Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

by David Healey

  "We'll catch them yet," Greer said. He was in high spirits for the first time that day. "Nobody steals my train and gets away with it."

  It would give him great satisfaction to see the raiders captured and hanged. He just prayed they wouldn't wreck his beloved engine first.

  Since climbing aboard the old locomotive, Frost and Schmidt were like different men. No longer did Greer need to berate them to continue the pursuit. They were running a locomotive again, an engine of steam and iron and fire, and the men were at home. Suddenly, they were caught up in the excitement of the chase. The Grasshopper wasn't terribly fast, but Frost and Schmidt knew their business and were wringing every possible bit of speed out of the engine.

  "Now we're moving," Schmidt said, a grin crossing the big German's face. "We'll catch those sons of bitches yet, see if we don't."

  "And then we'll stuff 'em in the firebox, right Oscar?" Frost laughed. "We'll burn their thieving asses."

  "There are always soldiers posted at Frederick Junction," Greer added, glad that his two companions finally showed some excitement about the chase. After all, they were as tired as he was. "Let's see them get past those boys."

  Greer knew the Monocacy garrison well enough because his train had passed through many times. There was a full company of infantry stationed at that vital crossing near Frederick. A battery of 12-pound Napoleon guns was trained on the bridge. The crossing was well-guarded, and with any luck, if the soldiers ahead were alert, the train thieves would be stopped, especially if a telegraph message reached the soldiers in time.

  He believed the raiders were in a hopeless position. Most eastbound and westbound trains stopped at Frederick Junction to take on wood, water and passengers, along with the odd bit of freight bound for western Maryland or Baltimore. The soldiers would be suspicious if the Chesapeake made no sign of stopping. Of course, the train thieves wouldn't stand a chance with the sharp-eyed Yankee commander if they did stop. What lay ahead for the raiders, Greer thought with satisfaction, was a double-edged sword.

  "We might catch them at Parr's Ridge," Schmidt pointed out. "This little engine, she can make the climb faster than they can with four cars."

  Greer smiled and licked his lips, which tasted salty from the sweat he had worked up, first running and them helping to pump the push car in the Chesapeake’s wake. Dimly, it registered that his leg ached from his old wound, but he ignored the pain and kept his eyes on the tracks ahead to where Parr's Ridge rose in the distance. It was also known as the Mount Airy grade, a sharp ridge in the gently rolling Piedmont plateau stretching from Chesapeake Bay to the western mountains, a hill that ran like a ripple in a blanket across an otherwise flat bed. While the tracks had followed the Patapsco River basin and then Bush Creek west to that point, on the other side they followed the Monocacy River basin to the Potomac River. Parr's Ridge was the only place where the B&O couldn't hold to the river grades.

  The low, sharp ridge would slow the train racing ahead of them. They were close to catching the raiders now, very close. Greer turned and helped Frost heap wood into the raging firebox, burning now like fury itself.

  • • •

  The town of Gettysburg had been transformed. Red, white and blue bunting hung from the windows. Union flags flew. Everywhere you looked, houses wore new coats of white wash. It was a far cry from the war-ravaged town of the past summer.

  Walking along the streets, the one-eyed man took in the crowds. The official dedication of the new national cemetery was not until tomorrow, but the festival atmosphere already had begun. While there were plenty of prayers and church services planned, the throngs in the streets were looking to forget the war and its horrors for a while. Liquor bottles were in abundance.

  "Meat pies! Meat pies here!" called a man, hawking his wares. The savory smell of a gravy-filled pie in a buttery crust made the one-eyed man's stomach rumble. He bought a pie wrapped in a sheet of newsprint and devoured it on his way to the train station.

  Abraham Lincoln was scheduled to arrive later that day, and he wanted to be there when the president came to town. Already, a huge crowd had gathered at the train station. Young boys had climbed trees while their parents waved tiny hand-sewn flags.

  Finally, the train came into sight, hugging along the tracks of the Northern Central Railroad that led directly to Baltimore and from there, on to Washington. The crowd grew excited. The one-eyed man was pressed from behind as more latecomers crowded in to catch a glimpse of their president.

