Rain poured from the sky, soaking through my coat, chilling me to the bone, but I had no time to care. If we couldn’t get a fire started soon, we were doomed. In the distance, the Texas thundered toward us, Fuller and his men aboard. I could see it now through the trees, its headlamp a single accusing eye, black smoke trailing like ink across the bruised sky.
Robert shouted something, his voice barely audible over the storm. The coal’s running low. I struck the flint again. A small spark flared, only to die instantly in the relentless rain.
This can’t be how it ends. Not out here. Not like this.
My thoughts drifted to Eliza. I could see her standing on the porch, how she must be worried sick, though she never said a word. I hadn’t even told her goodbye when I left this morning. Something warm slid down my cheek. I told myself it was just the rain.
But rain doesn’t burn. Rain doesn’t carry the weight of regret.
My name is James J. Andrews. On paper, I’m a house painter. In truth? A Union spy.
A few months ago, they handed me a suicide mission, to sabotage the South’s lifeline, the Western & Atlantic Railroad. Cut their supply routes. Cripple their troops.
Twenty of us volunteered, Ohio regiment boys, brave and stubborn. Wilson Brown, our engineer, quiet and steady. Robert Buffum and Will Bensinger, strong and quick, always ready to do whatever it takes. And William Hunter Campbell, who had only come to visit a friend, but we convinced him to join us, just as we had convinced ourselves, that we were courageous warriors of the Union, fighting for a noble cause. We knew the Major General had handed us a near-impossible mission, one no one had dared attempt before. Yet, like the fearless fools we were, we eagerly accepted it.
On the morning of April the 12th, my men and I boarded the General at Big Shanty, Georgia. The plan was simple: uncouple the carriages, steal the train, head North, tear up the tracks, cut telegraph wires, and burn bridges. But like all plans made in candlelight soaked with drunken confidence and the smell of cheap tobacco, it began to unravel the moment daylight touched it.
Shortly after our narrow escape, we saw, in the distance, another locomotive charging toward us. It was the Texas: another 4-4-0, smaller than ours but no slower, running in full throttle, driven by a man who refused to quit: William Allen Fuller. Throughout the day, he chased us through towns, over rivers, across every obstacle we left behind. He changed trains three times and ran miles on foot, but not once did he fall behind.
I hated Fuller in that moment. Yet some part of me could not help but respect him. Any other man would have abandoned the chase hours ago.
“How much coal left?” I asked, voice tight.
Robert wiped his brow. “Under half. And if we keep pushing full speed, we’ll run out soon.”
I cursed under my breath. Stopping wasn’t an option, we’d be hanged as spies. Yet neither was continuing at this pace. Ahead of us, the tracks stretched into the distance. Despite all the rails we’d torn up and telegraph wires we’d cut, Fuller’s men repaired every obstacle faster than we could create them. Then I saw it, a trestle bridge over a ravine.
“If we blow that bridge, they’re finished,” I said. Robert’s eyes widened. “If we time it wrong, we’ll be caught in the blast.”
“Do it.” I didn’t hesitate.
The explosions shook the earth. One roar. Then another. But we were too late.
As we charged forward, the sky began to darken. Wilson turned to me, voice hollow. “We’re not making it out alive, are we?”
I had no answer for him. The Texas grew larger, smoke pouring from its stack like a black, swirling cloud. Fuller was closing in with terrifying speed. Eliza’s face appeared in my mind once again. Would she ever understand why I’d left without saying goodbye? Why I chose a train full of strangers over the quiet life we dreamed of? Would she ever understand why I gave up everything, for a cause that may never remember my name?
The truth settled over me like the coming night.
Escape was impossible.
There was nowhere left to run.