Rebel in Time

'Dey's a gourd wif water. Wait until I gone before you grabs it.'

The water was warm and gritty — but lifesaving. Troy made it last as long as he could. After a while the air cooled down slightly as darkness fell but, even more important, it brought relief from the flies. The pleasure was short lived, however, because the flies were soon replaced by humming, voracious mosquitoes. It seemed that hours had gone by before he heard the sound of the door slamming, followed by the drag of the old man's footsteps moving off down a path through the trees. He returned, an endless time later, and called out to Troy.

'Come forward now. Behin' the house. Got a boy here gonna see after you.'

A gibbous moon was drifting in and out between the clouds, spreading enough watery light for him to pick out the two figures. The old man waved him forward.

'Dis boy, he frightened but he gonna help you. You gotta help him back. His momma sick, need medicine. You got a dollar? You must have, with all dem rich clothes.'

'Yes. I'll be happy to pay him for the help. If there is anything I can do for you, you're more than welcome…'

'Just shut yo' mouth. Don' need for nothin'. You hide in th' barn where he takes you. An' don't come back.'

Troy whispered his thanks after the retreating back, but the man didn't answer. He had nothing, was just as poor as it was possible to be, but he still had his pride; Troy was sorry that he had mentioned the money. He felt a small, warm hand in his, and looked down and smiled at the tiny child.

'I'm going to help your momma with her medicine,' he said. 'And more. Let's go.'

The child's bare feet were unerring in the darkness; Troy stumbled after him, well aware of the crashing he was making. But they seemed to be taking a circuitous route, away from the road, cutting through a sweet-smelling pine forest. After they had come a good distance the boy stopped, then led him slowly and silently to a gap in the hedge. A rutted road lay beyond, clearly visible, the puddles gleaming in the moonlight. The clouds were gone, the night sky rich with stars. The road was a trap. The boy reached up and tugged at his arm, pulling him down so he could whisper in Troy's ear.

'Stay down and don' stir none.'

He slipped away before Troy could say anything, moving silently as a shadow across the road. He was gone a long time. Troy thought about extracting the pistol from the bottom of the bag, then decided not to. One shot in this quiet night would alert the entire countryside. There was no way that he could kill everyone who turned a hand against him. All he could do was wait.

He jumped, startled, as the boy touched him out of the darkness.

'Men dere, gone now,' he whispered, then tugged Troy forward.

They crossed the road as quickly as they could and hurried on into the shelter of the bushes on the other side. There was the outline of a house against the sky, a glint of light visible around one of the windows. They angled away from it, between rows of high corn that rustled at their passage. A darker bulk appeared out of the darkness, a barn. The door squealed slightly when the boy pushed it open.

'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.

Chapter 23

'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?'