Rebel in Time

Chapter 36

JULY 1, 1863

The water had been freshly boiled and was still warm when Troy poured it over his arm. It burned painfully and it washed the open shrapnel wound and started the freshly-clotted blood flowing again. The jagged cut wasn't deep, but it was painful, and Troy gritted his teeth as he swabbed it clean. His antibiotics were gone, used up on the wounded during the years of fighting, so the boiled water would have to do. The length of bandage had been boiled too, and he wrapped it around his arm until the wound was covered. This last effort on top of the fatigue of battle had brought him to the edge of exhaustion; he leaned back against the bole of the tree, eyes closed, arms draped limply across his knees, more asleep than awake as confused memories tumbled through his tired brain.

How quickly the years had gone by, yet how slowly as well. So much had happened since that day when he had said good-bye to Robbie Shaw in New York. He had quickly discovered that his idea of enlisting in the army had not been as easy as he had planned. Black men were not wanted — except as servants or ditch-diggers. He would not settle for that. It had taken a year of hard work, and all of McCulloch's money, to organize the first Negro battalion in Boston, The First Regiment of Massachusetts Coloured Volunteers. The amount spent lobbying and bribing the city fathers had been almost as large as that spent on equipment. But he had done it, that was what counted. When the war began they had been ready. And they had fought — oh how they had fought! — and died as well. Yet there had been no shortage of volunteers. In a little over two years of battle they had replaced over fifty per cent of their number. Half their strength, gone. Dead men, faces now dimly remembered, names already forgotten. Troy nodded, half-asleep, his thoughts stumbling in endless circles through his brain.

'Sergeant, I brung you some vittles. Beans mostly, but if you look real close maybe you see some bits of the rabbit.'

The voice startled Troy awake. He looked up, blinking at the big man with the lopsided grin; half his teeth were missing. He smiled back and dug the spoon from his pocket, reaching up for the tin plate.

'Thanks, Luther, I can use that.' His fatigue was so great that Troy had not even realized that he was hungry as well as exhausted. He dug his spoon into the beans and chewed a great mouthful. Wonderful! When was the last time he had eaten? It was hard to remember, his brain still numbed by the day's fighting. Yes, it had been that morning, biscuits and acorn coffee. Nothing since. Except bullets and canister shot. But you didn't want to eat too much of that.

The evening was warm and dark. Up here on the hillside he could see the campfires of the Union army spread out to both sides along the flanks of Cemetery Ridge; twinkling beacons in the night. The exhausted survivors of the day's battle huddled around them, cooking their dinners and trying not to think about what the morning would bring. They kept their backs turned to the night, not wanting to peer through the surrounding darkness to the distant lines of fires that marked the Confederate lines. There were an awful lot of them, stretching out on both sides of the little town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

The rebel fox, General Robert E. Lee, was still alive after two years of fighting, and still attacking. And now the fox was in among the chickens. Driving north with his 80,000 men, he had taken the battle into enemy territory, past Washington and on into Pennsylvania. That is where they had stopped him today. He had not been beaten, but for the moment he was stopped, here at Gettysburg. The Union troops had fought all day under the concentrated fire of the Confederate guns, suffering the shock of attack after attack by those screaming grey files of soldiers. But they had held. Held all along the line, Troy had heard. That was the report, but it was like the report of some distant battle. His war had been here, among the wooded hills and valleys, the stone walls and winding creeks. The men of his regiment, The First Regiment of Massachusetts Coloured Volunteers, had stood and fought — and won. No, not won, no more than any of the other Union regiments had won this day. But standing and fighting and withdrawing with their lines intact, that was a victory. A continuing victory since everyone, the officers included, had been sure that the black troops would run.

They never had. Since the war had begun they had stood up to everything thrown at them. Stood up to enemy gunfire and bayonets, dysentery and disease, the contempt of their own officers, the derision of the white soldiers. They had endured.

Troy finished the beans, scraping up every last drop and morsel. Then he licked his spoon off and put it back into his pocket. Everything was in order. The wounded had been sent to the rear, what food that he could find had been distributed. All of his men had full canteens, and he would make sure that they filled them again in the morning. He had done everything that he could for them. Now he looked to his own equipment.

