He tried to read the time beneath the signal’s red stop lamp, and the horse shifted beneath him. Also feeling the cold, it was impatient to be on the move, but his orders were to stay and watch. Beside him, the signal remained raised, but as he squinted into the gloom, watching the ridge between him and the castle, he heard it clunk, looked up and saw it had dropped and the lamp glowed green.
‘Not long now,’ he said, patting the horse’s neck.
Steering his mount away from the tracks, he dismounted and tethered the horse to bushes where it could graze. There, he gathered his nerves, determined to do well by the viscount, and took strength from the cold steel in his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he could shoot someone with it, but he was ready to try.
He sensed the train before he saw it. The track hummed and vibrated at his feet, and he looked as far as he could along its incoming path. He saw no locomotive, but a movement on the hill drew his eye. A shape crested the ridge, a horse galloping south, the rider’s head down and his back bent. He was too far away to make out the face, but, instantly alert, James followed its trajectory to assess its intention. Whoever it was, they were racing and dropping below the ridge, angled for the tracks further up the line.
Closer, he could see it was not Archer or Fecker; it could only be Quill. He crouched.
The track began to clank and, as Quill neared the embankment, the scene brightened. James could now hear the throb of an engine, a quiet monotonal hum that intensified and, as it grew louder, broke into beats. Watching Quill dismount, he slipped from the bushes and drew out the revolver, raising it over his head, his finger on the trigger.
He hesitated. If he fired, Quill would know he was there and might bolt; if he remained silent, he was on his own.
The rhythm of the engine slowed, the light brightened, and he turned to look. Shielding his eyes from the headlamps, he made out the chimney ejecting puffs of dark smoke. They fumed upwards into one column before being dragged back along the carts, clouding the stars. It slowed as it approached the halt and, turning again, James saw Quill slap his horse’s rump. It took off, following the tracks south. James lay low, the revolver in his hand and his heart in his mouth. If Quill climbed onto the moving train, he would do the same and fire the signal from there.
Gasping and wheezing as if it had just climbed a mountain, the stocky engine laboured past. The ground shuddered, and glancing up, James saw he had to act. Quill was scurrying, bent low and keeping up with the engine. He grabbed a rail on the coal-car and heaved. Mounting the steps deftly, he disappeared into the tender.
James ran back to the track and alongside the cars. They passed him more quickly as the locomotive, once past the halt, gathered speed, but there were no steps, no handrails and nothing to give him easy access. He stumbled as he searched for a handhold; he was quickly running out of cars and options.
A warning shot was the best he could do, but there was no sign of Archer or Fecker. Even if they heard the report, they wouldn’t reach the train in time.
The last car was approaching. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the rear rail with both hands and clung on. The only way was to pull, jump and hope his feet found purchase on the buffer, but he missed his footing on the first attempt, and his shins slammed painfully into metal. His feet dragged, catching on sleepers, but he fought to regain his rhythm, found it and tried again. This time, he made the leap and hauled himself onto the backplate.
He pulled out the revolver and, looking away, let off a shot. The sound was barely audible above the rattle and clatter of the cars, but he hoped Archer had heard it. That done, his job was to watch for Quill. If he jumped, they would lose him. He had two miles before the points and another beyond them to the river.
With the train now running at full speed, he approached the side of the carriage and looked to the front. The slipstream immediately whipped his cap from his head, and the cold watered his eyes. It was hard to make out anything along the edge of the cars, but the engine lamps illuminated the track, and if Quill appeared he would see his silhouette. That was unless he jumped from the other side.
James couldn’t watch both at once, and he had to move. He pocketed the revolver and leaning out, cautiously groped for something to hold. The side of the truck was smooth, and to traverse it meant pinching the lip of the roof with his fingertips and stretching his toes to a narrow ridge of metalwork just above the wheels, a few feet from the fast-moving embankment. The wind fought to whip him from his precarious position as he stepped out to inch his way towards the front.
“One step at a time.” Thomas’ words gave him hope and drove him on. He would be waiting at the points. James was not doing this alone.
As he squinted against the soot, his fingers explored the way, each grip more painful than the last, each less powerful as his hands numbed. A figure emerged from the tender. Huddled, it scurried along the footplate to the engine and slithered inside. James moved faster and reached for the corner of the car.
His boots slipped, and he was buffeted away from the ledge, his legs flailing. His fingers screamed in pain, and he was thumped back into the car, winded. He thrashed, but found no support, he’d lost his footing, his grip was weakening, and he couldn’t hold on any longer. He had tried, but he was not up to the task. Knowing he was about to fall, he yelled in bitter frustration.
A hand slammed into his back without warning, pressing him against the truck, and held him there until his feet found the ledge. Perhaps this was his mother’s “unseen hand of God,” he thought in a detached moment of clarity, and with the hand supporting him, he was able to stretch for the end of the car and found a handhold. As soon as he was safe, he was let go and shaking, looked to see who had saved him.
Fecker made a fist and thumped the air as he angled safely away from the wheels. With his hair and his coat streaming behind, he raced the train like the devil bearing down on the souls of the unrighteous.
