I reached Armes inside the stables, just as he was reaching for a scruffy looking carpet bag.
“Not this time, sunshine!” I said, kicking him delicately on the temple.
Unlike me, his head was not as hard, and he really was unconscious. For a moment, I thought I had killed him, but on checking his pulse and breathing, I relaxed. I took the bag, opened it and gasped.
I was not the only person who had constructed a more modern firearm. Armes had somehow managed to have constructed what appeared to be a fully functioning Colt 45 M1911. To give it the full title, it is a single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed and recoil-operated handgun, originally designed by John Browning and has been carried by US military personnel from 1911 right up to the present day (Not actually the one I was experiencing in 1817). I had one myself, and it was one of two things in my life that were beyond value to me; the other was my Ford Mustang.
It disappeared into what remained of my clothing.
I examined the bag further, to find documents (mainly in French), maps and shipping schedules. There was also a small time transmitter, similar to the one in Abingdon. I knew I had to get these back to the Centre. At the bottom of the bag was a map of Washington, with details of the government buildings.
Using similar ropes to the ones with which they had bound me, I trussed up monsieur Armes and took a look at his wounded knee. I had managed to get a lucky shot into his kneecap, so this man wasn’t going to be running anywhere very fast ever again. It wasn’t terminal, so I placed a crude bandage around it, and had a quick look around the rest of the building. In one corner were seven large barrels containing what appeared to by gunpowder.
With the documents I left in the bag, there was sufficient to hold the men on suspicion of conspiracy to blow up the US government. I smiled, sometimes in the future that might not be such a bad idea, but just now it would be disastrous.
“Jane, Jane, are you here?” I heard my husband calling.
“In here, my love!”
Roger and three troopers entered the stables with drawn swords. Roger had a pistol in his left hand and a sabre in his right.
“It’s okay, I got him,” I said.
“Okay? What’s that mean?” Roger asked.
“Oh, I heard some of the farmhands using it last year. I thought it means everything is all right,” I said, cringing at my gaffe. I have no idea when the word originated, but in a moment of distraction, reverted to my original mindset.
“My God, is he dead?” Roger asked, bending down to examine Armes.
“No, I think a wild shot nicked his leg. So I was able to catch him and tie him up. There’s some gunpowder over there, and some documents in that case. They were planning to blow up the government buildings, I suspect.”
I said this for the benefit of the young officer and troopers that accompanied Roger.
“It is essential that this man is not permitted to attempt to take his own life, for I am convinced he would wish to do so when he regains consciousness,” I said.
They picked up the unconscious man and carried him out of the stable.
We were alone.
“Well, are they all taken alive?” I asked.
“Aye, but it doesn’t look good for the one on the boat. What happened to him?”
“I think he had second thoughts as to where his allegiance lay. I suspect he was attempting to intervene and Armes, that’s the one I snared, Armes shot him.”
“I saw you shoot Armes. That was an amazing shot. Did you have two barrels?”
I produced my revolver and handed it to him. He took it and examined it.
“This is a wonderful design, is this what they have where you’re from?”
“This, my love, is a very crude and basic design that has been superseded by far more efficient models made from much lighter and effective materials. However, compared to the pistols that you have, it’s a leap forward. You must never let anyone see it.”
“Then you keep it. I can think of no one else I’d trust with it,” he said, handing it back. That too disappeared under what was left of my skirts.
“Um, Jane, you’re not really decent.”
“I know, but let’s get out of this place. I need to get these men out of circulation.”
“What should we do with them?”
“Take them back to your regiment, but keep them separate, and don’t let them know where the others are. They will kill themselves if given the chance.”
“You keep telling me this, and I’m not sure I understand.”
“Roger, it is impossible to send a person in a body through time, so when I came here, this body was made for me here and I, that is my memories, my personality and everything that is me was transferred into it. If any of us die here, then we are instantly transferred back to where we came from, so then another body can be made and we can return to a minute before we left, or an hour after. Don’t you see, they will only come back at a different time and finish what they started.”
Roger shook his head.
“This is madness,” he muttered.
“Madness or not, it’s my job and I have to deal with it. Just have your men take them back and keep them from talking to anyone and harming themselves.”
“What will you do?”
“Oh, I’m coming back with you, but I have to drop off some mail as soon as I can.”
“Mail?”
After returning home and replacing my tattered clothing, I set off with Roger to send my finings to the Centre. The drop-point was at a church in a small township on the outskirts of Washington.
Having spoken to the minister, and having made a generous donation, he agreed to allow me to bury my beloved pet dog in the corner of the cemetery. In went the small casket, in which all the documents and other confiscated articles were now safely ensconced, wrapped up in waterproof, greased tarpaulin.
My last action was to take a small advertisement in the Washington Post in which Jane Chauncey announced the passing of her pet pooch Percy and where it was buried. Now, all I could do was wait.
The soldiers were very much like the men I’d fought alongside some one hundred and sixty years later. Roger and I arranged some beer and food to be served to thank them for their gallant efforts in detaining the three foreign spies who were planning to cause serious harm to the new democracy.
The camp was outside the city, comprising of lines of tents and a couple of semi-permanent buildings. I knew that on this spot, a military base would eventually grow, but we were in the foetal stage only.
The detainees were housed in different tents, far apart from each other. Each was bound and gagged, and each was guarded by a soldier with orders to render their charge unconscious at any sign of trouble.
The guards were relieved every hour, and no guard was required to work another post that evening. That way, no man got to guard more than one detainee and only pulled one duty.
I visited Soames first, just as the surgeon was leaving.
“How is he, doctor?”
“The ball has passed through his shoulder cleanly, but he lost a lot of blood. If you hadn’t packed the wound and made him keep his hand on it, he would have died.”
“Ah, you spoke to him?”
“It’s very hard not to, in my line of work. I find speaking to patients is essential if I want to know what’s wrong with them,” he said, quite sarcastically, I thought.
I smiled sweetly.
“Thank you for your help. Have to seen the man with the bad knee?”
“Yes. It’s an unusual wound, as the ball was lodged in the kneecap. It is like no other ball I have removed from a wound.”
“Will he live?”
“Yes, but he was quite unpleasant. He referred to a devil woman; I take it that might be you?”
“Might be, doctor. You see, my husband and I have thwarted his plans, and he is just a little frustrated with me.”