Rebel in Time

Chapter 20

'American coins only?' the clerk asked.

'That's right,' Troy said.

'Any particular denomination that you are interested in?'

'Not really. Just as long as they are not later than eighteen fifty-nine. What do you have?'

The young man stepped back and raised his eyebrows. 'If you wait a moment, I'll have Mr De Vrou himself come to help you. He's very much a specialist in early American coinage.'

The clerk hurried away; Troy looked around the store. He had never been a collector as a boy, neither coins nor stamps — nor anything else for that matter. But he could see the appeal of a hobby like this. The multicoloured bank notes, from all over the world, were immensely attractive. The coins came in unexpected sizes and shapes. He was bent over a glass case looking at a Roman denarius when the owner came up.

'May I be of help, sir? You are interested in the purchase of American coins?'

'That's right. The condition isn't too important, but the date is. I want nothing later than eighteen fifty-nine.'

'You do!' De Vrou leaned forward confidentially. 'Would it be asking too much, sir, for you to tell me why? I can be of great aid to you in obtaining exactly what you need.'

'No particular reason. I'm just interested in that period.'

'Please understand, I can be most discreet. There is something I should know?'

'Like what?'

'Like—why! I know coins, sir, know all about them. But there is something here now that I don't know and I wish you would let me in on it. One hand washes the other, as they say. I will give you a very fair price on your purchases. But would you please tell me what is so important about this period? I ask because another gentleman was in here some months ago making the same kind of purchase.'

'Tall man, sharp nose, greying hair?'

'The very man!'

'He's the one who told me I should buy these coins. I don't know why. I'll tell him you asked.'

'Then you know him? Know his name?'

'No, not really. We just meet by chance once in a while. Now — the coins, if you please.'

The coin dealer sighed. The secret would remain a secret, at least for the time. 'Yes, I would appreciate you letting him know.' He placed a velvet-lined tray on the counter. 'Please inform him that I have a new shipment in, coins that will interest him. See, here is one, a fine twenty-dollar gold piece…'

'I'll take it. What other denominations do you have?'

'In gold, here. A ten dollar, a five and a three. I'm sorry, but I have no two-and-a-half dollar gold pieces right now. But here is an almost mint gold dollar.'

Troy picked up the tiny coin, the size of his fingernail. 'I'll take this as well. Are there any coins of a smaller denomination?'

'Over here. Most interesting. Half dollar, quarter dollar, a one cent and a three cent coin.'

'No nickels?'

'Of course not, sir. You will have your little joke. We both know there were no five cent pieces at this time. The half dime instead. And of course the dime itself. Here is a beauty that dates from just after the Revolution. The disme, as it was called then, a Middle English variation of the old French disme from Latin decima, or a tenth part. Later corrupted to dime.'

Troy packed his purchases into his case, then looked at his watch and hurried out. He had only twenty minutes to get to the stable for his riding lesson. The colonel had the advantage on him there since he had served in the cavalry. Troy wasn't happy with the lessons, he was still aching from the last one, but if he was going to do anything besides walk he had better learn to handle a horse.

He was very glad of the admiral's help. Their lists of necessities matched in many ways, but the admiral had thought of a number of items that he hadn't even considered. Things that he had always taken for granted. Like antibiotics, which he discovered had only been in existence for less than forty years. Those sealed metal tins might very well save his life one day. And halazone tablets. Water purification was unheard of in the middle of the nineteenth century, plague and disease were a constant menace. His arms still hurt from all the preventative injections that he had taken. There had also been a hurried trip to the dentist where two gold crowns on his teeth were replaced with porcelain caps.

After the riding lesson he went straight to the house on Massachusetts Avenue. Just sitting down hurt now. The admiral was waiting for him. He pushed over a long-barrelled steel pistol.

'This is a Colt revolver made in eighteen fifty-seven. A precision instrument, even if the cartridges are pin fire. They are slower to load than centre-fire cartridges, which weren't introduced until the eighteen-sixties, but they work just as well. This pistol resembles the original exactly, but the barrel and chambers, all of the important parts of the firing mechanism, are of modern steel. I've had a thousand rounds made up and can get more if you need them. We have a small shooting gallery in the basement. Get down there and fire the thing and get used to it. Your life may depend upon it.'

In two weeks the preparatory work was finished. The lease on his apartment had been cancelled and all of his personal possessions were in storage. He was certain that he would never see them again, but could not bear the thought of simply disposing of them. The admiral had understood and had promised to pay all the storage costs. Neither of them mentioned just how long this might be for.

