Rebel in Time

Chapter 28

It was dawn before the fire was completely out. Streamers of smoke still drifted up from the blackened ruins, while soot-smeared and weary men stood about in small groups, or sat sprawled on the ground. Wes McCulloch kicked at a burned timber in the workshop and cursed savagely under his breath. Bad, but it could have been worse; the fire had been stopped in time and none of the machinery had been seriously damaged. It would all be working again as soon as the place was cleaned up and the leather belts replaced. The storeroom had had the worst of it, but even there nothing irreplaceable had been destroyed.

'This is terrible, colonel, terrible,' the fat man said, picking his way delicately through the rubble. His spotless clothing and polished boots were sure indications that he had had no part in fighting the fire, no matter how great his concern now. 'Do you know how it started?'

'No, senator, I don't,' McCulloch said. 'But you can see over there, on the wall, where the centre of the fire was. It appears to have been located near the forge. Perhaps a stray spark from that, smouldering, you know how these things are.' He turned as he heard the horses gallop up outside. 'Excuse me, senator. We had better both get outside, it's not too comfortable in here.'

McCulloch waited until the senator had started talking to some of his friends before he waved the two hard-looking men over to him.

'Hicks, I want you and Yancy to get over to the Blue House hotel. Do you know the Scotchman, Shaw, the man who was with me yesterday?'

'Shore do, colonel. Little fancy feller.'

'Get him. Wake him up, tell him I have to see him at once. If he argues with you, why, take him anyway. I want you to get him back to the house — then lock him up. Use that cell in the slave quarters. He's involved in this fire. But don't let on about that until you get him away from the hotel. I want to keep this a private matter, because after we talk to him I think that he is going to vanish, quiet like.'

'You think he set it!'

'No — but his nigger did. So look around for the black bastard before you stir up Shaw. I don't think that he'll still be there, but look anyway. If you don't find him, why this Shaw will tell us where he can be found. I'll see to that myself. You just keep him locked away until I get back. That won't be until later today. Now get him.'

McCulloch watched as they kicked their mounts around and galloped away. Troy Harmon. He breathed the name under his breath like a curse. It was a curse. The jig had followed him after all! He never would have believed that a creature like that would have had the guts. Not guts, just stupidity, animal reflex like a snapping turtle hanging on after it was dead. Well, that didn't matter now. He was here, causing trouble. And that newsman had brought him right to his door. Shaw was going to pay for that. If only his mind hadn't been so occupied with the pressing matters to hand, if he had only recognized the jig when he had first appeared. Only later had the resemblance begun to worry him; the possibility had always been there that he might be followed. That was why he had taken precautions. The trap he had set had been a good one, had almost worked. But the jigaboo must have suspected something, found out some way. Well, that didn't matter now. Everything else was progressing on schedule. All the plans had been made and things were going forward without a hitch. Except for this little setback. So be it. You had to take your losses in war. A few lost battles didn't count. The final victory did. And that was the one that he was going to win.

As soon as the factory manager showed up, McCulloch put him in charge of the salvage, then rode home. It was almost seven o'clock. Plenty of time to wash and change, even have some breakfast. The food would have to make up for the sleep that he had missed. Coffee, and some of the bourbon. He must remember to take a flask with him as well. The meeting was set for ten. If he rode out by nine he would be there with plenty of time to spare.

A fresh horse, saddled and bridled, was waiting outside by the time McCulloch had finished breakfast, then gone up to the safe in his bedroom. It had been specially made for him in London; the locks had been fitted in his presence. There were three of them, situated one above the other, and only a single set of keys for them in the entire world. He inserted the keys, one by one, turning them and unlocking the solid steel door, then dragging it open. Inside were fitted drawers containing a little gold, a good deal of currency, as well as all of his papers. And the large wooden chest. He pulled the chest to him, smiling. The future of the South lay within.

