Rebel in Time

Chapter 23

'You're the one, all right,' the man said. 'Just keep those hands up high the way they are. I've been out since late afternoon with the others, looking for you. Couldn't find a trace, no trace at all. People starting now to think the boy made the whole thing up. But standing here and looking at you now, why I would say that he gave a fair description.'

He was a big and solid man with bright red hair, his large belly swollen out over his trousers and stretching the supporting red braces.

'What are you going to do with me?' Troy said, looking at the long-barrelled pistol aimed at his midriff. 'Going to shoot me?'

'The man holding the pistol, he's the one asks the questions. So just keep your hands way up like that and tell me who brought you here.'

'I don't know.'

'Who told you about me?'

'I don't know that either.'

'Amazing. If I had my eyes closed I would truly believe that I was listening to a Yankee.'

'That's because I am one. From New York City.'

'Well, I can believe that — you sure are something different. Don't know what to do about you.'

'While you're making your mind up — my arms are getting tired. Can I put them down now?'

Without waiting for an answer Troy lowered his hands, shifting his weight forward as he did so. If he dived, knocked the gun aside, he stood some chance.

'Yes, leave them down,' the man said. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his trousers and Troy relaxed his tense muscles. 'You'll be here for a bit. I'll show you where to hide. It's just a dark hole in the ground under the molasses butt, keep you alive though. In about a day or two you'll be moving out, when the other two arrive.'

'Moving where?'

'North, of course.'

'Sorry. My business is going to take me south. Thanks anyway.'

'Thanks…!' The man held up his lantern and leaned forward to look more closely at Troy. 'Let me tell you, you are indeed something different. Half the slaves in the South trying to get north to Canada, and you want to go in the other direction.'

'I do. And I'm not a slave. The man who sent me here, he mentioned the word railroad. This wouldn't be a station on the Underground Railroad, would it?'

'You ask too many questions. Got your bags back there?' Troy nodded. 'Get them. I don't want anyone stumbling over them. Come in the house. I was just fixing dinner — I guess you could use some.'

'I could, thanks. The last time I ate — I just don't remember.'

'Stay next to me. I'm putting out the light. No one's close, my dogs make sure of that. But you might be seen from a distance.' Darkness engulfed them. Troy retrieved the saddlebags and followed the man out of the barn. Something large pressed against him and he heard a deep growl.

'Easy, boy, easy, this is a friend. Walk slowly, stranger. If you don't make any sudden moves they won't bother you. Here, get inside before I light the lantern.'

The kitchen was sparsely furnished but clean, the wooden table freshly scrubbed. The man hung the lantern from a hook over the table then pumped a pitcher of fresh water at the sink. He put it on the table along with two stone mugs.

'I didn't light the fire today. But I got the butt end of a ham and some cornbread.'

'Anything. I appreciate it. My name is Troy Harmon.'

'What business could you possibly have in the South, Troy?'

'Private business, Mister — I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.'

The man chewed on a mouthful of cornbread dipped in molasses and shook his head in wonder. 'You are indeed something. The name is Milo Doyle, since you know everything else about this place. And I come from Boston, which explains why I'm not shooting you on the spot.'

'It explains a great deal, Mr Doyle.' The ham was gristly and badly cured, but Troy was ravenous. He washed it down with the sweet-tasting water. 'It explains why you're helping me, and the others you mentioned as well.'

'I've been here so long, people forget. Come down working on the railroad — funny, different kind of railroad now. Married a local girl, took up farming. She died, going on three years now, been on my own since then. Not doing much other than feel sorry for myself. Actually thought of selling out and going back home. Never quite got around to it. Then one day a friend came by, he's a lawyer now but I knew him since he was that high, from back home. Asked me to do a little favour for him. Favours been getting bigger and bigger ever since. Now you know all about me, Troy, so you can tell me about yourself.'

'Be glad to. Born and bred in New York, on Long Island. Went into the army when I was young…'

'Watch it, son. That's the first I heard they took anyone of your race into the United States Army.'

'Did I say that? I've done a lot of fighting out of the country. A lot of armies aren't too particular about skin. I can take care of myself. Right now I'm working on, well a project, I have to find someone. And I'm beginning to realize that I can't do it alone. I'd like to ask your advice. And maybe I can help you in return. From what I have heard about the Underground Railroad it's an important work, helping runaway slaves get North.'

'It's important all right, getting the freight north, but some of us are more important than others. This is kind of a small station, nothing like the one that poor Tom Garrett ran. Over two thousand and seven hundred passengers he carried through Wilmington before they caught him.'

'I had no idea of the scope of the operation. But something this big, it can't be cheap to run. Your expenses for food and transportation, they must be pretty high. Which means we can help each other. I can pay well for any assistance. So our relationship can be a mutually profitable one.'

Doyle's jaw was gaping open, a rivulet of molasses running down his chin.

'You ever think of selling snake oil? Man talks like you, he's got a great future selling things. Mutually profitable relationship indeed! Why, you talk better than most preachers I know.'

Troy smiled. 'The advantage of a good education.' Public School 117 and Jamaica High School — they should only know!

