The Great Locomotive Chase, 1862

by T. L. B. Wood

  Fuller gave us another look over; people had travelled in the box cars before as well as troops riding on top of the cars. But gentlemen usually didn't want to sit in a dirty box car that was used for storing and transporting who knows what. But passage was passage and a ticket was a ticket. So he nodded, and we went to stand in line to purchase our passages to Dalton.

  Kipp and Elani were almost jumping up and down with excitement, and after Fuller punched our tickets, he showed us to the first box car that sat behind the tender. There were a total of three box cars, followed by the mail and baggage car, and two passenger cars. It took a little running leap, but Kipp managed to scramble up first, followed by Elani. Peter managed to heft himself into the empty box car and lent down a hand to help haul me up. The box cars were empty and would be taken to Chattanooga to be filled with cargo. Fuller walked by and stuck his head inside.

  "I'll partially close the door so you won't get coated in soot," he said, nodding. There was some stray hay from broken bales scattered on the wooden floor; we'd just sit and relax while the countryside passed by like frames unwinding in a motion picture reel. Marietta was twenty miles away, while Big Shanty–later named Kennesaw–was twenty-eight.

  The train whistle sounded, steam driven with a sound not ever duplicated by any other artificial mechanism; with a jerk and a squeal of the wheels on the metal rails, the train began to move north. Kipp lay down close to the open door and gazed out. I joined him, sitting with my knees crossed, my arm around Kipp's neck as I pulled him into my chest. The skyline of Atlanta began to fade away as recognizable businesses, such as the Daily Intelligencer newspaper and the M. Geuterbruck Tobacco Company, dropped off into the darkness. The rain continued to fall softly, and the cooling mist drifted into the interior of the boxcar, helping to mitigate the effect of the ash and cinders from the General's smokestack.

  I looked up at Peter, and he grinned in return. Yes, the first time shift where one really melted into history was exiting, and to date, all had gone well. The train was rocking from side to side with a gentle motion, the wheels clacking on the metal tracks below. It seemed we had only gone a short distance when the train began to slow.

  "Vinings," Peter said. "We stop for wood and water." He had carefully stored all details about the numerous stops in his brain.

  After we left Atlanta, the countryside was curtained in darkness, with only the rare sighting of a household where a farmer, perhaps, was stirring, ready to tackle another day of labor. A single oil lantern would be visible in a windowsill of a remote dwelling, backlighting the aperture with a soft, golden glow. Occasionally, we would hear the lonely lowing of a cow punctuated by the bright sound of a rooster crowing. It seemed lonely and rather poignant. The smell of damp, fertile farm land circulated through the open door of the car. The war had not hit Georgia yet, but it would. William Tecumseh Sherman would bring his army and burn a path through the state wide enough to ensure that recovery and retreat would be impossible.

  "He believed in total war," Peter said, explaining the concept to Kipp and Elani, who followed my thoughts. "If the populace was made to suffer and lessen their support of the military, he felt it would bring the war to an end sooner."

  "Our species has never engaged in war," Elani commented. Peter was seated to my right as she tucked in next to him, her head stretched across his legs. "I don't understand it all sometimes."

  "Humans fight for certain things. I guess we don't have or create some of the same issues," I replied as way of a feeble reply.

  "Why don't they ever learn?" she asked, persistent. "War seems to be a constant for their kind."

  "I can't answer that," I said. Kipp nestled closer, if that was possible, and closed his eyes, dozing for little cat naps as the rocking of the train threatened to soothe us all to sleep as if we were babes cradled by our mothers.

  Our little group of travelers fell quiet; Peter amused himself by plucking stray thoughts from the passengers. I had no objection, since he was still relatively new at this and practicing his telepathy was time well spent. Elani joined him, their thoughts merging in and out in a playfully polite dance. It was my hope that one day they could drop some of the contemporary formalities and dig deeper at our essence, as had Kipp and I... but that would take time and trust.

