David Healey - Rebel Train

Again, Percy checked the cylinder of his Colt. Each of the six chambers was loaded with a paper cartridge of powder and ball. A percussion cap covered each of the six firing cones, waiting for the blow of the hammer. Was one of these bullets destined for Lincoln?

He swung the cylinder shut and holstered the Colt. Ahead of them, on the opposite track, the approaching train had come into view. His eyes were not what they used to be, so Percy strained to see if there were muskets aimed at them from the windows.

“Here she comes, sir,” Wilson said.

“Are they armed?” Percy asked, fishing in a pocket for his spectacles.

“Can’t tell for sure, sir.”

“Give her everything she’s got, Wilson. Pour it on.”

The engineer opened the throttle wide. Hank Cunningham worked like a fiend, hurling wood into the open maw of the firebox. The task was becoming harder because the supply of cordwood in the tender was getting low. Percy held his breath and kept one hand on his revolver.

The train hurtled toward the Chesapeake , spewing smoke and cinders into the sky from its enormous smokestack. In seconds, the locomotive was even with them. The engineer leaned from the window and gave them a wave. Then the train was rushing past, bound for Baltimore. It would not get far. Percy was sure the other train would stop when it spotted the passengers the raiders had put off. But by then, the Chesapeake would be far ahead if the other train decided to give chase.

Percy breathed again. And then he whooped. “Ha! They don’t know about us, boys! On to Virginia!”

Busy at the Chesapeake’s controls, Cephas Wilson looked less than elated. They were rounding a bend in the tracks, and he pointed ahead. There, as the curve straightened, was a siding. A locomotive waited under steam. It was a new 4-4-0, the designation coming from the fact that it had four large driving wheels behind four much smaller ones. The huge driving wheels were bigger even than the Chesapeake’s . The locomotive’s new black paint gleamed. Lord Baltimore was painted on the locomotive’s cab in gold letters a foot high. The engineer leaned out the window and lifted his hand in greeting as they passed.

Percy’s smile faded. “That’s the same train we saw come through Ellicott Mills this morning.”

“What do you want to do, Colonel? We ought to wreck that locomotive.”

Percy hesitated, then made up his mind. If they stopped, the eastbound train they had just passed could easily overtake them if it reversed direction. “Keep going, keep going.”

A knot of men stood by the new locomotive, watching the Chesapeake rush past. The Lord Baltimore had only a tender attached. The locomotive would be fast, all right, if it came after them. But there was no sign the crew standing around on the siding was prepared to give chase. They did not appear excited by the sight of the Chesapeake . A few even waved.

Hank Cunningham paused in his work feeding the firebox to wave back. He grinned, his teeth showing white against the sooty mask of his face. “Yankees sure are a stupid bunch,” he muttered through his teeth. “If this keeps up, we’ll be in Richmond the day after tomorrow.”

“We’re not there yet,” Percy reminded him.

Percy knew they were running out of time. Every minute counted. The Yankees might not know the raiders had kidnapped the president, but it was enough that they had seized a train and were running toward the Confederate haven of the Shenandoah Valley. The telegraph wires would come alive, and every Yankee in Maryland would work himself into a frenzy of righteous indignation over the raid.

“More wood, Hank,” Percy shouted above the roar of the wind and the engine. “Pile it on. We need speed, man, speed!”

The race for their lives, for the fate of Abraham Lincoln, for the survival of the Confederacy itself, had begun.

Much to his annoyance, Greer watched the Chesapeake’s smoke trail fade into the vast, violet shadows of the mountains ahead. Even he had to admit they were hopelessly far behind. On foot, there wasn’t much chance of catching up again. It could not be a good sign, either, that the second column of smoke from the approaching eastbound locomotive had halted, hovering now on the horizon.

“What’s going on, Greer?” Captain Lowell demanded. Only his wounded pride kept him urging his soldiers on. He was anxious to call a halt to what he saw as a futile chase and return to his post guarding the Monocacy River crossing.

“I don’t know what the hell those bastards are doing,” Greer snapped. “Just keep your men moving.”

Captain Lowell was about to argue, but Oscar Schmidt put a stop to that. “You heard him,” the big German growled. “Keep marching.”

Uncertain of what to do, the captain let himself be swayed again by Greer’s tenacity. But he wasn’t completely beaten. “Two more miles,” he said. “Then we turn around.”

Greer only grunted in reply, then started down the tracks. The soldiers marched on, matching the fast pace set by Greer, in spite of his limp.

Up ahead, the eastbound train’s column of smoke began to move toward them again. Greer felt like cheering. After several minutes, the train came into sight.

“Stand near the tracks, wave your arms, flag them down,” Greer excitedly ordered the soldiers, bypassing the captain.

“Do as he says,” Lowell shouted, but the soldiers were already obeying Greer.

“What if they don’t stop?” asked a soldier standing in the center of the tracks.

“They’ll stop,” Greer said. “Flap your arms like you were trying to fly. Just don’t stand in the middle of the tracks unless you’re anxious to leave this world for the next.”

Greer took up a position in front of the rest of them, waving his stout, powerful arms at the oncoming train. For a moment, the train gave no sign of stopping, and it seemed the soldiers’ fears might be justified and they would all face a long walk back to the Monocacy River, empty-handed. The locomotive bore down on them, laboring under a billowing cloud of smoke. Then there was a screech of brakes, the screech of iron gripping iron, and tons of machinery slid to a halt just yards short of where Greer stood beside the gleaming rails.

The engineer leaned out from the cab. “What the hell is going on?”

Greer ran forward. “You’re Tom Coker, aren’t you? My name’s Greer. Some sons of bitches stole my train. You just passed it back there.”

The engineer nodded. “I didn’t expect to find you out here, Greer. I just picked up some people the Rebs put off your train.”

Greer could hardly believe what he was hearing. Rebels! So, the men who had stolen his train weren’t just train thieves, after all. The engineer climbed down and joined him on the ground.

“You mean Rebels took my train?”

“That’s what the passengers said. Confederate soldiers, led by that Colonel Percy. He’s that Confederate colonel I’ve read about in the newspapers, leading all those cavalry raids.”

“Arthur Percy?” Greer said. He had also read about Percy. Baltimore was a pro-Southern city, and the newspapers published lengthy accounts of Confederate exploits.

“The one who led the Buckley Courthouse raid?”

“One and the same. He’s the leader of this raid.”

“What are the Rebs doing up here?” Greer was amazed they had struck so deep into Maryland. “The payroll for the Cumberland garrison is aboard, and I reckoned they were after that. They’re not in uniform.”

“Then they’ll be treated as spies when they’re caught,” the engineer said. “Strung up from the nearest tree.”