David Healey - Rebel Train

From between the tender’s wheels, he chanced a look at the president. He stood head and shoulders above the other men, but he was too far away and surrounded by too many men for a clear shot. All the men except Lincoln had guns in their hands.

There must be another way. Percy studied the underside of the tender above him and quickly made up his mind.

The bottom of the tender was not even two feet above the tracks. The car had been strongly built to carry huge loads of coal, and the underbelly was crisscrossed by a framework of wooden beams. Percy intended to hide in that framework. Someone glancing under the tender would never see him.

Percy was able to work his body into a space between two beams that ran the length of the car. Another wooden stringer ran the width of the car to create a kind of shelf. There was just enough room to wedge himself between the makeshift shelf and the floor of the car above. It was an incredibly tight squeeze, and he wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to get himself out again. Still, he had to try.

Voices .

The sound of talking men came closer. He heard men walking toward the locomotive and tender. Get small, he told himself. Get very small. He gave a final grunt, squeezed, and was suddenly jammed into place as tight as a walnut in its shell. Percy held himself still as boots crunched on the gravel just feet away from him.

“I’d like to stay for the hanging,” said a voice, so close it could have been in Percy’s ear. “I want to see that Reb colonel get what he deserves.”

“I’ve seen enough men die for one day,” the other soldier said, then spat a gob of tobacco juice on the rail near Percy’s head. It landed inches away with a wet splat. “I’ll be glad to leave.”

Once the men climbed aboard, Percy squirmed in hopes of settling into a more comfortable position, but it was impossible — iron rivets dug into his back no matter what he tried. Wherever they were going, it was going to be a cramped, miserable ride, but when the train stopped, he planned to settle this business once and for all. He vowed that he would make sure his men had not died for nothing.

After a few minutes, more men climbed aboard. The train began to steam in reverse, going back the way it had come and leaving the wreckage of the Rebel train behind. Percy tried not to look down, where the railroad bed was a blur beneath his face.

Duty , he reminded himself. I do this in the name of duty .

Flynn, Nellie and Benjamin hurried along the canal towpath. From the direction of the train, they heard a series of gunshots. Then all was quiet.

“You reckon the Yankees got Pettibone and the others, Flynn?” Benjamin asked.

“I reckon they did, lad,” Flynn replied, puffing under the weight of the sack of money he carried.

“Even Colonel Percy?”

“Percy’s a sly one. I wouldn’t number him among the dead just yet.”

“Do you reckon you got Lincoln when you shot through the door?”

“I must have. There’s not many men who can dodge a dozen bullets.”

“Stop talking and hurry it up,” Nellie snapped impatiently.

“I never thought money could be so heavy,” Benjamin said.

Flynn laughed. “I can think of worse burdens.”

The towpath was a well-worn dirt road, a good twelve feet wide, and they covered the ground quickly. Flynn couldn’t help thinking that the soldiers, who wouldn’t be weighed down by sacks of money, would have an easy time chasing them down along this road.

It was growing dark. Overhead, the bare, intertwined branches of the trees served to block what light remained, so that it was as if they were moving through a tunnel. Nightfall would work both for and against them. The soldiers would have a harder time following them in the dark, but on the other hand, Flynn, Nellie and Benjamin would be traveling blindly down unfamiliar roads.

“This way,” Nellie said, leading them toward a road that emptied into the towpath near one of the canal locks. Nobody was in sight.

“Where are we going, Nellie?” Flynn asked, amused that the woman had taken charge. “You act like you know this road.”

“Any road is better than this towpath,” she said. “As soon as the soldiers are finished with that train, they’re going to come after us, and they’ll make better time.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Flynn said.

“How do we know we won’t run into a Yankee patrol on this here road?” Benjamin asked.

“We don’t,” Flynn panted. “But Nellie has a point. The more distance we put between ourselves and the railroad tracks, the better. We’ve got to cover all the miles we can tonight. The roads will be swarming with troops looking for us at first list. Anyhow, lad, keep that gun of yours handy.”

They hurried on, with Nellie in the lead.

Benjamin stumbled. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Darkness was falling quickly, especially on the roadway, which ran beneath a canopy of overhanging trees. It had grown cooler, too, although they were moving so fast that they barely noticed the damp chill that crept up from the river.

“What are you going to do with your share of the money, Nellie?” Flynn asked.

“I’m going to buy a big house in a fine neighborhood in Baltimore and I’m going to have lots of Irish servants.”

“Irish are too much trouble,” Flynn said. “I’d look for a good English butler, if I were you.”

Benjamin had caught up again. He managed to laugh, despite his heavy load. He cut himself short and stared down the road into the gathering darkness.

Nellie and Flynn saw them, too, and stopped.

Four horsemen waited up ahead, blocking the road. They were hard-looking characters. They wore wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes, shading their faces. All were armed, their hands within easy reach of their guns. There was no hint of any uniform, either blue or gray, and Flynn wished he had seen the horsemen in time to duck off the road. Flynn had the uneasy feeling that the horsemen were expecting them. He was afraid they had walked right into a trap set by the Yankees.

Flynn dropped his money bag and reached for his gun. “We may be in for a bit of trouble.”

Greer insisted on the hanging. It would have been easier simply to shoot the captured Rebel, but Greer would not be cheated out of his revenge. After all, Greer had chased his stolen train across two states, seen his fireman and friend Walter Frost killed, and probably lost his job with the railroad. Hanging the lone raider they had caught was a small consolation. No one even bothered to suggest that the Rebel be taken back to Baltimore so that he could be sent to military prison.

A rope was found, a noose made, and John Cook was marched at bayonet point to a suitable tree not far from the tracks. An uncomfortable silence had fallen over the soldiers. It was one thing to talk about a hanging, but now that they had the rope and the noose, no one was eager to carry out the task at hand.

“Let’s string him up,” Greer ordered.

“You ain’t got no right,” Cook protested. He was close to tears. Several of the soldiers looked away, not wanting to meet Cook’s eyes. “I’m a prisoner of war. You can’t hang me.”

“You’re a thief and a spy, you damn Reb. Now shut the hell up or I’ll have a gag put in your mouth.”

Cook decided to die quietly. He choked back a sob and shuffled toward the noose. His hands were tied behind his back, but his legs weren’t bound.

Night was coming on fast. The train carrying Lincoln and the others had already steamed away. Greer could scarcely believe his train had been secretly carrying the president to Gettysburg when the raiders struck. He felt angry, too, for not having been told the president was aboard. He understood the need for secrecy, but if he had only known what an important passenger his train carried, he might never have stepped off the train in Sykesville for breakfast. None of this mess would have happened. As it stood now, he would always look like a fool because of the day’s events. That thought snuffed any spark of mercy he might have felt toward the Rebel about to be hanged.