Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 14

Colonel William Norris read the latest news in a smuggled copy of The Washington Star and nodded his approval. So, Lincoln was still expected at Gettysburg. Reading the Northern newspapers was almost as productive as spying. Early in the war he had learned a great deal about troop movements and even strategy until the Federal government had begun to censor the news.

Then again, you didn’t see everything in the newspapers. There was no news of his raiders, for example. The note from Flynn had been his last update.

Norris stood and walked to the fire to warm himself. His fingers had grown stiff with cold. He was about to call for Fletcher when he caught himself. Well, so much for that. Fletcher had served his purpose but Norris did not trust him to keep his mouth closed about the secret business that went on at the Confederate Signal Bureau. Sending him on the raid seemed like a good way to rid himself of a liability. Of course, there was always the off chance that Captain Fletcher might survive and return.

And the others? It would not do for Colonel Percy and his band to receive a hero’s welcome in Richmond. Like Fletcher, he did not trust them to keep their secrets.

Norris sighed and stalked back to his desk. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the inkwell. Then he began to write out an order for the immediate arrest of Colonel Arthur Percy and all those accompanying him. The reason? Norris paused with his pen above the blank sheet, thinking of a good charge. Treason. There. He wrote it down. When the time came, he could engineer the details.

Flynn and Benjamin stood side by side at the front of the car, keeping watch over the passengers. Captain Fletcher guarded the back door.

"I don't like it one bit, lad," Flynn whispered to Benjamin. "It's been too damn easy so far."

"Ain't that good?" Benjamin asked.

"Nothing worth doing is ever easy, lad. Just remember that. I have a bad feelin' that this won't turn out quite the way we hoped."

"Then why did you come along?"

"Why, for the fun, boy." That couldn't be further from the truth, but Benjamin didn't need to know that. Besides, it was too late for any of them to turn back now. Their only hope was to run for the valley.

Nearby, the passengers strained to hear what was being said. Flynn gave them an impish grin. "Why don't you pull up a chair?"

The matronly woman sniffed. "If we thought there was anything intelligent being said, we might."

Flynn tried to appear shocked. "Do you hear the insults she's hurling at us, lad?"

Her husband spoke up. "There's no need to go picking on women."

Flynn ignored him. "I don't believe we've been introduced, ma'am."

"Mrs. Henrietta Parker." She turned to her husband. "This is Alfred, my husband."

Flynn winked at Benjamin and made his way down the aisle to where the Parkers sat. He transferred the Le Mat revolver to his left hand and offered his right to Alfred Parker, who, in confusion, gripped it in a weak handshake. "Sergeant Thomas Flynn at your service," he said as they shook. "The young fellow there is Private Johnny Benjamin and that's Billy Fletcher in the back."

"Captain William Fletcher," the officer corrected him, sounding annoyed.

Flynn turned to the lawyer from Baltimore. The man still appeared shocked at having seen Flynn kick the bodies off the train because he regarded the raider with the sort of nervous look reserved for wild beasts and Indians. "The captain there has been wondering if you could write a will for him, Mr. Lawyer."

"A will?" Mrs. Henrietta Parker sniffed again. "I dare say you'll all be needing one of those. I can only hope this outrage ends with several hangings. It's the best end for cheap Rebel trash."

"Why, Mrs. Parker," Flynn said, winking. "That's not very Christian of you. Now mind you keep quiet, or I'll hang you out the window."

He turned his back on the indignant noises the woman was making and went to stand beside Benjamin near the stove. He kept the Le Mat in plain view of the passengers, hoping that the sight of the huge revolver would discourage any more bravery like the episode which had already left two men dead.

He stopped in front of the couple from Baltimore, the dandy and the woman. The woman stiffened and the man scowled.

"Can't you find another train to steal?" he said.

"We like this one," Flynn said.

"Goddamn Johnny Rebs."

The woman gripped her partner's arm. "Charlie Gilmore," she said sharply. "Leave it alone."

"Listen to the woman, Charlie."

Flynn moved on. The car was not entirely full, but Flynn was aware of the many eyes fixed hatefully upon him. Some of the eyes held fear, others anger, which was fine with Flynn. However, the eyes of the couple from Baltimore were filled with contempt, a far more dangerous emotion. People who were afraid could be told what to do. People who were angry could be intimidated by the big Le Mat pistol. But there was no controlling contempt. It was a rebellious emotion. As far as Flynn was concerned, the sooner they unloaded the passengers, the better.

Flynn leaned toward Benjamin. "Keep your eyes on those two," he whispered. The boy stared at the couple. "They're trouble, lad. Maybe not for us, but they're trouble in general."

