'Damn the gentleman! You grew up around those machines and you know as much about them as any man.'
'True — but don't tell father — or he'll resent every farthing spent on my school fees.'
'Finish that drink and we'll go over to the factory and I'll show you the problem. Okay?'
'Yes, agreed, as long as we can return to the rest of this bottle.'
Okay. That's where I had heard that strange term before. Right here, from the colonel's own lips. The same word that Troy had used. What was the bond between this man of such high station and the black man who had sought him out? I itched to know — yet dare not ask either of them.
The colonel was quite proud of his manufactory, for in a year's time he had built it up into quite a going concern. The problem he wished to discuss concerned one of his drill presses. He pointed it out to me, shouting above the roar of the leather belts whining about their pulleys above our heads.
'Broken in half, see it, the large supporting arm. Dumb nigger let it drop when we were moving it. I took a yard of hide off his back, but that won't fix the damage. Can I get a replacement — or must I return the entire drill press?'
I bent stiffly and ran my fingers over the frame. 'See here, this number, cast right into the metal? That's the identification of the wooden mould that this was made from. All you have to do is write to father, describe what happened, and give this number. They'll make a new sand mould, cast the part and ship it to you. One of your fitters can tap out the old sleeve here, then drill the new arm out to receive it. There will be no trouble putting it right again.'
I kept my eyes open as we finished the tour, but the only thing at all out of the ordinary that I could discover was a locked and barred storeroom. Since the colonel had been boring me with exact details of everything else we had seen I felt that it was not out of order to question him about this. His manner was so offhand that I was sure he was lying.
'Secrets, Robbie, industrial secrets. I am working on an improvement upon Whitney's cotton gin that will make my fortune one day. But none shall see it until it is perfected. Now let's get back to that whisky.'
I made my apologies as soon as I could after lunch, pleading an aching leg, which was certainly the truth. Troy brought the buggy around and helped me up into it, biting his lips shut, forcing himself to remain quiet until we were well out of sight of the house before speaking.
'He's the one, the Colonel Wesley McCulloch that I'm looking for!'
'He appeared to recognize you too, or at least he was interested in your identity. He accepted my explanation, never mentioned it again. Just said something about all of your race each resembling the other.'
'He would, wouldn't he, the son-of-a-bitch. Another thing that I can tell you, he's not very loved by his servants. They were almost too frightened to talk to me about him. One old man finally did. Seems that McCulloch beat one of his slaves to death a few months ago. I believe it. He must be in hog heaven, Massah McCulloch.' As he said this, Troy spat with hatred into the dusty street. 'Servants also said that you went to his factory with him. What did you see there?'
He was too casual with the question; there was something else about McCulloch that he wanted badly to know. I pretended innocence.
'Just one more dreary plant. I've been standing up too much. I'm looking forward with great anticipation to stretching out and putting this leg up on a cushion.'
'Were they making anything in particular? I mean anything unusual?'
'Unusual in what way?' When he failed to answer at once I decided that the time had come to put the question to him. 'I have a feeling that there are a number of items that you have neglected to tell me about. Isn't it time that you took me into your confidence? Or do you mistrust me?'
He shook his head solemnly. 'No, Robbie, I have all the trust in the world in you. But there are some things that I just can't explain. You'll just have to take my word for that. But I can tell you that our friend the colonel is up to no good. It has something to do with weapons. Were they manufacturing anything like that in his factory?'
'Emphatically no. Of that I can be certain. Mr Remington's rifle barrel drill is an object I would recognize at once. And they certainly weren't casting cannon.'
'There are different kinds of weapons. I have reason to suspect that McCulloch might be involved in the manufacture of a new kind of gun. One that might be assembled out of very commonplace steel parts. Was there anything like that?'
'Steel parts galore, but I don't think any of them resembled gun parts. Of course if it were a new invention, why then I couldn't tell. But there was one portion of the plant that we didn't enter. Locked and sealed. An improved cotton gin was what he said. I remember thinking at the time that he must be lying, though I didn't know why.'
'That's it!' he said, striking me a stunning and enthusiastic blow on the shoulder. 'Do you think that your game leg can stand up to a little more riding? I want you to show me where this factory is, then give me some idea of the location of the sealed area. I'll come back tonight by myself and see just what that bastard is trying to hide!'
Chapter 27
The time must have been close to three o'clock in the morning; the night still and hushed. When the moon had set soon after two-thirty the sleeping city had sunk into an even deeper slumber in the warm darkness.
Troy slept in the hayloft, close to the outside wall of the stable, where the night sky was clearly visible through the wide gap between the boards. He had woken twice, looked out and squinted at the moon, then gone back to sleep. Now he was awake, dipping water out of the bucket and rubbing it over his face. One of the horses stirred in its stall when it heard the small sound, then blew restlessly through its lips. It quieted when the barn door opened and shut noiselessly and silence descended once again.
Damp, hot, dark, the enemy on all sides; it was so much like Vietnam that Troy's hands felt strangely empty, missing the M-16 that had been so much a part of him. At first he had intended to bring the revolver, but then had changed his mind. If he had to use a weapon it would mean that the mission had been a failure. He wanted intelligence — not a fire fight. The steel lockpick was the weapon of choice this night. He also had his clasp knife, as well as a candle stub and some matches. There was nothing else that he needed.
Moving through the darkness of the unlit streets he felt secure, knowing that he would see or hear anyone long before they could be aware of him. He was on familiar ground now, a night reconnaissance, a straightforward mission.
Once a dog barked, catching his smell on the warm breeze, but Troy was well past before it had detected his presence. Later on he became aware of approaching footsteps. He stood silently in the darkness as the two men passed just a few yards away, talking quietly to each other.
Less than half an hour later he stood with his back to a picket fence, looking at the outline of the wooden building against the stars. McCulloch's factory.
Troy remained there, motionless, for a long time, the constellations of stars above dipping and vanishing in the west, patiently waiting. Nothing disturbed the quiet of the night. There appeared to be no watchman, and no dogs. A horse whinnied in the distance, then grew silent. This small noise did not disturb the stillness of the night, deep and profound.
He was in the clear. Troy moved away from the fence and drifted silently across the road. The front door of the building was before him and he pressed against it, his fingers feeling for the outline of the lock. Getting through this was almost too easy, the lock too simple. And there were certainly no electronic alarms or detectors to worry about. The lock snicked open and he pushed into the office beyond.