by David Healey
Flynn moved on. The car was not entirely full, but Flynn was aware of the many eyes fixed hatefully upon him. Some of the eyes held fear, others anger, which was fine with Flynn. However, the eyes of the couple from Baltimore were filled with contempt, a far more dangerous emotion. People who were afraid could be told what to do. People who were angry could be intimidated by the big Le Mat pistol. But there was no controlling contempt. It was a rebellious emotion. As far as Flynn was concerned, the sooner they unloaded the passengers, the better.
Flynn leaned toward Benjamin. "Keep your eyes on those two," he whispered. The boy stared at the couple. "They're trouble, lad. Maybe not for us, but they're trouble in general."
Benjamin nodded. At the back of the car, Captain Fletcher kept watch, his eyes going everywhere, self-important as always. He looked the part of an officer right down to his immaculate uniform, but Fletcher wouldn't be worth a damn if there was any shooting.
Flynn cast a sideways glance at Benjamin. The boy had been looking pale since that morning's gunfight. Killing was never easy work, Flynn thought.
He motioned Benjamin out of earshot of the passengers. "Listen, lad," he whispered. "That was good work this morning. Now I know why I gave you that new Colt. You saved the day. That was just a lucky shot I got off. I can't hit a damn thing with a pistol."
The boy shrugged.
"Now, I've noticed you've been kind of quiet. I'm thinking it may be the first time you killed a man."
Benjamin shrugged. "I reckon," he finally said.
Flynn nodded. "It's no easy thing, killing a man. It's not like killing a chicken or a pig or a goat. Not at all like that. The priests will tell you it's a mortal sin, except in war, when you get a dispensation from the church for killing, although I sometimes wonder if God takes the same view. Killing some men isn't a sin at all, because some bastards deserve it. Now, if those two heroes this morning hadn't tried to be brave and foolish, they would still be alive. Don't you think?"
"I suppose they would be."
"Now, the real question to ask yourself is whether or not you'll hesitate next time before you shoot. Don't freeze up. That's war for you, lad. Hesitate, give the other fellow a chance, and you're a dead man. I don't know about you, lad, but I'd much rather be alive and feeling guilty than dead. Any day, lad. Any day it's better to pull the trigger and stay alive. Remember that."
Benjamin was silent for a moment, then asked, "You know something, Flynn?"
"What's that?"
"Pettibone's right. You talk too damn much."
But he was smiling when he said it, so Flynn knew the boy would be all right.
Just then the whistle blew one short, sharp blast and the train began to slow. In the car, raiders and captives alike looked at each other uneasily, as if to ask, "What next?"
• • •
10 a.m., Twin Arch Bridge, Watersville, Maryland
Colonel Percy jumped down from the engine, shouting as soon as his feet touched the ground. "Hazlett! Flynn! Leave one man to guard the passengers and the rest of you get out here. We have work to do."
Moments later, Percy gave his orders. The raiders swarmed toward the locomotive for the tools they had commandeered from the repair crew. They grabbed up the crowbars and mauls, then headed for the tracks at the end of the train. The tracks crossed a road and creek below using a stone, twin-arched bridge, with one span for the road and the other for the waterway. The railroad bed leading to the bridge was very high and steep. Deep ravines filled with rocks and brush bordered the tracks.
"Just two rails is all you need to pull up," Percy said. "Two rails on each side and anyone following us will go right off the track into that ravine."
The raiders set to work. Crowbars slipped under the rails. Hazlett and Hudson alternately pushed down and pulled until the veins stood out like wires in their necks. Pettibone grabbed a maul. Flynn fitted the slotted end of a crowbar to the head of a spike and tugged and twisted, trying to work it free.
While the others worked, Captain Fletcher only stood and watched. Even Percy had grabbed hold of a maul and was pounding at a rail, sweating and cursing with his men.
"Pitch in any time, Fletcher," Percy called out.
"I'm an officer," Fletcher sniffed. "I don't work with my hands."
Percy straightened up and handed his maul to another man. "Is that so?"
"Yes, Colonel, that's my right."
