of the Percys, but family nonetheless."
"I thought it might be something like that." Flynn suppressed a smile. He was sure now that Percy did not like Hazlett, but only tolerated him. Blood ran thicker than water, and Percy would be too much of a gentleman to allow personal feelings to overrule the Southern obligations of family. "He may be your cousin's wife, but as soon as this raid is over, I'm going to shoot him."
Percy laughed. "If he doesn't shoot you first, you mean."
"We'll see about that."
The grin left Percy's face. "You know I'm doing the best I can with this damned raid, Flynn. Norris sent us on a mission that's damn near impossible."
"Some might even call it a fool's errand," Flynn added. "But here we are, and if you don't mind me saying so, Colonel, if anyone can pull this off it's you."
"Does this mean you're not going to shoot me?"
"You don't have to watch your back with me," Flynn said. "There's some things I am, and some I'm not. One of those is a backstabber."
"If I thought you were the kind of man who would do that, I would have had Hudson toss you in the Potomac River once we were halfway across—or maybe I would have shot you myself as soon as we got into Maryland."
"At this point, Colonel, I think we're all going to have enough trouble getting home alive with Abraham Lincoln that we can pretty much forget about any need to shoot each other. Besides, it's pretty clear to me you intend to see this thing through."
"I do."
"You know, I always thought the Irish were the craziest people in the world, but I was wrong. You Virginians have us beat."
They hurried toward the last car. Hudson jumped down from the baggage car to join them. Lieutenant Cater and Private Cook were on the ground, waiting, revolvers in their hands.
"Anything going on in there?" Percy asked.
"Quiet as a church, sir," Cater said. "I reckon President Lincoln has slept through all the ruckus—if there's even anyone in there."
The car that supposedly held Lincoln resembled a miniature fortress on wheels. It was painted black and well-built, but lacked any ornament that befitted a president. The windows were placed high up the sides of the car, designed to let light in rather than to let passengers look out. There was one door made of thick oak and bound with iron that opened onto a small platform skirted with a plain iron railing. Lincoln and his bodyguard—he must surely have at least one other man inside with him—could make an effective last stand firing down from the high windows. The car's walls, sturdy as they were, could not have withstood return fire from Springfield rifles, but against the less heavy caliber revolvers carried by the raiders, those walls would be like iron.
"Any noise from inside?"
"No, sir," the lieutenant said.
"What are you thinking?" Flynn asked.
"I wonder if there is anyone inside," Percy said. "Imagine if the Yankees spun this whole crazy scheme about Lincoln sneaking into Gettysburg the back way, fed it to Norris down in Richmond, and meanwhile Lincoln is safely aboard the presidential train on the Northern Central after all, eating smoked oysters, smoking cigars, and listening to a bunch of fat Yankee carpetbaggers decide how they'll carve up the South after the war."
"The joke is on us, then?" Flynn asked, amazed. Percy's scenario suddenly made sense. "I suppose we'll have to find out if Lincoln is in there. No sense going through with this if he's not."
The thought of being in the middle of Maryland with just a handful of men and a stolen train was not appealing to anyone. Not when every crossroads threatened to bring an encounter with Yankee troops.
"Colonel, you want me to knock on the door?" Lieutenant Cater asked.
"Let Flynn do it," Percy said. "If there is someone inside and they shoot through the door, we can afford to lose him better than you." He smiled, as if to show he was only joking. Flynn didn't find the humor in it.
"Let's get your cousin-in-law to do it."
"Go knock on the goddamn door, Flynn," Percy snapped. "And make sure you stand to one side so you don't get shot."
Flynn climbed the iron steps, wondering how he got into these situations. He should have been back in Richmond, drinking good black market whiskey, thumping heads, and taking his pick of the whores. Instead, he might be about to get his insides filled with lead.
"Remember," Percy hissed after him. "You're not supposed to know it's Lincoln."
Flynn sighed. How was he supposed to find out if President Lincoln was inside if he couldn't ask for him by name? He knocked on the door and shouted, "Anybody in there?"
No answer. He pounded on the door again.
Finally, a gruff voice answered from within. "What do you want?"
"The conductor wants to know if everything is all right," Flynn said. "We've had trouble with raiders."
No answer.
"Rebels," Flynn added helpfully.
"Will there be any delay?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On how soon the engineer can get this train moving again."
"Then you had better tell him to get to work. We have a schedule to keep."
Flynn looked at the door, then over to Percy. The colonel raised his eyebrows in question. Flynn shrugged in reply. He still didn't know if Lincoln was inside the car.
"Aw, hell," he mu
ttered, and knocked on the door again.
"What do you want now?" the voice demanded impatiently.
Flynn took a deep breath and decided to take a chance. "I'm looking for President Lincoln."
This time there was a long, long pause. Flynn was on the verge of repeating his question, just in case it hadn't been heard, when the voice spoke on the other side of the door.
"Who wants to know?"
Flynn decided there was no longer any point in being anything but direct. "This is Sergeant Thomas Flynn of the Confederate States of America. The train has been captured by Colonel Arthur Percy, and you are now prisoners of the Confederacy."
The silence stretched long moments before someone spoke up. "I'm Major Rathbone, the president's assistant," said the voice. "What do you intend to do with us?"
"We're taking you to Richmond," Flynn replied. "Is President Lincoln really in there?"
A new voice spoke up. Not as deep as Rathbone's. A tired-sounding voice. "I'm Lincoln."
Flynn heard hands fumbling at the bolt on the other side of the door, then a hushed voice say, "No, sir. It could be a trap." The fumbling stopped.
"I'm afraid I have no sword to surrender, Sergeant Flynn," Lincoln said. "Therefore I won't open the door."
"Then have a good trip, sir," Flynn said.
"I trust you will have a good journey as well, Sergeant." He thought he heard Lincoln chuckle. "You realize, of course, that you're still in the middle of Maryland. There are cavalry patrols all around. Infantry guards all the major railroad bridges and stations. Richmond is a long way off."
"Yes, sir," was all Flynn could think to say.
Lincoln was right, of course. They would need God himself on their side to make it to Richmond. "If you need anything, sir, there will be guards outside your car."
"I believe we shall be just fine, Sergeant."
Flynn climbed down and joined Percy, who had edged closer, hoping to hear some of the conversation. "Well, is it Lincoln or isn't it?" Percy asked.
