by Ralph Dennis
“They’ll be fine,” MacTaggart said.
“I wanted to stay with them.”
“You can’t baby the boy all his life.”
“You bastard.” McGuire grinned at him. “Of course, you’re right.”
At a distance the switch was thrown again and the engine and the remaining boxcars were on the main track once more. There was a rattling as the train backed toward the three boxcars of paper wealth, the three day coaches, and the caboose. The brake-man hung on the last boxcar, a lighted lantern in one hand.
“We’d better board,” MacTaggart said.
He stepped up and inside. He stopped and watched as Captain McGuire took his last long look at the detail. When McGuire was done and turned, MacTaggart offered him a hand and swung him aboard.
There was a jolt as the cars met. MacTaggart and McGuire found their seat. After a long pause the train began to move forward.
McGuire leaned across Duncan to get his clear view of the siding. Lieutenant Foster and his men were spaced the length of the single boxcar.
Foster lifted a hand, and then the coach passed the siding, and the depot and the town were behind them.
The stolen Ford truck was parked on the main street, the grill and part of the hood showing beyond the corner of the side street that led to the railroad crossing.
Pete Bouchard had been about to make a right into that street when he saw the two trucks parked and dark in a line. At the last moment he corrected the wheel and continued on the main street. He crossed the intersection and braked against the curb. “Have a look,” he said.
Charlie dropped from the cab and trotted to the corner.
Pete pulled away, half a block, and did a U-turn. Returning, he cut across the lanes and parked the Ford level with his cousin. Before he switched off the headlights he saw Charlie shake his head. Not yet. He killed the engine and settled down for a wait.
The train passed Location A. Jean waded through the heavy brush and reached the track bed. He carried the twin bundles of explosives in front of him, clutched in both hands.
He planted the charges the way the old man, Gunny, had shown him. He stretched the fuse toward him, and then he stood, one shoe on the end of it, while he stared in the direction of town.
At the railroad crossing the flashing light went off. The barrier swung upward, wobbled for a few moments, and then pointed straight for the sky.
Vic shifted gears and looked past his right shoulder at Captain Whitman. “Now?”
“Not yet.” Johnny wanted to allow the train time to put some distance between it and the town.
Straight ahead, off to the right, the front of the roundhouse was lighted. Several large lights lit the closed high doors.
“Two or three minutes more,” Johnny said.
In the back of the second Mack Bulldog, Henri Leveque sweated with the wait. He’d heard the train pull away. That seemed hours ago. The grenades that Harry had given him were slick in his hands, like they’d been oiled.
“Is there some reason we don’t move?”
The coal of a cigarette wagged in Harry’s mouth as he talked. “The same screw-up. With this setup why expect anything else? We got here early.” He took a final puff from the cigarette and mashed it into the floorboards at his feet.
“Something has gone wrong. I know it.”
“Don’t be a cunt,” Harry said. He didn’t say that he’d be happy when the truck moved, too. The scent the Frenchie wore was making him sick. The nervous sweating of the man made it even worse.
Charlie Bouchard circled the Ford and climbed in the passenger side. “We will hear it start up,” he said.
On the seat between them were the two pistols that Lafitte had offered them. Both were rusted and scratched, weapons that the constable had taken away from drunks on Saturday nights. “I can’t swear they’ll fire,” he’d said.
In some ways that information had not frightened the Bouchard cousins. Not as much as it should have. Neither of the men had ever fired a gun at anyone in their lives.
Three minutes passed and then two more.
Randy had done the figuring in his head. All hell would be breaking out any minute now.
He said, “I got to bleed my lizard.” He caught the gym bag at his feet by the cloth handles and stood.
Corporal Lester watched him, but it was not with any special interest. After he’d returned from the platform outside, after the train left, he appeared tired. Most of his attention was centered on the ticket clerk behind the wire cage. There’d been a call from the foreman of the yard crew. They’d had trouble with the truck, and they were coming in soon in their own cars.
Randy faced Clark. “Got to bleed yours?”
“Not yet.”
Randy carried the gym bag into the bathroom. Both rest rooms were to the left of the ticket window, toward the door that led to the town.
The door closed behind Randy. Corporal Lester smiled at Clark. “Is that an American expression? I’ve never heard it before.”
“Down home and country,” Clark said.
“I’ll have to remember it and use it on my mates,” the corporal said.
In the bathroom Randy unzipped the gym bag and took out both target pistols. He emptied the spare box of shells into his right-front pocket.
Nerves were getting to him. He went into one of the stalls and pissed long and hard.
Nothing like a good piss to take the strain away.
Lieutenant Foster had chosen the youngest of the noncoms, Sergeant Winston. That done, he’d left the selection of the eight men to him. It was the way the chain of command was supposed to work.
After the train left the station, Foster drew Sergeant Winston aside for a talk. They decided that four men would form the guard detail and the other four would take a break on the other side of the boxcar. It would be one hour on and one hour off. There was no way to know how long the detail would last. It might go on all night.
