Time Travel Adventures of The 1800 Club
BOOK 1
Robert P. McAuley
Smashwords Edition
Published By
Robert P. McAuley on Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Robert P. McAuley
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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The Premise
The Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club is a 21st Century haven for people seeking to escape New York City’s frantic pace. Dressed in clothes their ancestors might have worn during the 1800s, members enjoy foods of the period and read periodicals featuring news of a particular date in 1865. However, the 1800 Club also has an astounding secret . . . Time Travel. Members travel back in time nudging famous persons and key events just enough to ensure history unfolds, as it should. Guardians-of-the-future, who send robotic probes back through the ages, discover that, at critical time-junctures, pivotal figures stray from vital tasks and actions. Then an 1800 Club member is sent back to guarantee that events get back on track. The 1800 Club’s members aid Lincoln, Roosevelt, Bat Masterson, Mark Twain and many others. Without subtle interventions by these unknown agents, the famous might have been only footnotes,
rather than giants of history.
Books 2 through 7 are also available.
Time Travel Adventures of The 1800 Club: Book 1
A flash of lightning illuminated the newspaper folded next to a steaming cup of tea on the antique mahogany coffee table. The November 10, 1862 headline screamed in bold type - LINCOLN FIRES GENERAL MCCELLAN, WAR DRAGS ON! A slim finger slowly followed the smaller print beneath it.
Yesterday, November 9, 1862, it was announced to the satisfaction of this newspaper and many others, that Major General George Brinton McClellan was dismissed as Commander of the Union Army. This newspaper wishes to applaud President Lincoln for finally taking such matters to task. It was after the Battle of Antietam, that he was ordered to turn over his command to his good friend Ambrose E. Burnside and to go home to New Jersey to await further orders. We of Harper’s Weekly wish much success to General Burnside.
Prescott Stevens, president of the 1800 Club, raised the wick of the oil lamp he was reading by and picked up the TV remote next to his tea. He aimed and clicked it at the big-screen TV opposite him, and rubbed his eyes as he went to the Weather Channel 7:00 PM broadcast. After finishing the mid-west coverage, the young woman said, “. . . and in the New York, New Jersey, and in some areas of Connecticut, rain accompanied by thunder storms continue for the second straight day. It promises to let up early tomorrow.”
Turning the set off, he stood and stretched to his full height of five feet seven inches and rubbed his plump stomach. He faced the full-length mirror and buttoned the vest of his three-piece brown suit then tightened a dark brown silk cravat around his starched collar, and pushed the pearl stickpin through the shirtfront. Stevens patted his short brown and gray beard and pulled and twisted the almost-full handlebar mustache until he was fairly satisfied. He pressed a button next to the large mahogany desk and was answered immediately by his butler and right-hand person, Matt.
“Yes, sir?”
“Matt, has the weather deterred many of our dinner guests?”
“No, sir. All guests have faxed or e-mailed their acceptances.”
Prescott nodded and asked, “So, we can expect Mister William Scott to attend then?”
“Yes, sir. Mister Scott e-mailed this afternoon that he’d be attending this evening.”
“Thank you, Matt. Oh, and Matt, I’ve just finished proofing the newspaper and it may be distributed for this evening’s dinner.”
Matt answered “Very well, sir.”
Prescott signed off as he rubbed his hands and smiled.
Less than one hour later a taxi splashed a torrent of water at Bill Scott, who nimbly jumped out of the way, only to step into a rain-filled pothole. Shaking what water he could off his shoe he looked across the street at the six-story brownstone building as he shivered. I’m going to get soaked by the time I get there.
Lightning flashed as he ducked under an awning across from his destination at 520 East Ninth Street in New York City.
“Almost there,” he said, getting a look from an elderly woman who brushed past to enter the building behind him. “Pardon me, ma’am.” She harrumphed and shook water off her umbrella, making up for what the taxi had missed.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm. Seeing a break in the traffic, Bill pulled his overcoat tight and ran between parked cars across the wet street and almost collided with the doorman at 520.
“Evening Mister Scott. Wet one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Jim, but it could be worse . . . could be snow,” Bill answered thinking: A standard answer for a rainy November evening.”
The doorman held the door open and Bill entered. He went downstairs, sliding his hand along the well-polished curved mahogany banister, and then walked on the dark brown wall-to-wall carpet. An oversized ornate wooden door with a large brass handle faced him. His cold fingers fumbled for the old-fashioned key each club member used for entry. This is one of the many things I love about the club: No electronic entry card, no worry about a power failure plain and simple, old-fashioned and reliable. This is the way it should be.
He inserted his key, and the door swung open noiselessly. He went in, and heard a low hissing sound. Gaslight, he thought. No neon or incandescent lighting making harsh shadows. Just gaslight with its soft yellow flickering glow that makes a person feel safe. Bill’s theory as to why people felt safe around the controlled, dancing gaslight flame was that it had been ingrained in the culture since early mankind discovered that fire kept the danger away. But whatever the reason, it did make him feel more relaxed.
A short, well-built man dressed in dark pants, jacket and shoes, a red vest and a white, heavily starched shirt with a dark bow tie at his neck stood at the end of the hallway.
Bill acknowledged him, “Good evening, Matt.”
“Good evening, Mr. Scott,” said the balding man. “May I help you change, sir?”
“No thanks, Matt, but if you could put my coat and shoes somewhere to dry, that’d be great.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll attend to that straightaway. Will you be staying for dinner?”
Bill nodded. “Yes, I am. Do you know what’s on the menu tonight?”
“Roast goose, sir, with baked potatoes, glazed carrots, gravy and beets.”
Bill smiled, “I’m drooling already. Tell me, is Stan Walker here this evening?” Matt nodded yes and Bill cringed as he thought, well, maybe I can avoid him.