Archer wasn’t far behind, galloping from the ridge to the rear of the train and encouraging his mount with his crop. The horse knew its purpose and worked with him, delivering him up the embankment to the backplate. The viscount drew level with the last car, stood in the stirrups, and grabbed the rail. With one great leap, he left the saddle and swung his legs across to the car. He landed first time and clambered aboard as the horse veered off and slowed. Archer wasted no time climbing to the roof, and James turned his attention to the engine.
‘Jimmy!’ Archer was above him, fighting the wind for his balance. ‘Warn the driver. Stop the train.’
Everything was shadows and speed, gusts and fumes as James fought his way to the next car. Wooden, it offered a narrow walkway, making it easier for him to pass, but there were no handholds apart from cracks in the planking where he dug his fingertips, pressing his body flat against the side. He didn’t know how many more cars there were before the tender, but the headlamps were still a way off. The driver was expecting to continue straight on and was steaming the engine hard.
Knowing there would be a bend after the points, but not knowing if the engine would take it at that speed without derailing, James reached the next car to find it shuddering dangerously. A warning of things to come. He ripped off his gloves with his teeth to gain a better handhold and swung out once more into the howling wind.
‘I can hear it,’ Thomas whispered.
‘Yeah, there’s a light.’
Sure enough, a glow emanated from the distant trees and the tracks hummed.
‘Mount up,’ Thomas instructed. ‘We should follow it. I’ll gallop, you’ll have to walk.’
‘How do you gallop?’ Silas stood on the steps where it was easier to lift his foot to the stirrup.
‘You can’t even trot.’
‘I can fecking try, mate.’
‘You’ll injure yourself.’
‘Ah, away with you.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Do what you must. Just don’t get in front of the bloody thing.’
The locomotive was closer, puffing on each fourth-beat until it broke through the trees with a glare of light. Thomas’ heart pumped as hard as its pistons. He’d never chased or hunted, but if Quill was on that train and making his escape, he would do whatever it took. No-one was taking down Archer’s good name. If he had been a religious man, he would have prayed Archer was safe, but he didn’t need prayers. He believed in the man, and thanks to him, he believed in himself.
He tightened his reins and addressed Silas.
‘Ready?’
‘Fuck me!’
Silas was agape, and when Thomas turned to face the oncoming locomotive, he saw why.
The engine bore down on him, and in a surreal flash of clarity, he saw James clambering at the side of a coal-car edging towards the cab. That was not the only worrying sight. Fecker was on the coal heap, and Quill stood atop a boxcar in the middle, a knife raised in one hand. From the back, Archer was battling towards him resolved but struggling to aim his pistol. His cloak hampered him, stretched out behind like a flapping sail, dragging him back by his neck. As he sped past, he threw it away, and it took off into the night. Releasing it allowed him to stand erect, and with Quill’s advance empowered by the wind, he raised his weapon.
‘It’s turning,’ Silas shouted.
The train took the points protesting the curve with a screech of metal and listing as it juddered onto the branch line. The men on the roof fought to keep their balance. Fecker was already out of sight, Quill was on his knees, and Archer was still struggling.
‘Shit!’ Thomas spurred his horse to action.
He had to reach the tunnel and warn them before their bodies splattered against the arch. He galloped head down and, reaching back, swung his shotgun from his back. Tucking it beneath his arm, he found the trigger and looked ahead. The track was straightening, and he was gaining on the train. Driving his horse with shouts and jabs of his heels, he manoeuvred the shotgun to his shoulder.
He was too low, there was no way to aim up at Quill. He could only see his head as he crawled closer to Archer. If Thomas fired, he might miss, or worse, hit the viscount. Cursing, he let the gun hang from its strap. Pounding hooves now matched the rhythm of his heart as he drew level with James at the side of driver’s cab.
‘Tunnel!’ Thomas yelled, but his words were snatched away and useless.
The tiny red dot appeared among the blackness. He grappled for the shotgun, aimed it skywards and fired twice. James heard, ducked and turned.
‘Tunnel!’ Thomas hollered again, pointing. He swiped his hand across his head, ducking.
James understood. He stooped into the cab, and a second later the whistle sounded. Two short bursts, a pause, two more. The rhythm continued as Thomas fell back and the engine steamed into the tunnel. The last he saw was Fecker throwing himself flat and Archer aiming his revolver.
He heeled his horse and yanked the reins, directing her up the slope and into the darkness to resume his chase on the other side.
Passing through the arch, James prayed his friends had seen the tunnel wall in time. Sounds were amplified, paining his ears, smoke burned the back of his throat, and the open furnace blasted his legs.
If that wasn’t hell enough, the sight of two men slumped in a pool of blood with their throats sliced left him in no doubt.
The cab suddenly brightened as they broke from its stinking darkness into the moonlight. He was faced with a dashboard of dials and valves, handles and levers that meant nothing. The only obvious thing was the whistle chain, and he pulled it once, signalling they were free. In a mile, they would be at the depot, through it and, unless he could stop the train, straight into the river.
