David Healey - Rebel Train

“Train on the right,” Wilson called, and Percy shook off his reverie in an instant.

The engine stood on a siding with four freight cars behind it. She was under steam, but had evidently pulled off the main track to let the bigger, faster Chesapeake pass.

It was an ugly little machine, with small wheels and a massive upright cylinder like a barrel on a wagon. The long, ungainly driving bar that powered the wheels gave the locomotive an insect-like appearance.

“What the hell is that?” Percy asked.

“It’s called a Grasshopper,” Wilson said. “It’s an older engine that the B&O still uses for local runs. You want me to stop so we can wreck her? Some Yank might wise up and come after us on that thing.”

Already, they had roared past the siding and left it behind. To stop now would cost them too much time. Percy scoffed. “Ha! That old thing? Catch us?” He waved toward the track ahead. “Go man, go! Open her up.”

The Chesapeake roared along at an exhilarating pace, sending up a black plume of smoke, like a challenge. The Grasshopper engine was soon out of sight and forgotten.

It was all Percy could do not to whoop out loud.

Flynn watched the woods and fields fly past beyond the windows. The train was running at a terrific pace, swaying from side to side like a ship at sea. He had to admit the Yankees would be hard-pressed to catch them now, at this speed.

An uneasy quiet had fallen over the passengers, who watched their Confederate captors sullenly. Captain Fletcher had been sent to help them guard the car, and the rhythmic motion was putting him to sleep. Flynn noticed the captain nodding off at the back of the car. How anyone could sleep just then Flynn didn’t know, but it was clear the action and sleepless nights of the last forty-eight hours had caught up to Fletcher. Not that Fletcher was worth a damn awake, anyhow. They would have been better off if Colonel Percy had simply shot the man for refusing to work.

Would Percy really have shot him? Just two days ago, Flynn wouldn’t have thought so, but now he wasn’t so sure. He had discovered that not only was Percy a very determined individual, but there was a bit of madness about him. Percy wasn’t quite crazy, but he was definitely unpredictable.

His thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Henrietta Parker. “Oh, this is terrible,” she complained. “At this speed we’ll run off the tracks and be killed.”

Flynn moved toward her. He saw her husband touch the back of her hand, as a warning.

“Hush now, dear,” Albert Parker said. “We don’t want to upset these… these Rebels .”

Flynn grinned down wickedly at them. “That’s right, ma’am. If you upset me I might have to shoot your husband.”

Albert paled. His wife, however, looked furious. “I shall have a front row seat at your hanging, Sergeant.”

“With any luck, Mrs. Parker, ma’am, there won’t be any hangings. You said yourself the train might wreck and kill us all.” At that moment, the speeding train struck an uneven spot in the rails and rocked wildly. Mrs. Parker gasped.

“That’s quite enough.”

Flynn turned. The fat little lawyer, Prescott, stood and waddled up the aisle, struggling to keep his balance as the car pitched from side to side. The expression on his face wavered between fear and outrage.

Casually, Flynn leveled the Le Mat revolver at Prescott’s chest. He cocked the hammer with an audible click. “Think about what you’re doing, Mr. Prescott.”

Prescott stopped. His doughy, white hands clenched and unclenched. “There’s no call to be tormenting ladies… Sergeant. Are you a soldier or a thug?”

Flynn was in no mood for a lecture. “At the moment I’m just a man pointing a gun at you, Mr. Prescott. Now shut the hell up and sit down.”

At the back of the car, the door into the next car slammed shut with a bang. One of the passengers had slipped out. Cursing, Flynn realized Prescott’s protest must have been a diversion, and he felt like a fool because he had fallen for it.

Flynn grabbed Prescott’s shoulder and shoved him aside. All he could think about was going after whoever had slipped out the door. He started to shout at Benjamin, in case the boy hadn’t noticed.

“Lad, we’ve got—”

As Prescott fell away, Flynn saw the Baltimore dandy crouched in the aisle behind the fat lawyer. He had been hidden behind Prescott’s bulk. With a grunt, Charlie Gilmore launched himself at Flynn.

Caught off guard, Flynn didn’t have time to react. Gilmore slugged him in the belly and Flynn doubled over in pain. The Le Mat flew from his hand. He couldn’t catch his breath. A fist smashed into his chin and Flynn went down.

As Gilmore’s well-shined shoe stomped down at Flynn’s head, he rolled just fast enough that the heel only skidded along his temple. Flynn kicked, catching Gilmore in the knee and throwing him off balance.

Gilmore stumbled, giving Flynn time to roll to his feet. Gilmore reached for the pistol in his belt.

“You done asked for it,” he snarled.

Flynn hit him before he could get the gun free, putting all the power of his shoulders into the punch. Gilmore collapsed, his pistol flying.

Benjamin jumped to help Flynn, but the lawyer flung himself at the boy. Prescott outweighed him by a good eighty pounds and the boy found himself pinned in the seat. Benjamin wriggled and squirmed but Prescott’s weight bore down on him.

“Let me up!”

“Hell no!”

In the aisle, Gilmore was back on his feet and facing Flynn warily, fists at the ready. Flynn glanced around for his gun, but the Le Matt had slid out of sight.

He knew things had gone badly wrong. In another moment, all the passengers might get out of hand. They would have a mutiny, and there would be no stopping it.

Where the hell was Fletcher? To his astonishment, Flynn saw that the captain was still slumped in his seat, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open, sleeping soundly.

“Fletcher! Wake up! Shoot this son of a—”

Gilmore rushed him. Flynn tried to dodge, but the narrow aisle gave him no room. The other man grappled him around the waist and they both tumbled into the seats. A woman screamed and Flynn glimpsed Fletcher running for the door, away from the fight.

Gilmore jabbed at his kidneys with a series of rabbit punches. Flynn swatted him in the side of the head. With a snarl, Gilmore butted his head into Flynn’s nose. Flynn’s eyes ran and he felt a hot trickle of blood from his nose. Gilmore tried it again and Flynn bit his ear. As Gilmore howled, Flynn slammed up with the heel of his hand and caught him under the chin so hard that his teeth cracked together. Then Flynn felt himself kneed in the groin and experienced an awful, excruciating pain that took his breath away. He bit Gilmore’s ear even harder.

They rolled into the aisle. Neither man could get the upper hand in such a confined space and they grappled and gouged.

Then Flynn remembered the horse pistol in his coat pocket. He fumbled for it, wondering if the thing would even fire.

As Flynn groped in his pocket, that gave Gilmore an opening, and he got both hands around Flynn’s neck, digging his thumbs deep into the throat on each side of the windpipe. Flynn’s vision swam with black dots. He was in trouble. His fingertips touched the pistol.

The other man had his knees on Flynn’s chest now, pinning him to the floor. Flynn couldn’t breathe. His hand slipped around the butt of the old pistol. He barely had the strength to drag the weapon free. He managed to pull back the hammer, wondering whether or not there was a percussion cap in place. He had never bothered to check.

The hands tightened even more on his throat and all Flynn could see was the savage face grinning down at him as if through a fog. With one final, desperate effort, he jammed the muzzle into Gilmore’s side. For just an instant, Gilmore’s eyes went wide, knowing what was about to happen.