by David Healey
Hazlett stuck his head out an open window and called out as Percy passed, "What's happening, Colonel?"
"Get out here, Hazlett," Percy shouted back. "Leave Pettibone to guard the passengers. I need Forbes out here, too, to cut some wires while we're stopped."
Walking a little further, Percy yelled similar instructions to Flynn. The men wasted no time getting outside the cars. Percy put Willie Forbes to work cutting telegraph wires. Considering the wreckage created when the pursuing engine derailed, the soldiers back at the Monocacy River had not likely telegraphed a warning message ahead. Still, there was no way of knowing for certain whether or not the telegraph was functional. It was in the raiders' best interest to disrupt communications whenever possible, which was what Forbes was now doing as he shimmied up a pole with a large Bowie knife clenched between his teeth.
Satisfied that Forbes was doing what he could to sever the telegraph lines, the colonel turned to Hazlett and Flynn. He noticed the two men stood some distance apart, regarding each other with barely contained hatred.Under different circumstances, he was sure they would be at each other's throats. Percy was not happy that these two men had decided to make enemies of each other, but he did not have time to play peacemaker.
"We'll put the passengers off here," Percy said. "We don't seem to be near anyplace in particular, so I doubt they can do us much harm by spreading the alarm. Harpers Ferry is only a few miles off, and once we make it across the river, the Yankees don't have much chance of catching us."
Hazlett nodded toward Forbes, high up on a pole. "We're a little late with those wires, Colonel. Those soldiers back at the Monocacy crossing will have warned the Yankees at Harpers Ferry that we're coming. They'll have quite a reception for us, to be sure."
"We haven't much choice," Percy said. "It's the only way across the Potomac. It's just a chance we'll have to take."
"Besides, we've already got their president," Flynn said. "They can try to stop the train, but we'll still be able to put a bullet in Honest Abe. Of course, that's only a last resort."
"I say kill him now and get it over with," Hazlett said, sneering. "If ever there was a Yankee that deserved killing, it's him."
"We have our orders," Percy said, wanting to put an end to the discussion. "We will do your duty."
"We'll all get killed," Hazlett replied.
"It's vital that we at least try to get President Lincoln to Richmond," Percy said, unhappy that his cousin-in-law was putting him on the defensive. "It could turn the tide of the war. The South might yet be victorious, or at least be in a position to negotiate a favorable peace with the North."
Flynn noted the tension between the two men. The colonel was intent on doing his duty but Hazlett wanted the easy way out. Of course, if the Yankees caught up with them they would have a problem even carrying out an assassination.
"You heard the colonel," he said. "We have our orders."
Hazlett snarled at him. "Who are you, Irish, to be reminding us about our orders?"
"You're the one who keeps forgetting them."
The scar on Hazlett's face flared red. If the two men had been alone, they would have come to blows, or worse. Percy didn't give them the opportunity. "All right. That's enough of that. We've got Yankees to fight, not each other."
At that moment, they heard a shout from the last car of the train. "Colonel!" It was John Cook, waving urgently.
Instinctively, all three men reached for their guns, expecting trouble.
"Come on," Percy said, and they ran to the back of the train.
There, they found Cook kneeling beside the unconscious lieutenant. The rough bandage around Cater's head was crimson with fresh blood, and the floor of the train platform was stained red.
"What happened?" Percy demanded.
"Them fools chasin' us had a shotgun, Colonel," Cook said. "Must of been loaded with buck and ball. The lieutenant done got shot in the head. He ain't come to since."
Flynn knelt beside the wounded officer. He had done his share of doctoring, both in and out of the army, and he pried up the bandage with skilled fingers to inspect the wound.
He saw an ugly gash, still oozing blood. Head wounds always bled horribly, and as bad as this wound looked, the lieutenant must have lost a lot of blood. Flynn saw none of the telltale clear liquid of a brain wound, which would likely have killed Cater outright, anyhow. The shotgun ball must have burrowed under the skin and gouged a furrow along the curve of the bone. The skull had been rapped awfully hard, maybe even fractured, which explained why Cater remained unconscious. The lieutenant moaned and Flynn took his hand away, easing the bandage back into place. A fresh rivulet of blood leaked from beneath the cloth and ran down Cater's face.
