The Railroad War (34 page)

“It’s all the whole town’s talkin’ about,” Horace said. “And it must of been sumthin’, fire an’ ’splosions. Ain’t been ‘citement
like that in a long time in this town.”

“We don’t need excitement like that in this town,” Miranda said with a slow shake of her head.

“I’d a liked to see it, all the same. Found a couple of bodies in there, too,” Horace said. “Don’t know how they got there
or who they wuz. Maybe they started the fire. What do you think, ma’am?”

“I couldn’t say,” Miranda said vaguely. She was distracted. A man and woman were walking along the sidewalk a few feet ahead
of her wagon. The man was wearing the uniform of a Confederate captain; he carried an old and well-worn leather bag held together
by belts; he was tall and hatless, with gunmetal-gray hair. The woman wore a striped dress and a sunbonnet, and she carried
a small carpetbag in her left hand.

Since she was behind the pair, Miranda could not make out either of their faces. But she knew the man’s walk.

“What ev’ybody thinks, though, is that it wuz Yankees that set fire to the arsenal. What d’you think ‘bout that, Miz Miranda?”

“If I were a Yankee, I’d certainly do my best to burn the arsenal down to the ground,” Miranda said.

“Ain’t that the truth?” Horace said.

“Horace,” she said, “do you think you could speed us up a little so that I could get a look at that man’s face?” She pointed
out the man she meant.

“I’ve been tryin’ to speed up all afternoon,” Horace said, making no effort to hide his exasperation.

“I know, Horace,” she said, smiling. Horace was a high-stepper, and that appealed to her. “But you might try finding a way
to go even faster now that you know I want you to.”

“Yes, Miz Miranda,” he said, then asked, “That man there?”

“That’s right,” she said, “the captain.”

“Let’s git goin’, then!” he cried with an impressive flick of the reins. “Come on there, Mandy. Git movin’. You an’ Lassis
git goin’!”

The two mules lurched a bit, but the movement was more side to side than forward. When it was absolutely clear that the mules
had no intention of proceeding any faster, Horace looked helplessly at Miranda. He flicked harder on the reins, but to little
avail. He didn’t expect much from the mules, and they didn’t give him anything he didn’t expect. “These two mules got two
speeds, Miz Miranda. An’ one uv ‘em’s stop.”

“I’m getting out, then,” she said, “Stay here. I’ll only be a second.” She just had to find out who that man was.

“Yes, ma’am,” Horace said.

In a flash Miranda had gathered her skirts, swung down off the wagon, and raced to catch up with the couple.

“Excuse me,” she said, tapping the captain on the shoulder.

The couple stopped and turned to her.

Miranda drew in a short, choked breath. The man staring at her was Sam Hawken! He was gray-haired and beardless, and much
older looking than the cadet she’d met at West Point, but she had no doubt who it was!

“Sam!” she gasped.

The man stepped back, shaken.

But the woman with him had more presence. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” she said coolly. “My
husband
does not answer to that name.”

The words passed by Miranda without lodging in her mind—all of them except “my husband.” What she saw, though, was recognition
in Sam Hawken’s eyes.

And then he managed to pull himself together somewhat. “My wife has it right,” he said with apology in his voice. “My name’s
Harris. James Harris.”

Miranda looked at him hard and long. Then she glanced at the woman. Then back to the man. She was sure of what she saw.

“The last time I saw you, Sam,” she said firmly and without the slightest hesitation, “was over seven years ago.”

“Seven years!” the woman exclaimed, throwing her hands up. The span of time itself, she seemed to be saying, was proof that
Miranda had to be mistaken.

“I’m Miranda Kemble,” she said breathlessly. “We met at the Military Academy. We fell down a ravine together, and we danced
at your graduation ball.”

“Seven years?” the woman asked. There was annoyance in her voice now. “Aren’t you being a little presumptuous to assume that…?”

Miranda paid no attention to the rest of the woman’s words. She was too preoccupied by a powerful urge to reach out and touch
Sam’s face. At the same time she felt a slight but perceptible tension across her breast. The flesh of her railway locomotive
scar, it seemed to her, was tightening.

“I have never been near the Military Academy,” the captain said. “I was never north of Virginia.”