Percy stood, staring for a moment at the priggish captain. Then his hand casually drifted to the hip holster that held his Colt revolver. He drew the weapon, cocked it, advanced a few steps toward Fletcher, and shoved the muzzle into the captain's face.
"Fletcher, get to work or I'll blow your goddamn head off." Percy's voice was brittle, like broken glass. "I have no patience with shirkers."
Fletcher's face blanched with fear. He began to stammer some protest, thought better of it, and edged around the gun to join Hazlett and Hudson, who were straining to free a rail.
"That's better," Percy said, holstering his pistol.
The spikes holding a rail in place gave all at once with a shriek as they ripped from the wooden tie, nearly pitching the men over backward. Forbes whooped as he lost his balance and plunked down on his backside. The men grabbed the loose rail and pitched it into the ravine twenty feet below. They joined the others sweating and cursing over the second rail and soon had that one free as well.
"Sure, and that will be a fine surprise for anyone coming after us," said Flynn, looking down at the twin rails now gleaming in the brush.
"I don't believe you mean that, Irish," Hazlett said. He was standing a few feet away, a crowbar over one shoulder. "Maybe you want them to catch us. Hell, you might just be a Yankee yourself. Lord knows there's enough potato-eaters wearing blue."
"Hazlett, you don't know your arse from a potato, much less a Yankee from a Reb."
Hazlett snarled and in one, smooth motion, he planted his feet and swung the iron bar at Flynn's head. The Irishman ducked and the bar swished harmlessly through the air. Forbes, standing next to Flynn, couldn't get out of the way fast enough and the crow bar struck him a glancing blow on the upper arm. He howled and swore.
Flynn went at Hazlett from a crouch, thumping hard fists deep into his belly. Hazlett slashed down with the crow bar. Flynn dodged a second too late. The iron bar missed his head but the flattened tip ripped a bloody furrow along his jawbone.
Flynn ignored the pain and danced back out of reach. The two men circled each other. Hazlett's dark eyes burned with hatred as he sneered at Flynn.
"I'm goin' to do you good, Irish."
"Anytime you're ready."
Colonel Percy stepped between them. "I will not have this!" he shouted, reaching for the iron bar in Hazlett's hands. Hazlett didn't let go. For a moment, it looked as if he might even attack Percy. Then, reluctantly, he let Percy have the crowbar. "There will be no fighting among ourselves. Flynn, Hazlett, do you hear me?"
Percy's face had turned red, his grip on the crowbar tightening until his knuckles showed white, and it looked as if he might swing it at the sergeants. His voice was shrill. "Do you hear me?"
"I hear you." Flynn spoke first. He relaxed, went out of a fighter's stance, and gingerly touched the wound on his chin. His fingertips came away bloody and he glared at Hazlett. "I understand."
"Hazlett?"
"All right, Colonel."
"We move again in five minutes."
The men drifted away. Some found a spring near the tracks and drank deeply. They pulled biscuits and cold fried chicken from their pockets and ate it standing near the train. A soldier learned to eat and drink when he could.
“I could use some coffee,” John Cook said wistfully. “Real coffee like we had this morning, not what we’re used to drinking back home that’s made out of chicory.”
“Ain’t no time for making coffee.”
“I just said it would be nice, is all,” Cook said, then stared hungrily at the bundle of food the other m
an had taken from his pocket and unwrapped. “You gonna eat that biscuit?”
Further down the tracks, Colonel Percy fell into step beside Pettibone.
"What's with those two?" Percy asked. "I think they would have killed each other."
"It's like two roosters in a barnyard, Colonel," Pettibone said philosophically. "Sooner or later, they's goin' to fight. This ain't the end of it, neither."
"But why those two?" Percy wondered aloud. If there was trouble between his men, he wanted to know the cause.
"Hazlett is a son-of-a-bitch and a no-good troublemaker," Pettibone said, then added, "Sir. I know he's married to your cousin. But he always was a bully back home, and a man like that thrives in army life, 'specially if he wears stripes. Now Flynn, he won't abide a man like that. He's quick to make a joke, I reckon, but make no mistake, he's a hard man. Someone like him stands up to a piece of horse shit like Hazlett. And Hazlett don't like that."
