Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

But the journey had to be postponed a few moments more. Sam urged us to keep silent. He had seen a train approaching from the east—he pointed out a trail of smoke hovering over the eastern passes. “Stay hidden until it goes by, every one of you.”

We were only a few yards from the track where it crossed the peak of the ridge to begin its descent into Chicoutimi , and soon the train would be just adjacent to us. “Shouldn’t we fire on it, or do something soldierly such as that?” asked Lymon Pugh.

“It may not be a military train,” said Sam. “I don’t see any great advantage in shooting unarmed civilians, even among the Dutch. And gunfire would draw attention on us, in any case, and probably get us killed.”

No one was inclined to argue the point. We were low on ammunition, anyhow, for we had wasted some of it shooting unproductively into empty squirrels’ nests in hopes of bringing down a little fresh meat. We sat tight among the rocks and spindly winter bushes until we could hear the train’s Dutch engine straining against the slope, and feel the rumble of it. I had not seen a Mitteleuropan train before, and I wondered what it would look like.

It hove into view, finally, and it was not much different from an American train, in so far as function dictates form in these matters, though it did look very smoothly-built, and the engine was painted an unusual blue-gray color. What was alarming was not the design of the train but its speed, which was slow, and, worse, slowing. In fact it seemed as if the train was coming to a stop.

We raised our heads despite Sam’s warning. The train was a military one. That much was patently obvious. The engine was drawing only a pair of cars, both of which bore the sinister cross-and-laurel insigne of the Mitteleuropan army. “We ought to have pulled up the track,” Lymon Pugh whispered to me, “to keep that thing from reaching Chicoutimi with whatever it’s carrying.”

“There wasn’t time,” I said, “even if we had thought of it. Perhaps we can tear up the tracks later; but keep your wits about you, Lymon, I believe that train isn’t going any farther than right here.”

We had no plan for this unexpected contingency. Sam hastily motioned at us to move a little ways up along the ridge, though still keeping the mysterious Dutch train within sight. Why had it come to this hilltop near Chicoutimi , and why had it paused right near us? No simple explanation sprang to mind.

Sam halted us in a stand of naked birches where the hummocky ground made it easy to disguise ourselves against accidental discovery. We watched the train in breathless anticipation. Someone wondered aloud whether the train might not have been sent explicitly to hunt for us; but one misplaced American infantry company was not significant to the Dutch, Sam said.

Major Lampret stirred from his funk and said, “We ought to get as far from that thing as possible. We endanger ourselves by sitting here—why don’t we retreat?”

“We’re as safe here as anywhere,” Sam said coolly, “as long as we’re not seen. Stay put.”

“Don’t presume to give me orders,” said Lampret.

Evidently Major Lampret had regrown his spine; but he had chosen a poor time to enter into an argument over rank, I thought. The men of the company thought so, too, for they hissed at him to keep quiet. “I suppose we could all fly home, if we had Angel’s Wings,” one man muttered.

Lampret gave way, fearing mutiny; but he said to Sam, in a low tone, “We’ll talk about insubordination when we get back to camp.”

“That would be a more convenient time to discuss it,” Sam agreed; and Lampret lapsed back into his sullen silence.

In the meantime the Dutch train had halted altogether, noisily bleeding steam from its valves, and a few Mitteleuropan soldiers clambered off the rear car. What appeared to interest them was a little clearing just at the western side of the train—a granite shoulder covered with pebbles and tufts of brittle weeds. The Dutch soldiers scouted out that flat space meticulously, and shaded their eyes, and peered off toward the distant Saguenay , and spoke their unintelligible language to one another. Then they returned to the train, and rolled back the door on one of the twin boxcars.

The open door admitted a shaft of sunlight and revealed the car’s contents, at which we all gasped: for the train was carrying a Chinese Cannon.

Sam detailed a pair of men to count the enemy soldiers as they disembarked and prepared to assemble the Cannon. I asked Julian what he thought was going on.

“Isn’t it obvious, Adam? They mean to set up an artillery battery.”

“What—here? It’s a long way from the fight.”

“You forget the extraordinary range of the Chinese Cannon. That’s the advantage of it: it can be placed far from the active lines, and still be an effective weapon. The drawback is that it’s bulky and has to be carried by a whole convoy of wagons, or by a train, for instance in those two cars.”

Both boxcars had been opened now, and we could see that the assembly and activation of the Cannon would not be a simple task for the gunners. Its great Rotary Base occupied one car, and the Barrel of the thing, broken into telescoping pieces, occupied the other. The cargo of the train also included a couple of mules, to assist in haulage and enstationment, and winches and levers and other necessary tools. There was also a number of crates marked BOMBE , a word even Lymon Pugh was able to translate from the Dutch. [Or Deutsche, in this case, I’m told.]

We counted fifteen artillerymen, give or take, plus whatever crew remained aboard the engine.

“We outnumber them,” Julian remarked.

“Perhaps,” Sam said. “But they’re conspicuously better-armed.”

“But we have the element of surprise.”

“Are you suggesting we engage the Dutch artillery?”

“I’m suggesting we have a duty not to let those shells fall on American soldiers, if we can help it.”

That was a bold but bracing declaration, and it pleased some in our company who were anxious to make the Dutch pay a price for inconveniencing us with their war, and for the cowardly act of shooting Captain Glasswood through the ear. Sam smiled. “Well said. But we have to be clever about it, Julian, not just belligerent. What would you do, if it was your command?”

“Capture the train,” Julian said.

The company of us had all gathered around, and some grinned at this, though Major Lampret scowled and shook his head.

“That’s an objective,” Sam said patiently, “not a plan. Tell me your plan.”

Julian took a moment to assess the situation, peering at the train and the surrounding landscape. “Post most of our company on that lip overlooking the ridge where the tall trees are—do you see? We can conceal ourselves and make every shot count, which is important, given our limited munitions; and from there we can range in on anyone who hasn’t deliberately taken cover.”

“Thus employing the element of surprise,” Sam said.

“Surprise and distraction. We could leave a couple of men here, to make some sort of demonstration, and draw the attention of the Dutch in exactly the wrong direction.”

The two of them discussed the idea at length, with others in the company chiming in with suggestions. Then Sam said: “It might work. I think it will work, if we execute it correctly. But that would leave us in possession of a train containing a Chinese Cannon—what do we do with it once we have it?”

“Drive it down toward Chicoutimi,” said Julian.

“For what purpose?”

“It depends on the state of the fighting. If the rail happens to cross into territory held by our forces, we can deliver the Cannon to them—and be feted as heroes, no doubt. Failing that, we can destroy the Cannon and render it useless to the Dutch.”