Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 30

Flynn grabbed the lantern and smashed it against the wall. He splashed kerosene generously around the boxcar, letting it soak into the wood. His nose wrinkled against the acrid smell.

Bullets hammered through the walls. Flynn kept his head down. The Yankees must be coming closer, he thought.

Flynn took out his revolver, held the muzzle close to a spot on the floor that was slick with kerosene, and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash set the kerosene burning. Flynn waited until the small flame lept higher and began to spread. Fire licked across the floor and up the walls, and the car began to fill with choking, black smoke. Coughing, Flynn scrambled out and jumped to the platform of Lincoln's car, where Pettibone, Benjamin and Hudson waited.

"What the hell are you doing, Flynn?" Pettibone demanded as smoke began to billow from the boxcar.

"Making things hot for the Yankees," Flynn replied. "Now unhitch her, lads, unhitch her."

Wind from the rush of their passage fed the flames, which soon poured from the car's openings. Unless they all wanted to be burned alive, they had to detach the burning car. Pettibone got down on his belly and reached for the pin that held the coupling between the two cars in place.

"It won't come loose," he said. Orange tendrils of fire whipped over his head, beating at the air. "It's no good."

"Let me help," Flynn said, and climbed over the side. The coupling between the two cars was like an iron handshake, gripping them together, and the iron bars that ran from the coupling to the undercarriage of each car were like the wrists. Flynn edged out onto the closest of these bars, keeping one hand on the platform railing for balance. It was a perilous place to be, balancing on the three-inch-wide bar, because each jolt of the train threatened to throw him beneath the wheels. Flames fluttered within a few feet of his face.

Carefully, Flynn reached down and took hold of the coupling pin. He tugged and tugged again, but the pin wouldn't move. Friction and pressure held the coupling pin in place. He would have to find a moment when the weight of the cars shifted enough so that the pressure on the pin eased and he could pull it right out.

"You're a damn fool, Flynn," Pettibone shouted. The burning boxcar was rapidly becoming an inferno, and the flames had driven the men up against the side of Lincoln's car, where they covered their faces against the heat. "You're going to get us all burned up."

Flames lashed at Flynn, singeing the sleeve of his coat. The heat was like standing in front of a blast furnace.

Flynn reached for the pin, grabbed it. A sudden lurching of the train threw him off balance and he lost his grip on the pin. He would have fallen and been ground to sausage under the wheels, but Hudson sprang forward and caught Flynn's coat, steadying him. Flynn nodded his thanks, then bent again to tug at the pin. If he couldn't get it out and separate the cars, the whole train might burn up, President Lincoln included.

He slipped his fingers around the iron nub, and lifted straight up. The pin slid free this time as easily as a ramrod out of a musket barrel. Flynn tossed the pin away, then kicked at the coupling to break the grip between the two cars. Nothing moved. Flynn hid his face in the crook of his elbow to protect it from the flames. The heat from the burning car was making it difficult to breathe and the hair sticking from under the edges of his hat burned away. Finally, the train jolted over some rough place in the tracks, the coupling separated, and the flaming boxcar drifted back toward the Yankees.

Behind him, Pettibone let out a Rebel yell. "Chew on that, you Yankee sons of bitches!"

"Here it comes!" Greer shouted in warning.

Then he watched in horror as the fireball rolled toward them. At first, Greer wasn't sure what the raiders were up to, setting the boxcar on fire. The next thing he knew, the Lord Baltimore was rushing headlong into the flames. He realized then that the raiders must have uncoupled the car.

"I can't see!" Schmidt shouted as fire swept around the locomotive, licking at the cab. The impact sent a tornado of sparks swirling into the sky.

Schmidt reached for the Johnson bar to reverse the locomotive. Greer grabbed his wrist. "Oscar, you will not stop this train," he growled. "Keep after them."

"We'll be burned up!"

"This locomotive is made of iron, and iron doesn't burn. Now keep that throttle wide open."

The train rushed blindly into a world of flame. The wind fanned the burning car into an inferno. Ribbons of fire whipped and curled around the locomotive. The four men in the cab — Greer, Captain Lowell, Schmidt and Prescott — sheltered inside as flames swept past the windows. They wouldn't be able to continue the chase much longer before the inside of the cab became a death trap, hot as an oven.

Walter Frost huddled with the soldiers. He was able to see ahead of the engine as it rounded a slight curve in the tracks. Smoke and heat enveloped the train, threatening to choke them. The Chesapeake was no more than two hundred feet ahead and Frost could see four raiders standing on the platform of the last car, looking back at the flaming boxcar. They were a tough bunch, he thought, but the second time around, they wouldn't stand a chance against a whole squad of soldiers. The raiders had just been lucky back at Kearneysville.

