Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

by David Healey

  "All I want is a chance to kill some Yankees," Benjamin said.

  Flynn raised his eyes theatrically to heaven. "Help me, Lord. One man thinks of his belly, the other is thirsty for blood."

  The raiders had split up early that morning, striking out in their separate groups for the river that marked the boundary between North and South.

  "So you want to kill Yankees, do you now, Johnny lad?" Flynn asked.

  "I reckon I do. I done got wounded down in Tennessee before I could even fire my rifle."

  "Well, I hope Colonel Percy gave you a decent pistol," Flynn said. "The way you were shooting yesterday, he should have given you one of the new Colts."

  Benjamin pushed back his long coat to reveal an unwieldy and old-fashioned looking Model 1842 Horse Pistol. "I reckon this will do just fine."

  Flynn pulled his horse up short. He looked shocked. "Percy sent you on this raid with that? An old single-shot pistol? Why, lad, I believe General Washington himself carried one of those."

  Flynn drew his own Colt Navy revolver and handed it to Benjamin. "Here you go, lad. You'll make better use of it than me, I'm sure."

  Pettibone watched the exchange with amusement. "That's mighty generous of you, Flynn. But what are you going to do if we run into some Yankees—talk them to death?"

  "Sure, and I'll be using my other gun." Flynn patted his pocket. "A Le Mat revolver imported all the way from Paris. It fires nine shots and a shotgun blast to boot."

  Pettibone nodded. "I reckon that ought do the trick."

  "What should I do with this old horse pistol?" Benjamin asked.

  "Give it to me, lad."

  "What are you going to do with it?" Pettibone asked.

  "I'll use it as a backup gun. Besides, one shot is all I need," Flynn said. "When I shoot a man, I'm generally close enough that I can stick the barrel in the bastard's belly." He slipped the old pistol into his pocket. "This one will do me just fine."

  Pettibone snorted. "You're an odd one, Flynn."

  "That's been said before."

  "I reckon you're touched in the head, all right, to come with us," Pettibone said. "This is a fool's mission."

  "The decision wasn't entirely mine. Besides, I do what I'm told because I know who butters my bread," Flynn said. He then asked as idly as possible, “Don't you have confidence in Colonel Percy?"

  "Flynn, I'd follow the colonel to hell and back," Pettibone said. "Come to think of it, I reckon I already have, in some ways. But think of what we're asked to do. The devil himself couldn't pull this off. Kidnap Abraham Lincoln? That's like trying to steal Christ off the cross."

  "Don't blaspheme the Lord. It's bad luck," Flynn said.

  "You still goin' to shoot Percy?" Pettibone asked. "I have to tell you, Flynn, that I'll kill you first."

  "Whatever happens is up to Colonel Percy now," Flynn said, not eager to argue the point with Pettibone. He sensed that the rawboned corporal was one of the few raiders who didn't seem eager to shoot him in the back first chance he got. He looked over at Benjamin, who was busy sighting his new Colt at trees and stumps they rode past, one eye squinted. "The odds don't seem to bother this lad at all. Tell me, Johnny lad, how did you get mixed up with this bunch? What would your poor mother say?"

  Benjamin holstered the Colt. "Well, I didn't know nobody in Richmond after I got out of the hospital. I done had me a furlough pass for a few days, but not enough to get home. I just fell in with these fellers, got to drinkin' with 'em, you know, and Colonel Percy fixed up a transfer so I could go on the raid."

  "You're a fool to come with us, boy," Pettibone said. "Won't be many comin' back."

  "Maybe I'm a fool, but at least I'll be famous."

  They laughed. Flynn didn't let the silence afterwards last long. "Tell me about the others," he said.

  "Ain't much to tell," Pettibone said. Still, he shrugged, and started to talk.

  • • •

  Aside from Flynn, Benjamin, and the two railroaders, Percy's men were all from Fauquier County in Virginia. They had known each other practically since birth. Silas Cater, for instance, was actually a cousin of Percy's. He had been off at Washington College studying philosophy when the war broke out. He was competent enough at making sure the guard was posted or at holding a flank, but he could never have replaced Percy. Still, he made a good captain and worshipped his older cousin.

