The Railroad War (35 page)

None of the locomotives that Noah had seen was in worse repair than this particular engine.

Noah, accompanied by the chief mechanic and a lieutenant who was in command of the infantry company guarding the trainmen,
stood at the front of the engine. The engine’s piston assembly was spread out in pieces on a canvas sheet.

“It looks to me like you’ve got yourself more than a little work,” Noah said.

“I’ll say,” the mechanic sighed. “Much more. This one’s worse than it looks. The slide valve’s cracked and the valve rod’s
broke, and if I had my way, I’d like to do some work on the cylinder and the piston, too. But I think we could make do enough
to get this thing moving under its own steam, except for one thing: the pipes and the fire tubes are all rotten.”

“It won’t hold steam, then?” Noah asked.

“Not enough to get it moving.”

Noah thought for a moment. “What do you think we should do, then? Abandon it and go on to one that can be made to work? Or
is it worth hauling down to Meridian?”

“Oh, it can be made to run again,” the mechanic said. “But it needs a complete overhaul in a genuine shop.”

“All right, then,” Noah decided, “pack all this up and we’ll move it with the others.”

“Right,” the mechanic said.

“I’m going to Okolona today,” Noah said, turning to the lieutenant, “and maybe to Shannon, if there’s still time. If you run
into any problems, send me a message on the telegraph.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.

“And, Lieutenant,” Noah added, “there’s a chance, as always, that you’ll come under attack. I don’t expect it here, so far
south, but there’s a chance.” The lieutenant had already been briefed about this possibility, of course, but Noah felt he
should repeat it even so. “If that happens,

Lieutenant, your orders about protecting the locomotives are canceled. Withdraw. This one ain’t worth saving.”

The lieutenant smiled. “That’s an order I’ll be glad to obey.”

“I hope it doesn’t come up. If anything happens, it’s likely to be at Shannon or Okolona.”

I wonder why they haven’t done anything yet, he thought. We’ve been at it for ten days, and there hasn’t been a peep out of
the Yankees in Corinth.

On his way back to the train, he ran into a sergeant who was looking for him. The sergeant had a telegram in his hand.

“You’ll want to read this, Major,” the sergeant said. “It’s from Colonel Kemble. It looks like the one you’ve been waiting
for.”

“Let’s hope,” Noah said, taking the flimsy and unfolding it.

Noah read:

THE FISH ARE BITING STOP IT LOOKS LIKE A WHOLE SCHOOL STOP WE HAVE CAUGHT SOME STOP COME ON AND CATCH SOME FOR YOURSELF STOP LAM

As soon as he’d read it, Noah let out a wild whoop. And then, not satisfied with that, he started pounding the sergeant on
the back. “That’s it! That’s the one!” he said to the sergeant when he was coherent again.

“Then you’re going to want to move out right away?” the sergeant asked.

“Instantly!”

The four parts of the message told Noah the following. First, Union forces had descended upon the decoys near Shannon. Second,
the brigade of infantry hiding in the wood had come out, sprung Noah’s trap, and pinned down the attackers in positions near
the counterfeit locomotives. Third, the attackers were, as Noah had expected and hoped, the Third Tennessee Cavalry. And fourth,
Lam was ready to move on the next part of the plan as soon as Noah arrived.

“Let’s get on up to Shannon, Sergeant,” he said.

Miranda Kemble ran for all she was worth up a briar-and-bramble-covered hill that bordered the east side of her property.
Because of the undergrowth, it was hard going, but she knew her way well, having climbed up to the ridge crest many times
before. Behind her—far away, she hoped—she could hear her pursuer crashing after her.

She stopped to listen for him more carefully, and to catch her breath and survey the damage the thorns had done to her skirts.
She’d get hell from Alabama, the Negro woman who took care of Miranda’s clothes and other such things, but the momentary scratch
of conscience that thought produced didn’t at all swerve Miranda from her purpose. She was as happy and excited as a hound
that’s treed a coon.

Sam was still far behind her, as she knew he would be. She could hear him crashing and blundering and shouting useless curses.

She let out a long, mocking laugh, even though the noise would betray her. But, damn it all, she had no intention of letting
the quarry elude the pursuer. She only wanted to delay the capture for dramatic purposes.

