by David Healey
"Fletcher! Wake up! Shoot this son of a— "
Gilmore rushed him. Flynn tried to dodge, but the narrow aisle gave him no room. The other man grappled him around the waist and they both tumbled into the seats. A woman screamed and Flynn glimpsed Fletcher running for the door, away from the fight.
Gilmore jabbed at his kidneys with a series of rabbit punches. Flynn swatted him in the side of the head. With a snarl, Gilmore butted his head into Flynn's nose. Flynn's eyes ran and he felt a hot trickle of blood from his nose. Gilmore tried it again and Flynn bit his ear. As Gilmore howled, Flynn slammed up with the heel of his hand and caught him under the chin so hard that his teeth cracked together. Then Flynn felt himself kneed in the groin and experienced an awful, excruciating pain that took his breath away. He bit Gilmore's ear even harder.
They rolled into the aisle. Neither man could get the upper hand in such a confined space and they grappled and gouged.
Then Flynn remembered the horse pistol in his coat pocket. He fumbled for it, wondering if the thing would even fire.
As Flynn groped in his pocket, that gave Gilmore an opening, and he got both hands around Flynn's neck, digging his thumbs deep into the throat on each side of the windpipe. Flynn's vision swam with black dots. He was in trouble. His fingertips touched the pistol.
The other man had his knees on Flynn's chest now, pinning him to the floor. Flynn couldn't breathe. His hand slipped around the butt of the old pistol. He barely had the strength to drag the weapon free. He managed to pull back the hammer, wondering whether or not there was a percussion cap in place. He had never bothered to check.
The hands tightened even more on his throat and all Flynn could see was the savage face grinning down at him as if through a fog. With one final, desperate effort, he jammed the muzzle into Gilmore's side. For just an instant, Gilmore's eyes went wide, knowing what was about to happen.
And then Flynn pulled the trigger.
The .54-caliber ball ripped through the other man's body. The clothes touching the muzzle smoldered after the blast. The gory hole in his back, torn by the large ball of lead, was big enough to swallow a fist. Overhead, the ceiling was splashed with blood. Gilmore's body slumped to one side and Flynn shoved it off.
"That was close," he said. He was breathing hard. It had been a tough fight, maybe not the toughest of his life, but he didn't want to think about what might have happened if he hadn't been able to reach the pistol in time.
Nearby, a woman was gasping in astonishment at the life-and-death struggle she had just witnessed. He could also hear Mrs. Parker. "Oh my," she kept repeating in shock. "Oh my."
"Shut up, woman," Flynn snapped. "For the love of Christ, shut up."
Mrs. Parker didn't need to be told twice. She touched her fingertips to her lips and fell silent.
A moment later, the door to the car flew open and Captain Fletcher rushed in, followed by Hazlett and Pettibone. All three had their revolvers out. The blast from Flynn's horse pistol had left the air sulfurous and tinged with blue smoke, and the three soldiers squinted to see through the haze.
Flynn jerked his chin at a seat nearby, where Benjamin was still struggling with the ungainly bulk of the attorney. Pettibone walked over, reversed his Colt, and clubbed Prescott behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. Prescott went limp, and Benjamin managed to wriggle out from under him.
"You should have shot that fat bastard," Hazlett said. Pettibone ignored him. Going to Gilmore's body on the floor, he rolled it all the way over with the toe of his boot.
"Yup," he drawled. "He's a dead 'un. Half his guts is on the ceiling."
Mrs. Parker whimpered again.
Hazlett grinned down maliciously at Flynn, who still on his knees in the aisle, rubbing his throat. "What's the matter, Irish, can't handle the civilians?"
"Go to hell," Flynn said wearily, and reached up to grab Pettibone's offered hand. Back on his feet, Flynn looked around and quickly assessed the situation. Gilmore was dead. Prescott was on the floor, shaking his head groggily. Terrified, Mr. and Mrs. Parker cowered in their seat. The faces of the other passengers ran the gamut from looks of horror to blank stares as they tried not to meet the raiders' eyes.