He entered a small walk-in closet that had his name etched in a silver nameplate on the door and sat on an upholstered bench to remove his wet shoes and socks. From the rack he selected a brown wool three-piece suit, white shirt with a stiff collar, and a brown cravat. He added a mother-of-pearl stickpin. Lastly, he sat to button his brown high-topped shoes. A final look in the full-length door mirror revealed a six-foot, two-inch dark-haired man from the mid-eighteen hundreds looking back at him. He opened the door and handed out his damp shoes, socks and overcoat to Matt and after thanking him for his service Bill walked down the mahogany-paneled hallway to another door and pressed a button. A humming sound announced the arriving elevator. The door opened, and a young man in a dark brown uniform topped off with a flat cap greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Scott.”
“Evening, Drew. Nice size crowd tonight?”
“Not bad, sir. Especially for a rainy evening.”
“Good, good.”
The door opened at the third floor, and Bill stepped out. He heard the mumble of indistinct voices as he headed to the spacious room filled with other club members. He saw a stack of newspapers on a table just outside the doorway. He picked one up and looked at it.
I love it! No e-mail here, he thought as he folded the newspaper, no Charlene Greene either. Then again, no Charlene Greene out there anymore, either, except of course when I go to work. Boy, I really have to change jobs. He winced, Got to stop thinking about her . . . got to, but four years is a long time to hear her say, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then asking if I could get a different apartment. He shook his head; she seems to have forgotten that she moved in with me!
He stood straight and looked in a long mirror. “It’s a new life,” he said to his reflection - “Each day is a new day and I’m going to have fun doing things I’ve always wanted to do.” He smiled at himself- “Like coming to my club and indulging in my favorite pastime; pretending that I’m back in the mid-eighteen hundreds.”
He entered the room and noticed the cigar smoke that clung close to the ceiling. A waiter approached him with glasses of white and red wine. “Wine, sir?”
“Thanks,” Bill said, lifting a glass of the red.
He walked over to a window covered by heavy, red, floor-to-ceiling drapes, which were always kept closed. No sense in making believe that we are back in the mid-eighteen hundreds if we see the present-day New York skyline. He put down his wineglass and picked up a cigar from one of the silver trays strategically placed around the room and lit it. He blew a large round oval of smoke and watched it join the haze close to the ceiling.
“Bravo! I tell you, Bill, we should have a smoke-ring contest. I do believe you are the only person who can get close to matching my orbs.”
Bill smiled at Philip Corouso, a heavyset gray-bearded man in his mid-fifties. “Well, Philip,” he said, “I think you take lessons from the smoke-belching cannons of your artillery unit.”
The big man laughed and the medals on the breast of his blue uniform tinkled against each other. Crossed-cannons on the collar denoted that he was a colonel of the Union Army.
“You also have the fastest retort in the club.”
Bill nodded graciously.
“I’m serious. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak out of club time.”
“It’s easy for me not to drift out of it, I’ve always been happy in club time. And I think we are walking a fine line even acknowledging the term ‘club time.’ Agree?”
“Yep! Right you are. I don’t want to be another Stan Walker.” Bill nodded. “I understand he’s attending tonight’s dinner.”
Philip nodded as he inhaled deeply on his cigar. “Yes. He’s still a member. But . . . the word is he’s on probation, and nobody will talk to him. Nobody wants to take a chance and slip up if he starts talking of . . . of . . . er . . . talking of other things.”
Bill winked. “Right.”
Phil took a final swig of his drink. “Got to excuse me, Bill. Have to use the facilities, and it’s hell with these buttons.” He grinned and walked off.
Bill looked around the room at the other members, but he was content to lean against the windowsill and enjoy his cigar, sip his wine and glance at the Harper’s Weekly headlines; LINCOLN FIRES GENERAL MCCLELLAN, WAR DRAGS ON!
It’s easy, he thought, for me to stay in club time. I’m happy in club time.
He had long felt that the 1860s must have been a wonderful period, except for the war. But it seemed as though there was a war almost every twenty or thirty years and it came with the territory.
Bill glanced up to see a thin man approaching him. Damn! It’s Stan Walker.
Too late to escape, Bill smiled and started a conversation along the correct lines.
“Evening, Mister Walker. It seems as though Mister Lincoln fired another general. Pretty soon we’ll have no one left to lead our boys to victory. What do you think of this latest turn of events, sir?”
Walker fidgeted with his cravat, obviously uneasy with it. “Uh . . . yes . . . I . . . er . . . I haven’t seen tonight’s paper. He fired McClennon you say?”
“McClellan, Mr. Walker, not McClennon. General George McClellan. They say he was inept. Kept letting the Johnny Rebs slip away.”
“Oh McClellan. Yes, I remember now. He lost a few battles, didn’t he?”
“More than a few.”
“So, Mister Scott. How do you think the war will turn out?”
“Hard to tell, Mr. Walker. We northerners have the railroads and that’s a big thing in our favor.”
“Yes, but if I remember my history correctly, the rails are what won the war for-“
Bill abruptly turned to leave as he shook his head. “Mr. Walker, I do not mean to be rude, but you speak as though you know the end result of this turmoil, and we both know that’s not possible. Am I right, sir?”
Walker knew he had slipped up . . . again. He had spoken out of club time. He looked around to see if he had been overheard.
Bill leaned closer and said softly, “Walker, for your own good and mine, I’m ending this conversation. I truly enjoy this club. No hassle, no hustle and bustle. It’s my few hours each week that I can escape reality. Some people drink to escape. This club is my refuge, and you keep breaking its only rule by speaking out of club time.”
Walker looked embarrassed. “I . . . I try. I just slip now and then.”
“Maybe you’re not as at ease as the others, Mr. Walker. You wouldn’t be the first person to quit.”
