Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 1

When the fall rains came, so did the bones. Liberated from their shallow graves across the battlefield, skeletons wearing tattered uniforms and rotting leather boots appeared in backyards and pastures. Hollow-eyed stares and grinning yellow teeth became a common sight. On a few occasions, a dog or a pig got hold of a leg bone and dragged it through the streets.

Among the citizens of Gettysburg, it was decided that something needed to be done. It was neither sanitary nor dignified treatment for the soldiers on both sides who had fought so hard and given so much.

A young lawyer in town took it upon himself to plan a cemetery for the war dead. Land near the battlefield was surveyed. Graves would be laid out in neat sections according to the home states of the fallen, even the Confederates. One day a central monument would be built, lit with an eternal flame to honor the souls lost on the battlefield.

It was an ambitious plan and one that was rapidly carried out. A date was set for the official dedication of the cemetery. The keynote speaker would be Edward Everett, a popular orator and former governor of Massachusetts. It was also fitting to invite the president of the United States, Abraham Lincoln. After all, Gettysburg was a relatively short train ride from the nation's capital at Washington City. It was generally expected that President Lincoln would be traveling on the Northern Central Railroad that connected Baltimore to Gettysburg. Citizens of the small towns along the route readied flags and banners to wave at the president as his train passed by. Excitement grew as the great day drew near.

On a stormy fall night, a lone man walked down a country road outside Gettysburg, wind and rain whipping his face. Damned if he wasn't a fool for being out on a night like this, he told himself, feet slipping in the muddy road. He stepped into a wheel rut and nearly lost a shoe in the muck. He longed for the warm fire at home and almost turned back, then thought better of it. Spying was not the sort of work that could be done in broad daylight.

The spy was wet and miserable, but he stumbled on through the storm. He had seen and heard things that must be told. He knew he would be paid well for his information, more than enough to make it worthwhile to brave the stormy November night.

Up ahead, through the blowing rain, he spotted the lights of the tavern. The Blue Lantern. Aside from a few farmhouses and barns, it was the only tavern for miles around Gettysburg. He knew there would be a roaring fire in the hearth, along with a drink of whiskey to warm his bones. And there would be money. The one-eyed man would see to that.

Wind stripped the last of the leaves from the oaks and maples along the road, hurling them like giant snowflakes in the gusts. A black, dirty night to be out. The tavern was set back from the Baltimore Turnpike, and he trudged the last one hundred feet across the muddy yard, toward the yellow light that shined from the windows.

His chilled hand gripped the handle and he swung the door open.

The tavern was full. Inside, the air was hazy with wood and tobacco smoke. There were few places to stay on the road from Baltimore, and the storm had driven travelers to whatever shelter they could find. The spy shut the door behind him, then stood for a moment, blinking in the sudden light. Conversations trailed off as the tavern's customers eyed the newcomer.

"Is that a man or a muskrat?" someone shouted. That brought laughter, and the men at the tables turned back to their food and drink. The spy wasn't the first man that night to wander in out of the storm.

The tavern keeper recognized him and nodded, then jerked his head at a man sitting alone by the fire. The spy moved toward a narrow-shouldered figure hunkered on a bench, his hands toward the fire. He looked up as the spy approached, and smiled. The spy smiled back, trying not to stare at the black patch where the man's left eye used to be. He had never summoned the courage to ask what had happened to the man's eye. Some claimed he was blinded in a knife fight while others said his jealous wife had burned it out with a hot iron one night while he slept. In any case, it gave him a sinister and frightening appearance.

"You're a good man to come out on a night like this," the one-eyed man said quietly.

"I'm a friend to the Cause."

The man nodded, then flicked a bony finger at the bench across from him. He spoke in a low voice so that only the spy could hear. "Not all are friends here. I wouldn't go talking about Causes if I were you."

The spy shrugged out of his heavy coat and took off his hat, glad of the fire. He sat on the bench. After a few minutes his wet clothes began to steam.