One face, however, was not there.
"Someone's missing," Flynn said. "I saw the door open to the next car."
"It's the woman," Benjamin said. "The one who was with him. She's gone."
"She's probably planning to jump off the train," Flynn said. He limped toward the door. "I'm going after her."
"Brave man," Hazlett said sarcastically.
Flynn found the Le Mat and holstered it, thinking he wouldn't need it against a woman. He opened the door to the howling, open air. The train was still flying at a reckless speed. Seeing the ground rush past in a blur, he doubted the woman had jumped. That would be suicide. There was only one place she could be.
Flynn crossed the bucking platform toward the next car, which carried the passenger's baggage. None of the raiders had explored the freight car because they had been too busy keeping the passengers in line and ripping up rails.
Flynn tried the door. It wouldn't budge, so he hit it with his shoulder, this time throwing his weight into it. The door popped open.
He stepped inside, but couldn't see a thing. The interior was nearly pitch black. What little light there was leaked in from around the shades drawn over the windows and from the cracks under the rear door, which opened toward Lincoln's car.
Flynn squinted into the darkness. "Come out, ma'am," he said. "Save us both the trouble."
No answer came. Not that he expected one.
Swearing under his breath, Flynn stepped into the blackness. He kept the Le Mat in its holster. There had been enough bloodletting for one day, he thought, and Flynn had no intention of shooting a woman.
Carefully, he moved deeper into the car. Like a blind man, he became acutely aware of smells: oiled leather, dust, moldy canvas. The place needed a good airing out.
A sound, somewhere ahead. He paused, listened. Heard only the clacking of wheels on rails. The swaying motion inside the dark car was disorienting.
"Come out, woman," he snapped impatiently.
There. That noise again. A swishing of skirts? Sounded like it was behind him.
Flynn spun, his hand on the revolver.
Nothing.
Unnerved, he shuffled toward the windows. After what he had just been through, he was in no mood for a game of cat and mouse with the woman, whoever she was.
He reached toward a window, intending to let some light in, when he felt the cold touch of razor-sharp steel against his throat.
Flynn froze.
Chapter 17
"Greer!" Schmidt shouted. "Look at that!"
Ahead of them on a siding, an old Grasshopper-type engine sat under steam. The nickname fit the locomotive's insect-like appearance. The Grasshopper was small and much slower than the new locomotives, but it was one of the workhorses of the B&O, pulling freight on local routes and spurs to towns off the main line. The old locomotive was still much faster than the hand-powered car.
They coasted up to the Grasshopper. The crew was made up of old-timers, white-haired and bearded, and they watched the arrival of the hand car with curiosity.
"Greer?" said one of the men who knew the conductor. "What are you doing here? On that thing? We just saw the Chesapeake go by like a bat out of hell."
"My train's been stolen," Greer said, jumping down from the hand car. Quickly, he explained what had happened. Less than a minute later, Greer, Schmidt and Frost were aboard the Grasshopper locomotive, which had been uncoupled from its load of freight cars.
"Better take this," said the engineer, pressing a revolver and a handful of cartridges on Greer. Frost was holding onto the shotgun taken from the track crew.
"Get the word out now," Greer said. "If a telegraph gets through to Frederick Junction or Harpers Ferry, they can stop the sons of bitches up ahead."
"You can count on u
s, Greer," the other engineer said. "I'll take this hand car in to Mount Airy. They've got a telegraph there. Now give 'em hell!"
• • •
Flynn held very still as the cold knife blade touched his throat. In the dim light he could just see the gleaming steel of the stiletto, and beyond it, the flinty eyes of the woman who wielded the knife.
His hand slipped toward his revolver.
"None of that," she said, pressing the blade tight to his windpipe. "Don't move. Now tell me what happened. I heard a gunshot."
Under the circumstances, Flynn wasn't about to confess he had killed her companion. "There was a fight," he managed to say, easing each word out of his throat as if squeezing it around the knife blade.
Still, she pressed the dagger closer. He felt the outer layer of skin break, in the same way that strands of a taut rope sever at the touch of a sharp blade.