Frost felt rage burn within him, hot as the flames filling the sky. Those Rebel bastards had caused him, Schmidt and Greer a lot of trouble, maybe even good jobs with the railroad, and, like Greer, he was all for hanging the raiders alongside the tracks.

If they could catch them. Frost's rage gave way to glee when he saw their chance to leave the burning boxcar behind. The men in the locomotive's cab, he knew, couldn't see anything but flames. Frost crawled forward.

"Greer!" he shouted, keeping his head beneath the billowing sheet of flame and smoke. "There's a siding about two hundred yards ahead. Slow it down and we can lose the boxcar."

Schmidt, too, had heard the fireman. He had already begun easing back on the throttle, and at a nod from Greer, he used all his strength to pull back the Johnson bar and reverse the engine. Frantically, Frost grabbed the brake wheel and screwed it down. The train ground to a halt, spewing steam, smoke and flames. Frost jumped down from the tender and ran to the siding. While they waited for Frost to throw the switch, Schmidt backed the engine away from the fireball.

The siding had an abandoned air about it. Most likely, it was used only a few times each year to load timber or hogs or corn. The switch was stiff with rust, and Frost heaved with all his might at the lever. Greer jumped down and ran over to help. Grunting and cussing, the two men finally got the switch to move.

Schmidt eased the locomotive forward until he once again came in contact with the burning car. He pushed it onto the siding, then reversed the engine. Once the locomotive was back on the main track, Frost and Greer moved the switch again so the train could bypass the siding. The boxcar was left alone, filling the sky with smoke and flames. Some of the soldiers whooped and hollered as the car burned.

The delay was maddening. By the time Greer and Frost were done and back aboard the train, the raiders had disappeared from sight. Nearby, the boxcar hissed and popped as flames poured from it.

Greer swung aboard. Frost took his place on the tender. "After them!" Greer barked. "The next time we stop, we're going to have ourselves a hanging party."

"We lost them," Johnny Benjamin reported as he peered into the distance.

"You did it, Flynn. I reckon your crazy plan worked, after all," Pettibone said with a grin. "For a while there, I thought you was goin' to roast us."

"They'll be after us again," Flynn said. "All we did was get a little extra time. The closer we get to the rendezvous, the better our chances."

Far off, they could see the smoke from the burning car. Because the smoke was now rising straight up, it appeared the boxcar had brought the Yankees to a halt. They noticed, too, that the eastern horizon was getting dark as night came on, although the sky to the west was still bright blue above the mountain peaks. The river that the tracks followed was deep in shadow, cold and misty.

Around them, the country had changed considerably. The flat, Maryland farm country they had crossed that morning was long-gone, as were West Virginia's gently rolling hills. They were now in the Allegheny mountains — the name for that portion of the Appalachian range that ran like a bony spine through Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland and up into Pennsylvania.

The Alleghenies were from two-thousand to nearly five thousand feet high, not tall compared to the huge mountain ranges in the west, but rugged country nonetheless, with steep slopes studded with rocky outcroppings that angled sharply toward the river.

The tracks followed the flat river bed as it wound through the Alleghenies, twisting and winding on itself like a copperhead snake. Gone, too, was the languid Potomac they knew so well. Here in the mountains, it had become a wild thing, foaming over boulders and fallen timber. The water was swift and shallow, clear and cold, and the river had narrowed to the point where a man could easily pitch a stone across.

It was a cruel country, especially with night coming on. The kind of place that would be glad to see a man die. There was nowhere to run except the river and mountains. The raiders had their backs to the wall.

"Here they come," Flynn said.

Behind them, the smoke trail of the pursuing engine looked like a banner in the sky. Then the train itself appeared, thundering up the tracks as if the locomotive itself were angry and bent on revenge. The tracks began to climb slightly. The Chesapeake had slowed to the point where a man could run alongside and keep up. The wet, green wood in the tender could keep the train going, but it was impossible to build any speed without a full head of steam. There was no longer a boxcar to set ablaze or railroad ties to heave off.

"Looks like this is it, boys," Pettibone said.

Benjamin nervously licked his lips. "You reckon they'll hang us if they catch us?"

Flynn checked the Le Mat to make sure it was properly loaded. "That's a possibility, lad. But there's no surer way to end up dead than being afraid of dying. Fear freezes a man up worse than any winter cold."

Pettibone shook his head and grinned. "Why is it you Irish have something to say about everything?"

" 'Tis a gift," Flynn said.

Benjamin checked his guns as well. He had taken Cook's revolver, so that he was now armed with two Colts. "Well, I reckon if I'm goin' to die, I'm goin' to take a few Yankees with me."

Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, lad. Everything's going to be all right. Just make each shot count."

