Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  Maddox’s eyes widened. The image of the bridge that the Yankees had worked so hard to repair being blown to pieces along with the ammunition train obviously flashed through his mind just as it had McFadden’s.

  “My God,” Maddox said. “The bridge would be reduced to splinters. The explosion might even wreck the stone support pillars.” His voice quickened when another thought entered his mind. “The shock wave generated by the explosion along with the falling debris might even damage or destroy the Yankee pontoon bridges on either side of the railroad bridge!”

  Maddox turned and walked back to the woods. McFadden followed. When they were again shielded from the sight of the Yankees surrounding the ammunition train, Maddox pulled out his telescope again and surveyed the area long and carefully.

  “They’re unloading them from back to front, you see?” Maddox said. “It will take them some time to unload each car. Probably a couple of hours to unload the entire train.”

  “The more time passes, the closer they will get to the engine.”

  “That is so. We must move quickly, then. It doesn’t much matter in which car we put the torpedo, so long as we place it next to some ammunition. When we get over there, I shall place the torpedo in one of the box cars, preferably one close to the engine. While I’m doing that, you take care of whatever Yankees are in the engine itself and get it moving backwards.”

  “How far is it from here to the river?”

  Maddox scanned the area north of the train with his telescope. “I can see the bridge from here. Quarter mile away, maybe? Wouldn’t take long at all for the train to reach it.”

  “We’ll have to time it just right,” McFadden said.

  “No, I don’t think you get it, McFadden. It won’t take more than five minutes for us to reach the train, maybe ten minutes for me to place the torpedo and for you to take over the engine, and then just a few minutes for the train to be run back over the bridge. If we want the torpedo to detonate when the train is on the bridge itself, we’ll have to start the clock before we even begin moving toward the train.”

  Maddox opened his carpetbag and pulled the torpedo out. A large glass jar filled with dirty gray powder with a strange clock-like device at the top, it looked deceptively harmless to McFadden’s eyes. The dirty gray powder, however, was high quality gunpowder that would explode with the force of several artillery shells. The clock at the top had a cylinder on each side of it.

  “How does the clock work?” McFadden asked.

  “One cylinder contains a spring, the other a percussion cap. When the clock has ticked for half an hour, it flips a small lever that sets off the spring, which in turn sets off the percussion cap and causes the gunpowder to detonate.”

  “Can it be stopped after it’s started?”

  “No. If the clock is tampered with, the lever flips and the gunpowder is set off. I designed it that way on purpose. Once the clock is started, the gunpowder is going to go off. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

  Maddox began fiddling about with the device, preparing to arm it. McFadden took the time to check his own weapons. His Navy Colt pistol was loaded and ready and he had several rounds of ammunition with which to reload it. He was glad that he had decided to take it with him rather than assume the guise of a regular Union infantryman, as the pistol would be of much more use in the close confines of a train engine than would a Springfield musket. He also felt fortunate to still have his saber, which was likely to come in handy. As a final backup, he had brought a Bowie knife with him as well. He was as ready as he would ever be.

  “Do you have a pocket watch?” Maddox asked.

  McFadden shook his head. Only rich men carried pocket watches.

  Maddox shrugged. “No matter. Nothing to be done about it now, at any rate. Just try to judge the time in your head. When I start the clock, we have exactly thirty minutes until the bomb goes off. No more, no less. You understand?”

  McFadden nodded.

  “Okay, just to go over it one more time. I shall start the clock here. We shall walk across this open area toward the train together. When we reach the train, I shall find a good place inside one of the ammunition boxcars and conceal the device. While I am doing that, you will take control of the engine and prepare the train to be reversed back onto the bridge. I shall come to you to inform you that I have placed the torpedo. Then, we shall set the train in motion and head toward a place safely removed from the explosion. Yes?”

  “Yes, and then we shall recover Pearson and head back to Atlanta?”