"Is Charlie alive or dead?" she demanded.
Flynn decided to tell the truth, not knowing if it would get him killed or not. "Dead," he said.
"The damn fool. I told him it would never work. That we ought to wait. But he and that lawyer got it in their heads that they could rush you. Is Prescott dead, too?"
"No."
"Well, he deserves to be."
The pressure of the knife blade against his throat eased, although the stiletto was still within a flick of a wrist of cutting his throat. Flynn was glad she didn't ask who had killed Charlie.
"That's better," he managed.
"What do you fools want with this train, anyhow?" she asked. "You're ruining everything."
"I could speak easier without that knife against my throat."
She studied him with hard, shrewd eyes. Green in this dim light, he noticed. Eyes like a cat. Or a whore.
"All right," she said. Her hand moved away, although she kept her eyes locked on Flynn's face. He shifted slightly, preparing to grab for her wrist.
But the blade was suddenly back, thrust into the space between his legs and poking up into his crotch. She grinned wickedly.
Flynn's heart leapt into his throat. He spoke, his voice an octave higher. "Mother of God, be careful, woman."
"You're the one who should be careful," she said. "Now tell me. Where are you going with the train?"
"Just south of Cumberland to a town called Romney," Flynn said. "Then we'll head down the Shenandoah Valley to Richmond on horseback."
She looked puzzled. "Why?"
"To give the Yankees hell," he explained.
It was clear she knew nothing about Abraham Lincoln being aboard the train, Flynn thought, and he wasn't about to enlighten her. Stealing a train to raise hell seemed about as good a reason as any.
"You mean you're not after the money?"
"What money?"
She didn't answer him. Instead, she said, "You're Flynn. I overheard you telling that old busybody back there your name."
"Yes."
"I'm Nellie." The pressure of the knife eased. "So, Flynn, you like to raise hell, do you?"
"You could say that," Flynn answered, wondering what the woman was getting at.
"You're Irish," Nellie said. "The Irish are brave. And lucky."
Flynn was losing patience with this Baltimore whore. "Sure, and we piss green, too. What's your point, woman?"
"I need your help, Flynn. Charlie's dead, and I can't do it alone."
"Do what?"
Steel flashed, and the razor-edged stiletto disappeared up her sleeve. He had passed some kind of test. Flynn knew he should fetch her a good slap for nearly cutting his throat, then drag her back to the passenger car. But he was curious to know what all this was about.
"What do you think is in all these boxes around us?" she asked.
"Why don't you tell me."
She leaned toward him. "Money."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's the payroll for the Union garrison at Cumberland, Flynn. Six months of pay for 12,000 soldiers."
Flynn felt as if he had been struck. Now the guards on the train at Sykesville made sense. The soldiers weren't guarding Lincoln. They were guarding the money. "How much?"
"Charlie and I figured around four hundred thousand."
"Sweet Jesus," Flynn muttered.
For the first time, he looked more closely around him. Because of the near darkness, it was hard to distinguish much except a jumble of boxes and parcels.
"Let's let in a bit of light," he said, and pulled back a flap of canvas that covered a window. The sunlight revealed several strongboxes, built of dark oak and bound with iron. Each box was about two feet square and must have contained thousands of dollars. He counted six boxes altogether.
"They're not locked," Nellie said, reading his mind. "I guess the army doesn't worry about being robbed."
Flynn walked over and examined a strongbox. There was a hasp and clasp, but no lock. He flipped back the lid. A stack of Yankee greenbacks, neatly arranged, lay inside. He took out a bundle, fanned the edge of the stack with his thumb, then put it back.
"Look at that," he said in an awed voice. He had seen his share of black market cash in Richmond, but never so much money in one place. "There's a fortune in that one box alone."
It was indeed a fortune, far more than an honest man could ever hope to earn, considering a soldier's pay was sixteen dollars a month, and that in near-worthless Confederate scrip. Even a skilled worker in Washington City earned just two dollars per day.
