Carolina Boone (standard:adventure, 12661 words)
Author: Tracy Turner	Added: Sep 03 2005	Views/Reads: 3305/2250	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The adventures of Boone Hatfield, a railroad engineer at the start of the Civil War. Boone becomes a Confederate Captain and later attracts the attention of General Robert E. Lee, who enlists Hatfields help on several dangerous missions.

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The tension was beginning to tell on their nerves. It came!  Men 
relaxed with sighs of relief, then tensed again as the thin shriek 
wavered out of the distance. “Steady,” Boone Hatfield cautioned.  “If 
the loading gang down there gets wind of us, the game's up.. We've got 
to lie mighty low until she pulls out again.” “Think there'll be 
soldiers ridin' her, Captain?” questioned somebody nervously. “No,” 
said Boone.  “There isn't a bit of reason for her having guards.  We're 
miles inside the enemy's lines, ‘way back behind his earthworks.  That 
train's supposed to be as safe as if she was running into New York 
City.  Under cover everybody!  She's heading around the curve!” Far 
down the track could be seen the feeble beam of the old 
balloon-stacker's headlight.  The fussy chug-chug of her exhaust 
quarreled through the darkness.  The link-and-pin couplings of her 
train clanked and clashed.  Flanges screeching a diminuendo, her speed 
lessened.  With a final snort she pulled up at the loading station. 
Intense activity succeeded the former somnolence there.  Lights 
flickered, shouts resounded.  Sticks of wood thumped and rattled into 
the little tender.  Water gushed into her tank. “They're working fast,” 
said Boone in a low voice.  “Ready, everybody, and no bungling!  
Remember Carson, you and Darnley; if either of you fails to catch the 
caboose, the whole plan misses fire.  I won't be able to slow down much 
for you for fear the loading gang might get suspicious, and it won't do 
to catch the cars ahead; the conductor or flagman might see you 
crawling over the tops.” Four long wails from the engine by the loading 
bins called in the flag.  Boone and his companions saw the conductor's 
go-ahead signal.  Their ears caught the cough of the exhaust. Silently 
two men slipped over to the left-hand-side of the track and crouched in 
the shadows.  Boone, examining his pistol, screened himself from the 
headlight's glare and waited.  The other two members of the party slunk 
farther back into the darkness. On came the straining engine, slowly 
gathering speed.  The headlight beam flickered past where the raiders 
lay concealed. As soon as her clanking drivers whirled abreast Boone's 
hiding place, he leaped for the cab steps. One groping hand closed on a 
grab iron, his feet stumbled, scrambled, found the steps.  Into the cab 
he swung, pistol coming out. The astounded engineer gasped with sagging 
jaw.  The fireman half rose from his seat, and sank back as Boone's 
companions hurtled into the other side of the cab, their weapons 
menacing him and the head brakeman.  Before they were fully aware of 
what had happened, the engine crew were bound, gagged and laid on the 
back of the tender. Boone slipped onto the engineer's seatbox.  One of 
his companions expertly hurled slabs into the firebox.  The other took 
the brakeman's place and peered ahead.  Captain Hatfield had chosen 
well...his aides were railroad men as experienced as himself. “Now if 
Carson and Darnley just didn't fumble,” he muttered, “everything's 
going off like dress parade for a new colonel.  One of them ought to be 
coming over in a few minutes.” 

Shortly afterward, the man Carson clambered across the tender and into
the cab. “Everything shipshape, Captain.” He reported.  “Conductor and 
flagman are tied up tight, and Darnley's looking after the rear end.  
There's oil and cotton in the caboose.” “Fine!” congratulated Boone.  
“Twenty minutes more, according to my study of this locality, and it 
will be safe to stop for an inspection of the train.  Did you look at 
the manifest, Carson?” “Yes sir,” replied the other.  “Each car is 
loaded with explosive material.” Boone nodded.  “That is excellent, but 
we must be sure.  Too important to take any chances.  We will stop and 
examine a few cars.  Get rid of the train crew then, also.” A few miles 
farther on the engine jolted to a stop.  The helpless trainmen were 
removed from the tender and made as comfortable as possible on heaps of 
brush beside the track. “Yankee patrols will pick you up during the 
day,” Boone assured them.  “You will come to no harm.” The railroaders 
investigated a number of cars, satisfying themselves as to the nature 
of the loads.  Oil was brought from caboose and engine cab.  Cars were 
drenched with it.  Oily waste placed where it would do the most damage. 
 In an astonishing short period, the train was under way again. “You 
know what to do, boys,” were Boone's last words to the two rear men, 
“when we stop at the entrance to the yards.  Work fast, but be sure 
nothing is neglected, and then save yourselves as best you can.  It 
will be every man for himself and get back to our lines in any way 
possible.  Good luck!” Swiftly the train got under way.  Boone hooked 
her up, widened on the throttle.  The exhaust deepened to a steady 
roar.  Streams of sparks shot into the air as the fireman crammed the 
firebox with tinder-dry slabs.  The safety valve began to screech as 
the steam pressure steadily mounted. 

Far ahead, a dull glow beat against the eastern sky.  Boone knew it for
the lights of Harpsburg.  His mouth set in grim lines, his steady gray 
eyes narrowed. The board marking the limit of the yards loomed in the 
feeble headlight beam.  A quarter of a mile farther on, Boone knew, 
would be a military patrol.  He closed the throttle and the train 
clanked to a halt.  Fireman and brakeman moved toward the gangway. 
“Good-bye, Captain!” “Good-bye, boys!” Boone watched them vanish in the 
darkness alongside the train.  He sat alert, hand on the throttle, 
waiting.  Steam purred and hissed in the boiler of the locomotive.  He 
could hear the crackle of the burning slabs.  The safety valve 
muttered. Back along the train was a sudden leaping light.  Another and 
another.  Boone counted the flares, nodded with satisfaction.  He 
waited a few more seconds and then cracked the throttle. The old engine 
groaned, coughed hollowly in her huge balloon stack.  The drivers 
turned over, the couplings clanged. Fanned by the breeze of the moving 
train, the distant flames burned brighter.  Boone widened the throttle; 
the speed quickly increased; smoke and sparks rolled back from the 
blazing cars. In the darkness ahead sounded amazed shouts.  Then came a 
ragged volley from the aroused patrol firing shots of warning.  The 
soldiers scattered as the burning train crashed past.  Some, vaguely 
beginning to comprehend the situation, brought their pieces to bear on 
the engine cab. Boone heard the smack of the bullets against the 
boiler.  One seared his cheek, caromed from the opposite window.  He 
crouched lower, widening the throttle still more. 