  When the train did stop in a gout of steam, a tall figure in black and wearing a stovepipe hat appeared. The crowd cheered. The president waved, then moved on to greet the local dignitaries waiting at the station. The one-eyed man watched in surprise.

  Abraham Lincoln? He was puzzled. Then he found himself swept up by the crowd as it surged after the president, caught like a twig in a swirling river.

  Chapter 18

  12:30 p.m., Parr's Ridge, Maryland

  Colonel Percy reached the passenger car just as Flynn and Pettibone carried out Charlie Gilmore's body.

  "What the hell is going on?" Percy demanded.

  Flynn held the feet and Pettibone carried the corpse by the shoulders, trying not to get any of Gilmore's blood and gore on his expensive civilian suit of clothes. Gilmore's eyes stared out from his head, which bumped against Pettibone's knees.

  "We had a mutiny, Colonel," Flynn explained. "It was bound to happen, and it will happen again as long as we have passengers on this train."

  Flynn and Pettibone balanced on the platform, swung the body between them to give it momentum—once, twice, three times—then launched it far beyond the tracks, where Gilmore's corpse rolled and flopped down a hillside.

  "Goddamnit, Flynn, you've got to stop killing the passengers," Percy said, sounding annoyed.

  "I only kill the ones who try to kill me first," Flynn replied.

  "They'll have us in all the Northern newspapers as a bunch of bloodthirsty killers."

  "Well, they're sure as hell not going to describe us as heroes in The New York Times," Flynn pointed out. "We did kidnap their president, after all."

  "We can still conduct ourselves with honor," Percy said.

  Flynn stared at him, surprised. "You really do believe all this business about honor and glory, don't you? Even after two years of fighting. It's all moonlight and magnolias to you, isn't it?"

  "Take away everything else a man has, Flynn, and in the end all he's left with is his honor. I didn't ask to be sent on this raid but I'm going to do my duty. I'm going to see it through."

  Pettibone was looking at the colonel with proud, shining eyes and Flynn thought, there's another one. These Southerners were consumed by their notions of honor and glory. It was what had gotten them into this war in the first place. He thought of the money hidden away in the baggage car and his plans for it, and felt just a bit ashamed.

  "You're a good man, Colonel," Flynn said. "I just hope we all live to see tomorrow."

  By now the locomotive had reached the foot of Parr's Ridge and the train was slowing perceptibly as the engine struggled on the steep grade. Mountains on the horizon ahead were visible as a blue blur, like distant waves.

  Percy nodded behind them, where the smoke trail of the pursuing train was plainly visible. "We might have a bit more trouble soon and not just from the passengers. They've sent a train after us."

  Flynn leaned out from between the cars and peered into the distance. The advance column of smoke had the look of something serious. "That they have. Will they catch us?"

  "There's always a chance," Percy said. "But this locomotive is fast, and we're far ahead of them."

  The three men returned to the car. Hazlett had already gone back to his own car. Captain Fletcher still had his Colt out, ready to shoot anyone who moved. As a consequence, the passengers sat rigid as stone in their seats, staring at the revolver's muzzle. Even Mrs. Henrietta Parker was no longer hysterical, but glared indignantly at the raiders while her husband m
urmured in her ear in the same way he might soothe a spirited horse. Somehow, he was managing to keep in check the tongue-lashing the woman obviously wanted to give her captors.

  William Prescott was slumped in a seat, rubbing the back of his head and looking suitably cowed. Nellie Jones sat demurely. Flynn caught her eye and gave her a wink. She pretended not to notice.

  Benjamin was massaging his side. He winced as he touched a tender spot. "I believe that fat man done cracked my ribs," he announced.

  Colonel Percy took in the scene, his eyes lingering on the blood-streaked ceiling. The situation with the passengers, he thought, had gone too far. Already, three were dead. Killing innocent civilians would not play well, he knew, in the court of public opinion. To make matters worse, he knew Flynn was probably right when he said it wasn't over yet. Percy decided he would put all the passengers off the next time they stopped because there was no longer any reason to worry about them warning the Yankees. Judging by the trail of smoke behind them, the Yankees already knew. Meanwhile, he would do what he could to make certain there would be no more violence.

