by David Healey
"It's Lincoln, all right," Flynn said. "In fact, I believe he would have come out and had a drink with us, but some fellow in there named Major Rathbone wouldn't let him open the door."
Percy nodded. "I've heard of Rathbone. He's Lincoln's bodyguard. It makes sense that he'd be traveling to Gettysburg with the president."
"I guess that settles it," Flynn said. He smiled. "You've got your president, Colonel. Now what?"
"On to Richmond, of course."
The lieutenant and Private Cook returned to their post guarding the president's car, while Percy, Flynn and Hudson started back toward the engine. They had barely come even with the baggage car when Hazlett shouted a warning. Someone was coming.
"Come on," Percy said, and the three men started running for the front of the train.
Chapter 13
"Get ready, boys!" Percy shouted as he ran. "Here come the Yankees!"
Flynn drew the Le Mat revolver and sprinted after Percy, whose long legs easily covered the distance to the front of the train. Forbes finished cutting the second telegraph wire and slid down the pole. As the others ran past, Forbes dropped the last few feet, nearly landing on top of Pettibone, who jumped out of the way just in time, cursing.
Benjamin poked his head out the window. "What's all the commotion about?" he shouted.
"Cavalry, I reckon," Flynn yelled back. "Keep an eye on those passengers, lad. If something starts with the Yankees, they're sure to cause trouble."
Flynn fully expected to see a troop of blue-coated cavalry coming down the Washington Road. He knew the raiders wouldn't stand a chance, not with the train stopped. A squadron of any size would outnumber them. The best they could hope for was to hold the Yankees off long enough for the train to reach a decent speed, and then outrun them.
He wasn't prepared for what he did see, which was a hand car carrying a crew of four startled workmen. They rolled out of the woods to the west on the opposite track.
"Hold your fire," Percy snapped at his men.
Although the crew's arrival was more welcome than cavalry, Percy knew they still presented a problem, for here were four men who could quickly spread word of the raid if they learned what was going on. If the workers found them out, the raiders would have no choice but to take the men prisoner, or shoot them.
"What do we do about them?" Hazlett wondered out loud.
"Let me do the talking," Percy muttered to the knot of men who still ringed the engine, revolvers at the ready. "And put those guns away. If we start shooting, it's only going to attract attention if there are any soldiers on the road."
Percy approached the crew, who looked suspiciously at the Chesapeake, standing under steam at the Washington Road crossing. It was unusual for a westbound train to be stopped there. One of the crew gripped an old shotgun, which Percy supposed they kept for killing snakes
"Where's Greer?" the man holding the shotgun asked. He was bigger than the others, and Percy took him to be the foreman.
"He took sick," said Percy, which was the first thing that came to mind. He wondered who Greer might be.
The man stared at Percy for several long moments. Finally, he leaned to one side and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice, expertly hitting the rail. "Hell, it ain't like Greer to let someone else run his train. That locomotive there is his pride and joy. He must be on his deathbed."
"Well, it's not his train, is it? It's the B&O Railroad's," Percy pointed out. He was losing patience.
"I didn't catch your name," the foreman said.
"Arthur Percy."
The crew foreman looked long and hard at the colonel. Behind him, Percy could sense his own men begin to grow uneasy, like a shifting in the wind.
"Never heard of no Percy," the foreman said. "I know most everyone who works for the railroad, I reckon."
"Well, I suppose you just haven't heard of me." This time, there was nothing friendly in Percy's voice. "It's good you came along. We'll be needing your tools."
"What are you talking about?" the foreman asked. "You don't need tools on an engine. Not pry bars and shovels, at least."
"There are raiders up ahead, and the tools will help put back the track they've torn up."
"That why you boys all have your guns out?" the foreman asked. Percy sensed the tension going out of his men. "You reckoned we was Rebels?"
"That's right," Percy said. "We thought you were Rebels."
"Hell!" The foreman suddenly laughed, harder and harder, until he nearly choked. Then he paused to cough up phlegm, which he spat to the ground in a long, ropy stream. "Rebels."
