Tom of the Raiders

by Austin Bishop

THE END OF THE RACE

Fuller had stopped at Green's Station and at Tilton for wood and water; at Dalton he paused for a moment to shunt the two freight cars which Andrews had dropped. The telegraph operator who had been dragged into the chase at Calhoun ran to the station and pounced upon a telegraph key. Chattanooga answered him and he hammered out half of the message; then the wire "went dead." Andrews had broken the lines. But half of the message was enough to warn Chattanooga. The Commander of the Confederate troops rushed his men out to block the tracks against the raiders.

Fuller, relieved of the two box-cars, ordered the Texas ahead, and they swung out from the Dalton station.

"How about the tunnel?" Murphy asked.

Fuller thought for a moment. "We'll go straight through," he answered.

"You don't think that they'll drop that last box-car there?" asked Murphy.

"We'll have to take the risk. A minute's delay will be enough for them to destroy the bridge."

Murphy nodded and climbed up beside Fuller on the edge of the tender. Both of them realized that they would be in the very center of the wreck if Andrews had abandoned his last freight car in the tunnel. Yet they sat there, coolly and indifferently, awaiting whatever might come of the risk they were taking.

"If I were leading those men," said Fuller, "I would rush for the bridge, and not bother about the tunnel. And I think that is what they'll do." That was all he said as the black entrance grew larger before them.

The engineer glanced at Fuller and Murphy, wondering if they would give the signal to slow down. Neither of them moved. Then the Texas plunged into the smoke-laden darkness. Presently there appeared a faint luminous splotch ahead of them, growing brighter as the seconds passed. They flashed out into the daylight again.

"Whew!" said Murphy. They exchanged glances and Fuller laughed nervously.

The General was just disappearing around the bend.

"Look!" exclaimed Fuller. They caught a glimpse of the smoking freight car. He climbed down from the tender and went to the engineer. "Put every ounce into her! They're making for the bridge—freight car on fire!"

The Texas, unburdened by cars, had the advantage in speed now. For seconds she seemed to hover above the tracks as the engineer forced her around the curve under full throttle. They came to the point where they had caught the last glimpse of the General; then the bridge swung into view. Black smoke, with wisps of red flames breaking through it, poured from the ends of the shed.

"They've left the freight car in there," shouted Fuller to the engineer. "Just the shed is burning now. Slow down and pick the car up, then rush on through."

"Through that fire?" demanded the engineer.

"Yes! If we stop we're lost." Fuller went to Murphy. "Better come in the cab—we're going through." Murphy followed him. They stood looking out over the tender.

The engineer reversed the Texas and brought it to a crawling pace as they reached the mouth of the shed. Smoke and flames enveloped them, blinding them, and they felt the wheels of the locomotive crunching over charred board which had fallen across the track. Then came the shock as the tender bumped the freight car. Flames showered down over the locomotive, streaking through the blackness. The heat was scorching, sickening. The speed of the Texas increased. And then they found themselves in the clear air again, pushing the smoking remains of the freight car before them.

"Go on! Go on!" yelled Fuller. "Never mind about the bridge." He glanced back and saw the shed collapse, shooting sparks into the pillar of smoke that was rising. "We'll get them between here and Chattanooga."

* * * * *

That smoke, rising into the sky, came like a signal of triumph to Andrews' men. They watched it silently; then they yelled. It was recompense for all those long hours of tension and violent effort. The men danced, shouted, and hammered each other upon the back. Andrews' face, drawn by hours of anxiety, relaxed into a smile.

"There's one bridge down!" he shouted. "How much fuel have we?"

"This is the last of it," answered Tom. He kicked the two logs which lay on the tender floor, ready to be shoved into the fire-box.

Andrews went to the tender and gathered the men about him. "What we'll do from here on," he said, "depends upon whether the Rebs come through that bridge. If they don't get through, we'll have time enough to gather fuel and burn the bridges ahead of us. If they do get through, the only thing that we can do is to abandon the engine and take to our legs."

"Stop and fight 'em," protested Boss.

"No," answered Andrews. "We're not here to fight. It won't do us or the North any good. We're here to burn bridges and we've done it. If we can't reach the next bridge our work is done. Scatter—each man for himself!"

The General came into a long straight track, which had the small town of Ringgold at its northern end. "If we don't see them by the time we reach the next curve it means they're stopped," said Andrews.

Tom put the last of the fuel into the fire. Brown closed the dampers and glanced at the steam gauge. He shook his head savagely. "If we only had some of that fuel we used on the freight car!" he exclaimed.

"More important to burn the bridge," answered Tom. "I wish Andrews would stop around this bend and fight 'em."