The arrangements were done, the lists complete, everything ready. They came out of the Massachusetts Avenue building into the rain-filled night. With the admiral at the wheel the big Cadillac steamed like a barge through the darkness. When they turned onto the Beltway he glanced at Troy sitting silently beside him. 'You've checked the list carefully?' he asked.

'At least two dozen times. All my clothing is in the suitcase on the back seat. The equipment that we put together, it's in the saddlebags. All I need now is a horse.'

'The Colt — and the money?'

'In the bottom of the bags. It's all in order.'

'Yes. I suppose it is. I imagine that you are as prepared now as you'll ever be. You know you'll be strung up in a second if they find the gun?'

'I know that. But I'll have little chance of getting one after I arrive. Blacks — I mean niggers — don't get near that kind of thing in the old South.'

'And that is what really concerns me…'

'Don't let it. The odds would be exactly the same if I were white. At least I have what might be called protective colouration!'

'Don't joke about it… all right, joke. Damn, but I wish I were going in your stead. How I envy you! My job is looking more and more boring every day.'

'It's an important one, sir. And you are the one person who can do it best.'

'I know that — or I would have been taking the riding lessons instead of you. This exit?'

'That's right. Look for the small road.'

It was half-past eleven. It had been agreed that basic precautions must be taken to prevent any investigation of Troy's disappearance. None of the laboratory staff, or the military security people, would be on duty at this time of night, so they did not have to be considered. Their arrival was carefully timed just before the guards changed shift at midnight. Their visit would of course be logged in the security computer, but the fact that Troy had not logged out might not be noticed at once, since it normally would be in the next day's file. In any case, since no trace of him would be found in the buildings, and the admiral would state that they had gone out together, it might very well be chalked up to computer error.

Bob Kleiman was waiting for them inside the front door. Troy introduced them. 'I've heard a good deal about you, Admiral Colonne,' Kleiman said.

'And the same, Dr Kleiman. I'm looking forward with great anticipation to seeing this machine of yours. May I congratulate you on a truly miraculous achievement.'

'Save your thanks for Dr Delcourt — Roxanne. It's her equations that got the whole thing rolling. She's waiting for us in Lab Nine. Here, let me help with the bags.'

The guard at the laboratory entrance scrutinized their passes closely, then let them through. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Troy pointed to the washroom. 'I'm going to change. See you in a few minutes.'

It wasn't any sense of false modesty that made him wish to be alone; years in the barracks had eliminated that. It was just the desire to be by himself for a few minutes. Up until this instant everything had been talk and planning. But the moment of truth had finally arrived. He wasn't afraid, he knew more than enough about fear to recognize it in any guise, but he was possessed by a different sensation altogether. It was a little like a night parachute drop; a fall into the unknown. He undressed slowly, right down to the skin, and laid his clothes to one side.

One by one he donned his new clothes. Ankle-length cotton drawers, then rough trousers. A cotton shirt and a shapeless jacket which had been torn at the shoulder, then repaired. Patches made of a different kind of cloth covered the elbows. His high boots were handmade from thick leather, with hobnailed leather soles, well-worn and dusty. He laid aside the hat that completed the outfit, it was wide-brimmed, made of straw and drooping around the edge. Before he put his uniform into the suitcase he emptied the pockets onto the glass ledge over the sink.

Keys, coins, pocketknife, handkerchief, dogtags, pen and pencil, notebook, then his wallet with some money, ID, membership cards, some photographs. It was all staying behind. He took out the picture of Lily, smiling happily, with Disneyland in the background. Life had always been a pleasure for her, right up until those last bad months, something to be savoured and shared with others. But he couldn't bring this modern photograph with him. He put it back into the wallet, then dumped the lot into the empty suitcase on top of his uniform and started to close it. And stopped. Opening it again to retrieve her picture. There was nothing else he wanted from the twentieth century, nothing at all. He would put it in with the gun and ammunition. If those were discovered, a little, crumple-edged picture of the smiling black girl wouldn't make any difference. This time he closed the suitcase all the way and snapped it shut.

Troy patted the side pocket of his jacket, feeling the bulge of the leather wallet that held all of his papers. There was a large clasp knife alongside it, as well as a square of unbleached muslin. And a few small coins. Everything else was in the saddlebags. When he turned back he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped short.

A stranger looked back at him. This wasn't dressing up for a party — this was for real. He stared at the solidly built black man dressed in well-worn rough clothing. People wore clothes like this where he was going. There were no nylon fabrics or zippers, no cars or planes either. A different age. What would it be like? Well, that was one thing that he would be finding out soon enough.

Then he put the hat under his arm, took up the suitcase and went out. The journey was about to begin.