Shift (ChronoShift Trilogy) (21 page)

“Glad to see you’re a good judge of character.  He didn’t hurt him
justly
either.  He didn't hurt him at all.  It was someone else.  We want to give you enough gold to buy Jefferson and his family and pay for their train fare up north.”

Jennings snorted derisively.  “For that matter, I’d gladly buy him with my own money if he’s really in danger.”

“He is, and we're happy to.  I’ve got the money, and we want you to make Martin an offer he can’t refuse.  Offer double the going rate.”

“All right.”

Silence cooled the air.

“Where’d you come from anyway, son?  I don’t recall seeing you around these parts before.”

“Just passin’ through.”

“I see.”

“So, will you do it?”

Jennings sat quietly, staring at the floor.

“I don’t really cotton to slavery, you know?”

“Then, why do you have them?”

“Several years ago, a fellow up Covington way freed all of his slaves in a fit of conscience.  Within a couple of weeks, half of them came back begging him for work just so they could eat.  The majority of the rest were trapped and claimed by other plantations as if they’d never been freed.  Those few who actually made it up north weren’t much better off, having to scramble and fight for factory jobs.

“I’d free ‘em if I thought they’d be better off.  Heck they really are free anyway, I just haven’t told ‘em officially.  If one of ‘em ran off, I wouldn’t chase him.  I don’t bust up families, and I certainly would never sell a man to somebody else.  I’ve paid extra a couple of times just to keep a family together.

“I try my best to make sure they’ve got plenty to eat, nice places to stay.  They get sick, I take care of them.  I limit their work hours to the normal work week.  There’s absolutely no beating or anything of the sort on my land.  I'd buy all my neighbors slaves if I could just to give them a better life, but the God's honest truth is I can't afford it.  When you run a plantation the way I do, your profit isn't quite as high.

“I set a man by the name of Thomas free a couple of years ago.  He knew how to read and write, so I gave him a loan and set him up with a business in town.  He does pretty well too.  The others just don’t have the skills to make it on their own, and I don’t have the resources to teach them.”

“Sounds more like a commune to me.”

“What’s that?”

“Nevermind.  So, what do you say?”

“Well, Mr. Smith.  You've brought me some shocking news, but you seem to be an honest man, with the exception of your name, of course.  I need to verify what you’ve told me first.  Meet me at the train depot around 8:00 this evening.  If I don’t show, the answer’s ‘No’.”

“Just remember, we’re pressed for time.”

“Understood.”

“And when you pay Martin, give him a little extra to keep his mouth shut about who bought Jefferson.”

7:51 PM, April 15
^th
, 1863, Madison, GA

The sun was low enough in the sky the whole town was dressed in a late afternoon, golden hue.  Mark and Ty waited on a bench at the depot.  The train had pulled in a few minutes ago and was scheduled to leave again a little after 8:00.  Their conversation had dropped off into a lull a few minutes before.  Until it became clear what Jennings was going to do, the tension would remain thick.

“Why don’t you pop into next year and see how ol’ Hugh actually turns out,” Ty suggested.  “Then, we can settle this issue.”

“Sounds good to me.  Anyone watching?”

“Nope.”

Mark set his shifter to a couple of years in the future.  Give the man more time to define himself.

The café/restaurant was rustic, small, and quaint.  A couple of men seated at a table drinking some coffee were the only patrons.  The waitress/cook was an older woman in her fifties, her streaky, brown hair put up in a bonnet.

“Can I hep’ you?”

“Just coffee, ma’am, if that’s all right?”

“Fine.”

He sat and sipped from his cup.  The other two men were heatedly discussing Northern reconstruction efforts and carpetbaggers.  Mark was in 1867 and the civil war had ended two years ago.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, don’t mean to bother you, but I’m looking for a Hugh Plageanet.  Know anything about him?”

“Yeah, we know plenty, son.  Who’s askin’?”

“Name’s Smith.  It’s just a business matter.”