"Well, you can't be too careful in times like these."
"Ain't that God's honest truth," the foreman said. He added without any enthusiasm, "You want us to ride along to do the work for you?"
"I reckon we can handle it," Percy said.
The foreman looked relieved.
They soon had all the workers' tools loaded into the tender. Any fears that the men might be suspicious were dispelled when one of the crew climbed down the river bank and produced a stone jug from a hiding place in the Patapsco's shallows. The men sat on the push car, drinking their chilled whiskey, and watched as the Chesapeake got underway again.
"I'll be damned," Percy said once the engine was chugging on toward Cumberland. "If the Yankees are all that easy to fool, we'll have Lincoln in Richmond in two days' time."
• • •
Greer, Frost and Schmidt jogged up the tracks, badly winded. The sight of the hand car rolling toward them was like an answered prayer.
"Thank Gott,” Schmidt wheezed. "Now we won't have to walk back to Baltimore."
"We're not going back," Greer growled. "We're going after our train."
Schmidt was too tired to argue. The three men stopped and caught their breath as the hand car rolled closer and coasted to a stop.
"George Greer!" shouted a man named Jones, whom Greer recognized as the crew foreman. The man's leathery face wore a puzzled expression. "You ain't laid up?"
"Hell no! Does it look like I am?"
The foreman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "The conductor back there said you was sick, so he was running your train. Some fellow name of Percy. I thought it all seemed awful strange."
"Conductor? He's a thief! The son of a bitch stole my train."
Excitement swept over the workmen. Greer could smell whiskey on their breath, which was no surprise. Track workers were the bottom rung of the railroad hierarchy, and he was in no mood to waste time on these drunken fools. "Why the hell didn't you stop them?" he snapped.
"We didn't know they was thieves. Besides, there was a lot of 'em and they had guns."
"Guns?"
"Told us there was trouble on the tracks west of here. Hell, Greer, you know as well as I do that the Rebs jump over into Maryland every chance they get to play hell with the tracks."
It was true enough. The Harpers Ferry bridge, for instance, had been burned and rebuilt so many times that Greer could no longer keep count. But he wasn't ready to let the foreman and his men off the hook too easily.
"You could have asked more questions and drank less whiskey."
"Goddamnit, Greer, I'm tellin' you they had guns— "
"Where are your tools?" Greer asked, suddenly noticing the bed of the hand car was empty.
"They took 'em," the foreman said. "They said the tracks ahead might need to be repaired on account of the Rebs."
Now it was Greer's turn to swear. He cussed till he was breathless and sputtering, and when he finished, the workmen's mouths gaped open in various degree of astonishment.
Greer spat out a final oath and glared at the men. "What do you think the Rebs are going to do with those tools, you jackasses? They're going to tear up track! That's what. You fools gave them just what they need to do it."
"We didn't know." The foreman made a half-hearted attempt to defend himself. "Not much we could have done, anyhow."
Greer had heard enough. "Get the hell out of my way," he
said. "We'll take the hand car and go after them."
The foreman protested. "It's four miles into town—"
"You'll walk it, goddamnit," Greer snapped. He climbed aboard the push car and grabbed one end of the lever. "Frost, Schmidt, get on up here."
"You'll never catch up to a train on that contraption, Greer," the foreman said.
"Let me worry about that. Now, when you get into town, tell Sykes at the hotel to wire ahead that the train's been stolen. You got that? Someone might be able to stop them at the next station."
The foreman shook his head. "I hope so, because you ain’t goin' to catch them on no hand car."
Greer ground his teeth. "Shut up, you damn fool. You leave it to us to see how much catchin' up we can do."
The work gang, now on foot, turned and headed east toward Sykesville. They had left a canteen behind, and the three men gratefully drank the water. Then Greer, Schmidt and Frost got the hand car moving. It was slow work starting from a dead stop, so Schmidt jumped off and began to push, grunting with the effort. The heavy crossbar moved up and down, faster and faster, and when the car began to pick up speed, Schmidt jumped aboard. As the three men began to work the crossbar in earnest, sweat broke out on their faces despite the fact that it was mid-November.