The General was thundering down upon the station at Ringgold. The men stood in the tender gazing silently back, watching for the Texas to come around the curve.

"There!"

Tom looked down the track. The Texas, pushing the smoldering freight car before her, was still after them! The Ringgold station flashed past, with the bewildered agent looking first at one locomotive and then at the other. The General whipped around the curve.

"Slow down, Knight!" ordered Andrews. "Jump off, men. Scatter and make your way back to the lines!"

Knight shut the throttle and allowed the General to lose speed. Tom, Andrews, and Brown stood aside while the men filed from the tender into the cab. The first stood on the step for a moment, then jumped. Tom saw him strike the trackside and go sprawling. The second jumped … the third … the fourth….

"Get ready to reverse the engine, Knight," said Andrews. "We'll send it back on them." Knight threw the lever over. "They'll stop in Ringgold for a minute to shunt that car."

All the men, except the engine crew, were off.

"You next, Tom," ordered Andrews. "Then Brown and Knight. I'll stay by the engine and send her back. Here, Tom, take your coat." In that last moment, Andrews was as calm as if he had reached the end of some commonplace, humdrum journey.

Tom took his coat and put it on. He paused for a second on the step of the General, then leaped. His feet struck the ground and he pitched forward. He arose, dazed and shaken, and stepped into the woods which lined the track.

The General disappeared up the track; a minute later the Texas passed him, and he caught a glimpse of the two men who had pursued them from Big Shanty. They were sitting on the edge of the tender, leaning forward eagerly.

"If we'd only stopped to fight them!" thought Tom. But it was too late for that now. The great railroad race was over, and ahead of him lay miles of enemy country. He wondered where the other men were, if he would meet them. He was aroused from his thoughts by the noise of a locomotive coming from the north. The Texas came rolling back, with the two men on the tender waving to the engineer; the General followed, steaming down the track with its cab deserted. But the Southerners had seen it in time to avoid collision.

The gap between the two locomotives narrowed; then they came together gently. One of the men jumped to the General's tender, rushed into the cab and shut the throttle. The locomotive which had carried the raiders on that wild trip from Big Shanty was again in the hands of the Confederates.

Tom stood behind a tree watching them. Presently the Texas started north, pushing the General before her. The last of its fuel and steam had been used in that final charge down the track.

Tom walked into the woods, away from the railroad, and sank to the ground exhausted. Minutes passed while he lay there resting. Every muscle in his body was sore, and it was enough just to stretch out with his head against the cool moist ground. The problem of getting out of the enemy's country and back to his own lines seemed too remote to be considered now. But presently he sat up and began to wonder what would happen next. He was about twenty miles from Chattanooga—he knew that from studying the map at Marietta. Mitchel's lines lay to the west, probably fifty miles away. To the north lay the flooded Tennessee River, which he would have to cross. And as for himself, he was shirtless and grimy with soot; he was almost without food, and dead tired. To make matters worse, just as though they were not bad enough, the drizzle of rain, which had been an implacable enemy since that night on the road to Wartrace, gave no signs of ending. Evening was approaching.

Tom got to his feet. First, he decided, he would put a greater distance between himself and the railroad. He walked through the forest and came to a road. It was deserted. Regardless of the danger of being seen so near to the spot where they had burned the bridge, he followed the road to the north. His ears were straining for the least sound of people approaching, and he dived into the bushes several times when he thought he heard someone. Then, since no one came, he took to the road again. He had his cape fastened around his neck to hide his shirtlessness, and he dabbed at his face with his handkerchief, wiping away the soot. But the idea of getting clean without soap and warm water was hopeless.

He heard the unmistakable creak of wheels behind him, and sprang into the bushes. Presently a heavy wagon, drawn by two tired-looking, emaciated horses, appeared on the road. In the wagon were two men and a woman. The man who was driving was carrying on a grumbling monologue. You worked like a dog, he said, to grow crops and then the government seized them to feed to good-for-nothing soldiers. The only crops he'd grow this year would be just enough for his own family. If the government wanted anything from him the government would have to pay him in advance.

Not a word about the burnt bridges or the stolen train! Tom listened eagerly. These people were coming from the direction of Ringgold, and certainly they would be talking about the havoc the Yanks had raised—if they knew of it. When the wagon had disappeared around the bend, Tom came out on the road again. Until the news spread over the countryside he was safe from interference.

After an hour's walking he came to a scattering of houses at a cross-roads.
Over one was a sign "General Store," painted in sprawling, uneven letters.
It would probably be his last chance before the chase began to buy the
things he needed. He opened the door and entered the dimly lighted store.
An old man came out from the back room.

"Good evening," said Tom. "I want to buy a shirt."

"Evenin'," replied the man. "Shirt? Well…. Shirt? Don't think I've ever seen you before. D'you live around this a-way, young man?"