“You ain’t got no northern accent.  Whatcha you doin’ round here?”

“I’m no Yank, just looking for Plageanet.”

“Well, if’n you were one of them carpetbaggers, we’d have sent you right on to him.  But seein’ as how you ain’t a Yank, I’d recommend you steer as clear of him as you can.  He don’ live ‘round here no more anyhow.”

“Why?  What’s wrong with him?”

“The man’s just plumb
mean
is all.  When the war ended, he kilt as many of his slaves as he could rather than let ‘em go free.  Mean ol’ turd.  A few escaped, but he finished off most.  Since, he’s taken to robbin’ banks and hangs with some thieving outfit out west.  Last I heard, he'd kilt some folk south of Indian Territory.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I will steer clear after all.  Thanks for the advice.”

“No bother.”

Mark finished his coffee and then left the café to shift back to Ty.

***

“Okay, I’m in.”

Ty smiled for the first time in hours.  “Simple as that?”

“Simple as that. Didn’t have to do much research either.  First couple of guys I asked knew all about him.  When the war ends, he kills all his slaves rather than set them free.”

Ty cursed under his breath.

“So, how to you want to do it?” Mark asked.

“Wait here,” Ty ordered.

Ty stood and walked over to the town’s general store.  He was good at playing his role.  He hung his head demurely and shuffled a bit, just like a fearful slave might do.

Ty entered, hat in hand.

“Can I hep’ ya, boy?”  The man behind the counter was of average age, balding, and had a slight paunch.  He removed his reading glasses to see Ty better.

“Ma Massah, he wan’ sum dahnomite.”

“Who’s ya master, boy?  Ain’t never seen you before.”

“Massah Plajnay, suh.”

“All right.  Now what was it you wanted again?”

“Dah-no-mite.”

“What’s that?”

“Dynamite.”

“Never heard of it.  If this is some kind of joke, boy, I’ll...”

“Ne’ermin’”

Ty left quickly and crossed the square again.

“Hey, Mark.”

“That was quick.”

“Yeah.  When was dynamite invented?  This guy hadn’t heard of it.”

“Uh...not sure.  You always see it in Western movies, so I’d guess 1880 would be a safe bet.”

“All right.  I’ll be right back.”

Ty shifted out.

***

Same clerk, now seventeen years older.

“How many sticks does he want?”

“Ten, if’n dat okay.”

“Whoo-ee.  What’s he want with all that dynamite, anyway?”

“He’s gon’ blows up sum stumpy trunks he got o’er der.”

“Stump blasting, huh.  Well, all I’ve got at the moment is seven sticks.  That’ll have to do for now.  Tell him our next order don’t arrive till next week.”

“Ah tell ‘im.”

“Here, gonna need some blasting caps and fuse wire too.”

Ty handed the man some gold and walked back out into the sun.

***

Jacob Jennings showed up at the train depot right at 8:00 PM in a cart pulled by one horse.  In the cart rode Jefferson and his family.  They stepped up to the loading platform.

“Your story checked out, Mr. Smith,” Jennings said, “Granted, I’ve got the feeling there’s quite a stink brewing back there.  Best get Jefferson on this train before Hugh’s got a chance to catch up with him.”

Jefferson Sr. and his wife looked very scared.

“Will they be safe?”

“Should be.  I’ve freed them and given them notarized papers saying as much.  This train will take them straight to the Mississippi.  From there, they can take a steamboat north.  I’ve given ‘em more than enough to cover the fares and to tide them over till they set some roots wherever they stop.  I’m going to talk with the conductor, make sure he looks out for ‘em.”

Jennings walked off toward the front of the train.  The whistle wailed loudly.  The train would be leaving soon.

Ty looked longingly at his ancestors.  They were completely unaware of his relationship to them.  Holding his hat in hand, Jefferson never removed his gaze from the ground.

“I’m gonna go for a short walk,” Mark said.  “Ty, keep Jefferson company please.”