  Percy raised his voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, listen to me. We will abide no more trouble from you. This man— " he nodded at Captain Fletcher, who looked savage enough with the pistol in his hand “ — will shoot anyone who leaves his—or her—seat. Rest assured, however, that we have no desire to keep hostages. You'll all be put off the next time we stop."

  "Stranded," hissed Mrs. Parker. Wide-eyed, her husband squeezed her arm to silence her. Percy stood for a moment, glaring at the woman. The tension was broken when Hank Cunningham burst through the door, his face a mask of sweat-streaked ash.

  "Colonel, the engineer needs you," he said urgently.

  Percy looked calmly around at the passengers. "Remember that you've been warned," he said, then turned and walked out. Once he and Cunningham were alone on the platform, Percy demanded, "What's so goddamn important that it couldn't wait, Hank?"

  The fireman pointed behind them. Compared to how fast she had been going, the Chesapeake had slowed to what was virtually a crawl as she struggled up the Parr's Ridge grade. Smoke from the pursuing train had crept much closer.

  "They're gaining on us, all right," Percy said, seeing at once why Cunningham had come to get him. "Come on."

  Together, they made their way back over the tender to the engine. Wilson was busy hovering over the controls and cursing, but there was nothing he could do to make the locomotive pull any harder or faster up the slope.

  "They'll catch us at this rate, Colonel."

  Percy looked back. The grade was so steep he could now see the tops of the other cars below him. Suddenly, the pursuing engine came into view. He recognized the old, so-called Grasshopper engine they had passed on the siding and cursed himself for not stopping to disable it somehow. It was chugging along quickly enough, just the engine and tender, flying over the flat plain that led to Parr's Ridge.

  "Damn," he said. "We may be in for trouble."

  • • •

  "Now we've got them!" Greer shouted into the wind as the Chesapeake appeared ahead, creeping up the steep slope of Parr's ridge.

  Schmidt and Frost whooped with him. Finally, they had caught up to the train.

  Now that the locomotive was in sight, Greer had some doubts about what to do if it came to a fight. He and Schmidt were armed with a shotgun and a revolver from the Grasshopper engine's crew, but that gave them just two guns while the raiders had revolvers—and would use them. The train thieves were killers and they had shot at Greer and his crew the last time they got close.

  In their favor, however, Greer was convinced there weren't many men aboard the train. Otherwise, Greer reasoned, the thieves would have stood and fought the last time he and his men caught up. In hindsight, it was good the thieves hadn't stopped, because the fight would have been decidedly one-sided, considering the only weapon Greer had then was the shotgun. They were still lightly armed, but Greer was too exhilarated to be cautious.

  "Give her everything she's got," he shouted to Schmidt, but the command was unnecessary. The engineer already had the throttle wide open. The locomotive caught the grade and the drive wheels churned up the incline, hot on the trail of the raiders.

  • • •

  Flynn opened a window, stuck out his head, and was immediately pelted with a hot rain of ash and cinders from the Chesapeake’s smokestack. Still, he managed to get a glimpse of the tracks behind them and was amazed to see another, smaller locomotive right behind the Chesapeake.

  Short of making the train go faster, there wasn't anything he could do about it. They had all known this moment might come. Flynn sauntered down the aisle, shaking cinders out of his hair, ignoring the hateful looks of the passengers. He knew that in their eyes he was a killer, a criminal and a Rebel, and they had nothing but hostility toward him. If the Yankees on that train back there caught them, Flynn was sure the passengers would be more than willing to hang him and all the rest of the raiders.

  "Ma'am," Flynn said, stopping beside Nellie's seat and tipping his hat. "May I join you?"

  Nellie didn't answer, but Flynn sat down anyway.

  "Wee bit windy out there," he said, plucking at a piece of charcoal that had lodged under his collar. He lowered his voice so that he couldn't be overheard. "Looks like we're about to be overtaken."

  Nellie stared at him, alarmed. "What do you mean?"

  "There's a locomotive right behind us and it's climbing this slope better than we are, from the looks of it."

  "You mean we're going to be caught?"