"No, I'm just going through to Chattanooga."

"Mary," called the man, "bring that light." A woman in the back room mumbled in response. Tom dreaded the light. In the dusk of the store he could hide his appearance, but with the lamp they would see how disheveled and dirty he was. And, if they had heard any rumors of what had happened during the day, they would suspect him instantly. He looked around at the door and picked his course between the barrels and boxes which lay strewn about the floor.

The woman entered with the light. "Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, looking at Tom. He was, indeed, a strange looking specimen. His face was streaked with black, for his attempts at rubbing himself clean with his handkerchief had been unevenly distributed. His black eyelids, as he blinked in the light, made him grotesque. "What's happened to you?" demanded the woman.

"I've been fighting a fire," answered Tom. He was ready to jump for the door.

"A fire! Where?"

That was encouraging. "Down south of Ringgold," Tom replied. "The bridge caught on fire from a locomotive."

"Y' don't say so!" exclaimed the man. "Y' don't say so!"

"Jeb!" screeched the woman.

"Yes'm," came the response from the back room. A small boy straggled into the store.

"Whyfor you don't tell us there's a fire down Ringgold way?" asked the woman.

"There wa'n't no fire when I left," he answered.

"When did you leave?" asked Tom.

"'Round noon."

"I guess you just missed it," replied Tom. He was on fairly safe ground now. "The fire didn't start until after one o'clock."

"Huh!" grunted the boy.

"Y' don't say so!" exclaimed the man again. "What happened?"

"Let's have a shirt," said Tom. "I'll tell you about it while you're finding the shirts." The old man turned toward the littered shelves and commenced pawing over the merchandise which had accumulated there. The woman and the boy drew closer, waiting anxiously for the news. "I was waiting for the passenger train at Ringgold," continued Tom. "But the train didn't come. After a while we saw some smoke to the southward and we thought that was the train. But it wasn't. The smoke just stayed in one spot."

"Y' don't say so!" exclaimed the man, stopping his search.

"Yep," answered Tom, "but find the shirt for me. After a few minutes the station agent…."

"Morrison," interjected the woman.

"Yes, I believe his name was Morrison, come to think of it," replied Tom.
"Well, Morrison got on the hand car."

"I rode on the hand car once," said the boy.

"Shut up!" ordered the woman. Her husband stopped again in the search to glare at the offender.

"Come on, find that shirt for me," said Tom. He was talking with one eye on the door, fearing the entrance of someone who would spoil his story. "The agent got on the hand car and went a piece down the track. Pretty soon he came back a-flying. 'The bridge is on fire!' he yelled. So we got on the hand car, and went down to the bridge. There the passenger train stood, with all the passengers and the train crew fighting the fire. They were trying to put it out so the train could get across. Can't you find it?" This last to the old man.

"We don't sell many shirts," he answered. "Don't pay. Most of the people makes 'em 'emselves. Have we got any shirts, Mary?"

"I ain't never seen any," she replied. "I bin here twenty years."

"Then sell me one of yours," Tom said.

"Can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Well…."

"If you won't sell me a shirt, I can't waste my time here talking." Tom started impatiently towards the door.

"Here, young man," said the woman, "you come back here with me. I reckon we can find something for you." She picked up the lamp and led the way into the back room. It was the combined living-room, bedroom, and dining-room of the family. One door led to the yard behind the house, the other into a lean-to shanty which served as a kitchen. Tom, by way of precaution, took it in rapidly.

"Tell us about the bridge," urged the boy.

Tom continued on a rambling story of how he had helped to fight the fire, how sparks had fallen on him, and how he had to tear his shirt off because it was in flames. He gave a lurid description of the scene. The woman clucked her tongue at intervals, the man exclaimed, "Don't say so!" repeatedly, and the boy grunted his appreciation. Tom talked on and on, reserving the end of his story. At last the woman held a shirt out to him—it seemed to Tom to represent everything which stood between him and his ultimate triumphal return to the Union lines. Without a shirt he could no nothing; with it there was some chance of having his story believed. He took it from her.

"And finally the bridge went down," he continued. "The flames shot hundreds
of feet in the air, and the sparks fell down for five minutes afterwards.
The passenger train went back to Dalton, and I decided that I'd go to
Chattanooga on foot."

"Don't say so!"

Through the door to the kitchen Tom could see a kettle of water steaming on the stove. "I'd like to wash some of this soot off," he said.