"He needs a doctor," Flynn announced. "If he doesn't get help soon, he'll die."
"Let's leave him with the passengers when we put them off," Hazlett said. "We can't be burdened with a wounded man."
"No," Percy spoke abruptly. "We'll take him with us."
Hazlett began to protest. "But Colonel—”
"Shut up, Hazlett." Percy knew he was being overly harsh, but he was in no mood to debate with the sergeant. If Hazlett hadn't been his cousin-in-law, he would have rid himself of such a compassionless man a long time ago. Lieutenant Cater was like a younger brother to Percy. He would not listen to any talk of abandoning him to the Yankees. He wouldn't be able to face Cater's family back home in Fauquier County if he did that, much less himself. "We're not leaving him here so the Yankees can doctor him up, then hang him. We'll take him with us. You two go see if there's anything in that baggage car you can use to make a stretcher. We'll carry him up to one of the passenger cars."
"Yes, sir," Hazlett said in an exaggerated fashion.
"Goddamnit, just get it done. We're wasting time."
Trying to control his anger at Hazlett, Percy watched the two sergeants go. They walked carefully apart, not talking. Side by side, the Irishman was bigger, but Hazlett had a lean toughness about him, like a hickory post.
"There's bad blood between them two," said Cook, who also was watching the men walk off. "Sooner or later, one is goin' to shoot the other."
Percy grunted. Secretly, he would not mind being rid of his cousin-in-law. The thought gave him a twinge of guilt, thinking of all the tight places he and Hazlett had been through. He owed the man something, for all that. He forced all such thoughts out of his mind, however, because at the moment he had other worries.
Damn Colonel Norris! He was safe back in Richmond, spinning more webs of intrigue while good men like Silas Cater lay bleeding, maybe even dying, because of this foolhardy raid. It was Norris, too, who had saddled them with that idiot, Captain Fletcher. There was a man who was likely to get himself and some of his fellow raiders killed before the mission was over. Norris had also sent along Sergeant Flynn to make certain his orders were carried out. Percy realized that, oddly enough, once he had overcome his initial resentment of Flynn, he had come to depend on the man.
Percy nodded at the door to Lincoln's car. "Any sound from there?" he asked Cook, keeping his voice low.
"No, sir," Cook whispered in reply. "Quiet as can be."
Percy stared at the door in wonder. It amazed him that the President of the United States was on the other side. The leader of the entire Union! For a moment, Percy was tempted to take Hazlett's advice and force his way in to shoot Lincoln, thus putting an end to this crazed race across Maryland. But, as Flynn had pointed out, those were not Norris's orders. And he could see the value of capturing Lincoln alive as a bargaining tool.
Not that Percy was worried about any implied threat on Flynn's part. Percy was, above all, a good soldier. He would follow orders not because of Norris, or Norris's watchdog, but because of his sense of duty to the Confederacy.
Even so, Hazlett had a point about Harpers Ferry. If the Yankees stopped them there, Percy would have no choice but to shoot Lincoln, because bringing the Union president to Richmond as a prize—and pawn—of war wo
uld no longer be possible.
"He's still bleeding, Colonel," Cook said despairingly. Cook was pressing hard on the bandages, trying to staunch the flow, but the lieutenant's blood soaked through and reddened Cook's hands. "It just won't stop."
Percy leaned close over the unconscious man. "Hang on, Silas," he murmured. "Hang on."
• • •
"I'll go have a look in there," Flynn said outside the baggage car. "You best stay here and keep an eye out."
"Since when do you give me orders?" Hazlett demanded.
Flynn shrugged. "The colonel's busy tending the lieutenant and someone ought to keep watch for any trains chasing us. If you don't like it, then you go bump your way around in there and I'll keep watch."
