CruIckshank wearily shook his head, reached into his haversack, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and held it up.

"Let's you and me talk," Cruickshank said, glaring at the yard boss. It galled him that he had to be reduced to making this offer, but damn all, he had orders from Longstreet himself and had to see them through.

The yard boss looked at the bottle, then nodded his head, turned to his men, and yelled at them to go back to work. Cruickshank ordered his men to back off, walked over to the yard boss, and together they climbed into an empty boxcar and sat down.

The two sides, like two street gangs waiting to see if it would be work or fight, stood apart, watching as their chiefs negotiated. A gesture from either would mean a bloodbath.

Cruickshank handed over the bottle; the yard boss uncorked it and took a long pull.

"Good stuff," he gasped. "This town's been dry as a bone ever since you rebs came in and confiscated all the liquor."

"There's plenty more where that came from"-Zachariah hated to say the words but had to-"if you help me out."

The yard boss looked over at him and grinned.

"So, got you by the short hairs, reb. One minute I'm a son of a bitch and the next you're trying to bribe me."

"I got a barrel of Tennessee's finest if you can help me work things out."

"This is my yard, not yours. You don't come in here ordering me around, especially in front of my men. Damn you, even the boss calls me Mr. McDougal, not 'Hey, you.'"

"I understand. Listen, McDougal-"

"Mr. McDougal." Cruickshank sighed.

"All right then, Mr. McDougal. It's hot, I'm tired, and I got my orders."

"Listen, Major. I've had no word from the office about this. You just come wandering in here and demand four engines and forty flatcars. You have to be joking."

"I'm not."

"And I expect an apology for that son-of-a-bitch comment, you son of a bitch."

Cruickshank swallowed hard. Anyone else, at this moment, he'd have dropped him with one good punch.

"All right, one son of a bitch to another, does that satisfy you?"

"Barely," the boss said, taking another drink. He all but drained the bottle and tossed it out on the ground, where it shattered, then looked over expectantly at Cruickshank. Cruickshank motioned to one of his sergeants, who reluctantly came over, opened his haversack, and pulled out another.

For the first time, McDougal smiled, uncorked it, took another drink, then passed it back to Cruickshank, who took a long one as well.

Outside the boxcar this was read as a signal that things were simmering down. A few of his men, as Cruickshank had hoped, took out bottles and passed them to the work crew facing them.

"Let me guess," Cruickshank asked, "you're a Union man, aren't you?"

"And if I admit to that, do I get arrested?"

"No. We're not like Lincoln, who's arrested thousands."

"Well, before you and your men came and took over Baltimore, we had business here. Good pay. I've let go of nearly all my crews. Men of mine are starving, thanks to you."

"I don't see any colored around here," Cruickshank said.

The yard boss laughed.

"With you graybacks coming? Every last one took off, most likely working the yards up in Wilmington or Philadelphia now. I lost some good men, thanks to you."

"I could say the same thing," Cruickshank replied. "Look, you and I are stuck in the middle of all this. I drove wagons before the war; you put together trains. I've got orders, and I'm told you'll get orders, too. Our civilian boss, Mr. Benjamin, is supposed to be meeting with your boss right now to set up the contracts, but I was told to get over here right now and start things moving. So either we work together, or I'll shoot you here and now, say you attacked me, then get my men to take over."

"You do that, you'll have a riot on your hands," McDougal replied with a smile. "Besides, what kind of gentleman are you to give a man a drink, then shoot him?"

"I'm no gentleman."

"I thought all you Southern officers were gentlemen. And besides, you sound a bit like a damn Englishman."

"Listen, McDougal. Someday I'll tell you my hard-luck story. I'm not Irish, but the slums of Liverpool are just as tough for a working-class English boy. I'm an officer because I was a civilian teamster before the war running supplies to army posts out in Texas. You name the place and I'll run a hundred wagons to it, and be damned to whoever gets in my way. I've killed more than my share of Comanche and a few drunken Irish, too, when they tried their hand at thieving from my wagon train."

McDougal looked at him and burst out laughing, taking the bottle back, and after a long drink, handed it back.

Outside the boxcar the laughter was a signal for everyone to relax, and more bottles came out. Cruickshank watched them for a second. It was fine that they mingled, but get them too drunk and maybe a brawl would start just for the hell of it, unraveling all the concessions he had been forced to make so far.

"Four trains it is that you want?" McDougal asked. "That's what I figure. Actually would prefer six, but figure I'd start with four." "What the hell for?"

There was no sense in lying about it. Once they started loading up, the whole yard would see it. "Ever seen a pontoon bridge?" "You mean a bridge on boats?"

"Yes, damn them. Boats that you lay planking across. I hate the damn things." "That's your job?"

"My curse. Each boat is nearly thirty feet long. It takes a dozen mules to move but one on a road, and if the road is too narrow or twisting… well, it makes you want to shoot yourself or get drunk. I got forty of 'em, plus the bridging lumber, and I need to get them to Frederick."

"Frederick?" McDougal laughed. "Between you and the Union boys, that line is a mess. Water tanks toppled, temporary bridges ready to fall apart, a helluva mess. The bridge over the Monocacy was blown last year during the fighting around Antietam, and she was a beauty. I helped put it up before the war, and then some dumb rebel blows it apart. The one we got up now is just temporary. You got a helluva job, Major. I wouldn't want it."

Cruickshank pushed the bottle back.

"I'll have a barrel for you tonight if you can at least get things moving."

McDougal picked up the bottle and looked at it.

"Your boys cleaned out every bottle of whiskey in town this last month."

"Like I said, I got barrels of 'em stashed in one of my boats."

"A deal then it is," McDougal announced loud enough that all could hear. "A barrel to get started, a barrel when you get loaded up."

Cruickshank nodded and stood up. Between one drinking man and another a deal could always be reached-when one had liquor and the other didn't.

The two shook hands. McDougal's grip was tight, rock-solid, and for a few seconds they played the game, the two looking straight at each other, neither relenting.

Finally, McDougal relaxed his grip and smiled.

"Guess you're not a gentleman after all," he said. "You're damn right," Cruickshank replied without a smile.

He jumped down from the boxcar, McDougal by his side.

"I'll be back in an hour," Cruickshank announced and walked off. His second in command, Captain Sigel, fell in by his side.

"So you made the deal," Sigel asked. "Two barrels. Supposedly the good stuff." "Sir?"

"You know what to do. Empty the good stuff out and refill it with some of the white lightning you boys brewed up. Get some strong tea into it to color it right. That old Irishman will never know the difference. I'll be damned if he'll guzzle down my ten-year-old whiskey."

Cruickshank walked on, stepping around a pile of barrels leaking molasses, cursing as the sticky fluid clung to his boots.

"Damn job," he sighed. It was better than getting shot at, but moving those damn boats, what a rotten way to fight the war.