Rebel in Time

Chapter 30

Troy sat quietly in the corner by the fireplace, sipping at a cup of coffee. The wind had come up after dark and there was a cold draught blowing through the chinks around the door. All of the abolitionists in the house were excited, talking animatedly. Only Troy did not join in. He was feeling the weight of history, feeling that these men were both alive and dead at the same time. Harper's Ferry. The attack was two days away. The details of the raid and what followed tried to push up out of his memory — but he would not let them. He did not want to know. He was here to stop McCulloch, prevent him carrying through whatever mad scheme he had to use the submachineguns that he was manufacturing. Therefore Troy's duty was to ignore what was going on around him, to hear nothing about the planned raid. If he said one word — he would say too many. It had nothing to do with him, nothing at all. But he still could not prevent himself from listening to what was being said.

Everyone present was hanging on the words of a frail young man who had just arrived that afternoon. He was strange, excitable, odd to look at with his single staring eye, a cloth patch over the other one. His name was Francis Meriam and he was from the city of Boston.

'That was it,' he said, 'that was really it. When I talked to this Negro man, why right away I knew that this was my chance to work for this holy crusade. My uncle, he's a big name in the abolition movement, but he's not the only one in the family knows what is what. So when this man told me all about the Shepherd down here, and what this business operation was that the Shepherd was involved in, then right away I knew I had to come. I talked to Sanborn and he asked Higginson and they told me to come here. That's what they did.'

There seemed to be something wrong with the man, but none of the spectators took heed of it. He tended to repeat himself and to nod a lot. Then every once in a while he would wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, particularly when he got excited. Now he reached behind him, drew a carpetbag close and opened it.

'I knew old John Brown, he needed my help to go stealing slaves down South, and I knew there was something else he could use.' He extracted a leather wallet from the bag and shook a stream of gold pieces out into his palm. 'Weapons and ammunition cost money — and that's just what I got here. Six hundred dollars in gold, you can count it if you want. And it's all for him, for the cause.'

'Bless you, Mr Meriam,' the old woman said, rocking in her chair by the fire. 'Bless you, because with God's help the slaves will be freed.'

At that moment the outer door opened, in dramatic punctuation of her words. Some of those present reached for their guns as a man pushed in, drenched with rain, leaning hard against the door to close it against the wind. He turned to face them, a young man in his early twenties, looking about the room as though searching for someone.

'Francis Jackson Meriam — is that you?' he called out.

Meriam climbed to his feet and hurried across to greet his friend, clutching his rain-wet hand. 'John, they said that you would come to meet me. Am I still in time?' He turned to the others without waiting for an answer. 'Everyone, this is John Copeland whom you will remember took part in the Oberlin raid that was in all the papers.'

They made the newcomer welcome. Someone handed him others tried not to show their impatience to hear the news. It was Meriam who finally burst out.

'How are they? How does it go?'

'Very well indeed. We got the message that you were coming, they sent me out to get you, show you the way back. The farm is sort of crowded though, a lot of us there. Some of the men are like penned animals, been locked in that house since August. But we are going to strike soon. The pikes have arrived, and the guns. Everything is in readiness, at least that's what Mr Cook says. He's been in Harper's Ferry for a year now, working in the federal armoury. He knows everything about it. He's so close to it that he even married one of the local girls. He knows a thing or two, does John E. Cook. He's a friend of mine, he was up at the house and we talked, told me all about the armoury and everything. We're going to the right place. Do you know how many stands of arms they turn out there? They can make ten thousand a year, that's what they can. They make everything there, got a big forge and a machine shop. Make percussion caps, barrels and secret things too, secret kind of bullet, that's what Mr Cook said.'

Bullet! The word penetrated Troy like a bullet itself. Of course! The Sten-guns would be useless without a large supply of first class ammunition. He had been so intent on the gun itself that he had never considered the thousands, hundreds of thousands, of cartridges they would need. Cartridges of a kind he had yet to see here. The clues had been under his nose ever since he had arrived, but he had been too stupid to notice them. He had seen many different kinds of guns, smoothbore, rifled, muzzle loading, pin fire and percussion cap — a great variety — but none of them were capable of easy loading or of automatic fire. Ammunition. There had been no sign of cartridges or gunpowder in McCulloch's factory. An operation like that could not be easily hidden. Which meant that although the guns were manufactured in Richmond the ammunition wasn't. Where could the necessary bullets be made?