  The trip north revealed an engineering feat to be admired. The journey through North Georgia was a steady, unnoticeable incline, and the rails had been laid in such a fashion to deal with rocky terrain, rivers, and one particularly large barrier, Chetoogeta Mountain. Eventually, a tunnel was constructed, and the area became known as Tunnel Hill, which was probably easier to pronounce. I knew it was my imagination, since there was no way I could really feel an incline that subtle, but it did seem as if we were going up rather than down. The train began to slow; from our itinerary, we knew that we must be approaching Marietta station. The rhythmic sound of the box car wheels clacking on the rails softened as we drew to a stop. Peter decided to stand at the door of the car and watch as new passengers came on board, including Andrews' Raiders.

  "Petra, I just saw him enter the passenger coach," Peter hissed, whipping around to stare at me. "James Andrews!" He began to shake his head. "I can't believe it!" For an instance, his energy seemed much like that of a youngster and not an adult.

  I grinned at Kipp. Peter had seen pictures of the man and recognized him on sight. Even with my legacy of many trips, I felt a definite spark of excitement when I met Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp, so I understood the emotion. I guess the question is whether or not historical figures will be as expected or has the telling of their stories done them an injustice?

  Peter began to tick off the names, based on his familiarity with the faces, since he had studied them all extensively before the trip. I had not done his degree of research but knew enough to recall that it ended badly for many of the raiders after they were captured, following the unsuccessful conclusion of the train abduction.

  After the brief stop to allow people to disembark as well as board, the train eased off again. Jeff Cain, the engineer, handled the throttle with experience and managed to avoid the neck jarring jerk that was common. I knew, in later years, there was some discussion of whether or not the crew of the General was actually suspicious of so many men boarding at once. Just because I am a curious cuss, I briefly touched Bill Fuller's mind, as well as that of Anthony Murphy, the W&ARR supervisor who was riding that day. Honestly, I will say that their minds only wondered why so many able bodied men were apparently traveling in a northward direction. There were certainly no alarm bells ringing, despite later claims to the contrary.

  The General continued her journey; the next stop was Big Shanty, the location that would one day become Kennesaw. The train would halt so that the crew and passengers could have breakfast at the Lacy Hotel. There was little else in Big Shanty other than the hotel and a few houses scattered in a haphazard pattern. Directly across the tracks was Camp McDonald, which was a training post for the 4th Brigade of the Georgia Volunteers, also called Phillip's Division.

  It was like catnip, being in such proximity to the raiders, and all of us were compelled, out of curiosity, to probe into the minds of the train abductors. Some were quite young, and although their self talk was meant to nurture bravery, there was intense anxiety amongst some of the men. I admired their courage to attempt something so hazardous. They knew, all of them, if they were caught burning a bridge, they would be hanged on the spot. And it was a long way back to the safety of the federal troops. Even their journey to get to this point had been physically arduous and filled with great risk.

  The engine began to slow again as Big Shanty came into view on the far side of a lazy, graceful curve in the tracks. As the train ground to a halt, I went to the open door and looked out; the Lacy Hotel, a white, two story wooden building adorned with green shutters to interrupt the plainness, stood across the rail siding. The roads were muddy, with deep ruts carved into the dirt by the constant passage of wagons and horse
s. It was still raining, but only falling as a light, cascading mist at that time. Turning, I crossed to the other side of the boxcar where that door was slightly ajar. Rows of white tents were laid out in a field; I could see camp fires lit and men walking amongst the tents, their voices low, as if they maintained a hush deliberately because of the early time of day.

  "Camp Mc Donald," Kipp said, staring at the field.

  "I guess this is where we get off," I said, looking at Peter, as he watched the other passengers, who began to leave the train in an orderly but hurried fashion. Twenty minutes were allotted for breakfast, and, no doubt, Bill Fuller was watching the passage of time with his gold watch.

  Peter hopped from the car to land lightly in a patch of trampled grass and stopped himself from giving me an assist, since I was supposed to be his brother, Sam. Kipp and Elani followed, and the four of us trudged across the muddy way towards the hotel. For the most part, our trip was over, and we had accomplished our goal. After witnessing the raiders elope with the General, we would take rooms at the hotel and sometime later that evening, time shift home. Simple enough... or so it seemed.