Steam pressure was dropping.  Boone shut off the water, slipped to the
deck and hurled slabs into the firebox.  He leaped to the seatbox, 
leaned out the window and scanned the track ahead. The burning train 
was rushing through the outer yards now.  Frenzied notes of a bugle 
sounded.  Boone caught the hollow boom of a field piece, heard the 
shriek of a shell passing over the cars.  He chuckled; some excited 
artilleryman had lost his head. Now the lights of Harpsburg were all 
about him.  Boone's lips set grimly as he estimated the probable 
condition of the flaming cars of powder. Should the explosion come 
while he was still in the engine cab, his chances of escape were slim 
indeed; but it would never do to stop the train until it was well 
within the confines of the inner yard, surrounded by the depots of 
munitions and supplies. He pulled the throttle back to the last notch 
and crouched low beside the window. Bullets from the rifles of a 
thoroughly aroused garrison were battering the cab.  The heavy slugs 
tore through the wooden sides, smashed gages and connections.  Steam 
billowed into the cab. Boone flinched as scalding spray seared his face 
and hands.  Leaning far out the window, he caught the loom of huge 
wooden buildings.  He closed the throttle and the train rolled forward 
with lessening speed. The young engineer crouched tense, every nerve 
quivering.  He dared not leave the cab until the engine halted; he must 
be ahead of the explosion, not beside it. Would the train never stop!  
Without brakes set, the cars continued to roll forward. Boone Hatfield 
threw the reverse lever back, opened the throttle.  Couplings clashed 
and clanged as the snorting engine slid on spinning drivers. Boone 
closed the throttle as the wheels held and the locomotive surged back.  
He dropped to the ground, dashed forward. A hundred yards, two hundred, 
he ran.  Bullets snapped about him.  Shouts and yells rang in his ears. 
He whipped around the end of a string of cars, plunged headlong over a 
wire fence.  Scrambling to his feet, he dashed into an alley between 
two rows of buildings. Suddenly, he was hurled to the ground as if by a 
giant hand, his ears rang to the crash of an explosion.  He staggered 
erect again and reeled on, clearly revealed in a lurid light that was 
swiftly brightening. A figure in the blue loomed before him.  Boone 
reached for his pistol.  The weapon was dashed from his hand and he was 
caught in a mighty grip. Breast to breast the antagonists struggled.  
Boone strove with all his strength to down the other, but the Yankee 
was as strong as he. Freeing his right hand, he struck at the bearded 
jaw.  The other moved his head slightly, Boone's fist whizzed 
harmlessly over his shoulder and the two men saw each other fact to 
face. Abruptly, their efforts ceased.  They stared with dilated eyes. 
Boone was the first to recover.  “Tom! Tom Raleigh!” he gasped. Tom's 
lips opened to speak, but the words were wiped away by the thunder of 
an explosion a hundred times greater than that of the train of powder. 
The flame wrapped munitions depots of Harpsburg hurled their volcano 
blast to the paling stars, and Boone Hatfield, falling into a 
bottomless pit of darkness, knew his mission had not failed. 

Into the Water Dungeon! 

White sheets. Boone plucked at the upper one wonderingly; it was a long
time since he had slept under such a thing.  Where was he, anyhow?  How 
did he get here? Remembrance flooded over him.  Tom Raleigh.  The 
explosion.  Must have been knocked out.  Sure, that was it...a 
hospital.  He strove to sit up and was astonished at his own weakness.  
Then a feminine voice. “Lay still, Captain.” The tones were wonderfully 
soft and sweet, Boone thought.  He turned his head slightly in the 
direction of the sound. Wide eyes of a blue so deep as to be almost 
purple.  Soft brown hair with just the suspicion of a curl to it.  A 
round white chin. Boone thought the nurse's uniform vastly becoming to 
this slim girl who stood beside his bed.  He grinned weakly, and her 
red lips wreathed in an answering smile. “Your medicine is ready,” the 
girl said in the same gentle inflection. She raised his head with deft, 
slender hands, and Boone obediently swallowed the draft she held to his 
lips.  Then he sank back, the shadows gathering about him again. “What 
is your name?” he managed to whisper. The nurse smiled again, ever so 
slightly.  “Edith,” she replied, “Edith Stoneman.” Boone was much 
stronger when he awakened next.  He sat up, glanced about. Yes, he was 
in a hospital, all right.  Through an open door he could see other 
beds, occupied.  The blue-eyed nurse was nowhere in sight, but a 
soldier, rifle in hand, sat just inside the door.  Boone nodded to 
himself, understanding perfectly. “Prisoner,” he mused, “picked up 
unconscious.  Wonder if Tom was killed in the blowup?  Sho' hope not.  
Certainly did give me a start, seeing him that way.  Good God!  What if 
I'd shot him!  Damn wars, anyhow!” An orderly entered, bearing a tray 
of food.  He placed it on a table beside the bed, procured a pan of 
water and proceeded to sponge the patient's face and hands. 

Boone asked him a question, but the attendant only shook his head. 
Evidently his orders were not to talk with the prisoner.  The food was 
excellent, far better than the Confederate had eaten for many a day, 
and Boone did ample justice to it. “If we had eats like this regular, 
we'd have whipped the Yanks long ago,” he chuckled.  “Good thing for 
them the boys don't know just what's up Nawth; there'd be no stopping 
‘em.” Boone saw nothing of the nurse that day.  The guard was changed 
at regular intervals.  A different attendant ministered to his wants 
late in the afternoon.  He went to sleep that night wondering if Miss 
Stoneman would appear again. She did, shortly after Boone awoke the 
following morning.  Having his hands and face washed for him had been 
somewhat of an ordeal the day before, but this time it was a positive 
pleasure. The engineer stated as much, and was rewarded with a musical 
laugh that showed adorable dimples.  Miss Stoneman refused to talk, 
however, and departed soon after serving breakfast.  Later an orderly 
entered with the Confederate's clothes. Boone dressed, rather shakily, 
wondering what was up now.  He seated himself on the bed and waited. 

There was a clank of the equipment in the outer room.  A tall man
wearing the uniform of a major of United States infantry entered.  
Beside him was the nurse.  A file of soldiers followed, lined up and 
stood at attention.  Boone rose to his feet, a welcoming grin on his 
lips. But Major Thomas Raleigh looked straight through his former 
fellow railroader and his eyes were cold, his face stony.  Boone 
flushed hotly and quickly dropped the hand he had half extended. 
“Sergeant,” said Tom to one of the troopers, “this man is to be 
confined in Lowry Prison.  Attend to it.” The sergeant saluted.  “Yes, 
sir.  The upper tier, sir?” Tom's voice was crisp, decisive.  “No! The 
water dungeon...and double guards!” From the little nurse's lips came 
an exclamation of protest.  “Major, this man is still weak from his 
injuries.  To confine him in such a place may have serious results.” 
“The water dungeon is the place for him,” declared the major sternly.  
“He is a dangerous enemy and has done incalculable damage.” “But, 
Major...” “Miss Stoneman, I am in command here.  My orders are that he 
be confined thus.” The nurse faced the officer.  Her face was so white 
that her blazing eyes seemed great black pools.  Boone wondered at her 
temerity.  He caught fragments of her low voiced sentences. 
“Inhuman...I demand.... Desirable...have access.... certain 
information.” Her right hand moved swiftly seemed to cup something 
before the major's eyes.  He paled slightly but shook his head. “No, 
not even for that,” Boone heard him say.  “Only direct orders from the 
officer commanding the district will change my decision.” “Sergeant,” 
his voice rose curtly, “remove the prisoner!” The file clanked out, 
Boone Hatfield in its midst.  He caught the girl's glance for an 
instant.  Her big eyes seemed to be swimming with tears.  Or maybe the 
prisoner only imagined it.  He smiled at her and shook his head. Water 
dungeon!  The words had a sinister sound, but Boone was totally 
unprepared for the horror of the place.  There really was water there, 
a noisome scum of it sloshing over the uneven stone floor.  There were 
rats, too.  Huge brown fellows with eyes that glittered fiercely in the 
dark.  And other things...creeping things that caused his flesh to 
crawl when they touched it.  The air was foul and stagnant, the 
darkness intense. The steps of the guard in the corridor outside the 
solid iron door sounded like clods falling on a coffin lid. No wonder 
Nurse Stoneman had been horror-stricken at the thought of confining 
here a man just risen from a hospital bed. “What in hell come over Tom 
Raleigh, anyhow?” Boone wondered.  “I wouldn't put a snake in this 
hole.  It's the war, I guess,” he added bitterly. As the slow hours of 
darkness passed, his wonder grew, and with it a consuming anger.  He 
had taken his chances, ready to meet whatever fate should see fit to 
hand him on his dangerous mission, even death itself, but he had not 
counted on anything so terrible as this...and at the hand of the man 
who had once been his best friend! “Reckon he's plumb forgotten the 
time I crawled under that burning wreck and cut him loose just before 
the whole damn business come tumblin' down,” Boone muttered wrathfully. 
“I'm sho glad there ain't many Yanks like him.” 