Benjamin nodded. At the back of the car, Captain Fletcher kept watch, his eyes going everywhere, self-important as always. He looked the part of an officer right down to his immaculate uniform, but Fletcher wouldn't be worth a damn if there was any shooting.

Flynn cast a sideways glance at Benjamin. The boy had been looking pale since that morning's gunfight. Killing was never easy work, Flynn thought.

He motioned Benjamin out of earshot of the passengers. "Listen, lad," he whispered. "That was good work this morning. Now I know why I gave you that new Colt. You saved the day. That was just a lucky shot I got off. I can't hit a damn thing with a pistol."

The boy shrugged.

"Now, I've noticed you've been kind of quiet. I'm thinking it may be the first time you killed a man."

Benjamin shrugged. "I reckon," he finally said.

Flynn nodded. "It's no easy thing, killing a man. It's not like killing a chicken or a pig or a goat. Not at all like that. The priests will tell you it's a mortal sin, except in war, when you get a dispensation from the church for killing, although I sometimes wonder if God takes the same view. Killing some men isn't a sin at all, because some bastards deserve it. Now, if those two heroes this morning hadn't tried to be brave and foolish, they would still be alive. Don't you think?"

"I suppose they would be."

"Now, the real question to ask yourself is whether or not you'll hesitate next time before you shoot. Don't freeze up. That's war for you, lad. Hesitate, give the other fellow a chance, and you're a dead man. I don't know about you, lad, but I'd much rather be alive and feeling guilty than dead. Any day, lad. Any day it's better to pull the trigger and stay alive. Remember that."

Benjamin was silent for a moment, then asked, "You know something, Flynn?"

"What's that?"

"Pettibone's right. You talk too damn much."

But he was smiling when he said it, so Flynn knew the boy would be all right.

Just then the whistle blew one short, sharp blast and the train began to slow. In the car, raiders and captives alike looked at each other uneasily, as if to ask, "What next?"

Colonel Percy jumped down from the engine, shouting as soon as his feet touched the ground. "Hazlett! Flynn! Leave one man to guard the passengers and the rest of you get out here. We have work to do."

Moments later, Percy gave his orders. The raiders swarmed toward the locomotive for the tools they had commandeered from the repair crew. They grabbed up the crowbars and mauls, then headed for the tracks at the end of the train. The tracks crossed a road and creek below using a stone, twin-arched bridge, with one span for the road and the other for the waterway. The railroad bed leading to the bridge was very high and steep. Deep ravines filled with rocks and brush bordered the tracks.

"Just two rails is all you need to pull up," Percy said. "Two rails on each side and anyone following us will go right off the track into that ravine."

The raiders set to work. Crowbars slipped under the rails. Hazlett and Hudson alternately pushed down and pulled until the veins stood out like wires in their necks. Pettibone grabbed a maul. Flynn fitted the slotted end of a crowbar to the head of a spike and tugged and twisted, trying to work it free.

While the others worked, Captain Fletcher only stood and watched. Even Percy had grabbed hold of a maul and was pounding at a rail, sweating and cursing with his men.

"Pitch in any time, Fletcher," Percy called out.

"I'm an officer," Fletcher sniffed. "I don't work with my hands."

Percy straightened up and handed his maul to another man. "Is that so?"

"Yes, Colonel, that's my right."

Percy stood, staring for a moment at the priggish captain. Then his hand casually drifted to the hip holster that held his Colt revolver. He drew the weapon, cocked it, advanced a few steps toward Fletcher, and shoved the muzzle into the captain's face.

"Fletcher, get to work or I'll blow your goddamn head off." Percy's voice was brittle, like broken glass. "I have no patience with shirkers."

Fletcher's face blanched with fear. He began to stammer some protest, thought better of it, and edged around the gun to join Hazlett and Hudson, who were straining to free a rail.

"That's better," Percy said, holstering his pistol.

The spikes holding a rail in place gave all at once with a shriek as they ripped from the wooden tie, nearly pitching the men over backward. Forbes whooped as he lost his balance and plunked down on his backside. The men grabbed the loose rail and pitched it into the ravine twenty feet below. They joined the others sweating and cursing over the second rail and soon had that one free as well.

"Sure, and that will be a fine surprise for anyone coming after us," said Flynn, looking down at the twin rails now gleaming in the brush.

"I don't believe you mean that, Irish," Hazlett said. He was standing a few feet away, a crowbar over one shoulder. "Maybe you want them to catch us. Hell, you might just be a Yankee yourself. Lord knows there's enough potato-eaters wearing blue."

