Rebel in Time

Chapter 24

Troy's thoughts were as black as the darkness that surrounded them. Was this a trap? Had McCulloch set people to watch the spot where he had arrived — to see if he had been followed? Was Doyle also McCulloch's man, waiting to draw him into a trap?

There was a single metallic click as his thumb pulled down slowly on the hammer of the revolver.

'I say, is something wrong?' Robbie Shaw called out. 'Is that a gun you are cocking?'

'Yes. A six-shot Colt. If I miss with the first shot, I'll see you in the blast and get you with the second. So stand right where you are.'

'I wouldn't think of moving, my dear chap. There is no need for this, you know. Mr Doyle can vouch for me, my credentials as regards the Underground Railroad are impeccable…'

'Do you work for McCulloch?'

'No, of course not. But I must assure you that my acquaintance with the colonel has been of great assistance in the labours that your friends carry out. Through him I have been accepted in social circles that I might never have otherwise penetrated.'

Sudden light flared as Doyle entered the storeroom with the lantern.

'Dogs caught a fox,' he said, then saw Troy's gun. 'What's all this now?'

'Life insurance. Were you aware that your journalist here is well acquainted with Colonel McCulloch?'

'No, but I'm not surprised. He knows a lot of people, both North and South. Put that damn pistol away and come into the kitchen. I told you that he's one of us and you ought to be taking my word.'

Troy hesitated, then pushed the pistol into his belt. 'If I am mistaken — well, I apologize. But I think you can understand my apprehension.'

'No apologies needed, my dear fellow, Shaw said, waving the entire matter aside. Yet at the same time he breathed an inadvertent sigh of relief. 'I am really not very fond of deadly weapons. Ah, some of the local uisge beatha, thank you.' He seized the cup of moonshine that Doyle handed to him and drained half of it in a gulp.

Troy took one too, but just sipped at his as they sat down round the table. 'The interesting part,' Shaw said, staring into the depths of the mug, 'is that I knew Colonel McCulloch before I came to this country. Met him in Glasgow, in my father's club. They were doing some business together.'

Troy leaned forward, trying not to let his eagerness show. 'What sort of trade is your father in, Mr Shaw?'

'Not trade! Dear no, nothing so crude. Heavy manufacturing, engineering plant.'

'Does he make machines to work steel?'

Shaw lifted one quizzical eyebrow. 'In fact, yes he does. And brass as well. Do you know something that I don't?'

'Perhaps. Please go on.'

'Yes, well, it seems that the colonel is going into engineering in a most enterprising manner over here. He's a great bore with all his talk of freeing the South from the shackles of Yankee industry and that sort of thing. Anything the pallid factory workers of the North can make the free men of the South can do better. Or something like that. I never paid much attention. But I do know that he made large purchases, paid cash, then shipped everything back here. He has a going plant in Richmond, and is always carrying on about his hinges and ploughshares and geegaws of that sort. But this is made bearable by the fact that he is also rich and has plenty of influential friends. So I make sure that I drop by and drink some of his whisky whenever I pass through. And that is the whole of it.' He drained his mug, then smiled as the refill gurgled into it. 'Now I think that some explanation of your overwhelming interest is in order.'

Troy had been thinking about it, knowing that he would have to answer this question sooner or later. It would be impossible to tell them the truth. But whatever story he told had better sound authentic. He had decided that the wisest thing would be to provide some realistic variation of the actual facts.

'Colonel McCulloch, if he is indeed the same man, is a murderer and an embezzler. A wanted man with a price on his head. What I must do is seek him out in order to identify him. After I have done that, and if he is indeed the same man, we will let the law take its course. I assure you, it is a matter of great importance.'

'It sounds that way,' Doyle said. 'And you also sound very much involved in it yourself. Are you?'

'Yes. I am determined to run this killer to ground. But my personal motives aren't really important to this case. The law has been broken and a criminal is at large. I have ample funds for the investigation and will pay well for assistance. As I have discovered — I can't do it alone. Will you help me, Mr Shaw?'

'Be delighted to, Mr Harmon. For altruistic reasons too, of course. But also for the money. I'm not ashamed to admit that journalism is a damn poorly paid profession, and my father, rich as he is, has kept the key firmly turned in the family strongbox ever since I was sent down from Oxford. You must count me in by all means. Exactly what sort of operation did you have in mind?'

'I shall be your servant. That will enable you to make all of the arrangements, pay for everything. While I shall be relatively invisible, just following along and carrying the bags. All right?'

'Capital! But could you possibly ameliorate your accent and grammar slightly? I would hate to have to explain why my servant sounds more like my college tutor.'

'Yassuh. Ah shore will try.'

'Adequate — and I am sure that practice will make perfect. Now to the details.' He turned to Doyle. 'How do you suggest that we go about doing this?'

