David Healey - Rebel Train

“What’s happening, Mr. Arthur?” Hudson asked, dropping Percy’s military title to call him by the name he had known long before the war, back home in Virginia. “Why are we going so slow?”

“Wet wood,” Percy said. “Goddamn wet wood, Hud. It’s green and it’s damp and it won’t burn worth a damn. We can’t keep up a decent head of steam.”

“Looks like we’ve got another fight on our hands,” Flynn said.

Percy shook his head. “We’re not fighting this time, Flynn. We wouldn’t stand a chance, out here in the open. No, we’re running.” He gestured at the door to the president’s car. “Get Lincoln out. We’re taking him with us.”

“Sir?”

“Do as I say, goddamn it!”

Hudson was the first to move. He threw one of his massive shoulders against the door. Most doors would have flown off their hinges. The door to the president’s car barely moved.

“Stand back, Hudson,” Pettibone warned. He stepped forward and fired two quick shots into the lock. Iron and wood flew. Before the smoke from the shots even cleared, Hudson had his shoulder to the door again.

There were more shots, this time from the opposite side of the door. The bullets punched two holes in the door, the new wood suddenly showing bright where only dark planks had been before. Hudson stared down, dumbfounded, at the bright red stains spreading across his chest.

“I’m killed, Mr. Arthur,” he said, locking startled eyes with Percy. “I done tried to open the door.”

Hudson started to fall, and Percy lept forward to catch him. Hudson was a big man, but the colonel held him as if Hudson was a mere child, and he gently eased him to the floor of the platform.

“Hud!” he cried. “What have they done to you?”

But Hudson’s eyes already were turning glassy. Blood bubbled from the two holes in his chest.

Percy held him a moment longer, until his old friend was gone. Slowly, he let go of Hudson’s body. Then he stood.

“Colonel?” Pettibone asked.

Percy did not appear to have heard. He drew his Colt revolver, aimed at the door, and cocked the hammer.

Flynn spoke up, gently but firmly. “Colonel, sir, maybe it would be best if you asked President Lincoln to come out. You know how to do it, sir. Gentlemanly, like. We are supposed to bring him to Richmond.”

For a moment, it looked as if Percy might turn the Colt on Flynn. He glared at him, but at the same time seemed to look right through him. His angry expression faded. “For once, Flynn, you’re talking sense.”

The colonel approached the door, stood to one side, cleared his throat, and spoke: “Mr. Lincoln? Mr. President, sir? This is Colonel Percy again. I ask you to open the door. You have already killed one of my men. If you don’t come out, we will have no choice but to open fire on you. Frankly, sir, it will be like shooting hogs in a pen.” His tone grew threatening as anger over Hudson’s death edged back into his voice. “Not that you don’t deserve it. You’re a damn Yankee coward for shooting through the door.”

Percy heard voices inside. Lincoln and his bodyguard arguing? From what he had heard of Lincoln, the man probably would not give up easily. Then again, Lincoln was no soldier like the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis. He was used to contests of wills, not of arms.

“We’re waiting for your reply, Mr. President,” Percy pressed.

Finally, a high and reedy voice answered from within. Was it Lincoln’s? “You realize, Colonel, that we can see out the windows. There’s an entire train carrying Federal soldiers just behind you. You’re out of time, sir. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be knocking on the door. Might I even suggest that you surrender to prevent further bloodshed?”

Percy never had a chance to reply. No sooner had the voice that must be the president’s finished speaking, than rifle fire began to pour from the oncoming Yankee train. Although the Yankees were still several hundred feet away, the four fully exposed Rebels on the platform of last car made a tempting target. Minié bullets buzzed like fat bumblebees. Most of the shots went wide, but one stung Pettibone, cutting a bloody swath across his arm. Another bullet struck Hudson’s body with a sickening thunk that shook the corpse.

Back at Kearneysville, there had been eight raiders to fight the Yankees. Now there were just four. The enemy soldiers were hungry to avenge their own dead companions and the fire increased as the train roared closer.

Percy jumped down, raised his Colt, and fired a single shot straight into the air. He had arranged this signal with Cephas Wilson. No sooner had the shot been fired, but the Chesapeake ground to a halt, reversed direction, and began to creep toward the oncoming Yankee train.

“Now what?” Benjamin wondered.

“Unless those Yankees stop in time, there’s going to be one hell of a collision,” Flynn said.

“Get the hell out of here!” Percy shouted. “You might have a chance to reach the valley if you keep out of sight and follow the river west.”

Then Percy was gone, running toward the front of the train. Flynn was left on the car with Pettibone and the boy.

Flynn turned to Pettibone. “What are you going to do?”

Pettibone answered with a humorless smile and glanced down at his arm. For the first time, Flynn noticed that Pettibone’s sleeve was soaked in blood. His leg was bandaged from the bayonet wound back at the depot. He must have been in a great deal of pain, but he bore it stoically. “I’m staying right here,” Pettibone said. “If Abe Lincoln comes out, I aim to shoot him.”

“That would be a fine plan if we weren’t about to ram that other train,” Flynn pointed out. “I do believe the colonel intends to assassinate the president with a train collision.”

“I’ll jump before that happens,” Pettibone said. “I’ll keep Abe from doing the same.”

“I’m staying with you,” Benjamin said.

“No, you ain’t,” Pettibone said. “Go with Flynn, boy. That’s an order.”

Flynn hesitated. In spite of the fact that everything had gone about as wrong as it could, he couldn’t help but remember their mission. If Lincoln would not be going to Richmond as a captive, then he must be assassinated. Those were the orders. Normally, he would not have cared much for orders. But he could see the importance to the Confederacy. Already, good men had lost their lives for this foolhardy enterprise. He had to at least try to finish what they had begun.

However, there was no way they could get to the Yankee president so long as he was locked up tight inside the rail car. They could always set it on fire, just as Flynn had done to the boxcar, and smoke Lincoln out. But they were fresh out of kerosene lanterns — and time. They were heading right for the Yankees.

Of course, the collision with the Yankee train might kill the president, but Flynn couldn’t count on that. Also, if he ever saw Colonel Norris again, he could honestly tell him he had tried to assassinate the Yankee president.

“Give me your pistol, lad,” he said to Benjamin.

The boy did as Flynn asked. Flynn held the Le Mat in his left hand, the Colt in his right. As Benjamin and Pettibone watched in surprise, he took a step back and emptied both guns into the door of Lincoln’s car. Splinters flew and smoke filled the air before being whipped away in the wind. The echoes from the gunshots rolled away across the mountaintops. He handed back Benjamin’s pistols. “Better reload these.”

“What the—”

“That should settle Honest Abe. If the bullets missed him, then he’s a lucky man and deserves to live,” Flynn said. He turned to Pettibone. “Sure you don’t want to come with us now?”