by David Healey
"That's what we officers do, Flynn," Percy said. A note of bitterness crept into his voice. "We get paid to worry."
"Then you don’t get paid enough. Besides, there were only three men chasing us. It wouldn’t have been much of a fight."
"Maybe, maybe not.” Percy shrugged. At this point, we can't afford to lose anybody in a fight, so why take the chance? Our orders are to get Lincoln to Richmond, not fight Yankees. You should know that better than anyone."
"Then what about the passengers?” Flynn asked, ignoring Percy’s attempt to chastise him. “Do we put them off the train yet?"
Percy shook his head. "Not yet. The area we're in is too densely populated. They'll have cavalry down on us in no time. We've cut the telegraph wires here, but there must be others running north-south at every crossroads town. If a warning is sent north, the Yankees will be waiting for us at Harpers Ferry. So, the passengers stay. We can't have them fanning out through the countryside, sounding the alarm. No, the passengers stay on board for now."
"Whatever you say," Flynn said. "But you can be sure there will be more trouble with the passengers before the day is through."
Percy did not appear to be listening. He was staring down the tracks. "Damn," he said. “Don’t those people know when to give up?”
The hand car rolled into sight. The three men aboard pumped wildly as they raced toward the train.
"Jaysus, Mary and Joseph," Flynn said. "Sure, and the bastards have gumption, whoever they are. I can't believe they're still after us, after running off the tracks back at that bridge."
"You may get your fight after all, Flynn.” He turned and shouted, “Back on the train! "Let's get moving.”
The hand car was moving at a good clip and the engine was at a virtual standstill. It was obvious the pursuers would soon overtake the train.
"Here they come."
Percy turned and shouted a warning at Lieutenant Cater, who was leaning over the rail of the last car, revolver at the ready, Private Cook beside him. "Shoot them if they get too close," Percy yelled.
Lieutenant Cater thumbed back the hammer on the Colt and took aim. "I've got the one with his back to us," he said to Cook. "You take one of the others. Hell, if we don't get them, that gap in the rails will."
The pursuers were now so close that they could plainly see the three sweating faces of the men.
"Ready— "
At that moment, the men on the hand car quit pumping, letting the car coast. The gap in the rails was just ahead, but the car was slowing. This time there would be no spectacular derailment. The three pursuers glared defiantly at the train, which was struggling to lurch ahead.
“These Yankees don’t know when to give up,” Lieutenant Cater said, then pulled the trigger.
The bullet ripped the air above the pursuers, but all three men dove toward the deck of the car. Cater laughed. "Maybe they ain’t such fools after all. That ought to give them something to think about."
One man jumped to his feet and shook his fist at them, yelling something unintelligible.
Cater laughed even harder and ripped another shot over their heads. The men ducked. As the raiders waited expectantly, the car rolled to a stop just in front of the spot where the rails were missing. No sooner had the car stopped than one of the men jumped down and began to run after the train. He favored one leg as he ran, but still moved quickly enough.
The Chesapeake gained speed slowly. As Cater watched, the man began to close the distance between them. He was short and broad, a born sprinter, and only what appeared to be a bad leg kept him from running even faster. The man's face contorted with the effort, his eyes bugged out as he gasped for air. Cater could hear him panting.
Cater leveled the pistol at him.
"That's close enough," he warned.
"You stole my train," the man managed to shout.
Cater grinned. "Ours now, Yank." He cocked the pistol. "Don't come no closer, or I'll shoot."
The sprinter didn't slow down. He was like a human locomotive.
Still, Cater couldn't bring himself to shoot the man. But if he came any closer—
With a sudden jolt, the train picked up speed. The sprinter struggled to keep up, but the train moved faster and faster until, winded and slowed by his bad leg, he began to fall behind. Finally, breathlessly, he stood with his hands on his knees, panting, then shook his fist at the train. "You ain't seen the last of me!"
Private Cook put his revolver away and gave a low whistle. "You should of shot him, Lieutenant. That man ain't goin' to give up."
