Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 7

In the morning, Colonel Percy had his band of men walk nearly two miles out of Richmond. The city fell away, replaced by small farms that looked dusty and worn out. Weeds grew in most of the fields they passed and the cattle were all slat-ribbed. Finally, Percy led the men to a meadow ringed with trees and they spread out in an uneasy half-circle, wondering why the colonel had brought them there.

"This morning we're going to have some shooting practice," Percy said.

A couple of the men laughed. "Hell, Colonel, you think we're gettin' rusty here in Richmond?"

Percy turned to Flynn. "Show 'em what you brought along, Sergeant."

Flynn lifted the leather satchel off his shoulder, spread a cloth on a fallen log, and one by one placed several new revolvers on it. The polished wooden grips gleamed in the sun and the well-oiled pistols left a bitter metallic smell in the morning air.

"Colt Navy revolvers," Flynn said. "Brand new, from the armory in Connecticut."

"Yankee guns," Hazlett said. He didn't sound happy about it.

"Some of the best ever made," Percy replied. "Six shots, thirty-six caliber. Small enough to fit in a coat pocket if necessary. And this way we'll all have the same weapons and can use each other's ammunition if necessary."

"Makes sense to me, Colonel," said Silas Cater, walking over to the log and selecting one of the revolvers. "It's got a nice feel to it."

Although all of the cavalrymen had pistols, the problem was that almost all of them carried different models, from Kerr revolvers manufactured in London to Griswold & Gunnison six-shooters made by slaves at a factory in Georgia. Each man was always scrambling to find enough ammunition for his particular weapon.

Hudson had also carried a sack out from Richmond, and he placed it now on the ground next to the log.

"We have holsters for the revolvers here,” Flynn said, then reached into the sack and took out a box of cartridges. The box read: Six cartridges for Colt's Navy Pistol, made at the Laboratory of Confederate States Army, Richmond, Va. “Plenty of ammunition, too.”

Flynn took up one of the revolvers and proceeded to load it, explaining the process as he went: "Pull back the hammer to half-cock to free the cylinder. Put a cartridge in each cylinder, tamp it down with the loading lever, then put percussion caps on each chamber. That's six dead Yankees for you."

Lieutenant Cater deftly loaded a revolver and sighted down the barrel. "Very nice," he said.

"Don't say I never done nothing for you," Flynn said.

Percy took one of the revolvers and loaded it. "All right, boys, let's see how you shoot."

"We're two guns short," Flynn pointed out. "That's all they gave us."

Of course, that wasn't quite true. Back in Richmond, the Confederate Secret Service had supplied him with a revolver for each raider, but he had traded two on the black market for several excellent bottles of whiskey.

Hudson and the downy-faced soldier, Johnny Benjamin, were the two without guns.

"If someone on this side of the Potomac sees Hudson carrying a gun there will only be trouble," Percy said. “I’ll give him one once we’re on the train. Johnny, you take my Colt for now until we can get you a pistol."

"A darkie sure as hell don't need no gun," Hazlett agreed.

Flynn glanced at Hudson to see how he would react, but his ebony face was stoic. He busied himself sorting the ammunition in the bag.

"Willie, give me your hat," Percy ordered.

Forbes handed it over, and Percy strode through the tall grass of the meadow to a stump about fifty feet away. The stump was cut high, nearly as tall as Percy, and he placed the hat on top. "That there's the enemy," he explained, walking back over to the men. "Just don't shoot any holes in Willie's hat. Aim for the stump. Lieutenant Cater, you go first."

Cater stepped forward, raised the revolver, and fired. At the sound of the gunshot, a flock of crows flew off from the field, cawing in alarm. As they wheeled away, Flynn counted ten birds, exactly the number in their own group. He fought the urge to cross himself as they flew out of sight. He didn't know what the crows meant exactly, but it couldn't be anything good.

The second shot also missed the stump. Hitting a target with a pistol relied more on instinct and experience than using a rifle did. There was no rear sight as with a rifle so you focused on the front sight at the end of the barrel and tried to get a feel for how to aim. It took practice to hit anything that wasn't in spitting distance.

Cater fired again. This time, bark flew from the stump. The next three shots also hit their mark.

Cater turned to Flynn. "You want to practice?"

"Oh, I already did that when I first got the guns," he said, hoping nobody would press it. The truth was, Flynn couldn't shoot worth a damn. He preferred using his fists to settle any differences.

One by one, the other men tested their new Colts. Like Cater, most missed the first two or three shots. Captain Fletcher missed all six. The others laughed out loud.

“That’s enough!” Percy shouted. “I haven’t seen any of you do much better.”

Then came Johnny Benjamin's turn. The boy took the Colt and stepped forward.