The door shrieked on rusty hinges, swung slowly open.  By the feeble
beams of a lantern, Boone saw a soldier shove a pan of black bread and 
a jar of water through the crack.  The door closed again without a word 
being spoken. Boone ate grimly of the hard bread and drank the water.  
He needed strength; and food, no matter how unpalatable, was necessary. 
 Settling himself on the damp stone slab that served for a bed, he 
tried to sleep.  Finally he dozed fitfully. The rats grew bolder.  One 
ran across his chest, another nipped at a downflung hand.  Boone sat 
up, swearing to himself. “Sounds like one of the damn things is gnawing 
a hole in the wall over there,” he growled, his attention attracted by 
a slight scratching sound. The scratching grew louder, changed to a 
creak.  Boone blinked as a white line appeared on the black wall.  The 
line widened until he could see it as a beam of light. With a low 
grinding sound, a slab of stone turned on a pivot, and a tall figure 
stood etched in the light of a lantern. “Boone!” The prisoner stared in 
amazement at the voice of Tom Raleigh. “Don't talk, just listen.” The 
voice cautioned. Boone disregarded the advice.  “What the hell did you 
mean by putting me in such a place?” he demanded.  “And what's the 
meaning...” “Hush!” warned Raleigh.  “Not so loud.  I put you in here 
‘cause it's the only place I could get you out of.  Listen to me...you 
got any idea what's due to happen to you t'morrow?” “What?” the 
Confederate gasped. “You're to be shot, that's what!” “Shot? 
But..what...why..” “Colonel Harkness, commanding this district, is 
meaner than the devil and wants you hung.  He's furious at the damage 
you did the other night and has ordered your execution immediately, 
before anybody has time to interfere.  He knows very well Grant would 
never stand for such a thing, but before word could be gotten to Grant 
and orders come back countermanding Harkness' action, you'd be pushing 
up the daisies.  Harkness could justify himself, once the thing is 
done.  You are inside our lines, and not in uniform.  Harkness is 
executing you as a spy.  Kinda rank, but enough excuse for him.  You're 
the only one of your gang of hell-raisers we managed to catch.” “Aren't 
you taking awful chances to come here, Tom?” questioned the other man. 
“Not so much.  I learned the secret of this dungeon from an old fellow 
who is dead now.  He was a Freemason, like you and I.   I don't imagine 
anybody else in the world knows it.  It will look like you discovered 
the way out by accident.” 

“That's mighty fine of you, Tom!” Boone said gratefully. “Not at all,”
was the reply.  “I couldn't see a man who once saved my life and raised 
me to a master mason, shot just because he did a damn brave thing.  If 
you were just being held prisoner, I would have to think about this 
thing, but this is different.  Besides,” he added with seeming 
irrelevance, “I got a kind of soft spot for secret operatives and such. 
 They're brave men and women, Boone, braver than us soldiers.” Boone 
nodded agreement.  “What's the next move, Tom?” “Follow me down this 
passage,” the Yankee directed.  “All right, straight ahead.  There's 
two ways out, but the one you're to take leads into the river.  You'll 
have to swim under water a ways.  Think you can make it?” “Sho' I can.” 
Boone assured him. “All right, straight ahead, then.  I turn off here.  
Follow the river until you come to the railroad.  Travel nights and lay 
low days.  You oughta make your lines all right.  Here's some money to 
buy food, if you can find any.  No, don't thank me.  Boone, you'd do 
the same thing for the sake of the widow's son.  See you when we march 
into Richmond!” “You mean when we march into Washington,” corrected the 
Southerner with a grin. Silently the two men clasped hands with a 
familiar grip and slipped away. 

Boone crept along until the water lapping about his waist was breast
high.  Taking a deep breath he dived forward and swam strongly.  Twice 
his head touched the stone roof of the passage, but at the third 
attempt he broke the starlit surface of the river and gazed stealthily 
about. “Guess everything is quiet,” Boone decided.  “Well, here goes 
nothin'!” Panting and exhausted, he reached the farther bank.   He 
rested a while and then struck out down the river.  Daylight found him 
holed up snugly in a clump of willows.  He was ravenously hungry when 
night arrived, but there was nothing to eat.  Pulling his belt a notch 
tighter, the fugitive set out for the railroad. Two days later, Colonel 
Mason of General Lee's staff sat in his tent and listened to the story 
of the gaunt, hunger-ridden man who talked between mouthfuls.  At the 
completion of the tale, the colonel did something he was rarely known 
to do; he shook hands with the narrator. “I thank you, and the 
commanding general thanks you, Major.” He smiled broadly as Boone 
Hatfield looked up in surprise.  “Yes, I said Major.  You didn't know 
it, but there was a major's commission awaiting you at Harpsburg, if 
you should have the good fortune to get back here to claim it.” Boone 
voiced his appreciation. 

“Now, Major,” continued the staff officer briskly, “we have further
railroading for you.  It has been decided to send you back to South 
Carolina.  You are to take charge of the line on which you formerly 
worked...the South Carolina Railroad.  A practical man is needed there 
just now, and I'm afraid he will be needed much more in the near 
future.” “But, Colonel” protested Boone. “to leave the front lines!  To 
retire to a quiet section where there is no action. I...” Colonel Mason 
smiled a trifle sadly.  “You will not want for action, Major.  The 
Yankee general, Sherman, is marching across Georgia, sweeping all 
before him and, we learn from reliable sources, contemplates a raid 
through the Carolinas.  Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, will 
be one of his objectives, naturally, and the South Carolina Railroad 
lies in his path.  You will find plenty of problems and plenty of 
excitement at your new post, Major.” Boone quickly realized that Mason 
was right.  South Carolina seethed with rumors, apprehension.  His old 
commander, Wheeler, was there, massing his cavalry to check Sherman's 
advance, perfecting plans for the defense of the capital.  Boone 
thrilled to the feel of a throttle again, to the familiar names. 
Orangeburg, Midway, Blackville, Aiken, Hamburg!  These words had held 
significance for railroaders since the pike was first built, more that 
thirty years before; at which time it extended 136 miles and was the 
longest railroad in the world! Running originally from Charleston to 
Hamburg, it had put Charleston back on the map as one of the most 
important ports in the country.  At one point an inclined plane had 
been used, the cars being hurled up it by a stationary engine.  Later, 
the track at this point was shifted and the plane done away with. The 
136 miles of road had cost a million dollars, and when the entire line 
was first opened, in 1833, the railroad world marveled.  The terrific 
speed of twenty miles an hour was made by the engine, with train.  The 
whole trip from Charleston, to Augusta, Georgia, across the river from 
Hamburg, was made in twelve hours.  Trains didn't run during the hours 
of darkness. The road had always had a colorful history, but former 
happenings were as nothing compared to the stirring scenes it was soon 
to witness. Boone inspected engines he had formerly handled.  The old 
“Ariel'” the giant new “L.J. Patterson,” with her 14 by 24-inch 
cylinders whose bore was six inches, with a sixteen-inch stroke.  Her 
drivers had wooden spokes and were four and a half feet in diameter.  
She weighed four and a half tons.  Lots of progress had been made since 
those days! 

A Railroad on Stilts 

A council was being held at military headquarters.  Boone Hatfield, in
his capacity of railroad supervisor, was present.  He listened intently 
to the discussion raging about the commanding general's table. “If only 
we had artillery on the farther bank of that swamp,” said a colonel of 
infantry, “we could check the advancing column and save a vast amount 
of valuable stores.” “Yes,” agreed the commander, “but unfortunately we 
have no cannon there, and no way of getting them there.  It is utterly 
impossible for horses or men to move across the swamp,” he went on, 
“and just as impossible to operate pontoons there.  The consistency of 
the swamp surface is such that, while it will bear no weight of any 
moment, it will not permit the use of boats.” Another officer chimed 
in; “Its length and the nature of the country at either end preclude 
circling it in the time allowed us.  It is not wide, though, 
comparatively speaking.” The general commanding spoke with finality.  
“Gentlemen, we feel that the only way to halt the advance of the enemy 
column is by means of artillery on the gar bank of the swamp.  
Therefore, it would appear, the enemy is not to be halted.” “I can get 
cannon across the swamp in time, General,” Boone said. All eyes were 
turned to the speaker.  General Wheeler spoke sharply. “How will you 
accomplish this seeming miracle, Major Hatfield?  By what means will 
you transport artillery across the swamp?” “By railroad, sir.” The 
general stared.  There was a murmur of astonishment from the grouped 
officers.  A tall colonel with a bristling mustache exploded harshly. 
“This is no time for foolishness, sir!” Boone Hatfield's eyes flashed, 
but his voice was quiet as he replied. “If it please the colonel, 
jesting is far from my thoughts at present.  With the general's 
permission, I will outline my proposal.” “Proceed, sir.” Said Wheeler. 
Boone talked.  The staff listened.  Curiosity turned to mild interest, 
interest to enthusiasm.  The colonel who had criticized Boone pressed 
forward. “Accept my apology, Major, “ he begged.  “I'm usually speaking 
out of turn, and I'll wager that right now I'm taking the words from 
the general's mouth when I say that your idea is the solution of our 
problem.” General Wheeler smiled. “You're right, Colonel.” 

