Their argument was cut short by the distant cry of a steam whistle and Custer looked up expectantly. For a few seconds he wasn't sure of the direction the sound came from. Could the rebel reinforcements already be coming up? A second whistle sounded and he struggled to his feet.
'We are going to blow this bridge, then we'll get out,' Custer announced. 'Get my horse!' ' eb Stuart shifted his field glasses. It was hard to see with the smoke that billowed up in the still summer air, but then he saw it, two trains, coming out of Frederick. What is going on? He watched them intently, and then the realization hit. 'Tell Captain Jackson with the battery, I want his guns to hit those trains before they reach the bridge. Order the Fourteenth onto the bridge now.'
His staff looked at him, confused by the suicidal order. Only minutes before, Jeb had been exuberant, the river had been forded at two locations, he was funneling men across even now, and in another hour they'd have the depot.
'Those trains!' Jeb shouted. 'They'll blow them on the bridge. Move it!'
Every step of his horse was agony to him, but George kept his saddle, galloping up the length of track toward Frederick. There was a sharp curve ahead, a small white clapboard schoolhouse to one side. He saw the smoke of the lead locomotive; it wasn't moving fast but it was coming on, rounding the curve, the locomotive not pulling anything other than its tender.
George slowed. He saw Lieutenant Schultz on the cowcatcher, the excited lieutenant leaping off as the train skidded to a stop.
The smoke of the second locomotive was several hundred yards back.
'We got a plan, sir!' Schultz cried. 'Where's the cars loaded with coal oil?' 'That's the second train, sir.' 'Where's Tyler?'
'He's piloting the second train. He sent me ahead, but we got to talk quick, sir.' 'The third train?'
'Another ten minutes or so before its steam is up.' 'I don't understand,' Custer said, again feeling lightheaded.
Schultz quickly outlined the details, the idea registering with George, who in spite of his pain grinned. 'Do it!'
Schultz ran up to the cab of the locomotive waving his arms.
The venting of steam stopped, pressure built up, smoke billowed from the smokestack, and, finally, the engine began to inch forward. As it slipped past Custer the engineer and two firemen on board leapt out.
The locomotive continued, unpiloted, down the track, and for a second George was hit with a deep fear. He had never thought to pass the order to make sure the switches had been set properly. He could only pray that someone down at the burning depot knew what to do.
He turned about and started to ride back down the track. To his left he saw puffs of smoke. Men, his men, on horseback, pulling back along a road, reb skirmishers pressing them.
The next engine came around the bend, pulling a passenger car and boxcar. It was picking up speed as it thundered past him. Sergeant-hopefully soon-to-be lieutenant-Tyler leaned out and waved.
George loosened his reins, spurring his mount. The pain forgotten for the moment, he galloped down the track toward the depot, riding just behind the train.
Phil Duvall looked around anxiously at his men. Over half his command was down after five long hours of fighting. Men were tearing open the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded, trying to load back up. Wide-eyed, he gazed over at the colonel of the Fourteenth, who was breathing hard, gulping.
The man was scared. Hell, who wouldn't be? 'Alright boys,' the colonel cried. 'Let's go!' The colonel stood up and then stepped out right to the middle of the bridge, standing between the two tracks, saber out, pointing.
There was a hesitation and he looked back. 'Come on, you bastards!' he shouted. 'Don't let it be said that the Fourteenth is filled with cowards!'
Men stood up and began to run forward, hunched low, hugging the sides of the bridge, dashing from one support beam to the next.
Phil looked around at his own small command that the colonel of the Fourteenth had 'volunteered' into this mad charge. He caught Sergeant Lucas's eyes, the man looking at him as if to say, 'Do we really have to do this?'
'Come on, boys,' Phil said, swallowing hard. 'Let's go.'
He stood up and ran forward. There was no rebel yell this time. The situation was too grim for that. It would be a mad dash into a blaze of fire erupting from the other side.
They reached the middle of the bridge, several men already down, one tumbling off the side of the bridge into the stream. Others were dropping, crumpling; some were slowing, returning fire.
There was the discordant hum of an artillery shell, followed by three more soaring overhead, but he could not see where they landed.
And then he heard it coming. Looking up, he saw a locomotive, near to derailing it seemed, coming through the switch from the spur line to Frederick and on to the main track. It was thundering straight toward him on the east-bound side.
He jumped back, flattening himself against a trestle beam, the engine roaring by. He caught a quick glimpse of the cab. No one was on board.
What the hell is going on?
The engine raced across the bridge, the temporary structure shaking and rattling with its passage. All the men in the charge stopped for a second, looking back as the train cleared the bridge and then disappeared around the bend.
'Here comes another!' someone shouted.
Phil looked back to the west, the smoke of the passing train making it difficult to see.
Another locomotive was coming off the spur line on to the main track, this one beginning to slow down. Sparks were shooting out from the wheels as it began to brake.
'Get it!' someone screamed.
And instantly dozens of shots rang out, sparks flying off the brass and iron siding of the locomotive. To his absolute amazement he saw three Yankees aboard the locomotive, one of them now swinging a heavy sledgehammer, as if smashing something. Phil raised his revolver and fired it, emptying all six rounds. The man staggered but swung again. From out of the passenger car several Yankees emerged, jumping down. One of them made a dash for the side of the bridge as if to jump off, but he was shot before reaching the railing.
From inside the passenger car he could see flames erupting, blowing out the windows, a popping sound, like muffled explosions within, each pop setting off more flames.
Phil stepped up to the side of the locomotive and pointed his empty revolver at the man with the sledgehammer.
'Make a move and I'll blow your damn head off,' he threatened.
The man looked at him, grinned, and dropped the sledgehammer, putting one hand up in the air, his other arm hanging limp.
'Get down!'
'You're damn right I'm getting down,' the Yankee said, reaching for the railing by the steps and then leaping off. He hit the bridge flooring and cursed, going over on his side.
'Reb, give me a hand up.'
'Why?'
Already carbine fire from the far side of the bridge had resumed. Torn, Phil felt he should go forward and still try to capture the other side.
'I'll tell you a secret, reb.'
'And that is?'
'This son of a bitch is going to blow up in a few minutes, and there isn't a damn thing you can do now to stop it. I've smashed up the works good and proper, and that boiler is getting set to let go.'
Phil looked around at his men. The way ahead was already almost impossible to traverse; the passenger car was burning fiercely, flames like blowtorches blasting out of the windows, which were shattering from the heat.
The Yankee was half up to his feet, looking at him wide-eyed, his features pale.
'You want to live, reb, get off this bridge now.r Phil reached down and pulled the man roughly to his feet. 'Pull
