David Healey - Rebel Train

Hank Cunningham stood up tall on the tender and let the wind stream around him. He threw back his head and let out a long, blood-curdling Rebel yell.

“You sound like a goddamn Indian,” Wilson complained good-naturedly as he worked the Chesapeake’s controls. He pulled a lever on the floor behind him to release more water into the locomotive’s boiler, then opened the throttle a little wider. Operating a steam locomotive was part art, part instinct. There were few gauges, so an engineer relied on the feel of an engine, its sound, and his own experience.

Percy shared the cramped cab of the locomotive with Wilson. Whenever they came to a curve, the colonel leaned out, looking as far behind them as he could. He was watching for the telltale plume of smoke that would mean an engine was pursuing them. So far, there had been no sign that anyone was chasing them, and the Yankees hadn’t attempted to block the tracks ahead, either.

Their luck, Percy thought, had been unbelievable so far. If it held out, they would soon have the Yankee president spirited into Confederate-held territory as a prisoner of war.

Abraham Lincoln . It was a name that could conjure political magic for the struggling Confederacy. The very thought that they had Lincoln as a prisoner was intoxicating. Capturing the president would do more to help the Cause than a score of battlefield victories.

Percy’s thoughts were interrupted as Hank Cunningham pushed past with another load of wood for the firebox. They were burning cordwood at a terrific rate to maintain the Chesapeake’s speed. Cunningham worked like a fiend to feed the hungry maw of the firebox.

“How are we set on wood and water?” Percy asked.

Wilson looked at Cunningham, who shrugged. “Well, we might not have enough water to make it to Harpers Ferry, if that’s what you mean, sir. We’ll have to stop at Frederick Junction on the Monocacy River to take on wood and water both. This train hasn’t been refueled since it left Baltimore this morning.”

Percy was disappointed — and a little uneasy. The Monocacy was still well within Maryland. On the other hand, Harpers Ferry would be a major milestone, not in the least because the former United States arsenal was heavily guarded by Union soldiers and artillery.

Once they crossed the Potomac River and made it through Harpers Ferry, they would still be traveling through Union territory, but the Yankees’ hold on the new state of West Virginia was not nearly as strong as it was on this side of the river. Each mile would bring them closer to the safety of the Shenandoah Valley, where Confederate troops would help them carry Lincoln south.

Still, Percy wasn’t taking any chances.

“Run another ten minutes at full throttle and then stop,” Percy ordered, shouting to be heard over the roar of the locomotive. He smiled. “We need to leave a little something to slow down anybody who tries to follow us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Percy grinned. “You know what ‘Shenandoah’ means, Wilson? It’s an Indian word.”

“No, Colonel.” Wilson was distracted, busy working a lever.

“It means, ‘Daughter of the Stars,’” Percy said. “I like the sound of that. Now let’s get ourselves to the Shenandoah Valley just as fast as we can.”

Colonel William Norris read the latest news in a smuggled copy of The Washington Star and nodded his approval. So, Lincoln was still expected at Gettysburg. Reading the Northern newspapers was almost as productive as spying. Early in the war he had learned a great deal about troop movements and even strategy until the Federal government had begun to censor the news.

Then again, you didn’t see everything in the newspapers. There was no news of his raiders, for example. The note from Flynn had been his last update.

Norris stood and walked to the fire to warm himself. His fingers had grown stiff with cold. He was about to call for Fletcher when he caught himself. Well, so much for that. Fletcher had served his purpose but Norris did not trust him to keep his mouth closed about the secret business that went on at the Confederate Signal Bureau. Sending him on the raid seemed like a good way to rid himself of a liability. Of course, there was always the off chance that Captain Fletcher might survive and return.

And the others? It would not do for Colonel Percy and his band to receive a hero’s welcome in Richmond. Like Fletcher, he did not trust them to keep their secrets.

Norris sighed and stalked back to his desk. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the inkwell. Then he began to write out an order for the immediate arrest of Colonel Arthur Percy and all those accompanying him. The reason? Norris paused with his pen above the blank sheet, thinking of a good charge. Treason . There. He wrote it down. When the time came, he could engineer the details.

Flynn and Benjamin stood side by side at the front of the car, keeping watch over the passengers. Captain Fletcher guarded the back door.

“I don’t like it one bit, lad,” Flynn whispered to Benjamin. “It’s been too damn easy so far.”

“Ain’t that good?” Benjamin asked.

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy, lad. Just remember that. I have a bad feelin’ that this won’t turn out quite the way we hoped.”

“Then why did you come along?”

“Why, for the fun, boy.” That couldn’t be further from the truth, but Benjamin didn’t need to know that. Besides, it was too late for any of them to turn back now. Their only hope was to run for the valley.

Nearby, the passengers strained to hear what was being said. Flynn gave them an impish grin. “Why don’t you pull up a chair?”

The matronly woman sniffed. “If we thought there was anything intelligent being said, we might.”

Flynn tried to appear shocked. “Do you hear the insults she’s hurling at us, lad?”

Her husband spoke up. “There’s no need to go picking on women.”

Flynn ignored him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Henrietta Parker.” She turned to her husband. “This is Alfred, my husband.”

Flynn winked at Benjamin and made his way down the aisle to where the Parkers sat. He transferred the Le Mat revolver to his left hand and offered his right to Alfred Parker, who, in confusion, gripped it in a weak handshake. “Sergeant Thomas Flynn at your service,” he said as they shook. “The young fellow there is Private Johnny Benjamin and that’s Billy Fletcher in the back.”

“Captain William Fletcher,” the officer corrected him, sounding annoyed.

Flynn turned to the lawyer from Baltimore. The man still appeared shocked at having seen Flynn kick the bodies off the train because he regarded the raider with the sort of nervous look reserved for wild beasts and Indians. “The captain there has been wondering if you could write a will for him, Mr. Lawyer.”

“A will?” Mrs. Henrietta Parker sniffed again. “I dare say you’ll all be needing one of those. I can only hope this outrage ends with several hangings. It’s the best end for cheap Rebel trash.”

“Why, Mrs. Parker,” Flynn said, winking. “That’s not very Christian of you. Now mind you keep quiet, or I’ll hang you out the window.”

He turned his back on the indignant noises the woman was making and went to stand beside Benjamin near the stove. He kept the Le Mat in plain view of the passengers, hoping that the sight of the huge revolver would discourage any more bravery like the episode which had already left two men dead.

He stopped in front of the couple from Baltimore, the dandy and the woman. The woman stiffened and the man scowled.