“I hope that gun ain’t too heavy for you, son. Better use two hands,” Hazlett taunted. “I reckon you ought to be old enough to shave before you can shoot.”

Ignoring Hazlett, the boy didn't bother to aim the revolver but held the Colt at waist level and quickly fired off six shots that skinned bark off the stump. The last bullet flicked the hat away and sent it rolling through the field.

"Damn it all!" Willie Forbes shouted. "Don't go shooting my hat."

The boy was grinning as he handed Percy back the pistol. "Six shots, six dead Yankees," Benjamin said. "I reckon that's a pretty good start."

"We'll see," Percy said.

"You will be traveling in two groups," Percy explained that afternoon in the crowded parlor of the rooming house. "We don't want to attract attention, which we surely would moving together."

"Where do we meet up?" Pettibone asked.

"Each group will go its own way and cross the Potomac at different points," Percy said. "That should increase the changes that some of us will get through. As long as at least one group arrives at the rendezvous, we can still carry out the mission."

Captain Fletcher stepped forward. “I just wanted to clarify one point, sir, that as the next highest-ranking officer and as Colonel Norris’s representative I am second in command.”

“No.”

Fletcher appeared shocked. “What do you mean?”

“You may be a captain, Fletcher, but on this raid Lieutenant Cater is my official second in command. He knows how to handle himself and he knows what needs to be done. Is that clear to everyone?”

The others nodded approval. Fletcher sputtered something in protest but nobody paid him any mind.

“Let’s continue.” The colonel went on outlining his plan. Hazlett, Forbes, Lieutenant Cater and John Cook were in the first group. Percy assigned himself to Hudson and Corporal Pettibone. The men he grouped together were all from his old regiment and they were now all on special duty thanks to Colonel Norris.

That left Flynn and Captain Fletcher, along with Johnny Benjamin and two railroad men: an engineer named Cephas Wilson and a fireman, Hank Cunningham. Percy had taken a lesson from last year's failed Andrews train raid in recruiting two men who knew something about locomotives. Andrews hadn't brought any experienced railroaders with him and this had resulted in some difficulty in operating the captured train. Percy didn't want to make the same mistake. It would be up to Wilson and Cunningham to keep the locomotive running all the way from Baltimore to Confederate territory in the Shenandoah Valley. Both men were older than the others, their hair streaked with gray. Their hands were work-hardened and seemed to be permanently stained with soot and oil. Standing among Percy’s seasoned veterans, it was clear they were not soldiers.

"You two go with Lieutenant Cater," Percy said to the railroad men. "If anyone can get you across the Potomac, he can."

Wilson and Cunningham moved off to join their group. Flynn, Fletcher, Pettibone and Benjamin were left standing by themselves in the parlor.

Flynn spoke up. "Looks like I'll be going with you, Colonel. I guess you don't want to let me out of your sight."

"My daddy always told me to keep my friends close and my enemies closer, so I could keep any eye on them."

Hazlett said, "Hell, Irish, the Colonel just reckoned you'd get lost unless you went with him. You and that snot-nose boy. I might just lose you on purpose, if you was to go with me."

"Hell, if Irish and the boy ain't at the rendezvous, it's no great loss," Cook said from the back of the room. "The rest of us will get ourselves there, one way or another."

Beside him, Flynn felt the boy go tense at the remark. He put a hand on Benjamin's shoulder and winked at him, then turned to Hazlett. He had met Hazlett's kind before, men who hated the Irish and other immigrants because they thought the newcomers were crowding them out and robbing them of opportunity. Flynn wasn't one to accept insults lightly, but this wasn't the place for a fight. He decided he would settle accounts with Hazlett when the time came. For the moment, he hid his anger behind a laugh.

"We'll be there before you, Hazlett," he said lightly. "I'll bet you a bottle of good whiskey that this lad and I are waiting for you at the rendezvous."

"It's not a race," Percy interrupted. "You are to reach Ellicott Mills without any trouble. Go as quietly and as quickly as you can. The real mission doesn't start until that train rolls into town."

The men shuffled impatiently, waiting for him to continue. Percy smiled and produced a thick sheaf of paper money from inside his coat.

"Yankee greenbacks," he said. "You'll each get enough for food and lodging to get you to Ellicott Mills, and to buy tickets for the train. You won't get enough money to buy whiskey or whores, or to play cards. You're on duty from this point on. Consider yourselves as being in the field, not in Richmond."

"I reckon the furlough's over," Forbes said.

"It is," Percy said. "That means no whiskey for you, Forbes. From now on, if you want to get drunk, you have to ask my permission."

Forbes started to protest. "We're still in Richmond, Colonel — "

"Not one drop," Percy said sternly. "For you or anyone else."

