Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

by David Healey

  "What do you think you're doing?" Fletcher asked. He appeared surprised to see Nellie taking the money.

  "I'm making myself rich," she said. Nellie turned to him and smiled, although her voice sounded a little desperate even to her own ears. "I could use a partner. How about you? Let's take this money and get off the train."

  Fletcher hesitated. He was tempted. All the men on board knew her for what she was, and who could say what besides the money a whore might share with him? Just as quickly, an image of Hazlett's evil, sneering face filled his mind. He shuddered at the thought of what the sergeant might do to him if he tried to cheat Hazlett out of the money.

  "No partners," Fletcher said. He moved until he was almost touching her. She wore some kind of perfume that reminded him of lilacs. Fletcher knew it was just a whore's cheap scent, but it was maddening.

  "Help me," she said, her voice pleading.

  The money was not for her, he thought. But she didn't have to know that—not yet. Hazlett would soon be stopping the train, but there would be time enough. After casting his lot with Hazlett and helping to oppose Percy, Fletcher felt wonderfully alive, invincible, and he reached out and snatched Nellie's sack of money away. Life, he thought, was about taking what you wanted.

  "There's plenty of money here for all of us," Nellie said.

  Too late, she recognized the expression on his face. She had seen that same leer a hundred times in various squalid rooms along the Baltimore waterfront, and on tougher faces than Fletcher's. She hated that expression, and Nellie knew that if she managed to take the money from the train, she would never have to see that look of lust again.

  He moved toward her.

  She tried to dart around him, but Fletcher grabbed her shoulders and pinned her against a pile of luggage.

  "Damn you!" She spat at him.

  Fletcher was too intoxicated by the day's excitement even to notice. They had outrun the Yankees and kidnapped Abraham Lincoln. He had seen men die. He had lived, and now he would take whatever he wanted, whether it was the money or this whore. He held her down with one hand and dangled the sack of money aloft in the other, laughing.

  "Partners? You're a whore! Hell, you'd take me on as your partner and then sell me out to the first bunch of Yankees we came across. Just give me what I want and you can come with us—maybe we'll even let you have some of the money."

  She relaxed, and Fletcher interpreted that as compliance. He threw one arm across her chest to keep her pinned down, put the money down, and fumbled at the hem of her long dress with his free hand.

  Nellie began to struggle. Her movements seemed weak and awkward. Fletcher laughed.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of steel as she slipped a long and gleaming stiletto from her sleeve. The blade looked wickedly sharp. The train whistled three times, and then they were swept into total blackness as the train raced into Indigo Tunnel.

  He tried to move but his arm was tangled in the folds of her dress. Fletcher felt the tip of the knife probe between his ribs and then plunge deep, burning, slicing, seeking his heart.

  He screamed.

  Then Fletcher collapsed among the boxes and baggage, a dying man.

  Sunlight again. They were out of the tunnel. Nellie stood and straightened her clothes. Some of Fletcher's blood had splashed onto her dress, but that couldn't be helped. She reached down, pulled the knife from the captain's twitching body, and wiped the blade on his coat before slipping it back into her sleeve.

  The train had not stopped. Nellie wondered what was taking Hazlett so long. The mutiny had come as a surprise. She had hoped that when Hazlett stopped the train, she might at least be able to escape with some of the money while the raiders fought among themselves.

  She knew that to leap from a speeding train in this rugged country would be suicide. Still, she might not have a choice. There was no way she could trust Hazlett if his mutiny succeeded—he wouldn't share any of the money with her. After all, Sergeant Hazlett might not be happy that Fletcher was dead, and even Nellie had to admit she was afraid of Hazlett.

  But if the train did not stop, it meant Hazlett had failed. Somehow, Colonel Percy, Flynn, and that boy, Benjamin, had beaten the mutineers. Well, if it came to it, she would much rather deal with Flynn. The Irishman was cunning, but she felt she could trust him. He had a certain sense of honor. The thought made Nellie smile to herself. Honor among thieves? She didn't know about that, but at least she and Flynn understood each other.

  Nellie hid the sack of money in a corner, stepped around Captain Fletcher's body, and moved toward the door leading back to the passenger car, wondering what she would find.

