Percy turned and shouted a warning at Lieutenant Cater, who was leaning over the rail of the last car, revolver at the ready, Private Cook beside him. "Shoot them if they get too close," Percy yelled.
Lieutenant Cater thumbed back the hammer on the Colt and took aim. "I've got the one with his back to us," he said to Cook. "You take one of the others. Hell, if we don't get them, that gap in the rails will."
The pursuers were now so close that they could plainly see the three sweating faces of the men.
"Ready— "
At that moment, the men on the hand car quit pumping, letting the car coast. The gap in the rails was just ahead, but the car was slowing. This time there would be no spectacular derailment. The three pursuers glared defiantly at the train, which was struggling to lurch ahead.
“These Yankees don’t know when to give up,” Lieutenant Cater said, then pulled the trigger.
The bullet ripped the air above the pursuers, but all three men dove toward the deck of the car. Cater laughed. "Maybe they ain’t such fools after all. That ought to give them something to think about."
One man jumped to his feet and shook his fist at them, yelling something unintelligible.
Cater laughed even harder and ripped another shot over their heads. The men ducked. As the raiders waited expectantly, the car rolled to a stop just in front of the spot where the rails were missing. No sooner had the car stopped than one of the men jumped down and began to run after the train. He favored one leg as he ran, but still moved quickly enough.
The Chesapeake gained speed slowly. As Cater watched, the man began to close the distance between them. He was short and broad, a born sprinter, and only what appeared to be a bad leg kept him from running even faster. The man's face contorted with the effort, his eyes bugged out as he gasped for air. Cater could hear him panting.
Cater leveled the pistol at him.
"That's close enough," he warned.
"You stole my train," the man managed to shout.
Cater grinned. "Ours now, Yank." He cocked the pistol. "Don't come no closer, or I'll shoot."
The sprinter didn't slow down. He was like a human locomotive.
Still, Cater couldn't bring himself to shoot the man. But if he came any closer—
With a sudden jolt, the train picked up speed. The sprinter struggled to keep up, but the train moved faster and faster until, winded and slowed by his bad leg, he began to fall behind. Finally, breathlessly, he stood with his hands on his knees, panting, then shook his fist at the train. "You ain't seen the last of me!"
Private Cook put his revolver away and gave a low whistle. "You should of shot him, Lieutenant. That man ain't goin' to give up."
Behind them, from within President Lincoln’s car, a voice called through the door. Both men had forgotten all about their captive passengers and they jumped at the sound. "What's that shooting about?"
"Ain't nothing important," Cater said.
"What was it?" the voice demanded.
"Just some snakes beside the tracks," he said. "We were shooting at them."
He had been cool enough dealing with the pursuit, but he was unnerved when he thought about the presence on the other side of the oak door. The president of the United States! In all the excitement of the raid, it was easy to forget that Lincoln was even aboard the train. If they got the president to Richmond, the war might be over next week. Cater felt relieved when there were no other questions from behind the door.
"We're goin' to have quite a story to tell our grandchildren, Cook." Cater smiled and holstered his Colt. "Yes, indeed. We done captured the chief Yankee of them all. Ol' Abe Lincoln himself."
Cook was staring at the receding figure on the tracks, who was still shaking his fist at the train and shouting, although he was too far away now for Cook to hear him. "Lot of miles between us and Richmond, Lieutenant," the private observed. "Lot of miles."
Chapter 16
Greer did not watch the train out of sight. Cursing and gasping for breath after his futile chase, he headed back to the others. Schmidt and Frost looked about as worn out as he felt, he decided. Both men wore hangdog expressions on their faces, and they were battered and dirty. It was exhausting, working the car's handle up and down, mile after mile, as they chased the Chesapeake. Now they had been forced to stop at the gap in the rails and watch the train disappear once again. They were watching him, wondering what to do next.
"Well, I reckon that's that," Frost said. He sounded relieved.
"Jump down and grab a corner of the car," Greer growled. "You, too, Schmidt."
"What?"
"You heard me. We're going to carry this thing across the gap here and go after them."
"You're crazy, Greer," Frost said. "You've gone goddamn crazy on us. We ain't goin' to catch that train. Not now. Ain't that right, Oscar?"
The big German scratched his beard. "Why not?" he finally said. "Greer is right about us letting the train be stolen. Someone will have to be punished for this, and that someone might be us if we don't catch the raiders. Otherwise, we'll never have jobs on a railroad again." He climbed off the car and claimed the back corner. "We have to go after that train. There is no other choice."
"Hell, you're both crazy."
Still, Frost jumped down and joined in as the other two men began the arduous task of moving the hand car across the gap in the rails. It was only a distance of twelve feet, but the iron and wood structure was heavy and the wheels did not roll easily over open ground. Carrying the car was out of the question because of its weight. Instead, all three men put their shoulders against the back of the car and pushed. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the car crept forward. Finally, after much heaving, sweating and cursing, they crossed the gap and lined the wheels up for the final push back onto the rails.
The Chesapeake was nowhere in sight. Even the telltale smoke was gone, leaving an empty, blue bowl of autumn sky.
Schmidt swore in disgust. He put his shoulder to the back of the car and single-handedly forced it onto the rails again.
Greer jumped aboard. "Come on," he said. "Let's get going."
With a sense of resignation, the other men scrambled up and took hold of the pump handle. Greer winced as he gripped the metal. Unlike Frost, whose hands were like leather from handling wood all day, Schmidt and Greer did little real labor anymore and their hands were blistered and raw. Still, Greer shoved down mightily, ignoring the pain, and the car began to roll. They took up the chase once more, although they seemed impossibly far behind, and too slow to ever hope of catching up again.
Colonel Percy watched the scenery flash by as the Chesapeake built speed. Beside him in the locomotive's cab, Cephas Wilson opened the throttle even wider. Wind howled beyond the glass windows enclosing the cab as the locomotive rushed west. Hank Cunningham scurried between the firebox and tender, feeding the engine's incredible hunger for wood.
Percy laughed out loud. He was in the best spirits he'd been in since that day in Richmond when Fletcher had summoned him to Colonel Norris's office at the Confederate Secret Service. Up until now, Percy had half-expected the Yankees to catch them at any moment. Lord knows there had been enough opportunities for things to go wrong — crossing the Potomac, gathering at the train station in Ellicott Mills, even taking the train under the noses of Yankee infantry, not to mention those relentless pursuers whom they had finally lost. The stakes were high. Capture would mean death at the end of a rope for himself and his men because they would all be considered spies, not soldiers. Percy didn't plan on allowing himself or any of his men to be taken alive, if it came to that.