David Healey - Rebel Train

“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.”