Rebel in Time

Chapter 35

It was only after they had safely reached Washington City that Troy felt some of the tension begin to ebb away. They rested there, spent McCulloch's money freely to buy new clothes, to eat and drink expensively. Troy took his time and spent all of three days writing up a report on everything that he had done since he had arrived in this period of time. There was always the chance that this report might be found by accident so he was careful not to be too specific. He used the initial M when referring to McCulloch and called the Sten-gun simply 'the weapon.' It was a careful and detailed report, and after he had reread it he was immensely satisfied. The assignment was ended, successfully completed, and as soon as delivery of the report had been arranged he would be free. He signed it with the initials T. H., dated it November 5, 1859, and carefully blotted it.

Experiments at a glass-blower's had shown that it was impossible to melt shut the neck of a bottle without incinerating any papers placed inside it. Troy therefore settled for placing the report inside a whisky bottle, then corking the bottle tightly and fixing the cork firmly into place by covering it with layer after layer of sealing wax. Not satisfied with this alone, he had then put the bottle inside a stout wooden box which he had filled with molten pitch. When this had set hard the box was screwed tightly shut.

It was a balmy Indian summer day when they rode north out of the city. The sun was hot, the leaves splendid with their autumn colours. Troy had marked the spot well. They reached the rock soon after midday.

'If you tell me what you are doing I'll spell you on the shovel,' Shaw said. Troy was digging industriously next to the wall of rock, hurling out a stream of dirt like a burrowing badger. He looked up, panting, running with sweat.

'All right, I'll tell you — but let's finish the job first. I want the hole dug, filled and covered before anyone comes by. This box must remain undisturbed for a very long time.'

Shaw agreed and took his turn on the shovel. It did not take them long to burrow almost two yards down into the soft soil. Troy carefully placed the box in the bottom of the hole and settled it into place. It was not unlike a small wooden coffin. A coffin for what? McCulloch's plans for an independent South, perhaps. Troy crumbled a handful of soil and threw it down on to the box. End of McCulloch, end of his plans. Mission accomplished and report made.

Enough. He grabbed up the shovel and pushed a stream of black earth down into the hole. It did not take them long to refill it. Troy stamped the mound flat, then poured the excess soil into a burlap bag that he had brought along for that purpose. When they had scattered fallen leaves over the spot there was no sign of what they had done. Troy pointed to the top of the outcropping of granite.

'This is the spot where I arrived. This ledge of stone has been here, unchanged for countless centuries. Nor will it be changed in the future. Some day they will build a laboratory up there, with more buildings all around here. I've made my report — it's in that box we buried — so my work is through now.'

'You mean that they will dig here some day, in the future?' Troy nodded. 'In order to find out what happened to you after you made your journey through time? My lord, you are a conscientious fellow. You'll be long dead before your report is read.'

'That doesn't matter. I've done as promised. Finished the assignment and delivered my report.'

'I gather that there is no chance of your putting it under your arm and returning with it yourself?'

'None. This is a one-way trip. I knew that when I came. I have no regrets. I accomplished what I set out to do. I think it was worth it.'

'I couldn't agree more. Though I'm not sure that I would have been able to make the decision that you did. But that part is finished. Do you know what you will do next?'

'I certainly do. I'm going to leave the South and head north, to New York City. That's my home town and I have an immense curiosity to see what it is like now.'

'Sodom and Gomorrah,' Shaw said distastefully. 'A world unto itself and a pretty nasty one at that. The most corrupt and wicked city in the world. There is either a riot or a plague there every year.'

'Sounds like home,' Troy said. 'Let's go look at it. Will you come with me?'

'Of a certainty. I plan nothing strenuous until my wounds are fully healed. If I must recover it should be in the lap of luxury provided by Mammon on Hudson. But no more horses. We'll take the train.'

It was a slow and filthy trip, with greasy cinders leaking in around the windows and settling on everything. In New York they were more than ready to take a cab to the hotel and a hot bath. After three days of nothing more strenuous than eating large meals and sleeping late, Shaw ventured the opinion that he was fit enough to climb into a saddle again. They rented horses from a livery stable on Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, then rode down to Houston Street to board the ferry across the East River. Except for the lack of bridges, Troy was amazed at how familiar the city was. No skyscrapers of course, and horses instead of cars, but the streets and the buildings on the East Side here were very much the same as the ones he remembered. Brooklyn was a warren of small homes, and it wasn't until they crossed into Queens that there were any marked changes. The houses gave way to farms and twisting country roads. They rode easily, stopping for lunch in a Corona inn, then carrying on.

An hour later Troy halted at the top of a hill that looked down upon the crossroads village of Jamaica. There were farms all around, and beyond them the swamps and rushes of Jamaica Bay. He shook his head.

'I was born right down there,' he said. 'Grew up here. It was all small houses, the Van Wyck Expressway there, and the el along Jamaica Avenue.'

'El?'

'Yes, the el train, the elevated railroad, you know.'

'No, I don't, but it sounds like an interesting idea.'

'Noisy. Cold as hell in winter when the doors open at the stations. Snow blows in. What am I doing here, Robbie? I don't belong here.' Suddenly depressed, he pulled the horse about and dug his heels into its sides. 'Let's get back to that inn. I need some strong drink.'

Shaw galloped to catch up with him, then they slowed and rode along side by side. He looked at Troy, at his fixed gaze, and knew that he was not seeing the road and the trees ahead but was looking at a world forever lost, one he could never possibly see again. Shaw leaned over and placed his hand over Troy's where it rested on the pommel of the saddle. Troy turned to look at him then, and the depths of despair in his eyes were profound beyond belief. Then a trace of a smile touched his lips and some of the darkness slipped away.

'You're a good man, Robbie Shaw, and it has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now let us get back to Manhattan and enjoy ourselves. We need a bang-up dinner with bottles and bottles of good wine. After that we are going to the theatre. We are going to celebrate and have a good time while we can. Because all of this is going to end soon. There is war over the horizon. A most deadly war of brother against brother that is going to tear this country apart. So now we are going to enjoy ourselves — and then we are going to part. I hope to meet up with you again, but I don't know where or when.'

'You make it sound so final. What do you intend to do?'

'What I do best. I'm going to try to enlist in the Army. That war is coming and nothing will stop it. You and the other abolitionists fought your peacetime war against slavery, but that period is coming to an end. In the not too distant future the shooting war will begin.

'It is going to be a long, long time before it ends.'