Rebel falls, p.21
Rebel Falls, page 21
Dusk was fast approaching by the time Martin freed the rail from the cold hard ground. With the help of several others, he was about to lay it across the track when in the distance they heard the whistle of an oncoming train.
“It’s early,” Headley shouted.
“Get it across, get it across,” Beall shouted as Headley stepped forward, swinging the lantern.
But it was too late. Already the beam of the train swept around the turn, bearing down upon them. The men dropped the rail across the tracks and jumped to either side. Barely slowing down at the sight of the lantern, the locomotive struck the loose rail, sending it pinwheeling into the air. Somehow the train stayed on the rails. As the engineer sounded the whistle, the locomotive screeched to a stop. That shrill sound echoed throughout the woods. The train, ten cars long, safely came to a rest several hundred yards up the track. Already, men with lanterns of their own, as well as firearms, were stepping down to investigate.
“To the sleighs,” Beall ordered, but his men were well ahead of him. The mission’s commander was the last one to reach them, and they fled as soon as he was pulled aboard.
“They’ll soon be onto us,” Headley said.
“Break into smaller groups once we reach the depot,” Captain Beall ordered. “Every man for himself. Get across the border as best you can.”
55
It was well after closing time when the heavy knocks on Wreet’s door rustled the bell atop the frame.
“Keep your shirt on,” Wreet shouted. “I’m coming.”
When she unlocked the door, she found Constable Peabody, hat in hand.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “There’s been another raid.”
I hung in the shadows, listening to every word. Captain Beall’s rebels had tried to derail the Lake Shore train south of Buffalo, and they were now on the run, perhaps heading in our direction. Word of the failed raid had spread to Buffalo, and I was ready to assist in the efforts there. But I was told there were plenty of sentries already on the border at Buffalo and the authorities there had no role for me. In fact, they couldn’t be bothered with my questions or eagerness to help. So, I’d returned to the Falls on the late train. All the while, I kept an eye out for Beall and the others. Yet there had been nothing. No sighting or word—until now.
“If they reach Canada, they’ll get away scot-free,” said Wreet and Constable Peabody agreed.
“But at this late hour,” Wreet added, “there’s only one path left to them—if they’ve come this way.”
“The Suspension Bridge,” the constable said, finishing her thought.
Wreet turned to me, and that’s something I’ll always treasure about her. Even though I sometimes confounded her, she wanted me to accompany her once again.
“Fetch your new coat, Rory.”
The winds that evening blew a gale from the north, funneling down the canyon of the Niagara River. The two of us wrapped ourselves in scarves, hats, and mittens, and nudged our chins beneath the coat collars as we made our way by foot to the station. Entering the New York Central Railroad depot, which, unlike the larger downtown terminal, stood in the shadow of the Suspension Bridge, Wreet studied the time schedule on the wall. Overhead, the large clock read ten o’clock.
“The next train to the other side isn’t for another hour,” Wreet said, surveying the nearly deserted terminal. “It’s the last one until morning.”
“What should we do?” I asked.
“If they walk across, we have no way of stopping them,” Wreet said. “Not without more help.” She nodded at a pair of Niagara City police officers near the newsstand at the far side of the terminal. “And they’ll be off duty once the last train departs.”
“So, we wait?” I asked, and Wreet nodded in agreement.
The two of us huddled in the far corner on what appeared to be a fool’s errand. Even the pair of policemen soon ambled outside, about finished for the night. Yet a half-hour later, two men entered through the main doors. The taller of the two, barely in his twenties, was dressed in a workman’s jacket and cap. The older man wore a tailored suit and bowler hat. Both were haggard and exhausted.
“Is that who I think it is?” Wreet said.
“John Yates Beall,” I whispered.
“They must be the stragglers,” Wreet said, keeping her eyes on them. “Look at them. They’re dead on their feet.”
And that’s what was keeping them from simply walking across the Suspension Bridge’s lower level to safety. They were too exhausted to make a run for it.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Find those policemen,” the older woman said. “Even in their weakened state, we’re no match for a pair of rebels.”
Outside, in the howling winds, I walked nearly completely around the stone building until I found the two policemen sheltered out of the wind, smoking cigars.
“Kind officers.”
“Ma’am,” said one as the other snubbed out what was left of his smoke. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“There’s some men inside,” I began.
“Passengers for the eleven o’clock train,” one interrupted.
“And I don’t like the looks of them.”
“You don’t like the looks of them, ma’am?”
“That’s right. My auntie believes they could be persons acting under the direction of the authorities in Richmond. Rebel commandos.”
“Rebels?” the one officer smiled, giving his partner a bemused look. “What makes you think that?”
“You saw the papers this morning, didn’t you?”
“And were given a directive by our captain about it before our shift began, too,” the other policeman said.
“Well, perhaps you should take a look at these two.”
“Were they disturbing you, ma’am?”
“No.”
“Besides, you look like you could take care of yourself,” the first policeman said.
“It’s my auntie I’m worried about. She’s getting all in a tizzy about this. Please help us. Just come back inside and give them a look-see. My auntie and I will be forever grateful.”