"Yes, sir."

Percy counted out a few Yankee dollars to each man. The face of Treasury Secretary Salmon P. Chase appeared on each bill like an omen. Their palms held what seemed like a small amount of money compared to the stacks of Confederate currency needed to buy anything in Richmond. "Don't lose that money now, boys," Percy said. "You're going to need it."

Each man had memorized the route from the Potomac to the little crossroads town of Ellicott Mills, and each also knew which town along the B&O's route he was to buy a ticket for once he had reached the rendezvous. Percy didn't want all the men to buy tickets for Cumberland, thus drawing the ticket clerk's attention.

Willie Forbes spoke up. "What do you think our chances are, Colonel?"

Percy looked around the room at all the faces in front of him. Most belonged to men he had shared many dangers and adventures with since the first days of the war. Good men, all of them, and Percy didn't like the thought that he might be leading them into disaster. Kidnap the president of the United States? It was a risky adventure, at best. When he first spoke the idea out loud it sounded impossible. But now, after thinking about it, the possibilities of it all had taken hold. Percy had been a soldier long enough to know that sometimes the most brash and daring ideas were the ones that worked best of all. His own success during the war had been the result of gambling heavily with his men. But the odds this time were against them.

"All I know is that we're either going to be famous — or dead," Percy said. "Any other questions?"

He looked around at the knot of men in the room. Some faces were stony, some grinning, but no one spoke up. It was as if they were going into battle.

Percy nodded. "Let's go catch us a president, boys."

"You sure do talk a lot," Pettibone finally said to Flynn, who hadn't been quiet for a moment since leaving Richmond.

"That's because you lads haven't got anything to say."

"What's there to talk about?" Pettibone said. "We know what we got to do once we get across the river. I jest hope there's something decent to eat in Maryland. Lord, what I wouldn't do for a nice bit of ham."

"All I want is a chance to kill some Yankees," Benjamin said.

Flynn raised his eyes theatrically to heaven. "Help me, Lord. One man thinks of his belly, the other is thirsty for blood."

The raiders had split up early that morning, striking out in their separate groups for the river that marked the boundary between North and South.

"So you want to kill Yankees, do you now, Johnny lad?" Flynn asked.

"I reckon I do. I done got wounded down in Tennessee before I could even fire my rifle."

"Well, I hope Colonel Percy gave you a decent pistol," Flynn said. "The way you were shooting yesterday, he should have given you one of the new Colts."

Benjamin pushed back his long coat to reveal an unwieldy and old-fashioned looking Model 1842 Horse Pistol. "I reckon this will do just fine."

Flynn pulled his horse up short. He looked shocked. "Percy sent you on this raid with that? An old single-shot pistol? Why, lad, I believe General Washington himself carried one of those."

Flynn drew his own Colt Navy revolver and handed it to Benjamin. "Here you go, lad. You'll make better use of it than me, I'm sure."

Pettibone watched the exchange with amusement. "That's mighty generous of you, Flynn. But what are you going to do if we run into some Yankees — talk them to death?"

"Sure, and I'll be using my other gun." Flynn patted his pocket. "A Le Mat revolver imported all the way from Paris. It fires nine shots and a shotgun blast to boot."

Pettibone nodded. "I reckon that ought do the trick."

"What should I do with this old horse pistol?" Benjamin asked.

"Give it to me, lad."

"What are you going to do with it?" Pettibone asked.

"I'll use it as a backup gun. Besides, one shot is all I need," Flynn said. "When I shoot a man, I'm generally close enough that I can stick the barrel in the bastard's belly." He slipped the old pistol into his pocket. "This one will do me just fine."

Pettibone snorted. "You're an odd one, Flynn."

"That's been said before."

"I reckon you're touched in the head, all right, to come with us," Pettibone said. "This is a fool's mission."

"The decision wasn't entirely mine. Besides, I do what I'm told because I know who butters my bread," Flynn said. He then asked as idly as possible, “Don't you have confidence in Colonel Percy?"

"Flynn, I'd follow the colonel to hell and back," Pettibone said. "Come to think of it, I reckon I already have, in some ways. But think of what we're asked to do. The devil himself couldn't pull this off. Kidnap Abraham Lincoln? That's like trying to steal Christ off the cross."

"Don't blaspheme the Lord. It's bad luck," Flynn said.

"You still goin' to shoot Percy?" Pettibone asked. "I have to tell you, Flynn, that I'll kill you first."

"Whatever happens is up to Colonel Percy now," Flynn said, not eager to argue the point with Pettibone. He sensed that the rawboned corporal was one of the few raiders who didn't seem eager to shoot him in the back first chance he got. He looked over at Benjamin, who was busy sighting his new Colt at trees and stumps they rode past, one eye squinted. "The odds don't seem to bother this lad at all. Tell me, Johnny lad, how did you get mixed up with this bunch? What would your poor mother say?"

