"You could have asked more questions and drank less whiskey."
"Goddamnit, Greer, I'm tellin' you they had guns— "
"Where are your tools?" Greer asked, suddenly noticing the bed of the hand car was empty.
"They took 'em," the foreman said. "They said the tracks ahead might need to be repaired on account of the Rebs."
Now it was Greer's turn to swear. He cussed till he was breathless and sputtering, and when he finished, the workmen's mouths gaped open in various degree of astonishment.
Greer spat out a final oath and glared at the men. "What do you think the Rebs are going to do with those tools, you jackasses? They're going to tear up track! That's what. You fools gave them just what they need to do it."
"We didn't know." The foreman made a half-hearted attempt to defend himself. "Not much we could have done, anyhow."
Greer had heard enough. "Get the hell out of my way," he said. "We'll take the hand car and go after them."
The foreman protested. "It's four miles into town—"
"You'll walk it, goddamnit," Greer snapped. He climbed aboard the push car and grabbed one end of the lever. "Frost, Schmidt, get on up here."
"You'll never catch up to a train on that contraption, Greer," the foreman said.
"Let me worry about that. Now, when you get into town, tell Sykes at the hotel to wire ahead that the train's been stolen. You got that? Someone might be able to stop them at the next station."
The foreman shook his head. "I hope so, because you ain’t goin' to catch them on no hand car."
Greer ground his teeth. "Shut up, you damn fool. You leave it to us to see how much catchin' up we can do."
The work gang, now on foot, turned and headed east toward Sykesville. They had left a canteen behind, and the three men gratefully drank the water. Then Greer, Schmidt and Frost got the hand car moving. It was slow work starting from a dead stop, so Schmidt jumped off and began to push, grunting with the effort. The heavy crossbar moved up and down, faster and faster, and when the car began to pick up speed, Schmidt jumped aboard. As the three men began to work the crossbar in earnest, sweat broke out on their faces despite the fact that it was mid-November.
Greer couldn't help thinking of the Chesapeake’s dual, five-foot tall driving wheels and the powerful steam engine that drove those wheels. The locomotive could do a mile a minute on level ground. A steam locomotive running at full throttle was an awesome sight to behold, and the muscle-powered hand car seemed too hopelessly slow to ever catch the Chesapeake.
Schmidt spoke the same thought out loud. "We're too far behind. Let's just turn back and let someone stop her at the next station."
"Just put your back into it, Oscar," Greer grunted as he shoved down the handle, powering the car along the tracks. "We're going after our train."
A few miles ahead, the Chesapeake was steaming along just the way her pursuers imagined. The steam pistons churned with a powerful rhythm, and a long plume of black smoke streamed behind her, creating a smudge on the otherwise brilliant blue autumn sky. The locomotive was a beautiful sight, spinning along the bright ribbon of track that cut through the golden fields of autumn.
Hank Cunningham stood up tall on the tender and let the wind stream around him. He threw back his head and let out a long, blood-curdling Rebel yell.
"You sound like a goddamn Indian," Wilson complained good-naturedly as he worked the Chesapeake’s controls. He pulled a lever on the floor behind him to release more water into the locomotive's boiler, then opened the throttle a little wider. Operating a steam locomotive was part art, part instinct. There were few gauges, so an engineer relied on the feel of an engine, its sound, and his own experience.
Percy shared the cramped cab of the locomotive with Wilson. Whenever they came to a curve, the colonel leaned out, looking as far behind them as he could. He was watching for the telltale plume of smoke that would mean an engine was pursuing them. So far, there had been no sign that anyone was chasing them, and the Yankees hadn't attempted to block the tracks ahead, either.
Their luck, Percy thought, had been unbelievable so far. If it held out, they would soon have the Yankee president spirited into Confederate-held territory as a prisoner of war.
Abraham Lincoln. It was a name that could conjure political magic for the struggling Confederacy. The very thought that they had Lincoln as a prisoner was intoxicating. Capturing the president would do more to help the Cause than a score of battlefield victories.
Percy's thoughts were interrupted as Hank Cunningham pushed past with another load of wood for the firebox. They were burning cordwood at a terrific rate to maintain the Chesapeake’s speed. Cunningham worked like a fiend to feed the hungry maw of the firebox.
"How are we set on wood and water?" Percy asked.
Wilson looked at Cunningham, who shrugged. "Well, we might not have enough water to make it to Harpers Ferry, if that's what you mean, sir. We'll have to stop at Frederick Junction on the Monocacy River to take on wood and water both. This train hasn't been refueled since it left Baltimore this morning."
Percy was disappointed — and a little uneasy. The Monocacy was still well within Maryland. On the other hand, Harpers Ferry would be a major milestone, not in the least because the former United States arsenal was heavily guarded by Union soldiers and artillery.
Once they crossed the Potomac River and made it through Harpers Ferry, they would still be traveling through Union territory, but the Yankees' hold on the new state of West Virginia was not nearly as strong as it was on this side of the river. Each mile would bring them closer to the safety of the Shenandoah Valley, where Confederate troops would help them carry Lincoln south.
Still, Percy wasn't taking any chances.
"Run another ten minutes at full throttle and then stop," Percy ordered, shouting to be heard over the roar of the locomotive. He smiled. "We need to leave a little something to slow down anybody who tries to follow us."
"Yes, sir."
Percy grinned. "You know what 'Shenandoah' means, Wilson? It's an Indian word."
"No, Colonel." Wilson was distracted, busy working a lever.
"It means, 'Daughter of the Stars,' " Percy said. "I like the sound of that. Now let's get ourselves to the Shenandoah Valley just as fast as we can."
Chapter 14
Colonel William Norris read the latest news in a smuggled copy of The Washington Star and nodded his approval. So, Lincoln was still expected at Gettysburg. Reading the Northern newspapers was almost as productive as spying. Early in the war he had learned a great deal about troop movements and even strategy until the Federal government had begun to censor the news.
Then again, you didn’t see everything in the newspapers. There was no news of his raiders, for example. The note from Flynn had been his last update.
Norris stood and walked to the fire to warm himself. His fingers had grown stiff with cold. He was about to call for Fletcher when he caught himself. Well, so much for that. Fletcher had served his purpose but Norris did not trust him to keep his mouth closed about the secret business that went on at the Confederate Signal Bureau. Sending him on the raid seemed like a good way to rid himself of a liability. Of course, there was always the off chance that Captain Fletcher might survive and return.
And the others? It would not do for Colonel Percy and his band to receive a hero’s welcome in Richmond. Like Fletcher, he did not trust them to keep their secrets.
Norris sighed and stalked back to his desk. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the inkwell. Then he began to write out an order for the immediate arrest of Colonel Arthur Percy and all those accompanying him. The reason? Norris paused with his pen above the blank sheet, thinking of a good charge. Treason. There. He wrote it down. When the time came, he could engineer the details.