"Yes, sir," was all Flynn could think to say.
Lincoln was right, of course. They would need God himself on their side to make it to Richmond. "If you need anything, sir, there will be guards outside your car."
"I believe we shall be just fine, Sergeant."
Flynn climbed down and joined Percy, who had edged closer, hoping to hear some of the conversation. "Well, is it Lincoln or isn't it?" Percy asked.
"It's Lincoln, all right," Flynn said. "In fact, I believe he would have come out and had a drink with us, but some fellow in there named Major Rathbone wouldn't let him open the door."
Percy nodded. "I've heard of Rathbone. He's Lincoln's bodyguard. It makes sense that he'd be traveling to Gettysburg with the president."
"I guess that settles it," Flynn said. He smiled. "You've got your president, Colonel. Now what?"
"On to Richmond, of course."
The lieutenant and Private Cook returned to their post guarding the president's car, while Percy, Flynn and Hudson started back toward the engine. They had barely come even with the baggage car when Hazlett shouted a warning. Someone was coming.
"Come on," Percy said, and the three men started running for the front of the train.
Chapter 13
"Get ready, boys!" Percy shouted as he ran. "Here come the Yankees!"
Flynn drew the Le Mat revolver and sprinted after Percy, whose long legs easily covered the distance to the front of the train. Forbes finished cutting the second telegraph wire and slid down the pole. As the others ran past, Forbes dropped the last few feet, nearly landing on top of Pettibone, who jumped out of the way just in time, cursing.
Benjamin poked his head out the window. "What's all the commotion about?" he shouted.
"Cavalry, I reckon," Flynn yelled back. "Keep an eye on those passengers, lad. If something starts with the Yankees, they're sure to cause trouble."
Flynn fully expected to see a troop of blue-coated cavalry coming down the Washington Road. He knew the raiders wouldn't stand a chance, not with the train stopped. A squadron of any size would outnumber them. The best they could hope for was to hold the Yankees off long enough for the train to reach a decent speed, and then outrun them.
He wasn't prepared for what he did see, which was a hand car carrying a crew of four startled workmen. They rolled out of the woods to the west on the opposite track.
"Hold your fire," Percy snapped at his men.
Although the crew's arrival was more welcome than cavalry, Percy knew they still presented a problem, for here were four men who could quickly spread word of the raid if they learned what was going on. If the workers found them out, the raiders would have no choice but to take the men prisoner, or shoot them.
"What do we do about them?" Hazlett wondered out loud.
"Let me do the talking," Percy muttered to the knot of men who still ringed the engine, revolvers at the ready. "And put those guns away. If we start shooting, it's only going to attract attention if there are any soldiers on the road."
Percy approached the crew, who looked suspiciously at the Chesapeake, standing under steam at the Washington Road crossing. It was unusual for a westbound train to be stopped there. One of the crew gripped an old shotgun, which Percy supposed they kept for killing snakes
"Where's Greer?" the man holding the shotgun asked. He was bigger than the others, and Percy took him to be the foreman.
"He took sick," said Percy, which was the first thing that came to mind. He wondered who Greer might be.
The man stared at Percy for several long moments. Finally, he leaned to one side and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice, expertly hitting the rail. "Hell, it ain't like Greer to let someone else run his train. That locomotive there is his pride and joy. He must be on his deathbed."
"Well, it's not his train, is it? It's the B&O Railroad's," Percy pointed out. He was losing patience.
"I didn't catch your name," the foreman said.
"Arthur Percy."
The crew foreman looked long and hard at the colonel. Behind him, Percy could sense his own men begin to grow uneasy, like a shifting in the wind.
"Never heard of no Percy," the foreman said. "I know most everyone who works for the railroad, I reckon."
"Well, I suppose you just haven't heard of me." This time, there was nothing friendly in Percy's voice. "It's good you came along. We'll be needing your tools."
"What are you talking about?" the foreman asked. "You don't need tools on an engine. Not pry bars and shovels, at least."
"There are raiders up ahead, and the tools will help put back the track they've torn up."
"That why you boys all have your guns out?" the foreman asked. Percy sensed the tension going out of his men. "You reckoned we was Rebels?"
"That's right," Percy said. "We thought you were Rebels."
"Hell!" The foreman suddenly laughed, harder and harder, until he nearly choked. Then he paused to cough up phlegm, which he spat to the ground in a long, ropy stream. "Rebels."
"Well, you can't be too careful in times like these."
"Ain't that God's honest truth," the foreman said. He added without any enthusiasm, "You want us to ride along to do the work for you?"
"I reckon we can handle it," Percy said.
The foreman looked relieved.
They soon had all the workers' tools loaded into the tender. Any fears that the men might be suspicious were dispelled when one of the crew climbed down the river bank and produced a stone jug from a hiding place in the Patapsco's shallows. The men sat on the push car, drinking their chilled whiskey, and watched as the Chesapeake got underway again.
"I'll be damned," Percy said once the engine was chugging on toward Cumberland. "If the Yankees are all that easy to fool, we'll have Lincoln in Richmond in two days' time."
Greer, Frost and Schmidt jogged up the tracks, badly winded. The sight of the hand car rolling toward them was like an answered prayer.
"Thank Gott,” Schmidt wheezed. "Now we won't have to walk back to Baltimore."
"We're not going back," Greer growled. "We're going after our train."
Schmidt was too tired to argue. The three men stopped and caught their breath as the hand car rolled closer and coasted to a stop.
"George Greer!" shouted a man named Jones, whom Greer recognized as the crew foreman. The man's leathery face wore a puzzled expression. "You ain't laid up?"
"Hell no! Does it look like I am?"
The foreman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "The conductor back there said you was sick, so he was running your train. Some fellow name of Percy. I thought it all seemed awful strange."
"Conductor? He's a thief! The son of a bitch stole my train."
Excitement swept over the workmen. Greer could smell whiskey on their breath, which was no surprise. Track workers were the bottom rung of the railroad hierarchy, and he was in no mood to waste time on these drunken fools. "Why the hell didn't you stop them?" he snapped.
"We didn't know they was thieves. Besides, there was a lot of 'em and they had guns."
"Guns?"
"Told us there was trouble on the tracks west of here. Hell, Greer, you know as well as I do that the Rebs jump over into Maryland every chance they get to play hell with the tracks."
It was true enough. The Harpers Ferry bridge, for instance, had been burned and rebuilt so many times that Greer could no longer keep count. But he wasn't ready to let the foreman and his men off the hook too easily.