Гарри Гаррисон - Rebel in Time

'Hide,' he whispered. 'Momma's money.'

Troy dug out a handful of coins, far more than a dollar, and pressed the money into the boy's hand. The tiny fingers closed on it, then he was gone. The door squeaked again as the boy pulled it closed behind him. Troy turned and felt his way through the darkness, stumbling over unseen objects, the saddlebags catching on some obstruction. He freed the bags, then found what felt like bales of hay and lay down behind them.

He was safe for the moment — but what would happen next? The old man had been angry at him and less than clear. Something about a railroad. He didn't know what it meant.

Loud footsteps sounded in the barnyard outside and the door squealed shrilly as it was pulled open. Light flared. The door banged shut and a man called out.

'Step forward. Where I can see you.'

Troy had no choice. He let the bags drop and stood up, walked out around the bales of hay. Blinking in the light from the kerosene lantern. Staring at the man who was holding the gun.

A white man.

'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?'