Гарри Гаррисон - Rebel in Time

'I think I need a drink while I think about all that. Can't say right off if it can be done, but I can say that I truly believe it is the strangest idea I heard in all my life.' He dumped a heavy stone jug onto the table, pulled the corncob plug from it and poured their mugs full. 'Try this. Farmer down by the river makes it. Charged me a dime for this crock. What do you think of it?'

Troy sipped, then instantly regretted it. 'I think you got cheated,' he said hoarsely. Doyle nodded gloomily.

'Overcharged. I knew it.' He smacked his lips over the corn liquor, then refilled his mug. 'But I think I know the very man who might be able to help you. He's a Scotchman, writes for the newspapers or something, in Washington. He's helped us a lot, carries messages when he goes South. He might be just your man.'

'If he'll help it sounds ideal. Can you contact him?'

Doyle rasped his fingers over his jaw and nodded. 'I need me some iron nails, Hogg in the Corners is out, I already asked. So I got a good reason to go into the city. If I leave early I can do my errands, be back here by dusk. I can leave a message for him if he's not there. With our people who'll know how to contact him. But you'll have to stay buried in the hole until I get back.'

'I can use the rest, don't worry about me.'

'I'm worrying about me and how they would string me up if they found you here. I'll need some money to convince the newspaper man.'

Troy dug into his pocket. 'Will ten dollars do?'

'Do? I said convince him, not buy him. Now grab your bags and let me show you the hole so I can get me some sleep.'

The hideaway had been skilfully constructed. The big molasses barrel swung aside on concealed pivots to reveal an opening. Beneath it a cave-like chamber had been dug into the sandy soil, supported by lengths of tree trunk, the walls reinforced with split logs. A platform of split logs on the floor lifted it above the damp earth. There was a chamber pot, a bucket of water and bit of candle end set into a notch in a beam. Nothing else.

'I'll bring you some vittles in the morning before I go,' were Doyle's last words as he swung the barrel back into place. Troy found a match and lit the candle, then dug out his revolver before he lay down. The saddlebags made a satisfactory pillow and he was asleep seconds after he blew the candle out.

Troy dozed on and off during the day after Doyle had left. There was nothing else to do in the blackness of the pit. With no way to measure the time, the day stretched on and on until he was sure that something had gone wrong. He followed the slight draught until he found the open end of the clay pipe that admitted fresh air, undoubtedly angled since no trace of light was visible through it. He pressed his ear to it. Occasionally distant sounds were carried to him, he heard a cart once, then another time some children shouting one to the other.

He was dozing again when he heard the loud barking of dogs. Intruder — or was it their master coming home? In either case he was ready. When the trapdoor finally creaked open Troy was standing against the back wall, his pistol aimed.

'Come out,' Doyle said. 'It's all right.'

Troy went warily, blinking in the light of the lantern. A slim man, well dressed in a dark suit and high riding boots, stood behind Doyle.

'Who is that?' Troy asked.

'He's the one that I told you about — so you can just put that hogsleg away. This is Mr Shaw, Mr Robbie Shaw. I mentioned a bit about your plans and he is interested. You can tell him what you told me. You two stay put here. The dogs are restless and I'm going to look around the grounds.'

He went out, taking the lamp with him; they could hear the dogs growling.

'Foxes, perhaps,' Shaw said in a quiet voice. 'I believe that there are a number of them in the vicinity.'

'I wouldn't know. I'm not from these parts.'

'Indeed you are not. Dare I say your accent is as alien as mine.'

'Yes, your accent,' Troy peered through the darkness but the other man was only the vaguest blur. 'You know, you sound more like an Englishman than a Scotsman. No insult intended.'

'None taken, I'm sure. Benefit of a Sassenach education. Winchester. My parents wanted me to get on in the world. You strike me as being quite a well-travelled man and I'm getting more intrigued with every passing moment. Two names were mentioned by our host. You are Troy Harmon?'

'That's right.'

'My pleasure, Mr Harmon. The other name was something of a surprise, the man you are seeking. Wesley McCulloch, did I get that right?'

'You did.'

'That couldn't be Colonel Wesley McCulloch by any chance, could it?'

Troy eased the Colt out of his belt and pointed it in the darkness. 'He has used the title of colonel. Why do you mention his name? Have you heard of him?'

'You might very well ask, dear boy. Because I know the colonel so well. I just wondered what your interest in him could possibly be.'

Troy's thoughts were as black as the darkness that surrounded them. Was this a trap? Had McCulloch set people to watch the spot where he had arrived — to see if he had been followed? Was Doyle also McCulloch's man, waiting to draw him into a trap?

There was a single metallic click as his thumb pulled down slowly on the hammer of the revolver.

'I say, is something wrong?' Robbie Shaw called out. 'Is that a gun you are cocking?'

'Yes. A six-shot Colt. If I miss with the first shot, I'll see you in the blast and get you with the second. So stand right where you are.'

'I wouldn't think of moving, my dear chap. There is no need for this, you know. Mr Doyle can vouch for me, my credentials as regards the Underground Railroad are impeccable…'

'Do you work for McCulloch?'

'No, of course not. But I must assure you that my acquaintance with the colonel has been of great assistance in the labours that your friends carry out. Through him I have been accepted in social circles that I might never have otherwise penetrated.'

Sudden light flared as Doyle entered the storeroom with the lantern.

'Dogs caught a fox,' he said, then saw Troy's gun. 'What's all this now?'

'Life insurance. Were you aware that your journalist here is well acquainted with Colonel McCulloch?'

'No, but I'm not surprised. He knows a lot of people, both North and South. Put that damn pistol away and come into the kitchen. I told you that he's one of us and you ought to be taking my word.'

Troy hesitated, then pushed the pistol into his belt. 'If I am mistaken — well, I apologize. But I think you can understand my apprehension.'

'No apologies needed, my dear fellow, Shaw said, waving the entire matter aside. Yet at the same time he breathed an inadvertent sigh of relief. 'I am really not very fond of deadly weapons. Ah, some of the local uisge beatha , thank you.' He seized the cup of moonshine that Doyle handed to him and drained half of it in a gulp.

Troy took one too, but just sipped at his as they sat down round the table. 'The interesting part,' Shaw said, staring into the depths of the mug, 'is that I knew Colonel McCulloch before I came to this country. Met him in Glasgow, in my father's club. They were doing some business together.'

Troy leaned forward, trying not to let his eagerness show. 'What sort of trade is your father in, Mr Shaw?'

'Not trade! Dear no, nothing so crude. Heavy manufacturing, engineering plant.'

'Does he make machines to work steel?'

Shaw lifted one quizzical eyebrow. 'In fact, yes he does. And brass as well. Do you know something that I don't?'

'Perhaps. Please go on.'

'Yes, well, it seems that the colonel is going into engineering in a most enterprising manner over here. He's a great bore with all his talk of freeing the South from the shackles of Yankee industry and that sort of thing. Anything the pallid factory workers of the North can make the free men of the South can do better. Or something like that. I never paid much attention. But I do know that he made large purchases, paid cash, then shipped everything back here. He has a going plant in Richmond, and is always carrying on about his hinges and ploughshares and geegaws of that sort. But this is made bearable by the fact that he is also rich and has plenty of influential friends. So I make sure that I drop by and drink some of his whisky whenever I pass through. And that is the whole of it.' He drained his mug, then smiled as the refill gurgled into it. 'Now I think that some explanation of your overwhelming interest is in order.'