The Yankee train thundered up the tracks, gaining on the raiders every minute.

All at once, they became aware of someone running beside their car. Benjamin swung both pistols at the runner.

"Don't shoot, lad!" Flynn shouted, and leaned down to help Colonel Percy onto the car. The Chesapeake, which had once hurtled down the tracks awesome speed, had slowed to the point where a man could jump on or off if he was quick. One misstep meant being ground to bits beneath the wheels.

"What's happening, Mr. Arthur?" Hudson asked, dropping Percy's military title to call him by the name he had known long before the war, back home in Virginia. "Why are we going so slow?"

"Wet wood," Percy said. "Goddamn wet wood, Hud. It's green and it's damp and it won't burn worth a damn. We can't keep up a decent head of steam."

"Looks like we've got another fight on our hands," Flynn said.

Percy shook his head. "We're not fighting this time, Flynn. We wouldn't stand a chance, out here in the open. No, we're running." He gestured at the door to the president's car. "Get Lincoln out. We're taking him with us."

"Sir?"

"Do as I say, goddamn it!"

Hudson was the first to move. He threw one of his massive shoulders against the door. Most doors would have flown off their hinges. The door to the president's car barely moved.

"Stand back, Hudson," Pettibone warned. He stepped forward and fired two quick shots into the lock. Iron and wood flew. Before the smoke from the shots even cleared, Hudson had his shoulder to the door again.

There were more shots, this time from the opposite side of the door. The bullets punched two holes in the door, the new wood suddenly showing bright where only dark planks had been before. Hudson stared down, dumbfounded, at the bright red stains spreading across his chest.

"I'm killed, Mr. Arthur," he said, locking startled eyes with Percy. "I done tried to open the door."

Hudson started to fall, and Percy lept forward to catch him. Hudson was a big man, but the colonel held him as if Hudson was a mere child, and he gently eased him to the floor of the platform.

"Hud!" he cried. "What have they done to you?"

But Hudson's eyes already were turning glassy. Blood bubbled from the two holes in his chest.

Percy held him a moment longer, until his old friend was gone. Slowly, he let go of Hudson's body. Then he stood.

"Colonel?" Pettibone asked.

Percy did not appear to have heard. He drew his Colt revolver, aimed at the door, and cocked the hammer.

Flynn spoke up, gently but firmly. "Colonel, sir, maybe it would be best if you asked President Lincoln to come out. You know how to do it, sir. Gentlemanly, like. We are supposed to bring him to Richmond."

For a moment, it looked as if Percy might turn the Colt on Flynn. He glared at him, but at the same time seemed to look right through him. His angry expression faded. “For once, Flynn, you're talking sense."

The colonel approached the door, stood to one side, cleared his throat, and spoke: "Mr. Lincoln? Mr. President, sir? This is Colonel Percy again. I ask you to open the door. You have already killed one of my men. If you don't come out, we will have no choice but to open fire on you. Frankly, sir, it will be like shooting hogs in a pen." His tone grew threatening as anger over Hudson's death edged back into his voice. "Not that you don't deserve it. You're a damn Yankee coward for shooting through the door."

Percy heard voices inside. Lincoln and his bodyguard arguing? From what he had heard of Lincoln, the man probably would not give up easily. Then again, Lincoln was no soldier like the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis. He was used to contests of wills, not of arms.

"We're waiting for your reply, Mr. President," Percy pressed.

Finally, a high and reedy voice answered from within. Was it Lincoln's? "You realize, Colonel, that we can see out the windows. There's an entire train carrying Federal soldiers just behind you. You're out of time, sir. If you weren't, you wouldn't be knocking on the door. Might I even suggest that you surrender to prevent further bloodshed?"

Percy never had a chance to reply. No sooner had the voice that must be the president's finished speaking, than rifle fire began to pour from the oncoming Yankee train. Although the Yankees were still several hundred feet away, the four fully exposed Rebels on the platform of last car made a tempting target. Minié bullets buzzed like fat bumblebees. Most of the shots went wide, but one stung Pettibone, cutting a bloody swath across his arm. Another bullet struck Hudson's body with a sickening thunk that shook the corpse.

Back at Kearneysville, there had been eight raiders to fight the Yankees. Now there were just four. The enemy soldiers were hungry to avenge their own dead companions and the fire increased as the train roared closer.

Percy jumped down, raised his Colt, and fired a single shot straight into the air. He had arranged this signal with Cephas Wilson. No sooner had the shot been fired, but the Chesapeake ground to a halt, reversed direction, and began to creep toward the oncoming Yankee train.

"Now what?" Benjamin wondered.

"Unless those Yankees stop in time, there's going to be one hell of a collision," Flynn said.