Richmond Rail Heist #6

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CHAPTER TWO

Getting to Marietta was the first step, and it did not prove easy.

Two great obstacles stood before them. The first was simply getting into rebel territory, and for this the men split into small groups. A group of twenty men moving south would be obvious, and suspicious, so James had advised them to split into small groups until they were well beyond the front lines. The second part, as James had pointed out, was keeping out of the rebel army. Cover stories that addressed the first trouble only exacerbated the second, for if they were on the run from Federal troops, then didn’t it make sense that they’d want to join the armies assembling against those same damned Federal troops?

“What was your cousin’s name again?” Will asked his big traveling companion as the three of them (Jones was still with them) crested a hill and a rebel check point appeared at the crossroads in the valley below, “the one in the rebel army?”

“David Porter,” answered Rufus, tugging at his clothes. “He’s a sergant in the Georgia 63rd.” During the night they had found wash hanging on the line, almost dry but not quite, and they had discarded most of their northerner’s clothes and uniforms for the homespun shorts and trousers worn by most southerners. Jones, a soldier in the U.S. Army (like the rest of the men, except for Will and perhaps James), had been unable to replace his uniform trousers.

Since the night, the sun and heat had increased, and a haze had set in, and the clothes were now damper than when the men had found them - damp with sweat. And they fit poorly. Will hoped that the rebels wouldn’t look too closely. “How far would you say we are from the front?” he asked.

“Ten miles? Twelve?” Rufus replied.

“No more than four or five” said Jones confidently.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rufus said. “It has to be at least ten miles.”

Jones shook his head. “It’s only because we’re miserable that it seems so long.”

“Miserable?”

“It’s hot, humid, our clothes don’t fit-”

“My clothes fit fine,” said Rufus.

“Then why are you always tugging at your waistband and collar? No, our clothes fit poorly, the weather is uncomfortable, and we’re traipsing into the enemy’s home. It feels like its ten o’clock, or eleven, but it’s no more than eight or eight thirty at the latest.”

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