Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 31

"Get the hell out of here!" Percy shouted. "You might have a chance to reach the valley if you keep out of sight and follow the river west."

Then Percy was gone, running toward the front of the train. Flynn was left on the car with Pettibone and the boy.

Flynn turned to Pettibone. "What are you going to do?"

Pettibone answered with a humorless smile and glanced down at his arm. For the first time, Flynn noticed that Pettibone's sleeve was soaked in blood. His leg was bandaged from the bayonet wound back at the depot. He must have been in a great deal of pain, but he bore it stoically. "I'm staying right here," Pettibone said. "If Abe Lincoln comes out, I aim to shoot him."

"That would be a fine plan if we weren't about to ram that other train," Flynn pointed out. "I do believe the colonel intends to assassinate the president with a train collision."

"I'll jump before that happens," Pettibone said. "I'll keep Abe from doing the same."

"I'm staying with you," Benjamin said.

"No, you ain't," Pettibone said. "Go with Flynn, boy. That's an order."

Flynn hesitated. In spite of the fact that everything had gone about as wrong as it could, he couldn't help but remember their mission. If Lincoln would not be going to Richmond as a captive, then he must be assassinated. Those were the orders. Normally, he would not have cared much for orders. But he could see the importance to the Confederacy. Already, good men had lost their lives for this foolhardy enterprise. He had to at least try to finish what they had begun.

However, there was no way they could get to the Yankee president so long as he was locked up tight inside the rail car. They could always set it on fire, just as Flynn had done to the boxcar, and smoke Lincoln out. But they were fresh out of kerosene lanterns — and time. They were heading right for the Yankees.

Of course, the collision with the Yankee train might kill the president, but Flynn couldn't count on that. Also, if he ever saw Colonel Norris again, he could honestly tell him he had tried to assassinate the Yankee president.

"Give me your pistol, lad," he said to Benjamin.

The boy did as Flynn asked. Flynn held the Le Mat in his left hand, the Colt in his right. As Benjamin and Pettibone watched in surprise, he took a step back and emptied both guns into the door of Lincoln's car. Splinters flew and smoke filled the air before being whipped away in the wind. The echoes from the gunshots rolled away across the mountaintops. He handed back Benjamin's pistols. "Better reload these."

"What the— "

"That should settle Honest Abe. If the bullets missed him, then he's a lucky man and deserves to live," Flynn said. He turned to Pettibone. "Sure you don't want to come with us now?"

Pettibone shook his head. "I'll stay, just in case. I wouldn't get far with this leg, anyhow."

"Good luck to you," Flynn said.

Pettibone nodded grimly, then turned to face the oncoming train.

Flynn jumped. Benjamin followed. The train was moving so slowly that they landed easily enough. Benjamin started toward the river, but Flynn caught him by the shoulder.

"Where you going, lad?"

"The colonel said the river— "

"You come with me, or the Yankees will have you strung up within the hour."

They ran alongside the train, which was still moving slowly enough for Flynn to catch a handhold on the side of the baggage car. He grabbed Benjamin by the back of his coat and swung him bodily onto the car's steps, then climbed aboard himself.

"Why are we getting back on the train?" Benjamin asked. "It's headed right for the Yankees."

"You'll see, lad. You'll see."

"We ought to be running."

Despite his protests, Benjamin followed Flynn as he flung open the door of the car. They found Nellie stuffing a sack with the last of the payroll money.

"I thought you might be here," Flynn said. "Planning to carry all this yourself, Miss Jones?"

"I knew you would show up, Flynn. Here." She tossed a sack of money at him. "I'm glad you brought some help along. There's a lot of money to carry."

"We're stealing the money?" Benjamin asked.

"It's not stealing, lad. It's the spoils of war. No sense letting the Yankees have it back. Now get to it."

They carried the bags out and crowded onto the platform. The train was barely moving faster than a man could trot. Flynn threw the money off, being careful that the bags didn't land too far into the underbrush, and then they jumped themselves.

Flynn came down in a tangle of brambles. Benjamin helped pull him free. Nellie landed expertly, hitting the ground running.

"Come on," Flynn said, picking the worst of the thorns from his clothes and ignoring the scratches on his hands and face. "Let's get out of here. There's going to be one hell of a bang-up in a moment."