He kicked shut the furnace door. It might dampen the fire but only a little, there was still too much momentum, and even if he extinguished the flames somehow, the engine would take too long to slow on its own. There had to be a way of reducing speed by applying the brakes, but if he pulled the wrong lever, he could derail the train and kill them all.
He wished Thomas was with him.
Thomas was. Galloping beside him again, crouched over his saddle, shouting across the distance and beckoning with one arm. James couldn’t hear his words, but he understood the gestures.
He hung from the open doorway, the ground a fast-moving blur. ‘I can’t!’ he bellowed.
If he missed, he would break his neck. If he stayed, he would plunge into the river with the full weight of the locomotive on top.
Thomas was gesturing madly, one second looking forward and then next desperately at James. Buildings flashed past. They had reached the shunting yard.
‘Jump!’
James tried to reach the outstretched hand, but Thomas was too far away.
‘Trust me.’ Thomas shouted, fixing James with his eyes; green, the colour of safety like a signal. ‘I’ll catch you.’
The sound beneath the wheels was suddenly hollow, and the vibrations worsened as the train thundered over a turntable. Sparks flew from the horse’s hooves, its mane streamed wildly, and Thomas leant dangerously from his saddle, his fingers beckoning.
James reached for the whistle and gave two final blasts before pulling himself to the footplate.
The gap between him and safety was a chasm, but on the other side was Thomas.
All he had to do was jump.
‘Now!’
James threw himself into the wind.
They had taken the points and careered onto the siding. The unexpected turn threw Quill to his knees, giving Archer the advantage, but even without his cloak, it was a struggle to remain upright. Taking accurate aim was impossible as the smoke blasted around him, watering his eyes and clouding his vision. He choked against it, gripped the revolver with both hands and, bracing himself, aimed.
The Ripper grinned, his twisted face visible in flashes of moonlight one moment and lost in smoke the next. He was crawling, his cloak flapping like the wings of an insect as he lurched to his knees. Behind, Fecker clambered from the tender, pushed unevenly towards Quill by the slipstream. He too was struggling to find his target, his arm buffeted and pulled.
Archer was aware that someone was riding below, and from the corner of his eye, saw two quick flashes of flame and heard Tom’s shotgun. Quill recognised the warning, and when the whistle pierced the cacophony of pistons and coupling rods, he turned to see Fecker advancing. The Ukrainian threw himself flat on his stomach. Quill dropped, his hands covering his head, and between the billows of smoke, Archer saw the tunnel lit from inside as the engine plunged in.
He hit the deck with such force he lost his grip on his revolver, and it skidded over the edge. Suction pressed him flat against the boxcar, the tunnel roof an inch above his head. The acrid tang of smoke made him gag. His lungs burned from it, and his eyes streamed. The sound was deafening. The engine wasn’t slowing, and they were running out of track. He dragged himself towards Quill. Unless Fecker could take the man down, Archer was on his own. It was just him, the Ripper and a knife.
They broke into open with a roar and a single, ear-splitting whistle. Clean air swept away the soot and stench, and he dragged his sleeve across his eyes. Quill rose to his feet, the night sky behind him a confusion of streaming stars and smoke.
Archer forced himself to his knees, his arms wavering as he fought for balance. Quill was nearly on him, his blade swinging, his eyes flaming. The viscount had only his fists and his wits. Fecker, still on his front, wrestled to aim his rifle against the jerks and shudders. Between them, they had the man trapped.
‘No way out, Quill,’ Archer yelled. ‘Give up. Jump. Turn yourself in.’
‘You’ll never be free of me, Riddington,’ Quill laughed. ‘I’m taking you to hell, and your prett
y boys are coming with you.’
He spun to Fecker.
The crack of a gunshot and the hiss of pellets made Archer duck. He expected to see Quill fall, but he was still standing, although now he was raging at Fecker whose shot had hit his arm.
The train charged across a turntable. In the distance, the track ended on a jetty that reached out over a wide, slivery river. Sheds and carriages sped past and the engine thundered towards disaster, unstoppable.
Quill understood their fate, and his face contorted in elation. With an insane cackle, he directed his rage back to Archer.
‘I have you!’ He screamed. ‘You see? Dying together!’
‘Quill!’
‘I don’t care about me. But without you…’
‘Benji!’
Quill attacked. Archer sidestepped, but his feet slithered on the curved roof. He grabbed Quill’s arm, determined to yank him from the car, but his footing was unstable. He was slipping, and the Ripper’s knife was jabbing ever closer.
‘Without you, Crispin will be free to continue my work.’
Archer caught his wrist, the blade an inch from his face, and yanked it away, catching the man off balance. He forced Quill to his knees, using him as an anchor as he clambered over, determined to kick him from the train.
He bent his legs, and the engine ploughed through the buffers.
It left the tracks and arced over the river, weightless for a second before gravity sealed its fate. The boiler hit the water, the tender bucked, and the impact shot back through the cars. Each one reared as it slammed into the one before, each shunt rippling through to the next sending the shockwave towards Archer.
Twisted Tracks (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 2) Page 28