“You’re lying, Sam,” Miranda said quietly.

“We cannot listen to this kind of thing,” the woman said indignantly. “May we leave now, James, before we have to endure more
of this mad girl’s presumption?”

“Young lady,” the captain said, more gently than his companion, “I’m sure your attention is well meant. But believe me, I’m
not the person you take me to be.”

His eyes were drinking her in, Miranda could see, no matter what words came from his mouth.

She knew what she had to do.

“Captain,” she said, making her voice cold and businesslike, “you do look very much like a man I met some years ago at West
Point in New York. The resemblance is quite close—save for the hair color. The man I knew had reddish hair.”

“Well, then?” the other woman said, as though that settled it. She made another move to leave. The captain turned to follow
her.

“No, wait,” Miranda said. “Listen to me before you run off.”

“All right,” the captain said, turning to face Miranda again. As he turned, the woman’s hand snaked out and lit on his sleeve,
dragging at him.

He doesn’t want to run away from me, Miranda thought. At least not yet.

“The man I knew,” she continued, “was a Texan. Even so, he remained in the Union Army after secession.”

“As you see,” the man said, indicating his Confederate uniform.

“Come on, James,” the woman demanded.

“He’s still a Union soldier,” Miranda said. “I would have heard if he had subsequently changed his mind. He and my brother
were close friends. My brother has never forgiven him for what he did.”

“What’s that have to do with me?” the captain asked.

“Just this,” Miranda said. “You know the rumors that a Yankee spy’s loose in Atlanta, and the rumors today that the spy set
fire to the arsenal.”

“What are you saying?” the woman asked.

“I’m about to suggest that the Atlanta authorities would be fascinated to learn of the astonishing resemblance between ‘Captain
Harris’ and the man I know for a fact is in the Union Army.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous!” the woman snapped. “You’d turn us in on the basis of”—she looked Miranda up and down coldly—“an
encounter seven years ago between a child and a young officer whom you haven’t seen since? You’re mad, girl.”

But the man held his hand up. “Wait a minute,” he said, and then he added to the woman, “dear.”

“The answer,” Miranda said with an iron edge in her voice, “is yes, I would. And not only that, I’d be absolutely correct.”
She gave the captain a wicked glance, “Wouldn’t I, Sam?”

He held his hand up for her, too. “Wait a minute, young lady.”

“It’s Miranda, as you know perfectly well,” she interrupted.

“All right, Miranda,” he said cautiously, “if that’s what you’d like to be called. But I’d like to call you by your surname.
What did you say it is?”

“Kemble, as you know.”

“All right,” he said slowly, “Miss Kemble. Tell me, did I see you riding in a wagon just before you approached me?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

He’s been watching me all the time out of the corner of his eye! she thought.

“I’ve been hearing you threatening to turn me in, Miss Kemble, on account of some suspicions you have that I’m a spy. As you’ve
been telling me this, I’ve been hearing—underneath the words—another message. Miss Kemble, your threat sounds like a bargaining
chip. Are you trying to make a deal?”

Miranda tried to catch his eyes, but he avoided her.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” she said.

“How would you put it, then, Miss Kemble?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “what I had in mind was to give you a choice. Either I turn you in, or you put yourself in my hands.”

“I won’t stay here another second,” the woman said.

“Wait,” he said. And to Miranda, “What precisely does putting ourselves in your hands mean?”

“I don’t live far from the city,” she said. “You would come stay with me for a few days. You would come and enjoy my hospitality—and
the safety and seclusion I can offer.”

“Why?” the woman asked, as perplexed as she was angry.

“You’d take us there,” the captain asked, “to your home? In your wagon?”

“Yes,” Miranda said.

“I wouldn’t mind having a safe port in a storm right now,” he said under his breath.

Miranda came close to him, stood on her toes, and whispered in his ear, “They are after you, aren’t they, Sam?”

She backed away, and as she did so, he switched his attention to the woman who accompanied him. “Travel by railroad train
has its disadvantages,” he said pointedly to her, “doesn’t it, my dear?”

The woman slowly shook her head.

“Then you
will
come with me?” Miranda asked.

“Done!” he said.