  Maddox could not stop himself from snorting in contempt. “Yes, of course,” he said, though it was obvious to McFadden that Maddox cared nothing for what would happen after they had set their deadly project in motion.

  “Very well, then,” McFadden said.

  “You know anything about trains?” Maddox asked, suddenly concerned.

  McFadden shrugged. “I’ll manage.” In truth he had never stepped on board a locomotive in his life. All he had ever experienced in terms of trains was being crammed into a boxcar with scores of other Confederate soldiers being transferred from one theater of war to another.

  “You’ll manage?” Maddox asked skeptically.

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Maddox didn’t reply, instead finishing his work with the arming device on the top of the torpedo. He wound up the clock, turning it several times. This took about a minute. Finally, he held the winder in his hand carefully, prepared at any moment to let it loose. He turned to McFadden. “Ready?”

  McFadden nodded. Maddox let go of the winder and the clock began its unstoppable ticking. Very carefully, he placed the infernal device back in the carpetbag.

  “Let’s go,” Maddox said simply.

  He picked up the carpetbag and stepped out into the clearing like it was the most natural thing in the world, as though he were simply going to board the train for a routine trip to see a friend. McFadden followed behind him, hoping his anxiety were not obvious.

  “Stay by my side until we reach the train,” Maddox said. “It will look less suspicious that way.” He glanced over at McFadden. “Try to look calm, you idiot. Imagine you’re an actor playing a part on the stage. You might even smile a bit. People trust you more when you smile.”

  McFadden forced a smile onto his face, but it felt unnatural. He abandoned the effort after fifteen seconds, convinced that it would require too much mental concentration to maintain. He needed to focus his mind on more important matters.

  As they got closer, McFadden could see two men inside the locomotive, with two guards armed with muskets outside the engine. They leaned lazily against the wheels, cradling their weapons but not expecting any trouble. He assumed that he would be able to take the guards by surprise and deal with them quickly, but the noise he would make while doing so would surely alert the men inside the locomotive, who would respond by calling for help.

  “I’ll help with the guards,” Maddox said.

  McFadden grunted acknowledgement. Much as he hated to admit it, he could not fathom a way to take control of the engine without Maddox’s help. He was an infantryman, not a clandestine operative or a partisan ranger. As they came closer to the train, the two guards stood up and looked them over. The sight of two men wearing Union uniforms was not a cause for concern.

  “Afternoon,” Maddox said pleasantly, a warm smile on his face.

  “And to you,” one of the guards said.

  “Listen, friends. I stole some good Southern tobacco off the body of a rebel the other day. Been selling it a bit at a time since then to pay for my whiskey. Don’t suppose either of you fellows wants some?”

  One of the guards shrugged, uninterested. The eyebrows of the other went up and he took a few steps forward. “How much?” he asked.

  The next few seconds happened in a flash. Maddox opened up his carpetbag, as though the tobacco were inside. As the Union soldier leaned forward to peer down into it, Maddox unsheathed a knife from inside his trousers
just above his right leg, a weapon that McFadden had not known Maddox carried. With shocking ease, Maddox raised the knife quickly upwards in a slashing motion so fast it was difficult to see. The blade cut through the man’s throat, causing the bluecoat to instinctively grab his neck. The man’s eyes went wide in shock.

  At the same time, McFadden lunged forward toward the other guard. He considered pulling out his bowie knife, but his brain told him that he needed to waste no time in order to ensure that the element of surprise was not lost. In any event, the knife was unnecessary. McFadden leaped forward, piling all his weight and velocity onto the man’s upper body. The guard was violently thrust backward, his head slamming forcefully into one of the large steam pipes on the side of the engine.

  The guard attacked by Maddox fell to the ground, unable to scream and rapidly bleeding to death. McFadden glanced up at the forward window of the engine car, but no one appeared to be looking out at them. The sound of the steam engine, even as it idled, was loud enough that McFadden was reasonably sure the two men in the engine car could not have heard anything untoward.