The one-eyed man was watching him. The spy did not know his name, just that he could be found at the tavern most nights, and that whenever he had information he passed it on to this fellow on the bench. He supposed the man then took the train to Baltimore, or passed word to someone on the train. In any case, there was always a bit of money in it, which was why he had learned to keep his ears and eyes open. The spy really didn't care which side won the war. Times were hard because of the war and a few dollars were welcome. The Confederates always paid more. Pennyslvania was a Union state, so whatever they learned about the enemy was welcome.

"What I got is worth something," the spy said, surprised at the excitement in his own voice, the loudness of it.

The man winced and held out his hands. "Quietly, if you please. I'm sure we'd be better off if everyone in the place didn't hear what you have to say." The man flashed yellow teeth and the spy was reminded of the corpses that had plagued the town all summer and fall.

"Lincoln's going to Gettysburg," the spy said. "On November seventeenth. He's staying the night at the home of a lawyer in town and then there's going to be a big ceremony the next day to dedicate the new cemetery for all them dead Yankees."

"I've heard about the ceremony," the man said, leaning toward the spy. His one eye glittered. "Are you sure about Lincoln?"

"It's just been decided," the spy said. "He's going to give a speech when they dedicate the cemetery."

"Lincoln." The man said the name and fell silent, thinking it over. After a few moments he looked up again, glanced over his shoulder, then turned to the spy. "The whole country will know before long that he's going to Gettysburg. It's not worth anything to me."

On the other side of the tavern, three men were struggling into their heavy coats. They went out the door into the rain, and the spy thought they must be fools to trade the tavern's smoky warmth for the autumn storm.

It was the spy's turn to smile as he leaned in close to the man across from him. "I reckon the whole country will know before long about Mr. Lincoln going to Gettysburg. It will be in the newspapers next week. But now you know before everybody else. That's good information."

The man with the eye patch shrugged. The truth was, he knew all about Lincoln's planned trip to Gettysburg. He had even helped Colonel Norris, head of the Confederate Secret Service in Richmond, set up an ambush for the train on the tracks north of Baltimore. He didn't tell any of this to the spy.

"Well," the spy continued, "I guess it really ain't much of a secret. Hell, Lincoln wants everyone to know about it."

"What are you talking about?"

He motioned for the man to lean closer. "How do you think Mr. Lincoln's travelin' to Gettysburg?"

The man humored him. "Why, on the train, I should think."

"Which one?"

The man appeared to think it over. "Washington to Gettysburg? He'll take a train to Baltimore, then take the Northern Central Railroad north to Hanover. There's a spur there that runs to Gettysburg."

It was the spy's turn to smile. "Well, that's just what the Yankees want you to think, ain't it? Lincoln ain't goin' to be on that train, though."

"What do you mean?"

"I've got ears, don't I?" the spy said. He was grinning now, enjoying himself. "How many ears do you think Mr. Lincoln's got? Why, lots and lots, I reckon. He's heard all about your plans. That's why he ain't goin' to be on that train."

The man stared keenly at the spy, suddenly interested. "What plans are you talking about?"

"Them guns. A whole battery of artillery. I heard about how you're planning to ambush the train. Hell, you'll be able to blow Abe Lincoln to Kingdom Come and back. Shame he ain't goin' to be on the train, though."

The man with the eye patch went very still. "Tell me what you mean by all this," he hissed.

"Mr. Lincoln is leavin' Washington on November seventeenth, then he's goin' to Baltimore, only he ain't goin' to take the Northern Central to Pennsylvania. No, not Honest Abe. He'll be gettin' on a Baltimore and Ohio Railroad car headed west. Nobody knows about this, mind you. Then at Weverton he's taking the Hagerstown spur, and from there he's going to Gettysburg. The roundabout way, only it's a secret. Safer that way and he gets there all the same. Like I said, he's done heard all about your plans."

"What about the train he's supposed to be on?" the man asked.