In the distance, there was a shriek of iron on iron as the Yankee train tried to reverse itself as the Chesapeake rushed toward it. The Chesapeake, moving backwards, swept past Flynn, Benjamin and Nellie. They had a glimpse of Cephas Wilson standing at the controls. He was leaning from the cab, trying to see where the train was headed. Willie Forbes and Hank Cunningham were in the cab, too, but the three men didn't even notice the trio staring up at them from beside the tracks.

They grabbed their sacks of plunder and started running, searching for a place to cross the C&O Canal so they could reach the towpath on the other side.

Flynn looked back just as the trains were about to collide. "Mother of God," he said.

With a noise like a long, ragged rip of thunder, the trains crashed with bone-wracking force: CRAAAACK. Metal screeched, couplings snapped and popped. Steam gushed and filled the air with a hot, metallic smell. Even at a safe distance, Flynn felt his bones shudder. President Lincoln's car derailed. It did not overturn, but tilted perilously on the edge of the bank that sloped toward the river.

The Yankee train was still on the tracks, although the iron cow-catcher grate in front was bent upward much like the lid of an opened tin can. The silenced that followed the crash seemed to roar in the survivors' ears. Steam hissed like a dying groan.

Then the shooting started. Pettibone, who had managed to ride out the collision unhurt, appeared on the platform of the president's car. Armed with Hudson's revolver as well as his own, he poured shot after shot at the blue-coated soldiers swarming out of the tender.

Greer was bleeding from a nasty cut above his right eye. In the crash, he had lost his balance and struck a sharp corner of the cab.

Walter Frost was not so lucky. He was busy shoveling coal when the trains struck, knocking him off his feet. As he fell between the locomotive and tender, the iron wheels cut him in two. Captain Lowell saw the bloody heap of intestines and organs spilling from the dead man's torso and vomited.

A trickle of blood from the gash on Greer's forehead reached the corner of his mouth. The taste of his own blood made him go into a sudden rage. He pointed at the lone Rebel unloading his pistols at them from no more than thirty feet away. Already, the man had shot three soldiers. "Kill the bastard!"

Four soldiers fired a ragged volley. At that distance it was almost impossible for a rifle to miss. The heavy .58 caliber bullets struck Pettibone all at once, throwing him back into the wall of the car. He raised his pistol and fired a final shot as he slid down, leaving a smear of blood on the wall.

A dozen soldiers were still on their feet. Greer led them forward. "Fix bayonets," he snapped. Captain Lowell came running up and joined them, his sword drawn and his pistol out.

Greer did not know how many raiders might be left to fight. He abandoned caution and rushed ahead because he didn't want any of the Rebels to escape. He vowed there would be some hangings before dark. He would make damn sure of that.

They encountered no one until they reached the tender. There, they surprised two raiders trying to uncouple the tender from the first passenger car. Greer guessed they were hoping to run on, leaving the wreckage on the tracks behind them as a barrier.

The soldiers shot one raider. His ash-covered face and clothes marked him as the locomotive's fireman. He fell in a heap beside the tracks, quivered, and went still.

The second man, who was small and wiry, took off running.

He did not get far. A soldier caught him in the back with a bayonet. He fell, screaming, and the bayonet plunged again to finish the job. The soldier had to kick at the body to get the blade free, and it came out, red with blood to the hilt.

Greer ran on. Aboard the locomotive, the Rebel engineer was waiting for them with a Colt in his hand. He shot the first soldier to appear. Then three rifles fired. The engineer's lifeless body slumped over and hung out the cab window.

"Search the cars," Greer ordered. The soldiers fanned out. There were two bodies on the platform of the derailed car, one white man, one black. They found another body in the baggage car. Curiously, it appeared the man had been stabbed in the heart. Another corpse turned up in a passenger car. His head was bandaged, but he had obviously died from the gaping bullet wound in his chest. Greer wondered what had happened aboard the train.

He was disappointed that they found only four dead. Some of the Rebels must have escaped into the woods.

One Rebel was found alive, hog-tied, in a passenger car. He claimed to be a passenger taken as a hostage by the raiders. Greer didn't believe the man's story, so he called in the lawyer, Prescott.

"He's a Rebel, all right," Prescott said. "His name is Cook."

Greer smiled down at the man. "You're going to hang, you damn Johnny Reb train thief. But before you do, you're going to tell me all about this raid. I want to know how many got away, so we can start looking for them. We'll put the local home guard to work."

Desperate to save his life, John Cook told them everything. He twisted the story of the mutiny, playing up his own role and trying to make it sound as if he and the other mutineers had been trying to stop the train so they could all surrender.

"You're not soldiers," Greer said. "You're thieves. You wanted that payroll money."

