David Healey - Rebel Train

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

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.