Behind them, from within President Lincoln’s car, a voice called through the door. Both men had forgotten all about their captive passengers and they jumped at the sound. "What's that shooting about?"
"Ain't nothing important," Cater said.
"What was it?" the voice demanded.
"Just some snakes beside the tracks," he said. "We were shooting at them."
He had been cool enough dealing with the pursuit, but he was unnerved when he thought about the presence on the other side of the oak door. The president of the United States! In all the excitement of the raid, it was easy to forget that Lincoln was even aboard the train. If they got the president to Richmond, the war might be over next week. Cater felt relieved when there were no other questions from behind the door.
"We're goin' to have quite a story to tell our grandchildren, Cook." Cater smiled and holstered his Colt. "Yes, indeed. We done captured the chief Yankee of them all. Ol' Abe Lincoln himself."
Cook was staring at the receding figure on the tracks, who was still shaking his fist at the train and shouting, although he was too far away now for Cook to hear him. "Lot of miles between us and Richmond, Lieutenant," the private observed. "Lot of miles."
Chapter 16
11:30 a.m., near Mount Airy, Maryland
Greer did not watch the train out of sight. Cursing and gasping for breath after his futile chase, he headed back to the others. Schmidt and Frost looked about as worn out as he felt, he decided. Both men wore hangdog expressions on their faces, and they were battered and dirty. It was exhausting, working the car's handle up and down, mile after mile, as they chased the Chesapeake. Now they had been forced to stop at the gap in the rails and watch the train disappear once again. They were watching him, wondering what to do next.
"Well, I reckon that's that," Frost said. He sounded relieved.
"Jump down and grab a corner of the car," Greer growled. "You, too, Schmidt."
"What?"
"You heard me. We're going to carry this thing across the gap here and go after them."
"You're crazy, Greer," Frost said. "You've gone goddamn crazy on us. We ain't goin' to catch that train. Not now. Ain't that right, Oscar?"
The big German scratched his beard. "Why not?" he finally said. "Greer is right about us letting the train be stolen. Someone will have to be punished for this, and that someone might be us if we don't catch the raiders. Otherwise, we'll never have jobs on a railroad again." He climbed off the car and claimed the back corner. "We have to go after that train. There is no other choice."
"Hell, you're both crazy."
Still, Frost jumped down and joined in as the other two men began the arduous task of moving the hand car across the gap in the rails. It was only a distance of twelve feet, but the iron and wood structure was heavy and the wheels did not roll easily over open ground. Carrying the car was out of the question because of its weight. Instead, all three men put their shoulders against the back of the car and pushed. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the car crept forward. Finally, after much heaving, sweating and cursing, they crossed the gap and lined the wheels up for the final push back onto the rails.
The Chesapeake was nowhere in sight. Even the telltale smoke was gone, leaving an empty, blue bowl of autumn sky.
Schmidt swore in disgust. He put his shoulder to the back of the car and single-handedly forced it onto the rails again.
Greer jumped aboard. "Come on," he
said. "Let's get going."
With a sense of resignation, the other men scrambled up and took hold of the pump handle. Greer winced as he gripped the metal. Unlike Frost, whose hands were like leather from handling wood all day, Schmidt and Greer did little real labor anymore and their hands were blistered and raw. Still, Greer shoved down mightily, ignoring the pain, and the car began to roll. They took up the chase once more, although they seemed impossibly far behind, and too slow to ever hope of catching up again.
• • •
Colonel Percy watched the scenery flash by as the Chesapeake built speed. Beside him in the locomotive's cab, Cephas Wilson opened the throttle even wider. Wind howled beyond the glass windows enclosing the cab as the locomotive rushed west. Hank Cunningham scurried between the firebox and tender, feeding the engine's incredible hunger for wood.
Percy laughed out loud. He was in the best spirits he'd been in since that day in Richmond when Fletcher had summoned him to Colonel Norris's office at the Confederate Secret Service. Up until now, Percy had half-expected the Yankees to catch them at any moment. Lord knows there had been enough opportunities for things to go wrong—crossing the Potomac, gathering at the train station in Ellicott Mills, even taking the train under the noses of Yankee infantry, not to mention those relentless pursuers whom they had finally lost. The stakes were high. Capture would mean death at the end of a rope for himself and his men because they would all be considered spies, not soldiers. Percy didn't plan on allowing himself or any of his men to be taken alive, if it came to that.