  McFadden turned to look at the man he disabled, satisfied that he was out cold and no further threat. Maddox held the mortally wounded Union soldier to the ground until he stopped moving, then placed his knife between his teeth, picked up the body by its boots and dragged it beside the engine. After taking a moment to shove the corpse underneath the car, Maddox dashed forward to rapidly slit the throat of the unconscious man.

  “What are you doing?” McFadden whispered harshly.

  “Killing the son a bitch!” Maddox spat back. “What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

  “I knocked him out cold!” McFadden protested. “You didn’t need to kill him!”

  Maddox shrugged, unconcerned. He cleaned the blood off his knife by wiping it rapidly back and forth across the dead man’s uniform coat. He sheathed the weapon and quickly looked into the carpetbag.

  “Twenty minutes remaining. You ready?”

  McFadden nodded.

  “Then I’ll meet you here in ten minutes.” Maddox scurried around the other side of the locomotive, staying low to the ground, and was soon lost to McFadden’s sight.

  McFadden wondered what to do next. He had to enter the engine car, kill or incapacitate the men inside, and then prepare the train to be reversed back onto the bridge. He had to do it all in ten minutes. If he did it too quickly, more Union troops would likely arrive on the scene and realize something was amiss. On the other hand, if he waited too long, someone was bound to wonder what had happened to the two guards.

  He picked up the Springfield musket that had belonged to the man he had knocked out before Maddox had killed him. If he was holding the weapon as he entered the engine car, the men inside might think he was one of the guards for a fraction of a second, perhaps giving him enough time to take them by surprise. It seemed a trivial advantage, but McFadden was willing to take any advantage he could get.

  It was foolish to stand around any longer, he decided. Two or three minutes had already passed since Maddox had vanished, which meant that little more than fifteen minutes remained until the torpedo exploded. Better to run the risk of acting too quickly than the risk of not acting quickly enough.

  He withdrew the bayonet from the sheath on the dead man’s belt and fixed it firmly to the top of the rifle. Then he shuffled through the man’s pouch, procured a cartridge and percussion cap, and loaded the weapon. Holding the Springfield in his left hand, he clambered up the short ladder and opened the small door to the engine cab.

  As he stepped inside, McFadden was surprised by how hot it was. Two men were standing a few feet away, arguing about something. One man was gesturing toward one of the innumerable metal valves on the vast engine that took up the bulk of space within the cab. Below the engine, the firebox glowed a threatening shade of yellow from the burning coal within. The hissing of the steam made it impossible for McFadden to hear what the men were saying.

  Seeing McFadden’s entrance, the two men turned to look at him. For a single instant, there was no concern at all in their eyes, obviously thinking he was one of the outside guards coming in to deliver a message. As McFadden stepped inside and shut the door, however, confusion entered their expressions as they failed to recognize him.

  “Who are you?” one of the men asked.

  McFadden brought the Springfield to his shoulder. “I apologize for the inconvenience, gentlemen. But I am afraid that I must confiscate this locomotive in the name of the Confederacy.”

  One of the men laughed, thinking McFadden was joking. The other man was more astute. After a single moment’s hesitation, his hand suddenly darted toward the top of a small metal crate on which sat a LeMat revolver, a small and light weapon ideal for such close quarters as the inside of a locomotive cab. McFadden dashed forward, skewering the man’s leg with the bayonet and causing him to scream in pain. Momentarily dropping the Springfield, McFadden punched the face of the other man with all his strength. He then fumblingly pulled out his own Navy Colt pistol from its holster, waving it menacingly at both men.

  “Don’t move!” he yelled.

  The man he had punched was holding his hands up to a bloody nose, but the Yankee who had attempted to grab the LeMat was much more agile and alert. Ignoring McFadden’s order and the pain in his leg, he jumped forward, trying to reach the door on the other side of the cab.

