Rebel in Time

Chapter 32

John Brown led the way, riding on the wagon loaded with pikes that were meant to arm the freed slaves. The others followed, solemnly as though it were a funeral procession, along the country road towards the Potomac. It was a bitter, dark night and before they had gone very far it began to rain, a fine drizzle that chilled them even further. The steep road wound down from the hills, past an occasional farmhouse, then out into the valley. Ahead of them were the lights of Harper's Ferry. Robbie could see them clearly from the back of the wagon where he rode because of his bad leg. He clutched the saddlebags across his lap and shivered with cold.

Each man knew what part he had to play in the attack. They marched in silence along the canal that ran beside the Potomac, then paused when they came to the bridge. Two of the men, the ones who had been assigned to cut the telegraph lines, vanished into the darkness. As soon as they were gone, Brown waved his hand and two others moved quickly out across the bridge and captured the night watchman at the other end.

The way was now open. They crossed the bridge in silence and deployed through the streets, moving with caution past the lights of the Gait House saloon and the Wager House hotel. Guards were left on the Shenandoah bridge while the main force moved on the arsenal and armoury buildings — which were guarded by a single, elderly watchman. They captured him, then swarmed through the buildings. They found no other guards or watchmen. When the buildings had been secured, Brown turned and levelled his finger at their terrifed prisoner.

'This is a slave State — and I shall free all of the Negroes in this State. I have possession now of the United States armoury, and if any of the citizens interfere with me I must only burn the town and have blood.'

With these words he waved Troy and the other attackers on to Hall's Rifle Works, the only one of the federal buildings still not secured. As they went quickly down Shenandoah Street, Troy looked carefully along the water's edge. He raised his pistol and halted the attackers when he saw what he wanted.

'There are guards at the front gate and we may not be able to take them by surprise. I want you men to approach them. If they shoot and repel you, retire and keep up a covering fire. I'm going to use this boat to get behind the works and take them from the flank. Now move out.'

'I'll come with you,' Shaw said. Troy shook his head.

'No, Robbie, you'll be far more valuable to the attack if you remain here. You can take care of the saddlebags as well. I know nothing about these men — but I do know you, and can count upon you to stay and draw their fire. If the soldiers are distracted like that I should be able to penetrate from the rear. Will you do it?'

'Of course. How much time do you need?'

'Just a few minutes to get into position.' As the others moved away he lowered his voice so only Shaw could hear. 'McCulloch may know about this raid — so there might be a very good chance that there is a trap laid in there. Watch yourself.'

'And the same. Good luck.'

Troy opened his knife and sawed at the rope holding the boat to the bank, then pushed it free and jumped inside. He groped through the cold water in the bottom until he found an oar. Just one. It would have to do. He sculled out into the river and felt the current carry the boat towards the island. There was a barely visible dark patch, mud bank or sand flat, behind the building and he headed for it, feeling the boat grind to a stop. As he jumped onto the bank he heard the rattle of gunfire. The attack had begun. His groping fingers found some bushes growing at the river's edge and he tied the rope to one of them, hearing distant shouts and the increasing sound of the guns. There must be strong resistance. But on this side the building was silent and dark. There were windows, but they were small and high above the ground. No good. There just had to be another way in. He ran along the wall, pistol ready in his hand. Nothing.

Only when he turned the corner did he see the small door let in to the wall. As he ran towards it the sound of firing increased suddenly, then died away. Had the attackers forced their way in? No, they must have been repulsed for the firing began again, just occasional shots. He had to get through the door.

It was locked, made of solid wood, and did not budge when he threw his weight against it. There was only one way then to get through it. A noisy way — he would have to move fast.

He fired two shots at point blank range into the lock, then rammed his shoulder against the door again. It shuddered, there was the rattle of broken rnetal, then it gave way. Troy pushed it wide, dived through and rolled behind a pile of crates. There was no return fire. For the moment.

He was in a large room, filled with stacked boxes; a small lantern on the opposite wall shed a fitful yellow glow. It was silent. There was a good chance that he was alone in the room. He must keep moving. He was accomplishing nothing just lying there.

Standing, slowly, gun ready, he ran towards the door in the far wall. Just as it burst open and a dark figure appeared in the opening.

There was no conscious thought involved, just reflex action that hurled him to one side. He hit hard and rolled over in the dust, the pistol extended before him.

The rapid hammer of gunfire sounded from the doorway, the bullets tearing into the wooden floor beside his body, chewing their way towards him. He could only level his revolver at the flaring muzzleblast and pull the trigger over and over again until the weapon was empty. Waiting for the return fire.