They had succeeded so far in spite of all the odds against them, and for the first time, Percy allowed himself to believe they might actually get Lincoln to Richmond, after all. At the moment, anything seemed possible.
"We'll make good time until the Parr's Ridge grade, sir," Wilson shouted, interrupting Percy's thoughts. "That will slow us down some. Just beyond Mount Airy is the Monocacy River. There's a bridge, and I'm sure the Yankees have it guarded." He sounded apprehensive. The crossing—known officially as Frederick Junction for the rail spur that connected the city of Frederick to the main B&O line—would have troops guarding it.
"We'll be there and gone before the Yankees know it," Percy said, trying to reassure Wilson. In reality, he was worried about the guard at the Monocacy crossing, but if the luck they'd had so far held, they would have surprise on their side. "We won't so much as slow down."
"We'll see about the bridge, sir." The engineer sounded doubtful. "We'll see."
"How fast are we going?" Percy asked. The ground beneath them was a blur.
"Sixty miles per hour, Colonel," Wilson said, the tone of his voice betraying some amazement. "I ain't got a stopwatch, but I reckon that's about right."
Sixty miles per hour. A mile a minute. It hardly seemed possible. Percy was amazed. The worries of the past few days slipped even further away, and he put looming problems such as the Monocacy crossing out of his mind for the moment.
"Ever run a train through Virginia this fast?"
"Yes, sir. From time to time. We've got locomotives that can manage sixty." He cracked a smile. "Mostly it's the tracks that's slow."
"These Yankees know how to build a railroad," Percy agreed. So far, all the bridges had been iron or stone, all the tracks well-tended. Far different from Virginia, with its wooden bridges and tracks left in ruins because of the war.
"Too bad these tracks don't go clear to Richmond," Percy said. "We'd be there in time for Mr. Lincoln to be Jefferson Davis's dinner guest."
"With any luck, we'll get there all the same in a few days."
Percy looked out again at the rapidly passing countryside. Beautiful country. The rolling landscape was a patchwork of woods and fields. The corn and wheat had been harvested recently, but it was easy to see this was rich farming country. He wouldn't mind coming back to spend some time here, maybe when the war was over, although it was getting so he could hardly remember when there hadn't been a war. Compared to the bleak, untended fields in Virginia, Maryland looked like the land of plenty, even in mid-November. There were woods, too, filled with timber, and while most of the trees had lost their leaves, some still clung tenaciously to the oaks they passed. Here and there a flaming red sumac stood out defiantly against the brown and gray landscape.
"Train on the right," Wilson called, and Percy shook off his reverie in an instant.
The engine stood on a siding with four freight cars behind it. She was under steam, but had evidently pulled off the main track to let the bigger, faster Chesapeake pass.
It was an ugly little machine, with small wheels and a massive upright cylinder like a barrel on a wagon. The long, ungainly driving bar that powered the wheels gave the locomotive an insect-like appearance.
"What the hell is that?" Percy asked.
"It's called a Grasshopper," Wilson said. "It's an older engine that the B&O still uses for local runs. You want me to stop so we can wreck her? Some Yank might wise up and come after us on that thing."
Already, they had roared past the siding and left it behind. To stop now would cost them too much time. Percy scoffed. "Ha! That old thing? Catch us?" He waved toward the track ahead. "Go man, go! Open her up."
The Chesapeake roared along at an exhilarating pace, sending up a black plume of smoke, like a challenge. The Grasshopper engine was soon out of sight and forgotten.
It was all Percy could do not to whoop out loud.
• • •
Flynn watched the woods and fields fly past beyond the windows. The train was running at a terrific pace, swaying from side to side like a ship at sea. He had to admit the Yankees would be hard-pressed to catch them now, at this speed.