  The truth was that she didn't care about the war, the Union, or the Confederacy. She just wanted to be rich, and now she would have to wait a little longer.

  Chapter 29

  4 p.m., near Little Orleans, Maryland

  Flynn returned to the passenger car and found Colonel Percy busy tying up John Cook, who lay with his battered face to the floor. He could see it hadn't been an easy fight. One of Percy's eyes had a bad gash at the corner and a split lip dripped blood into his sandy beard. Johnny Benjamin stood nearby, his Colt trained on Cook and a murderous look in his eye.

  "I had some help," Percy explained, nodding at the boy. "It's all I could do to keep him from shooting Cook."

  "I don't know why you stopped him," Flynn said. He grinned down at Cook's bruised face. "That looks like it hurts."

  "Go to hell, Flynn," Cook mumbled.

  "Why, those were Sergeant Hazlett's very last words to me."

  "What about Hazlett?" Percy asked.

  "You might say he lost his head."

  Before Percy could ask for any details, Nellie emerged from the back door of the car. Flynn spotted the blood on her bodice and rushed toward her.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously.

  Nellie shook her head and slumped into one of the bench seats. Flynn knelt beside her. "It's not my blood," she said.

  Flynn glanced at Percy, who shrugged. Benjamin spoke up: "I saw Captain Fletcher follow her into the next car."

  Nellie nodded. "I ran out to get away. There was shooting, everyone was fighting. I went into the baggage car to hide. Captain Fletcher followed me. He wanted to—well, it was awful. I had to defend myself."

  If Flynn had not known better, he would have believed her. Nellie obviously had taken advantage of the commotion by trying to make off with the payroll cash. He guessed Fletcher was dead because he had tried to stop her. Flynn remembered the touch of Nellie's knife against his throat and almost felt sorry for Fletcher.

  "You killed him?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "It couldn't have happened to a better man," Flynn said. "You done good, Miss Jones, and I'm glad your honor remains intact."

  "Flynn, those are hardly words of comfort," Percy said, looking annoyed. The colonel was no fool. He had long since guessed that Nellie was not an innocent Baltimore belle, but that made him more disposed to be kind to her. Percy had a weakness for whores.

  "You're right." He patted Nellie on the shoulder. "There, there, girl. You've been through a lot."

  The look in Nellie's green eyes could have frozen water. Those eyes were probably the last thing Fletcher had seen in this life, Flynn thought.

  "Now what, sir?" Benjamin asked the colonel. "I was wondering about the money."

  "Damn the money!" Percy exploded, losing his temper. "We're not bandits, son. We're soldiers and we're going to follow orders. We do our duty. That's what soldiers do. There are still eight of us, and that's plenty enough to get the job done. Our orders are to get President Lincoln to Richmond, and that's just what we're going to do."

  "Yes, sir," Benjamin stammered.

  Percy shot a quick glance at Flynn. "There. Will that make your goddamn Colonel Norris happy?"

  "It will, Colonel. It will at that."

  Duty. To Flynn, it was a word for drawing rooms and politicians, newspaper editorials an
d fools. Percy, he knew, was just enough of a Southern aristocrat to believe in the concept of duty. He looked again at Nellie, who had a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. There was a world of difference between himself and Percy. On the other hand, he and Nellie knew that words like duty had no place in the real business of life.

  A train whistle startled them, the sound cutting the air like the screech of a hunting hawk. They rushed to the windows.

  "The Yankees are right behind us!" Benjamin cried.

  "They can't be that fast," Percy said in disbelief. "That train was barely in sight just a short time ago."

  Flynn gauged for a moment the passing trees and scenery, and did not like what he saw. "We're slowing down, Colonel," he said. "That's why they've caught up to us."

  "Damn," Percy said, noticing it himself. "I believe you're right, Flynn. I'll head up to the engine to see what's wrong. I want you and Benjamin to work your way back to that boxcar we picked up back at the depot in Kearneysville. You know those railroad ties in there? Drop them on the tracks behind us. See if you can get them to jam under that other engine. Wreck the sons of bitches." Percy turned to Nellie and gave her a courtly bow "Pardon my language, ma'am."