“No, no, I really like the club. It’s just that I seem to forget and - “
A waiter approached Walker and said, “Mr. Walker, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the President’s office?”
Walker looked lost. “The President’s office? Why would he want to see me?”
Walker was escorted away. Bill shook his head, sank into an overstuffed leather chair and started to read again. Thunder rumbled in the background.
“Dinner is served,” Matt announced.
Bill checked his pocket watch and noted to himself, “Eight sharp.”
He followed the small group into a lavish dining room. Looking around, he saw that Stan Walker was missing. Then Bill noticed that club president Prescot Stevens’ seat at the head of the table was empty.
As he chose a chair next to Miss Alexander, a thirtyish blonde with an oversized bustle, she turned and said, “Hello, Mr. Scott. Terrible weather, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is, Miss Alexander.”
“Please call me Jane.”
Bill nodded. “And call me Bill,” thinking; Charlene never understood my love of this period. Too bad she couldn’t be more like Jane . . . oh well.
She inclined her head, and then turned her attention to Phil Corouso across the table.
“Colonel, please enlighten us as to the reason our great President fired General McClellan?”
The colonel furrowed his brow and, sensing that he had just become the center of the table’s conversation, pushed back his chair and pronounced, “Well, ma’am, General McClellan was in way over his head, so to speak. He sat still so long that General Lee just built up his resources and struck first. He forced the President’s hand.”
“Tell me, sir, what would you have done in the general’s position?” came a question from Andrew Giddons, an “old money” member whose fortune came from the railroads.
The colonel shifted his chair to face Giddons. “I’d have attacked two months ago. The weather was perfect, and he had plenty of manpower and supplies.”
Giddons acknowledged agreement. “And the rails to move them, I might add.”
The colonel nodded vigorously, “Absolutely, sir, absolutely. The rails will take the war to a decision on our side, I dare say.”
Giddons smiled and raised his glass of wine, saying, “To the railroads of the north!”
The colonel raised his glass in agreement as the diners heard a new voice say, “I see the war is the topic of the evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
Chairs scraped as all turned to see President Prescott Stevens being seated at the head of the table. The guests smiled at him. He signaled a waiter, and dinner was served.
The conversation continued, with the weather and the war being the subjects most discussed. After-dinner cigars were offered along with brandy. Most of the women demurely declined the cigars, the exception being Jane Alexander who easily joined the dozen men at the great, roaring fireplace in the club’s den.
President Stevens turned and with an exaggerated bow said, “You grace us with your presence, Miss Alexander.”
Jane did a mock curtsy back. “This is the place to be if one wants to learn the inner workings of the world, is it not, President Stevens?”
He smiled at her. “That it is, that it is.”
Stevens looked quickly around the room and then raised his voice and said somberly, “Mr. Stan Walker left the club this evening. He asked me to say good-bye for him.”
No one spoke. The grandfather clock chimed 10 p.m., watches were taken out of vest pockets, and the guests decided it was getting late. They headed toward the door, but Stevens put a hand on Bill’s shoulder.
“Mr. Scott, will you stay behind? I’d have a word with you, if possible.”
Bill looked questioning but said, “Certainly President Stevens.” He mentally shrugged his shoulders and thought, it’s not like I have a warm reception waiting for me at the apartment.
They turned back into the den. Stevens pulled a thick cord on the wall, and Matt appeared.
“Sir, you rang?”
“Yes, Matt, another brandy for me and whatever Mr. Scott prefers.”
“Another brandy is fine,” Bill replied.
As Matt closed the door behind him, Stevens walked toward two wingback chairs in front of the fire and settled into one. “I’ve had a long day and shall have my nightcap seated,” he said. He indicated the other chair to Bill and said, “Sit, sir. Relax.”
Bill sat in the warm chair. Matt returned, served the brandies, and Stevens raised his toward Bill and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Bill responded.
Stevens took a sip and said thoughtfully, “Two years tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
“Two years tonight. It’s your anniversary, sir. Two years ago this evening you joined the club.”
Bill smiled. “Yes, two years tonight. I was wondering why you asked me to stay behind. Is this the norm for someone’s anniversary?”
“No, sir, it’s not. May I address you by your given name? William, is it not?”
“My friends call me Bill, but if you prefer William, that’s fine.”
“Bill it is then, and I’m Prescott, at least when we are alone. I must keep to being the head of the club in front of the members, and perceived familiarity breeds’ relaxation of the club’s rules. Would you agree?”
Bill nodded. “Oh I do agree, Prescott. May I ask why Mr. Walker left the club?”
“Yes, you may. In fact, I took his key. He was asked to leave. He could not keep the rule. He kept speaking out of club time. But you knew that didn’t you?”
Bill looked at him nervously. “Yes, I knew that. Do you think I spoke out of club time with him tonight? Because if you do . . .”
“No, not at all, Bill. In fact, I believe that you have never slipped up.”
“Then why did you ask me to stay? Surely not to ask me to renew my membership?”
Prescott took a deep pull of his drink and put it down. He leaned toward Bill. “No, not to renew. I have no problem filling the club’s memberships. There’s a very long waiting list of potential members. In fact, I’d like to ask you to play a little game with me.”
Bill was puzzled. “What kind of a game?”
“Well, pretty much the same kind of game you play every time you enter the club. The game of make-believe.”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Make-believe?”
Prescott sat, elbows on knees, chin resting on his clasped hands. “Yes, Bill, make-believe. Every time you come here you pretend you are back in the 1860s. A time of quiet streets, no blaring radio, TV, car horns, a make-believe time trip back to gentler times. Am I right?”
Now Bill leaned forward. “Then yes, I do play a make-believe game. I guess we all do.”