In a government armoury, of course.

The newcomer was still talking, answering questions. Troy waited, kneading his knuckles impatiently, then finally broke in.

'Mr Copeland, I'm sorry to interrupt, but you said something a moment ago about a new kind of bullet being manufactured in Harper's Ferry?'

'That's right, that's what Mr Cook told me, and he's not the kind of man who would lie about a thing like that. They are making these bullets in Hall's Rifle Works, out there on that island in the Shenandoah. Secret, guards all around. You can't get near the place at all.'

'Did Mr Cook describe the bullet to you, tell you anything about it?'

'Did more than that. Said that this was so secret it had to be important. He told me to tell John Brown about it, and I did that. Something else he did, he got hold of some empty shell casings when they was sweeping out, ones that had broke. For me to show to John Brown.'

'Could you describe them?' Troy asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.

'Do better than that. Let you look at one. Kept one for myself.'

He rooted around in his trouser pocket, frowned, then put his hand in the other pocket.

'Don't think I lost it. Got it here some place. Yes, I knew it, here.'

Troy looked at the split shell casing resting on the palm of his hand, cracked in the drawing, it looked like. A 9mm Parabellum, it could be nothing else; he had fired enough of them to know. Ringed at the base and punctured for the insertion of the percussion cap.

'That's very interesting,' he said, passing it back. 'And you'll be guiding Mr Meriam back to join the others?'

'Sure will. First thing in the morning.'

'I would like to volunteer to go with you. May I?'

'John Brown can use every man he can get.'

'I'm glad to hear that,' Robbie Shaw broke in, speaking for the first time — though he had been listening intently. 'If he can use one volunteer he can use another. I'm going along as well.'

He was looking straight at Troy as he said it, and permitted a quick touch of a smile to move his lips. There was much talk and excitement after that, and only later did Troy have a chance to draw the Scotsman aside.

'What did you do that for?' Troy asked. 'This is no game now. People are going to get killed.'

'It never was a game — but it has been a puzzle. You know a lot of things that you haven't told me, though tonight you did tell me that this new ammunition has a good deal to do with you or the colonel — or both. The way you jumped when Copeland mentioned it. Are you going to let me know now what this thing is all about?'

'No. But I will tell you to get out while the going is good. I have to go to Harper's Ferry, but you don't. Please, Robbie, take my word for it. No good will come of this.'

'I'll take your word only when you let me know what this entire matter is all about. Can't you tell me what you were looking for in McCulloch's factory? You must have found something there if you tried to burn it down.'

Troy considered it. He had proof now that McCulloch was making the guns, and was also somehow involved in a conspiracy to manufacture the ammunition in a government armoury. This meant that a number of people knew what was happening and it was no longer necessary to keep the Sten-gun a secret. All he had to leave out was the fact that he had followed McCulloch here from the future.

'All right. It's only fair that you know now. I'm a government agent following McCulloch. Not only did he commit those murders I told you about, but he stole the drawings for a highly secret and deadly weapon. He believes firmly that war will soon come between the states, and he must have obtained the aid of other, like-minded Southerners. He is making the gun at his factory — I found a piece from it. But he has no ammunition works there, and this gun uses a special type of bullet. With a casing just like the one I was holding. And that is the puzzle. These cartridges are being made in a government armoury. Yet I can guarantee you — the government knows nothing about this.'

'The answer to that one is tragically easy. The officers in command of the rifle works must all be Southern sympathizers. That would be easy enough to arrange, so many of the Army officers are from Virginia. And what better place to hide the works than under everyone's noses? It's like Edgar Allan Foe's story of the purloined letter. I'm sorry, Troy, but after this you can't possibly stop me from joining you. What a story this will make! Remember, I'm a journalist first and an abolitionist second. Whatever happens at Harper's Ferry, why, it will be the news story of the decade. We're both off to join John Brown!'