Ty would want some time alone to speak with his great, great, great grandpa.

***

There was no moon, so they had to work by starlight, which was not easy.  They dared not even light a match, lest it give them away.  Successfully wiring a detonation device is complicated enough, but it can be downright scary in pitch blackness.

Mark and Ty lay in the long grass behind the Plageanet house.  Thankfully, there were no hounds or other animals to give away their presence.  About halfway between them and the main house was a rickety, unpainted outhouse.

In the refuse pit beneath the outhouse, they’d stashed seven sticks of dynamite directly beneath the hole where a person would sit to use the facility.  A wire ran inconspicuously (even more so in the dark) from those sticks of dynamite, up the hole, out through a crack in the back wall, and through the tall grass until it ended a hundred feet away at a detonation device in Ty’s hands.  The wire would not be noticed by anybody in the outhouse, even when sitting down.

“Here he comes.”

“Shh....wait.  I’m going to make sure it’s him.”

Mark snuck off into the grass silently.  He got as close as he dared to make the identification.  After a minute he returned.  The man had just entered the outhouse and was going about his business.

“Well?”

“It’s him all right,” Mark assured him.  “Go ahead.”

Ty hesitated for a long moment, weighing what he was about to do.  Just when Mark thought he wasn’t going to, Ty plunged the contact down.  Before two years had passed, Plageanet would kill over fifty men, women, and children.  There was no forgetting that.

A violent explosion rocked the night, shattering the peace that had reigned just a moment before and filling the yard with a burning, orange glow.  Pieces of wood and other matter rained down with dull thuds all around.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.  Let’s get back.”  Ty hit his shifter and Mark followed.

***

Back in 2012, Ty thanked Mark and asked him to meet him and Hardy at the office the next day.

“So, what’d you and Jefferson talk about while you were alone?” Mark pried.

Ty let out a slow smile.

“I asked him what his father's name was.”

“I suppose he told you.”

“Not only that, he told me his grandpa's name too.”

“What'd that be?  Your fifth great grandpa?”

“Yeah.  He also told me what tribe in Africa his ancestors had come from.”

“That’s great, man.”  Mark was sincerely happy for him.  Ty was thrilled to uncover more of his family's roots.

“Yeah, my fifth great-grandpa.  Can you believe it?  I was stuck.  Didn’t know who Jefferson Sr.’s father was.”

“I’ve never been that much into genealogy myself, but you really like it, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“All right.  Well....see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

***

The office was abandoned.

The three desks were still in their places, but that was all.  The rest of the office furniture was missing, the potted plants, the pictures from the walls, even the window blinds.  A few scraps of paper lay strewn about the floor.  The air felt stale, still, as if the room knew its inhabitants were not coming back.

Mark moved to the first of the desks, the one that had been Ty’s.  He checked every drawer, but they too were empty.  Each of the other two desks were the same.

Where had they gone?  What was going on?

Mark was too astonished to react.  A million thoughts raced through his mind.  Had this all been some kind of elaborate con game?  If so, what was the con?  He hadn’t given them any money.

Worse, had they used him as a patsy, setting him up for some kind of fall?  No, that didn’t really make any sense.

Maybe something had happened to them.  Maybe some government agency had caught on to what they were doing.  Could they have been arrested?  Was Mark next?  Or were they themselves part of some covert government agency after all?

They couldn't have been arrested.  They would just shift out of custody to another time.

Had he done something to offend them?

Mark remembered the lonely shack in the woods.  It had appeared empty at first, but in the end, he'd found a very intriguing watch which had changed his life forever.  Maybe there was something like that here he’d missed.

He searched the office frantically and left nothing unturned.  He pulled each and every drawer fully out of its desk and flipped them over, looking underneath and on their backs for some hidden item.  He ran his hand over the interior surfaces inside the desks where the drawers had been in case something had been taped up in there.  He checked every nook and cranny of the bathroom and the closets.  Under the sink, behind the toilet, he even disassembled the light fixtures.