Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 8

The smugglers waited for the raiders in the shelter of a narrow creek that emptied into the Potomac River. The two men were short and wiry, with hands like leather and arms well-muscled from working the oars. The smugglers stood quietly, smoking pipes in the darkness, watching as the raiders stumbled toward them down the steep bank.

These smugglers had made many midnight crossings, ferrying people and goods between the Confederacy and Union. One of Colonel Norris's agents had made the arrangements for that night's services.

However, the smugglers had never carried a black man across the river. They looked sullenly at Hudson's dark face, which shone like ebony in the moonlight.

"Is there a problem?" Percy asked, noticing the men's silence.

"He can row hisself," one of the smugglers said, jerking his chin at Hudson. He coughed up something from deep in his throat and spat into the creek.

Percy, having just traveled at breakneck speed from Richmond to this isolated cove, was in no mood to argue. Mission be damned, he thought, and opened his mouth to tell these water rats what he thought of them. Before he could make a sound, Flynn slipped past him and swatted the smuggler with a powerful blow that knocked the man off his feet.

"That man's an officer," Flynn said, his voice low and harsh. "You best show him some respect."

There might have been more trouble if Hudson hadn't slipped into the skiff, folding his huge frame into the craft with such cat-like grace that not so much as a ripple disturbed the glassy midnight stillness of the creek. He settled himself and tested a pair of oars in their locks.

Unnerved by the swiftness with which the huge black man had moved, not to mention Flynn's bullying, the two smugglers set to work. One motioned the raiders into the skiff. They all slipped into the skiff quietly enough, except for Captain Fletcher, who only managed to climb aboard after noisily thumping his riding boots in the belly of the boat. The noise echoed like a drumbeat across the water.

One of the smugglers swore under his breath and growled at Fletcher, “Hell, boy, there's Yankees all up and down this river. Why don't you jest blow a bugle and let 'me know we're about to come over?"

"I hate boats," was all that Fletcher muttered in reply.

Once Fletcher was settled, one smuggler took up the second pair of oars while the other shoved the skiff toward the center of the creek before jumping in and landing soundlessly.

"Don't fall overboard, Fletcher," Percy warned in a whisper. "Those fancy boots of yours will fill with water and pull you down like stones."

Fletcher, chastised on all sides, hunkered even lower in the boat. "That's just as well," he said. "I can't swim, anyhow."

With Hudson and the two oarsmen rowing, and Flynn at the tiller, they soon swept out onto the Potomac.

After the darkness of the creek, which was overhung with trees, the sudden vastness of the big river was stunning. Stars shone overhead, wind moaned, and the black water gurgled around the skiff's wooden skin. The tall banks opposite them looked impossibly far away, but the skiff cut quickly through the river.

"What happens if we see any Yankees?" Percy asked the smugglers.

One of the men snorted. "It's best to row like hell and hope we don't see none."

Percy settled in his seat, feeling naked and exposed on the open river. Cold wind numbed his cheeks and ears. He longed to be on horseback instead of this small skiff in the middle of the river. At least on a horse a man had a chance.

He and his men were crossing the Potomac farther south than the second group of raiders led by Captain Cater. Washington would be just a short walk from the opposite shore, if they cared to visit the Union capital. However, this was no sight-seeing trip. Instead, Percy planned to angle northeast as quickly as possible and rendezvous with the other raiders at Ellicott Mills. Percy's small band would have forty miles to cover, but he was sure they could reach the rendezvous in two days.

The shafts of the oars were covered in rawhide to keep them from knocking in the oarlocks, which were themselves greased with lard for silence. A successful crossing depended upon slipping across the river while no Yankee gunboats were in sight. It also required that no unfriendly ears or eyes noticed them from the United States side of the river.

The river was empty as they first launched onto it from the creek's shelter. Each sweep of the oars carried them closer to the safety of the far shore. They were halfway there when there was a distant flash upriver. It took Percy a moment to realize he was seeing moonlight reflecting on a glistening paddle wheel.

"It's a goddamn gunboat!"

Sure enough, a vessel was rounding the bend upriver, its paddle wheel churning through the water and shattering the stillness of the night.

Fletcher drew his revolver.

"Put that away," Percy snapped. "If you fire a single shot, they'll open up on us with their bow gun and blow us out of the water."

The skiff surged ahead as Hudson and the other oarsmen rowed hard. Flynn found a paddle under his seat.

"Take the tiller, Pettibone," Flynn said, and began to dig frantically at the water. Their only hope was to reach shore before the gunboat came closer. Pettibone scooted back and reached for the tiller, pointing the boat toward the river's edge ahead, which lay deep in shadow.

