Гарри Гаррисон - Rebel in Time

'Do it, then. By the time they discover these two I want to be far away from here.'

The city was just stirring to life as they went through it. 'Have you made any kind of a plan?' Shaw asked.

'Good question. If you want to know, I have been thinking about the answer to that one ever since we decided to get out from under here. I don't see any easy answers. Everything I come up with, I right away start worrying about McCulloch second guessing me. At first I had the strong temptation to head north to safety. But that's the obvious way and those roads are sure to be watched. The colonel has powerful friends — and they are all part of a conspiracy. I know that he is not doing this thing alone. It's too big.'

'Can you tell me about it?'

'I'll tell you what I can — only later. Let's save our necks first. If going north is out, it would be equally stupid to go south, too much like marching into the lion's den. Of course, we could head east for Norfolk, but we would surely be spotted if we tried to get a ship out of the port.'

'Why not a train?'

'Worst of all. The stations will be watched, and if they miss us here they can wire ahead for a reception committee.'

'Turn left at the next corner,' Shaw said.

Troy looked at him questioningly. 'Any reason why?'

'Yes, of course. Since you have run out of suggestions I thought I would make one of my own. I suggest a ride on the Underground Railroad.'

'Of course! I was dumb not to think of it. You've worked with these people, haven't you?'

'I have. And I can take you to a station that is only a half-day's ride from here, just this side of Montpelier. But we're going to have to muddy the waters a bit first. We don't want to leave a trail that points right to where we're going. The way it stands now we are pretty easy to identify.'

'You can say that again! A black man driving with a white man in a green buggy towing a one-eyed mule! We might as well advertise.'

'My feelings exactly. So we go and sell the mule to this livery stable just outside of the city. When we leave he sees us head north on the turnpike. Only once we are out of sight we use the side road west, me driving and you suffocating under the rug, on the floor in back. By the time they pick up our trail we will be gone without a trace.'

'Sounds good except for the head under the sack bit. Though maybe I can get some sleep.'

By late afternoon the buggy had left the low-lying farming country and was moving slowly along the dusty road that wound up into the foothills of the Piedmont Plateau. The day was hot, but the air was so clear that they could see the outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains far ahead. The horse was going slower and slower, almost winded, and Troy walked beside it, holding onto the reins.

'Much farther?' Troy asked. 'I'm beginning to feel like this horse looks.'

'A few miles more, as I remember it. Want to rest?'

'No. Keep going. The longer that we're on the road the more chance there is that someone will see us.'

The road twisted through a piney bit of forest, then around a sharp bend. Directly in front of them were two grim looking men standing in the centre of the road. With rifles levelled in their direction.

Troy's first spasm of fear ebbed a bit when he saw that one of the men was black. If there was one thing that he could be certain of — all of McCulloch's circle of accomplices would be lily-white.

'Keep your hands where we can see them,' the white man said, wiggling the gun in their direction. 'Now just who are you and where are you going?'

'It's none of your business,' Shaw said quietly. 'If you just stand to one side we can deliver ourselves.'

'Those are fancy words,' the man said, but he lowered his gun. 'People could talk, hear something like Stand And Deliver. But more important is, who do you know? Know Russell?'

'Of course I know Otis — because we're heading for his farm. And he knows me.'

'Does he? Almost time to tell me your name then.'

After the cryptic exchange Shaw agreed that it was too. 'My name is Robbie Shaw. I've been along this bit of track before.'

'Why, you sure have!' the man said, eagerly, holding the gun aside and stepping forward, hand extended. 'Last time through Harriet Tubman told how you and she worked together.'

'She's well — still!'

'Can't stop her. Reward on her head in every state, sent five thousand people at least down the line, still keeps going. All I can say it's a good thing you know her and Otis because strangers aren't welcome here right now. Got too many visitors up to the house, too much happening here. But some of us, we're going to march out tonight and you're just in time to see us off.'

'March where? I've heard nothing.'

'Of course not. Secret's meant to be kept — but the world will know soon. We're off to the Kennedy Farm, on the Maryland side of the Potomac.'

Shaw shook his head, puzzled. 'I'm afraid that I don't know it. Is it a house on the Railroad?'

'No, just a dilapidated old farm that we've been using. It's just a few miles outside of Harper's Ferry. It has been rented by Mr Isaac Smith himself. But that's just a name he used so they wouldn't know who he was. But you know him.

'This Isaac Smith is none other than John Brown himself. Yes he is!'

John Brown , Troy thought to himself, suddenly cold. John Brown at Harper's Ferry. And today is the fourteenth of October .

Clearly then, as clear as though he were reading it from the printed page of a history book he saw the date.

John Brown. The raid on Harper's Ferry.

October 16, 1859.

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.'