David Healey - Rebel Train

Nellie shook her head and whispered a reply. “There’s no help for us here. We have to get closer to Cumberland. There is a plan, and it involves others, but it depends on the train making it to within a few miles of the city.”

Flynn nodded, then sighed. “At the moment we’re a long, long way from Cumberland.”

“Then you better think of something.”

“I was afraid you might say that. Nellie, let me ask you something. Why did you pick me out of all the others?”

“You’re the one who came after me in the baggage car.”

“You mean you would have asked Captain Fletcher or even Hazlett if they were the ones who’d gone after you instead?”

“No,” Nellie said, thinking about it. “I would have cut their throats.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He caught himself putting his hand to his throat, remembering the cold touch of the knife blade.

By now, the train was barely moving. Outside, someone began shouting.

Flynn stood, checked his revolver, then moved to a window and opened it. “When all else fails, shoot the bastards,” he said.

Greer ducked as the first shots snapped overhead. The odd-looking but powerful Grasshopper locomotive chugged closer to the Chesapeake . Ignoring the bullets flying at them, Greer had no thought other than to overtake his stolen train.

“Come on, man, come on,” he urged Schmidt.

“ Das ist vor ,” Schmidt said. Frost worked like a madman, stuffing the firebox with wood.

As they roared closer, Greer could again see the two men on the last car. Both had revolvers in their hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Greer hoped there weren’t many more raiders aboard the train. Even a handful of armed men against three with an old shotgun and a pistol hardly seemed like good odds. Still, Greer forgot all caution as they raced closer.

Briefly, he wondered why there were two armed men on the last car. Were they simply defending the train, or was there something in the last car worth guarding? If that was the case, Greer thought bitterly, then someone should have warned him that there was more aboard to worry about than the payroll money.

Greer picked up the double-barreled shotgun and leveled it at the back of the train, pulled back the twin hammers, and yanked the two triggers in rapid succession. The shotgun kicked viciously and Greer lost sight of his target in the cloud of blue smoke that billowed around him until the wind whipped it away.

A hail of buckshot shredded the air and pinged off the iron railings of Lincoln’s car. Shards flew as shot ripped into the wooden sides, but none of the lead could penetrate the heavy oak.

Aboard the train, John Cook swore and clawed at his cheek, where a flying splinter of wood had embedded itself. He pulled it free, feeling the blood run down his face and soak his beard. He looked over at Lieutenant Cater, who was crouched behind the railing. The lieutenant was strangely still.

“You all right, Lieutenant?” Cook asked.

When there was no answer, Cook reached down and took Cater’s shoulder. The lieutenant slumped back, revealing an ugly red gouge along his temple where buckshot had cut a deep furrow that exposed the white bone of his skull. Blood poured from the wound.

“You’re goin’ to be all right, Lieutenant,” Cook said, although he wasn’t so sure. Blood was soaking the collar of the lieutenant’s coat.

Private Cook quickly pulled out the tail of his shirt and tore off a strip. Fortunately, their new civilian clothes were clean enough to serve as bandages. As he worked to tie up the wound, he kept a wary eye on the pursuing engine. It was still gaining on them, although it appeared the only weapon the men aboard carried was the shotgun, which one of the men was busy reloading. A shotgun was a poor weapon for taking on a whole trainload of Rebels, Cook thought, but it had been good enough to fell Lieutenant Cater, something even the fiercest artillery at Gettysburg had been unable to do the last time they were up north.

Cook quickly bound the wound with the rough bandage. It would at least stop the worst of the bleeding. The lieutenant needed more help than a rough bandage, but that would have to wait.

He picked up the lieutenant’s revolver, so that he now held a Colt in each hand. Cook took a quick look at the door of the President’s car. He was sure Lincoln and his bodyguard were safe. The wood was thick and hard as iron. It would take more than a shotgun blast to penetrate the walls. He hoped Abe Lincoln wasn’t too curious about the commotion. With Lieutenant Cater wounded and the Chesapeake being hotly pursued, there would never be a better opportunity for the Yankee president to attempt an escape.

There was no time to worry about that. The smaller engine was right behind them, so close that Cook could clearly see the angry faces of the Yankees, one of whom had finished reloading the shotgun and was now raising it to his shoulder.

Before the man could fire, Cook lifted the revolvers and unleashed his own hail of lead.

“Those Yankees are right on our tail and they’re shooting at us,” Flynn shouted, popping his head in from the window. “Fletcher, you cover the passengers. Benjamin, lad, open a window on the other side and put that fancy Colt of yours to work.”

Flynn leaned out the window as far as he dared to get a clear shot at the pursuers. He aimed the Le Mat and squeezed off a shot.

Behind him, he heard more guns open fire from Hazlett’s car. A bullet snicked the air close by his ear and Flynn had to wonder if Hazlett would end their feud by shooting him in the back of the head. The thought made the hairs on the back of Flynn’s neck stand on end. Flynn knew he wouldn’t have been the first soldier shot in the back during battle by an enemy in his own ranks. He forced the thought from his mind. There were more immediate enemies to worry about at the moment.

From the train ahead, the raiders’ guns blazed at Greer and his crew. Bullets popped and hissed through the air and the three men took what shelter they could on the largely open deck of the grasshopper.

“Du bist schweinen!” Schmidt swore at the raiders. He was busy trying to hide his big body while still working the engine’s controls. A bullet plucked at his sleeve and he tried to make himself yet smaller. Frost jumped into the tender. Nothing made men feel so helpless as being fired upon and not being able to shoot back.

Greer took the revolver and emptied it at the last car. One of the thieves was down, hit by the shotgun blast, but the remaining man fired back, a revolver in each hand. Greer ducked down and reloaded.

To Greer, it was like Bull Run all over again. Memories flooded back of being hit in the leg. There was so much pain, so many weeks in the hospital. Still, he had never been a coward, not at Bull Run and not now, either. If his time was up, it was up, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Grimly, Greer raised the revolver again.

Bullets whip-cracked around him, but he was oblivious. Greer fired. The man on the train ahead was busy loading his revolvers. He ducked down as bullet knocked chips off the car and struck sparks off the iron railing.

The two trains were now no more than fifty feet apart. They had climbed Parr’s Ridge, reached the top, and run a close race across the level summit. Now that they were on level ground, Greer’s locomotive couldn’t pull any closer.

For all the effort it had taken to climb the ridge, it didn’t offer any spectacular views. Mountains still loomed blue ahead, while harvested fields and bare woodlands dotted the rolling hills. The Monocacy River was a brown ribbon through the countryside.