The desolate and hitherto impassable swamp became the scene of intense
activity.  A spur was quickly thrown out from the railroad nearby.  
Pile drivers commenced to hammer huge piles into the soft mud. Across 
the swamp crept the parallel lines of piles, their tops leveled off 
with meticulous care, and the distance between the two lines accurately 
spaced.  Labor was plentiful and the work proceeded with great speed. 
Next, heavy timbers were clamped and bolted upon the pile tops.  Then 
rails were laid upon the timbers.  General Wheeler, watching operations 
from the shore of the swamp, shook his head and whistled. “A railroad 
on stilts!  Gentlemen, I've been through a good many hard fought 
battles, but I'm not sure I have the courage to ride on that thing!” 
Boone Hatfield had the courage.  He entered the cab of a light engine, 
to which was attached the long string of flats mounted with the 
precious artillery. Out upon the quivering, swaying “stilts” crept the 
train.  Boone glanced across at the lean hillman, who sat on the 
fireman's seatbox, and grinned. “How's she feel to you?” The other's 
slow drawl sounded above the pound of the laboring exhaust. “'Bout like 
the bad dreams I used to have when I first got a job firin' on the ol' 
Georgia State.” The “bad dream” stood the gaff.  The questing pilot 
crept on.  It seemed to feel its way across the rickety structure.  The 
exhaust sounded like a sigh of relief as the drivers clashed against 
the solidly grounded rails of the siding, which had been hastily 
constructed on the far bank. A few minutes later the unloaded cannon 
were rumbling at a gallop across the flats, to be mounted into place 
and halt the Federal column, which marched to seize the coveted stores. 
It was a fine victory for Confederate railroad genius, but only a 
temporary delay for the Union forces.  Resistless as fate, the Grand 
Army of the West swept on! Boone was at Columbia when the ominous news 
arrived: Sherman was on the banks of the Edisto River.  He would strike 
the railroad near Branchville, it was said.  There were valuable 
supplies in Branchville that should be moved to Columbia.  Cars and an 
engine were needed.  Boone decided to handle the throttle himself on 
the dangerous run. He chose the powerful “L. J. Patterson”, got his 
train together and pulled out of Columbia on a gray February day. 
Sixty-eight miles to Branchville!  Boone widened on the throttle, 
hooked the bar up toward center.  The gallant old wood-burner responded 
nobly, jerking her long train along at furious speed. Clouds of smoke 
and shower of sparks poured from her wide stack.  Her exhaust was a 
rumbling roar.  The clank of her spinning drivers echoed loudly across 
the dismal swamps. Countrymen pulled their frightened teams to a halt 
and stared in amazement.  Boone chuckled, recalling that story told 
about the old “West Point's” first run, when a frightened teamster 
whose horse had run away replied to the question why he didn't hold on 
to his team” Hold on?  How the devil could I hold on, when I saw hell 
in a harness comin' down on me?” The smile left Boone's face and his 
eyes grew somber.  “There's hell unharnessed over there, all right, “ 
he told himself, gazing toward where beyond the skyline, the rifle 
barrels of Sherman's troops were glinting in the sunlight. 

There was intense excitement and much confusion in Branchville.  The
Confederate engineer got his train together by superhuman effort and 
headed back to Columbia.  He could hear, across the Edisto River, the 
thunder of Sherman's cannon. Branchville was full of wounded soldiers 
and stragglers.  Companies of gray-clad cavalry were maneuvering.  
Staff officers were riding madly through the streets.  Boone was glad 
when the turmoil was left behind and he could let the big engine out.  
He grimly determined to better the down run. After taking wood and 
water at Orangeburg, he pulled slowly out of the town.  The fireman, a 
lanky hillbilly, wiped his steaming face and climbed onto the seatbox, 
scanning the flats with keen mountain-trained eyes. “Major,” he 
exclaimed suddenly, “are we-uns s'posed to have any cav'lry patrols out 
‘round heah?” “Not that I know about, why?” “Theah's cav'lry on that 
road what cuts across the swamp.” Boone left his seat, crossed to the 
fireman's side of the cab. “Looks like purty nigh a company,” commented 
the head brakeman, shielding his eyes with his hand. Boone gazed long 
and earnestly, and his mouth tightened. “Price,” he told the fireman., 
“it's calvary, a full company, and it's Yankee cavalry!” “So I see,” 
replied the fireman calmly, “but I wanted the Major to see for his 
self.” 

The railroad swept around the swamp in a great curve.  The highway cut
squarely across it, forming a crooked chord of the arc.  Boone 
estimated the distance, the probable speed of the troop. “It's going to 
be close,” he said, almost to himself, “but I believe we can do it.” 
“Give then slabs hell!” he ordered the fireman as he slipped back onto 
the seatbox.  “We're going to need every ounce of steam we can get!” 
“You figger they aims to tackle us, Major?” “That's just what they 
intend doing, Price.  They realize this must be a valuable train and 
they aim to seize it.  If they reach the crossing before we do, we're 
goners fer sure.  They'll blow this cab clean off the boiler and us 
with it.  Our only chance is to get there before they do.” “Might pull 
up ‘fore we get theah, Major.  Guess they wouldn't do no shootin' if'n 
we wuz staning' still.” “And lose the train and be taken prisoner?  Not 
much, we won't!” The fireman chuckled as he stepped to the deck.  
“Hardly figgered you would, jest wanted to know how you felt about it.  
Let her out, Major, and we'll show them damn Yanks some railroadin'!” 

Boone, “let her out.”  The long train rocked over the poorly ballasted
track at a terrific rate.  The engine thundered defiance to the distant 
cavalry.  Boone crossed the cab from time to time to gaze at the riders 
galloping to intercept him.  He shook his head as he realized how short 
the distance they had to travel, how wide was the curve which must be 
followed by the speeding train.  He glanced anxiously at the steam 
gage. Price was doing a fancy job of firing.  He had the needle “right 
against the peg.”  The safety valve lifted, and Boone frowned at the 
loss of precious water. “Can't stand much of that,” he muttered. The 
throttle was wide open, the bar hooked up as high as possible.  Boone 
glanced out at the earth rushing past him, his gaze flickered to the 
purring safety valve and his lips set in a grim line. 