Her chest heaved and pounded, her heart raced like mad, her face was slick with sweat, and her skirt and petticoats were in
shreds.

He was shouting from far away, “You better damn well have a cast-iron bottom, you little cub, because when I catch you you’ll
feel my hand harder than you’ve ever felt a hand in your sweet, young life.”

“Oh, don’t do that!” she yelped pitifully. “Please don’t! I’ll be good, I promise.” And then she gave another loud, mocking
laugh and dashed off up toward the crest of the ridge.

Once she’d reached the top, she turned right and loped a hundred yards to a huge, old elm tree of long acquaintance. When
she reached its base, she slipped out of her shoes and stockings and hid them under dense shrubs nearby. She flung up her
arms and made a leap for the lowest of the tree’s branches.

Winded from her mad dash up the hill, Miranda missed on her first try. She tried again, and again missed. Sam was dangerously
close to the crest of the ridge.

Miranda put all her soul into her next jump, and this time her hands felt the reassuring roughness of the hard elm bark. She
hung down for ten or fifteen seconds, her bare feet dangling, her chest pounding powerfully.

After another few seconds, her strength returned and she swung her legs up, scissored them over the branch, and heaved the
rest of her body across it.

“Where have you vanished to, girl?” Sam was calling.

Too close. There was no time to rest.

She scrambled quickly up into the obscurity of limbs and leaves, laughing joyfully to herself as she climbed.

Miranda’s private sanctuary was twenty feet from the base of the tree. Two fat branches forked near the trunk, making a safe
and comfortable resting place where Miranda had spent many a lazy summer afternoon.

She settled in and took stock of herself. She inspected the scratches from twigs and branches, and decided these would disappear
fast, except for one ribbon line of blood along her neck. She plucked up the hem of her skirt and wiped at it, then toweled
her cheeks and forehead. Then, bending her head down and lifting her hair, she dabbed at the damp back part of her neck. She
arranged her dress across her knees but left her ankles and a little bit of leg showing.

Through a wide opening in the leaves and branches, Miranda was able to see her house and most of her land. As always, she
liked very much what she saw.

“Where are you hiding, you little cub?” Sam shouted. He was standing practically underneath the spot where she sat.

She giggled.

“Do that again,” he said, twisting about uncertainly, his ears cocked.

She obliged him, only louder this time.

“Have you turned into a bird?” he said, looking up, but she was well hidden in her nest of leaves.

She whistled like a bird, then giggled once again.

He still was unable to locate the source of the sound. “How did you get up in the air?”

“Wings,” came a whisper from above.

“You know what I think we’ve done?” Sam said as though to himself, but he said it loud enough for her to hear. “I think we’ve
got us treed a moo-bird. It’s damned rare, but damned good tasting. You’ve never eaten until you’ve tasted moo-bird fried
over an open fire.”

“Who’re you talking to?” she said.

“To Tiger,” he said after a slight pause. “He’s my hound.” Sam made panting, eager barking sounds. “That’s right, Tige, you
know we’ve got a moo-bird treed, don’t you?”

Tiger howled up the tree trunk,
“Aaahhooo!”

“What do you think, Tige?” Sam said. “Shall we shoot her down or climb up there and grab her by the neck?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Miranda called down plaintively. “Please don’t come up here. Please!”

“That settles it, Tige. We’ve got to track her into her lair. It’s risky and dangerous, but I’m sure you’re up to it.”

“Aaahhhoooo!”
Tige answered.

Miranda laughed.

With a bound, Sam caught hold of the low limb Miranda had used, and then he swung himself up into the tree. Moments later,
he was sitting beside her, taking in the loveliness revealed through the opening in the leaves, as well as the loveliness
that was curled up next to him.

“Well,” he said, “you’ve led me a merry chase. For more than two days you’ve led me a merry chase…The truth is,” he went on
reflectively, “you’ve led me a chase for seven years—ever since you dragged me off that cliff.”

“I’m not speaking to you,” she said.

“Oh?” he said, looking down his arched nose at her. “What do you say to that, Tige?” Then he played Tige’s part:
“Aahhoo.”