The first one shrugged, and together they made their way toward the front doors, with me trailing behind them. Inside the terminal, the two officers eyed Captain Beall and his younger accomplice. Both of them were sitting on the bench nearest the door to track. Their heads were down. Eyes closed.
“Excuse me,” one officer sang out, taking longer strides toward the two rebels.
Beall’s eyes fluttered open, while the younger one scrambled to his feet, eager to make a run for it. The other policeman was ready for him and caught him on the shoulder with his billy club, knocking him to the floor.
“Now, let’s stop right there,” the first policeman said. “I’m Niagara City Officer Charlie Jenks, and this is my partner, Solly Sanderson.”
As Jenks spoke, he patted down Captain Beall and pulled a Colt revolver from his inside coat pocket.
“Now, this is an impressive piece,” Jenks said. As he spoke, the younger one tried to slip away again, only to have Officer Sanderson force him down to his hands and knees. “And who might you be?”
“W. W. Baker,” Captain Beall said.
“You look like a troublemaker, perhaps a spy of some sort to me,” Jenks said. “Just the kind we’ve been warned about here along the border.”
“No, sir.” Beall blinked his eyes and gazed about the terminal, focusing for a moment in my direction. “I’m just accompanying my young friend here. We’re going to visit his family across the river.”
“And where in Canada might that be?”
“Near Hamilton,” Captain Beall hesitated. “I’ve forgotten where exactly.”
“I see,” Jenks said. “I think the two of you best come down to the station.”
“But our train?”
“There’s another one bright and early in the morning, and another one right after that. If your story pans out, you can catch any of them.”
The police officers, with their pistols drawn, began to lead the two rebels away when Officer Jenks turned and came back to me.
“You know them?”
“Not the young one, but the other one is John Yates Beall.”
“And who might that be?”
“The most dangerous rebel in the borderlands.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, there was a commotion near the terminal entrance. The younger rebel was wrestling with Officer Sanderson, and Beall had somehow disappeared.
Despite the frigid evening, the Bystanders were moving about at the entrance to the lower level of the Suspension Bridge. None of them was Beall, however. A glance down the wooden gateway, the pathway stretching out like a tunnel leading toward British Canada, revealed no one of his stature or gait, either. Where had he gone? He couldn’t have simply disappeared into thin air.
I looked to Officer Jenks, who was as befuddled as me. Around us the Bystanders moved about like ghosts from the underworld. The policeman quizzed them, asking if they had seen someone matching Captain Beall’s description, but they weren’t about to tell a man in uniform anything. Mum as church mice, they were. That’s when I drew the attention of one Bystander, and he simply stared at me, as if he was greatly annoyed that I was there, as if he somehow recognized me from another time long ago. That’s when his eyes briefly looked upward, nodding to the upper deck overhead, where the trains ran. Then he turned away, leaving me to realize that’s where the rebel leader had gone.
“Up top,” I told Officer Jenks, pulling on his arm.
“Are you daft, woman?”
Yet I was already heading up the stairs leading to the upper level. The wooden banister and roughshod risers weathered by the winds and mists of the Falls reminded me of the staircase at Ferry Landing, the one leading to the raging river.
“The train,” Officer Jenks shouted as he began to follow me. “Ma’am, it’ll be here any minute.”
As we reached the top level of the Suspension Bridge, the train was slowing, preparing to pull into the station. Its beam of light flashed past us, and as I followed the line of illumination, further down the track I saw a lone figure, hobbling toward the border in the darkness. It was John Yates Beall.
“Hold it at the station,” I told Officer Jenks. “I’ll get him.”
With a relieved look, the policeman retreated in that direction.
Stepping from rail tie to rail tie, I began to move across the upper level of the Suspension Bridge, and, at first, I thought my eyes had been playing tricks on me. I didn’t see Beall anywhere. Yet as the train arrived at the station its beacon light, like an orb of God, once more streamed down the rails, and there he was. Beall had to be halfway across the upper level by now.
Moving fast, I began to gain ground on him. Around me, the wind gusted. Several times I feared that its very force would topple me over the edge and down into the chasm far below. To this day, I don’t know which crossing most unnerved me—going across the first time by boat, through Niagara’s rapids and whirlpools, or stepping as lively as I could that night in the wind and the snow in pursuit of the rebel captain.
The lights of the other side were breaking through the mist and snow when I finally reached him. Without thinking twice, I brought Beall down by driving my shoulder hard into his back. While my time in the 138th may have been short, my service had taught me how to fight.
“But I’m past halfway,” Beall protested as I pinned him to the tracks. “I must be in Canada proper.”
I looked around us, and we were well past the midspan. Technically, he was correct. Yet that had never helped the Black people who previously tried to escape across this span. The ones my mother and those at the Cataract House had assisted in their flight. Why should such particulars and specifications now benefit a rebel who fought to keep them enslaved? That’s what flashed through my mind at that moment and, as a result, I refused to let John Yates Beall escape.