'I suggest you start by getting out of here tonight. There has been too much coming and going for my peace of mind. I'll sell you my old mule for five dollars. He's one-eyed and swayback but still sound. Troy can ride him. I also got a pair of old split shoes for him to wear, leave those fancy boots here. Troy can put that big pistol and whatever else he fancies in a flour bag. You take his saddlebags behind you, Robbie, much too grand for the likes of him. That should do it — as long as you, Troy, keep your mouth shut until you learn to talk right.'

'Yassuh.'

'Still don't sound right. Keep practising.'

'Does your mule have a saddle?' Troy asked.

'Nope. Niggers ride bareback in case you haven't noticed. You got a lot to learn. I'm going to outfit you two so you can stay away from the towns until Troy can face them without giving himself away. I have some rubberized ponchos, blankets, pots and pans, tie them all onto the mule. This is good weather for camping out. You two just mosey south and take your time. Now, we'll have a little bit more of this corn, I'll give you some dinner, and then you'll be on your way. I'll rest a lot easier when you're safely down the road.'

They entered the outskirts of Washington City a little after dawn. Troy was hobbling along, leading the scrawny mule which he had discovered had a spine like a sawblade. Even sitting on the old wadded up blanket didn't seem to help. But his discomfort was forgotten as the city emerged from the morning mist.

At this precise moment the physical reality of his voyage back to the nineteenth century struck home for the first time. He had been too busy just staying alive since he had arrived to really take much notice of his surroundings. The rough clothes, the simple fittings of the farmhouse, they weren't that different from things he had seen on summer vacations upstate. Even the shacks were a lot better than the hooches in Nam. But this was the nation's capital, a real city, and even the name was different from the one he knew it by.

The city was smaller, of course, much smaller than the sprawling metropolis it would become over a century later. And it looked very different without the great bulks of the neo-Greek and Roman stone piles of the federal buildings. The buildings now were smaller, of wood and brick, the streets narrower and mostly unpaved. What struck him most was the complete absence of motorized traffic. Though the streets were filled with horses, carts and pedestrians. Horses! The sharp reek of horse manure dominated all of the other smells, wiping out the odour of burning wood and even tempering the clouds of coal smoke that blew over them when they passed a train station. Troy would have lingered here if Shaw hadn't cursed at him to keep moving on. The shining black engine with its diamond stack, gleaming brass and leaking-steam, it was just impossible to pass. This was not history, this was the living present, and he was half-paralysed with the solidity of it all. Only when he felt Shaw's boot-toe in his ribs did he remember where he was.

'Boy, stop hanging back and rolling your eyes like that. Mount your mule. We don't have all day.'

'Yassuh, but ah got to fix this rope first, else all dese things gonna fall off.'

'Don't touch that cinch, I'll take care of it.'

Shaw swung down from his horse and bent to look at the buckle. 'You're going too slow, gawking about, someone will notice,' he whispered.

'Sorry. But I don't think I can ride anymore. This beast's backbone has sawed me in two.'

'Lead it then, but we must keep moving.'

There was so much to see — but Shaw was right, they dare not stop and sightsee. But the glimpses were tantalizing. The Capitol Building, looking from the distance very much as it did in his day. But there were no suburbs when they crossed into Virginia. And there were only swamps and nodding cattails on the spot where the Washington National Airport would one day stand. The site of the Pentagon was a green meadow with grazing cows.

'This is a good time to stop for lunch,' Shaw said, turning off into a field. Troy stumbled wearily after him.

'Just about time,' he said. 'These broken-down shoes are raising blisters on both my feet. Walking is as bad, or worse, than riding this miserable candidate for the glue factory.'

'I must remember that expression, glue factory indeed! You Yankees do have an odd turn of phrase. Now, while I stretch out, I suggest that you take this bucket down to that stream so you can water these beasts.'

'Yes, massah, I jus' do dat.'

'Better. You're learning.'

The stream had cut away a bank at least six feet high. Troy went along it until he found a path leading down to the stream's edge. The water looked clear and fresh. He cupped some in his hands and drank deep, then splashed more on his face to wash away some of the dust of the Washington streets. After filling the bucket he climbed up the path, stopping instantly when he heard voices. Carefully, an inch at a time, he raised his head behind the thick grass until he could see over it.

Two riders had reined up by their mounts and were talking to Robbie Shaw. One of them said something and the other laughed loudly and swung down from his horse, at the same time drawing a dragoon pistol from the holster attached to his saddle. Shaw took a step backwards, but the man followed him, poking him in the stomach with his gun. The second man dismounted and walked towards Shaw's horse, which skittered away from him. He grabbed the reins, pulling the creature's head down, then reached out to open the saddlebags.

Where all of Troy's goods lay hidden. His money, the pistol, everything.