“Some of us better than others. Some of us are so good at this, that if they suddenly found themselves back in 1863, they could carry on as though they belonged there.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Then with a sense of purpose, Stevens rose and said, “Bill, follow me to my office.”
They went up a heavily carpeted staircase that was off-limits to club members. An ornate key attached to Prescott by a thick gold chain around his neck opened a heavy oak door. Gas lamps lit the room. All the furniture, except for the television, was from the 1800s.
Bill whistled in admiration. “Federal pieces! Where did you ever get them? They are priceless! I know. I have a coat tree, and it set me back some. These look brand new.”
Prescott smiled. “Would you like this desk?” he said as he patted the top.
Bill’s eyes opened wide. “Sir, I’d have to sell my coat-tree, car and then some to afford this beauty.”
“It’s yours, Bill. No charge. I can get another anytime I want.”
Bill looked confused. He knew the market fairly well and was certain there was no way there could be two desks like this one. Then with grin he said, “All right, Prescott, did you invite me here to show me that you have the mid-eighteen hundreds furniture market cornered?”
Grinning back, Prescott went around to a chair behind his desk and motioned for Bill to sit in another of the period pieces. “Please, Bill, sit. And I mean it. This desk is yours. No charge. You see, I watch each and every member of the club. I watch to see how well they stay in character. You are simply the best! In all the time the club has been around, I’ve never seen a person adapt so well. When you are here, you are in the 1860s. You are simply, the best.”
“So I win the antique desk because I’m good at keeping the rule?”
“First of all, it’s not an antique, it’s modern,” Stevens said.
“Do you mean it’s a knockoff? A copy made in China or somewhere?”
“No, I mean it’s a modern piece for the 1860s.”
“But this is the 21st century . . . not the 19th century.”
“Where? You mean here? In this club?” Stevens said. “But you say you believe this is the 1800s every time you come here.”
“Yes, but, I mean, it’s really 2011, not 1863,” Bill said.
Prescott pointed to the door they had come in. “Out there, the way we came in, that’s 2011.” He turned and pointed to another door on the far wall. “Out that door is the year 1863.”
Bill looked at the far door, then back at Prescott. “Out that door is 1863?”
Prescott nodded. “Yes. And that’s where I can get another desk, another wingback chair or clothes tree. Right out there.”
Bill laughed. “Well, Prescott . . . you got me. I love the club, I really do. And I kind of had you on a pedestal before this evening. But now . . . well, I really don’t know what to do. I wish we could have kept this on the level it was before tonight. It was more enjoyable just coming here and playing dress up.” He got up to leave.
“So, now you’re quitting?” Stevens said with annoyance. “Taking the easy way out? I can’t believe I was wrong. I had you as the adventurous type. An ex-U.S. Navy SEAL turned reporter whose hobby is the 1800s. Liked it so much he would jump at the chance if he could to live in that time period. Am I wrong?”
“No, you are right,” Bill answered. “But I don’t believe what you are proposing is true. I think this is some kind of a test . . . a test to see if I’ll talk out of club time, right?”
“Couldn’t be more mistaken, sir. What I’m proposing is true. And I believe you’re interested in hearing me out.” He looked intently at Bill. “I’ve studied you, and I pride myself on my accurate assessments of people. What I’m telling you is something that the average person just could not comprehend.”
Bill sat back down. The room’s curtains were open and he looked out the window at the rain. “Well, the weather tells me to stay at least until it lets up. So I might as well hear you out.”
Prescott seemed relieved and sat back. “Good, Bill, good. Now, I’d like to tell you a story. I come from 1863. I was like you in a sense . . . a happy bachelor with a good job. I was a history teacher in New York City. One day a man introduced himself to me in a restaurant I frequented. His name was John Smith, so he said, and he also was a history teacher. He told me he was the father of one of my past students, Harold Smith, who was killed in the war, but always spoke highly of me.” He paused a moment then continued as he sat forward. “I felt that he was a sick man for he constantly fought for air as he spoke.” He sat back as he went on. “He visited me for short visits over the next few weeks, and after gaining my confidence, he told me a different story . . . an entirely different story, believe me! I was, as you are, shocked to hear it. But I did, as you did, sit back and listen. He said that his real name was James Prescott. He said he was a future Prescott, a future relative of mine. He claimed to live in the year 2066! I thought it was preposterous and told him so. He said he understood my stance, of course, but was willing to prove it to me. Would I accompany him to his home? As I said, he had gained my confidence and, as it was a short carriage ride, I accompanied him to his home.” He grinned as he patted the desk once again. “This very building.”
The grandfather clock chimed eleven times and the storm outside was still in full force.
Prescott does tell a good yarn, Bill thought. He’s probably a lonely guy with good taste in furniture and bad taste in sci-fi stories, hoping I can get it published for him.
Stevens continued, “James Prescott, of the future, showed me a door in his den and said it opened to the future. I, of course, was a non-believer as are you, until he opened the door. He took me down a flight of stairs and opened a second door that led to a garden surrounded by a high stonewall outside of which was a well-lighted street. No cobblestone street was this, nor was it asphalt, as you are used to. Rather, it was a light blue plastic-like substance, which glowed, giving off enough illumination that no gaslights were needed. The first thing I noticed was the smell, or rather the lack of smell. No horse manure! I never realized how one became so used to the stench. Why, in my time it was just there! Always there! And now, well it was truly a breath of fresh air. But here was the bad part. The people of the future had cleaned up their atmosphere so well that there was no pollution. Why the air was so clean that I had a hard time breathing it. It was as though I were on top of Mount Everest. Of course I was never on the mountain, but they assured me that the air they breathed was so clean that I couldn’t stay there long nor could they stay in my time for too long a spell. An automobile glided soundlessly by, borne not on wheels nor powered by a pollution producing engine, but on shafts of compressed air. People were walking casually around, not in a so-called ‘New York Minute,’ but leisurely. They wore close fitting one-piece suits with shoes. It was fantastic to say the very least! I was overwhelmed, and seeing this, he smiled and escorted me back inside where my breathing was much improved. He assured me that I was now back in the 1800s, and proved it by opening the front door through which we had entered. It was a dark night of 1863 lighted only by gas lamps with horse-drawn carriages rumbling by on cobblestones and the familiar smells of my time. He gave me a brandy, and we sat by his fireplace as he explained all.”