Hazlett grinned crookedly, realizing he had the better end of the bargain, after all. "I'll stay right here, Irish."
Gritting his teeth, Flynn turned and climbed to the doorway of the baggage car. He could endure a few insults if it kept Hazlett from discovering what the baggage car really held. Flynn promised himself he would settle that damned Hazlett once and for all soon enough, but this was not the time for a fight.
He ducked into the car's dark interior. He had managed to keep Hazlett out, at least. So far, Hudson was the only other raider who had been inside, and he knew nothing about the fortune in Yankee greenbacks.
The raiders were far too busy worrying about pursuit, unruly passengers and the captive president of the United States to explore a baggage car. Only he and Nellie Jones knew it carried anything more than carpetbags stuffed with changes of drawers for the middle-aged Yankees in the passenger cars.
Flynn didn't feel guilty about not sharing his discovery of the money with the other raiders. He had helped steal the train and bring it across Maryland, after all. No one could accuse him of shirking his duty. But when the time was right, Flynn fully intended to make off with the money.
Maybe a man like Colonel Percy would condemn him for it, but Percy could afford to have ideals. He was a Virginia aristocrat. What was Flynn but an Irish immigrant who would never really be accepted? Hazlett was proof of that.
If there was one thing Flynn had learned in his hardscrabble life, it was that a man should seize opportunity whenever it presented itself. The payroll money aboard the train was a fortune, more than he had ever dreamed of, and he would be a fool not to take it.
The question was when. Nellie had promised there would be help ahead closer to Cumberland. But he had a feeling that whoever was helping Nellie wouldn't be eager to share anything with him.
In that case, the sooner they got off the train, the better. He knew the raiders wouldn't stop to look for him because they had to spirit Lincoln out of the country. Percy was too good a man to do otherwise.
However, Flynn didn't relish the thought of being stranded in enemy territory without so much as a horse to help him carry all that money. The Yankees had thieves and cutthroats, too, and he would need someone to watch his back.
He might still be able to count on the woman to do that, of course. Nellie. A tough Baltimore tart if he had ever seen one. The colonel's news that he was putting all the passengers off wouldn't make her happy. Well, more money for him, even if getting it someplace safe would be harder on his own.
Still, another hand would be a good idea. Someone steady like that lad, Johnny Benjamin, although the boy might be too duty-bound to play the part of thief. None of the other raiders seemed likely. The honest ones wouldn't do it and the dishonest ones like Hazlett or even Cook or Fletcher would cut his throat and take it all for themselves the first chance they got. The boy might just be a help.
Flynn paused to check the money. He couldn't keep that bastard Hazlett waiting so long that he became curious and went looking for him. Even so, Flynn couldn't resist a quick look.
He found one of the chests filled with paper money and flipped it open to reveal the neat bundles of greenbacks. A fortune! He could buy half of Ireland with that much money and live like one of the lords. He sighed and shut the lid almost lovingly. It was a ransom fit for a king—or a president. All his for the taking, if he could only figure out how to manage it.
First, however, there were other tasks at hand. Flynn quickly scouted the car's interior for materials to make a stretcher. He found two long, narrow boards from some forgotten cargo. A sheet of canvas covering some crates would fit around them perfectly. He carried his finds outside and found Hazlett shading his eyes, staring west. Flynn turned and looked. In the distance, barely visible, was a smudge of smoke.
"Train?" Flynn wondered aloud. To the east, the direction from which they had come, the sky was empty.
"I don't know, Irish, but we best tell the colonel," Hazlett said, making no move to help Flynn carry the makings of the stretcher. "You can manage that stuff alone alone, can't you?"
Flynn shoved the boards into Hazlett's chest so hard he nearly knocked the man down. "You can carry those, you bastard."
"Don't tell me what to do, you immigrant son-of-a-bitch— "
The long feud between them was about to boil over. Then Colonel Percy's sharp, angry voice cut through the tension. He was on the ground beside the last car, gesturing at them to hurry up. He, too, had spotted the smoke of the approaching train.