After closing and locking the safe again, he wrapped the chest in a waterproof sheet and tucked it under his arm. The slave who was holding the horse tried to help him with it, but he slapped him away with his riding crop. No black hands on this! He secured the chest in place behind the saddle, patted his pocket to see if the flask were secure, then swung up into the saddle.

He turned the horse away from the city and cantered slowly down the road.

Ten o'clock found him at a country crossroads in the hills. There were farms nearby, though none of them were visible from this spot. Which is why he had picked it. The road behind him twisted off uphill before vanishing into the thick forest. McCulloch looked at his watch, then put it away and took out the large silver flask. He took a deep swallow, then a second, and was just lowering it when he heard the other horse approaching. He spurred his own horse forward and was waiting when the other man rode up.

'You are Colonel McCulloch?' the newcomer said. He was an Army officer, a lieutenant of the cavalry, and sat his spirited black horse with practised ease. His long dark hair swept down almost to his collar. He had a full beard and long mustachios, his forehead high and fair, the eyes beneath penetrating and sharp.

'I am McCulloch. I must thank you for coming all this way, sir, with scant reason given for your mission.'

'We have mutual friends, colonel, who assured me that the trip would be more than worthwhile. The most important thing that will ever happen to you, one said. I'll admit that I am most intrigued. Now, colonel, will you divulge this secret that has everyone so enthused?'

'I will, lieutenant. But I won't tell you — I will show you. But not here. If you will be patient for a short while longer, we will move farther back into this forest.'

Since neither of them was given to small talk they rode in silence. McCulloch was obviously familiar with the track for he turned off onto a small path that wound up through the trees. The path ended in a small open glade that faced towards the sharp rise of the hill. The colonel dismounted and the other man swung down beside him; they secured their horses under the trees. The lieutenant looked on with unconcealed curiosity as McCulloch unslung the chest and carried it out into the sunlight.

'This is what you have come to see, sir,' McCulloch said, carefully unwrapping it. 'I ask your patience for a moment more while I point out some things that I believe are obvious to us both. We are Southern patriots and I know that we both have faith in our just cause. I also have reason to believe that when war comes — and come it shall just as certain as destiny — you will cast your lot unhesitatingly with the South.'

The officer nodded slowly. 'What you say is true, though I have only lately determined that course. And I spoke of it to no one. How could you possibly know?'

'Because I feel that I know you, lieutenant. I know your pride in your ability as a cavalryman — and your unique dedication to that craft. I am now going to show you a weapon that I am sure you will appreciate. But first, might I ask you a question? Are your troops equipped with the new Sharps breechloading rifle?'

'No — but I wish they were. In spite of all the fancy talk the Army has scarcely any of them.'

'A good weapon?'

'The best. Too cumbersome to be used from horseback by cavalry, but still a fine infantry weapon. A trained soldier can get off six, maybe seven shots a minute.'

'Indeed,' McCulloch said, obviously not too impressed. He opened the box and reached inside. 'In that case, lieutenant, what would you say to a weapon that wasn't much larger than a horse pistol — and could fire more than ten shots every second ?'

The lieutenant's voice was hushed as he looked into the box. 'I would say, sir, that if such a weapon did exist, why then that warfare would be a very different thing indeed.'

McCulloch placed the steel form of the submachinegun into his hands.

'Compact, ugly, deadly,' McCulloch said. 'With the metal stock folded it is just twenty inches long. It weighs only six and half pounds. This metal box contains thirty-two rounds of ammunition. It clips into place underneath the receiver, here. Now I will demonstrate how to fire the weapon. This small knob is drawn back fully, until it clicks into place. That is all that must be done — because the gun will do all the rest. When the trigger is depressed it will fire. When the trigger is released it will stop. It will do this until the ammunition in the box is exhausted. Then it will take you only a moment to insert a new box — the soldiers will carry bandoliers of these boxes fully loaded. Now watch.'