Percy shook his head. He supposed he had known as much all along. "It ain't enough that the Yankees want to kill us. We have to try and kill each other, too."
Shaking his head, Percy stomped toward the locomotive. He would much rather have been on horseback, where a man felt free and easy, instead of riding this steam locomotive. Some called a locomotive an iron horse, but in Percy's mind the Chesapeake was as far as you could get from four hooves and a saddle. It wasn't natural. This damn train was making them all nervous.
"Colonel!"
Percy turned. Lieutenant Cater had jumped down from the last car and was waving his arms and shouting. "Colonel! Colonel!"
Percy looked beyond Cater and saw at once what all the shouting was about. Something was coming at them down the tracks. He squinted, trying to make it out, but his near-sighted eyes saw only a distant blur.
"What is it?"
"Hand car, sir," Pettibone drawled. "Coming right at us."
"How many men on her?"
"Just three, sir."
Percy squinted again, and could begin to make out the up-and-down pumping motion. He knew his small band of raiders could easily overwhelm three men, but if his pursuers were armed, the victory might come at a bloody price.
"Everyone on the train!" he shouted. "Let's go."
He turned and ran for the engine. Wilson had already heard the commotion and pulled back the Johnson bar, getting the Chesapeake underway. At first, the huge drive wheels slipped uselessly on the slick, polished rails. Wilson pulled a lever, sand dropped on the rails, and the wheels caught. The train began to creep ahead, although the pursuers were gaining on them. Percy swung into the cab.
"She won't go no faster, Colonel," Wilson said, working the lever to the sandbox again. Too slowly, the locomotive was gathering speed. "There's just no traction."
"It doesn't matter," Percy said. He nodded at the gap in the rails behind them. "They won't be getting any closer."
Chapter 15
“We’ve got them now,” Greer shouted. “Faster!”
He laughed at the sight of the thieves up ahead scrambling aboard the train. Cowards, he thought, every last one of them. The Chesapeake was just ahead. Sweat streamed down the faces of the three railroad men and the muscles of their arms burned as they pumped harder and harder.
Greer spotted the train ahead and laughed out loud. The hand car flew over the rails, closing the distance between the pursuers and the creeping train, which was just beyond the Twin Arch Bridge.
“I knew we’d find them sooner or later,” Greer crowed as they rushed closer. On the last car, he could make out two men watching them come on. Briefly, he wondered if they were armed. However, Greer's excitement over the first glimpse of his train overwhelmed his sense of caution. At this point, he really didn't give a damn if they had guns. All Greer could think about was catching up to the stolen train. By God, he would teach those train thieves a lesson.
Too late, Greer saw the missing rails ahead. Schmidt saw it an instant later and his mouth fell open. The push car lacked brakes, so they hurtled helplessly toward disaster.
"Jump!" Greer shouted.
The three men launched themselves into thin air. The hand car hurtled on, the pump handle still beating up and down as if to invisible hands. At the gap, it ran out of rail and the front wheels churned up dirt and rocks. The car careened wildly onto its side, then flipped end over end and landed upside down in the brush lining the tracks. The four wheels went on spinning silently. If its momentum had carried it just a few more feet, the car would have sailed clear off the bridge ahead.
Greer picked himself off the ground. His left knee hurt fiercely, and his right ankle felt as if it had been twisted. He tested his legs, gradually putting his full weight on them. Nothing broken, he thought. Up ahead, he watched the train—his train—move faster and faster down the tracks, spouting great gouts of thick, black smoke as the locomotive picked up speed.
He clenched his fists in helpless rage. He should have known the thieves would tear up the rails. How could he have been so stupid?
"We'll never catch her now," said Schmidt, shaking himself like a bear as he crawled out of the brush lining the tracks. He uttered some choice Teutonic oaths, untangled a prickly strand of thorns from his sleeve, and dabbed at a gash on his forehead. "If we hadn't jumped, we'd have broken our necks."
They both stared down at the overturned push car. Aside from being upside down, it otherwise appeared undamaged. The wheels spun on, like a dog chasing rabbits in its dreams.