  Willie Forbes was a hopeless drunk. He drank in prodigious quantities at every opportunity and no amount of punishment could curb his taste for liquor. Oddly enough, he was a good soldier and he was never too drunk to ride. Besides, sober or drunk, he was a good man in a fight.

  Bill Hazlett was a son of a bitch but they all put up with him. Most of the men were afraid of him. Percy had made him a sergeant mainly because of family connections. Hazlett, after all, was married to a cousin. However, he was competent enough and inspired a certain amount of fear in new recruits, especially the ones they had been getting recently to fill their regiment's battle- and disease-depleted ranks. Hazlett had a mean streak wider than the Potomac River.

  "Why doesn't he like Irishmen?" Flynn asked. "I don't think anyone's been as hostile to an Irishman since Oliver Cromwell showed up at the gates of Drogheda."

  "I don't know about this Cromwell you mentioned, but I do know Hazlett," Pettibone said. "It's best to keep on his good side."

  "He's a pain in the arse," Flynn said irritably. "I can promise you that he'll be sorry if he ever sees my bad side."

  “How did he get his scar?” Benjamin asked. “I reckon it was in a knife fight.”

  Pettibone snorted. “Not hardly, boy. He come home drunk one night and his wife hit him with a poker.”

  John Cook had been a farmer back home. Not a very good one, though. When a cow or pig turned up missing, there was a chance you could find it in Cook's pasture—or in his smokehouse. Still, he was a good-enough cavalryman, even if you couldn't leave anything valuable lying about when he was around.

  "What about you, Pettibone?" Flynn asked.

  Pettibone shrugged. "Well, I ain't that much different from the rest of 'em, I reckon. Got me a little farm, a wife and two young 'uns back home. Them Yankees got my dander up back in sixty-one, and I thought I'd sign up, fight the war, and be back home in two months. Here I am, over two years later."

  Flynn laughed. "Sure, and it's better than farming."

  "I don't know about that," Pettibone said. "I don't, indeed."

  Pettibone had hardly said more than two or three words all at once before he had explained his fellow Virginians to Flynn. They spent the rest of the afternoon swapping stories and talking about what they would do after the war. At nightfall, they stopped at a crossroads tavern and used some of the money Norris had given them to secure a room. Once again, Fletcher kept to himself, and the colonel and his servant went off alone.

  Although Flynn didn't let on, he knew the inn well. It was a common stopover for travelers between Virginia and Maryland, even though, officially, there wasn't supposed to be travel between the two warring nations. The innkeeper recognized Flynn, although he knew better than to acknowledge him with anything more than a slight nod.

  Once they were settled for the night, Flynn slipped away from his companions long enough to use a pencil to scratch a note on a piece of paper. It surprised some people that Flynn could write—in fact, he could read and write very well—although it was a skill he usually kept to himself.

  • • •

  Nov. 15

  Colonel,

  Fine bunch of misfits you have assembled. They seem very capable. We'll be crossing the Potomac in the morning. Then the fun begins.

  Flynn

  • • •

  Norris had insisted that Flynn stay in touch with him, although Flynn himself didn't see the point. What would he write to Norris about, the weather? But while he was in Virginia, he would follow Norris's wishes, because the spymaster had a long arm. Once they crossed the Potomac into Maryland, Flynn planned to mak
e his own rules—or some of them, at least.

  When he was finished, he gave the envelope to the innkeeper. The man accepted the note and the Yankee greenback wrapped around it with the same nod he had given Flynn earlier.

  The envelope was addressed to Colonel William Norris, Confederate Signal Bureau.

  "Send it along to that bastard," Flynn said. Colonel Percy had since retired to his room, so Flynn bought a bottle of cheap whiskey, gave Benjamin a cupful, and then he and Pettibone got drunk together in a corner of the inn.

  Chapter 8

  Potomac River, Virginia Shore

  2 a.m., November 16, 1863

  The smugglers waited for the raiders in the shelter of a narrow creek that emptied into the Potomac River. The two men were short and wiry, with hands like leather and arms well-muscled from working the oars. The smugglers stood quietly, smoking pipes in the darkness, watching as the raiders stumbled toward them down the steep bank.