Sergeant Winston set the first watch. He sent four soldiers to the other side of the boxcar for their rest time. Winston wanted the first watch, but Foster decided that he would take it.
Winston joined the second watch on the far side of the car.
Lieutenant Foster stood at the edge of the road, his back to it, and stared at the boxcar. He hadn’t told anyone what was inside. He could keep a secret with the best of them. But in his mind he was thinking about the letter he would write Mary Ann before he shipped out of Halifax. Wouldn’t she be surprised when he told her that he had been left in charge of a cargo worth between three and four million pounds?
He was framing the words when the strong beam of the truck headlights washed the length of the boxcar and lighted him.
He turned to face the truck. He raised a hand the way a traffic cop did. The command to stop was on the tip of his tongue. But whoever was driving the truck pressed down on the gas, and the truck took a leap and sped level with him and beyond.
He turned to look after that truck. It was then the headlights from the second truck placed their strong beam on him. He felt like a bug pinned to a board. It was a feeling he had only for a short time. He whirled to his left to face the second truck. It was then he realized that something had been thrown or had fallen from the back of the first truck. One of the objects … a rock … a stone … had landed at his feet. He looked down but the glare had blinded him. He couldn’t see what it was. Other objects were hurled from the back of the second truck.
He opened his mouth. He began to shout, “Stop in the name …”
The first grenade exploded almost exactly under Lieutenant Foster’s feet. It split him from crotch to neck like a freshly slaughtered beef.
“Now,” Johnny had shouted.
Vic jumped the truck across the tracks and headed for the siding where the boxcar was parked. Johnny eased the sliding door on his side open. He grabbed two grenades from the seat next to him and pulled the pins. He held the levers down until the truck was abreast of the boxcar.
A young man in an officer’s uniform held up a hand as if to stop them.
“Floor it,” Johnny said.
The second the headlights left the young officer, Johnny tossed the two grenades through the open doorway. In the back of the same truck Gunny tossed two grenades past the tailgate and then pulled the pins on two more and tossed them underhanded toward the boxcar.
The second Bulldog, with Richard Betts at the wheel, had its hood on the bumper of the truck ahead. After he was rid of the second pair of grenades, Gunny rolled away and pressed against the right side of his truck so that he could not be seen in the headlights. He covered his face with his hands.
In the cab of the second Bulldog Tom Renssler pulled the pins on a pair of grenades and held the levers down. At the last moment, level with the boxcar, he released the levers. The blast of air poured on him through the open door. And for some reason he hesitated. He wasn’t sure that he could throw the grenades.
It was then he heard Richard Betts yelling at him. “Throw the goddam …”
He did. It was that or blow up.
The truck roared past the siding. Richard Betts was still shouting at him. He didn’t hear the most of it. “… What the fuck did you think …?”
The first grenade went off and he didn’t have to listen to the rest of what Betts said.
Harry Churchman threw one grenade and then a second one. He rolled to his side and stared at Henri Leveque. “You going to toss them?”
Henri didn’t move. His hands were clenched white over the slippery grenades.
Harry gave him a shove and then fell down next to him. “Worthless as pigshit,” Harry said.
“I couldn’t.”
“Pigshit.”
The Ford turned the corner and headed for the railroad crossing. Pete Bouchard was following the two trucks the way Mr. Leveque had told him to. When he crossed the tracks he was about a hundred yards behind the second truck.
The Ford was almost level with the near end of the boxcar when the first grenade exploded. Charlie Bouchard said, “Great God, what is …?”
Pete grabbed the wheel with both hands and swung it hard left. The headlights told him there wasn’t much space in that direction. The side of another building was there. But he moved into the other lane. A hard right and he was straight and level.
Sergeant Winston had his back to the wall on the other side of the boxcar. He heard the trucks approaching and got to his feet. A young soldier, Private Pitts, looked up at him.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“I’ll see.” He turned back to the four men. “Rest easy. It’s probably nothing.”
The closest way was the gap between the back of the boxcar and the roundhouse entrance. He reached the end of the boxcar when the first headlights passed. He stopped and said to himself, What the hell?, and reached for his holster flap.
He was still fumbling with the holster flap when the second truck passed. At that instant the first of the grenades went off. He wasn’t hit by any of the flying metal, but the concussion pushed him back. He used his left hand to grab at something on the boxcar. He righted himself.
He heard screaming then. It was close, but it sounded far away. The blast had almost deafened him. Other grenades exploded, and he pressed against the end of the boxcar. The bulk of it shielded him.
His Webley was in his hand. He didn’t remember when he’d drawn it.
A third truck was passing. It was cutting across the road into the other lane when Sergeant Winston braced his service revolver against the side of the boxcar. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could. He emptied it into the cab of the Ford truck.
Window glass shattered. The Ford seemed to hesitate, slowing, and then it curved hard left and rammed into the side of the brick building on the other side of the road. The hood buckled and flipped upward.
The screams pushed at him. He was shaking while he broke the pistol and dumped the spent shells and began to reload.