“Price”, he ordered, “you come over and keep an eye on things a minute. 
Burton,” he yelled to the brakeman, “you look after that fire!” Wrench 
in hand he stepped out onto the running board, and screwed the safety 
valve down tight.  The fireman's face whitened slightly under its grime 
as the gage hand crept past the limits-of-pressure mark; but he grinned 
as Boone resumed his seat. “Major,” he drawled, “you all got any hard 
money saved up?” “A little,” Boone replied, “why?” Price's drawl was 
more pronounced than ever.  “I got me ten dollars, Major, and I'll bet 
the whole damn ten I go higher than you do.” It was grim humor, but if 
the over taxed boiler should happen to let go, the matter of relative 
height had interesting possibilities, Boone was forced to admit. “Them 
cav'lrymen is getting' mighty close,” shouted the brakeman. Boone 
crossed the cab, gazed over the swamp.  He could see the ominous 
flicker of steel along the van of Sherman's hard-riding raiders.  Puffs 
of smoke spouted from amide the dark ranks, but the range was great and 
a galloping horse is not a favorable stance for firing at a moving 
object; the bullets flew wide. Around the sharpening angle of the curve 
lurched the engine.  Her boiler was rumbling a protest; steam was 
spurting from under her jacket where rivets and stay bolts loosened 
under the strain.  Price glanced casually at the still crawling gage 
hand, then deliberately stepped to the deck and put in a fire. Down 
upon the crossing swept the “L.J. Patterson”, screeching, roaring, her 
drivers clanging against the iron.  Her stack was a volcano of fire and 
smoke and sparks.  She was spouting steam from cab to smokebox.  Boone 
tugged at the already wide-open throttle, prayed for even a trifle more 
speed. The air was filled with the thunder of galloping hoofs, the 
cries of wildly excited men, the crackle of pistols.  The engine crew 
crouched low as a storm of lead pattered against the cab.  Price leaped 
to the gangway and yelled like an Indian. For the flying locomotive had 
swept past the crossing!  Sherman's daring raiders were pulling up in 
confusion to avoid crashing into the swaying cars.  The caboose bounced 
by, conductor and flagman on the platform. Boone saw the boys in blue 
swinging their caps, faintly heard their rousing cheers.  The gallant 
cavalrymen, good losers that they were, scorned to fire on the unarmed 
trainmen and were rendering the homage due to daring and success. 

The Confederate major found Columbia in a state of great apprehension. 
He disposed of his train, reported to the commanding officer and 
received other assignments that kept him too busy for conjecture as the 
turbulent days passed. On and on came the legions of General Sherman, 
leaving death and ruin in their wake.  The railroad was utterly 
destroyed from the Edisto River to Blackville and from Orangeburg 
toward Columbia.  Union soldiers tore up the light rails, made great 
heaps of the ties and set the ablaze.  They placed the “bars”, as the 
rails were called, across the blazing ties so that the middle of the 
rail rested in the blaze.  Then a dozen or more men would seize the 
heated rail by either end, and carry it to the nearest tree and wind 
the softened iron about the trunk.  The forests along the right-of-way 
were full of these grim “corkscrews” of war. February 16th, and Sherman 
was on the south bank of the Congaree, with Columbia in plain view.  
Boone, among the last of the Confederates to evacuate the doomed city, 
was at the railroad station.  He stepped into a waiting room and 
suddenly stiffened with amazement. A girl was hurrying across the room, 
evidently bound for the street entrance.  In three long strides, Boone 
Hatfield was by her side.  She turned as he approached.  Her face 
whitened and she gave a little cry.  Boone gazed into the wide blue 
eyes with unconcealed delight. “Miss Stoneman!  Where in the world did 
you come from?” The little nurse of the Harpsburg hospital was in a 
woeful state of confusion, but Boone, in his joy at seeing her again, 
took scant notice. “This is just about the best luck I've had in a long 
time,” he declared. Then the unusualness of the situation dawned on 
him.  With the realization came a disquieting thought. “But what are 
you doing way down here in Carolina?” he asked.  “How did you, a nurse 
in a Yankee hospital, get inside our lines?” “I...I have relatives 
here,” the girl replied.  “There is serious illness in the family and I 
managed to get a safe conduct to Columbia.  See, here is my pass.” She 
handed Boone the document.  He saw it was signed by a staff officer and 
countersigned by General Beauregard.  It was, to all appearances, a 
bona fide “safe conduct” from the Federal lines north of Richmond to 
Columbia and return, providing also for an escort through the 
Confederate lines. Boone knew that the incident was not without 
precedent.  Very often during that war, in which brother fought against 
brother and families were split asunder, influential Southerners had 
visited friends or relatives in the North and like privileges had been 
accorded the Unionists. 

Boone's brief apprehension was lost in a sudden remembrance of his own
duties. “Why couldn't I have found you sooner?” he mourned. “Why do you 
ask that?” inquired the girl. “Because I'm leaving Columbia in twenty 
minutes. Sherman is across the river and we are evacuating the town.”  
His brow creased with worry.  “I hate to leave you here in the path of 
an invading army.” The girl glanced nervously about, but her air was 
one of relief.  “I hate to see you go, too, but remember, I have 
friends among the Northerners also, Captain.” “Major”, Boone corrected 
her boyishly.  “Didn't you notice I've gone up in the world?” “I'm 
glad,” she said simply, “and I'll never be able to tell you how pleased 
I was to learn that you had escaped from that terrible prison.  I have 
never understood why Major Raleigh insisted you should be confined 
there.” “Oh, Tom was acting for the best.” Boone told her.  “He had 
very definite orders, you know.”  You mustn't hold that against him.” 
“It's nice you feel that way,” the nurse replied, “but I must go 
now..Major.” “When am I going to see you again?” Boone urged.  “And 
where?” The girl was thoughtful.  “I don't know.  Perhaps...perhaps 
Major Raleigh can tell you where I am, if you ever see him again.” 
“I'll make it my business to, soon as we've got the Yankees whipped,” 
Boone assured her. The girl smiled wistfully.  “Goodbye, Major,” she 
said, holding out her hand.  “Maybe we will meet again.... Someday.” 

Another Dangerous Mission 

General Wheeler, the Confederate cavalry commander, was in his field
quarters, surrounded by members of his staff.  He sent for Boone 
Hatfield, and immediately came to the point. “Major,” he began, as 
Hatfield entered and saluted, “there is in the outer railroad yards of 
Columbia, a train of several cars with engine attached.  The head car 
of this train is loaded with valuable records from the Capitol 
building.  The rest of the cars contain military supplies.  It is my 
earnest desire that this material, particularly the records, be 
transported over the Charlotte & South Carolina railroad north to 
Charlotte, N. C., if such a procedure is possible.  Do I make myself 
clear?” “Perfectly, General,” Boone replied. “Federal troops are 
already crossing the Saluda River and preparing to attack Columbia from 
the north.  If prompt action is taken, I believe there is a chance to 
get through with the train.  I desire that you personally undertake 
this mission.” “Any further instructions, sir?” Boone asked. “Only 
that, under no circumstances, are the records and military supplies to 
fall into the hands of Sherman's troops.  If you see that it is 
impossible to reach Charlotte with the train, destroy it in some 
manner.  I rely on you, Major.  Here are orders empowering you to 
requisition any assistance you may require.” Boone hurriedly left the 
commander's tent, mounted his horse and galloped to the C. & S. C. 
yards.  He paused only once, at the detachment to which he knew Price, 
his fireman on the thrilling run from Branchville, had been assigned.  
His orders from Wheeler procured the hillman without delay.  Together 
the two entered the yards. The train was ready, the engine attached, 
steam up. “Do you wish a caboose and train crew, Major?” queried the 
yadmaster. “No,” said Boone, “only a head man and a sup of good whiskey 
if you can find it.” The engineer noted with pleasure as they pulled 
out of the yards that the engine was of the same type as the S. C. R.'s 
old “Ariel,” with 11 ½ by 24-inch cylinders.  He thrilled to the power 
surging beneath the throttle, feeling the elation that always comes to 
a man seated on the right side of a cab. “Plenty of excitement in war, 
but it can't touch railroading,” he shouted to Price. “By the looks o' 
things ‘crost the way, theah's some extra special “citement getting' 
ready t' bust ‘round us ‘fore long,” the fireman replied, jerking his 
thumb out the cab window. As Boone gazed in the direction Price 
indicated, his face grew grave.  The enemy had already crossed the 
river in great  numbers and was proceeding in the direction of 
Winnsboro, S.C.   The moving infantry was, as yet, nothing but a 
cluster of tiny black dots, but there was the possibility that cavalry 
had preceded the foot soldiers.  Boone widened on the throttle, an 
anxious look in his gray eyes.  He tipped the bottle of clear liquid to 
his dry lips that Price had given him.  “Not too bad.” He thought. “If 
they reach Winnsboro before we do, we'll never get through,” he told 
Price.  “They'll tear up the tracks or barricade them.  I believe we 
can make it, though, if there isn't any cavalry out.” “Cavalry on this 
side the Congaree now,” reported the keen-eyed fireman. “No danger so 
long as they're not ‘way ahead of us,” Boone assured him. 

