"Tickets, please," the conductor announced, and began to make his way down the aisle. He took his time, checking tickets, nodding officiously, and answering questions. Flynn recalled the dark car that held Lincoln at the end of the train. How could the man be so calm knowing such an important passenger was aboard?
He doesn't know, Flynn realized. Oh, that's lovely for us.
The conductor was soon at their seat. Beside him, Flynn felt Benjamin go stiff as a bird dog. He touched the boy's knee to calm him.
"Tickets," the conductor said, and Flynn handed over both his own and Benjamin's. The man looked from the tickets to the two men in the seat. "Cumberland. Well. Not many folks headed that way in these times. You hardly know from one day to the next whether it's a Union city or Confederate."
"Let's hope it's Union at the moment," Flynn said. "I've had my fill of fighting those damn Rebs."
Beside him, Benjamin stiffened. Flynn prodded him with the toe of his boot.
"You're a veteran, are you?" the conductor asked with sudden interest.
"Took a bullet at Gettysburg on the third day," Flynn said. "Now that I'm out of the hospital down there to Washington City, I'm on my way to visit my people."
The conductor nodded sympathetically. "I took my bullet at First Bull Run," he said. "That was enough of the war for me. I've been running trains since then."
As he handed back the tickets, the conductor stopped and scowled.
"I don't allow drinking on my train," he said gruffly and loudly enough for the other passengers to hear. "Veteran or not, I don't play favorites."
Startled, Flynn realized the conductor was staring at the neck of a pint bottle of whiskey poking from his coat pocket. Flynn had no idea how the bottle had gotten there. As the conductor moved on with a disapproving air, Flynn felt Colonel Percy's eyes upon him. He looked up and met Percy's angry glare. The colonel had forbidden any drinking — they were soldiers on duty — and the steely eyes held a promise of wrath to come. Besides, the whiskey bottle had attracted unnecessary attention to Flynn.
He was still stumped as to how it had appeared in his pocket. And then he remembered Willie Forbes bumping into him on the station platform. Of course! It was an old pickpocket's trick, only Forbes had used it to put something in Flynn's pocket, not steal something out of it.
Why would Forbes do that?
Hazlett. He must have put Forbes up to it. Forbes would do anything the sergeant told him. Pettibone had warned him Hazlett was a sly bastard. From now on, Flynn knew he would have to watch his back.
Flynn noticed the conductor had nothing but an unfriendly look for the dandy across the aisle. "You again," Flynn overheard the conductor saying to the man. "I remember you from last month. I won't trouble you about your tickets this time."
As the conductor moved on, the man stared at his back, muttered something, and flipped open his jacket to reveal the butt of a revolver.
"Charles," the woman whispered harshly, just loudly enough for Flynn to overhear, and flipped the jacket back over the handgun.
Flynn wondered what it was all about. He was careful, though, not to appear too curious.
The conductor finished checking all the tickets, then moved on to the next car.
"You didn't have to go making friends with him," Benjamin said. "If he hadn't seen that whiskey bottle, I reckon he might have invited you home to supper."
Flynn laughed. "Always make friends when you can, lad. There's more profit in it than in making enemies. After all, when you meet a strange dog, don't you give him your hand to smell first? It will be hard for him to bite it later. It's the same with men."
Outside, the scenery rushed past. It was rough, hilly country, and the leaves were mostly gone from the trees, leaving the landscape bare and brown. The tracks followed the Patapsco River, which twisted and turned through the valley as it led deeper into the countryside. There were far too many curves for the train to move with any real speed, so the raiders bided their time, each mile feeling like an eternity.
As the train rolled on, the raiders in the car exchanged anxious glances.
"Not long now, lad," Flynn whispered to Benjamin.
At last, they steamed into a sleepy town ringed by more of the same rough terrain, with houses built into the hills rising above the river. A main street ran perpendicular to the Patapsco, crossing the river at a newly built bridge. J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry had burned the old bridge a few months before on their roundabout ride to Gettysburg.
The biggest building in town was Sykes's Hotel, a four-story tavern near the banks of the river that served as an unofficial train station. The train halted more or less in front of the hotel and the passengers began to get off and amble toward the establishment, which offered hot coffee and buttermilk biscuits with ham to hungry travelers.
"Breakfast!" the conductor called, bursting into the car and striding down the aisle. "Last stop we'll make between here and Harpers Ferry! We leave again in half an hour. Don't be late, ladies and gentlemen."
The conductor himself was soon hurrying toward the hotel with his engineer and fireman.
Flynn leaned close to Benjamin. "Best get ready, lad. It's beginning. Just don't shoot anyone you don't have to."
Not everyone got off the train. Some thrifty passengers had brought their own food, while others appeared content to go without. Flynn noticed the dapper couple from Baltimore stayed put, their breakfast consisting of a few quick nips from a flask passed between them.
Flynn's eyes slid to Percy. He was expecting some sign from the colonel. Benjamin fidgeted on the seat beside him, nervous as a damn puppy. The other passengers talked among themselves or produced their breakfasts from baskets and bags: biscuits, apples, a cold chicken drumstick or two.
"I believe I'll get some air," Percy announced to no one in particular, but loudly enough for all the raiders in the car to hear. "Sykesville, is it? A lovely town."
He stepped out the door.
"What's he playing at?" Benjamin hissed so loudly the dandified couple looked his way. The man had tiny scars at the corners of his eyes, a sign that he had been in his share of fights. He'll be a tough bastard, Flynn thought. Once again, he wondered what the couple was doing aboard the train.
He didn't spend much time wondering, though. He turned to Benjamin. "Do as Percy says, lad," Flynn said quietly. He stood up, stretched, sniffed. "Take the air like a proper gentleman."
"I wish I knew what in hell was going on," Benjamin whispered.
"You will, lad, soon enough."
They left the train and joined Percy on the platform, or what there was of one. Sykesville was not a big town and its train station was minimal, especially considering that the damage J.E.B. Stuart's men had done while riding through last summer had yet to be completely repaired. There was a platform of rough-sawn boards so passengers could get on and off the train without stepping in the mud. The railroad had come to town in 1831, but the closest thing to a train station was Sykes's Hotel.
Outside on the platform, Percy was staring off to the other side of the river. Flynn followed his gaze and what he saw made his breath come out in a gasp.
"Sweet Jesus," he muttered.
"Damn," said Benjamin, seeing it, too.
Flynn realized he had been so busy studying the town as the train arrived that he hadn't bothered to look across the river.
Percy just stared. Captain Cater was now on the platform, as were Wilson and Pettibone. They were soon joined by Forbes and Hazlett.
All of them fixed their eyes on the meadow beyond the riverbank, where a full regiment of Yankees was camped. Across the river, several bored soldiers eyed the train. All of them had rifles in their hands.