Arguably, life would have been easier for us, all of our fates more bearable, if I had simply let him go. Watched him stagger the remaining distance across the top of the Suspension Bridge to British Canada. Of course, I didn’t know any of that at the time.
Together, with both hands firmly grasping his arm, I led Beall back to the American side. Out in front of us, the train started to move slowly in our direction, its bright beam bearing down on the scene, and for an instant I feared the locomotive might run us down. As it neared us, though, the train seized to a stop, with the hiss and screech of brakes, a bank of steam rising upward.
All around us, the air grew alive with noise and distraction, so loud that it momentarily drowned out the roar of the rushing waters far below. In fact, our immediate world was so frantic with activity that I didn’t hear the low chuckle of laughter boil up from deep inside John Yates Beall until I realized that his arm, his very torso, was beginning to shake. I stared at him, still hanging on tight, wondering if the man had snapped, gone completely off his rocker. That’s when the rebel captain turned toward me, wild-eyed, with a maniacal grin breaking across his face.
“Just another soldier in this fight,” he said. His voice had become a low growl that only I could hear as the authorities drew closer. “For that’s what I am, Miss Chase. You and I both know it. If they strike me down, a legion will rise in my place. Mark my words. There’s nothing more powerful than another who dares to suffer. Another who believes in the cause.”
Thankfully, the two policemen and a swarm of others in uniform soon reached us, taking John Yates Beall away. They handcuffed him and led the rebel leader to the train, with me trailing behind. When we were all aboard, the train slowly began to edge backward, returning to the American side of the Falls.
56
I returned from the Prospect Point overlook to Wreet’s store. In recent weeks, I had fallen into the habit of viewing the cataract nearly every morning, regardless of the weather. For some reason, I found that the raging waters soothed my soul.
As I opened the door, Wreet was waiting for me.
“There you are.” The older woman held out a small sheet of paper. “Ronnie from the telegram office dropped this off while you were out and about.”
The notice read that I had been summoned to New York City, to the police headquarters on Mulberry Street. “What’s this about?” I asked, handing it to Wreet.
She studied it and replied, “Reading between the lines, I’d say that Beall now realizes what dire straits he’s in, so he’s lying about his true self. As a result, they’re summoning those who can positively identify him. Unfortunately, you’re one of them.”
“What if I don’t go?”
A pained expression came over Wreet’s face. “My guess is they won’t take no for an answer, Rory. They’re asking politely now. Next time will be more of an order.”
I glanced again at the notice and then folded it in half and folded it again, as if I was some kind of mad magician who could make this part of my life simply disappear.
“Major-General John Dix is heading the investigation. We’ve all heard of him.”
I nodded.
“Determined fella,” Wreet said. “I’d imagine he knows who he’s landed with John Yates Beall. What the Rebs have been up to with him as a ringleader. I’d imagine he’s assembling an air-tight case against Beall, and he’s leaving nothing to chance. Such steps begin with a positive identification.”
“This cannot all be on me.”
“Exactly,” Wreet answered. “From what I know of him, Dix will bring in anyone and everyone who can help prove his case. That would include witnesses from Buffalo, certainly Ohio. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s turned some of Beall’s own recruits against him, got them to talk. That’s Dix’s way.”
“If he has so many others, why does he need me?”
“I only met Major Dix once. He came through Buffalo and the Falls early last year to inspect our operation. Truth be told, Dix wasn’t pleased with what he saw here. He thought we were too skittish, too unsure of ourselves to do an effective job, and he was probably right. We are amateurs compared to him, a real military man, and we’ve tried to improve our methods since then. About the only one who impressed him was our Mr. Douglas. You think I’m a tough old goat? Dix is that in spades. What I’m trying to say is whether he needs you or not, he’ll stay after you, Rory, until you do his bidding.”
“I’ll just disappear for a while.”
“No, please think this through, Rory. Dix is not the kind you want to upset. Take the morning train tomorrow, and you’ll be in New York by nightfall. Help them identify Beall, then leave as fast as you can. You’ll have done your part, and you can be left alone.”
As soon as I came off the platform from the Hudson River Line, a pair of policemen fell in beside me.
“Ma’am, we’re to take you downtown,” one of them said. Soon enough, our carriage pulled up in front of the Mulberry Street station.
Inside, I was led to the booking desk, where Sergeant Kane was waiting for me.
“Best to go over matters thoroughly before heading downstairs,” he said as he led me toward his office. I saw that a policeman had stationed himself outside Kane’s door.
Kane followed my eyes and said, “That’s for your protection.”
“Or to make sure I don’t flee,” I answered.
“Major-General Dix knows you’re a valuable piece of this investigation, so he’s leaving nothing to chance.”
“And where is Mr. Dix?”
“You’ll meet the major-general soon enough. We have some work to do first. The suspect is being held one floor below us. The cell isn’t large. Five by eight feet, so don’t let the conditions throw you. This is a police station, after all. I hope you’ll remember that he has been issued a mattress and blanket. He isn’t uncomfortable.”