  These smugglers had made many midnight crossings, ferrying people and goods between the Confederacy and Union. One of Colonel Norris's agents had made the arrangements for that night's services.

  However, the smugglers had never carried a black man across the river. They looked sullenly at Hudson's dark face, which shone like ebony in the moonlight.

  "Is there a problem?" Percy asked, noticing the men's silence.

  "He can row hisself," one of the smugglers said, jerking his chin at Hudson. He coughed up something from deep in his throat and spat into the creek.

  Percy, having just traveled at breakneck speed from Richmond to this isolated cove, was in no mood to argue. Mission be damned, he thought, and opened his mouth to tell these water rats what he thought of them. Before he could make a sound, Flynn slipped past him and swatted the smuggler with a powerful blow that knocked the man off his feet.

  "That man's an officer," Flynn said, his voice low and harsh. "You best show him some respect."

  There might have been more trouble if Hudson hadn't slipped into the skiff, folding his huge frame into the craft with such cat-like grace that not so much as a ripple disturbed the glassy midnight stillness of the creek. He settled himself and tested a pair of oars in their locks.

  Unnerved by the swiftness with which the huge black man had moved, not to mention Flynn's bullying, the two smugglers set to work. One motioned the raiders into the skiff. They all slipped into the skiff quietly enough, except for Captain Fletcher, who only managed to climb aboard after noisily thumping his riding boots in the belly of the boat. The noise echoed like a drumbeat across the water.

  One of the smugglers swore under his breath and growled at Fletcher, “Hell, boy, there's Yankees all up and down this river. Why don't you jest blow a bugle and let 'me know we're about to come over?"

  "I hate boats," was all that Fletcher muttered in reply.

  Once Fletcher was settled, one smuggler took up the second pair of oars while the other shoved the skiff toward the center of the creek before jumping in and landing soundlessly.

  "Don't fall overboard, Fletcher," Percy warned in a whisper. "Those fancy boots of yours will fill with water and pull you down like stones."

  Fletcher, chastised on all sides, hunkered even lower in the boat. "That's just as well," he said. "I can't swim, anyhow."

  With Hudson and the two oarsmen rowing, and Flynn at the tiller, they soon swept out onto the Potomac.

  After the darkness of the creek, which was overhung with trees, the sudden vastness of the big river was stunning. Stars shone overhead, wind moaned, and the black water gurgled around the skiff's wooden skin. The tall banks opposite them looked impossibly far away, but the skiff cut quickly through the river.

  "What happens if we see any Yankees?" Percy asked the smugglers.

  One of the men snorted. "It's best to row like hell and hope we don't see none."

  Percy settled in his seat, feeling naked and exposed on the open river. Cold wind numbed his cheeks and ears. He longed to be on horseback instead of this small skiff in the middle of the river. At least on a horse a man had a chance.

  He and his men were crossing the Potomac farther south than the second group of raiders led by Captain Cater. Washington would be just a short walk from the opposite shore, if they cared to visit the Union capital. However, this was no sight-seeing trip. Instead, Percy planned to angle northeast as quickly as possible and rendezvous with the other raiders at Ellicott Mills. Percy's small band would have forty miles to cover, but he was sure they could reach the rendezvous in two days.

  The shafts of the oars were covered in rawhide to keep them from knocking in the oarlocks, which were themselves greased with lard for silence. A successful crossing depended upon slipping across the river while no Yankee gunboats were in sight. It also required that no unfriendly ears or eyes noticed them from the United States side of the river.

  The river was empty as they first launched onto it from the creek's shelter. Each sweep of the oars carried them closer to the safety of the far shore. They were halfway there when there was a distant flash upriver. It took Percy a moment to realize he was seeing moonlight reflecting on a glistening paddle wheel.

  "It's a goddamn gunboat!"

  Sure enough, a vessel was rounding the bend upriver, its paddle wheel churning through the water and shattering the stillness of the night.

  Fletcher drew his revolver.

  "Put that away," Percy snapped. "If you fire a single shot, they'll open up on us with their bow gun and blow us out of the water."

