Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 27

"Sweet mother of Jesus," Flynn said. "Here they come." His revolver clicked on an empty chamber.

"Come on, Flynn," Percy said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Did you think I was going to stay and get a bayonet in the guts?"

They turned and ran.

Yankees pounded up the tracks right behind them. A tall Yankee outran the others and lifted his rifle high for a killing thrust at Percy's back. Hudson jumped from between two cars, a blazing gun in each hand. Bullets knocked the tall Yankee off his feet and killed the man behind him. The other soldiers faltered long enough for Percy and Flynn to swing aboard the train.

The Yankees did not give up. The Chesapeake had not built enough speed to lose them, even on foot. They were still led by the conductor, who urged the soldiers on as they rushed the train, trying to climb aboard the last two cars — the boxcar of supplies and Lincoln's car. Most of their rifles were empty, so they jabbed their bayonets at the raiders defending the cars. The raiders's guns were empty, too, so they could only stomp on the hands of any Yankee who got a grip on the car, while dodging the knife-edged bayonets thrust at them. Legs were sliced open, fingers broke, and both sides screamed curses. The vicious running brawl followed the train down the tracks.

One bearded soldier grabbed hold of the iron railing at the back of Lincoln's car and began to pull himself up. Flynn clubbed him with the butt of his pistol and the Yankee fell away with a strangled shout.

In the boxcar doorway, Cook screamed as a bayonet caught him in the calf and sliced to the bone. Hazlett kicked the soldier in the face and the man tumbled away.

The train gained speed. The soldiers had to run faster to keep up, and one by one they fell behind. Some loaded their rifles and fired. The whine of minié bullets followed the locomotive out of range. Aboard the Chesapeake, the raiders caught their breath.

"That was hot work, gentlemen," Percy announced. He was bleeding from a bayonet gash near his knee. All four men were bloody and breathless from the fight.

"Those Yankees have a lot of spirit," Flynn said. He, too, had been nicked in a couple of places, but he had taken his revenge. Flynn had felt at least two hands crushed under his boots as the Yankees tried to get onto the car.

Percy nodded at Lincoln's door. "Any sound from in there?" he asked Hudson.

"No, Colonel. All quiet."

Percy was glad Lincoln had not tried to escape during the confusion of the skirmish, because the president surely would have been killed in the crossfire. Percy was determined to deliver President Lincoln alive and well to Richmond. He felt that anything less would mean the raid was a failure.

Pettibone poked his head out from the hole in the boxcar. "Now what, Colonel?"

"Anybody hurt?"

"Cook got cut pretty bad. Hazlett's wrapping up his leg. Other than that, just a few scratches." As usual, Pettibone was the master of understatement. His lower legs were covered in blood from his bayonet wounds. The four men in the last car had suffered the worst of the Yankee attack. Fletcher was the only one who hadn't been hurt, mainly because he had hung back while the others battled the Yankees in the doorway.

Percy glanced at the blood, but didn't say anything about it. "All right. Now listen to me, Pettibone. I want you boys to knock a hole to match this one in the back wall of the boxcar. Use some of those ties in there as a battering ram if you have to."

Pettibone looked puzzled.

"You'll see," Percy said. "When you're finished, tell the other three to keep an eye out, because the Yankees will be after us again like flies on molasses. You come out here with Hudson to guard the president."

"Yes, sir."

Pettibone disappeared into the boxcar, where he relayed the orders to Hazlett, Cook and Fletcher. After the fight, the wounded men weren't happy about the work at hand. Some grumbled as they picked up a railroad tie and began battering at the back wall of the box car.

"The colonel treats us like dogs, you know," Hazlett said.

"Shut up, Hazlett," Pettibone said. Normally, he was too wary of Hazlett to speak up, but the exhaustion and pain from his cut legs had dulled his sense of caution. "Percy has kept us from being caught yet, hasn’t he?"

"That was damn close back there," Hazlett snarled. "If the Yankees catch us, you know what they're goin' to do, don't you? They're goin' to hang us right beside the railroad tracks as thieves and spies. You ever seen anybody hang, Pettibone? It ain't pretty. Your tongue gets all swollen and hangs out of your mouth, you shit your pants and if your neck don't snap right off you swing there, kicking your feet."