Hazlett glared. "We'll finish this later, Irish," he said.
"Aye, that we will." Flynn's eyes were cold and hard. "That we will."
Chapter 21
1:45 p.m., Buckeystown, Maryland
George Greer hurried on, his bad leg aching with each step. The more pain there was, the harder he pushed himself, refusing to let his leg slow him down.
The soldiers had been garrisoned at the Monocacy River for so long, guarding the bridge, that they were no longer in condition for marching at Greer’s driven pace. The soldiers started out confidently enough, but as one mile became two became three, their enthusiasm waned. Greer had to keep looking over his shoulder and waving the soldiers on because they weren't keeping up.
"I don't know about this, Greer," the captain muttered, coming up close, out of earshot of his men. "There's no sign of your train."
"We'll catch her, all right," Greer said. "She'll likely be around the next bend."
Captain Lowell shook his head. "I doubt that. They've got an awfully good lead on us, Greer. Hell, there ain't even a sign of them."
"Then what do you call that?" Greer pointed toward the horizon.
Lowell squinted. "Hell, what's that? Smoke? By God, Greer, if they're that far ahead of us, we might as well turn around. We're never going to catch them. Not on foot, at least."
Captain Lowell stopped, and his men, glad for a break, shuffled to a halt.
Greer stood a little apart, clenching and unclenching his fists. His leg throbbed. He felt his stomach rumble and realized that because the raiders had interrupted his breakfast, he'd had nothing to eat all day but a couple of cold biscuits and some coffee back at Mount Clare station in Baltimore, long before dawn. He wasn't sure what to do, now that Captain Lowell was getting cold feet. Frost and Schmidt stood nearby, watching the two men. They, too, had sensed that Captain Lowell and his men now thought the chase was hopeless and didn't want to go any further. Greer knew he had reached a critical moment and that the chase was about to end unless he did something drastic.
He would go on, with or without them. He vowed to chase the bastards who had stolen his train to hell and back if necessary. Frost and Schmidt would come along. As conductor, they did as he told them. Even if they refused, Greer was determined to bully them into it.
Captain Lowell was another matter. Even a B&O Railroad conductor held no power over a Union officer. Besides, Greer knew well enough that the captain's duty was to protect the Monocacy River crossing, not chase train thieves. Greer had been a soldier just long enough before being wounded at Bull Run to know that an officer was best off following orders. Nothing more, nothing less.
Greer decided to take a chance. He needed the captain and the soldier
s if he was going to stop the train thieves. He clenched his fists at his sides and looked the captain in the face, then raised his voice so the soldiers nearby could hear clearly: "You're a damned coward, Captain."
Captain Lowell could not have looked more surprised if the conductor had slapped him. "What did you say?"
Greer took a deep breath. "I called you a goddamn coward. You and your men."
Lowell reddened. "Look here, Mr. Greer— "
Greer raised his voice even louder to make certain all the soldiers could hear him. "You're scared of what might happen when we catch up to these train thieves. Scared. Scared they might turn out to have guns and that there might be a fight. Hell, most of you are conscripts who ain't worth a drink of piss. I reckon now I know why they set you to guarding a railroad bridge in the middle of nowhere." Greer sneered at them, then looked at Frost and Schmidt. "Come on, let's go."
Then Greer turned to leave.
"Wait!"
The captain took the bait. Greer spun to face him. Beyond Captain Lowell, the eyes of his men snapped with anger. No man can stand being accused of cowardice.
The captain himself was so enraged his voice shook, and he was obviously struggling to keep it under control. "You have no right to speak to me that way, Greer. I am a Union officer."
"Then act like one. The three of us are going after those train thieves. You can come or not."
Greer turned again and started off. He said a silent prayer that the soldiers would follow him. He had walked twenty feet when he finally heard the captain curse, then bark out an order. The boots of twenty men on the move behind him was music to his ears.