He opened his patch kit and Lily smiled up at him from the battered photograph. He smiled back, still possessed of the warm memory of her love. After taking out a scrap of cloth he carefully replaced the photograph and sealed the case.

He was running the cleaning rod through his rifle when the messenger found him.

'Captain wants to see you back in the shebang tent, sergeant.'

'On my way,' Troy said, turning to the corporal sitting across the fire from him. 'Finish this for me, will you, Hank?'

'That is gonna cost you five dollars.'

'Good. I'll pay you soon as the war is over.'

Hank was a good man — they were all good men. Troy had asked only because he knew that the corporal would have done the job anyway the moment his back was turned. They were a unit, a family, the best men he had ever served with. They were indeed brothers. He straightened his tunic, buttoned the top buttons, brushed some of the worst of the dust from the Sergeant-major's stripes on his sleeve, then turned and walked back towards the tent in the hollow.

He always thought of the shebangs, the tents and buildings of the US Sanitary Commission, as a combination Red Cross and PX. They helped nurse the wounded, handled pension and pay problems, even supplied some of the personal items like soap and needles that made a soldier's life in the Army bearable. If Troy thought that it was a disgrace that the government had nothing at all to do with the organization, that it was financed by contributions and fund raising benefits called Sanitary Fairs, he did not mention it. The shebangs were there; his men needed them.

The captain returned his salute when Troy entered the tent. He had been talking to two civilians, a grey-haired man and an elderly woman, and they all looked up when the sergeant came in.

'Sergeant Harmon, these are the representatives of the Sanitary Commission in Boston,' the captain said. 'They have raised a good sum of money, specifically for this regiment, and we are all greatly indebted to them. They will be leaving soon, but they would like to speak to some of the men before they go.'

'If you please, I am a little weary,' the woman said. She was white-haired, in her eighties at least, and had good reason to be tired after the day in a wagon. 'If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll remain seated right here until we have to leave. If you will permit the sergeant to remain with me, I'm sure he can answer any questions that I might have.'

'Of course, mam,' the captain said. 'Remain here, sergeant, we won't be long.' He held the tent flap aside to let the other man out ahead of him.

'Please be seated, Sergeant Harmon,' the woman said. 'We have some important things to discuss and very little time to do it in.'

'Yes, mam,' Troy said, pulling up one of the camp chairs. The shorter this conversation the better. There was much to be done by morning.

'Do you remember me, Troy?' the woman asked, her words breaking through his thoughts. He looked at her closely for the first time.

'Sorry, mam.' Yes, you do look familiar. But I'm sorry, I just don't remember where from.'

'From Washington,' she said, smiling. 'I'm a little older but it's still me. Roxanne Delcourt.'

The words stunned him; he clutched to the sides of the chair as though suddenly dizzy. Dr Roxanne Delcourt! A visitor from another time, another age. The urgencies of battle had driven all memories of Washington from his brain. He was now so adapted to this world that he really had forgotten he had not been born in this age, but had travelled here from the future.

'Roxanne! I'll be damned, but it is you!'

'It is. Perhaps not the youngster you knew, I'm almost eighty-five now. But with the new drugs…'

'But you're not eighty-five, I remember that much, you must be closer to fifty-five. I don't understand. And what are you doing here? How did you find me?'

The questions tumbled out as long-forgotten memories returned. A distant world where he had once lived. Washington, DC, the laboratory off the Beltway, the machine that had sent him here. He hadn't thought about them in a very long time. The pressures of war, of staying alive and keeping his men alive, these had driven everything else from his mind. Memory came rushing back now.

'But what are you doing here now?' he asked. 'Your presence here, it can be no accident. And… your age, forgive me, it is hard to take in all at once.'

She nodded agreement. 'I'm sorry to be so abrupt. But it was the only way. My time is so limited. Let me tell you what happened after you left. We found the report that you prepared for us, thank you for that. We started digging for it the very next morning. When we cracked open the ancient box and saw the yellowed paper, the faded ink, I can't begin to tell you the impression that it made on all of us. I think it was then that we knew we had to do something to help you. We really began working in earnest, all of us. Admiral Colonne, he's retired now, but still strong, he helped. He sends his best wishes. And Bob Kleiman made me promise to say hello from him when I saw you. He was the one who was supposed to be here, not me.' A shadow crossed her face. 'Dead, cancer, over ten years ago. Or can we talk about time like that, subjective time?'