"We weren't after that money at all," Cook said.

"Then why did you take the train?" Greer demanded.

In spite of the trouble he was in, Cook laughed. "Why, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what? Don't laugh at me. I know you're a goddamn Rebel son-of-a-bitch."

"I reckon I am," Cook said proudly. "And I also know that President Lincoln is aboard that last car — if the wreck didn't kill him."

Greer's eyes grew wide. The mysterious car added during the night in Baltimore, the train being stolen by Rebels — it was all beginning to make sense. Still, it was too overwhelming for him to believe it.

"You're lying, Reb."

"Go see for yourself," Cook said defiantly.

Greer stared at Cook for a long moment. "Boys," he finally said, not taking his eyes off Cook. "Look after this Johnny Reb here. Captain Lowell, you come with me. Let's see if he's lying or not."

They left Cook under guard and ran out. He and Lowell arrived at the last car just as a tall, gaunt figure emerged.

He was dressed all in black, with a white shirt, and his beard nearly covered his deeply lined face. Although neither Greer nor Lowell had ever seen him in person, there was no mistaking the man before them.

Greer managed to stammer: "Mr. President… sir." He and Captain Lowell saluted. Lowell stood frozen in the salute, but Greer managed to ask, "Are you all right, sir?"

"Fine, thank you, although I feel like a tomcat that's been rolled in a barrel," the president said. A uniformed bodyguard stood with him. The president observed the wreckage and the bodies with a detached curiosity. Eventually, he turned back to Greer and said simply, "Well done."

"Thank you, sir."

"What's your name?"

"George Greer, Mr. President. I am the conductor."

"This is Major Rathbone," the president said, nodding at the officer accompanying him. Rathbone still had his revolver out and looked as if he wanted nothing more than to shoot someone. He was bleeding from a wound in his upper arm, where a bullet had grazed him. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing here."

"The thought had crossed my mind, sir."

The tall man's faint smile played again at the corners of this thin lips, and then he explained that he needed to reach Gettysburg, Pennsylvania by morning.

"Gettysburg?" Greer said, astonished. "Why, that's several hours' ride from here."

"Then we had better get moving, Mr. Greer," the president said. "We'll have to take our time in the dark."

Night was already beginning to fall, cloaking the mountains around them. Only the very highest of the peaks stood out against the fading sunset. Oscar Schmidt began to light the lanterns that hung from the Lord Baltimore. Despite the force of the collision, there was little damage to the B&O's new locomotive. Even more miraculous was the fact that the train had not derailed.

"Mr. President, sir, why did no one tell me you were aboard? How did you expect to get to Gettysburg?" Greer asked.

The president held up a hand. "All in good time. Now let's talk about how I'm to complete my journey. I have to be in Gettysburg tomorrow to help dedicate the new national cemetery."

They quickly agreed upon a course of action. Once Greer explained the route the president must take to reach Gettysburg, Major Rathbone gave orders. Greer was glad to let someone else take charge. A feeling of exhaustion settled over him, weighing down his arms and legs. But it was not yet time to rest.

"Mr. Greer, we would appreciate it if you and Captain Lowell would stay here and continue to search for the remaining raiders," Major Rathbone said. "Colonel Percy does not seem to be among the dead."

According to the lawyer, Prescott, three raiders had escaped, including Colonel Percy, and they had taken one of the passengers with them, a woman who had agreed to stay aboard to care for a wounded Rebel officer, now dead. On foot, here in the mountains, Greer doubted they had gone far and was sure he and the remaining soldiers could quickly track them down.

Oscar Schmidt would operate the train carrying the president to Gettysburg. Prescott would accompany them, as would two soldiers. Schmidt would reverse the Lord Baltimore all the way beyond Harpers Ferry to Weverton. From there, a branch line of the B&O known as the Washington County Railroad would carry them north to the Western Maryland Railroad at Hagerstown, and from that Maryland town to Gettysburg. Barring any unforeseen problems, they would reach Gettysburg by morning, hopefully in time for the president to make his speech as part of the dedication ceremony.

“Getting to Gettysburg by morning will not be easy. Not with having to backtrack through these mountains," Schmidt said. He looked as tired as Greer felt as he climbed up to the cab of the locomotive. "But we must try.

The men standing to one side of the tracks were so involved in making plans that they did not see Percy emerge from the underbrush. He crouched and held himself very still, his Colt revolver at the ready, his gray suit nearly blending with the late autumn twilight. He had hidden himself there seconds before the two trains collided. Helplessly, he had watched Pettibone die making a valiant last stand, then seen the Yankees slaughter the engine crew.