The train arrived at Winnsboro without mishap.  The pursuing horsemen
were still only a swiftly approaching dust column.  Confident in the 
knowledge that no horse could hope to overtake the train, Boone took 
time to secure plenty of wood and water.  He pulled away from the town 
just as Sherman's advance was thundering into it. “Bet there's some 
tall cussin' going on back there,” he chuckled to Price. The fireman 
was leaning out the window, his gaze running over the silent yards. 
“Plumb funny thing our boys didn't bust up them engines ‘fore they skun 
out,” he commented.  “Theah's one over theah with steam up, a big new 
one, too!” “Too much hurry, overlooked them,” Boon decided.  “They'll 
be plenty busted when Bill Sherman gets through with them,” he added 
with a sigh, thinking of the destruction on the South Carolina 
Railroad. Boone did not let the engine out after they left Winnsboro.  
There were as yet no Federal troops to the north of the town and speed 
was not so urgent.  They rolled along through the mellow sunshine of 
late afternoon at a good clip, but conserving wood and water.  Price, 
whose restless eyes were everywhere at once, suddenly called to the 
engineer. “Come over heah, Major, and take a look at that smoke back 
behind.” Boone crossed to the fireman's side of the cab, leaned out the 
gangway and scanned the wide curve they had just covered. Beyond the 
curve, where the track entered dense woodland, a thread of smoke was 
drifting over the treetops.  It was not the kind of steamer that would 
rise from a campfire or a chimney.  It was a long thin line, as if the 
object from which it proceeded were moving. Boone frowned in 
perplexity.  Suddenly he gave vent to a startled exclamation.  “Looks 
like smoke from an engine's stack!” “Jest what I was thinking', Major, 
but they ain't no ‘gine got any business bein' back theah.” “I know 
there isn't,” agreed the engineer, still studying the black line. Boone 
leaped across the cab, jerked the reverse bar up higher, and widened 
the throttle. “Price,” he barked, “Get after your fire.  Brakeman, pull 
those slabs down where he can reach them easy.  I know what that smoke 
is now.  We're being chased!  The Yanks have grabbed off one of those 
engines in Winnsboro yards and they're coming after us hell-bent for 
election!” The little old wood-burner responded nobly, but anxious 
glances over his shoulder told Boone that the column of smoke was 
steadily drawing nearer. “I'll bet another bottle of that hooch, it's 
the big Baldwin type we saw in they yards with steam up,” he worried.  
“That loco can make three feet to our two.” Price wiped his steaming 
face and glanced at the steam gage.  “Got every pound on her she'll 
stand, Major,” he said.  “Gonna try that valve screwing down stunt?” 
“Not with this old teakettle,” Boone replied decidedly.  “She's lucky 
to hold together with what the gage allows.  How does that smoke look 
to you now?” “Damn sight closer than when we fust saw it.  Wouldn't be 
surprised if we get a look at ‘em the next straight stretch.” 

Price's prophecy came true.  The train swung around a long curve and
straightened out.  For more than a mile the track ran without a single 
bend or anything to obstruct the view.  Before the next curve was 
reached, Boone saw the shinning black front and the belching stack of 
the pursuing locomotive. “It's that big one, all right, “ he growled, 
“and they've got three or four cars...loaded with soldiers, too, I 
bet!” Price swore whole-heartedly.  “You kin jest see ‘em crawl up on 
us,” he declared.  “What we gonna do, Major?” Boone thought furiously, 
reached a decision.  He called the brakeman to his side, gave him 
precise instructions.  The headman nodded, scrambled up the wood in the 
tender and reached the top of the first car.  He crawled carefully 
along the swaying running board, crossed the dangerous opening between 
the cars and proceeded to the rear of the train.  He vanished between 
the last two cars. Boone waited, his eyes on the track ahead.  Around a 
sharp curve swept the engine.  Down another short straight stretch she 
boomed and struck another curve.  Boone tooted one short whistle blast. 
With consummate skill, he jockeyed the train, giving the brakeman a 
chance to pull the pin and release the links.  A shout sounded faintly 
from the rear; Boone glimpsed a hand waving frantically from between 
the cars.  He widened on the throttle, saw a quickly growing space 
between the last cars. A head bobbed into view.  The brakeman scuttled 
across the car tops, slid into the cab. “Good wok, Farley,” Boone 
commended him.  “That may give them something to think about.” The 
brakeman shook his head.  “She's rolled too damn far down the straight 
line,” he answered.  “If she'd jest stopped on the curve, they'd 
slammed smack into her and the chances are it would have derailed ‘em.  
Looks like I bungled the job.” “You did everything that could be 
expected of you,” Boone insisted.  “Besides, it'll delay them quite a 
bit.” Half a mile farther on a short siding was passed.  The fireman 
was disgusted. “Dadblame it!” he raved.  “That switch would hafta be 
right heah.  They'll shove the car in theah and hardly lose any time 
‘tall”. 

The truth of the statement was all too evident.  Boone pondered the
situation, called Price across the cab. “You handle the throttle for a 
bit,” he instructed.  “Farley, you fire.” He procured a short-handled 
axe used for splitting slabs, reached the top of the train and crawled 
to the last car.  Here he stood erect, balancing on the precarious 
foothold, and chopped furiously at the car top. After minutes of 
prodigious effort he had a hole big enough to crawl through.  He 
entered the car, struck a match and peered about.  The car was 
partially filled with cotton, barrels of whiskey and other stores. 
Boone nodded with satisfaction, struck matches and applied them to the 
flammable material.  He groped through choking smoke to reach the exit. 
 Then he pulled himself through and made for the engine.  A glance back 
showed the pursuing engine booming around a curve less than a mile 
distant. Boone relieved Price and sent the brakeman over the cars 
again.  After waiting until flame and smoke were spouting from the last 
car roof, he gave the signal.  The brakeman cut the burning car loose 
on a curve.  Boone eyed it with satisfaction as the hell on wheels 
disappeared from sight. “That ought to hold them up a bit,” he called 
to Farley. “Yeah”, agreed the fireman, “but I see a water tank and 
loadin' sheds ahead.  Theah'll be another sidin' theah and they'll get 
rid of it.” 

Before the loading sheds were reached, the pursuing engine again hove
into view, shoving the burning car ahead of it. Despite the delays and 
difficulties, the big locomotive had crept up on Boone's old teakettle. 
 He estimated the space that separated the two trains as less than half 
of what it had been when he first sighted the pursuer. In fact, the 
distance was so short, the Federals decided to chance a little 
marksmanship.  Puffs of smoke drifted from their cars as a curve 
brought the fugitives into line.  Bullets screamed angrily past the 
engine cab; others thudded against boiler and tender.  Another curve 
removed this immediate menace, but Boone knew the fatal moment was but 
briefly postponed. A siding flashed by, where the Union men would be 
able to shunt the burning car. “Jest another mile and the damn thing 
would of tumbled to pieces and blocked the track,” mourned Price. 
“Major, we ain't havin' no luck ‘tall!” 