“Form here, form here,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Damn your hides, form up.”
His four men, the ones who’d been on break and had been shielded by the boxcar, pressed close to him. He could see their pale, sweaty faces.
“Lock and load.”
He heard the bolts snick and the rounds ram into the chambers. “Prone position,” he shouted.
When they were belly flat he put one knee on the rail and waited.
To his left, he heard someone scream, “Oh, God, somebody help me.”
Sergeant Winston didn’t move. The boxcar, the safety of that, was his first concern. Only when he was certain that it was secure would he have time to take care of the wounded.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The crump, crump, crump in the distance brought Pierre Picard to his feet. He clapped the battered hat on his head and the clammy inside liner started an involuntary shiver down his spine. He waited until it passed, and, after he located the tip of the fuse, he brought the penny box of matches from his hip pocket. He squatted over the pigtail and selected a match. But he hesitated. He wasn’t sure that the explosions were the ones that constituted the signal.
Barely moments later he heard small-arms fire. One or the other, it didn’t matter which was the real message. He tried to strike the first match. It broke and he tossed it away. Nerves, just nerves. The second match caught and flared. He touched the flame to the fuse and it hissed at him.
He jumped over the rails and ran as hard as he could along the track bed toward town. He’d gone about a hundred yards when the blast came. It rocked the ground under him. He staggered and landed on all fours. A dust cloud swirled toward him and a hail of small stones showered down. Dust reached him and clogged his nostrils.
Time passed. Only seconds, but it seemed longer. He got to his feet and walked the distance to the spot where he’d planted the explosives. The dust was thick, so dense that he didn’t believe it would ever settle. He found the place and stopped a few feet away.
The inside rail on each set of tracks curled upward and outward. The wood ties had been blown to splinters on both sides of the trench where the bundles had been placed. A deep crater had been scooped away beneath the tracks.
He’d done his part. It was a curious satisfaction. Mr. Leveque would be pleased. He turned and ran through the dust clouds at a fast trot. He’d gone perhaps two hundred yards toward town when he heard the massive explosion in the west. He had no way of knowing that this detonation marked the blowing up of tracks at the west end of town. Pride soured in him. He thought he’d blown the tracks early.
The same confusion bothered Jean. He hadn’t known what kind of signal to expect. The grenades exploding, the small-arms fire that followed, didn’t sound like the “all hell breaking loose” that Gunny had warned him to listen for.
Another thirty seconds passed while he squatted over the fuse. Then he heard the heavy explosion to the east. It was the signal, he knew, and he congratulated himself for not letting panic push him into making a mistake. Mr. Leveque did not appreciate mistakes.
He struck the match on the side of his shoe and touched the flame to the fuse. He sprinted down the track toward the parked Cadillac. When the twin bundles of dynamite blew the rails apart he stopped and looked back. He did not, however, return to the location to check. He assumed that the American who had made up the explosives knew his business. Otherwise, why had he been given the job?
The grenades appeared to have exploded directly outside the waiting room. Corporal Robert Lester leaped to his feet. He said, “God Jesus damn,” and his right hand went to the flap that covered the Webley in his holster.
He took a long stride toward the door to the railside platform. Behind him, Randy pushed open the bathroom door with his shoulder. He carried a long-barreled target pistol in each hand. “You,” Randy said to the corporal, “you stand still.”
Clark circled Corporal Lester, careful not to walk between him and the pistols Randy held. He tugged the Webley from the
canvas holster and stepped away. A few strides and he reached the ticket window. He ducked through the baggage-claim opening.
The clerk was there. His first instinct had been to run for the window and look outside. Now he whirled around and said, “Soldier, you’d better …” The rest of it died in his throat when he saw the Webley pointed at him. His eyes flickered toward the table where the telegraph key was. Clark took two steps to his right. He stood between the clerk and the telegraph unit.
“No messages tonight,” Clark said.
Using one hand, Clark stripped the wires from the telegraph. He pulled and twisted at the key until it broke away in his hand. He tossed it in the corner of the room.
“Tell me what this is about,” Corporal Lester demanded. His face was flushed, and he could barely force the words past his teeth because of the anger.
“This is the seventh-inning stretch,” Randy said. He wagged the pistol in his right hand until the corporal got the idea and lifted both hands high above his head. “See how much real baseball you’re learning?”
Randy laughed. He cut his eyes toward Clark to see if he’d properly appreciated his wit. It was then that the door to the platform jerked outward and Private William Carpenter took a step through the doorway and froze in surprise at what he saw.
Private Carpenter had been sneaking a smoke, seated on the baggage cart and looking over his shoulder now and then to see if the corporal was watching him. Not that he expected a lecture out of Lester. Lester was a good guy. Still, some of the squad thought he was too much a stickler for what he thought didn’t look military. Smoking on duty was high on his blacklist.
He crimped the cigarette and field-stripped it, and he was scattering the tobacco when he saw the line of trucks cross the tracks and head south. The first two trucks were close together, and the other was about a hundred yards behind them.