Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 6

Tom Flynn stood in front of the rooming house that served as the headquarters for Colonel Percy's train raiders. Poor bastards, he thought, watching the three men who lounged on the porch. In just five days they would cross the Potomac, probably never to return. Flynn felt even sorrier for himself because he would be going with them. Silently, he cursed Colonel Norris. The colonel was mad if he thought they could capture Abraham Lincoln with a handful of raiders.

He climbed the porch steps as the three men watched him warily.

"I'm looking for Colonel Percy."

"You're not welcome here," said one of the men, who wore a lieutenant’s insignia.

"That's no way to treat a stranger," Flynn said, thickening his accent until he sounded like an Irishman fresh from the bog. He knew it was the quickest way to render himself harmless in the soldiers' eyes. "What's the world comin' to?"

“Hud, you best go fetch the colonel,” the lieutenant said.

The biggest of the men, who looked as hard and dark as oiled locust, finally stood. Flynn shifted the heavy satchel that hung from his shoulder, ready for anything. But the enormous black man only looked him over for a moment, then disappeared into the house.

Flynn sighed and promptly collapsed into the old chair the guard had been using. The other two men just stared, like dogs deciding whether or not they would bite. He ignored them. After all, he had not been expecting a warm reception. He settled down to wait.

Flynn had come to America in 1847, the black year when the famine was at its worst in Ireland. Hundreds of thousands of Irish were starving to death due to the failure of the potato crop but Flynn managed to escape thanks to an aunt who scraped together the money to buy his passage from Cobh Harbor. Unlike many of the Irish refugees who sailed to New York or Boston or Newfoundland, his famine ship arrived in Baltimore.

"There it is, lad," one of the deckhands said, pointing out the brick fort standing guard at the harbor entrance. "That's Fort McHenry, where the British met their match against the Americans."

"I'm going to be an American now," the boy said proudly. Like most of the Irish, he hated the British who were slowly starving his people.

"Aye." But the deckhand shook his head sadly. "So much for Ireland, laddy. There's no doubt your future lies here now."

Baltimore was a seafaring city where ships arrived from around the world full of goods and immigrants hoping for a better life. Along with the Irish came Polish and Germans, each living in their own squalid neighborhoods ringing the harbor.

Flynn’s new home was in the cellar of a decrepit row house, where he shared the damp quarters with an extended family headed by a distant cousin. They took him in because they had to, but there was no joy in greeting the young boy from home.

"He's a big 'un," he overhead the cousin telling his wife late one night when they thought Flynn and the other children were asleep, tumbled among each other under the dirty blankets. "Another gob to feed."

"He’s plenty big enough to work," the wife said. "He can earn what he eats."

So Flynn was sent to the docks and the breweries and the stables, wherever a strong young boy was needed. His wages were paid to the cousin. In return, Flynn got scraps of bread and salt pork.

Life was hard and the boy might have been worked to death before that first winter was out. But his fate changed one day when the parish priest hired the boy's services to muck out the stables. After hours of shoveling, Flynn sat eating a bowl of soup at the table in the rectory kitchen when the priest came in with a newspaper. He put the paper down on the table and proceeded to talk with the cook. Flynn sneaked a look at the paper and glanced up a minute later, mortified, to find the priest staring at him.

"You can read, boy?"

"Yes, Father."

At a time when most of the Irish immigrants still spoke Gaelic, a boy who could read was rare. But his aunt had taught him in Ireland, holding lessons in front of the peat fire, telling him it was the way of the future.

Impressed, the priest put an end to Flynn's laboring. Flynn became an altar boy and an errand runner for the priest. Father McGlynn was a rough and belligerent working man's priest who drank too much whiskey, but he made certain that Flynn got his lessons. "Reading and writing and thinking are what separate us from the dumb beasts," the old priest grumped. "Now copy out that damned page like I told you."

By the time he was a teenager, the penniless immigrant boy could read and write as well as anyone, even in Latin.

He could have gone into the priesthood or found some job clerking in an office, but that was not the life for Flynn. He found that quick wits were useful, but quick fists even better. He went to work in the adventurous world that was America in the 1850s. When the war broke out, he found himself on the Southern side when the lines were drawn. Briefly, he shouldered a musket in the Confederate ranks but discovered that soldiering wasn't for him. One dark night he deserted and fled to Richmond.

He soon found himself employed by Colonel Norris. From smuggling messages and quinine to helping Confederate agents cross the Potomac, Flynn had done more to help the Cause than he ever had in the ranks of General Joseph Johnston's ragtag army.

As for Colonel Norris, his stern demeanor and severity reminded Flynn of Father McGlynn. But Flynn did not believe in the Southern Cause, just as he had not believed in old McGlynn's unrelenting Catholicism. Flynn was in this war for himself, just as he had always done everything for himself. It was the way of the future.