  The skiff surged ahead as Hudson and the other oarsmen rowed hard. Flynn found a paddle under his seat.

  "Take the tiller, Pettibone," Flynn said, and began to dig frantically at the water. Their only hope was to reach shore before the gunboat came closer. Pettibone scooted back and reached for the tiller, pointing the boat toward the river's edge ahead, which lay deep in shadow.

  The river crossing had become a race against time. Speed was everything. If the gunboat passed between them and the Northern shore, they would be spotted and cut off. There was no chance of outrunning a paddle wheeler. If the gunboat passed behind them, they still might be able to hide themselves in the shadows cast across the river by the high banks of the Maryland shore. Unfortunately, the current and paddle wheel were carrying the Yankee gunboat toward them at an alarming rate of speed.

  "If they spot us, jump over the side," panted one of the smugglers. "Their gun will turn this skiff into kindling but they can't hit a man in the water."

  Percy did not like the thought of taking to the cold water with the opposite shore still so far away. He and Hudson were both strong swimmers, but he wasn't sure about the others. The river had November's chill and the current was swift.

  "I can't swim," Fletcher protested.

  "I can't, either," Benjamin said quietly.

  "Then stay with the boat and get blown to pieces, you damn fools," a smuggler snapped at them.

  "We'll all stay with the boat," Percy said. "None of us will make it to shore if we don't stay together."

  The gunboat swept toward them, looming larger all the time. At the last possible instant, one of the smugglers hissed, "Get down!" and all the men hunkered in the skiff, hoping that in the darkness the Yankees might mistake the boat for a drifting log.

  They were so close they could hear two of the men aboard talking and laughing. The Rebels held their breath and prayed. With luck, the Yankee gunboat would sweep past them.

  The laughter aboard the gunboat stopped. "What's that in the water, Bill?" came a Yankee's voice, sounding like it was right on top of them.

  "It's a log, I guess."

  "Hell, that’s a boat!" The Yankee sailor raised his voice. "You in the boat, what the hell you doin' on this river? Best state your business."

  Crouched in the boat, Percy looked at the smuggler whose face was only yards away from his own. He could smell the rich tobacco smoke from the Yankee's pipe.

  "Now what?" Percy hissed.

  "I re
ckon we row like hell," the smuggler whispered back. "It ain't far to shore."

  "All right," Percy said, and felt for the butt of his pistol. "Now!"

  The men in the skiff sat up and grabbed the oars. They were now in a race for their lives.

  "They're running'!" came a shout from the gunboat.

  "Halt or we'll fire!"

  "Aw, hell," the other smuggler said. "Time to go over the side."

  "No, goddamnit," Percy barked at him. "Row, you damn coward. We have to get across this river."

  Fortunately for the raiders, surprise was on their side. It took maybe thirty seconds for the Yankee crew members to swivel their gun around and prime it. The gun was only a six-pounder, but it was powerful enough to smash them to pieces if the skiff took a direct hit. Hudson and the two smugglers worked the oars like demons, trying to put as much distance as possible between the gunboat and the skiff before the gun was ready.

  "Fire!"

  A jet of flame rolled across the river's surface, illuminating the night like lightning, with a thunderclap to match. The cannonball passed so close to the skiff that they all felt the rush of air and heat as it hurtled past, then skimmed the river like a skipped stone.

  "Row, row!" Pettibone shouted as he steered the skiff. Fletcher was flopping around in the bottom of the boat like a freshly caught fish, trying to pull off his boots in case they had to swim for it. Percy and Benjamin fired their revolvers at the Yankees, although their guns seemed to do about as much harm as flicking pebbles at the gunboat.

  A second shot crashed into the river no more than a foot from the skiff's bow. Cold water showered Hudson in the front of the skiff.

  "Hud, you all right?" Percy called.

  "Never better, Mr. Arthur," Hudson replied, rowing on without so much as breaking his rhythm. The skiff surged ahead with each powerful stroke.

  "Bastards have us in range now," Percy growled. Aboard the gunboat, he could see the Yankees silhouetted against the moonlit sky as they scrambled to reload the swivel gun. He held his breath. They wouldn't miss again.