“I’m still not speaking to you.”

“Why not?”

“You have to give the password.”

“The password?”

“That’s right,” she said. “This is a magic place—my magic, special place.” She caught and held his eyes. “Mine. No one besides
me has ever been up here.”

“I’m honored,” he said.

“But its magic won’t be released without the password.”

“All right. But will you give me a hint?”

“No. No hints.” She looked away from him, waiting.

“Password, password, password,” he said. “What do you think it is, Tige?” Tige growled.

She laughed, but she still waited, implacable.

“You’re impossible,” Sam said.

“Now it’s my turn to be honored,” she said.

He laughed then, and his face brightened. “I’ve got it!” he cried.

“The password?”

He nodded slowly, letting the suspense build.

“Well, then, tell me,” she demanded.

“Two days ago,” he began in his most formal and high-toned manner, “I met you in Atlanta, where I was accompanied by a lady
whose acquaintance you made at that time. Her name, as you know, my dear little cub, is Jane Featherstone.”

“I’m waiting for the password,” Miranda said.

“You’ll get it,” he said. “Be patient.”

“All right,” she said huffily, but her eyes flashed most fetchingly.

“Previous to our encounter with you, Miss Featherstone and I were engaged in a sensitive matter on behalf of the national
government.”

“Yankee spies,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Espionage was an occupation that Miranda found distasteful, yet exciting.

He shrugged his acknowledgment. “That matter having been completed, we found it necessary to take our leave of Atlanta quickly
and discreetly.”

“What’s the password?” she demanded.

“Wait.”

“All right,” she said with a grudging shake of her head.

“You’re quite stunning when you shake your head that way,” he said.

“That’s not the password,” she said, “but you’re sailing on the right course.”

“Our intention at the time was to board a train,” he resumed in his formal manner, “even though we both recognized that such
a move might entail some measure of risk. We had reason to believe that our activities on behalf of the national government
might have aroused suspicions among the inhabitants of the city of Atlanta.

“And then,” he said in a great burst, “glory be to God,
there you were, in a graceful, resplendent golden chariot!”

“I have a somewhat different recollection,” she said. “But never mind.”

“Be that as it may,” he said, “you offered Miss Featherstone and me hospitality and the safety of your lodgings in spite of
the compromising position you placed yourself in by doing so.” He caught her eyes. “For this I am eternally grateful.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “What about my
password!”

“Be patient, my dear.”

“I’m not speaking another word until I hear it, even if you keep talking for hours.”

“I was saying,” he sailed on, ignoring her ultimatum, “that you welcomed me and my companion. And you did that sincerely and
unquestioningly.

“I’m positive you had a lot of questions, just as I’m equally positive that there was much that you did not approve of.

“I propose now to answer some of those questions.”

Miranda cocked her head. It was a gesture that Sam remembered from the first time they had met, a gesture that she shared
with Jane—one of the few qualities that the two women had in common.

“How do you know what my questions are if I haven’t asked them?” she inquired with an innocent look.

“I thought you weren’t uttering another word,” he said.

“I lied,” she said. “Answer me.”

He laughed. “Hundreds of questions have been written across your face, Miranda. You have a most expressive face.”

“All right,” she said, liking that.

“As to your most pressing question,” he said, and she cocked her head again, “you didn’t fail to observe the close proximity
of Miss Featherstone and myself.”

“Proximity is putting a rather nice turn on what you were doing, don’t you think,” she said acidly, “my darling Mis-ter Harris?
Or is it Reverend Jeffes, or somebody else?”

“’Proximity’ seems appropriate to me,” he said.

“Oh, my,” she said, and then laughed. “That was Adam’s excuse.” Her voice deepened like a man’s. “You must understand, Lord,
that little Eve was so very
proximate,
and in such a state of…
dresslessness…
that I was completely beside myself and could do nothing save to fall.”

With that, Miranda stretched out and gave Sam a shove on the shoulder. He was so surprised by the move that it was all he
could do to avoid tumbling to the ground.

“Jesus Christ, Miranda!” he said, once he had recovered himself. “Whenever I spend time with you, I’m driven into swift, sudden
descents. No man of flesh and bones can stand up to a lifetime with you.”