The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history

by James S. Peet

  “First things first. Shower, then laundry.” Holding onto his toiletries kit, Bill grabbed a towel from the rack near the door. “Be back soon. Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Jordan replied absently, more interested in extracting his own clean clothes and toiletries kit.

  Rather than spend any more time outdoors than necessary, with the possibility of engaging more locals in the fine art of self-defense, they decided to eat in the hotel.

  Supper was a simple affair in the hotel’s small dining room, consisting mainly of some form of carbonized meat and incredibly overcooked vegetables. The four were hungry enough, and tired of railroad dining, that it didn’t really matter to them what it was or how it tasted, only that it was hot and served with something alcoholic.

  They split a bottle of red wine amongst themselves and wondered how the company that produced it could pass it off as wine. One glass each was more than enough. Luckily, the whiskey was a little better.

  “Hmm. Jack Daniel’s,” Matt said, hoisting the glass up to the weak light above them. “At least some things don’t change.”

  “So, I spoke with the clerk while you guys were washing up,” Lane said, “and he recommended taking a riverboat down the Mississippi to the Confederacy. It’s a bit slower than the trains, but more reliable, apparently. Also, it’s a lot cheaper, even factoring in food needed for the extra days.”

  Bill took a sip of his whiskey. “Would we be sleeping in staterooms or on the deck?”

  “Believe it or not, we could get a stateroom for the four of us all the way down to Memphis for only ten bucks each. From there, we can catch a train to Birmingham, then to Atlanta. The train would run us another twenty bucks each. Trying to catch a train from here to Atlanta would run us fifty apiece.”

  “How much time are we talking?”

  “It would add another five days, and be a whole lot more comfortable.”

  “Thoughts?”

  “Well, it sure would be interesting to visit Memphis again, even if it means riding a boat down a river,” Matt said.

  Jordan set his glass down. “Money or time? I think saving money’s a good thing.”

  “Sounds like it’s riverboat time,” Bill said, picking up his glass and taking a sip, and looking back at Lane. “When’s the next boat, where do we catch it, and how do we make reservations?”

  “The clerk said he could call and make the reservations for us. A cab’ll run us about two bucks to get to the landing. Boat leaves tomorrow, shortly after noon.”

  Bill grinned, remembering a line that Karen Wilson, his former commander would sometimes quote from an old television show. “Make it so.”

  Lane nodded. “Now or after supper.”

  “First, we dine!”

  60

  After breakfast, they visited the bookstore they had passed the day before. Luckily, there were no drunks out at that time of the morning to harass them, and Jordan had stopped grousing about bedbugs, having avoided an infestation, so the hour they spent perusing books was a pleasant diversion. Lane found a book on the current state of the Confederacy and, after showing it to the others, purchased it. Bill found a couple of books on the history of the United Kingdom and Imperial Germany and decided to buy them. Should be interesting reading.

  After paying for their purchases, they stepped out of the bookstore. Bill accidentally stepped right into the path of a man who was passing by. Not having enough time to stop, the man slammed into Bill, knocking him off his feet, and causing him to drop his books.

  Getting up with a puzzled look on his face, Bill brushed off his hands. “What the...?”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was punched in the face and knocked back to the ground.

  “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

  Bill looked up at the man in shock, dazed. His nose was hurting and he could feel blood seeping from it onto his upper lip and through his mustache. Who punches you for bumping into them? The man was several years older than Bill, dressed in rough, dirty clothes, and his craggy face hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week. Then Bill’s training kicked in.

  Still keeping the man, now glaring down at Bill with raised fists, in his view, Bill swiped his sleeve across his upper lip, wiping the blood away, then he got back to his feet, this time in a more fight-ready mindset. As soon as he was on his feet, the man attacked again.

  This time, rather than a single punch, the man threw punch after punch, trying to hit Bill in the face or head with each attempt. Bill blocked the punches and then went into attack mode. His first strike was a quick kick to the shins. His right foot lashed out and slammed into the man’s left shin, causing him to yelp, stop swinging, and back away, hopping and holding his injured leg with both hands.

  “Dude, stop it. It was an accident.”

  “Fuck you,” the man said, angrily, releasing his leg, and then used it to try and kick Bill in the groin. Bill stepped back far enough that he was only grazed in the inner thigh by the man’s boot toe. Upon regaining his balance, he swung at Bill again, rather than trying another kick.

  Bill immediately threw up his left arm, blocking the punch, while simultaneously throwing his own punch into the man’s exposed abdomen. He had almost punched the man in the throat but changed his direction at the last moment. As soon as the man doubled over, Bill grabbed the back of his neck with both his hands and pushed down. At the same time, he brought his knee up, slamming the man in the face. The man’s upper body arced up and away from Bill, who released his double-hand hold on his assailant’s neck, and he landed on his back on the sidewalk. Bill could hear the man’s head thunk into the hard pavement as he hit.

  Dropping back into a fighting position, he could finally hear his companions claiming they were clear.

  Bill looked around, seeing his team surrounding him and a crowd gathering. A whistle was blowing in the near distance.