The river crossing had become a race against time. Speed was everything. If the gunboat passed between them and the Northern shore, they would be spotted and cut off. There was no chance of outrunning a paddle wheeler. If the gunboat passed behind them, they still might be able to hide themselves in the shadows cast across the river by the high banks of the Maryland shore. Unfortunately, the current and paddle wheel were carrying the Yankee gunboat toward them at an alarming rate of speed.

"If they spot us, jump over the side," panted one of the smugglers. "Their gun will turn this skiff into kindling but they can't hit a man in the water."

Percy did not like the thought of taking to the cold water with the opposite shore still so far away. He and Hudson were both strong swimmers, but he wasn't sure about the others. The river had November's chill and the current was swift.

"I can't swim," Fletcher protested.

"I can't, either," Benjamin said quietly.

"Then stay with the boat and get blown to pieces, you damn fools," a smuggler snapped at them.

"We'll all stay with the boat," Percy said. "None of us will make it to shore if we don't stay together."

The gunboat swept toward them, looming larger all the time. At the last possible instant, one of the smugglers hissed, "Get down!" and all the men hunkered in the skiff, hoping that in the darkness the Yankees might mistake the boat for a drifting log.

They were so close they could hear two of the men aboard talking and laughing. The Rebels held their breath and prayed. With luck, the Yankee gunboat would sweep past them.

The laughter aboard the gunboat stopped. "What's that in the water, Bill?" came a Yankee's voice, sounding like it was right on top of them.

"It's a log, I guess."

"Hell, that’s a boat!" The Yankee sailor raised his voice. "You in the boat, what the hell you doin' on this river? Best state your business."

Crouched in the boat, Percy looked at the smuggler whose face was only yards away from his own. He could smell the rich tobacco smoke from the Yankee's pipe.

"Now what?" Percy hissed.

"I reckon we row like hell," the smuggler whispered back. "It ain't far to shore."

"All right," Percy said, and felt for the butt of his pistol. "Now!"

The men in the skiff sat up and grabbed the oars. They were now in a race for their lives.

"They're running'!" came a shout from the gunboat.

"Halt or we'll fire!"

"Aw, hell," the other smuggler said. "Time to go over the side."

"No, goddamnit," Percy barked at him. "Row, you damn coward. We have to get across this river."

Fortunately for the raiders, surprise was on their side. It took maybe thirty seconds for the Yankee crew members to swivel their gun around and prime it. The gun was only a six-pounder, but it was powerful enough to smash them to pieces if the skiff took a direct hit. Hudson and the two smugglers worked the oars like demons, trying to put as much distance as possible between the gunboat and the skiff before the gun was ready.

"Fire!"

A jet of flame rolled across the river's surface, illuminating the night like lightning, with a thunderclap to match. The cannonball passed so close to the skiff that they all felt the rush of air and heat as it hurtled past, then skimmed the river like a skipped stone.

"Row, row!" Pettibone shouted as he steered the skiff. Fletcher was flopping around in the bottom of the boat like a freshly caught fish, trying to pull off his boots in case they had to swim for it. Percy and Benjamin fired their revolvers at the Yankees, although their guns seemed to do about as much harm as flicking pebbles at the gunboat.

A second shot crashed into the river no more than a foot from the skiff's bow. Cold water showered Hudson in the front of the skiff.

"Hud, you all right?" Percy called.

"Never better, Mr. Arthur," Hudson replied, rowing on without so much as breaking his rhythm. The skiff surged ahead with each powerful stroke.

"Bastards have us in range now," Percy growled. Aboard the gunboat, he could see the Yankees silhouetted against the moonlit sky as they scrambled to reload the swivel gun. He held his breath. They wouldn't miss again.

And then the skiff was in shadow, swallowed up by the darkness cast by the cliffs of the Maryland shore, hidden from the Yankee gunners. A third shot spewed flames and thunder across the river's surface, but the ball threw up a gout of spray several yards to their left. The darkness protected them better than any armor, and the gunboat wouldn't dare chase them close to shore for fear of hidden snags and shallow water.

"Looks like we lost them," Percy said, peering back over his shoulder. He could see the gunboat clearly in the starlight, its lamps shining and the water shimmering as it cascaded off the paddle wheel. On deck, men were cursing, throwing taunts at the night. Smugglers and Yankee patrols played a constant, deadly game here on the navigable portion of the Potomac, and this time, the smugglers had won.

"That was terribly close," Fletcher said in a quavering voice.

Percy suppressed a laugh. He almost felt sorry for Fletcher, who had seen no combat in the service of the Confederate Signal Bureau. He supposed Fletcher was trying to master the fear that gripped most men the first time guns were fired at them.

