He stood and walked over to the fire, then dropped Flynn's letter into the flames. It curled up and turned to ash.
Better that there was no record of this mission, he thought. By now the raiders would be in Union territory and if they succeeded, they might help win the war. If they failed, the world might be ready to condemn them for undertaking something as dishonorable as trying to kidnap a president.
Norris walked back to his desk, reached for the glass of bourbon, and raised it toward the flames. "To my fine group of misfits," he said. "You might just hold the fate of the Confederacy in your hands."
No one paid much attention to the six men who walked down Main Street toward the train station at the edge of the Patapsco River, which seemed like a stream compared to the mighty Potomac. The old granite building was the oldest train station in America on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line.
"Remember that all of us have a different destination," Percy reminded them outside. "And don't stand around talking once you're in there. No sense making anyone suspicious."
With that, the colonel disappeared into the stone building. He emerged a few minutes later after buying tickets for himself and Hudson, then nodded at Benjamin. Nervously, the boy entered the dark interior of the station. Several minutes passed.
"What the hell is taking that boy so long?" Percy wondered out loud. He looked sharply at Captain Fletcher. "Fletcher, get in there and find out what's going on. At least you sound like you're from goddamn Baltimore when you talk. The rest of us sound too much like Southerners."
Fletcher entered the station. It was cool, dark and spotlessly clean. He saw Benjamin at the ticket counter, fidgeting nervously from foot to foot. One of the B&O ticket agents had come out from behind the counter and was standing between Benjamin and the doorway, as if to block his exit.
Something was obviously wrong.
Fletcher hesitated, near panic, wondering what to do. If there was trouble this early in the mission, it would only mean disaster for them all. He remembered what Percy had said about him being the only one of the raiders who sounded like a Baltimorean, took a deep breath, and called out, "Johnny! Where the hell are those tickets?"
His voice in the empty station echoed like a gunshot and both B&O agents looked up, startled.
"I want to know where those tickets are, boy. I'm waiting."
The ticket agent looked at Benjamin. "I thought you said you only wanted one ticket to Cumberland."
"One ticket?" Fletcher interrupted, sounding exasperated. "Boy, what are you playing at? I distinctly said to buy two tickets."
"Yes, sir," Benjamin said, sounding dreadfully Southern, with the "sir" drawled out as suhh. Fletcher knew immediately why the ticket agents were suspicious. All through the war, Marylanders who sympathized with the Confederacy had been trickling South. After all, Fletcher had done the same thing himself when it became clear that Maryland would not leave the Union, mainly because it had become occupied by blue-coated soldiers and its pro-Southern leaders had been arrested. A train trip west to the Shenandoah Valley would be the perfect way to join up with Confederate forces.
"Who might you be?" the agent demanded.
Fletcher straightened his back, threw out his chest and put one hand on his hip. If there was one thing he was good at, it was sounding haughty. He was glad he had worn his best pre-war suit on this journey. "I am Robert Fletcher,” he paused to let the name sink in for effect. "Of the Baltimore Fletchers. And if you don't immediately sell my manservant here two tickets to Cumberland I shall report you to John Garrett."
It was as if Fletcher had snapped a whip. John Garrett was president of the B&O Railroad. Fletcher's tone, and the mention of the B&O president, had the agent scrambling to produce the tickets. Fletcher felt pleased that he had once met Garrett before the war and consequently remembered his name.
"We thought the boy might be a Reb," the ticket agent explained hastily. "He sure sounds like one."
"He's from the Eastern Shore," Fletcher said. That was the distant part of Maryland that lay across the Chesapeake Bay and where Southern-style plantation life flourished. "Kent County. They have a Southern inflection there."
The agent obviously didn't know what Fletcher meant, but he agreed, nodding and adding, "Yes, sir."
"Good day," Fletcher huffed, sounding for all the world like the society man he had been. Together, he and Benjamin walked out of the station.
"You was awful uppity in there, Captain," Benjamin said, sounding annoyed. "I ain't never been nobody's servant."
Fletcher ignored him. They crossed the street and went right to Percy.
"That was close," Fletcher said to the colonel. "It was the accent. You'd better have Flynn buy Pettibone's ticket. Those two won't mind an Irishman, but if they hear that drawl of Pettibone's they're going to be suspicious all over again."
Percy turned to Flynn. "You heard him. Buy two."
"Yes, sir."
Flynn soon returned, tickets in hand, and they settled down to wait for the others.
It was late in the afternoon when the rest of the raiders arrived. Flynn, with a mischievous grin on his face, was waiting on a bench outside the B&O ticket office in Ellicott Mills when Hazlett appeared.
Hazlett glared at him. The sergeant looked tired and dirty after the hard journey from Richmond. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides when he saw Flynn grinning at him.
"You Irish bastard," Hazlett hissed as loudly as he dared on the station platform. "What are you lookin' at?"
"Is that any way to talk to someone you owe a bottle of whiskey to?" Flynn said. "Store-bought whiskey, too, if you don't mind. My stomach don't take kindly to rotgut."
"I'll be damned if I'd give you a bottle of piss, Paddy, let alone good whiskey." Hazlett practically spat the words.
The smile left Flynn's face, and the eyes that had been twinkling a moment before turned iron gray and cold. The change in expression was so sudden and complete that Hazlett was startled. "I don't want the goddamn whiskey, Hazlett," Flynn said quietly. "In fact, I'd as soon drink piss than take anything of yours, you son of a bitch. And if you call me 'Paddy' again, I'm going to kill you and piss on your goddamn grave."
Hazlett's face turned red with rage, and he stepped toward Flynn.
"That's enough," snapped Colonel Percy, who appeared out of nowhere to step between the two men. "You want to get us all hanged?"
Despite their anger, both Hazlett and Flynn knew the colonel was right. After all, they were deep in enemy territory, and starting a fight now could jeopardize everything if the local constable took an interest. Already, a handful of bystanders had gathered, smelling a fight. Disappointed, they drifted away.
"This ain't the end of it," Hazlett said. He gave Flynn a look of pure malice, then pushed on past into the office to buy his ticket. Percy followed him in.
Pettibone and Benjamin were standing a few feet away and had witnessed the confrontation.
"You've just bought yourself trouble," Pettibone said in his matter-of-fact way. "Hazlett ain't one to let things lie."
Flynn smiled icily. "Neither am I."
"Hazlett don't fight fair," Pettibone warned. "Hell, I reckon I shouldn't even care, considerin' why you're here. But if I was you, I'd watch my back."
Benjamin stepped forward. "I'll stand with you in a fight," he said. He flipped back the tails of his long coat to reveal the Colt revolver in its holster. "Hazlett ain't nothin'."