David Healey - Rebel Train

Hazlett took hold of his end of the rail. They pounded at the end wall until one by one the boards popped loose and they had created a ragged hole. As soon as they finished, Pettibone crawled out the front of the car to continue his guard duty with Hudson.

Hazlett watched Pettibone go, a crooked smile on his face. “Colonel won’t trust me to guard Honest Abe, I reckon. He knows I’d finish the job and be done with it.”

Hazlett, Fletcher and Cook were alone in the boxcar. Cook touched the bloody bandage around his lower leg, then sipped at a flask of whiskey to dull the pain. The wound throbbed as if someone was jabbing at his leg with a hot poker. He knew the pain would only get worse.

“If that leg turns bad it will have to come off,” Hazlett said. “Some doctor will have at it with a bone saw.”

“Go to hell, Hazlett. It ain’t goin’ to turn bad.”

“You get gangrene on us and die, hell, that leaves more of that money for us.”

“It ain’t turnin’ bad,” Cook said, a little desperately this time. Every soldier had seen the horror of rotting arms and legs from infected wounds. The only salvation then lay in a doctor sawing off the infected limb. The operation was almost as likely to kill a man as the gangrene. “I know it ain’t.”

“We’ve got to get that money now, while the Yankees ain’t breathing down our necks,” Hazlett said. “If we don’t take it now, we ain’t goin’ to be around to do it. Captain, you still with us? We need to get that money and get off the train now. If we do that, the Yankees ain’t goin’ to get a chance to hang us.”

“I’m with you,” Fletcher said. He could almost feel the raw burn of a noose around his neck.

“The colonel won’t like it,” Cook said. “He’s your own kin, Hazlett.”

Hazlett snorted and bared his fang-like teeth in a sneer. “He’s kin I can do without. Always acts like he’s better than me. Besides, once those Yankees catch him, they’ll stretch his neck right good. If he gets in our way, I’ll save them the trouble.”

“So what do we do?” Fletcher asked.

Hazlett took out his revolver. “What we do is load our guns. Then we make ourselves rich.”

“Get those ties off the tracks!” Greer barked at the soldiers. “Hurry it up!”

The soldiers worked feverishly, several of them grabbing at once for the heavy timbers and pitching them aside. Some of the men worked with fingers broken in the attack, but they did not complain. The Rebels had killed four of their own. Now, they were bent on revenge.

The ties piled across the tracks were not a huge obstacle, but it was enough to slow them down and buy the Rebels time. Already, the Chesapeake was gathering speed, disappearing down the tracks. A few soldiers still loaded and fired after the train, but Greer ordered them to put down their muskets and help with the work.

“Hurry, boys, hurry!” Greer cried. He grabbed the end of a tie and single-handedly hurled it off the tracks.

Panting from the effort, Greer took stock of the situation while he caught his breath. He still had sixteen men, all of them hungry to shoot a Rebel. For most, it was the first action they had seen.

Greer’s only regret was that the Rebels had not shot Captain Lowell. The skirmish had left the captain shaken, but he had recovered enough to help the men move the ties off the track.

Greer ordered the bodies dragged into a row beside the stationmaster’s office. They would come back later to bury them. There was no time for that now.

How many Rebels were dead? None that he had seen. He had counted just eight raiders altogether, not including the three working to refuel the locomotive. Tough bastards, to have held off more than twice their number. Greer was determined that the Rebels wouldn’t be so lucky next time.

With the tracks cleared, the soldiers began to scramble back aboard the train. Up in the cab, Schmidt had already set the Lord Baltimore moving. Greer caught the back of the locomotive and climbed up.

“All right, Oscar,” he said. “Let’s go get those Johnny Rebs.”

Hazlett was in the boxcar at the back of the train, thinking. The skirmish with the Yankees had been a close thing. He was not so sure he and the other raiders would fare so well if it came to another fight.

His mind made up, Hazlett stood. “It’s time,” he said.

He crossed over to the president’s car, followed by Captain Fletcher and John Cook.

“What’s going on?” asked Pettibone, who was standing guard with Hudson. “Your orders were to stay in that boxcar.”

“Don’t go telling me about orders,” Hazlett said, sneering. “We’re on our way to see the colonel.”

“All three of you ain’t got to see him,” Pettibone said. “You’re supposed to stay here in case the Yankees show up on our tail again.”

“Corporal Pettibone, get the hell out of my way,” Hazlett snarled.

Pettibone did not move. Behind the corporal, Hudson’s massive bulk stood like a wall.

Hazlett knew better than to ask Pettibone and Hudson to join the mutiny. Both were loyal to the colonel, especially Hudson. Besides, Hazlett didn’t see why a white man should have to share good money with someone like Hudson.

But this was not the time for a fight. Hazlett knew they had to overpower Percy first. Pettibone could either join him then — or get shot. For the moment, there were other ways to get around him.

Hazlett forced a smile and turned to Fletcher. “Captain?”

“You heard him,” Fletcher said. “We have to see the colonel.”

Pettibone might oppose a sergeant, but he could not argue with an officer, even if it was only Captain Fletcher.

“All right, have it your way,” Pettibone said, then stepped aside.

Hazlett bumped him with his shoulder as he went past and reached for the ladder that led to the roof of the car. “Me and you can talk later, Pettibone.”

He started up the ladder. The only way to reach the rest of the train was across the top of the president’s car. Hazlett climbed to the roof, clambered onto it, and started across in a wide-legged crouch to keep his balance. Wind sang in his ears and the car swayed dangerously as the train raced down the tracks. He tried not to look down.

The roof sloped away from either side of the ridge only enough to shed rain, so the surface was relatively flat. The ground on either side was a blur and tree branches clawed at him. If he was knocked off and hit the ground at this speed, he would be a dead man. Hazlett scrambled across. Captain Fletcher and Private Cook soon followed.

“I don’t want to do that again,” Cook said as he reached the safety of the ladder.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Fletcher said, caught up in the excitement of what they were about to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alive.

They climbed down the other side and entered the baggage car.

“Here it is,” Hazlett said, checking on the money they would soon be taking. If the three men had any lingering doubts concerning what they were about to do, the sight of all those greenbacks put them to rest. It was more money than any of them had ever seen.

“We’re rich,” Fletcher said. He sounded giddy.

“We’ve got to get the money off the train first,” Cook said soberly. “Then we’ll be rich.”

Taking the money wasn’t going to be easy. They could have thrown the money off the train and jumped after it, but no one could leap from a train moving at sixty miles per hour and expect to live. The ground would hit him like a club.

The only other choice was to seize control of the train from Colonel Percy and force the Chesapeake to slow or stop so they could unload the money. They would need to do that before the Yankee train reappeared on the tracks behind them. Hazlett hadn’t thought it through, but he knew that any good soldier sometimes had to make things up as he went along.