"At least it didn't go all the way down the ravine," Schmidt commented.
"We won't be getting that out of there anytime soon," Greer said. "Damn those bastards."
"Who are they, do you think?" Schmidt asked. "What do they want with our train?"
"To hell if I know. I guess it must be the payroll money they're after," Greer replied. He looked around. "Now, where the hell is Frost?"
They had been expecting him to appear out of the brush at any moment, but Frost was nowhere to be seen. Concerned, Greer and Schmidt began searching for him in the thick undergrowth that lined the tracks. The tangle of sumac, briars and poison ivy could hide a man until you stepped on him. Brush and rocks also were a favorite lair for poisonous copperhead snakes, so the two men kicked at the brush carefully.
"Frost?" Greer called. "Where in hell are you?"
"I hope he didn't break his Gott damn neck," Schmidt said. "I don't want to carry him all the way back to Baltimore."
"Just keep looking."
They heard a groan, and both men rushed toward the noise. Frost was on all fours, trying to extricate himself from a tangle of thorns. Schmidt reached down with a hand the size of a ham and pulled him free. Groggily, Frost got to his feet. He shook his head to clear it, coughed, and spat a stream of bloody phlegm toward the tracks. The thorns had carved a mosaic of cuts and scrapes on his face.
"Got knocked out cold," Frost said. "Must of landed on my damn head."
"Good thing it's hard," Schmidt remarked.
"You can just go to hell, Schmidt, you dumb Kraut. I damn near got killed. Hell, I believe I'm seeing double."
"All right, all right," Greer said. "Ain’t none of us feeling spry at the moment. But we'd best get on after our train."
Schmidt and Frost stared at him.
"What are you two gawking at?"
"Hell, Greer, we ain't going to catch that train now."
"Not standing around we ain't. Let's get moving." He turned and started toward the overturned hand car.
"You're crazy, Greer," Schmidt said. "You know that?"
Greer wheeled, his face contorted in anger. "Let me just remind you two goddamn fools of something. I'm the conductor—" he stabbed a finger at Schmidt, then Frost "—you're the engineer, and you're the fireman of that train." He pointed into the distance, where they could just see a plume of black smoke moving west, away from them. "That train is our responsibility, passengers and payroll money, too, and we allowed the train to be stolen and the passengers’ lives to be pu
t in danger. I don't care if it was Rebels, horse thieves or Injuns that stole it, and the B&O Railroad ain't going to care. All that matters is that it got stolen. Now, if we catch that train, there might still be some chance of staying employed by the B&O. If we don't catch that train, we ain't going to have jobs on a train ever again. Nowhere, no how. Now, you tell me, are you jackasses going to help or not?"
Torn and bleeding, the two men looked stunned. Greer stared hard at them for a long moment, then turned abruptly and stomped over to the hand car, which lay half-buried in the weeds. He grabbed the frame and began tugging furiously at the car, trying to upright it, but it was too heavy for one man to move. Finally, Schmidt and Frost went to help. Once they raised the car enough for Schmidt to get his shoulder under it, they were able to tip the car back onto its wheels. That was the easy part. It was only after much swearing and sweating that they managed to wrestle the car back onto the tracks on the other side of the gap the raiders had made.
By then, the Chesapeake’s smoke was gone from the sky. Silently, the three men began pumping up and down, and the car rolled off in pursuit of the stolen train.
• • •
11 a.m., near Mount Airy, Maryland
Percy ordered another halt and had his men tear up more rails. Once again, the raiders found that sabotaging the tracks was far from easy, and tearing up just two rails took them much longer than it had last time.
The colonel had Willie Forbes cut the telegraph wires again, just in case the ones near Hood’s Mill were repaired. Percy knew the raid’s success relied heavily on surprise. If the Yankees were able to send telegraphs ahead, the train could be stopped at the next town or village by placing logs across the tracks or even by throwing a switch that would send the train onto a siding.
The colonel was so preoccupied with watching the tracks behind them that he didn’t hear Flynn walk up.
"They won't be catching up to us anytime soon," Flynn said. "You saw what happened when they hit that gap back at the Twin Arch Bridge."