"We'll be lucky if the Yankees let us off as easy as that the next time," Percy said. "Now let's find a place to land this skiff and get moving before some Yankee patrol shows up on shore to see what all the noise was about."

In his office at the Confederate Secret Service, William Norris read the note from Flynn and smiled at the Irishman’s description. Fine group of misfits. He couldn't have said it better himself.

"The Irish do have a way with words," he murmured to the empty room.

A fire crackled in the small fireplace, making shadows dance on the walls. The only other light came from a single candle on the spymaster's desk. Neither the fireplace nor the candle did much to light the room, and they certainly didn't keep off the cold. Norris was bundled in a shawl against the November chill, with only his hands exposed for writing. The only sound besides the shifting coals came from the scratching of his pen. A glass of bourbon was within reach. His cigar had long since gone out, but Norris kept it clenched between his long yellow teeth.

He stood and walked over to the fire, then dropped Flynn's letter into the flames. It curled up and turned to ash.

Better that there was no record of this mission, he thought. By now the raiders would be in Union territory and if they succeeded, they might help win the war. If they failed, the world might be ready to condemn them for undertaking something as dishonorable as trying to kidnap a president.

Norris walked back to his desk, reached for the glass of bourbon, and raised it toward the flames. "To my fine group of misfits," he said. "You might just hold the fate of the Confederacy in your hands."

No one paid much attention to the six men who walked down Main Street toward the train station at the edge of the Patapsco River, which seemed like a stream compared to the mighty Potomac. The old granite building was the oldest train station in America on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line.

"Remember that all of us have a different destination," Percy reminded them outside. "And don't stand around talking once you're in there. No sense making anyone suspicious."

With that, the colonel disappeared into the stone building. He emerged a few minutes later after buying tickets for himself and Hudson, then nodded at Benjamin. Nervously, the boy entered the dark interior of the station. Several minutes passed.

"What the hell is taking that boy so long?" Percy wondered out loud. He looked sharply at Captain Fletcher. "Fletcher, get in there and find out what's going on. At least you sound like you're from goddamn Baltimore when you talk. The rest of us sound too much like Southerners."

Fletcher entered the station. It was cool, dark and spotlessly clean. He saw Benjamin at the ticket counter, fidgeting nervously from foot to foot. One of the B&O ticket agents had come out from behind the counter and was standing between Benjamin and the doorway, as if to block his exit.

Something was obviously wrong.

Fletcher hesitated, near panic, wondering what to do. If there was trouble this early in the mission, it would only mean disaster for them all. He remembered what Percy had said about him being the only one of the raiders who sounded like a Baltimorean, took a deep breath, and called out, "Johnny! Where the hell are those tickets?"

His voice in the empty station echoed like a gunshot and both B&O agents looked up, startled.

"I want to know where those tickets are, boy. I'm waiting."

The ticket agent looked at Benjamin. "I thought you said you only wanted one ticket to Cumberland."

"One ticket?" Fletcher interrupted, sounding exasperated. "Boy, what are you playing at? I distinctly said to buy two tickets."

"Yes, sir," Benjamin said, sounding dreadfully Southern, with the "sir" drawled out as suhh. Fletcher knew immediately why the ticket agents were suspicious. All through the war, Marylanders who sympathized with the Confederacy had been trickling South. After all, Fletcher had done the same thing himself when it became clear that Maryland would not leave the Union, mainly because it had become occupied by blue-coated soldiers and its pro-Southern leaders had been arrested. A train trip west to the Shenandoah Valley would be the perfect way to join up with Confederate forces.

"Who might you be?" the agent demanded.

Fletcher straightened his back, threw out his chest and put one hand on his hip. If there was one thing he was good at, it was sounding haughty. He was glad he had worn his best pre-war suit on this journey. "I am Robert Fletcher,” he paused to let the name sink in for effect. "Of the Baltimore Fletchers. And if you don't immediately sell my manservant here two tickets to Cumberland I shall report you to John Garrett."

It was as if Fletcher had snapped a whip. John Garrett was president of the B&O Railroad. Fletcher's tone, and the mention of the B&O president, had the agent scrambling to produce the tickets. Fletcher felt pleased that he had once met Garrett before the war and consequently remembered his name.

"We thought the boy might be a Reb," the ticket agent explained hastily. "He sure sounds like one."

"He's from the Eastern Shore," Fletcher said. That was the distant part of Maryland that lay across the Chesapeake Bay and where Southern-style plantation life flourished. "Kent County. They have a Southern inflection there."

The agent obviously didn't know what Fletcher meant, but he agreed, nodding and adding, "Yes, sir."