  Chapter 17

  Kipp wanted to take a little fun run at the bunched up knot of ducks, ones that were rather famous locally as being part and parcel of the community. There was a small pond near the hotel, and Mrs. Lacey, as legend had it, was very protective of her plump ducks which benefited from left over biscuits that were left uneaten at breakfast. Kipp looked at me, eyes bright, tail wagging and looked a little deflated when I shook my head no.

  "I thought I was supposed to be in character," Kipp whined. "Any self respecting canine would rush the ducks," he said dipping his head and giving them one last intimidating stare. The ducks responded by quacking loudly and swimming as fast as possible, their little paddleboat legs churning, to the far end of the shallow, muddy pond. Changing the subject, Kipp looked up at me and asked, "Do you think you can get me a bowl of real southern grits? I've always wanted to try grits." I assured him that was a distinct possibility. After all, we were in no hurry. We would remain here after the engine was abducted.

  Peter and I slowed to allow the other passengers to go ahead. Surreptitiously, we turned and watched as the team of Andrews' men began to leave the train, mixing for a moment with other passengers so as to be unobtrusive. All of a sudden, Peter gave a start and reached out to clutch my forearm.

  "Petra, I've lost my grandfather's watch!" he exclaimed, forgetting to call me Sam. "I'll be right back," he said, trotting quickly towards the train.

  "Peter, wait," I called, but he ignored me. I remembered the promise he'd made his mother and knew he had to try and find the precious article. Since the line had just started to enter the hotel, he had a few minutes; Elani, after glancing at Kipp, ran after Peter.

  Kipp and I stopped, letting people continue to brush past us. Peter was walking quickly, his eyes focused down on the ground as he stopped to examine ragged islands of rain soaked grass. He paused at the boxcar in which we'd ridden; craning his neck, he stood on tiptoes and looked inside. The next thing I knew, he vaulted up and disappeared into the box car.

  "Peter, no!" I shouted at him in my head so loud it made Kipp flatten his ears in response. "Get out of there right now!"

  Elani stood at the entrance to the box car and was about to jump inside, too, but at that moment, three of the raiders walked down the beaten pathway on the near side of the tracks and pushed between her and the entrance to the car.

  "Peter, jump out the other door!" I shouted, feeling about as impotent as I've ever been in my life. Kipp started to move quickly, as did I.

  "Petra, they are blocking my exit out either side!" Peter's voice came to me with an urgency that broke my heart.

  As Kipp and I watched, the three men jumped into the box car and closed the door. Elani began to bark in frustration; standing up on her back legs, she tried, in vain, to scrabble at the heavy door with her front paws. The next moment, the engine gave a loud whoosh as the steam was released, and the big driving wheels began to turn. I looked at Kipp in horror–the train was moving, Peter was trapped inside the box car with the raiders, and there was nothing I could do to stop what had begun in motion. The raiders had unhooked the passenger cars and the mail car, leaving the engine to pull the empty box cars.

  The door to the Lacy hotel was flung open, and Bill Fuller, followed by the engineer, Jefferson Cain, and the W&ARR supervisor, Anthony Murphy, ran out on the porch. A second later, the fireman, Andrew Anderson, joined them still clutching a fork, with a cloth napkin fluttering from where he'd carefully stuck it into the collar of his shirt. After the reality of what was happening sank in, Murphy, thinking quickly, barked out an order to a local man to ride his horse to Marietta, where the closest operational telegraph office could be found. The men clearly didn't know why the train was stolen and even speculated it might be Confederate deserters, but in any case, the action was nefarious and a violation of the law.

