They had succeeded so far in spite of all the odds against them, and for the first time, Percy allowed himself to believe they might actually get Lincoln to Richmond, after all. At the moment, anything seemed possible.
"We'll make good time until the Parr's Ridge grade, sir," Wilson shouted, interrupting Percy's thoughts. "That will slow us down some. Just beyond Mount Airy is the Monocacy River. There's a bridge, and I'm sure the Yankees have it guarded." He sounded apprehensive. The crossing — known officially as Frederick Junction for the rail spur that connected the city of Frederick to the main B&O line — would have troops guarding it.
"We'll be there and gone before the Yankees know it," Percy said, trying to reassure Wilson. In reality, he was worried about the guard at the Monocacy crossing, but if the luck they'd had so far held, they would have surprise on their side. "We won't so much as slow down."
"We'll see about the bridge, sir." The engineer sounded doubtful. "We'll see."
"How fast are we going?" Percy asked. The ground beneath them was a blur.
"Sixty miles per hour, Colonel," Wilson said, the tone of his voice betraying some amazement. "I ain't got a stopwatch, but I reckon that's about right."
Sixty miles per hour. A mile a minute. It hardly seemed possible. Percy was amazed. The worries of the past few days slipped even further away, and he put looming problems such as the Monocacy crossing out of his mind for the moment.
"Ever run a train through Virginia this fast?"
"Yes, sir. From time to time. We've got locomotives that can manage sixty." He cracked a smile. "Mostly it's the tracks that's slow."
"These Yankees know how to build a railroad," Percy agreed. So far, all the bridges had been iron or stone, all the tracks well-tended. Far different from Virginia, with its wooden bridges and tracks left in ruins because of the war.
"Too bad these tracks don't go clear to Richmond," Percy said. "We'd be there in time for Mr. Lincoln to be Jefferson Davis's dinner guest."
"With any luck, we'll get there all the same in a few days."
Percy looked out again at the rapidly passing countryside. Beautiful country. The rolling landscape was a patchwork of woods and fields. The corn and wheat had been harvested recently, but it was easy to see this was rich farming country. He wouldn't mind coming back to spend some time here, maybe when the war was over, although it was getting so he could hardly remember when there hadn't been a war. Compared to the bleak, untended fields in Virginia, Maryland looked like the land of plenty, even in mid-November. There were woods, too, filled with timber, and while most of the trees had lost their leaves, some still clung tenaciously to the oaks they passed. Here and there a flaming red sumac stood out defiantly against the brown and gray landscape.
"Train on the right," Wilson called, and Percy shook off his reverie in an instant.
The engine stood on a siding with four freight cars behind it. She was under steam, but had evidently pulled off the main track to let the bigger, faster Chesapeake pass.
It was an ugly little machine, with small wheels and a massive upright cylinder like a barrel on a wagon. The long, ungainly driving bar that powered the wheels gave the locomotive an insect-like appearance.
"What the hell is that?" Percy asked.
"It's called a Grasshopper," Wilson said. "It's an older engine that the B&O still uses for local runs. You want me to stop so we can wreck her? Some Yank might wise up and come after us on that thing."
Already, they had roared past the siding and left it behind. To stop now would cost them too much time. Percy scoffed. "Ha! That old thing? Catch us?" He waved toward the track ahead. "Go man, go! Open her up."
The Chesapeake roared along at an exhilarating pace, sending up a black plume of smoke, like a challenge. The Grasshopper engine was soon out of sight and forgotten.
It was all Percy could do not to whoop out loud.
Flynn watched the woods and fields fly past beyond the windows. The train was running at a terrific pace, swaying from side to side like a ship at sea. He had to admit the Yankees would be hard-pressed to catch them now, at this speed.
An uneasy quiet had fallen over the passengers, who watched their Confederate captors sullenly. Captain Fletcher had been sent to help them guard the car, and the rhythmic motion was putting him to sleep. Flynn noticed the captain nodding off at the back of the car. How anyone could sleep just then Flynn didn't know, but it was clear the action and sleepless nights of the last forty-eight hours had caught up to Fletcher. Not that Fletcher was worth a damn awake, anyhow. They would have been better off if Colonel Percy had simply shot the man for refusing to work.
Would Percy really have shot him? Just two days ago, Flynn wouldn't have thought so, but now he wasn't so sure. He had discovered that not only was Percy a very determined individual, but there was a bit of madness about him. Percy wasn't quite crazy, but he was definitely unpredictable.
His thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Henrietta Parker. "Oh, this is terrible," she complained. "At this speed we'll run off the tracks and be killed."
Flynn moved toward her. He saw her husband touch the back of her hand, as a warning.
"Hush now, dear," Albert Parker said. "We don't want to upset these… these Rebels."
Flynn grinned down wickedly at them. "That's right, ma'am. If you upset me I might have to shoot your husband."
Albert paled. His wife, however, looked furious. "I shall have a front row seat at your hanging, Sergeant."
"With any luck, Mrs. Parker, ma'am, there won't be any hangings. You said yourself the train might wreck and kill us all." At that moment, the speeding train struck an uneven spot in the rails and rocked wildly. Mrs. Parker gasped.
"That's quite enough."
Flynn turned. The fat little lawyer, Prescott, stood and waddled up the aisle, struggling to keep his balance as the car pitched from side to side. The expression on his face wavered between fear and outrage.
Casually, Flynn leveled the Le Mat revolver at Prescott's chest. He cocked the hammer with an audible click. "Think about what you're doing, Mr. Prescott."
Prescott stopped. His doughy, white hands clenched and unclenched. "There's no call to be tormenting ladies… Sergeant. Are you a soldier or a thug?"
Flynn was in no mood for a lecture. "At the moment I'm just a man pointing a gun at you, Mr. Prescott. Now shut the hell up and sit down."
At the back of the car, the door into the next car slammed shut with a bang. One of the passengers had slipped out. Cursing, Flynn realized Prescott's protest must have been a diversion, and he felt like a fool because he had fallen for it.
Flynn grabbed Prescott's shoulder and shoved him aside. All he could think about was going after whoever had slipped out the door. He started to shout at Benjamin, in case the boy hadn't noticed.
"Lad, we've got—”
As Prescott fell away, Flynn saw the Baltimore dandy crouched in the aisle behind the fat lawyer. He had been hidden behind Prescott's bulk. With a grunt, Charlie Gilmore launched himself at Flynn.
Caught off guard, Flynn didn't have time to react. Gilmore slugged him in the belly and Flynn doubled over in pain. The Le Mat flew from his hand. He couldn't catch his breath. A fist smashed into his chin and Flynn went down.
As Gilmore's well-shined shoe stomped down at Flynn's head, he rolled just fast enough that the heel only skidded along his temple. Flynn kicked, catching Gilmore in the knee and throwing him off balance.
Gilmore stumbled, giving Flynn time to roll to his feet. Gilmore reached for the pistol in his belt.
"You done asked for it," he snarled.
Flynn hit him before he could get the gun free, putting all the power of his shoulders into the punch. Gilmore collapsed, his pistol flying.