“What?” the woman asked.

“Get yourself aboard that wagon over there. We’re going to take a trip.”

“What’s got into you, James?” she said.

“Move, Jane,” he ordered. “Here, hand me your bag.” She grumbled, but she did as she was ordered. He walked out to where Horace
was waiting and swung his leather satchel and her carpetbag back behind the seat. Once that was done, he helped Jane aboard,
and after her Miranda.

“We’re going to have guests, Horace,” Miranda said as the straining mules finally heaved the overloaded wagon into motion.

“Yes, ma’am,” Horace said, his eyes wide with curiosity.

“Well, then, Miranda,” the captain said with a warm, wide smile, “here we are!”

“Yes, Sam,” she said, beaming.

This time, he did not contradict her.

For ten days crews of soldiers and mechanics had worked under Noah Ballard north of Meridian along the part of the Mobile
& Ohio still under Confederate control. They’d been repairing and refurbishing the locomotives that George Spencer and his
bands of “privateers”—Will Hottel’s words for them—had missed.

The way Noah chose to carry out this operation surprised many of the men under him. Because Dodge’s forces ranged so near
and operated so freely, the expectation was that Noah’s action would be conducted quickly and in secret. The working locomotives
would haul the nonworking ones to safety behind Confederate lines. While the nonworking ones were repaired in the shops at
Meridian or Canton, the working ones would be sent to Mobile, which was the next stage of their journey to Atlanta. They would
be followed by the others, as soon as repairs were completed.

If other more pressing considerations had not intervened, Noah would have adopted that course. And in fact, it was the plan
that was under way under Will Hottel’s direction north of Jackson, on the Mississippi & Tennessee and the Mississippi Central.
But it was Noah Ballard’s choice—confirmed by Will Hottel and Lam Kemble, and even by General Joseph Johnston—that the activities
on the Mobile & Ohio be made abundantly visible.

While Will Hottel quietly gathered the forty-one engines north of Jackson and sent them south, Noah set about lighting for
Grenville Dodge a brilliant beacon on the Mobile & Ohio.

As it happened, Noah and the others were not yet aware that General Dodge was a thousand miles away in New York City. But
that fact did not negate the value of the beacon they were putting themselves to such trouble to build.

According to the plan they agreed to, the working locomotives would be made ready to move, and the ones that required repairs
would be fixed on the spot, if possible.

Three locomotives requiring serious repairs were dragged out of the sheds where they’d been stored, and placed on sidings
in plain sight of the main line. If this provoked questions—and it was intended to—the questioner was told that the mechanics
had insisted on working where they could see what they were doing. If the questioner turned out to be a Federal spy, all the
better. Noah wanted these engines to be noticed.

Once the operation had actually been set in motion, General Joe Johnston surprisingly turned cooperative. Among other things,
Johnston made his own personal locomotive and railroad car available to Noah Ballard so that Noah could closely monitor the
work of the mechanics and train crews.

More importantly, to Noah’s surprise Johnston had approved the most crucial elements of the scheme Noah had devised to recapture
the fourteen locomotives the northern privateers had stolen. The plan involved the erection of six exact scale-model locomotives
near Shannon, a town halfway between Okolona and Tupelo. These locomotives were constructed out of canvas, papier-mâché, wood,
and paint. Once the six were in place, a crew very ostentatiously set about “putting them in working order.” The plan additionally
involved moving a brigade of infantry up to Shannon. They prepared concealed positions in the vicinity of the six model engines.
These positions were not set up to protect the counterfeit locomotives, but to trap any enemy force that ventured near them.
After digging and then concealing their trenches and breastworks, the brigade made camp in a wood not far from the six phony
engines. It was impressed upon the troops in the brigade that they must not advertise their presence there.

When the telegram he was expecting from Lam Kemble reached him, Noah was not far from the town of Egypt, which was ten miles
south of Okolona and twenty miles south of Shannon. Noah had come there to inspect the work being done on one of the locomotives
they’d placed in the open—one of the genuine locomotives parked on sidings beside the main lines. While Noah looked over the
work on the engine, his own train was backed up onto the same siding, and a line from the car had been attached to the telegraph
wire that ran alongside the track.