  Bill Fuller, without hesitation, began to run along the railroad tracks, chasing the rapidly disappearing General. Kipp and I both entered his thoughts and were amazed by his single minded sense of purpose. I think there is no doubt, if he had been able, that he would have run all the way to Chattanooga if needed. There was a seething fury in the man over the audacity of someone absconding with his train. For certain, he had a highly developed sense of responsibility. After a moment, Murphy and Cain, the latter of whom was in poor health, began to run after him. Elani joined us, distraught and breathless.

  "I tried to get him out," she said. I knew if lupines could cry, she would have a furry face covered in tears.

  "It's not your fault," I snapped firmly, knowing she needed to get control and focus. Then, with no further discussion, I ordered, "Let's go."

  We began to run, the three of us, chasing after the train men, who quickly found that the burden of running across a surface of soil that had been turned into a sticky mud by the softly falling rain was even more of a challenge than expected. I ran regularly, so a jog of a few miles was easily within my capabilities; Kipp and Elani could go for miles without pause. In less than a minute, I caught up to the men. Murphy glanced at me in surprise, his cheeks red from the exertion of the dash.

  "My brother was on that train," I said, keeping my breathing even.

  Fuller looked back at me, a scowl on his face, but said nothing and kept moving. I realized he was agitated already, and the appearance of an interloper who was not a member of the crew didn't make him happy. But he didn't waste time or breath by speaking, and the four of us—and Kipp and Elani—kept running. The rain made the run treacherous, and it took our full concentration to not trip and fall. The General drew ahead quickly until the sounds of its chugging became lost in the heavily wooded landscape that acted like a muffler in the wilderness.

  After a couple of miles of steady jogging, we came up upon Moon's station. We stopped, breathing deeply; Jeff Cain leaned forward, hands on thin knees as he had a coughing fit. There was a work crew at the station, men assembled to do track repair. Fuller approached the supervisor, a man named Jackson Bond, to see if he could find him a horse. Bill Fuller's determination was unchanged, and he planned on chasing down the train by horse, if possible.

  "Bond, somebody has taken the General," Fuller said, trying to not gasp while speaking. Although in good shape, the run along the tracks in the mud and rain had been taxing. His neat attire was mud splattered, his slouch hat askew.

  Murphy arched his back and tilted his head back for a moment, letting the rain fall onto his ruddy face. Bond, the supervisor of the work crew, glanced at the Irishman, who nodded an affirmation as their eyes met. Poor Jefferson Cain leaned up against a shed wall, his thin chest heaving with exertion, his face gray and drawn.

  "Well, they stopped here, and there were about fifteen men we saw, although there could have been more in the box cars. They took our tools and a load of ties, saying they needed them for urgent repairs up alon
g the line," Bond said as he spat out a stream of tobacco juice, wiping his face with a stained kerchief produced from a back pocket.

  "What do we do?" Elani asked me.

  "We let history evolve, untouched, but we must keep moving so that when this plays out, we can be reunited with Peter," I said. It was evident that without his symbiont, Peter would be lost in time, much as had happened to me before the miracle of Kipp; Elani, likewise, couldn't return home. There was no question that we would not leave this place until Elani was joined with Peter. Kipp, understanding her anxiety, approached her and nuzzled her with his wet nose. We were all a sodden mess at that point.

  "We got this here pole car," Bond was saying, addressing Murphy since he was in the chain of authority for the Western & Atlantic Railroad. Pole cars preceded hand cars in the evolutionary chain and consisted of a large, flat plank of wood on wheels that was propelled by men pushing against the ground with long poles. Kipp looked at the contraption and then at me.

  "I may just run," he said, his eyes rounding.

  The crew carried the pole car to the tracks and began settling it on the rails. I looked around the immediate vicinity. There was little at the station... just a rail siding, a wobbly looking shed with a distinct lean to it, and a road curving off into the woods that had been turned to red mud by the constant rain. Looking up, I saw a small break in the cloud cover. It was possible that the rain was tapering off for a while. Bond looked over at me, curious at the presence of a stranger. Then he glanced at the two lupines, who always drew attention due to their size and unusual appearance.

  "Sam Keaton," I said, trying to keep my voice low. "My brother is on that train."