  Keeping an eye on the now supine attacker, Bill picked up the two books he had just bought. At that moment, two police officers arrived. The older was panting, but clearly taking in the scene at a glance. The younger cop looked down at the man on the sidewalk. He crouched down and began a more intense inspection, checking the man for signs of life.

  “What happened here?”

  Bill was still breathing hard and was just about to answer when the saleslady from the bookstore stepped out of the store.

  “Officer, that ruffian attacked my customer as he was coming out of the store. It looks like he deliberately slammed into my customer just to start a fight.”

  The older officer looked around. “Anyone else see what started this?”

  All of the bystanders shook their heads.

  “Okay. So if I’m reading this right, Jocko here slammed into...?”

  “Bill.”

  “Into Bill, then started a fight?”

  “Punched me in the nose and knocked me to the ground.”

  “What happened next?”

  Bill was about to answer, but the saleslady jumped in for him. “I saw the whole thing. He got up and was attacked again. It was purely self-defense on his part. The other guy wouldn’t stop or even accept an apology.”

  “He’s dead,” the younger policeman announced.

  “You ain’t a doctor,” the older officer replied, absentmindedly. “You can’t declare nobody dead. Go call a detective and a meat wagon.”

  The younger officer stood and headed back down the street, the way he had come from.

  Not seeing any radios, Bill suspected he was going to a call-box.

  “You got any ID?”

  Bill fumbled with his shirt pocket with shaking hands, eventually getting his passport out. The officer clearly saw the holstered pistol under his vest but didn’t say anything.

  “Hmm. Republic of California. First time in Franklin?”

  Bill nodded. By now his entire body was shaking from the adrenalin dump. He felt like he could hardly stand, let alone conver
se.

  “Yeah, well, welcome. We’re not all like that asshole. Here’s the situation. Looks like self-defense, but I still gotta take a report. Smitty’s calling a detective, so he’s gonna need to talk to you, too. You got any plans for this afternoon?”

  “We were supposed to be taking a riverboat down to Memphis.”

  “When’s it leave?”

  “A bit after noon.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Unless, that is, his kin show up and wanna make something of this. You might want to keep that holster loose.”

  Bill hadn’t even considered this. It was shocking enough to have just killed a man, and now he had to worry about the dead man’s relatives? He was having difficulty processing all this when Lane stepped in.

  “Officer, we’re kind of ignorant here. Can you please tell us what we should expect? We don’t usually have this stuff happen where we’re from.”

  The officer was about to reply just as the younger officer returned.

  “Detective Irwin is on the way. Should be here in five.”

  The older officer nodded and turned back to Lane and Bill, whose breathing was now under control.

  “The detective’ll take a statement from the victim, and any witnesses who saw what happened. Since the lady over there,” he indicated toward the sales clerk, “saw the whole thing, and she’s an uninterested party, this is pretty much an open and shut case of self-defense. A report’ll be filed, the next of kin notified, and you’re free to leave.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”

  Bill was surprised to hear this. He was expecting to be arrested, booked, detained, and have to go through a tortuous judicial system. Sort of like an old Arlo Guthrie song about a restaurant, only worse.

  “You okay?” the older officer asked, looking at Bill.

  Bill nodded. “Yeah. Just shook up.”

  “First man you kill?”

  Bill just nodded, looking down.

  The officer looked at him with obvious sympathy.

  “Doesn’t get any easier.”

  Great. Another thing I’ll have to wake me up at night. Get in line with the propeller and the cave bear, buddy.

  The detective and the ambulance arrived at roughly the same time, less than five minutes after the younger officer returned to the scene. The ambulance, its red lights flashing in the morning light, looked more like a step-van than the ones Bill remembered from his Earth.

  Before the ambulance crew could take the body, the detective inspected it, then went through the dead man’s pockets, putting what he found into a paper bag.

  Once the detective gave the all-clear sign, the ambulance crew placed the body on a stretcher, then put it into the back of the ambulance. The pool of blood from the assailant’s head stained the sidewalk. Bill looked away.

  The detective approached Bill and the two police officers.

  “What happened?”

  The older officer told him, passing over Bill’s passport as he did. “From what the lady said, it’s pretty much a clear case of self-defense.”

  “Sounds that way. You take any formal statements?”

  The officer shook his head.

  “Hmm. Well, you take statements from any other witnesses. I’ll take them from,” he looked down at the passport in his hand, “Mr. Clark here, and the bookstore lady.”

  Bill wasn’t sure if there was a right to avoid self-incrimination in Franklin, and asked about it.

  “Yeah, but that’s only if you’re being charged with something. This pretty much looks like a clear case of self-defense, you’re not being charged with anything, so I just need a statement for my report.”

  The detective pulled out a spiral-bound notebook, one where the binding was on the top of the book.

  “So, tell me what happened.”

  Bill looked briefly at his companion. Lane nodded.

  “I had just bought a couple of books,” Bill said, holding them up, “and walked out the door and got run over by that guy. Knocked to the ground. I got up, then the guy punched me in the nose,” Bill pointed to his swelling nose, the dried blood encrusted in his mustache, “knocking me down. When I got up, he attacked me again, so I fought back.”

  “How’d he wind up with a cracked skull?”

