Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 10

"Look at all them Yankees," Hazlett said. "We can't steal the damn train now. Ain't that right, Colonel?"

Percy appeared not to have heard. He was busy studying the Yankee camp across the river. When he finally spoke, it was to give orders: "Captain Cater, take Private Cook with you and go to the rear of the train and get up on the last car. If anyone chases us, they'll try to jump on the back. Don't let them."

"That's Mr. Lincoln's car, sir."

"Yes, but don't worry yourself about that. Lincoln and whoever else is with him will stay holed up in that car like gophers, which is just where we want them. No one is supposed to know they're aboard, remember? Lincoln isn't about to show himself."

Percy quickly gave the rest of his orders. He sent Cephas Wilson and Hank Cunningham to the locomotive and told them to get the train underway. He ordered Hazlett, Forbes and Pettibone aboard the tender, to help the railroad men in any way they needed.

"If there's any shooting that needs doing, you men take care of it and let those two run the train," Percy said.

"What about us, Colonel, sir?" Flynn asked when he found that he, Benjamin and Fletcher were the only ones left on the platform with Percy.

"Fletcher, you and I will take the first passenger car," Percy said. He nodded at Flynn and Benjamin. "You two take the second car. If any of the passengers cause trouble, shoot them."

"All right," Flynn said. He looked toward the Yankee soldiers on the platform. "What about the guards?"

"Hudson will take care of them."

The massive driving wheels of the Chesapeake began to move, and a fresh gout of smoke filled the air. Inside the locomotive's cab, Cunningham opened the blower and increased the air flow to the locomotive's firebox so the wood could burn hotter.

The train was still under steam, and using both hands, Wilson took hold of the Johnson bar, which was about three feet tall and jutted straight up from the floor of the locomotive right beside the engineer's seat. He shoved it forward, putting his weight into it, and the train began to roll.

He pulled back the two-foot long throttle lever, gave the locomotive a burst of steam, then shoved the throttle forward again, shutting off the steam. He repeated this action three times, which got the locomotive rolling more effectively than opening the throttle wide open. That would only have caused the wheels to slip uselessly on the rails. Still, the driving wheels spun as they sought purchase on the well-polished rails. Wilson reached up and pulled a handle at the end of a long bar which ran the length of the locomotive to the sand box atop the forward end. Tubes ran down the sides of the locomotive, spitting sand on the rails just in front of the wheels to give them traction.

As the train began to move, Flynn ran for the second car with Benjamin close behind him. The boy had already pulled out the Colt Navy revolver, and Flynn stopped and gently laid a hand on the gun before they reentered the coach.

"Remember, lad, I gave you that gun to shoot soldiers, not old ladies. Best put it away till you need it. And need it you will, before the day is out."

"Goddamnit, Flynn— "

Flynn glared at him. "That's Sergeant Flynn to you, lad, and I'm tellin' you to put that gun away. No use in causing trouble just yet."

Benjamin gave him a sullen look, but did as he was told. They returned to the car they had ridden out from Ellicott Mills. Already the train was moving, groaning, shuffling ahead like an old man.

As the train began to roll, the three soldiers on the platform ran for the baggage car.

"It's leavin' without us, fellas," one of the men shouted.

The guards had no reason to think the train was being stolen, so they did not shout for help to the soldiers across the river. Hudson was no longer sitting on the steps, but was waiting just inside the open doorway of the car. As the three guards crowded onto the narrow walkway at the front of the car, Hudson jumped out and used his massive arms to grab up all three startled guards in a bear hug. He hurled them off the train before they could even cry out in protest.

The guards landed in a heap on the far side of the train, out of sight of the encamped soldiers. One man writhed on the ground in pain, holding an arm that was twisted at an odd angle. Another guard jumped up and ran at Hudson, but he kicked the man neatly in the jaw and the soldier flopped to the ground.

The third man ran toward the train, bayonet at the ready, but he backed off when he saw the Colt revolver in Hudson's hand. The guard raised his rifle to fire, but the train was picking up speed, and Hudson was already out of sight, giving the guard the side of the car as a target.

"Thieves!" he shouted, although the train drowned him out as it rolled away from the platform. "Thieves!"

"Biscuits and coffee for us," George Greer said to Mrs. Sykes, scooting his chair closer to the table in the dining room of Sykes's Hotel.

"Lots of coffee und butter for the biscuits," added Oscar Schmidt, the engineer. He still had a hint of his German accent, even though he had lived in Baltimore for twenty years, and pronounced his "W's" as "V's." "It vill be a long journey to Cumberland."

"Hungry work," agreed Walter Frost, the fireman. It was his job to keep water in the Chesapeake's boiler and a steady supply of wood in the firebox. He was not a large man but he was sinewy and muscular. His hands were like leather, the fingers square-tipped stubs from handling cordwood all day. He had washed before entering the hotel, but ash still clung to the creases in his face and to his hair.