Her face was suddenly drawn, all of the years of her life in the lines scribed upon it.

'Roxanne,' Troy said softly. 'Thank you for coming. For caring that much about me.'

She blinked and sat up straighter, returning his smile. 'Someone had to, didn't they? The research went ahead after you left. Absolutely top secret. But everyone in government was so afraid of the possibilities that our hands were almost completely tied. They just didn't know what to do with us. Particularly with all the research restrictions that came in after the One-day War. After they discovered what McCulloch had done they actually stopped all experimenting for ten years. But eventually the programme continued. We worked for almost thirty years on improving the machine. It sounds so strange when I say it like that. Thirty years of my time have elapsed, while — what? — it has been five years for you. But it took us all of those years of work to develop the means to both travel backwards in time and then return.'

Troy's first confusion was over and he was beginning to understand what Roxanne and the team had accomplished. And why she had travelled back in time to this year, to seek him out.

'Do you mean.?'

'I do.' Her voice was so quiet that he could barely hear it. 'I've come to take you home, Troy. It's possible. It's no longer a one-way trip.'

Troy was on his feet, pacing the length of the tent and back, unable to stay still. It was impossible, it couldn't be happening. But it was. Could it be true? He spun to face her.

'Return to when?' he asked. 'To the time I left from — or soon after that?' She shook her head sadly.

'No, that is impossible. Or if it is possible — we just don't dare experiment to find out. Despite all of our work we still know so little about the real nature of time. I told you, it took us over thirty years to perfect the machine, and you never returned during that time. Therefore you didn't, you couldn't. But we'll go back together. Things aren't too bad in twenty-fifteen. Though there have been changes.'

Twenty-fifteen. The year was unimaginable. What sort of world would it be? For some reason he did not want to know. He spoke his doubts aloud.

'But that's not my world. Now that you are here, I realize that my world, the world I left, it really is gone, vanished forever for me. I'll never see it again — and I'm not sure that I want to. It won't come into existence until long after I am dead. It's the distant future from where we are now — and it will be the distant past for you after you return. But please don't misunderstand. Thank you for coming, for making the effort to help me. But I am beginning to realize that this is my world now. Those men out there are my people. Roxanne, you should get to know them. Poor, but how proud. Less than half of them can read or write — and I even have one boy who remembers Africa, remembers being captured by slavers. They are part of me now. I am grateful that you came, that you have done this for me. But the world that you live in now is no longer mine. This one is. They need me here. And I guess, yes, I need them.'

His face was suddenly grim. 'And I couldn't possibly leave, desert them at this time. We are going to need one another tomorrow. This is the big one, the big battle, the turning point of the war. And we are going to beat the enemy. The South will never rise again, will never regain its strength. This is the battle that counts. Do you understand?'

Roxanne nodded, then opened her purse. 'Those of us who worked on this project, we were almost sure that you would feel this way. We know the kind of man you are, Troy. We know what you did for us, coming back to this time with no thought that you would ever return. That is why we felt we had to do this, to give you the chance. Aren't you curious as to how we found you?'

'Why, yes, I suppose I am now that you mention it, hadn't really thought about it. Army records?'

She shook her head as she took out a folded piece of paper. 'No, they were worse than useless. But we did know where you were, that is one of the reasons we persisted with this line of research. You wrote that you would be going back into the Army. You probably know that this is the best researched war in history.' She passed over the piece of paper. 'This is a photocopy of a page out of a history of the Negro regiments in this war. Read it, please. This is why I came.'

Troy took it, read it slowly, these words from the future about the present. And, as he read, he could feel his heart beating louder and louder in his chest.

…the turning point of the war. The battle lasted three days and all of the Negro battalions suffered greatly. But they fought and their lines held. Much credit is given to Sergeant-major Harmon who led the counterattack on Gulp's Hill that saved the day. Though the battle was won, Harmon was fatally wounded and died…

His fingers were thick, and they fumbled with the matchbox that he drew from his pocket. He struck a match, touched it to a corner of the paper, held it until the paper was fully aflame, then dropped it to the ground.