Flynn was still sprawled in the chair a few minutes later when Colonel Percy came out onto the porch with the massive guard. Flynn made a show of clumsily scrambling to his feet and saluting awkwardly. The tall, sandy-bearded colonel squinted at him. He was about Flynn's height but with a lean build. In fact, his clothes hung loosely, as if he had lost weight. Flynn seemed to remember something about the colonel having been wounded.

"I'm Percy," he said. "Who are you?"

"Thomas Flynn, sir. Sergeant Flynn." Flynn promoted himself; he had only been a private when he last wore a uniform.

"You're the one Norris sent," Percy said. His look was not friendly. "You're the one who's going to shoot me."

"Well, I'm not in any hurry."

"What if I shoot you first?"

"That could happen." Flynn shrugged. "The truth is that I'm against shooting either one of us. I propose we go get Mr. Lincoln like Colonel Norris wants and make that the end of it."

Percy still looked hostile. Evidently, he had already told his men what Flynn's role was to be on the raid. The big guard had huge hands that he kept flexing as if he couldn't wait to fit them around Flynn's throat. Two other men had appeared in the doorway, the first a tall, lank-haired fellow with bad teeth and a wicked scar under his cheekbone. The second man was pale-eyed and whip thin, and his hand rested on a revolver in a hip holster.

"This could end right here," Percy said.

Flynn nodded. "Sure, and you think Colonel Norris would let you get away with that? He's a vengeful bastard and if he doesn't find you, he will find your men. Or maybe even your home and your family. Fauquier County, isn't it?"

"You son of a bitch," Percy hissed, taking a step toward him.

Flynn held his ground. "It's not me you should be mad at, Colonel," he said, realizing that things had gone as wrong as they could. Percy's men circled him like wolves. "It's Norris. I'm stuck with you as much as you're stuck with me, don't you see? There's things I'd rather do than drag me arse to Maryland. Besides, I'm kinder than anyone else Norris could have sent. Or might still. I'll only use one bullet."

Percy smiled slightly, and Flynn decided that the colonel understood him, even if he couldn't like him. His men seemed to sense the tension ease and drifted away. Flynn really hadn't known what to expect when Norris had sent him to join these soldiers. And Flynn hadn't been exaggerating about Norris' long reach. There was no betraying him unless a man wanted to find himself dragged out of bed late at night and dumped into the James River with a hundred pounds of iron chain around his ankles. Flynn himself had performed those exact services for the spymaster.

Considering the company Norris kept, Flynn had expected Percy to be an altogether different man from the gentlemanly, handsome, likable officer he found. Percy looked every bit the dashing Southern hero and Flynn would not be surprised if the man even wore a plume in his hat. He would regret killing him, if it came to that.

"Let's get off the street," Percy said, interrupting his thoughts "This is the sort of discussion we should be having indoors."

Percy led the way into the house, followed by Flynn and then the two who had come out on the porch. The huge black man stayed behind to keep a lookout.

"That was Hudson on the porch," Percy explained as they entered a high-ceilinged parlor to the left of the front door.

"Oh? I thought it was Samson, guarding the temple."

Percy chuckled. "Hudson does not have much faith in humanity. You wouldn't, either, if you had been born a slave."

"I'm Irish. That's close enough."

The colonel nodded at the group of men now staring at Flynn. "You’ve already met Lieutenant Cater, I believe. This is the rest of the bunch."

The room was crowded with soldiers. Flynn could see at once that they were all veterans, except for one young fellow who was trying to look fierce, but not quite succeeding. The soldiers shared that same sharp, wary look about the eyes that men who have been in combat frequently develop. These hard-eyed men were all watching Flynn, as was Percy. It was not a friendly welcome.

Flynn smiled at them.

"Well, Sergeant Flynn," Percy said in his no-nonsense officer's voice. "I take it you already know Captain Fletcher?"

The young, arrogant captain, well-dressed as usual, stepped in from another room. He saw Flynn and frowned.

"Why, if it ain’t Colonel Norris's bootlick."

"Sergeant," Percy said sharply. "You are speaking to an officer."

"All right. Why, if it ain't Captain Bootlick."

That brought laughter from the men in the room. Even Percy couldn’t suppress a smile. It was easy to see Fletcher was less-than-popular with the other raiders.

"A pleasure to see you, too, Flynn," said Fletcher, scowling.

Only the man with the bad teeth didn't laugh. He spoke up: "I don't believe we need any more hands on this trip, Colonel," he said, not taking his eyes off Flynn. "Not with this boy Benjamin along. We sure don't need no damn Irishmen who wander in off the street."

"That's Sergeant Hazlett," Percy said.

Flynn forced himself to smile, even though he wanted nothing better than to smash a fist into Hazlett's ugly face. He had always found it the quickest way to settle any questions about the Irish being an inferior race. But he was here to join the raid, not start brawls. Besides, Hazlett was surrounded by friends and Flynn was not eager to take on a room full of soldiers.

"It's not polite to insult strangers, lad," Flynn said, an edge coming into his voice in spite of himself.