Prescott took a sip of his drink, and Bill reached for his. Not a bad story, he thought. Wonder where it’s going?
Prescott rested his drink on the desk. “It seems that overall, the 1800s were in many ways a key to the future . . . the future as we know it now. He told me that this time period saw many inventions that would shape the world all the way up to 2066 and beyond. He showed me points in history that were crucial to the development of the human race.
”Bill interrupted him. “Tell me a few.”
Prescott started ticking off on his fingers, “Cotton gin, use of peanuts, steel-hulled ships, development of steam power, development of the railroads, ending slavery. . . .”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Bill said.
“As I was saying,” Prescott went on, “it was a period that was important to the world. And at times it needed help.”
“Help? Help from whom?” Bill asked.
“Help from the people of 2066, that’s who. There were times when history needed a hand because it veered off course.”
“But if it was helped when it was veering off course, wasn’t that sort of changing history? And if you were changing . . . oh boy, you got me. I’m starting to react as though your story is for real.” Bill looked at his watch. “I really have to go. It’s getting late and I have a deadline tomorrow.”
Prescott shook his head. “Tomorrow may never come. I believe you are as ready as I was to take a glimpse back.” He gestured toward the door as he stood up. “Shall we?”
Bill smiled and, with some reluctance, followed him to the large mahogany door on the far side of the den. Prescott took out the gold chain, and Bill saw that a second key was on it. Prescott turned that key in the lock and opened the door a crack.
“Ready, Bill?”
“Sure, but I hope you don’t have any skeletons in your closet,” he joked.
The door was opened wider, revealing a flight of descending stairs.
“Allow me to go first, Bill?” Prescott asked.
“Please do, Prescott,” Bill replied.
They went down the stone stairs flanked on either side by a red brick wall that was illuminated by hissing gas lamps. The stairs ended in front of a large steel door. Prescott unlocked this door with the same key but before opening it, he turned to Bill and asked, “Set, sir? Set to walk the streets of 1863?”
DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY
Bill nodded, and Prescott pushed the door open onto a high-walled courtyard filled with singing birds, flowers, butterflies and sunshine. A small pond was in the corner with goldfish breaking the surface. Bill could hear a horse-drawn carriage clattering by on cobblestones. He slowly followed Prescott toward a high gate across the courtyard. Prescott opened that gate with the same key, and then flung his arms wide and proclaimed, “Voila! Welcome to 1863, Mr. Bill Scott.”
Bill looked around in disbelief. “But, but how can the sun be up? It’s after eleven at night!” He shook his head as he looked around. “It’s true! My God, man, it’s true! You did it . . . I can’t believe it.” The flowers feebly masked the smell that finally reached Bill.
“Horse manure! My God, it stinks!” He looked around and tried to breathe through his mouth as his eyes filled with tears. Prescott offered him a handkerchief.
“It takes time Bill. Breathe slowly.”
Bill wiped his eyes and did as Prescott said; took slow deliberate breaths. It’s mind over matter, he thought.
He saw two women walking slowly by, arm in arm. Prescott gave a hint of a bow. Both were about ten years younger then Bills’ thirty-two years.
“Good day, Miss Davenport, Miss Jenkins. Nice day for a walk, is it not?”
Both answered, “Good day, Mr. Stevens.”
Miss Davenport said, “Yes, it’s a beautiful day for a walk.”
Prescott turned to Bill. “A colleague of mine, Mr. Scott. He just came from a long trip. A very long trip.”
The young lady smiled at Bill. “Did you come by boat, Mr. Scott?”
“Uh . . . no, I took the train,” Bill answered, trying to collect himself. “Best way to travel these days, I would say.”
The women nodded in unison and began to wander off. “Good day, gentlemen,” they said, with Miss Jenkins adding, “Enjoy our fair town, Mr. Scott.”
“I will, ma’am, I will,” Bill replied. He was still wide-eyed as he watched them cross the street. They picked up their long skirts a tiny bit and stepped gingerly over and around the horse manure, which literally covered the street. He turned to Prescott and said, “How . . . I mean . . . well, I guess I do mean, how . . . how did it happen? How did we go from 2011 to 1863 just by walking out a door?”
“Not just a door, Bill. A time-changing portal! Let’s go back upstairs while I explain as much as I can to you.”
He closed and locked the gate. Bill was still awed by the sights . . . and the smell.
“This is utterly fantastic!” he exclaimed as he wiped his eyes.
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
They sat in the club’s den. Coffee had been served, and they were once again in front of the fireplace.
Bill was still incredulous as he wiped his watery eyes. “Please explain, Prescott. This is beyond my wildest dreams. Has anyone else from the club gone back?”
“Just a few. Three men and one woman.
“Are they still in the club?”
“No, unfortunately one was killed in an auto accident, the woman left New York when her husband’s job was moved, and the others just got too elderly for the trips.”
Prescott sat back and looked at the fire. “The club is a place that has been set up to be able to find people who have no problem traveling to and from the past. It is a continuous job interview so to speak.”
Scott asked, “So, did I pass the interview?”
“With flying colors,” came the answer.
Bill pressed him, saying, “I really need more information about this. I mean, is the government behind this?”
“No! And they must never know of it,” Stevens said with alarm. “I’ve been directed to keep this just between any chosen traveler and myself. My Lord, why, if the government knew of this, we’d have troops stationed in ancient Rome!”
