All at once it became terribly clear. McCulloch had been an indifferent student at school, had grown up in Mississippi, the State in the Union with the lowest educational standards. It was just believable that in school he had never read about John Brown, or if he had, had forgotten about it. His knowledge of history must have been slight. He had believed in an abstraction, a dream of the old South. But when he wanted to alter the course of history he had to learn more about the details of the war itself. So he had bought a book, a history of the Civil War. Never a scholar, one book had been enough for him.
By some irony, some quirk of fate, some unguessable arrangement of the laws of chance and of time, he had bought what was undoubtedly the only history of the Civil War that failed to mention John Brown's part in the tragic events of the last months leading up to that war.
With a convulsive spasm of his hands, Troy tore the book in two. Disgusted with the realization that the incredible invention of a machine to move through time had been prostituted to such low purpose, by a man of this calibre. Enough! The matter was done with, it must be closed and finished and forgotten. He ripped a pillowcase from the bed, stuffed the book and plans into it, then turned back to the safe. What of the money? There was no reason to leave it here. With no one to claim it, the money would eventually go to the state of Virginia, to aid in the war effort. It would be of far better use turned over to the abolitionist movement. He dumped the gold and coins into the pillowcase, then relocked the safe.
The keys would go into the river, the plans and book into the fire, and that would be the end of that. End of McCulloch, end of his plans. End of his scheme to guarantee the future of the Confederacy.
But the cold winds of-war were still blowing from the future, although it wouldn't begin for another eighteen months yet. There was more than enough time to see that this job was finished properly. With all of the loose ends tied up and his final report made.
Chapter 35
It was only after they had safely reached Washington City that Troy felt some of the tension begin to ebb away. They rested there, spent McCulloch's money freely to buy new clothes, to eat and drink expensively. Troy took his time and spent all of three days writing up a report on everything that he had done since he had arrived in this period of time. There was always the chance that this report might be found by accident so he was careful not to be too specific. He used the initial M when referring to McCulloch and called the Sten-gun simply 'the weapon.' It was a careful and detailed report, and after he had reread it he was immensely satisfied. The assignment was ended, successfully completed, and as soon as delivery of the report had been arranged he would be free. He signed it with the initials T. H., dated it November 5, 1859, and carefully blotted it.
Experiments at a glass-blower's had shown that it was impossible to melt shut the neck of a bottle without incinerating any papers placed inside it. Troy therefore settled for placing the report inside a whisky bottle, then corking the bottle tightly and fixing the cork firmly into place by covering it with layer after layer of sealing wax. Not satisfied with this alone, he had then put the bottle inside a stout wooden box which he had filled with molten pitch. When this had set hard the box was screwed tightly shut.
It was a balmy Indian summer day when they rode north out of the city. The sun was hot, the leaves splendid with their autumn colours. Troy had marked the spot well. They reached the rock soon after midday.
'If you tell me what you are doing I'll spell you on the shovel,' Shaw said. Troy was digging industriously next to the wall of rock, hurling out a stream of dirt like a burrowing badger. He looked up, panting, running with sweat.
'All right, I'll tell you — but let's finish the job first. I want the hole dug, filled and covered before anyone comes by. This box must remain undisturbed for a very long time.'
Shaw agreed and took his turn on the shovel. It did not take them long to burrow almost two yards down into the soft soil. Troy carefully placed the box in the bottom of the hole and settled it into place. It was not unlike a small wooden coffin. A coffin for what? McCulloch's plans for an independent South, perhaps. Troy crumbled a handful of soil and threw it down on to the box. End of McCulloch, end of his plans. Mission accomplished and report made.
Enough. He grabbed up the shovel and pushed a stream of black earth down into the hole. It did not take them long to refill it. Troy stamped the mound flat, then poured the excess soil into a burlap bag that he had brought along for that purpose. When they had scattered fallen leaves over the spot there was no sign of what they had done. Troy pointed to the top of the outcropping of granite.
'This is the spot where I arrived. This ledge of stone has been here, unchanged for countless centuries. Nor will it be changed in the future. Some day they will build a laboratory up there, with more buildings all around here. I've made my report — it's in that box we buried — so my work is through now.'
'You mean that they will dig here some day, in the future?' Troy nodded. 'In order to find out what happened to you after you made your journey through time? My lord, you are a conscientious fellow. You'll be long dead before your report is read.'
'That doesn't matter. I've done as promised. Finished the assignment and delivered my report.'
'I gather that there is no chance of your putting it under your arm and returning with it yourself?'
'None. This is a one-way trip. I knew that when I came. I have no regrets. I accomplished what I set out to do. I think it was worth it.'
'I couldn't agree more. Though I'm not sure that I would have been able to make the decision that you did. But that part is finished. Do you know what you will do next?'
'I certainly do. I'm going to leave the South and head north, to New York City. That's my home town and I have an immense curiosity to see what it is like now.'
'Sodom and Gomorrah,' Shaw said distastefully. 'A world unto itself and a pretty nasty one at that. The most corrupt and wicked city in the world. There is either a riot or a plague there every year.'
'Sounds like home,' Troy said. 'Let's go look at it. Will you come with me?'
'Of a certainty. I plan nothing strenuous until my wounds are fully healed. If I must recover it should be in the lap of luxury provided by Mammon on Hudson. But no more horses. We'll take the train.'
It was a slow and filthy trip, with greasy cinders leaking in around the windows and settling on everything. In New York they were more than ready to take a cab to the hotel and a hot bath. After three days of nothing more strenuous than eating large meals and sleeping late, Shaw ventured the opinion that he was fit enough to climb into a saddle again. They rented horses from a livery stable on Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, then rode down to Houston Street to board the ferry across the East River. Except for the lack of bridges, Troy was amazed at how familiar the city was. No skyscrapers of course, and horses instead of cars, but the streets and the buildings on the East Side here were very much the same as the ones he remembered. Brooklyn was a warren of small homes, and it wasn't until they crossed into Queens that there were any marked changes. The houses gave way to farms and twisting country roads. They rode easily, stopping for lunch in a Corona inn, then carrying on.
An hour later Troy halted at the top of a hill that looked down upon the crossroads village of Jamaica. There were farms all around, and beyond them the swamps and rushes of Jamaica Bay. He shook his head.
'I was born right down there,' he said. 'Grew up here. It was all small houses, the Van Wyck Expressway there, and the el along Jamaica Avenue.'
'El?'