"Good day," Fletcher huffed, sounding for all the world like the society man he had been. Together, he and Benjamin walked out of the station.

"You was awful uppity in there, Captain," Benjamin said, sounding annoyed. "I ain't never been nobody's servant."

Fletcher ignored him. They crossed the street and went right to Percy.

"That was close," Fletcher said to the colonel. "It was the accent. You'd better have Flynn buy Pettibone's ticket. Those two won't mind an Irishman, but if they hear that drawl of Pettibone's they're going to be suspicious all over again."

Percy turned to Flynn. "You heard him. Buy two."

"Yes, sir."

Flynn soon returned, tickets in hand, and they settled down to wait for the others.

It was late in the afternoon when the rest of the raiders arrived. Flynn, with a mischievous grin on his face, was waiting on a bench outside the B&O ticket office in Ellicott Mills when Hazlett appeared.

Hazlett glared at him. The sergeant looked tired and dirty after the hard journey from Richmond. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides when he saw Flynn grinning at him.

"You Irish bastard," Hazlett hissed as loudly as he dared on the station platform. "What are you lookin' at?"

"Is that any way to talk to someone you owe a bottle of whiskey to?" Flynn said. "Store-bought whiskey, too, if you don't mind. My stomach don't take kindly to rotgut."

"I'll be damned if I'd give you a bottle of piss, Paddy, let alone good whiskey." Hazlett practically spat the words.

The smile left Flynn's face, and the eyes that had been twinkling a moment before turned iron gray and cold. The change in expression was so sudden and complete that Hazlett was startled. "I don't want the goddamn whiskey, Hazlett," Flynn said quietly. "In fact, I'd as soon drink piss than take anything of yours, you son of a bitch. And if you call me 'Paddy' again, I'm going to kill you and piss on your goddamn grave."

Hazlett's face turned red with rage, and he stepped toward Flynn.

"That's enough," snapped Colonel Percy, who appeared out of nowhere to step between the two men. "You want to get us all hanged?"

Despite their anger, both Hazlett and Flynn knew the colonel was right. After all, they were deep in enemy territory, and starting a fight now could jeopardize everything if the local constable took an interest. Already, a handful of bystanders had gathered, smelling a fight. Disappointed, they drifted away.

"This ain't the end of it," Hazlett said. He gave Flynn a look of pure malice, then pushed on past into the office to buy his ticket. Percy followed him in.

Pettibone and Benjamin were standing a few feet away and had witnessed the confrontation.

"You've just bought yourself trouble," Pettibone said in his matter-of-fact way. "Hazlett ain't one to let things lie."

Flynn smiled icily. "Neither am I."

"Hazlett don't fight fair," Pettibone warned. "Hell, I reckon I shouldn't even care, considerin' why you're here. But if I was you, I'd watch my back."

Benjamin stepped forward. "I'll stand with you in a fight," he said. He flipped back the tails of his long coat to reveal the Colt revolver in its holster. "Hazlett ain't nothin'."

"Lad, if there's a fight, you keep out of it," Flynn said. "I'll deal with Hazlett when the time comes. I gave you that gun for shooting Yankees, and Yankees alone. And keep that damn gun out of sight. Percy's right, the last thing we need is any more attention."

Despite Colonel Percy's orders to the contrary, Willie Forbes bought a bottle of whiskey. He, Hazlett and Cook sat near the river and drank it. If Percy caught them, he would be furious, especially after the incident between Hazlett and Flynn, but from where they sat they had a clear view up Main Street of anyone coming toward the river. In the distance, they could see Flynn on the sidewalk, talking with a young woman.

"That goddamn Flynn is plenty full of himself," Hazlett said, then took a long pull from the bottle.

"I reckon we're drinking his whiskey, by rights," Forbes said.

"Shut up, Willie," Hazlett said. "You want me to tell Percy you got a drunk on? He'll skin you alive."

Forbes snickered. He was a small man, and the whiskey was already going to his head. "He'll be madder than hell."

"Then you best shut up."

Hazlett watched Flynn cross Main Street in the distance. He hated uppity Irishmen. To him, the Irish were a threat. They came here with nothing and worked for next to nothing, taking jobs from decent Americans. And some of them were smart, oh so goddamn smart, like that bastard Flynn. He didn't know his place. Already, it was easy to see how much the colonel favored him.

Hazlett had an idea. He flipped a coin at Forbes.

"Willie, go get me another bottle of whiskey."

"If the colonel finds out— "

"You let me worry about the colonel."

Forbes scurried off, and Hazlett smiled. He had an idea that would take Flynn down a notch or two.