Boone was of somewhat the same opinion.  He glanced at the almost
vanished woodpile, estimated the amount of water remaining in the tank. 
 There was a chance, a slim one that his fuel would hold out after that 
of the pursuers was exhausted.  In which event, he would obtain such a 
start before they could replenish their supply, the chase would become 
hopeless. The engineer set his jaw grimly and widened the throttle to 
the limit and settled himself to fight it out to the last stick of wood 
and the final drop of water. All at once he slammed the throttle shut, 
shouted to Farley for brakes and leaned out the window to stare in 
incredulous anger. Half a mile or so ahead was a gorge which the 
railroad crossed, or which the railroad had crossed.  It didn't cross 
now!  A federal foraging party, scouting far ahead of the lines, or a 
too ambitious company of Confederate irregulars with hopes of delaying 
the enemy advance, had burned the bridge, which spanned the abyss.  
Charred timbers; blackened stones and twisted rail ends were all that 
remained of the trestle! Boone heard the hammering of the pursuer's 
exhaust as his own engine jolted to a stop.  He glanced at the thickly 
wooded country about him, contemplated the impassable gorge.  No chance 
to get the records to Charlotte now.  Get them there or destroy them, 
Wheeler had said.  But how? The answer came to him with the triumphant 
shouts of the pursuers as they boomed around the curve a few hundred 
yards distant. “Unload!” he shouted to Price and Farley.  “Make for the 
woods!” It was the commander of a battalion speaking now, and the two 
men obeyed unquestioningly.  Boone saw them vanish in the undergrowth.  
Federal bullets snapping to right and left.  He spun the engine brake 
loose, slammed the bar down in the corner and jerked the throttle open. 
The amazed Federals, already slowing their engine, yelled loudly and 
discharged a volley.  The bullets knocked splinters from the 
Confederate cab but did no further harm.  Boone crouched low, his eyes 
on the gorge, black in the shadows of approaching night. 

On rushed the doomed engine, rocking and swaying.  Boone glided to the
gangway, glanced once more at the chasm almost beneath his pilot, and 
leaped into the gathering dusk. He struck a thick growth of brush 
beside the right-of-way, as he had planned, and crashed through to the 
ground.  For a moment he lay half-stunned, bruised all over, bleeding 
from numerous scratches. He saw the roaring locomotive reach the gorge 
lip, seem to poise for an instant.  Then it took the leap, the cars 
clanging and clattering behind it, turned over slowly in the air, and 
rushed down! Far below, the waters of a swift stream closed foaming 
over the wreck.  General Wheeler's orders had been obeyed. Boone 
slipped back into the brush as the baffled pursuers screeched to a stop 
opposite his hiding place.  A little later his low whistle brought 
Price and Farley to him and the three railroad men faded silently into 
the night to rejoin their distant command. 

The Fall of Richmond 

After that, Boone Hatfield was ordered to assist with the railroad
situation in Richmond, where General Lee was making a gallant effort to 
save the tottering structure of the Confederacy. The Young major made 
the trip by horse and by rail, forced to wide detours because of the 
enveloping movements of the victorious Federal armies.  He had heard of 
the burning of Columbia, the South Carolina capital, and his thoughts 
often turned anxiously to the blue-eyed girl he had last seen there. 
While Boone was pushing his way toward Richmond, he would have worried 
still more, if he had known that the woman of his dreams was being held 
prisoner at Confederate Army Headquarters.  How could he guess that 
Edith Stoneman was facing a danger more terrible than the flames and 
riot of Columbia...the dark shadow of a scaffold that drew closer day 
by day? The guns of Petersburg and Richmond were bravely thundering 
defiance to the Union forces when Boone entered the city.  General 
Grant, chewing at a cigar, was directing the boys in blue that hammered 
at the defenses of the Confederate capital.  Day by day the United 
States Military Railroad was bringing supplies to the besieging army.  
General Lee, beloved by everyone who knew him, was never more brilliant 
and tireless than in those closing days of the war.  Lee was moving his 
scanty troops from one threatened point to another as a master of chess 
shifts his pieces on the board. Boone found much to do in the besieged 
city.  He was in the railroad yards that bright April morning when the 
order came to evacuate Richmond. Jeff Davis, Chief Executive of the 
Confederacy, remained in the doomed capital as long as possible.  When 
the encircling ring of blue came so close there was danger of him being 
captured, President Davis reluctantly left under a military escort, 
turning his back on the last hope of a dying cause. Confusion reigned, 
intense and far-reaching.  The railroad yards were the very center of 
activity.  Boone appeared to be everywhere at once, directing, 
advising, and routing trains that were to remove the government's 
effects and employees, handling engines himself at points where more 
than usual skill and daring were required. Night came on and with it 
the flames of burning warehouses and the thunder of exploding 
ironclads.  The whole business section of the city was afire.  Pillage 
and terror were rampant, despite stern efforts of the military to 
preserve order.  Outgoing refugees jammed the railroad stations.  No 
one seemed to know what to do. Boone determined to seek information 
from a reliable source.  He left the railroad and headed for General 
Headquarters. The streets were filled with drunken looters.  Most of 
the gray clad soldiers were fiercely loyal to their lost cause until 
the very end.  But a few of them straggled from their commands and 
mingled with the crowds, adding to the general confusion.  Pathetic 
scenes were enacted on all sides.  The rumors that flew everywhere 
predicted even greater tragedies. “The Yankees are coming! The Yankees 
are coming!” ran the wailing cry.  Sickened by the outrages he was 
forced to witness, Boone fervently hoped that, fi come they must, they 
would come soon. The young Carolinian's uniform and his tall, 
broad-shouldered figure forced respect.  Soldiers saluted, civilians 
stepped aside.  Unhindered, he made his way to the headquarters 
building. But instead of the officers he had hoped to interview there, 
Boone found a roaring mob bent on loot.  The engineer forced his way 
into the corridors, glancing into the room after room.  He was almost 
ready to leave the building when he was startled by a scream. 

There had been screams a plenty during the night, but this one was
different.  It seemed to hold a note that tugged at the strings of his 
memory.  Somewhere, sometime, he had heard that voice before.  He 
hurried in the direction of the sound. Again the cry came, fright with 
terror.  Boone dashed around the turn of a corridor and halted 
abruptly. Before him was a room lighted by the flames of burning 
buildings beyond the windows, which rendered it bright as day.  In the 
room was a desk and behind that desk crouched a girl. Around the desk 
half a dozen bestial figures were slowly closing in on their victim.  
Boone knew them for the scum of the city's underworld...the rats who 
were too cowardly to fight a bold enemy but were all too ready to 
attack a helpless woman. The girl raised her white face and, to his 
utter amazement, Boone recognized...Edith Stoneman! Grim and wordless, 
the railroader leaped and struck.  Men went down before his hammering 
fists.  Yells and curses arose.  Steel flickered in grimy hands. Boone 
jerked his pistol and fired twice before the weapon was dashed from his 
grasp.  He hurled the desk aside, swung the girl into the hollow of a 
protecting arm and plunged for the door. “Hang on!” he told her. The 
looters had recovered from their confusion and had lost their fear upon 
realizing that but a single man opposed them.  They scrambled to block 
the exit. They were too late.  Boone made the corridor at the expense 
of several bad knife wounds and his scalp laid open by a blow from an 
iron cudgel.  He reeled down the hallway, half supporting the girl, 
seeking the open air.  Behind him surged the thugs in full cry. He 
reached the outside.  Men sought to bar his way, but the iron hand, 
which had held many a throttle, hurled them aside. Before his pursuers 
could make their companions understand what was going on, Boone had 
gained a wide street and was guiding his companion between a row of 
burning buildings. “Try and throw them off this way,” he panted. But 
the pursuit was closing in.  Boone Hatfield had lost much blood and was 
weakening.  Vaguely he sensed that the girl was now supporting him and 
urging him to greater effort.  Instinctively he turned toward the 
railroad yards. The situation there was terror-in-spring.  The 
warehouses and the great mills flanking the railroad were burning.  
Shops were a welter of flame. The fugitives stumbled over ties and 
rails, dodged between lines of blazing freight cars.  Their flagging 
strength was renewed by the yells of the mob, swiftly drawing nearer. A 
large building, which flamed fiercely, loomed in their path.  Boone 
recognized it for a roundhouse.  He sought to turn aside to avoid it. 
To his horror he found that strings of burning cars hemmed them in on 
either side.  Behind, the screeching mob charged home.  A single door 
of the roundhouse loomed blackly.  Unhesitatingly Boone made for it. 

