Rebel in Time

'No, Robbie, you'll be far more valuable to the attack if you remain here. You can take care of the saddlebags as well. I know nothing about these men — but I do know you, and can count upon you to stay and draw their fire. If the soldiers are distracted like that I should be able to penetrate from the rear. Will you do it?'

'Of course. How much time do you need?'

'Just a few minutes to get into position.' As the others moved away he lowered his voice so only Shaw could hear. 'McCulloch may know about this raid — so there might be a very good chance that there is a trap laid in there. Watch yourself.'

'And the same. Good luck.'

Troy opened his knife and sawed at the rope holding the boat to the bank, then pushed it free and jumped inside. He groped through the cold water in the bottom until he found an oar. Just one. It would have to do. He sculled out into the river and felt the current carry the boat towards the island. There was a barely visible dark patch, mud bank or sand flat, behind the building and he headed for it, feeling the boat grind to a stop. As he jumped onto the bank he heard the rattle of gunfire. The attack had begun. His groping fingers found some bushes growing at the river's edge and he tied the rope to one of them, hearing distant shouts and the increasing sound of the guns. There must be strong resistance. But on this side the building was silent and dark. There were windows, but they were small and high above the ground. No good. There just had to be another way in. He ran along the wall, pistol ready in his hand. Nothing.

Only when he turned the corner did he see the small door let in to the wall. As he ran towards it the sound of firing increased suddenly, then died away. Had the attackers forced their way in? No, they must have been repulsed for the firing began again, just occasional shots. He had to get through the door.

It was locked, made of solid wood, and did not budge when he threw his weight against it. There was only one way then to get through it. A noisy way — he would have to move fast.

He fired two shots at point blank range into the lock, then rammed his shoulder against the door again. It shuddered, there was the rattle of broken rnetal, then it gave way. Troy pushed it wide, dived through and rolled behind a pile of crates. There was no return fire. For the moment.

He was in a large room, filled with stacked boxes; a small lantern on the opposite wall shed a fitful yellow glow. It was silent. There was a good chance that he was alone in the room. He must keep moving. He was accomplishing nothing just lying there.

Standing, slowly, gun ready, he ran towards the door in the far wall. Just as it burst open and a dark figure appeared in the opening.

There was no conscious thought involved, just reflex action that hurled him to one side. He hit hard and rolled over in the dust, the pistol extended before him.

The rapid hammer of gunfire sounded from the doorway, the bullets tearing into the wooden floor beside his body, chewing their way towards him. He could only level his revolver at the flaring muzzleblast and pull the trigger over and over again until the weapon was empty. Waiting for the return fire.

It never came. In the silence that followed he could clearly hear the slither of cloth on wood, followed by a heavy thud as the body hit the floor. The lantern was just above the dead man, the light glinting from his open, motionless eyes.

Shining as well on the steel of the submachinegun still clasped across his chest.

Troy acted without thinking, shoving his empty pistol into his belt and diving forward to seize the Sten-gun from the dead man's grasp. Swinging it up. Facing an empty hallway lined with closed doors. A moment's respite. Keeping the gun trained ahead, his finger over the trigger, he ran his left hand over the body. Seized the two magazines stuck under the man's belt; felt with his fingertips to make sure that they were full. Pushed them under his own belt — then ran forward and kicked open the door at the far end of the hall.

It was simple slaughter. The men at the windows were armed with rifles and pistols, facing away from him, turning only when he started to fire.

The bullets sprayed out, cut them down, the clip emptied. He jammed in a fresh one and turned the gun on a wounded man who was trying to raise his rifle. Dropped him. Saw the impact of the bullets on his body. Bullets that cut through his Army uniform and into his flesh.

They were all soldiers, every man that he had killed, murdered. Soldiers in the United States Army. But as he dragged in a gasping breath he forced himself to remember that they were traitors as well to the government they had taken an oath to serve. All of them were Southern sympathizers, all were taking part in the conspiracy to bring down the Union. He dropped the emptied clip and clicked a full one into place.