  “No!” McFadden shouted, having not expected either man to try to escape. He squeezed off a round from the Colt, which missed the man’s head by an inch and smacked harmlessly into the metal wall. The sound the gunshot made inside the confined area of the cab was deafening and took McFadden by surprise. A second later, before he had time for another shot, the man had frantically thrown open the door and fallen down onto the ground outside.

  “Help!” the man shouted. “Send help!”

  McFadden cursed. He considered leaning out of the doorway and trying once again to shoot the man, but just as quickly dismissed the idea as useless. The damage had been done. There were probably dozens of Union soldiers within earshot of the man, and they would bring still more. It wouldn’t surprise him if a hundred bluecoats descended on the locomotive within the next few minutes. None of them would have a clue that in approaching the train they were placing themselves in mortal danger.

  “You!” McFadden said, pointing his Colt at the Yankee who still remained in the cab. “How do you back the train up?”

  “What? Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?” The man was confused and terrified.

  “I asked you a question, you Yankee bastard! Can you back the train up or not? Now, answer me or I’ll shoot you!”

  “Reverse the engine? Shift the slider valve to the other side.” He pointed to a contraption on the engine. “That reverses the flow of steam to the pistons and cause the wheels to rotate backwards.”

  “And how do you get the engine to go?” He felt foolish asking what had to be rudimentary questions, but now was not the time for embarrassment.

  “To go? What do you mean?”

  “To start moving, dammit!”

  The man pointed to another large lever. “Just throw that bar,” he said. “It controls the intake of steam into the engine. And release the brake.”

  He nodded sharply, fear and anxiety coursing through him. He could hear the sound of voices shouting outside the engine, which could only mean that Union soldiers brought by the calls for help were swarming around the train. He wondered if Maddox had yet been able to place the torpedo inside one of the box cars. With a sudden sense of terror, he realized that he had completely lost track of time since he had come into the engine cab. Had it been two minutes or ten minutes?

  He wondered if Maddox would even bother to come to the engine after placing the torpedo. Perhaps he had decided that destroying the train and its ammunition was a sufficient success and that the effort to destroy the bridge was too great a risk. In such a case, he certainly would not have
thought twice about abandoning McFadden to his fate.

  Yet McFadden felt sure Maddox would arrive soon. The man felt a hunger to cause the maximum amount of devastation and would surely be more than willing to risk his own death if it meant he would have a chance to destroy the bridge along with the train and its ammunition. McFadden would therefore wait.

  “Get out,” he said to the Yankee. “Tell everyone that the train is going to explode and that they’d better get as far away as they can.”

  The man sharply nodded and without hesitation opened the door and leapt to the ground. He then ran as fast as his feet could take him. “It’s going to blow!” he shouted. “The train’s going to blow! Get the hell out of here!”

  McFadden stood at the edge of the open door, leveled his Springfield as the nearest Yankee, and fired. The bullet missed, kicking up a small plume of dust near the man’s feet. McFadden raised his Colt into the sky and quickly fired off his five remaining rounds. The unexpected gunfire combined with the frantic shouts of the engineer’s assistant fleeing from the locomotive was enough to cause confusion and hesitation among the hundred or so Union troops assembling in the distance. All knew what cargo the train was carrying and none wanted to get anywhere near the train if it was, in fact, about to explode. Most of the bluecoats turned and ran.

  Dropping the rifle to the floor, McFadden stared at the various valves and levers on the engine. All were labeled, but none of the words made any sense to him. He pulled the lever which the Yankee had called the slider valve, until it was in precisely the opposite position it had been when he had come on board. If he had understood correctly, all he had to do now was to throw the other indicated lever and the steam would be introduced into the engine, throwing the train into motion.

  A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to him. On several occasions, he had heard stories of train engines exploding because the steam pressure had been too high. If he threw the lever as far as it would go, would the engine simply blow itself to pieces? He had no idea, but he also had no time to worry about it now.