The Railroad War (33 page)

All the myriad marginal scrawls that proclaimed Preacher Jeffes’s faith and piety actually recorded the facts of Captain Hawken’s
espionage.

The arsenal offices were located above the main plant floor, in a windowed gallery. In order to return to the loading platform
window, Sam had to descend the wooden staircase back to the plant floor, then cross the floor itself.

He snuffed out his candle, opened the glass-paned door, and stepped out onto the stair landing, pausing to take a final look
at the space below. From the landing the shop floor appeared gray and dim, but it was possible to make out shapes and masses.
When he was once again down on the floor itself, he knew he would be in near total darkness.

Sam froze. He didn’t like what he saw—a pair of shadows near the window he’d used to break in. A pair of shadows that moved
like men.

Their movements came to a halt, and one of the two made a gesture that could have been an arm, or a pistol, pointing. The
arm was pointing at Sam.

The windowed office gallery was no place to be now. It was a trap with glass walls, and he was silhouetted against them.

He dropped to a crouch below the window level, at the same time drawing the revolver that he’d stored at the small of his
back. Then, keeping a low profile, he slipped down the stairs as swiftly and as silently as he could. At the bottom he veered
to his right, into a dark forest of lathes and drill presses. Once he was there, he stopped and waited.

He heard scuttling and scraping, like large rats. The noises appeared to come from some distance to his left, but it was hard
to judge how far because the large, empty space echoed.

Sam continued to wait and listen, peering into the shadows. He made no sounds; he scarcely even breathed.

There was a small light now visible across the floor, swaying as its bearer moved. The light came from a bull’s-eye lantern,
and the man who bore it was making a careful, systematic search.

It didn’t take much of a mental leap for Sam to recognize what he was searching for.

For an instant he wondered what had set the searcher after him; there had been no watchman here when he entered. Had someone
noticed the broken window? That didn’t seem likely.

He remembered that he had seen two searchers from the gallery landing. Where was the second one?

The man with the lamp was near the stairway to the gallery.

It was the moment to move.

He considered returning to the window where he had made his entry, but he decided against it. The second man might have stationed
himself there. Sam threaded his way noiselessly through the machinery toward the Peachtree Street side of the building. He’d
exit through one of those windows.

Once he was as far as he could get from the window he had originally come through, he wrapped the poncho around his head and
arms, arranging it so he could see through the head hole. Then he gathered himself up to leap through the window.

“Where yo goin’, Rev’rend?” a voice behind him said.

The voice belonged to the young, nervous corporal he’d run into at the train yard! Goddamn!

Sam trembled, poised to spring away.

“Don’t do that,” the corporal ordered. “Don’t even thaink of doin’ that. I’ve got a pistol aimed on you, an’ I’ve kept it
dry enough to do what it was made for.”

Sam let his body relax, but only the slightest bit.

“You’ve prob’ly got you a pistol yerself somewhere’s in that tent you’ve put over yerself. So whyn’t you jest drop it slow,
an’ then, keepin’ slow, raise up yer hands.”

Sam complied. Shit! The revolver clattered on the floor. The corporal had come upon him from behind, and Sam was still turned
away from him. He started to turn to face the man who’d captured him.

“Don’t do that, Rev’rend,” the corporal ordered. “You can jest stay on there with yer back to me.”

“As you like,” Sam said. Then he added, “Sir.”

“Don’t git smart, Rev’rend. It’s Corporal, like I told you already, Rev’rend—though I don’t guess it’s really Rev’rend, is
it?” The boy couldn’t see his gray uniform coat in the dark. Which was just as well, Sam thought.

“You’ve never seen a man of God in the Confederate arsenal, Corporal?”

“Don’t git smart, I told you.” Then he called out, “Barney! You! Barney! I’ve got him! You can come on over to where I am,
down by the Peachtree Street end.”

The man with the lantern was soon standing alongside the corporal.

“Shine yer light on him, Barney,” the corporal said. “On his head.” Barney did as he was ordered. “Now you can turn yerself
around, Rev’rend.” Sam did as he was told, and the corporal’s and Barney’s eyes both grew wide.

“Good Lord!” the corporal said. “First yer a rev’rend, and now yer a captain. What you goin’ to be next, man—a angel?”