Greer couldn't help thinking of the Chesapeake’s dual, five-foot tall driving wheels and the powerful steam engine that drove those wheels. The locomotive could do a mile a minute on level ground. A steam locomotive running at full throttle was an awesome sight to behold, and the muscle-powered hand car seemed too hopelessly slow to ever catch the Chesapeake.
Schmidt spoke the same thought out loud. "We're too far behind. Let's just turn back and let someone stop her at the next station."
"Just put your back into it, Oscar," Greer grunted as he shoved down the handle, powering the car along the tracks. "We're going after our train."
• • •
A few miles ahead, the Chesapeake was steaming along just the way her pursuers imagined. The steam pistons churned with a powerful rhythm, and a long plume of black smoke streamed behind her, creating a smudge on the otherwise brilliant blue autumn sky. The locomotive was a beautiful sight, spinning along the bright ribbon of track that cut through the golden fields of autumn.
Hank Cunningham stood up tall on the tender and let the wind stream around him. He threw back his head and let out a long, blood-curdling Rebel yell.
"You sound like a goddamn Indian," Wilson complained good-naturedly as he worked the Chesapeake’s controls. He pulled a lever on the floor behind him to release more water into the locomotive's boiler, then opened the throttle a little wider. Operating a steam locomotive was part art, part instinct. There were few gauges, so an engineer relied on the feel of an engine, its sound, and his own experience.
Percy shared the cramped cab of the locomotive with Wilson. Whenever they came to a curve, the colonel leaned out, looking as far behind them as he could. He was watching for the telltale plume of smoke that would mean an engine was pursuing them. So far, there had been no sign that anyone was chasing them, and the Yankees hadn't attempted to block the tracks ahead, either.
Their luck, Percy thought, had been unbelievable so far. If it held out, they would soon have the Yankee president spirited into Confederate-held territory as a prisoner of war.
Abraham Lincoln. It was a name that could conjure political magic for the struggling Confederacy. The very thought that they had Lincoln as a prisoner was intoxicating. Capturing the president would do more to help the Cause than a score of battlefield victories.
Percy's thoughts were interrupted as Hank Cunningham pushed past with another load of wood for the firebox. They were burning cordwood at a terrific rate to maintain the Chesapeake’s speed. Cunningham worked like a fiend to feed the hungry maw of the firebox.
"How are we set on wood and water?" Percy asked.
Wilson looked at Cunningham, who shrugged. "Well, we might not have enough water to make it to Harpers Ferry, if that's what you mean, sir. We'll have to stop at Frederick Junction on the Monocacy River to take on wood and water both. This train hasn't been refueled since it left Baltimore this morning."
Percy was disappointed—and a little uneasy. The Monocacy was still well within Maryland. On the other hand, Harpers Ferry would be a major milestone, not in the least because the former United States arsenal was heavily guarded by Union soldiers and artillery.
Once they crossed the Potomac River and made it through Harpers Ferry, they would still be traveling through Union territory, but the Yankees' hold on the new state of West Virginia was not nearly as strong as it was on this side of the river. Each mile would bring them closer to the safety of the Shenandoah Valley, where Confederate troops would help them carry Lincoln south.
Still, Percy wasn't taking any chances.
"Run another ten minutes at full throttle and then stop," Percy ordered, shouting to be heard over the roar of the locomotive. He smiled. "We need to leave a little something to slow down anybody who tries to follow us."
"Yes, sir."
Percy grinned. "You know what 'Shenandoah' means, Wilson? It's an Indian word."
"No, Colonel." Wilson was distracted, busy working a lever.
"It means, 'Daughter of the Stars,' " Percy said. "I like the sound of that. Now let's get ourselves to the Shenandoah Valley just as fast as we can."