Bill laughed. “I’m ex-Navy SEAL. I know where you’re coming from. They mean well, but it just seems to go bad when they meddle in things. So who’s the big honcho? There has to be a top guy. Right?”
“Well, not so much a top guy as a top group. Tell me, Bill, do you believe in alternate worlds?”
“You mean another world just like ours but where history took a different course? Heck, yesterday I would have said no, but today I think anything is possible.”
Prescott smiled. “Well, not only is it possible, but I’ve seen it. And that’s the mission of the club. You see, when the group first invented the time exchanger and started sending probes back, they saw that at times a few of the key historic people didn’t do what our history books said they did. So they realized that someone was either writing the history books wrong, or someone was going back and helping those key historic people do as they were supposed to do. The group concluded that the history books were not wrong, so the people somehow were being persuaded to do as our history books said they did. Therefore, a time traveler who knew of our present history books, helped out. Understand?”
“Yes . . . but what if the ‘helping hand’ person got sick or something, and he didn’t get the chance to do the ‘helping hand’ thing, what then?”
“Oh, it has happened. And then they have to send someone else. The problem is that if historical people are interfered with too many times, they get suspicious of strangers and that causes other troubles. It tends to change them.”
“How so?” Bill queried.
“Well, perhaps they are an adventurous type with a devil-may-care attitude. If they are interfered with, they may become suspicious of others and alter history by shying away from crowds. What if George Washington had become suspicious of his troops? Would he have been able to lead them if he had shunned them? Would he have been able to persuade them to stay at Valley Forge for that long, cold winter? See what I mean? That’s why we are so meticulous about the people we choose to take a trip.“
“Trip? You mean like we just did?” Bill asked.
“More, much more. I’m talking about mingling with the people from 1800s. You know, Bill, to you they were just people long dead. Just written pieces of history. But you go through that door and you are with living, breathing everyday people. They eat and drink, have likes and dislikes just as we do. That’s the real purpose of this club. To find the person who fits easily into another time, without anyone from that selected period ever suspecting a thing. Do you feel you can do that, Bill?”
“Heck, yes! What do I have to do?”
Prescott offered him a cigar and then lit it. He sat back and puffed it to life and as he looked at Bill through a ring of smoke, said, “What do you have to do? Simple. You have to give the Gettysburg Address. Do you know it?”
Bill looked back, stunned. “Do I know the Gettysburg Address? No. Who really can recite the entire address? No one I know.”
Prescott pointed to the bookcases that lined the walls. “It’s all in there,” he said.
“Wait a second,” Bill said. “What do you mean give the Gettysburg Address? Are you or the group trying to . . . to . . . change history?”
Prescott tapped some ash from his cigar as he shook his head. “No, we want to get history back on course. You see, history tells us that Lincoln was a very depressed man. What wasn’t known was that when he was in his depressed state, he would sleep for hours at a time even during the day, and forget many things he did when he was awake. He just could not function. There were times when his bouts of depression had him down for weeks at a time.”
Prescott flicked some ash off his jacket and continued, “Well, one of our probes showed that he never made the Gettysburg Address. It seems that when he was supposed to give the famous speech, he was in the grip of depression. He never got to give it, the slaves never got their freedom, the British entered the war on the side of the South, and the North settled for a stalemate. The United States of 2066 would be a split union. Not still at war, of course, but with different trading partners, politics, money system and many other things. The U.S. of the North would not have been the superpower we see today. This and many other things have made the group decide to send someone back to take Abraham Lincoln’s place and make the famous speech.”
Bill asked in a low voice, “And you think I’m that guy?”
“Yes, we do,” Prescott answered.
“You’re crazy,” Bill said emphatically. “I’d never pull it off. Why his Secret Service guys . . . “
“First, there wasn’t any Secret Service at that time. The U.S. Army protected him. However, he did have a private detective of sorts that looked after him, and he’s in on it.”
Bill was stunned once again. “He’s in on it? What do you mean?”
“We simply had to tell him. I can take you back, but you still have to get into the White House and switch places with the President of the Union. We had to tell him.”
“Tell him what? That I’m going to take the President’s place?”
Prescott nodded. “Yes, of course. They know how he gets. It’s their job to keep it a secret. It’s their sworn duty to protect the President and the Union. Knowing that the country is being run by a person who suffers from depression, they are protecting him from being looked upon as a weakling by the world.”
“So you told the top security guy?”
“Yes, in fact, I dined with the head of White House security last night.” He held a hand up as he corrected himself, “Well, actually last night, one hundred and forty-seven years ago.”
Bill took a drink of his brandy. “This is too much,” he said.
“You can handle it, Bill. I have faith in you.”
“I still can’t believe this,” He sat forward. “What did the security guy say when you said you were from the future? I mean did he freak out?”
“Why? Why would he, ‘freak out,’ as you say? The only thing different between him and you is the one hundred plus years. He’s a smart man, and after I took him through the door to this period, he was in all the way. So, to answer your question, no, he didn’t freak out. He was happy to know that his generation was being watched and helped from a future time.”
“So, 1984 hadn’t been written yet.”
Prescott grinned. “No, he doesn’t know of ‘Big Brother’ yet. But I feel that he’d be all for it.” He stretched out his legs, as the clock struck again. “When I told him of your pending visit, he said he’d take care of the switch.”
“I guess you were pretty sure I’d be the guy to do it. Even before you told me.”
“As I said, Bill, your temperament showed me you were the right person for this job.”
“But I don’t even look like Lincoln.”
“That’s easy. You are pretty close to his height and from a distance with a little touching up you’ll do fine.”
“Does his wife know?”