The three railroad men had made the run to western Maryland many times. Greer and Schmidt had worked together for years and knew each other almost as well as they knew their own wives. Frost wasn't married, although there was a war widow he got on well with in Baltimore.

"What do you reckon is in that last car?" Frost asked. It had been attached to their train in the early morning hours as they left the city. An officer had told them it was being added to their train and that they should leave the car alone. He had been emphatic about that.

Greer shrugged. "Army business," he said.

He was just as curious as Frost, of course, but he knew better than to be too inquisitive where the military was concerned. B&O officials assisted the military whenever possible, because they counted on the army to guard the tracks against marauding Confederates. Consequently, his bosses would not look kindly upon a nosy conductor.

It was bad enough that they were carrying the payroll for the Cumberland garrison. Greer guessed the mysterious car held nothing more interesting than good whiskey for the general at Cumberland, or possibly even a couple of Baltimore whores for the officers. He had heard of such things, and while he didn't necessarily approve, he knew better than to question them out loud.

Schmidt spread butter on a biscuit, wolfed it down, then slurped noisily at his coffee.

"Damn goot," he said. "This should hold me until lunch in Harpers Ferry."

Greer laughed. "Always thinking of your belly, aren't you, Oscar?"

"A man can't work on an empty stomach."

The three men laughed and went on eating.

As Greer went to take another sip of coffee, his gaze settled on the train across the river. He stopped laughing, and his coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth.

"What is wrong?" Schmidt asked.

Greer barely heard him. He was busy watching a plume of thick, black smoke coming from the Chesapeake’s funnel, a telltale sign that someone was stoking the firebox.

"Look at that," he said, aghast. His two companions turned, just in time to see the train lurch ahead, then start down the tracks.

Schmidt swore. "Someone's taking our train!"

In the distance, they could barely hear someone shouting, "Thieves! Brigands!"

Suddenly the dining room exploded into action as the three men jumped up from the table. Coffee spilled, chairs fell over and a plate of biscuits clattered to the floor.

"Where are ya'll goin'?" called Mrs. Sykes, running from the kitchen in alarm, but the railroad men were already out the door, sprinting for the bridge across the Patapsco.

Aboard the train, the passengers appeared only mildly concerned that the Chesapeake was slowly rolling out of Sykesville, even though several of their fellow passengers were still having breakfast at Sykes's Hotel.

"What's going on?" a fat matron demanded of Flynn, who had just come from outside.

"Not to worry, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat. "I believe there's something to load on the last car, and the engineer had to pull the train ahead a few feet to bring the car even with the platform."

Flynn spoke in a voice loud enough for the other passengers to hear, and his explanation seemed to satisfy the woman, who settled back down in her seat.

"Well, we're going awfully fast," she huffed.

The train gathered speed. Flynn expected at any moment to hear the shooting begin, but all was quiet except for the growing noise of the iron wheels turning ever faster on the rails beneath them.

"Young man, I don't believe we're going to stop," the matron spoke up, sounding annoyed, as if she knew Flynn had misled her.

"The engineer must be drunk," he said lamely. "It's been known to happen."

No one took exception to that. It seemed as good an explanation as any. Flynn looked out the window. They were moving much faster. The train rolled past a man on foot, quickly outpacing him. Trees flickered past. The brown autumn grass was a blur.

Flynn thought of all those Yankee soldiers nearby and expected at any moment to hear gunshots. Seconds passed, and the only sound was the scrape and clatter of iron wheels on the rails. He realized his armpits were damp and his palms sweaty.

Damn, he thought. We did it.

"Stay here, lad, and don't move until I tell you," he ordered Benjamin, and stepped out into the aisle. He made his way to the front of the car. Flynn didn't want any of the passengers to leave the car, but he also didn't want to make it seem as if he were guarding the door. That would come soon enough. He stood by the stove in the corner of the car and spent some time fishing a cigar out of his pocket, then patting down his coat in a search for matches.

"Someone ought to go up and tell that engineer to stop," the fat matron said. "People have been left behind at the station."

Flynn didn't volunteer.

She cleared her throat loudly. "Young man— "

"I'm sure the engineer knows what he's doing, ma'am," he said easily, although he felt his armpits become more damp. Trouble was starting.

She turned to her husband, a white-haired gentleman beside her. "Alfred, pull the signal cord. That engineer must stop this train."

The signal cord was suspended by straps from the ceiling of the passenger car. The cord ran the length of the train, all the way to the locomotive, and was used when the conductor wished to signal the engineer. Tugging on the cord sounded a bell up in the locomotive's cab. This system saved the conductor from making a somewhat perilous trip across the tender to the locomotive itself.

From the resigned way in which her husband silently complied, it was easy to see he knew better than to argue with his wife. He was past sixty, paunchy, and puffed a bit as he stood up and reached for the signal cord overhead.

Flynn gave his pockets a final pat, then let his hand rest beneath his coat on the butt of his Le Mat revolver.

"I'm afraid you'll have to sit back down, sir," said Flynn, as he walked down the aisle and came up beside the man.

