Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

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 us, 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.

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.

"We'll catch them yet," Greer said. He was in high spirits for the first time that day. "Nobody steals my train and gets away with it."

It would give him great satisfaction to see the raiders captured and hanged. He just prayed they wouldn't wreck his beloved engine first.

Since climbing aboard the old locomotive, Frost and Schmidt were like different men. No longer did Greer need to berate them to continue the pursuit. They were running a locomotive again, an engine of steam and iron and fire, and the men were at home. Suddenly, they were caught up in the excitement of the chase. The Grasshopper wasn't terribly fast, but Frost and Schmidt knew their business and were wringing every possible bit of speed out of the engine.

"Now we're moving," Schmidt said, a grin crossing the big German's face. "We'll catch those sons of bitches yet, see if we don't."

"And then we'll stuff 'em in the firebox, right Oscar?" Frost laughed. "We'll burn their thieving asses."

"There are always soldiers posted at Frederick Junction," Greer added, glad that his two companions finally showed some excitement about the chase. After all, they were as tired as he was. "Let's see them get past those boys."

Greer knew the Monocacy garrison well enough because his train had passed through many times. There was a full company of infantry stationed at that vital crossing near Frederick. A battery of 12-pound Napoleon guns was trained on the bridge. The crossing was well-guarded, and with any luck, if the soldiers ahead were alert, the train thieves would be stopped, especially if a telegraph message reached the soldiers in time.

He believed the raiders were in a hopeless position. Most eastbound and westbound trains stopped at Frederick Junction to take on wood, water and passengers, along with the odd bit of freight bound for western Maryland or Baltimore. The soldiers would be suspicious if the Chesapeake made no sign of stopping. Of course, the train thieves wouldn't stand a chance with the sharp-eyed Yankee commander if they did stop. What lay ahead for the raiders, Greer thought with satisfaction, was a double-edged sword.

"We might catch them at Parr's Ridge," Schmidt pointed out. "This little engine, she can make the climb faster than they can with four cars."

Greer smiled and licked his lips, which tasted salty from the sweat he had worked up, first running and them helping to pump the push car in the Chesapeake’s wake. Dimly, it registered that his leg ached from his old wound, but he ignored the pain and kept his eyes on the tracks ahead to where Parr's Ridge rose in the distance. It was also known as the Mount Airy grade, a sharp ridge in the gently rolling Piedmont plateau stretching from Chesapeake Bay to the western mountains, a hill that ran like a ripple in a blanket across an otherwise flat bed. While the tracks had followed the Patapsco River basin and then Bush Creek west to that point, on the other side they followed the Monocacy River basin to the Potomac River. Parr's Ridge was the only place where the B&O couldn't hold to the river grades.

The low, sharp ridge would slow the train racing ahead of them. They were close to catching the raiders now, very close. Greer turned and helped Frost heap wood into the raging firebox, burning now like fury itself.

The town of Gettysburg had been transformed. Red, white and blue bunting hung from the windows. Union flags flew. Everywhere you looked, houses wore new coats of white wash. It was a far cry from the war-ravaged town of the past summer.

Walking along the streets, the one-eyed man took in the crowds. The official dedication of the new national cemetery was not until tomorrow, but the festival atmosphere already had begun. While there were plenty of prayers and church services planned, the throngs in the streets were looking to forget the war and its horrors for a while. Liquor bottles were in abundance.

"Meat pies! Meat pies here!" called a man, hawking his wares. The savory smell of a gravy-filled pie in a buttery crust made the one-eyed man's stomach rumble. He bought a pie wrapped in a sheet of newsprint and devoured it on his way to the train station.

Abraham Lincoln was scheduled to arrive later that day, and he wanted to be there when the president came to town. Already, a huge crowd had gathered at the train station. Young boys had climbed trees while their parents waved tiny hand-sewn flags.

Finally, the train came into sight, hugging along the tracks of the Northern Central Railroad that led directly to Baltimore and from there, on to Washington. The crowd grew excited. The one-eyed man was pressed from behind as more latecomers crowded in to catch a glimpse of their president.

When the train did stop in a gout of steam, a tall figure in black and wearing a stovepipe hat appeared. The crowd cheered. The president waved, then moved on to greet the local dignitaries waiting at the station. The one-eyed man watched in surprise.

Abraham Lincoln? He was puzzled. Then he found himself swept up by the crowd as it surged after the president, caught like a twig in a swirling river.