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

“Destroy it how?”

“Put some sort of fuse on those shell-casings and blow it all up, I suppose. We might even turn the entire train into a sort of bomb—set it on fire and send it hurtling into Chicoutimi.”

“Hard on us, though, that scenario.”

“We can leap off at the closest approach to our lines, and make our way home.” Julian smiled. “If nothing else, it might save us a few miles walking.”

It was that humble suggestion that clinched the issue. We were all tired of walking, and the idea of riding a captured enemy train even halfway home was a pleasant one to contemplate.

All of us agreed to the plan, at least tacitly, except Major Lampret, who insisted that we were lunatics and mutineers for undertaking this battle without his consent, and that there would be “consequences” if we carried it out, assuming we weren’t all killed by our own foolishness. But Lampret’s credibility had been so thoroughly undercut that he was easy to ignore.

I was in favor of the attack, and my only disappointment when it was approved was that Lymon Pugh and I were assigned to provide the “useful distraction.”

I asked Sam what he wanted us to do.

“Wait here until the rest of us are in place. I’ll signal you when it’s time to begin the proceedings.”

“Begin them how, though?”

“Just make a noise of some kind—nothing too belligerent, just something that will draw all eyes. It needn’t be anything fancy—the firing will commence at once.”

The Dutchmen were beginning to harness up their mules, so we had to move quickly. Lymon and I watched the other men of the company scuttle away, backs bent and weapons ready, to their hiding places a few hundred yards to the east.

Lymon said, “You’d better orchestrate this thing, Adam. I don’t know how to distract a Dutch soldier, except by shooting at him. Maybe you can call out to them in their own language.”

“Perhaps I would, except I don’t speak it.”

“You have that letter you bought from Langers’s Lucky Mug. I’ve seen you reading it over and over.”

“But not for the sense of it. And I can only guess at the pronunciation, based on what I’ve heard from Dutch prisoners. They wouldn’t believe me for a second.”

“They don’t have to believe you—Sam’s instruction was only that we should obtain their attention.

Look there!—Sam is already waving his hand—I believe the time is ripe—go on, Adam, call out to them !”

I was flustered by the rapid progression of events, and I could think of nothing to do except to adopt Lymon Pugh’s suggestion.

I cleared my throat.

“Louder!” Lymon said. “Make yourself heard!”

I cupped my hands around my mouth and cried out, “Lieftse Hannie!”

“What’s that mean?” Lymon asked.

“I don’t know!”

“They can’t hear you. Wasn’t there something about Americans being no better than dogs?”

I racked my brain.

“Fikkie mis ik ook!”

I shouted, so loudly that the obdurate syllables pricked my throat like thorns.

“Lieftse Hannie! Fikkie mis ik ook!”

That did the trick. For one fragile moment—a fraction of time as motionless as a bug in amber—every Dutch soldier looked in my direction, and each one wore an identical expression, of confusion bordering on bewilderment.

Then a barrage of rifle fire began to cut them down.

At the end of the ambush we had taken a two-car train, a Chinese Cannon, and three prisoners, and left a score of dead Mitteleuropan soldiers scattered about. The prisoners consisted of an artilleryman and two civilian engineers. They were not cooperative, and had to be bound and tied.

Everything that had been taken from the train we put back in place. (None of the heavy parts of the Chinese Cannon had yet been unhitched.) This was indeed a fine haul, if we could get it into American hands. Fortunately one of the men of our company—a long-haired mechanic named Penniman, from Lake Champlain—had studied trains, and understood the theory of steam-driven engines well enough that he could discern the use of the controls even though they were labeled in a foreign language. While he got up pressure in the boilers the rest of us policed the area, collecting Dutch rifles and pistols from their former owners. Then Julian and I went to join Sam in the cab of the engine, while the rest of the company found room for themselves in the heavily loaded boxcars. [We were forced to evict the mules.]

This had all gone very smoothly, and would have been a complete triumph except that, as it turned out, one of the Dutch soldiers had been “playing dead,” and had secreted his rifle beneath his apparently lifeless body. Just as soon as Penniman released the brake and the train began to move, this troublesome Mitteleuropan grabbed up his weapon and fired on us. Bullets flew through the cab, and Penniman was lightly injured. Sam cursed and took up his own rifle. He leaned around the coal hopper and fired three shots. I thrust out my head long enough to see the Dutch rifleman retreat into a thicket of skeletal, leafless trees.

We would have kept on rolling without further incident, I suppose, since the artilleryman could hardly have followed us, except that the door on the rear boxcar rolled open and Major Lampret popped out of it, shooting his own rifle wildly. “Brake up!” Sam cried disgustedly, and Penniman did so. The train vented steam-clouds into the cold air.

I managed to discern more of the action despite the veils of mist that obscured it. Apparently Major Lampret had decided to demonstrate his courage, which had been so severely questioned in recent days, and to restore himself to command. Perhaps he deemed the odds respectable—himself against one desperate Dutchman. Or it may be that his motives were sincere and patriotic, if misguided. In any case, his act of bravery or stupidity produced no good result. The Dutch infantryman fired back, and his defense was more calculated than Lampret’s attack. Major Lampret took a bullet and slumped to the ground.

At this point Julian astonished me by leaping out of the engine-cabin and running toward the place where Major Lampret had fallen.

Sam was equally astonished; but he kept his wits, and shouted, “Fire on the enemy! Give cover!”—while doing so himself. Other men of our company began to follow his example, though none of us was willing to make himself as vulnerable to the Dutchman’s bullets as had Julian.

I fired my rifle, too, though part of me felt frozen in the event, watching Julian dodge and dash toward an injured a man who had once threatened to imprison him. When Julian reached the Major he didn’t hesitate, but thrust his hands under Lampret’s inert arms and began to drag him back to the train. Geysers of icy dirt flew up around Julian and the Major—these were the impacts of hostile bullets, each one coming closer to its mark. Then the Dutchman gave out an audible cry from the thicket where he was hidden, and threw up his arms and fell forward; and on this occasion his death was not feigned, but entirely authentic.

Several of our men jumped from the train to help Julian with his burden. Soon the Major was safely aboard. Major Lampret had been badly hurt—the artilleryman’s bullet had passed through his shoulder, leaving ugly wounds on the front and back of him—but he was breathing freely, and there seemed to be a decent chance that he might recover if he received prompt medical attention.

If Major Lampret had meant to establish his courage by this act, the attempt was a failure. I supposed it was brave of him to go after the Dutch soldier the way he had. But Julian’s bravery in the rescue was more conspicuous, especially as it was aimed at saving the life of a man he despised; and this was what drew admiration from the other men, while Lampret received only the most cursory attention in his suffering.