"Hazlett, you don't know your arse from a potato, much less a Yankee from a Reb."

Hazlett snarled and in one, smooth motion, he planted his feet and swung the iron bar at Flynn's head. The Irishman ducked and the bar swished harmlessly through the air. Forbes, standing next to Flynn, couldn't get out of the way fast enough and the crow bar struck him a glancing blow on the upper arm. He howled and swore.

Flynn went at Hazlett from a crouch, thumping hard fists deep into his belly. Hazlett slashed down with the crow bar. Flynn dodged a second too late. The iron bar missed his head but the flattened tip ripped a bloody furrow along his jawbone.

Flynn ignored the pain and danced back out of reach. The two men circled each other. Hazlett's dark eyes burned with hatred as he sneered at Flynn.

"I'm goin' to do you good, Irish."

"Anytime you're ready."

Colonel Percy stepped between them. "I will not have this!" he shouted, reaching for the iron bar in Hazlett's hands. Hazlett didn't let go. For a moment, it looked as if he might even attack Percy. Then, reluctantly, he let Percy have the crowbar. "There will be no fighting among ourselves. Flynn, Hazlett, do you hear me?"

Percy's face had turned red, his grip on the crowbar tightening until his knuckles showed white, and it looked as if he might swing it at the sergeants. His voice was shrill. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear you." Flynn spoke first. He relaxed, went out of a fighter's stance, and gingerly touched the wound on his chin. His fingertips came away bloody and he glared at Hazlett. "I understand."

"Hazlett?"

"All right, Colonel."

"We move again in five minutes."

The men drifted away. Some found a spring near the tracks and drank deeply. They pulled biscuits and cold fried chicken from their pockets and ate it standing near the train. A soldier learned to eat and drink when he could.

“I could use some coffee,” John Cook said wistfully. “Real coffee like we had this morning, not what we’re used to drinking back home that’s made out of chicory.”

“Ain’t no time for making coffee.”

“I just said it would be nice, is all,” Cook said, then stared hungrily at the bundle of food the other man had taken from his pocket and unwrapped. “You gonna eat that biscuit?”

Further down the tracks, Colonel Percy fell into step beside Pettibone.

"What's with those two?" Percy asked. "I think they would have killed each other."

"It's like two roosters in a barnyard, Colonel," Pettibone said philosophically. "Sooner or later, they's goin' to fight. This ain't the end of it, neither."

"But why those two?" Percy wondered aloud. If there was trouble between his men, he wanted to know the cause.

"Hazlett is a son-of-a-bitch and a no-good troublemaker," Pettibone said, then added, "Sir. I know he's married to your cousin. But he always was a bully back home, and a man like that thrives in army life, 'specially if he wears stripes. Now Flynn, he won't abide a man like that. He's quick to make a joke, I reckon, but make no mistake, he's a hard man. Someone like him stands up to a piece of horse shit like Hazlett. And Hazlett don't like that."

Percy shook his head. He supposed he had known as much all along. "It ain't enough that the Yankees want to kill us. We have to try and kill each other, too."

Shaking his head, Percy stomped toward the locomotive. He would much rather have been on horseback, where a man felt free and easy, instead of riding this steam locomotive. Some called a locomotive an iron horse, but in Percy's mind the Chesapeake was as far as you could get from four hooves and a saddle. It wasn't natural. This damn train was making them all nervous.

"Colonel!"

Percy turned. Lieutenant Cater had jumped down from the last car and was waving his arms and shouting. "Colonel! Colonel!"

Percy looked beyond Cater and saw at once what all the shouting was about. Something was coming at them down the tracks. He squinted, trying to make it out, but his near-sighted eyes saw only a distant blur.

"What is it?"

"Hand car, sir," Pettibone drawled. "Coming right at us."

"How many men on her?"

"Just three, sir."

Percy squinted again, and could begin to make out the up-and-down pumping motion. He knew his small band of raiders could easily overwhelm three men, but if his pursuers were armed, the victory might come at a bloody price.

"Everyone on the train!" he shouted. "Let's go."

He turned and ran for the engine. Wilson had already heard the commotion and pulled back the Johnson bar, getting the Chesapeake underway. At first, the huge drive wheels slipped uselessly on the slick, polished rails. Wilson pulled a lever, sand dropped on the rails, and the wheels caught. The train began to creep ahead, although the pursuers were gaining on them. Percy swung into the cab.

"She won't go no faster, Colonel," Wilson said, working the lever to the sandbox again. Too slowly, the locomotive was gathering speed. "There's just no traction."

"It doesn't matter," Percy said. He nodded at the gap in the rails behind them. "They won't be getting any closer."