Rebel in Time

Chapter 33

'If you really want to prevent this factory from ever operating again,' Shaw said, 'you are going to have a most difficult job.'

'Why? Won't burning it down put it out of commission?'

'Only temporarily — if there are people who are really desperate to keep it running.' He slapped the frame of one of the big presses. 'These things are made of cast-iron and steel. I've seen them taken out of the burned ruins of a collapsed building, dusted off and greased — and put back to work within twenty-four hours.'

'Then what are we to do?' Troy asked.

'We are to do what our French cousins call sabotage, an act of botching. We shall botch these machines beyond repair. The drawing presses that form the cartridges would be the best for us to work our mischief upon. They are the most delicate — and practically irreplaceable. Specially made to order in Scotland. A charge of black powder for each one should do the job well enough.'

'All right. I'll make up the explosives and you can show me where to place them. We'll also lay black powder over the boxes of cartridges, make sure that they burn and explode. Which leaves only the guns themselves to worry about. They're rugged. Even if the boxes they are packed in are burned, we have no guarantee that they will be put out of commission. If they were cleaned up — and there is another store of cartridges someplace — this entire effort would be wasted.'

'Then it's into the river with them. A few days in the water and they will be completely unserviceable.'

'Right, Let's do it. But it's not going to be an easy job. There must be thousands of them in these boxes.'

'Then it is time we started, isn't it?' Shaw said, taking off his coat. 'We'll see how many we can give the deep six before dawn.'

It was an exhausting night's work. Once the charges had been placed on the machinery, they turned to the crates of submachineguns. Breaking them open and carrying the guns out the side entrance to the river bank. Hurling them out into the dark water. The work seemed endless and they still were not finished when the first light of dawn spread across the eastern sky. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still overcast. Troy dropped onto a box, gasping with exhaustion.

'Enough…' he said. 'We have to lay fuse trails, think of getting out of here.' He hesitated, looking at Shaw. 'We must be well away from here by dawn. I have sure knowledge that this rebellion is doomed. I tried to tell John Brown that — but he wouldn't listen. Everyone taking part in this raid, everyone who has not escaped, will be killed. Of that I am absolutely certain.'

'How do you know?'

'I can't tell you that now. Please, Robbie, take my word for it. We must get away. We'll use the rowboat since the land side of the building will surely be watched.'

They had been hearing sporadic gunfire for some time now: there was no escape back the way they had come.

'All right, let's do it. I have none of the love of certain death that possesses our friend Brown.'

Carefully, so as not to step on the grains of powder and cause a premature explosion, they trickled fine streams of gunpowder from the remaining barrels. Joining the trails together and leading a final trail out of the open door. The half-empty barrels were placed on the last crates of guns; then they were ready. When Troy put the lantern down he saw the outline of the building against the sky.

'It's time. We should be safe back against the base of the wall here when the charges explode. As soon as we are sure the place is burning well we'll take to the boat. I'm bringing this with us.' He placed the saddlebags and the loaded Sten-gun under the front seat of the boat. 'If we are seen we may have to defend ourselves. This gun will even the odds. If we are not attacked — it joins the others in the river. We still have our pistols. Ready?'

'Yes, do it.'

They pressed close to the dressed stone foundation of the building as Troy broke the glass globe of the lantern, then thrust the burning wick into the train of powder. With a soft burst of flame and smoke it caught and the crackling fire vanished through the door.

An instant later multiple explosions shook the wall against which they were leaning. Flame gouted through the windows as they exploded outwards with a crash of breaking glass. Smoke followed the flame, red-lit smoke showing that the combustibles had caught fire.

'That's done it!' Troy shouted over the roar of the blaze. 'Let's get out of here.'

They ran to the boat, jumped in and pushed it free. Troy seized up the single paddle and rowed hard, out into the fast-flowing river and away from the burning building. There was no one on the shore that they could see. Nevertheless he rowed on with all his strength, until they were well away from the island and invisible from the shore in the dim greyness of dawn.

Troy was gasping, his arms burning with the effort, and was only too happy to let Shaw take over from him. They shared the rowing after this, turn and turn about, until they approached the black outline of the opposite bank. The rifle works burned brightly behind them; ahead of them the landscape was emerging with the first grey light of dawn.

'Can you see anything on the river bank?' Shaw asked.

'Nothing. Seems to be just meadows along here. But we're not too far from the road.'

'Yet if any one were there they should be visible by now. I think that we are in the clear.'

It was quiet, the only sound the splash of the oar as they approached the shore. Then the bow scraped against the bottom under the sloping bank. A bird called plaintively in the dawn. There were no other sounds. Shaw, sitting in the stern, rowed hard to drive them up on to the shore. Troy jumped out, holding the rope, and pulled the boat further up on to the sand.

'All right,' he said. 'I'll hold it while you…'

Troy was looking at the Scotsman as he said this, saw his sudden look of horror. His mouth opened—

The shot blasted out. Shaw pressed both hands to the suddenly bloody mask of his face and dropped forward, unmoving.

Troy pulled at the revolver in his belt, turning about, stopping at the sound of the voice above him on the bank.

'If you try to draw that gun you will be just as dead as your nigger-loving friend there.'

Troy lifted his hands slowly into the air, turned, looked up at the man who stood on the bank above him. With his pistol levelled at Troy's head. It was Colonel McCulloch. He spoke with cold anger.

'He has received just what he deserved. Robbie Shaw accepted the hospitality of my home. Then he betrayed me, brought you here to work against me. He deserved killing ten times over.'

'You didn't have to murder him,' Troy shouted, just as angrily. 'There was no need. You're too late to stop us. Do you see the flames? That's Hall's Rifle Works burning. All your guns and ammunition, everything, all gone up in flames.'

'Yes, I can see the flames. I saw them from the road. Saw you outlined against them as well. That's the reason why I am here. Here to kill you, black boy.'

'The name is Harmon. Sergeant Troy Harmon. I want you to remember that, colonel. Remember the name of the black man who followed you here, followed you a hundred and twenty years back through time to destroy your insane plan.'

'It isn't so insane, Harmon.' McCulloch had his anger coldly under control now. 'I still have the blueprints. The factory here, and the one in Richmond, they'll both be rebuilt. The men who helped me will aid me again. We'll find another site to manufacture the guns. This is only a temporary setback. There still is time…'

'Only until April of sixty-one — then your time runs out.'

'I wouldn't bother about that if I were you. Your time has run out right now. You've caused me a lot of trouble, but that trouble is going to end the moment I pull this trigger. So you have just enough time for a quick prayer to your nigger-baptist God. Let's hear you pray, boy.'

Troy drew himself up, letting his arms drop slowly to his sides, coldly angry. When he spoke his voice was rich with contempt.

'You are a sick, mad, contemptible racist, McCulloch. A disgrace to your country and the uniform you wore. You think that the colour of a man's skin — or his religion — makes him different from you. Makes you superior. I would love to spit in your face, but it isn't worth the effort.'

'Big talk, nigger. If you beg for mercy I might not kill you…'

Troy burst out laughing. 'You don't know anything, you ignorant redneck bastard! Shoot and be damned!'

McCulloch pointed the gun square in Troy's face, his thumb drawing slowly back on the hammer. In the coldness of certain death Troy was numb, beyond fear.

'Beg!' McCulloch said. 'Beg for your life.'

'I wouldn't give you the satisfaction. But I'll ask you to do me a favour.'

'No favours.'

'Just a small one. Tell me why you used the rifle works here at Harper's Ferry to manufacture the ammunition. After all, you knew about John Brown…'

His words were drowned out by the bark of the gun, the sound harshly loud in the stillness of the dawn.