"They want that payroll money."
"Do they?" Schmidt asked. "Then why not just take the money und leave the train? If they split up and had a head-start, it will be hard to catch them on foot."
"Hell if I know what's on their minds, Oscar. They didn't ask my advice."
"What else is on that train?" Schmidt pressed. "What is in that car we picked up in Baltimore?"
"I don't know," Greer said, wondering himself. "It's all closed up. No one answered when I banged on the door back in Baltimore."
"Well." It came out as vell. Schmidt shrugged his wide shoulders. "Who knows what's in there?"
"Maybe those Rebs do," Greer said. "Looks like we'll be able to ask them soon enough."
Wet wood doesn't burn a fact that was being hammered home aboard the Chesapeake. Back at the Kearneysville station where they had taken on wood and water, the cordwood had not been kept covered in a shed. Rain had soaked it through and the autumn sun was not sufficient to dry it. It did not help that the wood was also green.
Hank Cunningham and Willie Forbes continued to hurl wood into the red-hot maw of the firebox, but the damp, green firewood only steamed and sputtered. The heat of the firebox was so intense that the wood eventually caught fire and burned, but not with the intensity needed to create the steam needed for outrunning the Yankees.
"Why in hell did you load wet wood?" demanded Percy, who had made his way to the engine to find out what was wrong.
"It was the only wood there was, Colonel," Willie Forbes replied, slurring his words slightly. His bottle of whiskey — well-hidden from Percy — was mostly gone.
The colonel stared hard at him, then finally exploded. "Damn you, Forbes! You're drunk."
"Well, I've been drinking," Forbes admitted.
Furiously, Percy lashed out with his right fist and caught Forbes on the chin. The blow nearly knocked Forbes off the train and he struggled to keep his balance.
Percy whirled on Cunningham. "So help me, Hank, if you're drunk, too— "
The engineer backed up a step. "No, sir."
"How could you let him drink like that?" Percy demanded. "You knew my orders."
"I reckon he's got a mind of his own," Cunningham said. "Besides, sir, that wood at Kearneysville was green and wet, but that’s all there was. Drunk or sober, it wouldn't have made no difference."
Percy clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the urge to strike Forbes again. He knew there was little he could do at the moment to punish Forbes. He needed every man if they were going to have any hope of outrunning the Yankees.
Still fuming, Percy turned to the engineer. "Well?"
"We're winding down like a watch, Colonel," Wilson said. "It wouldn't be a problem if we weren't being chased. We could just take on some dry wood at another station."
"No chance of that. Not with the Yankees right behind us."
"Sorry, Colonel," Cunningham said. He and Forbes looked exhausted from stoking the engine. "I feel like we let you down."
"Not at all, Percy said. "It's the wood, Hank."
What was done, thought Percy, was done. He knew they had already used up more than their share of luck for one day. Now the only thing that could get them to the safety of the rendezvous point was a miracle — or one hell of a lot of luck.
The train churned through wild country. There were no towns or villages, just groupings of squalid, unpainted frame houses that huddled beside the tracks. The only other sign of human handiwork was the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, which paralleled the tracks of the B&O. This time of year, however, there wasn't a great deal of boat traffic.
Mostly there were just empty mountains rising steeply beyond the rail lines. The tracks lay on the West Virginia side of the Potomac River, and across the water was Maryland.
As they approached the head of the river, the Potomac was now shallow enough to wade across. The current was swift and the river foamed white as it passed over the rocky riverbed. Hard to believe this was the same river they had crossed three days ago near Washington, where the Potomac was so vast that steamboats could navigate. These lonely mountains struck Percy as a forlorn place to make a last stand. Sometimes a soldier didn't get a choice.
Flynn and Benjamin were climbing to the roof of the president's car. "Once we get to the top, get across and be quick about it, lad," Flynn said. "Don't get to thinking about what you're doing, or you won't do it."
The car bucked beneath their feet and on either side the rocky ground far below was just a blur. A slip would mean death, but they scrambled across, trying not to think about that. The soldiers riding on the pursuing train were quick enough to get shots off, but the bullets buzzed harmlessly past. Then Flynn and Benjamin reached the ladder on the other side. They climbed down almost on the heads of Pettibone and Hudson.
"Any word from the president?" Flynn asked.
"Not a sound out of him. It's quiet as the grave in there," Pettibone said. "What happened to Hazlett and the rest? They said they had to go see the colonel. I told him to stay, but he wouldn't listen."
"You heard the shooting?"
"A little." Pettibone shrugged his bony shoulders. "I reckoned Benjamin here was taking potshots at the Yankees behind us."
"The truth of the matter was that we had a mutiny on our hands."
"Goddamn Hazlett. I knew he was up to no good," Pettibone said.
"Those three decided they wanted to take the payroll money in the baggage car and asked the colonel to stop the train so they could get off."
"Those bastards." Pettibone shook his head in astonishment. "I reckon Colonel Percy didn't like that plan."
"There was a disagreement," Flynn said, grinning. "Hazlett and Fletcher are dead. Cook is tied up good and tight so he won't cause trouble."
"I'll be damned," Pettibone said in his slow drawl. "What happened?"
Flynn quickly detailed the brief mutiny. "I won't miss Hazlett," he added.
"Neither will I," Hudson announced. "He didn't have much use for negroes."
"That leaves fewer of us to fight the Yankees," Pettibone said.
"Hell, it just evens the odds," Flynn said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, lads, the boy and I have work to do."
Flynn crossed the open space between the two cars and ducked into the boxcar, with Benjamin right behind him.
"I ain't a boy," Benjamin said, once they were inside the car.
Flynn looked at him, saw a face that could not yet grow more than a few scraggly whiskers, and suppressed a grin. Benjamin really was just a boy, but there was no denying he was doing a man's work.
"Right you are, Private," Flynn said. "My apologies. Now, grab hold of the other end of this tie. Let's give the Yankees something to chew on."
The railroad tie was carved from black locust, a species whose dense wood was naturally resistant to rot. It was six inches square and almost as heavy as iron. They maneuvered it toward the hole in the back wall of the boxcar, stumbling every time the speeding train swayed on the tracks.
"When I say the word, give her a big push," Flynn said.
He eased the tie out and balanced it on the edge of the opening. Flynn knew what they were doing was purely desperate, but it still had some small chance of success. If they could get the tie to land on the tracks in just the right way, it might get caught up in the machinery of the wheels and driving rods of the pursuing locomotive. They might even manage to derail the train.
"Now!" he yelled, and with a powerful shove, they sent the tie shooting out of the boxcar. It missed the tracks altogether and bounced, turning end over end until it landed in the river with a tremendous splash.
"This might take some practice," Flynn said. "Let's try again."