Sensing trouble, Colonel Percy raised a hand. "Save it for the Yankees, boys. There will be no fighting here. We don't need the Provost Guard snooping around… or Colonel Norris, either. We're stuck with Flynn and Fletcher, and they're stuck with us."

Fletcher muttered something under his breath and disappeared into another room. Flynn hefted the strap of the leather satchel off his shoulder and placed the bag on a nearby table with a heavy sound.

"What's in there?" Percy asked.

Flynn turned around. Percy was squinting at him again. Did the man need spectacles? Hazlett was glaring, but Flynn ignored him. "I thought you'd never ask."

Flynn unlatched the satchel's leather flap, then reached inside. He took out a bundled, oily cloth, then unwrapped it to reveal a new, six-shot Colt Navy revolver.

He gave the handgun to Percy and the colonel smiled as he inspected the weapon.

"How did you know we needed guns?" Percy asked.

"Colonel Norris said you might. I happened to know where to find some." It wasn't the truth, but Flynn figured the more he could do to make himself look good, the better.

Percy took the revolver, hefted it, and sighted down the barrel. "At least you're more useful than Fletcher," he said.

Flynn managed to look hurt. "A man hardly knows what to say to such a compliment. Now, what if I were to tell you I knew something about the part of Maryland we'll be riding through?"

"What part?"

"Out beyond Harpers Ferry. I worked on the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. Backbreaking work, I can tell you. Nothing but rocks in that soil. As you know, Colonel, the tracks of that train you'll be riding run right along the canal most of the way to the city of Cumberland."

Percy stroked his beard as Flynn waited. Norris had told him that Percy lacked a guide. Of course, Norris was sending Fletcher because the captain was from Maryland — not that Flynn had much faith in Fletcher's abilities as a guide. In any case, Norris hadn't been overly concerned. He pointed out that once Percy and his men were aboard that train, all they had to do was keep the engine stoked and they would end up where they were supposed to rendezvous with the Confederate cavalry. Flynn knew it wouldn't be that easy.

"We don't need no damn Paddy to guide us," Hazlett said. "I reckon we can find our own way.”

Colonel Percy held up a hand to silence him. He stared hard at Flynn, who was taken aback by the sudden, flinty expression. Percy, he realized, was not a man to be taken lightly.

"Where we're going, Hazlett, we'll need all the help we can get," Percy said. "If Sergeant Flynn here knows the territory, that's all the better. At least we won't be traveling blind. And you seem to have certain persuasive talents, Flynn."

" 'Tis a gift, sir."

"I've heard that about the Irish. Well, we might need all the gifts we have to get us across Maryland and aboard that train." Percy lowered his voice so the others couldn't hear. "I won't say I'm glad you're here, Flynn, considering you might shoot me in the back at any moment. Don't forget, of course, that we might do the same to you."

"Like I said, let's just do what Norris wants and we'll all get back home alive," Flynn said.

Percy nodded, and turned away. Flynn realized he had been dismissed. He gathered up his satchel.

He found Fletcher in the next room and clapped the captain on the arm so hard he winced. "Looks like we're partners, Captain," Flynn said.

Curling his lip in distaste, Fletcher moved out from under Flynn's hand. "Don't make things worse between us, Flynn. I told these men you were coming, and why."

"That would explain the warm welcome," Flynn said.

Fletcher smiled wanly. "From what I've heard, I'd say you could use all the friends you can get, Sergeant."

For once, Flynn thought, Fletcher had a point.

Flynn left the room, and Hazlett walked over to Captain Fletcher. He had sensed the animosity between the two men and his face wore a sly look that quickly vanished as the captain turned around.

"He's an uppity son of a bitch, ain't he?" Hazlett said. "He ain't got no right to treat a man like you that way, Captain."

Fletcher blinked in surprise. So far, Percy's men had hardly spoken to him. He studied the lean, scarred face and thought that Hazlett looked to be a particularly hard man. A good man to have on your side.

Up close, Hazlett appeared even more terrifying. He was taller than Fletcher by a head, with long, lank brown hair. The scar made him look evil. His smile revealed oddly spaced teeth that resembled fangs.

"Flynn doesn't respect his betters," the captain replied.

"That's the Irish for you," Hazlett said with real venom in his voice. He did not like the Irish because he had seen so many of them come to Virginia before the war and rise to success on their farms or with their small businesses. Meanwhile, Hazlett's own circumstances had hardly improved, despite marrying Percy's cousin. "People got to know their place. Trash like the Irish and the negroes has got to be kept down."

Fletcher agreed completely, although he was surprised to hear someone like Hazlett put into words the very thoughts that had been going through Fletcher's mind.

"He's uppity, all right," Fletcher said.

"I'll put that Paddy in his place. Don't you worry none about that, sir," Hazlett said, then saluted the captain and walked away.

Fletcher, feeling puffed up by Hazlett's compliments, believed he had just found an ally among the raiders.