Beside him, Fletcher paled. "They can't hang us like that," he said, his voice barely audible.

"See if they don't," Hazlett replied.

"I seen men die," Pettibone said flatly. "You're forgettin' I've been in this here war for almost three years. Ain't no way to die that's pretty, 'cept maybe home in bed. Now swing this damn rail, will you?"

Hazlett took hold of his end of the rail. They pounded at the end wall until one by one the boards popped loose and they had created a ragged hole. As soon as they finished, Pettibone crawled out the front of the car to continue his guard duty with Hudson.

Hazlett watched Pettibone go, a crooked smile on his face. "Colonel won't trust me to guard Honest Abe, I reckon. He knows I'd finish the job and be done with it."

Hazlett, Fletcher and Cook were alone in the boxcar. Cook touched the bloody bandage around his lower leg, then sipped at a flask of whiskey to dull the pain. The wound throbbed as if someone was jabbing at his leg with a hot poker. He knew the pain would only get worse.

"If that leg turns bad it will have to come off," Hazlett said. "Some doctor will have at it with a bone saw."

"Go to hell, Hazlett. It ain't goin' to turn bad."

"You get gangrene on us and die, hell, that leaves more of that money for us."

"It ain't turnin' bad," Cook said, a little desperately this time. Every soldier had seen the horror of rotting arms and legs from infected wounds. The only salvation then lay in a doctor sawing off the infected limb. The operation was almost as likely to kill a man as the gangrene. "I know it ain't."

"We've got to get that money now, while the Yankees ain't breathing down our necks," Hazlett said. "If we don't take it now, we ain't goin' to be around to do it. Captain, you still with us? We need to get that money and get off the train now. If we do that, the Yankees ain't goin' to get a chance to hang us."

"I'm with you," Fletcher said. He could almost feel the raw burn of a noose around his neck.

"The colonel won't like it," Cook said. "He's your own kin, Hazlett."

Hazlett snorted and bared his fang-like teeth in a sneer. "He's kin I can do without. Always acts like he's better than me. Besides, once those Yankees catch him, they'll stretch his neck right good. If he gets in our way, I'll save them the trouble."

"So what do we do?" Fletcher asked.

Hazlett took out his revolver. "What we do is load our guns. Then we make ourselves rich."

"Get those ties off the tracks!" Greer barked at the soldiers. "Hurry it up!"

The soldiers worked feverishly, several of them grabbing at once for the heavy timbers and pitching them aside. Some of the men worked with fingers broken in the attack, but they did not complain. The Rebels had killed four of their own. Now, they were bent on revenge.

The ties piled across the tracks were not a huge obstacle, but it was enough to slow them down and buy the Rebels time. Already, the Chesapeake was gathering speed, disappearing down the tracks. A few soldiers still loaded and fired after the train, but Greer ordered them to put down their muskets and help with the work.

"Hurry, boys, hurry!" Greer cried. He grabbed the end of a tie and single-handedly hurled it off the tracks.

Panting from the effort, Greer took stock of the situation while he caught his breath. He still had sixteen men, all of them hungry to shoot a Rebel. For most, it was the first action they had seen.

Greer's only regret was that the Rebels had not shot Captain Lowell. The skirmish had left the captain shaken, but he had recovered enough to help the men move the ties off the track.

Greer ordered the bodies dragged into a row beside the stationmaster's office. They would come back later to bury them. There was no time for that now.

How many Rebels were dead? None that he had seen. He had counted just eight raiders altogether, not including the three working to refuel the locomotive. Tough bastards, to have held off more than twice their number. Greer was determined that the Rebels wouldn't be so lucky next time.

With the tracks cleared, the soldiers began to scramble back aboard the train. Up in the cab, Schmidt had already set the Lord Baltimore moving. Greer caught the back of the locomotive and climbed up.

"All right, Oscar," he said. "Let's go get those Johnny Rebs."