  "Aye, Nellie lass, and all that money, too, which is the shame of it." His voice was a whisper now. "That is, unless you have some magical plan you want to share with me."

  Nellie shook her head and whispered a reply. "There's no help for us here. We have to get closer to Cumberland. There is a plan, and it involves others, but it depends on the train making it to within a few miles of the city."

  Flynn nodded, then sighed. "At the moment we're a long, long way from Cumberland."

  "Then you better think of something."

  "I was afraid you might say that. Nellie, let me ask you something. Why did you pick me out of all the others?"

  "You're the one who came after me in the baggage car."

  "You mean you would have asked Captain Fletcher or even Hazlett if they were the ones who'd gone after you instead?"

  "No," Nellie said, thinking about it. "I would have cut their throats."

  "I don't doubt it." He caught himself putting his hand to his throat, remembering the cold touch of the knife blade.

  By now, the train was barely moving. Outside, someone began shouting.

  Flynn stood, checked his revolver, then moved to a window and opened it. "When all else fails, shoot the bastards," he said.

  • • •

  Greer ducked as the first shots snapped overhead. The odd-looking but powerful Grasshopper locomotive chugged closer to the Chesapeake. Ignoring the bullets flying at them, Greer had no thought other than to overtake his stolen train.

  "Come on, man, come on," he urged Schmidt.

  "Das ist vor,” Schmidt said. Frost worked like a madman, stuffing the firebox with wood.

  As they roared closer, Greer could again see the two men on the last car. Both had revolvers in their hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Greer hoped there weren't many more raiders aboard the train. Even a handful of armed men against three with an old shotgun and a pistol hardly seemed like good odds. Still, Greer forgot all caution as they raced closer.

  Briefly, he wondered why there were two armed men on the last car. Were they simply defending the train, or was there something in the last car worth guarding? If that was the case, Greer thought bitterly, then someone should have warned him that there was more aboard to worry about than the payroll money.

  Greer picked up the double-barreled shotgun and leveled it at the back of the train, pulled back the twin hammers, and yanked the two trigge
rs in rapid succession. The shotgun kicked viciously and Greer lost sight of his target in the cloud of blue smoke that billowed around him until the wind whipped it away.

  A hail of buckshot shredded the air and pinged off the iron railings of Lincoln's car. Shards flew as shot ripped into the wooden sides, but none of the lead could penetrate the heavy oak.

  Aboard the train, John Cook swore and clawed at his cheek, where a flying splinter of wood had embedded itself. He pulled it free, feeling the blood run down his face and soak his beard. He looked over at Lieutenant Cater, who was crouched behind the railing. The lieutenant was strangely still.

  "You all right, Lieutenant?" Cook asked.

  When there was no answer, Cook reached down and took Cater's shoulder. The lieutenant slumped back, revealing an ugly red gouge along his temple where buckshot had cut a deep furrow that exposed the white bone of his skull. Blood poured from the wound.

  "You're goin' to be all right, Lieutenant," Cook said, although he wasn't so sure. Blood was soaking the collar of the lieutenant's coat.

  Private Cook quickly pulled out the tail of his shirt and tore off a strip. Fortunately, their new civilian clothes were clean enough to serve as bandages. As he worked to tie up the wound, he kept a wary eye on the pursuing engine. It was still gaining on them, although it appeared the only weapon the men aboard carried was the shotgun, which one of the men was busy reloading. A shotgun was a poor weapon for taking on a whole trainload of Rebels, Cook thought, but it had been good enough to fell Lieutenant Cater, something even the fiercest artillery at Gettysburg had been unable to do the last time they were up north.

  Cook quickly bound the wound with the rough bandage. It would at least stop the worst of the bleeding. The lieutenant needed more help than a rough bandage, but that would have to wait.

  He picked up the lieutenant's revolver, so that he now held a Colt in each hand. Cook took a quick look at the door of the President's car. He was sure Lincoln and his bodyguard were safe. The wood was thick and hard as iron. It would take more than a shotgun blast to penetrate the walls. He hoped Abe Lincoln wasn't too curious about the commotion. With Lieutenant Cater wounded and the Chesapeake being hotly pursued, there would never be a better opportunity for the Yankee president to attempt an escape.