Rebel in Time

'I'm from New York.'

'Never met a Yankee nigger before. You lost?'

'No, just travelling south. Got caught out in the rain, got lost. Going to Washington. Can you tell me the way?'

'Of course I know the way,' the boy said contemptuously, swinging the willow at a clump of grass. 'Right ahead to the cart track then you gonna turn left into Tysons Corners and then you reach the pike. You're not very smart if you don't know that.'

'I told you, I'm not from around these parts.'

'Goldy, dang your thick hide, get out of that!' The boy called out suddenly, then ran after the cows.

Troy looked after him, aware of the tension draining away. It had worked all right. His first meeting. But just with a boy. What would happen when he met other people? For one thing, he wasn't going to talk Yankee any more. Could he fake a thick handkerchief-head accent? Sho' nuff. He had better do it — his life might very well depend upon it. He had heard enough of that kind of talk in the army, big thick kids from the south, no education, Army even had to teach some of them to read. Yassuh, yassuh. It sounded pretty fake. But he would just have to learn to do it. Listen to how the other blacks talked. Do the same. But he must remember that until he felt secure he must talk as little as possible.

The boy and the cattle were vanishing down the path. Troy turned his back on them, threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, then started in the opposite direction. He patted his pockets as he went; everything was there.

Washington, District of Columbia, was ahead.

Also, somewhere out there as well, was Colonel McCulloch. They had an appointment that the colonel didn't know anything about.

Chapter 22

By the time Troy had reached the dirt track the sun was well over the horizon and burning hard on his back. Just a little after dawn and he was already running with sweat; the day would be a scorcher. He peeled off his steaming jacket before going on. The road was nothing more than two ruts filled with mud and deep puddles; he walked on the grass to one side. Topping a rise he saw smoke in the valley beyond, and had a quick view of wood-shingled roofs between the trees. Tysons Corners. It was surrounded by the fields of outlying farms, while just ahead, beside the road, was a ramshackle building.

No, not a building, that was too grand a word for it. A shack. He had seen miserable dwellings like this before, when he had been driving through the backwoods of Mississippi. Rude constructions of unseasoned wood, bare of paint, warped and dried by the sun. This one was the same. The gaps between some of the boards were wide enough to fit your hand through. The front door opened directly onto the hardpacked dirt of the front yard. An oak tree shaded the front of the house, and under the tree, on a broken and backless chair, the old man sat. Watching, staring in silence, as Troy walked by. His skin was black and wrinkled and only a few patches of grey hair tufted his head. His clothes were ancient and patched. Troy nodded as he came up, but the old man didn't move.

'Morning,' Troy said. The old man shook his head from side to side.

'Good-bye. I says that because you is gonna be dead by nightfall.'

Troy stopped and smiled, trying to make light of the words. 'You shouldn't say that, old man, brings bad luck.'

'You is bad luck. Where you steal those bags from?'

'They're mine.'

'That such a bad lie even I don' believe it! Those white man bags, not nigger bags. First white man see you gonna shoot you first then ask after where you stole dem. You from de North?'

'Yes.'

'Sound like it. But you South now.'

'Can I come in? Seems I got a thing or two to learn.'

'Seems to me you do have!' The old man cackled with high-pitched laughter. 'Jus' couldn't trust my eyes seeing you sashay down the road like that. Mistuh Yankee-man, you got a real lot to learn. You not back North now. When you here you jus' one mo' slave.'

The quiet description cut Troy to the heart, penetrated deeper than any insult or threat. The realization that black people were slaves here, that slavery was still legal. This man had spent his life in slavery. The lesson was quite clear. If Troy couldn't learn, and learn quickly, to act like him, think like him, why, then he was as good as dead.

He almost didn't get the chance. There was the sound of men's voices down the road, in the direction he had come, and the thud of horses' hooves.

'Inside!' the old man hissed. 'Hide — or you is dead this minute!'

Troy did not stop to argue. He dived through the open door, falling and rolling against the wall. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder and nearer, then a man's voice called out.

'How long you been there, uncle?'

'Since it was light, captain, suh. Jus' sittin' right here.'

'Then you tell me what you saw, tell me the truth or I'll lay this whip across that black hide.'

'What I see? I see nothin', suh. Crows, jus' crows.'

'You see a real black crow, boy? A buck nigger in fancy boots carrying stolen goods?'

'See dat? I know if I see dat! Nothin', no one pass here, I swear dat!'

'I told you, Luther, he wouldn't come this way,' another voice said.

'You calling my boy a liar?'

'If I thought he was lying I wouldn't be here now, would I? I'm just saying that this buck lied to the boy, to put us off his trail. He probably went the other way directly the boy was out of sight. You back-track the way we came, I'll go into the Corners, pass the word. He won't get far, not with everyone looking for him. Bet there's a reward out for him too.'

The sound of the galloping horses died away, but still Troy did not move. He lay pressed against the rough wood, unaware of the line of ants moving past his face and out through a chink in the walls, filled with a kind of fear that he had only felt once before in his life. The time when he had been cut off from his company. Behind enemy lines.

He was behind enemy lines again. In his own country — but still not his country. Not yet. History, as he knew it, had just come alive for him in a way he had never understood from books. For the first time he could understand at least one of the reasons why the Civil War had been fought — and just what the victory was that had been so painfully won. He looked down at his shaking fingers, then angrily clamped them into a fist and slammed it hard against the splintered floor. It was a little early to give up.

The old man shuffled up arthritically and settled down on the doorstep with a weary sigh. His back was to Troy, his face hidden.

'You saved my life,' Troy said. 'And I don't even know your name.'

'You ain't ever gonna get my name. When they catch you, you ain't gonna tell where you been.'

'How am I going to get away from them? Where can I go?'

'Back where you come from, and good riddance. You git out in back now, hide in the scrub behind the privvy, they ain't never going dere. After dark, you move out of here.'

'Where to? You heard them, they're all on the lookout. How can I get away?'

The old man grunted contemptuously. 'Wif your dumb ways I guesses you don't. Get cotched, whupped, tell dem 'bout me fore they string you up. You is trouble, hear dat? Trouble.'

He muttered to himself, rocking back and forth in the doorway, reaching a decision. 'Git out where I tol' you. Come night I get in touch wif the Railroad. Let dem worry 'bout you. Now git.'

It was hot under the bushes, the air didn't move, the flies were torture. Troy managed to doze off finally, but woke, spluttering, with the flies crawling into his nose and mouth. He spat them out, waving ineffectually at the droning clouds. The flies were a torture, but the thirst even more so. Worse than he had ever experienced before. And there was nothing that he could do about it. People passed from time to time on the road, he could hear their voices, the creak of cartwheels. By dusk his head was thudding painfully. He still dared not move. Slow footsteps sounded, and he pressed himself back into the bushes. The privvy door banged, and a moment later he heard the old man's whisper.