Rebel in Time

'Private business, Mister — I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.'

The man chewed on a mouthful of cornbread dipped in molasses and shook his head in wonder. 'You are indeed something. The name is Milo Doyle, since you know everything else about this place. And I come from Boston, which explains why I'm not shooting you on the spot.'

'It explains a great deal, Mr Doyle.' The ham was gristly and badly cured, but Troy was ravenous. He washed it down with the sweet-tasting water. 'It explains why you're helping me, and the others you mentioned as well.'

'I've been here so long, people forget. Come down working on the railroad — funny, different kind of railroad now. Married a local girl, took up farming. She died, going on three years now, been on my own since then. Not doing much other than feel sorry for myself. Actually thought of selling out and going back home. Never quite got around to it. Then one day a friend came by, he's a lawyer now but I knew him since he was that high, from back home. Asked me to do a little favour for him. Favours been getting bigger and bigger ever since. Now you know all about me, Troy, so you can tell me about yourself.'

'Be glad to. Born and bred in New York, on Long Island. Went into the army when I was young…'

'Watch it, son. That's the first I heard they took anyone of your race into the United States Army.'

'Did I say that? I've done a lot of fighting out of the country. A lot of armies aren't too particular about skin. I can take care of myself. Right now I'm working on, well a project, I have to find someone. And I'm beginning to realize that I can't do it alone. I'd like to ask your advice. And maybe I can help you in return. From what I have heard about the Underground Railroad it's an important work, helping runaway slaves get North.'

'It's important all right, getting the freight north, but some of us are more important than others. This is kind of a small station, nothing like the one that poor Tom Garrett ran. Over two thousand and seven hundred passengers he carried through Wilmington before they caught him.'

'I had no idea of the scope of the operation. But something this big, it can't be cheap to run. Your expenses for food and transportation, they must be pretty high. Which means we can help each other. I can pay well for any assistance. So our relationship can be a mutually profitable one.'

Doyle's jaw was gaping open, a rivulet of molasses running down his chin.

'You ever think of selling snake oil? Man talks like you, he's got a great future selling things. Mutually profitable relationship indeed! Why, you talk better than most preachers I know.'

Troy smiled. 'The advantage of a good education.' Public School 117 and Jamaica High School — they should only know!

'Advantage of something. But you want me to help you, you better tell me more about this man you are looking for. A friend of yours?'

'The direct opposite. His real name is Wesley McCulloch, though he may have changed it. But frankly I doubt that. He has killed three people that I know of. I want to find out where he is now, then let the authorities know.'

'A white man?'

'Yes.'

'That's a tall order, Troy. Particularly in the South. You'll never be able to do it alone.'

'I know that now. I was perhaps a little naive to think that I could. I'll need a cover…' Doyle looked puzzled, not understanding. 'No, not a real cover, I mean a different role. I've been thinking about it all day. Let me know what you think. Would it be possible for me to go south as a personal servant? That would mean locating someone white to front the operation. Do you think that it would work?'

'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?'