Chapter 14
Richmond
Colonel William Norris read the latest news in a smuggled copy of The Washington Star and nodded his approval. So, Lincoln was still expected at Gettysburg. Reading the Northern newspapers was almost as productive as spying. Early in the war he had learned a great deal about troop movements and even strategy until the Federal government had begun to censor the news.
Then again, you didn’t see everything in the newspapers. There was no news of his raiders, for example. The note from Flynn had been his last update.
Norris stood and walked to the fire to warm himself. His fingers had grown stiff with cold. He was about to call for Fletcher when he caught himself. Well, so much for that. Fletcher had served his purpose but Norris did not trust him to keep his mouth closed about the secret business that went on at the Confederate Signal Bureau. Sending him on the raid seemed like a good way to rid himself of a liability. Of course, there was always the off chance that Captain Fletcher might survive and return.
And the others? It would not do for Colonel Percy and his band to receive a hero’s welcome in Richmond. Like Fletcher, he did not trust them to keep their secrets.
Norris sighed and stalked back to his desk. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the inkwell. Then he began to write out an order for the immediate arrest of Colonel Arthur Percy and all those accompanying him. The reason? Norris paused with his pen above the blank sheet, thinking of a good charge. Treason. There. He wrote it down. When the time came, he could engineer the details.
• • •
9:45 a.m., Woodbine, Maryland
Flynn and Benjamin stood side by side at the front of the car, keeping watch over the passengers. Captain Fletcher guarded the back door.
"I don't like it one bit, lad," Flynn whispered to Benjamin. "It's been too damn easy so far."
"Ain't that good?" Benjamin asked.
"Nothing worth doing is ever easy, lad. Just remember that. I have a bad feelin' that this won't turn out quite the way we hoped."
"Then why did you come along?"
"Why, for the fun, boy." That couldn't be further from the truth, but Benjamin didn't need to know that. Besides, it was too late for any of them to turn back now. Their only hope was to run for the valley.
Nearby, the passengers strained to hear what was being said. Flynn gave them an impish grin. "Why don't you pull up a chair?"
The matronly woman sniffed. "If we thought there was anything intelligent being said, we might."
Flynn tried to appear shocked. "Do you hear the insults she's hurling at us,
lad?"
Her husband spoke up. "There's no need to go picking on women."
Flynn ignored him. "I don't believe we've been introduced, ma'am."
"Mrs. Henrietta Parker." She turned to her husband. "This is Alfred, my husband."
Flynn winked at Benjamin and made his way down the aisle to where the Parkers sat. He transferred the Le Mat revolver to his left hand and offered his right to Alfred Parker, who, in confusion, gripped it in a weak handshake. "Sergeant Thomas Flynn at your service," he said as they shook. "The young fellow there is Private Johnny Benjamin and that's Billy Fletcher in the back."
"Captain William Fletcher," the officer corrected him, sounding annoyed.
Flynn turned to the lawyer from Baltimore. The man still appeared shocked at having seen Flynn kick the bodies off the train because he regarded the raider with the sort of nervous look reserved for wild beasts and Indians. "The captain there has been wondering if you could write a will for him, Mr. Lawyer."
"A will?" Mrs. Henrietta Parker sniffed again. "I dare say you'll all be needing one of those. I can only hope this outrage ends with several hangings. It's the best end for cheap Rebel trash."
"Why, Mrs. Parker," Flynn said, winking. "That's not very Christian of you. Now mind you keep quiet, or I'll hang you out the window."
He turned his back on the indignant noises the woman was making and went to stand beside Benjamin near the stove. He kept the Le Mat in plain view of the passengers, hoping that the sight of the huge revolver would discourage any more bravery like the episode which had already left two men dead.
He stopped in front of the couple from Baltimore, the dandy and the woman. The woman stiffened and the man scowled.
"Can't you find another train to steal?" he said.
"We like this one," Flynn said.
"Goddamn Johnny Rebs."
The woman gripped her partner's arm. "Charlie Gilmore," she said sharply. "Leave it alone."
"Listen to the woman, Charlie."