McCulloch swung about, the gun at his waist, and depressed the trigger. It roared out, again and again, sending a hail of bullets through the trees and into the grassy bank beyond. Leaves and twigs floated down in the sunlight; a branch broke and dropped to the ground. Then the firing stopped and their heads rang with the echo of the sound. A click and the empty cartridge box dropped to the ground; click, a new one was inserted. He turned and handed the weapon to the cavalryman.

'Hold it firmly. The recoil is slight, but it will climb up and to the right. Therefore you should fire short bursts letting the muzzle drop back on your target again after each burst.'

The lieutenant reached out and took the gun, feeling the cool metal of the stock, the warmth of the short barrel. He raised it slowly to his shoulder, looked over the fixed sights, then pulled the trigger. It hammered loudly, again and again, brass shells raining to the ground, lead bullets screaming out. When the last shot had been fired he looked down at the gun — then up at McCulloch — his eyes wide with excitement.

'This — this is incredible! I never imagined anything like it. A single soldier, a mounted trooper, can have the firing power of an entire squad.'

'And he can also fire while mounted, while riding at the enemy. The sights are fixed at a hundred yards, but they aren't really needed. The gun sprays bullets like water from a hose. Just sweep it back and forth and the enemy is destroyed. This gun is called… the Victory.'

'And it will bring victory,' the lieutenant said, laughing aloud with enthusiasm. 'This will change the entire role of cavalry, turn it into the supreme striking force of a new army. It will make lightning war, hitting hard, suddenly, destructively. With this the cavalry could strike the enemy a mortal blow. They could hit and destroy — and even keep moving on while leaving the infantry to mop up. But how does it operate? How is it made? I have heard nothing of its existence before, not even a whisper of rumour.'

'That is because it is a secret known to but a few, true friends of the South. I make the guns myself, openly in my Richmond plant. The parts, when separate, do not even resemble those of a gun. They are assembled at a secret site where the cartridges are also manufactured. Without these new cartridges the Victory is just a collection of dead metal. With them — why it is the Victory!'

McCulloch pushed his thumb against the open end of one of the loaded clips and extracted a squat cartridge, passed it over. 'Short and solid. The bullet weighs one-hundred and fifteen grains, the charge of powder six. The casing is made of brass drawn to shape on a special machine that is manufactured in the British Isles. The priming cap contains fulminating powder, the same sort that you will find in the pin fire cartridge. But the resemblance ends there. This is a centre fire cartridge and does not have to be inserted and removed by hand. The firing pin always impacts in the correct place. The recoil of the gun is harnessed to extract the spent cartridge, then insert a new one in its place.'

'So simple — and so obvious when you point it out.'

McCulloch nodded agreement. 'It needed but the design. The metal working and brass drawing tools were readily available. There is no mystery to this weapon. It is just better, cheaper, faster — and deadlier. I ask you now to imagine its use in battle. Soon the Union will be sundered, our South will be a country in its own right at last. The war that will surely follow could be a short, efficient war. Or a drawn out and deadly one. To be absolutely sure that the war will end at once — what must be done?'

'Why — march on Washington City, of course. It is poorly defended, the troops there raw and untrained. They would probably fight, probably make a stand at Bull Run, that's the obvious place to draw the lines.'

'It is indeed,' McCulloch agreed, smiling to himself. 'So what would happen to these troops if you were to attack them with five thousand horsemen — each armed with a Victory?'

'What indeed! It would indeed be a victory. We would be unstoppable. We would take Washington and destroy any troops foolish enough to attempt to take it back. The war would be won and the South would be free. To take its rightful place among the nations of the world.' He spun about and seized McCulloch by the hand.

'I am your man, sir. I will get the troopers if you will supply the guns. It will be done just as you have described it! Thank you, Colonel McCulloch.'

'No, Lieutenant Stuart, I am but the instrument. All the thanks should go to you.'

J. E. B. Stuart was only half-listening; his eyes had a distant look, as though he were gazing into the future and seeing the attacking troopers, the battles and the victories that his horsemen and this Victory weapon would surely provide.