His voice was rough when he spoke. 'It's not everyone who has the privilege of reading his own obituary.' He ground the ashes under his heel.

'But it doesn't have to happen that way,' Roxanne said. 'Come away with me, tonight, everything has been arranged. You don't have to die.'

'Don't I? But it's written here, isn't it? You wouldn't want me to create a time paradox, would you?'

'We don't know. After all, you and McCulloch came here from the future, and nothing appears to have changed. Troy, I beg of you. Don't stay here and die. Return with me…'

'No, Roxanne, you know that I can't do that. It would be desertion. I think, even if I knew that I would have to die, I couldn't walk out on these men now. Don't ask me to. And please don't cry.'

'Am I? I guess I am.' She smiled and took out a lace handkerchief and touched it to the corners of her eyes. 'All the time we were working I had the feeling that you would say this. But we had to go on. You really are something, Troy Harmon. Not once, but twice you've acted in a way that makes me glad I'm a member of the human race.'

They were both standing and he had her hands in his. Holding on hard. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Don't worry your head about me. Get out of here and get home safely and remember that we did meet again. If your machine has any value let me see you one more time, let me hear that everything had worked out fine.'

Voices came closer outside and he spoke quickly now. 'And I don't want you to be too concerned about me tomorrow. Your book could be wrong. History can be changed.'

'I don't understand…'

'Forget about my report and think about the history books that you studied in school. Do you remember John Brown's attack on Harper's Ferry?' She nodded. 'Well what does your history book say happened there? The surviving raiders were captured and sentenced to death, is that right?' She nodded again.

'Do you also remember what happened to Hill's Rifle Works? The armoury on the island.'

'The one that blew up during the attack? Of course. After reading your report we realized that you were responsible for that. The explosion stopped McCulloch's plan once and for all.'

'Yes, it did. But I can also remember my history books, quite clearly. I majored in history and was always good at dates. I remember distinctly that nothing was destroyed at Harper's Ferry. The raiders were taken and the armoury remained intact. That is history as I remember it. And something else. I used McCulloch's money to organize a battalion of Negro volunteers in the year before the war started — he would have loved that! But in my history books there were no black battalions until much later.'

She dropped his hands, raised hers to her face as she stared at him with sudden shock. 'Then, what you are saying, is that history was changed by your coming here. That means that the theory of alternate worlds must be true. Events in one time cause a branching, the bringing into existence of parallel but alternate worlds.'

'That's right.' He smiled broadly. 'And we shouldn't be holding hands and be talking as if we were old friends. We've never met before. We're from different existences. I come from a world where there were no Negro battalions until years after the war began. This is not true here. In my world the raid on Harper's Ferry did no damage. Which means that my report was never received. When they dug beside the rock there was nothing there. But in your world the rifle works blew up. You found the report. Therefore I came to this age from a parallel existence, not yours, which makes us complete strangers up until this moment.'

She was smiling now, too. 'Then — that means that you may not die tomorrow. My coming here, telling you, may have altered history.'

'Not may, did alter it. And now that I have been warned I will do my damnedest to stay alive.'

'But you may still die…'

'Yes, there is that chance. But that is the chance that every one of us faces every day of this war. It was a chance I took when I used all of my antibiotics and medicine on my men. And I'm still alive. So there is also the chance that I may live to see the war end. I hope that I do. I like it here. It's a terrible existence in many ways, but it's mine now. I want to see the end of this war and I want to be there during the peace that will follow.'

The tent flap opened and the captain came inside. Troy came to attention.

'I have to get back to the men now, sir.'

'That will be all — if Miss Delcourt is through?'

'I am, captain, thank you. I have had a most enlightening talk with the sergeant. He has told me very much about the work we are doing and I shall return and report to the others the success of our efforts.'

'Thank you, mam,' Troy said. 'Please thank everyone for what they have done.'

'I'll do that sergeant, believe me, I will.'

Troy saluted, turned about and walked out into the night. The stars were bright above, the watchfires spread out below. The year was 1863 and, despite the war, the possibility of death, it was a good time to be alive.

He whistled happily as he walked back to his men.

END