  Flynn doubted that Percy's plan would work. "I don't know, Colonel. It's like throwing sticks at a bear."

  "All we need is time, Flynn. Just some goddamn time! If we can hold out a little longer, we'll be closer to the rendezvous. Then it will be the Yankees who are on the run. Throw the ties at them. We've got to try something."

  "Yes, sir." They started to move. Flynn stopped. "What about Cook here? You want me to throw him off the train? He might jam up that other locomotive about as good as a railroad tie."

  Cook made a desperate noise, as if he were about to start pleading for his life. His eyes looked big and round as silver dollars above the dirty rag tied around his mouth.

  "Hush now," Percy told Cook. "Or I will let Flynn throw you off the train." Percy gave Hazlett's gun to Nellie. She swung open the cylinder expertly, checked the loads, and clicked the cylinder shut. Percy smiled. "I believe Miss Jones can handle Private Cook just fine. If he moves, my dear, shoot him."

  • • •

  Greer could see the raiders' train just ahead. They were steadily overtaking the Chesapeake, and in another few minutes, the iron "cow catcher" on the front of the Lord Baltimore would be touching the boxcar ahead of them. Greer felt elated. He, like the soldiers clinging to the tender, wanted another fight. They would not be bested the second time around.

  As if reading Greer's mind, one of the soldiers lifted his rifle and fired at the Rebel train.

  Greer whirled around and shouted to be heard over the wind. "Hold your fire! You'll need that ammunition before we're through."

  "They're slowing," Schmidt observed.

  "I know," Greer said. "This locomotive is fast, but if they weren't losing speed, we wouldn't have caught them already. They had a pretty good head start out of Harpers Ferry."

  "I don't like it," Schmidt said. "I don't trust these Rebels. Why go to all this trouble just to steal a train?"

  "They want that payroll money."

  "Do they?" Schmidt asked. "Then why not just take the money und leave the train? If they split up and had a head-start, it will be hard to catch them on foot."

  "Hell if I know what's on their minds, Oscar. They didn't ask my advice."

  "What else is on that train?" Schmidt pressed. "What is in that car we picked up in Baltimore?"

  "I don't know," Greer said, wondering himself. "It's all closed up. No one answered when I banged on the door back in Baltimore."

  "Well." It came out as vell. Schmidt shrugged his wide shoulders. "Who knows what's in there?"

  "Maybe those Rebs do," Greer said. "Looks like we'll be able to ask them soon enough."

  • • •

  Wet wood doesn't burn a fact that was being hammered home aboard the Chesapeake. Back at the Kearneysville station where they had taken on wood and water, the cordwood had not been kept covered in a shed. Rain had soaked it through and the autumn sun was not sufficient to dry it. It did not help that the wood was also green.

  Hank Cunningham and Willie Forbes continued to hurl wood into the red-hot maw of the firebox, but the damp, green firewood only steamed and sputtered. The heat of the firebox was so intense that the wood eventually caught fire and burned, but not with the intensity needed to create the steam needed for outrunning the Yankees.

  "Why in hell did you load wet wood?" demanded Percy, who had made his way to the engine to find out what was wrong.

  "It was the only wood there was, Colonel," Willie Forbes replied, slurring his words slightly. His bottle of whiskey—well-hidden from Percy—was mostly gone.

  The colonel stared hard at him, then finally exploded. "Damn you, Forbes! You're drunk."

  "Well, I've been drinking," Forbes admitted.

  Furiously, Percy lashed out with his right fist and caught Forbes on the chin. The blow nearly knocked Forbes off the train and he struggled to keep his balance.

  Percy whirled on Cunningham. "So help me, Hank, if you're drunk, too— "

  The engineer backed up a step. "No, sir."

  "How could you let him drink like that?" Percy demanded. "You knew my orders."

  "I reckon he's got a mind of his own," Cunningham said. "Besides, sir, that wood at Kearneysville was green and wet, but that’s all there was. Drunk or sober, it wouldn't have made no difference."