The heat inside was terrific.  Boone felt his muscles turning to water
under the furnace blast.  He halted, at a loss which way to turn.  
Behind there sounded a crash as a great mass of blazing timbers surged 
down to block the door through which they had just come. “It'll keep 
those devils out, anyhow,” he told the blue-eyed girl, who clung to 
him.  “Something to be thankful for.” Edith shuddered, pressing close 
against him.  “The fire is kinder, and cleaner,” she replied in a low 
voice. Even in that terrible moment the young engineer felt a sudden 
wave of tenderness he had never known before. “We'll hustle across and 
get out a door on the far side,” he decided; but saying it and doing it 
were two different things.  Flames blocked every exit! In the center of 
the roundhouse the two paused irresolute.  The air was becoming 
unbreathable, the heat too intense to be borne.  Sparks and embers 
rained down from the molten roof.  It was but a matter of minutes until 
the entire structure would collapse over their heads. “We've got to do 
something, quick,” Boone gasped hoarsely. His eyes roved over the 
building, frantically seeking some overlooked avenue of escape.  Only 
the solid walls, the flame-filled doorways and the rows of silent 
engines met his gaze. The engines, too, were doomed, he thought sadly.  
But then his nerve came back.. The engines!  With one of them he could 
burst his way to safety.  The impulse sent strength surging through his 
veins.  Despair swiftly followed, however.  Not one of the locomotives 
had steam up.  Their fireboxes were dark, the water in their boilers 
was cold. “Edith, we've got a chance!” Boone shouted the words 
joyously.  Seizing his companion's hand, the engineer dragged her to a 
big iron horse on a nearby track. He swarmed up the ladder to the top 
of the tender, swung the manhole cover back.  He shouted again, a yell 
of triumph.  The tank was filled with water to within a foot or so of 
the top. “Give me your hand, honey, up the ladder!” he called to the 
girl. Edith obeyed, mounting the iron rungs with lithe grace. “All 
right,” he assured her.  “Down into the water.  Ladder there for you to 
stand on.  It won't come over your head, anyway.” Edith slipped into 
the water, gasping at the chill bite of it.  Boone squeezed in beside 
her and lowered the manhole cover, wedging a bit of wood beneath it to 
insure air. “We'll ...we'll freeze in here,” the girl gasped between 
chattering teeth. “No, we won't,” Boone responded grimly.  “We're more 
liable to boil.  This water is going to warm up in a hurry when the 
roof falls in.” As an echo to his words sounded crashes.  The tank 
clanged and rocked as heavy timbers thundered down upon it.  Boone's 
heart skipped a beat as he dwelt on the probability of the engine being 
overturned.  If their precious water were spilled from the tank, death 
would ensue in a few minutes. The top of the tank was becoming 
unpleasantly hot.  Boone spoke soothingly to the girl.  “Lean forward 
against my arm until your face is just barely above the water.  That's 
right, dear.  No, it's no trouble to hold you that way.  It rests me, 
in fact.” Desperately he fought against the strain of her sagging 
weight, enduring the ever-increasing heat of the rusty iron so close to 
his face.  A searing blast poured in through the narrow opening beneath 
the manhole cover. Outside, sounded louder crashes as more and more of 
the burning roof fell in.  With a low thunder, a section of the wall 
went down. Fanned by the resulting draft, the fire burned more 
fiercely.  The faithful old engine rocked to the impact of debris 
raining upon it. “Can't stand much of this,” Boone muttered to himself. 
His head was aching with a steady, splitting throb.  He could feel the 
flesh of his face and neck scorching under the heat of the tank top, 
now glowing a dull red.  He was weak from loss of blood, sick from the 
pain of his wounds.  But he still stood solidly in the slightly 
steaming water, shielding his companion from the torrid blasts. “What 
the devil?” Boone blinked stupidly in the semidarkness of the tank.  He 
raised his left hand above the surface of the water, dropped it again, 
carefully. Yes, without a doubt, the surface was lower.  His straining 
ears caught a slight gurgling sound and he knew. The leather hose 
running from the tank to the boiler intake had burned in two; the water 
was escaping! With a chill of horror, Boone realized that their only 
safeguard was being swiftly dissipated.  Empty, the tank would become 
but a red-hot shell in which nothing could live.   He spoke to the 
girl, but she hung limp against his arm.  Edit Stoneman was 
unconscious. 

Boone was glad of that.  He hoped she would remain so until the end
came.  He crouched lower as the water ebbed.  It was a relief to get 
away from the fiery blast of the tank roof.  He glanced at the manhole 
crack, wondering how long the air would remain breathable. Lower and 
lower.  Boone was on his knees, supporting the girl's white face above 
the water level.  The water continued to gurgle through the burned 
hose.  The air inside the tank was growing warmer. “Won't be long now,” 
he whispered tensely, and his lips moved in silent prayer. Boone's head 
was whirling, his eyes could no longer see.  With his last strength he 
gently lowered the girl to the muddy tank floor, which was barely 
awash, striving to protect her with his body from the heat blasts 
beating down from the glowing roof. He thought of his gentle mother, of 
the white-pillared home down in Carolina, which he would never see 
again... 

Darkness closed about the dying fires of the burned roundhouse.  In the
streets beyond sounded the uproar of the looters.  Far away, a band was 
playing.  Somewhere to the north a bugle called sweetly as Grant's 
weary fighters prepared to march into the city they had striven against 
so long.  But inside the burned and blistered engine tank, two figures 
lay without sound or movement, unheeding the turmoil nearby, 
unconscious of the sounds that told of the ending of long drawn 
terrible conflict and the dawn of peace. As the early morning sunlight 
streamed over the burning city of Richmond, a detail of Federal 
soldiers patrolling the railroad yards were startled by a woman's voice 
calling for help. The sound came from the jumbled ruin of a burned 
roundhouse.  They battered their way in and gathered around the 
wild-eyed girl who stood beside a blistered engine tank.  Quickly they 
drew a burned and bloodstained figure through the manhole, gazing 
respectfully at the major's insignia decorating the gray uniform. An 
officer came and listened to the girl's swift words.  His hand snapped 
up in salute, his orders were brief and to the point. 

Boone Hatfield came back to consciousness after long days of raving and
fire-wrapped dreams of horror.  He awoke on a bright spring morning, 
weak but with a clear mind.  By a prodigious effort, he turned his head 
to gaze into the face of Edith, who sat by his bed. She too, was pale 
from long nights of tireless vigil, but there was a light in her eyes 
that needed no explanation.  Boone reached out a thin hand; their 
fingers clung together. “Well, well,” boomed a hearty voice.  “Come 
back to life again?” Boone glanced up in astonishment.  “Tom,” he 
whispered, wondering why his voice was no louder, “where in tarnation 
did you come from?” Major Tom Raleigh chuckled.  “Been hangin' around 
here quite a spell waitin' for you to get well.” “Tom,” Boone urged, 
“you'll look after Edith until I can be up and around, won't you?  
Suppose I'm a prisoner again, but don't imagine I'll have much trouble 
arranging to be exchanged.” Raleigh chuckled again.  “Don't guess Edith 
needs much lookin' after,” he said, “she's kinda able to look after 
herself.  You see, Boone, she is really Secret Service Operator Number 
Eleven.  That is, she was and her last name isn't Stoneman at all.” 
“What!” “Surest thing you know.  She usually does more of a job of 
lookin' after me than me lookin' after her.  Her whole name is Edith 
Stoneman Raleigh.” “Your sister?” “Uh-huh.” Tom glanced from Boone's 
face to that of the blushing girl, and back again. “Blue eyes and gray 
eyes,” he mused, almost to himself.  “Blue and gray.  Well, I guess 
it's about time the Blue and the Gray was getting' t'gether.  You're no 
prisoner, Boone, my brother.  Peace has been declared.  Any fightin' 
between the Hatfields and the Raleighs from now on will have to be a 
family affair.” Boone smiled warmly.  “And, Tom,” he whispered, “now 
that this war foolishness is over, you and me can get back to serious 
business and something worth while...back to railroading! 

THE END 


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