Hazlett was in the boxcar at the back of the train, thinking. The skirmish with the Yankees had been a close thing. He was not so sure he and the other raiders would fare so well if it came to another fight.

His mind made up, Hazlett stood. "It's time," he said.

He crossed over to the president's car, followed by Captain Fletcher and John Cook.

"What's going on?" asked Pettibone, who was standing guard with Hudson. "Your orders were to stay in that boxcar."

"Don't go telling me about orders," Hazlett said, sneering. "We're on our way to see the colonel.”

"All three of you ain't got to see him," Pettibone said. "You're supposed to stay here in case the Yankees show up on our tail again."

"Corporal Pettibone, get the hell out of my way," Hazlett snarled.

Pettibone did not move. Behind the corporal, Hudson's massive bulk stood like a wall.

Hazlett knew better than to ask Pettibone and Hudson to join the mutiny. Both were loyal to the colonel, especially Hudson. Besides, Hazlett didn't see why a white man should have to share good money with someone like Hudson.

But this was not the time for a fight. Hazlett knew they had to overpower Percy first. Pettibone could either join him then — or get shot. For the moment, there were other ways to get around him.

Hazlett forced a smile and turned to Fletcher. "Captain?"

"You heard him," Fletcher said. "We have to see the colonel."

Pettibone might oppose a sergeant, but he could not argue with an officer, even if it was only Captain Fletcher.

"All right, have it your way," Pettibone said, then stepped aside.

Hazlett bumped him with his shoulder as he went past and reached for the ladder that led to the roof of the car. "Me and you can talk later, Pettibone."

He started up the ladder. The only way to reach the rest of the train was across the top of the president's car. Hazlett climbed to the roof, clambered onto it, and started across in a wide-legged crouch to keep his balance. Wind sang in his ears and the car swayed dangerously as the train raced down the tracks. He tried not to look down.

The roof sloped away from either side of the ridge only enough to shed rain, so the surface was relatively flat. The ground on either side was a blur and tree branches clawed at him. If he was knocked off and hit the ground at this speed, he would be a dead man. Hazlett scrambled across. Captain Fletcher and Private Cook soon followed.

"I don't want to do that again," Cook said as he reached the safety of the ladder.

"It wasn't so bad," Fletcher said, caught up in the excitement of what they were about to do. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so alive.

They climbed down the other side and entered the baggage car.

"Here it is," Hazlett said, checking on the money they would soon be taking. If the three men had any lingering doubts concerning what they were about to do, the sight of all those greenbacks put them to rest. It was more money than any of them had ever seen.

"We're rich," Fletcher said. He sounded giddy.

"We've got to get the money off the train first," Cook said soberly. "Then we'll be rich."

Taking the money wasn't going to be easy. They could have thrown the money off the train and jumped after it, but no one could leap from a train moving at sixty miles per hour and expect to live. The ground would hit him like a club.

The only other choice was to seize control of the train from Colonel Percy and force the Chesapeake to slow or stop so they could unload the money. They would need to do that before the Yankee train reappeared on the tracks behind them. Hazlett hadn't thought it through, but he knew that any good soldier sometimes had to make things up as he went along.

"We'll take care of Flynn and the colonel, then I'll go forward and stop the train," Hazlett said. "Willie Forbes will see it our way, just as long as we promise him a bottle of whiskey. Come on."

They went out the baggage car, crossed the open platform, and threw open the door to the passenger car.

Percy was there. And Flynn. Johnny Benjamin lounged near the back of the car. The woman, Nellie Jones, was sponging Lieutenant Cater's face with a damp rag. Cater had come around, although his eyes were bright and feverish. His face was pale as a boiled shirt from all the blood he had lost. Hazlett stepped around Lieutenant Cater and the woman to face Percy.

"What's going on?" Percy demanded. "The three of you should be back in the boxcar. What's wrong?"

For a moment, Hazlett just stared at Percy. Then everything happened quickly. Hazlett suddenly had a gun in his hand. Benjamin began to draw his own gun, but Cook hit him with a fist to the jaw that knocked the boy off his feet. Cook took his gun away.

Too startled to move, Percy and Flynn found themselves staring into the muzzles of three revolvers.