  Percy clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the urge to strike Forbes again. He knew there was little he could do at the moment to punish Forbes. He needed every man if they were going to have any hope of outrunning the Yankees.

  Still fuming, Percy turned to the engineer. "Well?"

  "We're winding down like a watch, Colonel," Wilson said. "It wouldn't be a problem if we weren't being chased. We could just take on some dry wood at another station."

  "No chance of that. Not with the Yankees right behind us."

  "Sorry, Colonel," Cunningham said. He and Forbes looked exhausted from stoking the engine. "I feel like we let you down."

  "Not at all, Percy said. "It's the wood, Hank."

  What was done, thought Percy, was done. He knew they had already used up more than their share of luck for one day. Now the only thing that could get them to the safety of the rendezvous point was a miracle—or one hell of a lot of luck.

  The train churned through wild country. There were no towns or villages, just groupings of squalid, unpainted frame houses that huddled beside the tracks. The only other sign of human handiwork was the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, which paralleled the tracks of the B&O. This time of year, however, there wasn't a great deal of boat traffic.

  Mostly there were just empty mountains rising steeply beyond the rail lines. The tracks lay on the West Virginia side of the Potomac River, and across the water was Maryland.

  As they approached the head of the river, the Potomac was now shallow enough to wade across. The current was swift and the river foamed white as it passed over the rocky riverbed. Hard to believe this was the same river they had crossed three days ago near Washington, where the Potomac was so vast that steamboats could navigate. These lonely mountains struck Percy as a forlorn place to make a last stand. Sometimes a soldier didn't get a choice.

  • • •

  Flynn and Benjamin were climbing to the roof of the president's car. "Once we get to the top, get across and be quick about it, lad," Flynn said. "Don't get to thinking about what you're doing, or you won't do it."

  The car bucked beneath their feet and on either side the rocky ground far below was just a blur. A slip would mean death, but they scrambled across, trying not to think about that. The soldiers riding on the pursuing train were quick enough to get shots off, but the bullets buzzed harmlessly past. Then Flynn and Benjamin reached the ladder on the other side. They climbed down almost on the heads of Pettibone and Hudson.

  "Any word from the president?" Flynn
asked.

  "Not a sound out of him. It's quiet as the grave in there," Pettibone said. "What happened to Hazlett and the rest? They said they had to go see the colonel. I told him to stay, but he wouldn't listen."

  "You heard the shooting?"

  "A little." Pettibone shrugged his bony shoulders. "I reckoned Benjamin here was taking potshots at the Yankees behind us."

  "The truth of the matter was that we had a mutiny on our hands."

  "Goddamn Hazlett. I knew he was up to no good," Pettibone said.

  "Those three decided they wanted to take the payroll money in the baggage car and asked the colonel to stop the train so they could get off."

  "Those bastards." Pettibone shook his head in astonishment. "I reckon Colonel Percy didn't like that plan."

  "There was a disagreement," Flynn said, grinning. "Hazlett and Fletcher are dead. Cook is tied up good and tight so he won't cause trouble."

  "I'll be damned," Pettibone said in his slow drawl. "What happened?"

  Flynn quickly detailed the brief mutiny. "I won't miss Hazlett," he added.

  "Neither will I," Hudson announced. "He didn't have much use for negroes."

  "That leaves fewer of us to fight the Yankees," Pettibone said.

  "Hell, it just evens the odds," Flynn said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, lads, the boy and I have work to do."

  Flynn crossed the open space between the two cars and ducked into the boxcar, with Benjamin right behind him.

  "I ain't a boy," Benjamin said, once they were inside the car.

  Flynn looked at him, saw a face that could not yet grow more than a few scraggly whiskers, and suppressed a grin. Benjamin really was just a boy, but there was no denying he was doing a man's work.

  "Right you are, Private," Flynn said. "My apologies. Now, grab hold of the other end of this tie. Let's give the Yankees something to chew on."

  The railroad tie was carved from black locust, a species whose dense wood was naturally resistant to rot. It was six inches square and almost as heavy as iron. They maneuvered it toward the hole in the back wall of the boxcar, stumbling every time the speeding train swayed on the tracks.