"What are you talking about?"

"Conductor's orders, sir. Please sit down."

"I'll do no such thing." The old man was as stubborn as his wife. "Now, if you'll kindly step aside— "

Almost casually, Flynn pulled out the Le Mat and leveled it at the man's belly. The old man's eyes grew wide in disbelief. "What's all this about?"

"Sit down."

Wide-eyed, the old fellow retreated to his seat. His back had blocked Flynn's gun from view of most of the passengers, but some up front had seen the huge revolver. A woman gasped. A man cried out, "Now see here— "

"Shut up," Flynn said harshly, and he moved down the aisle, the brutal-looking Le Mat revolver in plain view. "Listen up everyone. I am a Confederate soldier. Several of us on board have commandeered this train. We're taking it west. Now, we're not in the business of shooting civilians, but we will if we must. The best way not to get shot is to stay in your seat and keep quiet."

The portly matron began muttering indignantly. "This is a travesty. Where's your uniform? Soldiers? I doubt it! You're nothing but common thieves."

Flynn moved toward her.

"Shut up, Henrietta," her husband said, clapping a hand over her mouth. "He's an outlaw. He'll shoot you."

"That's right, sir. I'll shoot her if she opens that big mouth of hers again." He winked. "From the looks of it, I may be doing you a favor."

No one else spoke. The train was moving even faster. Flynn was just beginning to think everything was going well when two hard-looking men who were sharing a seat stood up.

Damn, thought Flynn. Quickly, he glanced at Benjamin, who nodded and quietly slipped his own revolver from a coat pocket.

One of the men spoke up. "Way I see it, they ain't but one of you," said one of the men. He smiled. "And they's two of us."

"Don't do it, lads," Flynn said.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Both men clumsily drew revolvers. Someone screamed.

Flynn fired. His bullet missed and blew out one of the windows at the back of the car. He fired again and his bullet ricocheted off the stove pipe in a flash of sparks. More women were wailing. A bullet snicked past his ear.

To his right, Johnny Benjamin jumped up and shot one of the men through the head. Flynn got off another shot, and this time he was dead-on, the Le Mat's .40-caliber slug knocking the remaining man into the seat behind him.

"Nobody move!" Flynn shouted.

The gunfight had lasted only seconds. Flynn's ears rang. The car was filled with bluish smoke and stank of sulfur. A woman cried hysterically, while a terrified hush had fallen over the other passengers.

"Stop that wailing," Flynn shouted at the crying woman. He raised the Le Mat and swung the muzzle around the car, demanding, “Any other Yankees present?"

No one moved. Finally, a bald, bespectacled man spoke up. "This one's still alive," he said. He was bent over the man Flynn had shot. There was a ragged hole in the wounded man's chest that was making ugly, bubbling noises. Pink froth showed at the man's lips and his eyes flicked desperately around the car. Flynn had seen enough men lung shot to know that the man had just minutes to live.

"Help me drag him out," Flynn said to the man with the glasses.

"He shouldn't be moved— "

"Shut up and grab his feet, you four-eyed son of a bitch, or I'll shoot you, too."

The man hurried to grab the feet.

Flynn turned to Benjamin. For all his talk about shooting Yankees, the boy was white as a boiled shirt. Flynn clapped him on the arm to snap him out of it. "Keep an eye on the passengers," Flynn said, speaking loudly so everyone in the car could hear. "Shoot anyone who moves."

Benjamin managed to nod, but kept his lips drawn into a tight line.

The door opened and Captain Fletcher appeared. "Colonel Percy sent me to see what all the shooting was about."

"Nothing we can't handle, Fletcher, unless you want to give us a hand with these bodies?"

Fletcher gave him a horrified look, then withdrew.

Flynn and the passenger carried the dead man out first, laying him on the small platform outside the car.

"What's your name?" Flynn asked the passenger.

"William Prescott."

"What do you do, Mr. Prescott? Obviously, you're not a soldier."

"I'm a lawyer," he said. "I have a practice in Baltimore."

Flynn smirked. "It's a shame you couldn't have gotten a bit of business from these two writing their wills. Too bad."

They went back for the wounded man. He was still alive, wheezing hard, his mouth ringed with pink froth from his lung wound. They laid him next to the dead man.

"He needs help or he's going to die," Prescott said.

"Oh, he's going to die, all right."

Then, as Prescott watched in horror, Flynn kicked first the corpse and then the wounded man off the platform. The train was moving at a good speed and the bodies bounced and tumbled, then flopped in the brush along the tracks.

"Oh my God," Prescott stammered. "You killed him."

"That was the idea," Flynn said, enjoying himself just a little too much. "Lung-shot like that, he had a minute or two to live before he drowned in his own blood. We did the fellow a favor. Now shut up and sit back down — unless you want me to throw you off the train, too."

White-faced, the fat lawyer scurried back into the car, and Flynn followed, wondering how long it would be before he had to shoot someone else.