David Healey - Rebel Train

“Neither will I,” Hudson announced. “He didn’t have much use for negroes.”

“That leaves fewer of us to fight the Yankees,” Pettibone said.

“Hell, it just evens the odds,” Flynn said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, lads, the boy and I have work to do.”

Flynn crossed the open space between the two cars and ducked into the boxcar, with Benjamin right behind him.

“I ain’t a boy,” Benjamin said, once they were inside the car.

Flynn looked at him, saw a face that could not yet grow more than a few scraggly whiskers, and suppressed a grin. Benjamin really was just a boy, but there was no denying he was doing a man’s work.

“Right you are, Private,” Flynn said. “My apologies. Now, grab hold of the other end of this tie. Let’s give the Yankees something to chew on.”

The railroad tie was carved from black locust, a species whose dense wood was naturally resistant to rot. It was six inches square and almost as heavy as iron. They maneuvered it toward the hole in the back wall of the boxcar, stumbling every time the speeding train swayed on the tracks.

“When I say the word, give her a big push,” Flynn said.

He eased the tie out and balanced it on the edge of the opening. Flynn knew what they were doing was purely desperate, but it still had some small chance of success. If they could get the tie to land on the tracks in just the right way, it might get caught up in the machinery of the wheels and driving rods of the pursuing locomotive. They might even manage to derail the train.

“Now!” he yelled, and with a powerful shove, they sent the tie shooting out of the boxcar. It missed the tracks altogether and bounced, turning end over end until it landed in the river with a tremendous splash.

“This might take some practice,” Flynn said. “Let’s try again.”

They manhandled another tie into position. The soldiers aboard the Lord Baltimore were now firing at the boxcar. Fortunately, a speeding train wasn’t the most stable platform to shoot from. The soldiers were also hampered by their own engine ahead of them, which blocked a clear shot. Still, the mini bullets drilled through the boxcar with disturbing ease. Splinters showered down upon Flynn and Benjamin. They had no choice but to go on working as the bullets zipped past with hair-raising, high-pitched whines.

They hurled the tie out. It bounced and rolled, then came to rest across the iron rails, perpendicular to the oncoming train. The Yankee train’s cowcatcher swept it aside like a toothpick.

“We may be in trouble, lad,” Flynn conceded. A bullet cracked between them. Benjamin flinched, but Flynn ignored it. “You’ll never hear the one that kills you. Now, let’s give it one more try.”

They wrestled another tie into place. Both of them sweated from the effort of moving the heavy lengths of wood. Another minié bullet punched through the wall. It seemed to Flynn that their train had lost even more ground to the Yankee engine. He maneuvered the tie closer to the edge.

“If this one don’t do it, lad, our goose may be cooked. Give her a good shove. Now!”

This time, the tie came to rest inside the tracks, parallel to the iron rails, making a kind of wooden third rail. It slipped beneath the oncoming locomotive’s cattle guard and suddenly the train jolted as the locust tie entangled itself in the train’s undercarriage. The whole engine swayed and shuddered.

“Ha, ha!” Flynn shouted triumphantly. “Look at that!”

The locomotive lurched to one side. Chewed wood spit from between the churning iron wheels. The train gave one last spasm and rushed on. Flynn felt his hopes sink.

“I reckon we’re in trouble, Sergeant,” Benjamin said. More bullets plucked at the boxcar, and both men hunkered in the shelter of the stacked ties. Lead spattered against the wood with a sound like June bugs smacking into window glass on a summer night.

Flynn clapped Benjamin on the shoulder. “Well, boy — I mean, Private —the fight ain’t over yet.”

Flynn looked around the boxcar. There was still a good supply of ties remaining, but another attempt to derail the oncoming train would be suicide. Since the last tie had been so effective, the Yankees were now pouring fire at the boxcar. If they stayed, it was only a matter of time before one of them was shot.

He spotted an oil lantern on the floor by the sliding side door. It must have been left behind by the workmen who used the boxcar while making repairs to the tracks. The sight of the lantern gave Flynn an idea. He smiled.

“Get out of the car, lad,” he ordered Benjamin. “I’m setting it on fire.”

Flynn grabbed the lantern and smashed it against the wall. He splashed kerosene generously around the boxcar, letting it soak into the wood. His nose wrinkled against the acrid smell.

Bullets hammered through the walls. Flynn kept his head down. The Yankees must be coming closer, he thought.

Flynn took out his revolver, held the muzzle close to a spot on the floor that was slick with kerosene, and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash set the kerosene burning. Flynn waited until the small flame lept higher and began to spread. Fire licked across the floor and up the walls, and the car began to fill with choking, black smoke. Coughing, Flynn scrambled out and jumped to the platform of Lincoln’s car, where Pettibone, Benjamin and Hudson waited.

“What the hell are you doing, Flynn?” Pettibone demanded as smoke began to billow from the boxcar.

“Making things hot for the Yankees,” Flynn replied. “Now unhitch her, lads, unhitch her.”

Wind from the rush of their passage fed the flames, which soon poured from the car’s openings. Unless they all wanted to be burned alive, they had to detach the burning car. Pettibone got down on his belly and reached for the pin that held the coupling between the two cars in place.

“It won’t come loose,” he said. Orange tendrils of fire whipped over his head, beating at the air. “It’s no good.”

“Let me help,” Flynn said, and climbed over the side. The coupling between the two cars was like an iron handshake, gripping them together, and the iron bars that ran from the coupling to the undercarriage of each car were like the wrists. Flynn edged out onto the closest of these bars, keeping one hand on the platform railing for balance. It was a perilous place to be, balancing on the three-inch-wide bar, because each jolt of the train threatened to throw him beneath the wheels. Flames fluttered within a few feet of his face.

Carefully, Flynn reached down and took hold of the coupling pin. He tugged and tugged again, but the pin wouldn’t move. Friction and pressure held the coupling pin in place. He would have to find a moment when the weight of the cars shifted enough so that the pressure on the pin eased and he could pull it right out.

“You’re a damn fool, Flynn,” Pettibone shouted. The burning boxcar was rapidly becoming an inferno, and the flames had driven the men up against the side of Lincoln’s car, where they covered their faces against the heat. “You’re going to get us all burned up.”

Flames lashed at Flynn, singeing the sleeve of his coat. The heat was like standing in front of a blast furnace.

Flynn reached for the pin, grabbed it. A sudden lurching of the train threw him off balance and he lost his grip on the pin. He would have fallen and been ground to sausage under the wheels, but Hudson sprang forward and caught Flynn’s coat, steadying him. Flynn nodded his thanks, then bent again to tug at the pin. If he couldn’t get it out and separate the cars, the whole train might burn up, President Lincoln included.

He slipped his fingers around the iron nub, and lifted straight up. The pin slid free this time as easily as a ramrod out of a musket barrel. Flynn tossed the pin away, then kicked at the coupling to break the grip between the two cars. Nothing moved. Flynn hid his face in the crook of his elbow to protect it from the flames. The heat from the burning car was making it difficult to breathe and the hair sticking from under the edges of his hat burned away. Finally, the train jolted over some rough place in the tracks, the coupling separated, and the flaming boxcar drifted back toward the Yankees.