Flynn's black market boss paid him well, but this was money the like of which he had never seen before. All thoughts of loyalty to anyone in Richmond evaporated at the thought of the wealth in the strongboxes.
"Let's split it, Flynn," Nellie urged. "Just me and you. That's two hundred thousand dollars apiece."
"How the hell do we get this off the train?" he wondered out loud.
"That means you'll help?"
"For two hundred thousand dollars, Nellie Jones, there's not much I wouldn't do."
"Even desert your friends?"
Flynn gave a short laugh. "They're not exactly my friends, but that's a long story. Besides, they'll do just fine without me. I just hope none of them come in here and see these strongboxes."
She beckoned him toward the door. "First thing we have to do is get out of here. We don't want the others to come looking for us and find the money. We can talk later."
Flynn grinned wolfishly. "The lads will be suspicious anyway, me being alone with a beautiful woman."
"Then we'll have to put their minds to rest, won't we?" Before Flynn could react, Nellie gave him a hard, stinging slap that brought tears to his eyes.
"Damn you, woman!" Flynn rubbed his face.
"That will convince them, won't it?"
They crossed between the cars, Flynn's face smarting and red, and pushed through the door into the passenger car.
Thanks to the arrival of Hazlett and Pettibone, everything remained under control and the passengers sat in their seats, afraid to move. Charles Gilmore's body still lay in the aisle in a pool of blood.
All eyes were on them as they walked in. Nellie stared for a long moment at Gilmore's body, then turned to Flynn and whispered so that only he could hear: "This one's for Charlie."
She slapped him again. This time, she hit him so hard that Flynn's ears rang.
The other raiders laughed and hooted as Nellie hurried toward her seat, looking flustered. Stunned, Flynn shook his head to clear it. He had taken on prizefighters who hadn't hit him that hard.
"That'll learn you, Irish," Hazlett shouted. "Saucy women are too much for the likes of you to handle."
Flynn scowled and rubbed his aching face. Still, it was all he could do not to smile, thinking about all that money in the baggage car.
He glanced at Nellie, who was in her seat, staring straight ahead and appearing very different from the woman who just minutes before had almost cut his throat. Looking at her now, Flynn couldn't help but wonder if he had just cast his lot with the devil.
Noon, near Parr's Ridge, Maryland
The plume of smoke behind them appeared as a smudge against the blue sky. Colonel Percy had known this moment would come, but he had dreaded it all the same. They were, at last, being pursued by another locomotive.
"Looks like them Yankees finally wisened up," Hank Cunningham said, nodding at the telltale smoke as he hurried past with an armful of wood. "They found themselves a locomotive to chase us."
"Open the throttle," Percy said. They were not yet at full speed and this locomotive could do better than a mile a minute on a level track. With the lead they had, he doubted there was anything that could catch them. "We'll run for it."
"We're getting low on water," Wilson reminded him.
"I don't give a damn," Percy said. "Give her full throttle and put that Johnson bar as far forward as it will go."
"Yes, sir," Wilson said. Cunningham, hearing Percy's order, scrambled to fetch more wood for the Chesapeake’s firebox. "One thing, sir. We're coming up on Parr's Ridge. It's quite a grade, and it's going to slow us down plenty."
"They'll have to slow down themselves," Percy said. "By then, we'll be roaring down the other side."
"Toward the Monocacy River bridge," Wilson pointed out. "But if the Yankees have any sense, they'll have men guarding the crossing. I was hoping we could take on water at Frederick Junction."
There was nothing to be done about that, Percy knew. They would find out what awaited them at the Monocacy when they reached the river. Meanwhile, they had to outrun whoever was pursuing them.
"Pour it on, boys, pour it on," Percy said. He turned to cross the tender. "I'll go pass word that things are about to get hot."
• • •
Greer spotted the smoke from the Chesapeake. They didn't seem to be gaining on the raiders, but they weren't falling behind, either. Top speed for the little Grasshopper engine was maybe thirty miles per hour, which was much slower than the bigger Chesapeake, but far, far faster than the hand car.