“No, she’s going to be out of Washington that day, and Lincoln was to leave for Gettysburg early in the morning before the city really gets moving. It’ll be you and the security men.”
“But, his voice! I don’t have a clue what he sounds like. Do you?”
“No, but that day, Lincoln, that is you, will have a cold that will keep him covering his mouth with a handkerchief.”
Bill was becoming more interested. “Well, then, let’s say I’m in, what’s the plan?”
Prescott continued, “We will meet with Kenneth Reilly, his security man, and he’ll brief you as to your mannerisms . . . that is, Lincoln’s mannerisms. He will give us the plan for the switch and we’ll go from there.”
“If I do this, I have a request,” Bill said. “I want to spend some time there. I mean, back there.”
Prescott shook his head vigorously, “No! Too dangerous. You have to operate out of the club and return as soon as possible. Besides, the group in the future would be dead against it.”
“Then I won’t do it.”
Prescott raised one eyebrow. “You won’t do it? Are you telling me you don’t want to walk the streets of 1863 to see what it’s really like? I believe you should rethink it, Bill. This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Pass it up and you will live the rest of your life regretting it.”
Bill looked at the door and, after a pause, said, “You’re right. But if I didn’t insist, I’d spend the rest of my life regretting it.”
As both men looked at each other, Prescott grinned. “A modern day Mexican standoff, so to speak.”
Bill finished his drink and put down the glass, signaling his determination. “Prescott, if I’m as good as you think I am, you’ll get me some time back there. You know I won’t mess up.
“Damn, man. You must understand the gravity of the situation. One slip, one ounce of suspicion from any of the locals and . . . and . . . why, we just don’t know what will happen.”
“Know what, Prescott? You said you’re from the 1800s. Am I right?”
Prescott nodded reluctantly. “Yes, yes, I am. 1860 to be exact. But what’s that have to do with . . . “
Bill continued to present his argument. “With me going back for a bit, on my own? Well, you did it. You came forward and didn’t mess up. What makes you think I’ll blow it?”
“Because I had the club to retreat to if I felt out of place. When the fast moving automobiles, high-flying aircraft and loud motorcycles put me in a panic, I simply retreated into the club and settled down. Should you travel on your own and get a sort of panic attack, why, what would you do?”
“I think there’s a big difference, Prescott, between what you did and what I’m proposing to do. I’ve had the time to study the past while you had no way to prepare for the future. It seems to me that you had a much tougher time of it than I would. Don’t you agree?”
Prescott shrugged. “Yes, I agree you would be more prepared than I was. But they have rules.”
“Then why doesn’t one of them go back and fix it?”
Prescott finished his drink and shook his head. “They can’t. You see, as I said, after years of polluting the air and oceans, mankind smartened up and passed stringent laws against polluting, and enforced them. The laws worked so well that the air that people from your future era breathe is cleaner than it’s been in hundreds of years. Because people from the group were raised in such a clean atmosphere, when they traveled back to my time, or earlier, they felt they were suffocating. So they could bear it for only a short time, not long enough for a mission. To keep history on track, they sent back mechanical probes to check historical facts. When they saw a problem developing, they knew they had to send back someone to help straighten it out. That was another problem. Since none of them could stay back in time long enough to fix it, they decided to seek help from someone of that period. I was selected to be that person. I did some ‘saves’ over the years; but over time, I realized I needed help. People who had various aptitudes were needed to make the missions a success. So I sold the Time Watchers on backing a club for recruits.”
“Without the club members knowing it.” Bill said.
“Yes, of course. I mean, I couldn’t really advertise that I was looking for time travelers, could I? Would you have joined the 1800 Club reading that advertisement?”
Bill shook his head and said, “No, guess not.”
“That’s why I set up the club.”
“To start your own farm team.”
“Farm team? I don’t follow you.”
Bill explained, “Baseball talk for training up-and-coming possibilities for their team.”
“Oh, I see. Well then, yes. The group did set up this club to attract certain types of people. People who could operate in the time that needed attention. People who could blend in and complete the mission.”
“And you are the person who selects that person. Correct?”
“Correct. I am that person. And, correct again, sir, I believe that you could travel around in that period and be accepted as one of them. Therefore Bill, I shall allow you to do just that. But after I buy you lunch at my favorite restaurant in 1863. Agree?”
Bill smiled broadly. “Agree!”
The clock struck once again and Prescott shook his head and laughed. “However, not this evening. It’s way past my bedtime. Tomorrow, say, 11 a.m.?”
“You’re on! Where?”
“Come to the club and change. Matt will bring you to me and I suggest you wear walking shoes. Till then, Bill, pleasant dreams.”
The two men shook hands and Bill left the club, tired yet completely awake.
For Bill, the next morning took a long time to arrive. Finally, dressed in the clothes of a gentleman of the mid-1800s, he stood with Matt as he knocked on the big wooden door. Prescott opened it and said, “Good morning, Bill.” He gestured him into the room as Matt left and closed the door behind him. They shook hands.
“Good morning Prescott.”
“Are you ready for a leisurely lunch?”
“I ate hardly anything all morning,” Bill said. “I still can’t believe it.”
Prescott unlocked the door and went through, as Bill followed close behind.
DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: The 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY
They entered the garden and went out through the iron gate entrance in the wall. Prescott locked it behind them and tucked the key inside his starched shirt. He smiled at Bill and said, “Shall we dine, sir?”
“A wonderful idea, Prescott. Which place do you prefer?”
“The Botterhouse Restaurant over on Worth Street,” came the answer. “Bit of a walk but worth the trip. Up to it?”
“Lead on, Prescott, lead on.”
They walked downtown and Bill was agog at seeing sights he had only dreamed of or had seen only in black-and-white grainy photos. That’s when it hit him; everything was in color! Living color! He was used to looking at black and white photographs of the era and here it was in every day color! He was surprised at the variety of colors they wore. Bright yellows and reds replaced the flat dark colors that appeared in the old photos.