As he saw his men killed, it was all Percy could do not to make a wild, desperate attack, but he knew that would only be throwing his life away. Crouching there in the darkness, Percy considered giving up and trying to slip away. No one would blame him. But he could not do that. Five of his men had died for the sake of this mission, and he would see it carried out — or die himself in the attempt. It was his duty.

Seeing his men cut down by the Yankees left him feeling hollow and empty. They were his men, and he had led them to their deaths.

Some might call what the Yankees had done murder, considering the raiders were not given a chance to surrender. Percy was reluctant to put a name to it, because he had seen the same killing done many times before. This was war. It was a cruel and brutal business. Besides, what would someone call what he was about to do?

Assassination was just another word for murder.

Percy held his breath as he edged away from the shelter of the brush and edged closer to the tracks and the engine the pursuers had ridden. He had seen the president come out of the car, but there were too many soldiers milling around for him to have a chance with a mad rush at Lincoln. He would have to be stealthy.

The conductor, Yankee captain and the president himself stood on the other side of the tracks, screened from view by the iron hulk of the locomotive. Several soldiers stood nearby. If the Yankees spotted him now, he would be shot to pieces.

The Lord Baltimore was just a few yards away, still under steam, and he ran toward it in a crouch. It was dark, but lanterns now cast a circle of light around the locomotive. No one was guarding the train itself. Most of the soldiers were busy hunting Percy's remaining raiders. The nearest Yankee was a dead one, his a mangled body cut in two by the train's massive iron wheels.

A stone clattered under Percy's foot, but he kept going. No turning back now. Those few yards were the longest he had ever run. It felt like crossing half a mile of open country. At every step he kept expecting a shout to go up or to feel the thump of a bullet between his shoulder blades.

The train was ten feet away. Five. Percy reached the train unnoticed and slid beneath the tender. He was safe for the moment, out of sight.

It was obvious, now that the raid was over, that the president would be leaving. Percy just wasn't sure whether Lincoln would go on to Gettysburg or return to Baltimore. All that Percy knew for certain was that the President of the United States of America would not spend the night in a Godforsaken stretch of mountains with only a handful of tired soldiers to guard him — not when Rebel cavalry patrols might be just miles away. No, Lincoln would be leaving, and wherever the president went, Percy would go, too. His orders were to bring Lincoln to Richmond or shoot him. His mission had reached the point where assassination was the only option.

From between the tender's wheels, he chanced a look at the president. He stood head and shoulders above the other men, but he was too far away and surrounded by too many men for a clear shot. All the men except Lincoln had guns in their hands.

There must be another way. Percy studied the underside of the tender above him and quickly made up his mind.

The bottom of the tender was not even two feet above the tracks. The car had been strongly built to carry huge loads of coal, and the underbelly was crisscrossed by a framework of wooden beams. Percy intended to hide in that framework. Someone glancing under the tender would never see him.

Percy was able to work his body into a space between two beams that ran the length of the car. Another wooden stringer ran the width of the car to create a kind of shelf. There was just enough room to wedge himself between the makeshift shelf and the floor of the car above. It was an incredibly tight squeeze, and he wasn't sure that he would ever be able to get himself out again. Still, he had to try.

Voices.

The sound of talking men came closer. He heard men walking toward the locomotive and tender. Get small, he told himself. Get very small. He gave a final grunt, squeezed, and was suddenly jammed into place as tight as a walnut in its shell. Percy held himself still as boots crunched on the gravel just feet away from him.

"I'd like to stay for the hanging," said a voice, so close it could have been in Percy's ear. "I want to see that Reb colonel get what he deserves."

"I've seen enough men die for one day," the other soldier said, then spat a gob of tobacco juice on the rail near Percy's head. It landed inches away with a wet splat. "I'll be glad to leave."

Once the men climbed aboard, Percy squirmed in hopes of settling into a more comfortable position, but it was impossible — iron rivets dug into his back no matter what he tried. Wherever they were going, it was going to be a cramped, miserable ride, but when the train stopped, he planned to settle this business once and for all. He vowed that he would make sure his men had not died for nothing.

After a few minutes, more men climbed aboard. The train began to steam in reverse, going back the way it had come and leaving the wreckage of the Rebel train behind. Percy tried not to look down, where the railroad bed was a blur beneath his face.

Duty, he reminded himself. I do this in the name of duty.