Sam shrugged.

“Now you can tell me what you was doin’ here,” the corporal said.

“That’s between me and God, Corporal.”

“Don’t git smart!” Sam was starting to annoy him.

“Do you have a name, Corporal?”

“It ain’t gonna be Corporal long, not after I take you in.”

“Congratulations, Sergeant. What’s your name?”

“What’s yers?”

“Simon Jeffes,” Sam answered.

“I’m Davis,” the corporal said, “Jeff Davis.”

Barney snorted.

“How do you do, Jeff,” Sam said with a straight face.

“Actually, I’m not Jeff,” the corporal said. “But my last name’s Davis.”

“How do you do, Corporal Davis.”

“Yer gittin’ smart agin.”

Sam gave him an impassive, bland look.

“We’ll need to tie his hands,” Corporal Davis said to Barney. “You go fetch some cord to tie him with, all right?”

Barney went off.

“How did you know to come in here, Corporal Davis?” Sam asked.

“You lost this,” Davis said, proudly producing Sam’s hat from a pocket where he had stuffed it. “I didn’t trust you from the
beginning, and I was right not to. Word’s gone out to be on the partic’lar lookout fer a Yankee spy. An’ so when you shows
up in the train yards an’ then runs off, I knew it had to be you. We chased after you—three of my men off to the cars where
people are livin’ an’ Barney an’ me off t’other side.

“We thought we’d lost you fer sure, but then I finds this hat an’ knew you’d gotta be close. An’ then after that we sees the
window broke in the loadin’ bay.

“So…”

“You’ll be a good sergeant, Corporal Davis.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

“It was a compliment. I guess you’re not used to praise.”

“Don’t git smart,” was all he could manage.

Barney returned with cord.

He made a move to tie Sam, but Davis held him up. “You better check him fer other stuff besides that revolver that’s on the
floor. Here, give me the lantern.”

Barney passed over the lamp, then went to Sam. “Hold yer hands up higher,” he said.

“Anything you say, Barney,” he said, but pointedly failed to move his hands or arms.

“Hit him, Barney,” Davis said. “Make him want to keep his mouth shut.”

Barney struck Sam hard with his open hand on the side of the mouth. Sam’s head snapped back; blood flowed down his chin. Barney
was a big boy—Sam estimated that he was even younger than Davis—and he hurt when he hit, even when he hit flat-handed.

“Now raise your hands higher,” Barney ordered again. “Straight up.” Sam didn’t quite do that. He was able to bring his hands
nearly together without the other two paying attention, for Barney was starting to search him. As Barney began, Davis realized
that the soldier would be in the way if he had to shoot Sam.

“Move him over a bit,” Davis ordered, “so I have a clear shot.” Sam did as he was told this time without any sarcasm. He wanted
them to think the blow had done its work.

Barney flipped the poncho over Sam’s head and let it fall down onto the floor. Then his hands were in Sam’s pockets. Pretty
soon he had come up with the Bible.

“Let me see that,” Davis said.

Barney tossed it over, and Davis caught it. It was a near miss, because Davis’s hands were occupied with the lantern and the
pistol, but he had quick, young reflexes, and he was able to stop the Bible before it fluttered to the floor.

It was the next act that undid him.

Barney’s eyes were lowered; he was occupied with the pocket that held the candle and the matches.

Sam closed his hands into a double fist and brought them down onto Barney’s head, at the same time jerking his knee up so
that Barney’s face was caught in a vise.

Then he whipped the head up and lashed it down into the knee again, grinding.

Barney screamed, a high-pitched infant’s wail of pain.

Barney’s head was now in a vise grip, and Sam was propelling him toward the corporal like a battering ram.

Davis, who by now was not thinking clearly, fired his revolver. He didn’t hit Sam; the slug struck Barney in a buttock.

Barney howled louder, and then Sam drove Barney, wound and all, into Davis.

“You goddamned bastard!” Davis yelled as he lost his balance. The Bible dropped, and so did the lantern. It crashed and broke
when it hit the floor. The pistol went off again, but this time the bullet sailed away into the vast spaces of the shed.

Before he could fire another time, Sam was on top of him, wrenching the pistol away. Davis managed another shot in the struggle.
This one slammed into one of the windows of the gallery offices.

