David Healey - Rebel Train

Nothing made Percy’s skin crawl so much as the weird buzz of a mini bullet zipping past his ear. He suddenly heard several. Splinters flew from the piles of ties behind which his men were sheltering. They couldn’t hold the Yankees for long.

After getting off that first shot, Percy held his own fire until his men emptied their guns. Then he fired as his men reloaded. He picked his targets carefully, forcing the Yankees to keep their heads down.

He looked back at the Chesapeake , where he could see the train crew working. Hurry, damn you, hurry . He shouted to be heard over the gunfire: “Two minutes, Wilson! Then get her rolling!”

The engineer acknowledged him with a wave and Percy turned back to the work at hand. Some of his men had reloaded and were shooting back. Still, one good rush from the Yankees and it would all be over.

A man jumped down from the engine’s cab. Percy recognized him as the Chesapeake’s conductor, still wearing his blue uniform with the double row of shiny brass buttons. Amazed, he realized this man had been pursuing them relentlessly since they had taken the train at Sykesville. How many miles was that? Seventy? Eighty? Percy felt a grudging sense of admiration for the conductor. Not just any man would chase a train that far. The colonel also felt a twinge of uneasiness. It was the stubborn Yankees who were the most dangerous.

As Percy watched, the conductor acted indifferently toward the hail of fire from the Confederates, not even bothering to hurry. As bullets flicked around him, he stopped to shout something at the captain cowering behind the engine. He then stomped angrily to one of the dead Yankees, snatched up the soldier’s rifle, and aimed it deliberately at Percy.

Percy swung the revolver up and aimed hastily, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Damn. He ducked, and shards of wood exploded from near where his head had been a second ago.

The conductor turned and rallied the soldiers. Bayonets flashed in the late afternoon sun as they fixed them to their rifle muzzles. In a moment, the soldiers would charge and put an end to the raid. Percy’s men were outnumbered two-to-one, and would be overwhelmed.

“Here they come, lads!” Flynn shouted in warning.

Beside Percy, the train lurched forward and began to move. Pettibone and Fletcher, positioned behind the wheels of the boxcar, had to roll out of the way to keep from being run over. Yankee rifles spit lead at them as soon as they were in the open.

“Get on the train!” Percy ordered. “Let’s get out of here!”

The Yankees charged, shouting “ Huzzah!”

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” Flynn said. “Here they come.” His revolver clicked on an empty chamber.

“Come on, Flynn,” Percy said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Did you think I was going to stay and get a bayonet in the guts?”

They turned and ran.

Yankees pounded up the tracks right behind them. A tall Yankee outran the others and lifted his rifle high for a killing thrust at Percy’s back. Hudson jumped from between two cars, a blazing gun in each hand. Bullets knocked the tall Yankee off his feet and killed the man behind him. The other soldiers faltered long enough for Percy and Flynn to swing aboard the train.

The Yankees did not give up. The Chesapeake had not built enough speed to lose them, even on foot. They were still led by the conductor, who urged the soldiers on as they rushed the train, trying to climb aboard the last two cars — the boxcar of supplies and Lincoln’s car. Most of their rifles were empty, so they jabbed their bayonets at the raiders defending the cars. The raiders’s guns were empty, too, so they could only stomp on the hands of any Yankee who got a grip on the car, while dodging the knife-edged bayonets thrust at them. Legs were sliced open, fingers broke, and both sides screamed curses. The vicious running brawl followed the train down the tracks.

One bearded soldier grabbed hold of the iron railing at the back of Lincoln’s car and began to pull himself up. Flynn clubbed him with the butt of his pistol and the Yankee fell away with a strangled shout.

In the boxcar doorway, Cook screamed as a bayonet caught him in the calf and sliced to the bone. Hazlett kicked the soldier in the face and the man tumbled away.

The train gained speed. The soldiers had to run faster to keep up, and one by one they fell behind. Some loaded their rifles and fired. The whine of minié bullets followed the locomotive out of range. Aboard the Chesapeake , the raiders caught their breath.

“That was hot work, gentlemen,” Percy announced. He was bleeding from a bayonet gash near his knee. All four men were bloody and breathless from the fight.

“Those Yankees have a lot of spirit,” Flynn said. He, too, had been nicked in a couple of places, but he had taken his revenge. Flynn had felt at least two hands crushed under his boots as the Yankees tried to get onto the car.

Percy nodded at Lincoln’s door. “Any sound from in there?” he asked Hudson.

“No, Colonel. All quiet.”

Percy was glad Lincoln had not tried to escape during the confusion of the skirmish, because the president surely would have been killed in the crossfire. Percy was determined to deliver President Lincoln alive and well to Richmond. He felt that anything less would mean the raid was a failure.

Pettibone poked his head out from the hole in the boxcar. “Now what, Colonel?”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Cook got cut pretty bad. Hazlett’s wrapping up his leg. Other than that, just a few scratches.” As usual, Pettibone was the master of understatement. His lower legs were covered in blood from his bayonet wounds. The four men in the last car had suffered the worst of the Yankee attack. Fletcher was the only one who hadn’t been hurt, mainly because he had hung back while the others battled the Yankees in the doorway.

Percy glanced at the blood, but didn’t say anything about it. “All right. Now listen to me, Pettibone. I want you boys to knock a hole to match this one in the back wall of the boxcar. Use some of those ties in there as a battering ram if you have to.”

Pettibone looked puzzled.

“You’ll see,” Percy said. “When you’re finished, tell the other three to keep an eye out, because the Yankees will be after us again like flies on molasses. You come out here with Hudson to guard the president.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pettibone disappeared into the boxcar, where he relayed the orders to Hazlett, Cook and Fletcher. After the fight, the wounded men weren’t happy about the work at hand. Some grumbled as they picked up a railroad tie and began battering at the back wall of the box car.

“The colonel treats us like dogs, you know,” Hazlett said.

“Shut up, Hazlett,” Pettibone said. Normally, he was too wary of Hazlett to speak up, but the exhaustion and pain from his cut legs had dulled his sense of caution. “Percy has kept us from being caught yet, hasn’t he?”

“That was damn close back there,” Hazlett snarled. “If the Yankees catch us, you know what they’re goin’ to do, don’t you? They’re goin’ to hang us right beside the railroad tracks as thieves and spies. You ever seen anybody hang, Pettibone? It ain’t pretty. Your tongue gets all swollen and hangs out of your mouth, you shit your pants and if your neck don’t snap right off you swing there, kicking your feet.”

Beside him, Fletcher paled. “They can’t hang us like that,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“See if they don’t,” Hazlett replied.

“I seen men die,” Pettibone said flatly. “You’re forgettin’ I’ve been in this here war for almost three years. Ain’t no way to die that’s pretty, ’cept maybe home in bed. Now swing this damn rail, will you?”