Benjamin holstered the Colt. "Well, I didn't know nobody in Richmond after I got out of the hospital. I done had me a furlough pass for a few days, but not enough to get home. I just fell in with these fellers, got to drinkin' with 'em, you know, and Colonel Percy fixed up a transfer so I could go on the raid."

"You're a fool to come with us, boy," Pettibone said. "Won't be many comin' back."

"Maybe I'm a fool, but at least I'll be famous."

They laughed. Flynn didn't let the silence afterwards last long. "Tell me about the others," he said.

"Ain't much to tell," Pettibone said. Still, he shrugged, and started to talk.

Aside from Flynn, Benjamin, and the two railroaders, Percy's men were all from Fauquier County in Virginia. They had known each other practically since birth. Silas Cater, for instance, was actually a cousin of Percy's. He had been off at Washington College studying philosophy when the war broke out. He was competent enough at making sure the guard was posted or at holding a flank, but he could never have replaced Percy. Still, he made a good captain and worshipped his older cousin.

Willie Forbes was a hopeless drunk. He drank in prodigious quantities at every opportunity and no amount of punishment could curb his taste for liquor. Oddly enough, he was a good soldier and he was never too drunk to ride. Besides, sober or drunk, he was a good man in a fight.

Bill Hazlett was a son of a bitch but they all put up with him. Most of the men were afraid of him. Percy had made him a sergeant mainly because of family connections. Hazlett, after all, was married to a cousin. However, he was competent enough and inspired a certain amount of fear in new recruits, especially the ones they had been getting recently to fill their regiment's battle- and disease-depleted ranks. Hazlett had a mean streak wider than the Potomac River.

"Why doesn't he like Irishmen?" Flynn asked. "I don't think anyone's been as hostile to an Irishman since Oliver Cromwell showed up at the gates of Drogheda."

"I don't know about this Cromwell you mentioned, but I do know Hazlett," Pettibone said. "It's best to keep on his good side."

"He's a pain in the arse," Flynn said irritably. "I can promise you that he'll be sorry if he ever sees my bad side."

“How did he get his scar?” Benjamin asked. “I reckon it was in a knife fight.”

Pettibone snorted. “Not hardly, boy. He come home drunk one night and his wife hit him with a poker.”

John Cook had been a farmer back home. Not a very good one, though. When a cow or pig turned up missing, there was a chance you could find it in Cook's pasture — or in his smokehouse. Still, he was a good-enough cavalryman, even if you couldn't leave anything valuable lying about when he was around.

"What about you, Pettibone?" Flynn asked.

Pettibone shrugged. "Well, I ain't that much different from the rest of 'em, I reckon. Got me a little farm, a wife and two young 'uns back home. Them Yankees got my dander up back in sixty-one, and I thought I'd sign up, fight the war, and be back home in two months. Here I am, over two years later."

Flynn laughed. "Sure, and it's better than farming."

"I don't know about that," Pettibone said. "I don't, indeed."

Pettibone had hardly said more than two or three words all at once before he had explained his fellow Virginians to Flynn. They spent the rest of the afternoon swapping stories and talking about what they would do after the war. At nightfall, they stopped at a crossroads tavern and used some of the money Norris had given them to secure a room. Once again, Fletcher kept to himself, and the colonel and his servant went off alone.

Although Flynn didn't let on, he knew the inn well. It was a common stopover for travelers between Virginia and Maryland, even though, officially, there wasn't supposed to be travel between the two warring nations. The innkeeper recognized Flynn, although he knew better than to acknowledge him with anything more than a slight nod.

Once they were settled for the night, Flynn slipped away from his companions long enough to use a pencil to scratch a note on a piece of paper. It surprised some people that Flynn could write — in fact, he could read and write very well — although it was a skill he usually kept to himself.

Norris had insisted that Flynn stay in touch with him, although Flynn himself didn't see the point. What would he write to Norris about, the weather? But while he was in Virginia, he would follow Norris's wishes, because the spymaster had a long arm. Once they crossed the Potomac into Maryland, Flynn planned to make his own rules — or some of them, at least.

When he was finished, he gave the envelope to the innkeeper. The man accepted the note and the Yankee greenback wrapped around it with the same nod he had given Flynn earlier.

The envelope was addressed to Colonel William Norris, Confederate Signal Bureau.

"Send it along to that bastard," Flynn said. Colonel Percy had since retired to his room, so Flynn bought a bottle of cheap whiskey, gave Benjamin a cupful, and then he and Pettibone got drunk together in a corner of the inn.