Rebel in Time

Troy sat quietly in the corner by the fireplace, sipping at a cup of coffee. The wind had come up after dark and there was a cold draught blowing through the chinks around the door. All of the abolitionists in the house were excited, talking animatedly. Only Troy did not join in. He was feeling the weight of history, feeling that these men were both alive and dead at the same time. Harper's Ferry. The attack was two days away. The details of the raid and what followed tried to push up out of his memory — but he would not let them. He did not want to know. He was here to stop McCulloch, prevent him carrying through whatever mad scheme he had to use the submachineguns that he was manufacturing. Therefore Troy's duty was to ignore what was going on around him, to hear nothing about the planned raid. If he said one word — he would say too many. It had nothing to do with him, nothing at all. But he still could not prevent himself from listening to what was being said.

Everyone present was hanging on the words of a frail young man who had just arrived that afternoon. He was strange, excitable, odd to look at with his single staring eye, a cloth patch over the other one. His name was Francis Meriam and he was from the city of Boston.

'That was it,' he said, 'that was really it. When I talked to this Negro man, why right away I knew that this was my chance to work for this holy crusade. My uncle, he's a big name in the abolition movement, but he's not the only one in the family knows what is what. So when this man told me all about the Shepherd down here, and what this business operation was that the Shepherd was involved in, then right away I knew I had to come. I talked to Sanborn and he asked Higginson and they told me to come here. That's what they did.'

There seemed to be something wrong with the man, but none of the spectators took heed of it. He tended to repeat himself and to nod a lot. Then every once in a while he would wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, particularly when he got excited. Now he reached behind him, drew a carpetbag close and opened it.

'I knew old John Brown, he needed my help to go stealing slaves down South, and I knew there was something else he could use.' He extracted a leather wallet from the bag and shook a stream of gold pieces out into his palm. 'Weapons and ammunition cost money — and that's just what I got here. Six hundred dollars in gold, you can count it if you want. And it's all for him, for the cause.'

'Bless you, Mr Meriam,' the old woman said, rocking in her chair by the fire. 'Bless you, because with God's help the slaves will be freed.'

At that moment the outer door opened, in dramatic punctuation of her words. Some of those present reached for their guns as a man pushed in, drenched with rain, leaning hard against the door to close it against the wind. He turned to face them, a young man in his early twenties, looking about the room as though searching for someone.

'Francis Jackson Meriam — is that you?' he called out.

Meriam climbed to his feet and hurried across to greet his friend, clutching his rain-wet hand. 'John, they said that you would come to meet me. Am I still in time?' He turned to the others without waiting for an answer. 'Everyone, this is John Copeland whom you will remember took part in the Oberlin raid that was in all the papers.'

They made the newcomer welcome. Someone handed him others tried not to show their impatience to hear the news. It was Meriam who finally burst out.

'How are they? How does it go?'

'Very well indeed. We got the message that you were coming, they sent me out to get you, show you the way back. The farm is sort of crowded though, a lot of us there. Some of the men are like penned animals, been locked in that house since August. But we are going to strike soon. The pikes have arrived, and the guns. Everything is in readiness, at least that's what Mr Cook says. He's been in Harper's Ferry for a year now, working in the federal armoury. He knows everything about it. He's so close to it that he even married one of the local girls. He knows a thing or two, does John E. Cook. He's a friend of mine, he was up at the house and we talked, told me all about the armoury and everything. We're going to the right place. Do you know how many stands of arms they turn out there? They can make ten thousand a year, that's what they can. They make everything there, got a big forge and a machine shop. Make percussion caps, barrels and secret things too, secret kind of bullet, that's what Mr Cook said.'