  Bill explained what he could of the fight. When he came to the part about kneeing the assailant in the face, the detective stopped him.

  “Why’d you knee him?”

  “I had two choices, knee him in the face or hammer him in the back of the skull. I didn’t want to kill him, but I wanted him out of the fight, so I kneed him.”

  The detective nodded. Closing his notebook, he put it back in his coat’s inside pocket.

  “Pretty clear-cut case to me. If it was just you, I might think a bit harder, but that lady’s got no reason, as far as I can tell, to stand up for you.” He handed Bill’s passport back to him. “You said you’re taking a boat out of town today?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Well, I suggest you make sure you’re on it.”

  “We will be,” Lane answered for Bill.

  They returned to the hotel, where Bill washed the blood off his face. Jordan got some ice from the restaurant, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to Bill, who promptly put it on his nose.

  “I think it might be broken,” Bill said through the towel, his voice muffled.

  “Lemme see.”

  Bill pulled the ice-packed towel from his face and Jordan looked closely at it.

  “Naw, just bruised. Gonna swell up like a balloon, I’m betting.”

  “Great, just what I need.”

  “Could’ve been worse.”

  Bill could only nod at that.

  Shortly before noon, they took a cab to the landing, where Bill was surprised to find the riverboat wasn’t a replica of the old Mississippi river boats that he imagined from the past. Instead, it was more like a barge-like boat that one would take on a trip up the Rhine River on his Earth. No paddle wheel on the side or back, just a long boat with a top and foredeck and a double-deck of windows on the sides.

  A small ticket office was at the top of the landing. The Explorers approached it and joined the short line waiting to get tickets.

  Finally, it was Bill’s turn.

  “Hi. We’ve got reservations for a stateroom,” he told the young man, his voice sounding nasally to himself.

  “Name?”

  “Clark. Bill Clark.”

  “Right. Got it right here. That’ll be forty dollars please.”

  Bill handed over forty dollars in small gold coins and was presented four tickets, three of which he passed out to the others.

  “When can we board?”

  “Now, if you like. The bar’s open if your room’s not ready. Or, you can hang out on the upper deck.”

  “Thanks. I could definitely use a drink.” By now, the adrenalin had long worn off, and Bill was feeling both tired and morose.

  At this point, Lane had already taken the lead and was walking down the gangway to the riverboat.

  Once aboard, the foursome found their stateroom wasn’t ready, but the bar was, indeed, open. Bill had already decided he needed a drink; not just to steady his nerves, but to also take some of the pain out of his battered nose and arms. It soon became clear from the bartender’s attitude that people of color weren’t much appreciated in his establishment. They decided to ignore his surly behavior toward Lane and Jordan, but Bill decided to order for the four of them anyhow, just to avoid problems. Fortunately, the bar also served meals, so they were able to grab sandwiches with their beers while awaiting their stateroom.

  Shortly before they finished eating, a whistle sounded from above, and an announcement came over the intercom.

  “All ashore who’s going ashore. The Tom Sawyer departs in five minutes.”

  None of the four said anything, they just looked at each other in surprise. It seemed none of them had taken the time to look at the name of the boat before boarding.

  While
they ate, the vessel began moving. At first, the motion was barely perceptible, but then the boat picked up speed as it began moving downriver.

  Before they finished eating, an older white male, looking very similar to the hotel clerk, approached them. The man smelled old. Not musty, just the smell of someone old, who probably didn’t take bathing too seriously or something to be considered a daily ritual.

  “You the Clark party?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Stateroom’s ready. Here’s the key.” The old man handed Bill a key, reminiscent of the hotel. “You’ll find it on the bottom deck, port side, about halfway down.”

  Bill thanked the man. Not sure if he should tip him or not, he elected not to as the man gave a slight bow and left.

  “Port side?” Lane asked.

  The other Explorers chuckled at this, recognizing that Lane’s explorations were a lot different than theirs.

  “On a plane or a boat, the port side’s the left side of the craft when you’re looking from stern to bow,” Bill explained. “Starboard’s on the right side. Best way to remember is that port and left are both four-letter words.”

  “Why not just call it left or right?”

  “Well, think about it. Let’s say I’m facing to the back of the craft and I yell ‘bandits to the left’. Whose left am I referring to? Port and starboard have specific meanings, just like bow, forward, stern, and aft. It’s all relative to the vessel. Want a history lesson?”

  Lane tilted his head with a slightly skeptical look on his face. “Sure.”

  “Okay. Most of this is handed down from the days of using oars. I’m talking ancient stuff. Anyhow, port is the side of the boat that would actually face a port when docked — loading or unloading. Starboard came from before there was even a rudder, when a steering oar was used, instead. Guess which side of the boat that oar was.”

  “Uh, the right side.”

  “Yep, but now we call that the starboard side, ‘cause the actual term in old English was steor and bord. Steor meant ‘steer,’ and bord meant ‘side of the boat’, hence steorbord, or starboard. And, since you don’t want your steering oar bashing up against the dock, you would pull the boat up so the steering oar was away from the port. So, port is left and starboard is right when facing toward the front. Pretty easy.”