The city was smaller, of course, much smaller than the sprawling metropolis it would become over a century later. And it looked very different without the great bulks of the neo-Greek and Roman stone piles of the federal buildings. The buildings now were smaller, of wood and brick, the streets narrower and mostly unpaved. What struck him most was the complete absence of motorized traffic. Though the streets were filled with horses, carts and pedestrians. Horses! The sharp reek of horse manure dominated all of the other smells, wiping out the odour of burning wood and even tempering the clouds of coal smoke that blew over them when they passed a train station. Troy would have lingered here if Shaw hadn't cursed at him to keep moving on. The shining black engine with its diamond stack, gleaming brass and leaking-steam, it was just impossible to pass. This was not history, this was the living present, and he was half-paralysed with the solidity of it all. Only when he felt Shaw's boot-toe in his ribs did he remember where he was.
'Boy, stop hanging back and rolling your eyes like that. Mount your mule. We don't have all day.'
'Yassuh, but ah got to fix this rope first, else all dese things gonna fall off.'
'Don't touch that cinch, I'll take care of it.'
Shaw swung down from his horse and bent to look at the buckle. 'You're going too slow, gawking about, someone will notice,' he whispered.
'Sorry. But I don't think I can ride anymore. This beast's backbone has sawed me in two.'
'Lead it then, but we must keep moving.'
There was so much to see — but Shaw was right, they dare not stop and sightsee. But the glimpses were tantalizing. The Capitol Building, looking from the distance very much as it did in his day. But there were no suburbs when they crossed into Virginia. And there were only swamps and nodding cattails on the spot where the Washington National Airport would one day stand. The site of the Pentagon was a green meadow with grazing cows.
'This is a good time to stop for lunch,' Shaw said, turning off into a field. Troy stumbled wearily after him.
'Just about time,' he said. 'These broken-down shoes are raising blisters on both my feet. Walking is as bad, or worse, than riding this miserable candidate for the glue factory.'
'I must remember that expression, glue factory indeed! You Yankees do have an odd turn of phrase. Now, while I stretch out, I suggest that you take this bucket down to that stream so you can water these beasts.'
'Yes, massah, I jus' do dat.'
'Better. You're learning.'
The stream had cut away a bank at least six feet high. Troy went along it until he found a path leading down to the stream's edge. The water looked clear and fresh. He cupped some in his hands and drank deep, then splashed more on his face to wash away some of the dust of the Washington streets. After filling the bucket he climbed up the path, stopping instantly when he heard voices. Carefully, an inch at a time, he raised his head behind the thick grass until he could see over it.
Two riders had reined up by their mounts and were talking to Robbie Shaw. One of them said something and the other laughed loudly and swung down from his horse, at the same time drawing a dragoon pistol from the holster attached to his saddle. Shaw took a step backwards, but the man followed him, poking him in the stomach with his gun. The second man dismounted and walked towards Shaw's horse, which skittered away from him. He grabbed the reins, pulling the creature's head down, then reached out to open the saddlebags.
Where all of Troy's goods lay hidden. His money, the pistol, everything.
Chapter 25
Troy hesitated for one long moment, taking it all in, seeing the way the men were placed, before he started forward. As he came into sight he called out loudly.
'Massa, I done got de water like you say.'
He shuffled slowly forward as he spoke, head down, shoulders rounded, holding the handle of the pail with both hands as though it were a great weight. Under the lowered brim of his hat he could see the dismounted man spin about and point his gun at him. His mounted companion had also produced a pistol. Troy ignored this, still shuffling forward, humming and talking to himself under his breath as though he were unaware of their presence.
It worked fine. The two men were smiling, waiting for him to notice them. Good. He would provide some good theatre, vintage Stepenfechit, or perhaps a quaking imitation of Jack Benny's Rochester in a haunted house.
'Lawdy!' he screeched when he got close, looking and seeing them. He clutched the bucket to him, trembling so much that the water slopped and spilled over. He tried to roll his eyes, but wasn't very good at it.
Bad as the performance was, it had a receptive audience. The two men laughed and whooped, the one on the ground opening his mouth wide revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. So great was his merriment that his pistol barrel dropped by degrees until it pointed at the ground. Troy shuffled and looked around, as though searching for a place to hide, watching the other man dismount, waiting until the horse blocked his vision for an instant.
At that precise moment he threw the bucket into the laughing man's face.
As he staggered backwards Troy was on top of him, driving his knee hard up into the man's crotch as he twisted the gun from his hand. The man screamed shrilly as they fell together. Troy rolled as they struck the ground, swinging the pistol up. The other man was still half-hidden by his horse, coming into view, his own pistol aimed. Troy extended his weapon at arm's length, sighted along it and pulled the trigger.
It banged like a cannon and kicked like a mule, throwing his arm high. But his shot had been good. The other twisted, folded, tried to point his own gun, squeezed the trigger, then fell.
As the shot was fired Robbie Shaw cried out hoarsely and dropped to the ground. The stray bullet had caught him. Troy started towards him, then saw that the first man had stumbled to his feet, groaning with pain, but still ready to fight. He reached for the scabbard in the small of his back and pulled out a bowie knife with a foot-long blade, holding it straight out as he staggered forward.
Troy aimed the gun and pulled the trigger — then saw that it was a single shot pistol. He threw it into the man's face, but the other merely brushed it aside, moaning in agony and cursing horribly at the same time. And came on. Troy stepped backwards, his eye on the knife point, stumbled and fell. The other roared and dropped on him.
It was a tiny cracking sound, like two boards being smacked together. Troy saw the black hole appear in the man's forehead, then fill instantly with blood as he fell face downwards into the grass, unmoving.
Stunned, Troy looked over at Shaw sprawled on the ground. He had levered himself up on one elbow; there was a tiny smoking gun in his hand.
'Pepperbox,' Shaw said, smiling grimly as he tucked the gun back into his vest pocket. 'Two barrels, over and under, two shots. I never go anywhere without it. Road agents are… quite common… these days.'
He grimaced with pain and Troy saw the blood soaking through his trousers, running down his leg. Troy moved fast, turning over the dead man next to him and tearing off the man's wide leather belt, then wrapping it twice around Shaw's thigh before drawing it tight. The flow of blood slowed, stopped. Troy rose slowly to his feet and looked around.
'Bit of a butcher's shop,' Robbie Shaw said. 'Two dead, one injured. That's quite a job you did, unarmed. Taking on those two like that, pistols and all.'