David Healey - Rebel Train

Not that Percy was worried about any implied threat on Flynn’s part. Percy was, above all, a good soldier. He would follow orders not because of Norris, or Norris’s watchdog, but because of his sense of duty to the Confederacy.

Even so, Hazlett had a point about Harpers Ferry. If the Yankees stopped them there, Percy would have no choice but to shoot Lincoln, because bringing the Union president to Richmond as a prize — and pawn — of war would no longer be possible.

“He’s still bleeding, Colonel,” Cook said despairingly. Cook was pressing hard on the bandages, trying to staunch the flow, but the lieutenant’s blood soaked through and reddened Cook’s hands. “It just won’t stop.”

Percy leaned close over the unconscious man. “Hang on, Silas,” he murmured. “Hang on.”

“I’ll go have a look in there,” Flynn said outside the baggage car. “You best stay here and keep an eye out.”

“Since when do you give me orders?” Hazlett demanded.

Flynn shrugged. “The colonel’s busy tending the lieutenant and someone ought to keep watch for any trains chasing us. If you don’t like it, then you go bump your way around in there and I’ll keep watch.”

Hazlett grinned crookedly, realizing he had the better end of the bargain, after all. “I’ll stay right here, Irish.”

Gritting his teeth, Flynn turned and climbed to the doorway of the baggage car. He could endure a few insults if it kept Hazlett from discovering what the baggage car really held. Flynn promised himself he would settle that damned Hazlett once and for all soon enough, but this was not the time for a fight.

He ducked into the car’s dark interior. He had managed to keep Hazlett out, at least. So far, Hudson was the only other raider who had been inside, and he knew nothing about the fortune in Yankee greenbacks.

The raiders were far too busy worrying about pursuit, unruly passengers and the captive president of the United States to explore a baggage car. Only he and Nellie Jones knew it carried anything more than carpetbags stuffed with changes of drawers for the middle-aged Yankees in the passenger cars.

Flynn didn’t feel guilty about not sharing his discovery of the money with the other raiders. He had helped steal the train and bring it across Maryland, after all. No one could accuse him of shirking his duty. But when the time was right, Flynn fully intended to make off with the money.

Maybe a man like Colonel Percy would condemn him for it, but Percy could afford to have ideals. He was a Virginia aristocrat. What was Flynn but an Irish immigrant who would never really be accepted? Hazlett was proof of that.

If there was one thing Flynn had learned in his hardscrabble life, it was that a man should seize opportunity whenever it presented itself. The payroll money aboard the train was a fortune, more than he had ever dreamed of, and he would be a fool not to take it.

The question was when. Nellie had promised there would be help ahead closer to Cumberland. But he had a feeling that whoever was helping Nellie wouldn’t be eager to share anything with him.

In that case, the sooner they got off the train, the better. He knew the raiders wouldn’t stop to look for him because they had to spirit Lincoln out of the country. Percy was too good a man to do otherwise.

However, Flynn didn’t relish the thought of being stranded in enemy territory without so much as a horse to help him carry all that money. The Yankees had thieves and cutthroats, too, and he would need someone to watch his back.

He might still be able to count on the woman to do that, of course. Nellie . A tough Baltimore tart if he had ever seen one. The colonel’s news that he was putting all the passengers off wouldn’t make her happy. Well, more money for him, even if getting it someplace safe would be harder on his own.

Still, another hand would be a good idea. Someone steady like that lad, Johnny Benjamin, although the boy might be too duty-bound to play the part of thief. None of the other raiders seemed likely. The honest ones wouldn’t do it and the dishonest ones like Hazlett or even Cook or Fletcher would cut his throat and take it all for themselves the first chance they got. The boy might just be a help.

Flynn paused to check the money. He couldn’t keep that bastard Hazlett waiting so long that he became curious and went looking for him. Even so, Flynn couldn’t resist a quick look.

He found one of the chests filled with paper money and flipped it open to reveal the neat bundles of greenbacks. A fortune! He could buy half of Ireland with that much money and live like one of the lords. He sighed and shut the lid almost lovingly. It was a ransom fit for a king — or a president. All his for the taking, if he could only figure out how to manage it.

First, however, there were other tasks at hand. Flynn quickly scouted the car’s interior for materials to make a stretcher. He found two long, narrow boards from some forgotten cargo. A sheet of canvas covering some crates would fit around them perfectly. He carried his finds outside and found Hazlett shading his eyes, staring west. Flynn turned and looked. In the distance, barely visible, was a smudge of smoke.

“Train?” Flynn wondered aloud. To the east, the direction from which they had come, the sky was empty.

“I don’t know, Irish, but we best tell the colonel,” Hazlett said, making no move to help Flynn carry the makings of the stretcher. “You can manage that stuff alone alone, can’t you?”

Flynn shoved the boards into Hazlett’s chest so hard he nearly knocked the man down. “You can carry those, you bastard.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, you immigrant son-of-a-bitch—”

The long feud between them was about to boil over. Then Colonel Percy’s sharp, angry voice cut through the tension. He was on the ground beside the last car, gesturing at them to hurry up. He, too, had spotted the smoke of the approaching train.

Hazlett glared. “We’ll finish this later, Irish,” he said.

“Aye, that we will.” Flynn’s eyes were cold and hard. “That we will.”

George Greer hurried on, his bad leg aching with each step. The more pain there was, the harder he pushed himself, refusing to let his leg slow him down.

The soldiers had been garrisoned at the Monocacy River for so long, guarding the bridge, that they were no longer in condition for marching at Greer’s driven pace. The soldiers started out confidently enough, but as one mile became two became three, their enthusiasm waned. Greer had to keep looking over his shoulder and waving the soldiers on because they weren’t keeping up.

“I don’t know about this, Greer,” the captain muttered, coming up close, out of earshot of his men. “There’s no sign of your train.”

“We’ll catch her, all right,” Greer said. “She’ll likely be around the next bend.”

Captain Lowell shook his head. “I doubt that. They’ve got an awfully good lead on us, Greer. Hell, there ain’t even a sign of them.”

“Then what do you call that?” Greer pointed toward the horizon.

Lowell squinted. “Hell, what’s that? Smoke? By God, Greer, if they’re that far ahead of us, we might as well turn around. We’re never going to catch them. Not on foot, at least.”

Captain Lowell stopped, and his men, glad for a break, shuffled to a halt.

Greer stood a little apart, clenching and unclenching his fists. His leg throbbed. He felt his stomach rumble and realized that because the raiders had interrupted his breakfast, he’d had nothing to eat all day but a couple of cold biscuits and some coffee back at Mount Clare station in Baltimore, long before dawn. He wasn’t sure what to do, now that Captain Lowell was getting cold feet. Frost and Schmidt stood nearby, watching the two men. They, too, had sensed that Captain Lowell and his men now thought the chase was hopeless and didn’t want to go any further. Greer knew he had reached a critical moment and that the chase was about to end unless he did something drastic.