It was the spy's turn to smile. "Well, that's just what the Yankees want you to think, ain't it? Lincoln ain't goin' to be on that train, though."
"What do you mean?"
"I've got ears, don't I?" the spy said. He was grinning now, enjoying himself. "How many ears do you think Mr. Lincoln's got? Why, lots and lots, I reckon. He's heard all about your plans. That's why he ain't goin' to be on that train."
The man stared keenly at the spy, suddenly interested. "What plans are you talking about?"
"Them guns. A whole battery of artillery. I heard about how you're planning to ambush the train. Hell, you'll be able to blow Abe Lincoln to Kingdom Come and back. Shame he ain't goin' to be on the train, though."
The man with the eye patch went very still. "Tell me what you mean by all this," he hissed.
"Mr. Lincoln is leavin' Washington on November seventeenth, then he's goin' to Baltimore, only he ain't goin' to take the Northern Central to Pennsylvania. No, not Honest Abe. He'll be gettin' on a Baltimore and Ohio Railroad car headed west. Nobody knows about this, mind you. Then at Weverton he's taking the Hagerstown spur, and from there he's going to Gettysburg. The roundabout way, only it's a secret. Safer that way and he gets there all the same. Like I said, he's done heard all about your plans."
"What about the train he's supposed to be on?" the man asked.
"Oh, I reckon it will leave Baltimore in fine style, only they'll say Mr. Lincoln has pressing concerns or he's tired and can't be bothered in his car. Ain't nobody goin' to see him again till Gettysburg."
The one-eyed man sat quietly for a minute, considering what he had just heard. The spy's clothes were steaming nicely, the grease in the wool giving off a pungent scent. Finally, he gave a short laugh.
"Surely this can't be true," he said.
"It is." The spy screwed up his face in a wise expression. "Though you won't hear it around half the countryside, I reckon."
"Where did you hear it?"
"Never mattered to you before, did it?" The spy shrugged. "I got my sources."
The man with the eye patch smiled again, flashing his yellow teeth, and put a hand inside his coat. He produced a wad of greenbacks, and pressed it into the spy's hands. It was more money than the spy had ever received before, and he gripped it tightly in his hand, staring down in wonder. Then the bills disappeared inside his damp coat.
"A drink to the Cause?" the man asked quietly.
"I reckon that would be good."
They shared three whiskeys there by the fire, neither of them saying much. It was strong liquor, and the spy swayed when he stood up to leave. He wasn't looking forward to walking home in the storm, but his wife was waiting for him. It was just three miles he had to go, but it would take him well over an hour on a night like this. No one paid much attention as he left, except the man by the fire, who stared after him as the spy launched himself into the night.
The cold air sobered him at once. The storm had grown worse. Sleet now stung his face as he leaned into the wind and picked his way between the wagon ruts. Up ahead, the spy thought he saw something move, but he didn't pay much attention. Probably just the wind blowing a gust of rain. No man or beast would be out on a night such as this, at least, not if they had any sense. He tugged his collar tighter at his throat, glad for the whiskey's warmth inside him.
He shivered, although the thought of the money in his pocket more than made up for a little cold and wet. What would he do with all that money? Bring home a few bottles of the tavern's whiskey, for one thing. Maybe get himself a new coat, too, one that kept off the rain.
Above the howl of the storm, he heard someone splashing up the road behind him. Before he could turn, someone grabbed him and the spy felt a powerful arm around his throat. Instinctively, he reached behind him, found a face, gouged at the eyes. He heard a muffled curse and the grip loosened.
As he spun to face his attacker, he felt something hot and sharp bite into his side. The pain was terrible, paralyzing. As if in a dream, he caught a glimpse of a long knife blade as it pulled free, bloody and dripping, before it plunged again deep into his side. He felt steel twist in his kidneys.
He screamed.
The spy hoped someone in the tavern would hear. But the wind and wet night swallowed up his cries. The blade stabbed in again and the spy fell to his knees in the mud. The coppery taste of his own blood welled up from inside him and filled his mouth, dribbling from his lips. The pain was awful.
"Bastard almost put my eye out," a gruff voice said.
Then someone grabbed him under the arms and dragged him off the road into the muddy cornfield nearby. He felt hands search his pockets until they found the roll of greenbacks. He wanted to protest, but no words would come from his mouth, only gurgling sounds.
"No," he finally managed to moan through the terrible pain. He had the odd sensation of being able to feel every raindrop, every grain of dirt in the mud between his fingers. Then all the color went out of the world.
"Finish him off," the gruff voice said.
"He's done for. Let's get out of here before someone comes along. He squealed like a stuck pig."
The gruff-voiced one kicked the spy. "Hell, of course he can squeal. Squeals to the Rebs every time he hears some news, don't he? Well, that was the last time."
Footsteps splashed away, and the spy lay there as his blood pumped out to mingle with the rainwater in the furrows. He tried to crawl back to the road where there might be a chance that someone would find him, but he only slipped deeper into a plowed rut. His face was in a puddle but he didn't have the strength to raise it. A few bubbles rose up. After a minute, the bubbles stopped. The spy was dead, drowned in a puddle of muddy water streaked red with blood.
But the assassins were too late to stop him from sharing his secret. Lincoln was coming to Gettysburg, just not the way anyone expected.
Chapter 2
"Tickets, please!"
As the locomotive swept into a long curve, the sudden shift in direction made the passenger car roll like a ship riding the ocean's swells. Bad leg or not, Conductor George Greer kept his balance as easily as any sea captain. He had ridden this route so many times that he knew every bump in the rails.
He squinted into the autumn sunlight, saw the blue shadows of the Allegheny Mountains on the horizon. Despite repeated raids by Confederate cavalry in the mountains and the Shenandoah Valley, the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad remained one of the busiest railways in the nation. The tracks gleamed like knives stabbing into the distance.
The great locomotive spewed a cloud of smoke and sparks as the Chesapeake spun along the iron rails. Sunlight reflected off the locomotive's massive black bulk, glinted on the brass bell and the glass windows that enclosed the cab. The driving wheels, two on each side and taller than a man, churned in a blur of iron as the locomotive roared at sixty miles per hour across the gently rolling farmland west of Baltimore.
The train was traveling faster than it should have, but Greer had always been reckless when it came to speed. He knew what his locomotive could do. In fact, he knew every piston and rod and valve. Greer was thirty-three years old, blue-eyed, with brown hair and a serious, determined face. The corners of his eyes and mouth drooped slightly to give him a doleful look, like a bloodhound. He was short but powerfully built, with strong arms, broad shoulders and a barrel chest. A bulldog of a man. Even with a limp, Greer looked as if he could back up the authority in his voice. When he gave an order aboard his train, crew and passengers alike did as they were told.
At the battle of Bull Run in 1861, a Confederate bullet had left him with the limp and a deep hatred of the secessionists who had divided the nation and brought on the bloodshed. Greer had not thought twice about joining the fight, considering his grandfather had been one of the defenders of Fort McHenry during the War of 1812 and his great-grandfather had fought in the Revolution. Greers always had fought for the United States of America.