It never came. In the silence that followed he could clearly hear the slither of cloth on wood, followed by a heavy thud as the body hit the floor. The lantern was just above the dead man, the light glinting from his open, motionless eyes.

Shining as well on the steel of the submachinegun still clasped across his chest.

Troy acted without thinking, shoving his empty pistol into his belt and diving forward to seize the Sten-gun from the dead man's grasp. Swinging it up. Facing an empty hallway lined with closed doors. A moment's respite. Keeping the gun trained ahead, his finger over the trigger, he ran his left hand over the body. Seized the two magazines stuck under the man's belt; felt with his fingertips to make sure that they were full. Pushed them under his own belt — then ran forward and kicked open the door at the far end of the hall.

It was simple slaughter. The men at the windows were armed with rifles and pistols, facing away from him, turning only when he started to fire.

The bullets sprayed out, cut them down, the clip emptied. He jammed in a fresh one and turned the gun on a wounded man who was trying to raise his rifle. Dropped him. Saw the impact of the bullets on his body. Bullets that cut through his Army uniform and into his flesh.

They were all soldiers, every man that he had killed, murdered. Soldiers in the United States Army. But as he dragged in a gasping breath he forced himself to remember that they were traitors as well to the government they had taken an oath to serve. All of them were Southern sympathizers, all were taking part in the conspiracy to bring down the Union. He dropped the emptied clip and clicked a full one into place.

The night was suddenly silent. The firing outside the building had ceased. He backed slowly to the entrance door, the questing muzzle of his gun looking on all sides. There were no survivors. He still kept it pointed while he wrestled the wooden bar off the door and pulled it open with one hand.

'Is that you?' a voice called from the darkness outside. It was Shaw's.

'Right. Come ahead. I'm pretty certain that all resistance here has been knocked out.'

There were two dead guards outside. Shaw stepped over the bodies and pushed the door wide, then handed in the saddlebags. 'How did it go?' Troy asked.

'Not good. The guards saw us, opened fire. We returned it, got them both, but it alerted the others inside. You know what happened after that.'

'I certainly do. I came in the back way. I was lucky.'

'We have two men dead. One wounded. And another man who's not hurt.'

'Go to him. Tell him to get the wounded man to John Brown. He is to report that we have secured the rifle works and all is well.'

'Right.'

Troy stood in silence, gun pointed and ready, until Shaw returned. 'Bolt the door,' he ordered. Shaw did so, looking around at the huddled bodies as he pushed the bar into place, then at Troy. He pointed.

'Is that the gun you told me about?'

'It is. You have seen what it can do. What do you think an army of rebels could do with guns like this?'

'Sweet Jesus,' Shaw breathed. 'Are we in time?'

'I think so. The weapon's existence is still being kept secret. The chances are that they might still be stored here. Let's look. You take this. Here.'

He handed over the submachinegun and Shaw took it reluctantly. 'I don't know anything about it,' he said.

Troy nodded grimly. 'You don't have to know, not with a gun like this. It's cocked now. Just point it and pull the trigger. It sprays death. Now cover me.'

Troy carefully reloaded his pistol before they began the search. Shaw stood ready with the Sten as they went through the building, room by room. There was no one else there. They were almost certain of this when they found the guard room; Troy pointed to the beds.

'Eight of them. And eight dead soldiers. I think we have them all. But I still don't want to take any chances.'

Half of the rifle works was made up of the machine shop. There were long-bedded drills for manufacturing the rifled barrels, as well as iron-framed presses for drawing the cartridges. To the rear were storerooms for bar metal and other supplies, as well as a sealed room that proved to be filled with barrels of gunpowder and boxes of fulminate caps. It was next to a bigger storeroom with an even heavier locked door. It took them a quarter of an hour, working with crowbars, to smash their way through it. When the door finally opened, Troy stepped in, holding the lantern high.

Boxes were stacked there, row after row of them, stretching from the floor almost up to the rafters. They walked to the nearest ones, still unsealed, and looked in.

The first one was filled with neatly packed brass boxes of bullets.

Submachineguns were in the next crate.

'Is this it?' Shaw asked. 'What you were looking for?'

'It is. The machinery to manufacture these weapons, and the guns and ammunition as well. All in one place. It's almost too much to expect. But we must make the most of the opportunity.' He looked slowly around. 'We better get started — we have plenty of work to finish before the night is out.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I thought it was obvious. Blow up the machinery. Burn this place down. Destroy it utterly. And when that is done we go after McCulloch. No more running away.

'I must find that man and kill him. This threat must be ended for ever.'