David Healey - Rebel Train

The bridge was constructed of iron Bollman trusses, an ingenious bridge-building system that was resistant to fire, but not to the raging waters of the Potomac when the mighty river flooded. The town and crossing were under the protection of Union artillery on Maryland Heights. Percy knew the Yankee gunners could easily blow the Chesapeake into oblivion if the telegraph had already alerted them to the stolen train.

Percy realized both his fireman and engineer were watching him expectantly.

“Now what, sir?” Wilson finally asked.

“Open the throttle,” Percy ordered. “Let’s see how fast we can cross that bridge.”

George Greer watched with satisfaction as soldiers and his own crew swarmed onto the Lord Baltimore . “Grab hold of something,” he shouted. “This train is going to fly.”

“How are we going to get all my men on there?” Captain Lowell wondered.

“They can ride on the tender if they have to,” Greer said. As he admired the gleaming new locomotive, it was all he could do not to give a big old war whoop. “Ha! With an engine like that, there’s nothing that can outrun us.”

The soldiers jammed aboard the Lord Baltimore . At first, the conductor for the B&O’s new locomotive complained, but his protests were soon drowned out. Red-faced, he jumped down from the cab and shook his fist at Greer. “If you wreck this train, it’s on your head, not mine!”

Not all the displaced crew was so hostile. “We saw your train go by,” the Lord Baltimore’s fireman said to Greer. “She was steaming west like a bat out of hell. She’s got quite a head start, but if anything can catch her, it’s this engine here.”

Greer, Schmidt and Frost crowded into the cab, along with the young captain. The soldiers climbed onto the tender or wherever else they could find a perch.

They were just getting underway when a lone, rotund figure jumped down heavily from the train they had been riding and ran toward them with a rolling, clumsy gait.

“Wait for me!” the heavyset man puffed. Greer recognized him as one of the passengers from the Chesapeake put off by the raiders. “I want to come along.”

“Who the hell are you?” Greer demanded.

“My name’s Prescott,” he wheezed. “I’m a lawyer.”

Greer could not help but laugh. “We don’t need any lawyers, Mr. Prescott. We’re going to hang these Rebs, not sue ’em — or put ’em on trial, either, for that matter.”

“I want to see this thing through,” Prescott said. “Besides, I know all these Confederates by sight. I can help you find them if they leave the train and head into any towns.”

“He has a point there,” Captain Lowell said.

Greer thought it over. “All right, Mr. Prescott, jump on.”

Prescott was jogging alongside the engine, which was rapidly gaining speed. The effort left him red-faced and wheezing. Schmidt reached down and helped swing Prescott’s bulk aboard. The cab became even more crowded as the fat man squeezed inside.

Not that Greer was paying any attention to comfort. He smiled, watching Schmidt’s capable hands work the controls. He had heard about the Lord Baltimore , and he knew they were going after the raiders in one of the biggest, fastest locomotives that had ever run the B&O’s rails. This was one of the new breed of locomotives that would spin across the rails leading west once the bloodshed of the war was over.

Greer watched an enormous grin appear on the engineer’s beefy face as he opened the throttle and felt the power of the huge driving wheels spin, then finally catch on the rails. Frost was busy with a shovel, tossing coal into the firebox. Unlike most of the other trains operated by the B&O, the Lord Baltimore was a coal-burner. The new-fangled fuel provided an even, intense heat that helped push the locomotive to greater speeds than her wood-burning counterparts. Thick, black smoke poured from the funnel overhead.

“Now we’ve got them!” Greer shouted. He felt elated. He had a fast engine under him and a squadron of armed soldiers aboard. Finally, he had a real chance of catching and stopping the Rebel raiders. “We’ll hang every last one of the bastards along the tracks and let the crows peck the eyes out of their damn Rebel carcasses.”

“We don’t have any rope,” Captain Lowell pointed out.

“Then we shall have a firing squad,” Greer said. “Line up those thieving Rebs and shoot them.” He was enjoying himself.

“I’m not sure I can order my men to do that,” Lowell said uneasily.

“You can always shoot the Rebels if they try to escape, Captain,” Greer pointed out, grinning wickedly, and thinking that Lowell was too soft to be a decent officer. “It might just happen that those Rebs are all going to be shot trying to escape. What do you think of that, Mr. Prescott? From a legal point of view?”

The lawyer was still trying to get his wind back after running to catch the train. “Whatever you say,” he wheezed. “You’re the conductor.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Greer clapped him on the back, then said gleefully, “Open her up, Oscar. Let’s see what she can do.”

Schmidt opened the throttle wide. The sudden rush of wind tore off the soldiers’ hats and howled outside the cab as the engine surged ahead, faster and faster. To Greer’s ears, that wind was the sound of vengeance.

“Ain’t much wood left, Colonel,” said Cephas Wilson, nodding at the tender. Operating at full-throttle, the Chesapeake burned terrific quantities of wood. Wilson glanced at a gauge. “And we’re low on water.”

“No time to stop now,” Percy said. “We’ve got to get across that bridge and through Harpers Ferry. Once we’ve done that, we’ll practically be in Virginia. We can take on wood and water before running for the valley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s the next station coming up beyond the river?”

“Kearneysville.”

“We’ll stop there.”

Wilson looked worried. “If we can hold out that long.”

“We’ll have to,” Percy snapped. “We’re too close to Harpers Ferry to stop now and we sure as hell can’t go back.”

“I’ll coax as much out of her as I can,” Wilson said.

“I know you will. Now, I am going to climb back and tell Willie Forbes to come up here to help Hank with the wood,” Percy said. “Keep her wide open and don’t stop for anything. We’ve got to get across that bridge.”

Percy knew the safest course of action would be to stop the train and send Sergeant Pettibone ahead to scout the Yankee position. Were there any obstacles on the track? Did the Yankee gunners have their artillery aimed at the bridge, waiting for the appearance of the stolen train?

There was no time, however, to be cautious. The rapidly fading daylight dictated that.

Not that Percy had ever been known for caution. He smiled to himself. His reputation for military success had been built upon daring and surprise. He would have to hope that his luck held out at least one more time. Sometimes, it paid to be reckless. They would have to run at the bridge full throttle, hoping to rush across before the Yankee sentries could react. By then, they would be in West Virginia, racing toward the Shenandoah Valley and their rendezvous with Confederate forces there.

At that moment in Richmond, Colonel William Norris was climbing into his carriage in front of the Confederate Signal Bureau. His destination was Libby Prison, where captured Federal officers were held prisoner in the heart of the city.