'Advantage of something. But you want me to help you, you better tell me more about this man you are looking for. A friend of yours?'

'The direct opposite. His real name is Wesley McCulloch, though he may have changed it. But frankly I doubt that. He has killed three people that I know of. I want to find out where he is now, then let the authorities know.'

'A white man?'

'Yes.'

'That's a tall order, Troy. Particularly in the South. You'll never be able to do it alone.'

'I know that now. I was perhaps a little naive to think that I could. I'll need a cover…' Doyle looked puzzled, not understanding. 'No, not a real cover, I mean a different role. I've been thinking about it all day. Let me know what you think. Would it be possible for me to go south as a personal servant? That would mean locating someone white to front the operation. Do you think that it would work?'

'I think I need a drink while I think about all that. Can't say right off if it can be done, but I can say that I truly believe it is the strangest idea I heard in all my life.' He dumped a heavy stone jug onto the table, pulled the corncob plug from it and poured their mugs full. 'Try this. Farmer down by the river makes it. Charged me a dime for this crock. What do you think of it?'

Troy sipped, then instantly regretted it. 'I think you got cheated,' he said hoarsely. Doyle nodded gloomily.

'Overcharged. I knew it.' He smacked his lips over the corn liquor, then refilled his mug. 'But I think I know the very man who might be able to help you. He's a Scotchman, writes for the newspapers or something, in Washington. He's helped us a lot, carries messages when he goes South. He might be just your man.'

'If he'll help it sounds ideal. Can you contact him?'

Doyle rasped his fingers over his jaw and nodded. 'I need me some iron nails, Hogg in the Corners is out, I already asked. So I got a good reason to go into the city. If I leave early I can do my errands, be back here by dusk. I can leave a message for him if he's not there. With our people who'll know how to contact him. But you'll have to stay buried in the hole until I get back.'

'I can use the rest, don't worry about me.'

'I'm worrying about me and how they would string me up if they found you here. I'll need some money to convince the newspaper man.'

Troy dug into his pocket. 'Will ten dollars do?'

'Do? I said convince him, not buy him. Now grab your bags and let me show you the hole so I can get me some sleep.'

The hideaway had been skilfully constructed. The big molasses barrel swung aside on concealed pivots to reveal an opening. Beneath it a cave-like chamber had been dug into the sandy soil, supported by lengths of tree trunk, the walls reinforced with split logs. A platform of split logs on the floor lifted it above the damp earth. There was a chamber pot, a bucket of water and bit of candle end set into a notch in a beam. Nothing else.

'I'll bring you some vittles in the morning before I go,' were Doyle's last words as he swung the barrel back into place. Troy found a match and lit the candle, then dug out his revolver before he lay down. The saddlebags made a satisfactory pillow and he was asleep seconds after he blew the candle out.

Troy dozed on and off during the day after Doyle had left. There was nothing else to do in the blackness of the pit. With no way to measure the time, the day stretched on and on until he was sure that something had gone wrong. He followed the slight draught until he found the open end of the clay pipe that admitted fresh air, undoubtedly angled since no trace of light was visible through it. He pressed his ear to it. Occasionally distant sounds were carried to him, he heard a cart once, then another time some children shouting one to the other.

He was dozing again when he heard the loud barking of dogs. Intruder — or was it their master coming home? In either case he was ready. When the trapdoor finally creaked open Troy was standing against the back wall, his pistol aimed.

'Come out,' Doyle said. 'It's all right.'

Troy went warily, blinking in the light of the lantern. A slim man, well dressed in a dark suit and high riding boots, stood behind Doyle.

'Who is that?' Troy asked.

'He's the one that I told you about — so you can just put that hogsleg away. This is Mr Shaw, Mr Robbie Shaw. I mentioned a bit about your plans and he is interested. You can tell him what you told me. You two stay put here. The dogs are restless and I'm going to look around the grounds.'

He went out, taking the lamp with him; they could hear the dogs growling.

'Foxes, perhaps,' Shaw said in a quiet voice. 'I believe that there are a number of them in the vicinity.'

'I wouldn't know. I'm not from these parts.'

'Indeed you are not. Dare I say your accent is as alien as mine.'

'Yes, your accent,' Troy peered through the darkness but the other man was only the vaguest blur. 'You know, you sound more like an Englishman than a Scotsman. No insult intended.'

'None taken, I'm sure. Benefit of a Sassenach education. Winchester. My parents wanted me to get on in the world. You strike me as being quite a well-travelled man and I'm getting more intrigued with every passing moment. Two names were mentioned by our host. You are Troy Harmon?'

'That's right.'

'My pleasure, Mr Harmon. The other name was something of a surprise, the man you are seeking. Wesley McCulloch, did I get that right?'

'You did.'

'That couldn't be Colonel Wesley McCulloch by any chance, could it?'

Troy eased the Colt out of his belt and pointed it in the darkness. 'He has used the title of colonel. Why do you mention his name? Have you heard of him?'

'You might very well ask, dear boy. Because I know the colonel so well. I just wondered what your interest in him could possibly be.'