Prescott was right. The people were real, as real as anyone Bill had ever encountered. But the air was even more horrible then he thought it would be. Horse waste was giving off a scent that individuals were fighting, with overpowering scents of their own. It’s a battle they’re losing, Bill thought as he covered his nose with his handkerchief as though he had a cold. Birds sat on trees overhanging the streets and added to the waste.
The noise of the city was also different. No automobiles or bus engine noise, no horns or underground train noises. He could hear horses braying and the clopping of their hooves on cobblestones. But this noise was all on a smaller scale then he was used to hearing. He found he could hear the people as they chatted amongst themselves without having to shout over the noise of a busy street of his time.
Still, Bill was part of it. He was one of them. People walked past him with parcels under their arms. He was happily surprised to note that they were not staring at him. He truly was one of them . . . and he loved it! He noticed that they all did the same thing when crossing the street - look left and right then down to step around and over the horse waste. It was everywhere, as were the thousands of flies it brought. Still, he loved every minute of it!
All the while, Prescott was giving a running commentary as they worked their way toward the restaurant. They turned right on Worth Street, leaving Broadway behind. The old buildings that Bill remembered were now new. Many had long, high sets of stone steps and banisters going up to second floor doors. Too bad they would be torn down, he thought, to make way for the wider streets of the future. He took note that even though the weather was warm, the city was powered by coal burning furnaces and the soot they gave off was horrendous. The black smoke, which belched from the chimneys, darkened the buildings’ facades and tended to mix with the already foul air.
Prescott started to cross the street, but stepped quickly out of the way of a horse team pulling a wagon loaded with kegs of beer. When it had passed, he and Bill headed across to the open door of the Botterhouse Restaurant. The sidewalk menu boasted the freshest leg of mutton in New York City. On entering, a rotund man in a red vest greeted them.
“Good day, Mr. Stevens. Have you been out of town? Haven’t seen too much of you lately.”
“Yes, Timmy, I’ve been visiting my sister over in New Jersey. How’s business?”
“Couldn’t be better. Just got some of your favorite liver in yesterday. Got it before Linden’s Restaurant even knew it was available. Interested?”
Prescott patted his ample stomach. “Now, that sounds like a great lunch. My friend and I would like to sit by the window, if possible. He’s from New Jersey and doesn’t get to see much of our town.”
Timmy ushered them around full tables to a window seat facing Worth Street. The windows all had their awnings down, trying, in vain, to keep the sun’s heat out of the restaurant. He gave them menus and then went to attend to other customers.
Bill focused on the specials written on the chalkboard and said, “Leg of lamb, roasted potatoes, cabbage and carrots smothered in a thick brown gravy. Chicken soup and a special Botterhouse greens dish with their own secret dressing . . . no burger and fries, I take it?”
Prescott smiled. “Not yet. But, the liver and onions is done with true love here, and I haven’t had any in over three weeks. It’s also not as heavy as the lamb dish.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have that, too,” Bill said.
“And a beer?”
“Sure, that’d be perfect.”
After the meal, Prescott sat back and offered Bill a cigar. “No law against smoking in restaurants yet, Bill. Have one?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” They both lit up, as Timmy reappeared.
“So, gentlemen, how was your lunch? Satisfactory, I hope.”
Prescott once again patted his stomach, “My Lord, Tim, you have outdone yourself. I don’t think I’ll be having anything to eat for . . . for . . . well, at least until this evening.”
Timmy and Bill laughed at the man making fun of himself. Prescott paid the cashier and left a tip for Timmy who quickly pocketed it as they went out into the bright sunny day.
“Prescott, that was magnificent! Can we stroll for a bit?”
“A bit is about all I can do, Bill. I have a game knee that keeps me sitting a lot.”
Their attention was taken by the sound of a marching band. Coming up the street toward them was a military band followed by a group of men in civilian clothes being marched by a grizzled old sergeant as best he could. Running alongside the column were excited children.
Prescott frowned as they passed. “Poor sods,” he said. “Marching blithely off to victory and glory. Of course, getting maimed or killed is not on the recruiting posters. And to think that more Americans will be killed in this war than in any other future war.”
Bill looked at him. “Talking out of club time, Prescott. That could get you kicked out, you know.”
Prescott laughed and slapped Bill’s back. “Ha! Right you are my friend, right you are. Must remember where, or rather, what period I’m in.” Then, becoming serious, he said, “It’s just the knowledge of knowing there’s nothing we can do to undo the bad parts that we know are coming.” He shook his head. “Frustrating!”
Bill nodded in agreement.
A rumble of thunder threatened their walk, and Bill reluctantly offered to end it prematurely. Prescott agreed and they turned back.
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Back in the club sipping a brandy, Bill stared into his drink and said, “Amazing. Breakfast in 2011, lunch and a stroll in 1863 and brandy back in 2011. Amazing.”
Smiling, Prescott queried, “Are you ready to take the trip, Bill?”
“Absolutely! When?”
“November nineteenth.”
“Two weeks away.
“No, I mean November nineteenth their time. You can go whenever you are ready. I can avail you of our very extensive library. It also contains the complete speech by Lincoln at Gettysburg.”
“I do need to go over that. What do you do to get me to the time needed? Sort of dial it up?” Bill asked.
Prescott explained, “A good analogy. I have a TFM, short for Time Frequency Modulator. With it, I can dial up any time I wish, back until 1820. That’s when this building was built. We can go back earlier, but we’d have to operate outside of this building. The TFM has been entrusted to me by the Time Watchers of the future.”
“I would love to take a look at it,” Bill said.
Prescott looked at him pensively. “You will, and I hope that soon it will be yours.”
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