"Oh, I reckon it will leave Baltimore in fine style, only they'll say Mr. Lincoln has pressing concerns or he's tired and can't be bothered in his car. Ain't nobody goin' to see him again till Gettysburg."

The one-eyed man sat quietly for a minute, considering what he had just heard. The spy's clothes were steaming nicely, the grease in the wool giving off a pungent scent. Finally, he gave a short laugh.

"Surely this can't be true," he said.

"It is." The spy screwed up his face in a wise expression. "Though you won't hear it around half the countryside, I reckon."

"Where did you hear it?"

"Never mattered to you before, did it?" The spy shrugged. "I got my sources."

The man with the eye patch smiled again, flashing his yellow teeth, and put a hand inside his coat. He produced a wad of greenbacks, and pressed it into the spy's hands. It was more money than the spy had ever received before, and he gripped it tightly in his hand, staring down in wonder. Then the bills disappeared inside his damp coat.

"A drink to the Cause?" the man asked quietly.

"I reckon that would be good."

They shared three whiskeys there by the fire, neither of them saying much. It was strong liquor, and the spy swayed when he stood up to leave. He wasn't looking forward to walking home in the storm, but his wife was waiting for him. It was just three miles he had to go, but it would take him well over an hour on a night like this. No one paid much attention as he left, except the man by the fire, who stared after him as the spy launched himself into the night.

The cold air sobered him at once. The storm had grown worse. Sleet now stung his face as he leaned into the wind and picked his way between the wagon ruts. Up ahead, the spy thought he saw something move, but he didn't pay much attention. Probably just the wind blowing a gust of rain. No man or beast would be out on a night such as this, at least, not if they had any sense. He tugged his collar tighter at his throat, glad for the whiskey's warmth inside him.

He shivered, although the thought of the money in his pocket more than made up for a little cold and wet. What would he do with all that money? Bring home a few bottles of the tavern's whiskey, for one thing. Maybe get himself a new coat, too, one that kept off the rain.

Above the howl of the storm, he heard someone splashing up the road behind him. Before he could turn, someone grabbed him and the spy felt a powerful arm around his throat. Instinctively, he reached behind him, found a face, gouged at the eyes. He heard a muffled curse and the grip loosened.

As he spun to face his attacker, he felt something hot and sharp bite into his side. The pain was terrible, paralyzing. As if in a dream, he caught a glimpse of a long knife blade as it pulled free, bloody and dripping, before it plunged again deep into his side. He felt steel twist in his kidneys.

He screamed.

The spy hoped someone in the tavern would hear. But the wind and wet night swallowed up his cries. The blade stabbed in again and the spy fell to his knees in the mud. The coppery taste of his own blood welled up from inside him and filled his mouth, dribbling from his lips. The pain was awful.

"Bastard almost put my eye out," a gruff voice said.

Then someone grabbed him under the arms and dragged him off the road into the muddy cornfield nearby. He felt hands search his pockets until they found the roll of greenbacks. He wanted to protest, but no words would come from his mouth, only gurgling sounds.

"No," he finally managed to moan through the terrible pain. He had the odd sensation of being able to feel every raindrop, every grain of dirt in the mud between his fingers. Then all the color went out of the world.

"Finish him off," the gruff voice said.

"He's done for. Let's get out of here before someone comes along. He squealed like a stuck pig."

The gruff-voiced one kicked the spy. "Hell, of course he can squeal. Squeals to the Rebs every time he hears some news, don't he? Well, that was the last time."

Footsteps splashed away, and the spy lay there as his blood pumped out to mingle with the rainwater in the furrows. He tried to crawl back to the road where there might be a chance that someone would find him, but he only slipped deeper into a plowed rut. His face was in a puddle but he didn't have the strength to raise it. A few bubbles rose up. After a minute, the bubbles stopped. The spy was dead, drowned in a puddle of muddy water streaked red with blood.

But the assassins were too late to stop him from sharing his secret. Lincoln was coming to Gettysburg, just not the way anyone expected.