And then Sam had the pistol, and he was using it on Davis’s head like a bludgeon.

“Stop! Stop!” Davis screamed. But Sam did not stop until Davis was staring at him in a defenseless daze.

In crashing down, the lamp had spilled kerosene onto the floor. The lamp flame had ignited it, and now tongues of flame had
begun to reach out for other fuel. Sam stamped it out before it could spread. He didn’t want a fire, or at least he didn’t
want one yet. But the flames gave him an idea.

“You, Barney,” Sam said. Barney, whimpering, looked up. “Use that cord you brought for me and tie up the corporal’s hands
and feet.” Barney moved slowly. “Faster, goddamn it!” Sam said, making a kicking motion in the direction of Barney’s wounded
buttock.

By the time Barney had finished and Sam had bound Barney’s hands and feet, Corporal Davis had regained consciousness.

“What you gonna do now, Rev’rend?” he asked. There was the chill of fear in his voice.

Sam was starting to gather straw used for packing. He was going to build a pile of it over the kerosene spill.

“You’ve come around, I see,” Sam said. He didn’t especially want to answer the corporal’s question. He didn’t want to tell
them that he was not safe unless they were dead.

“Yer gonna make a fire, aren’t you? Yer gonna set this place on fire.”

Sam didn’t answer. He dropped a load of straw on top of the kerosene. Then he went to find some paper.

“Yer gonna kill us, aren’t you?” the corporal asked when Sam returned.

“It looks like that,” Sam said, not liking to admit it.

Barney was crying again, and he had pissed his pants.

“So why’d you bother tyin’ us up? Why didn’t you jest shoot us an’ be done with it?”

Sam looked at the straw and the paper and saw that it would do the job. He went and retrieved his Bible, his hat, his revolver,
and his poncho.

“Why didn’t you just shoot us an’ be done with it?” the corporal said one more time.

Because, Sam thought to himself, dying in the fire is not the same as my shooting you in cold blood.

He couldn’t bring himself to say that, however.

He took out his matches and set the pile alight.

“I’d rather die from your bullet,” the corporal said.

“Don’t let me burn alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. The flames were spreading. He had to get out.

“I’ve never seen such a cold-fish bastard,” the corporal said.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and took a long breath. Then he lifted his revolver from his belt and shot both men in the
head—first Barney and then Corporal Davis.

It was not his proudest act.

By morning the rain had stopped, but the sky was still gray and threatening. The sun did not start to break through until
after noon.

Shortly before two that afternoon, a long, mule-drawn farm wagon crept snail slow up Peachtree Street, much to the driver’s
distaste. It was Monday, which made for considerable traffic. The mules were old, the wagon’s load heavy, and the mud that
still clogged the roadway didn’t help speed up things, either. But none of these realities lessened the impatience of the
driver, a good-looking sixteen-year-old slave whose name was Horace. Horace wanted to
move.
But he couldn’t move, at least not very much, and there was nothing he could do about it. So Horace seethed.

Seated on Horace’s right was Miranda Kemble. Miranda did not share Horace’s impatience. She liked Atlanta, and she liked taking
in the bustle and energy of the town this Monday afternoon. Though Miranda and Horace were on their way back to Raven’s Wing
after a three-day stay in Atlanta, as far as she was concerned, she could have stayed longer. Her friend Sally Mayfield had
invited her into town as a break from the labors of running Raven’s Wing. It was a welcome break, for Sally was bubbly, engaging,
and warm, with a delightful pair of seven-year-old twin daughters, and it was a chance to do some business, for Sally’s husband,
Thomas, owned a hardware and dry-goods store, and Miranda had fresh vegetables she could barter with. Though Thomas hadn’t
had much that was useful in stock, Miranda still came out with a few needed tools and a few yards of denim and calico that
could be made into clothes for the field hands.

“You hear about the fire las’ night, ma’am?” Horace asked. As he spoke, he threaded his way impatiently between a wagon unloading
beer barrels and another packed full of cotton bales that was stalled in the mud. “Burned down the arsenal.”

“It was all Sally could talk about, Horace,” Miranda said. “It must have been the biggest thing to hit Atlanta this year,
the way the news spread so fast. All through lunch Sally went on and on about it.”