The woman led him to the kitchen and gave him a tin basin. "When the door was closed behind her, he stripped off the cape and coat, and fell to scrubbing with the hot water and soap. Then he dried himself and pulled on the shirt. It was several sizes too small for him, but it was better than nothing at all. He could hear the two old people and the boy discussing the fire. Probably, he thought, they would talk of little else until they heard the real story. He thanked his stars that he had struck this one quiet spot in the chaos of war to prepare himself for the adventures of the next few days. It was providential. Now he was ready to meet the world.

"I'd like to buy something to eat," he said as he stepped from the kitchen.

"We ain't got much," answered the woman.

"I'll pay you well," he replied. "I'll have to carry it with me. It's getting dark and I must be getting on to Chattanooga."

"Will some ham an' some bread do?"

"Splendidly."

She went into the kitchen.

"How did you say that bridge caught on fire?" asked the old man.

"Sparks from a locomotive, I suppose."

"You don't say so—in all this rain!"

Five minutes later he left the store and disappeared down the road which led to Chattanooga. Then he climbed a fence and made his way across the fields to a road which ran north. For a half-hour he plodded through the mud. The strain of the long day was commencing to tell upon him, and each step forward cost a mighty effort. The hunks of mud which accumulated on his shoes felt like blocks of lead weighing him down.

"About enough for this day," he mumbled to himself. Ahead of him he saw a barn, standing a few yards from the road. Farther along, perhaps a hundred yards, was the house with its lighted windows. He walked close to the rail fence and approached the barn cautiously, listening for dogs; then he crawled under the fence and squatted there, waiting. It was still light enough for him to be seen from the house, and so he decided not to make the rush for the barn until later. Several minutes passed, then he heard the sound of boots splashing along the muddy road, and the mumble of voices. He threw himself on the wet sod and lay there, hidden by the weeds and darkness. The voices came near.

Tom caught the words "…some damage anyhow."

"Yes," replied the other man, "but if Andrews had only…."

Tom did not wait any longer. "Shadrack!" he called. The two men stopped as though they had been struck. "Over here by the fence. It's Tom Burns."

"You, Tom! You scared the life out of me."

"Who's with you?"

"Wilson."

"Hello, there. Crawl through. I'm waiting for it to get dark enough so that
I can make the barn." They shook hands. "I recognized your voice, Shadrack.
How are you, Wilson?"

"All right enough. Have you seen any of the others!"

"Not a soul. Wonder what happened to them?"

"Scattered all over two miles by the locomotive," answered Shadrack.
"Probably some of them went on the other side of the tracks, making for
Mitchel's lines. We decided to go straight north and get across the
Tennessee just as fast as we can."

"So did I," answered Tom. "Let's get over to the barn now. It's dark enough."

They hurried across the short open space. A farm wagon standing at the end of the barn formed a step to the hay mow. By standing on the edge of the wagon box, Tom could reach the floor. He pulled himself up and struggled inside. Then he helped Shadrack and Wilson to come after him.

"Whew!" breathed Shadrack. "Just like home." He chuckled.

"It does me good to hear that laugh again," said Tom. He gave Shadrack a dig in the ribs. "I don't suppose you're hungry, are you?"

"Don't talk to me until I get through eating this hay."

"Leave enough for us to sleep on," protested Wilson.

"Smell this," said Tom. He opened the package of ham and bread. Shadrack moaned. Tom took out his knife and divided the food; then they had supper.

"We ought to be out of this before daybreak," said Tom, throwing himself back on the hay. "I hope one of us wakes up. I feel as though I could sleep forever."

It was just dawn when Tom awoke. From his head to his feet, he was sore and stiff. He sat up, rubbing his legs and stretching painfully. "Hey, Wilson! Shadrack! Come on. It's getting light." He went to the door and looked out. "If we drop straight down between the barn and the wagon, they can't see us from the house." He slid over the edge, hung by his fingers and dropped to the ground. The others followed, silently. A minute later they were on the road again.

"Do you know exactly where this road is taking us?" asked Wilson presently.

"No," answered Tom, "but so long as it doesn't take us into Chattanooga, I'm satisfied. We're going north and the river is about twenty miles ahead of us."

"And we're going about one mile an hour," replied Shadrack, slipping in the mud.

It was nearly noon when they heard the sound of horses galloping along the road toward them. They jumped into the bushes and waited breathlessly. A few seconds later, four horsemen, each of them carrying a rifle over his arm, went riding past.

"They're after us," said Wilson.

Tom nodded. "What do you think we'd better do? I'm for staying to the road."

"If it wasn't so blamed muddy we could go across the fields," said
Shadrack, "but we'd get bogged again."

"The road's our one chance," added Wilson. "Let's get to work."

During the remainder of the afternoon they worked their way up along the edge of the road, hiding in the bushes time after time. Several small bodies of armed men passed them, and once they caught a scrap of conversation about "Yank bridge burners." The hunt was on.