"Why not with Hazlett?" Flynn thought he already knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway.
"Hazlett is not an easy man to work with," Percy said. "We go back long before the war. He's a good man to have in a fight, though. Sometimes the best soldiers are the same men you'd want watching your back in a tavern brawl. You of all people should know that, Flynn. I sense you've had some experience in such matters."
"Och, I've cleared out a room or two in my day."
But tavern brawls weren't Percy's style, Flynn knew, and he couldn't help wondering why Percy seemed so loyal to someone like Hazlett. The colonel was tough in his own way, but Flynn could see that he was also a romantic. What some might call a "Southern Gentleman." Virginia was full of men like that who got caught up in the Confederacy's hopeless cause.
Hazlett was none of those things. He was what well-bred Southerners like Percy called "white trash," that class who caught and whipped the runaway slaves or maybe made moonshine out in the woods. The man was downright vicious.
As if reading Flynn's mind, Percy went on, "I suppose I should tell you, Flynn, that Hazlett is married to my cousin. The less illustrious branch of the Percys, but family nonetheless."
"I thought it might be something like that." Flynn suppressed a smile. He was sure now that Percy did not like Hazlett, but only tolerated him. Blood ran thicker than water, and Percy would be too much of a gentleman to allow personal feelings to overrule the Southern obligations of family. "He may be your cousin's wife, but as soon as this raid is over, I'm going to shoot him."
Percy laughed. "If he doesn't shoot you first, you mean."
"We'll see about that."
The grin left Percy's face. "You know I'm doing the best I can with this damned raid, Flynn. Norris sent us on a mission that's damn near impossible."
"Some might even call it a fool's errand," Flynn added. "But here we are, and if you don't mind me saying so, Colonel, if anyone can pull this off it's you."
"Does this mean you're not going to shoot me?"
"You don't have to watch your back with me," Flynn said. "There's some things I am, and some I'm not. One of those is a backstabber."
"If I thought you were the kind of man who would do that, I would have had Hudson toss you in the Potomac River once we were halfway across — or maybe I would have shot you myself as soon as we got into Maryland."
"At this point, Colonel, I think we're all going to have enough trouble getting home alive with Abraham Lincoln that we can pretty much forget about any need to shoot each other. Besides, it's pretty clear to me you intend to see this thing through."
"I do."
"You know, I always thought the Irish were the craziest people in the world, but I was wrong. You Virginians have us beat."
They hurried toward the last car. Hudson jumped down from the baggage car to join them. Lieutenant Cater and Private Cook were on the ground, waiting, revolvers in their hands.
"Anything going on in there?" Percy asked.
"Quiet as a church, sir," Cater said. "I reckon President Lincoln has slept through all the ruckus — if there's even anyone in there."
The car that supposedly held Lincoln resembled a miniature fortress on wheels. It was painted black and well-built, but lacked any ornament that befitted a president. The windows were placed high up the sides of the car, designed to let light in rather than to let passengers look out. There was one door made of thick oak and bound with iron that opened onto a small platform skirted with a plain iron railing. Lincoln and his bodyguard — he must surely have at least one other man inside with him — could make an effective last stand firing down from the high windows. The car's walls, sturdy as they were, could not have withstood return fire from Springfield rifles, but against the less heavy caliber revolvers carried by the raiders, those walls would be like iron.
"Any noise from inside?"
"No, sir," the lieutenant said.
"What are you thinking?" Flynn asked.
"I wonder if there is anyone inside," Percy said. "Imagine if the Yankees spun this whole crazy scheme about Lincoln sneaking into Gettysburg the back way, fed it to Norris down in Richmond, and meanwhile Lincoln is safely aboard the presidential train on the Northern Central after all, eating smoked oysters, smoking cigars, and listening to a bunch of fat Yankee carpetbaggers decide how they'll carve up the South after the war."
"The joke is on us, then?" Flynn asked, amazed. Percy's scenario suddenly made sense. "I suppose we'll have to find out if Lincoln is in there. No sense going through with this if he's not."
The thought of being in the middle of Maryland with just a handful of men and a stolen train was not appealing to anyone. Not when every crossroads threatened to bring an encounter with Yankee troops.
"Colonel, you want me to knock on the door?" Lieutenant Cater asked.
"Let Flynn do it," Percy said. "If there is someone inside and they shoot through the door, we can afford to lose him better than you." He smiled, as if to show he was only joking. Flynn didn't find the humor in it.
"Let's get your cousin-in-law to do it."
"Go knock on the goddamn door, Flynn," Percy snapped. "And make sure you stand to one side so you don't get shot."
Flynn climbed the iron steps, wondering how he got into these situations. He should have been back in Richmond, drinking good black market whiskey, thumping heads, and taking his pick of the whores. Instead, he might be about to get his insides filled with lead.
"Remember," Percy hissed after him. "You're not supposed to know it's Lincoln."
Flynn sighed. How was he supposed to find out if President Lincoln was inside if he couldn't ask for him by name? He knocked on the door and shouted, "Anybody in there?"
No answer. He pounded on the door again.
Finally, a gruff voice answered from within. "What do you want?"
"The conductor wants to know if everything is all right," Flynn said. "We've had trouble with raiders."
No answer.
"Rebels," Flynn added helpfully.
"Will there be any delay?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On how soon the engineer can get this train moving again."
"Then you had better tell him to get to work. We have a schedule to keep."
Flynn looked at the door, then over to Percy. The colonel raised his eyebrows in question. Flynn shrugged in reply. He still didn't know if Lincoln was inside the car.
"Aw, hell," he muttered, and knocked on the door again.
"What do you want now?" the voice demanded impatiently.
Flynn took a deep breath and decided to take a chance. "I'm looking for President Lincoln."
This time there was a long, long pause. Flynn was on the verge of repeating his question, just in case it hadn't been heard, when the voice spoke on the other side of the door.
"Who wants to know?"
Flynn decided there was no longer any point in being anything but direct. "This is Sergeant Thomas Flynn of the Confederate States of America. The train has been captured by Colonel Arthur Percy, and you are now prisoners of the Confederacy."
The silence stretched long moments before someone spoke up. "I'm Major Rathbone, the president's assistant," said the voice. "What do you intend to do with us?"
"We're taking you to Richmond," Flynn replied. "Is President Lincoln really in there?"
A new voice spoke up. Not as deep as Rathbone's. A tired-sounding voice. "I'm Lincoln."
Flynn heard hands fumbling at the bolt on the other side of the door, then a hushed voice say, "No, sir. It could be a trap." The fumbling stopped.
"I'm afraid I have no sword to surrender, Sergeant Flynn," Lincoln said. "Therefore I won't open the door."
"Then have a good trip, sir," Flynn said.
"I trust you will have a good journey as well, Sergeant." He thought he heard Lincoln chuckle. "You realize, of course, that you're still in the middle of Maryland. There are cavalry patrols all around. Infantry guards all the major railroad bridges and stations. Richmond is a long way off."