An uneasy quiet had fallen over the passengers, who watched their Confederate captors sullenly. Captain Fletcher had been sent to help them guard the car, and the rhythmic motion was putting him to sleep. Flynn noticed the captain nodding off at the back of the car. How anyone could sleep just then Flynn didn't know, but it was clear the action and sleepless nights of the last forty-eight hours had caught up to Fletcher. Not that Fletcher was worth a damn awake, anyhow. They would have been better off if Colonel Percy had simply shot the man for refusing to work.
Would Percy really have shot him? Just two days ago, Flynn wouldn't have thought so, but now he wasn't so sure. He had discovered that not only was Percy a very determined individual, but there was a bit of madness about him. Percy wasn't quite crazy, but he was definitely unpredictable.
His thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Henrietta Parker. "Oh, this is terrible," she complained. "At this speed we'll run off the tracks and be killed."
Flynn moved toward her. He saw her husband touch the back of her hand, as a warning.
"Hush now, dear," Albert Parker said. "We don't want to upset these ... these Rebels."
Flynn grinned down wickedly at them. "That's right, ma'am. If you upset me I might have to shoot your husband."
Albert paled. His wife, however, looked furious. "I shall have a front row seat at your hanging, Sergeant."
"With any luck, Mrs. Parker, ma'am, there won't be any hangings. You said yourself the train might wreck and kill us all." At that moment, the speeding train struck an uneven spot in the rails and rocked wildly. Mrs. Parker gasped.
"That's quite enough."
Flynn turned. The fat little lawyer, Prescott, stood and waddled up the aisle, struggling to keep his balance as the car pitched from side to side. The expression on his face wavered between fear and outrage.
Casually, Flynn leveled the Le Mat revolver at Prescott's chest. He cocked the hammer with an audible click. "Think about what you're doing, Mr. Prescott."
Prescott stopped. His doughy, white hands clenched and unclenched. "There's no call to be tormenting ladies ... Sergeant. Are you a soldier or a thug?"
Flynn was in no mood for a lecture. "At the moment I'm just a man pointing a gun at you, Mr. Prescott. Now shut the hell up and sit down."
At the back of the
car, the door into the next car slammed shut with a bang. One of the passengers had slipped out. Cursing, Flynn realized Prescott's protest must have been a diversion, and he felt like a fool because he had fallen for it.
Flynn grabbed Prescott's shoulder and shoved him aside. All he could think about was going after whoever had slipped out the door. He started to shout at Benjamin, in case the boy hadn't noticed.
"Lad, we've got—”
As Prescott fell away, Flynn saw the Baltimore dandy crouched in the aisle behind the fat lawyer. He had been hidden behind Prescott's bulk. With a grunt, Charlie Gilmore launched himself at Flynn.
Caught off guard, Flynn didn't have time to react. Gilmore slugged him in the belly and Flynn doubled over in pain. The Le Mat flew from his hand. He couldn't catch his breath. A fist smashed into his chin and Flynn went down.
As Gilmore's well-shined shoe stomped down at Flynn's head, he rolled just fast enough that the heel only skidded along his temple. Flynn kicked, catching Gilmore in the knee and throwing him off balance.
Gilmore stumbled, giving Flynn time to roll to his feet. Gilmore reached for the pistol in his belt.
"You done asked for it," he snarled.
Flynn hit him before he could get the gun free, putting all the power of his shoulders into the punch. Gilmore collapsed, his pistol flying.
Benjamin jumped to help Flynn, but the lawyer flung himself at the boy. Prescott outweighed him by a good eighty pounds and the boy found himself pinned in the seat. Benjamin wriggled and squirmed but Prescott's weight bore down on him.
"Let me up!"
"Hell no!"
In the aisle, Gilmore was back on his feet and facing Flynn warily, fists at the ready. Flynn glanced around for his gun, but the Le Matt had slid out of sight.
He knew things had gone badly wrong. In another moment, all the passengers might get out of hand. They would have a mutiny, and there would be no stopping it.
Where the hell was Fletcher? To his astonishment, Flynn saw that the captain was still slumped in his seat, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open, sleeping soundly.