by Mark J Rose
The wolf backed to the edge of the porch away from the open doorway. Matt could see that it was dark, scraggly, and wet. “Get!” he said. “Go!” With all the violence he had experienced over the last few days, he had no desire to kill anything. The rain soaked animal looked toward him from the shadows. “Leave!” Matt yelled. The wolf, still a silhouette, barked. Matt’s mind raced.
The animal walked slowly into view and Matt kept it in his gun sights. Matt stepped from behind the door and set the gun on the ledge. He was shocked at the ghost he was seeing.
“Scout?” he said. The wet, shivering dog walked to his feet, and Matt stooped to wrap his arms around him. Scout licked his face excitedly. Matt’s eyes were glassy. “Don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’m glad to see you.”
Matt stood and scanned the moonlit yard, but the dog had come alone. Scout trotted into the room, leaving a trail of water, and hopped up onto the bed.
“You’re all wet,” Matt exclaimed. Scout lay at the foot of the bed with his head on his front paws. “Fine,” Matt proclaimed. He latched the door and crawled under the blankets. As he stretched his legs out, he heard a low growl. He pulled his legs up slightly and the dog grew quiet.
Prophet
21
Philadelphia
Matt was riding Thunder through the frozen cloud that formed from the horse’s breath in the cold winter air. An icicle beard was steadily growing under the animal’s mouth and Matt wondered if he should stop and try to crush it off, but he decided to wait until they were back in the warm confines of the stable. Tugging at the horse’s jaw would only irritate him more, and Matt had no desire to take his gloves off and start a struggle on this country road in the middle of a snowstorm. Scout was keeping their pace just off the road, randomly hopping as he kicked up rabbits from their hiding places in the snow. He never caught them, but he gave chase for as long as they were visible, slowing just enough to extend the pursuit.
They’d been riding outside the city for more than an hour and Matt’s toes were feeling the frost. It was two days after Christmas, and Philadelphia was paralyzed from the snow that had fallen constantly for almost two weeks. The mood was anything but festive. The drifts made it impossible to move through the city streets, so Matt gave up on going to the laboratory. With nothing happening in the city, he was left with time to exercise the animals. He wore a large wool cloak that covered his body to the tops of his boots. It captured the heat that rose from the horse, keeping Matt mostly warm, but his feet and face were exposed. To complete his discomfort, a headache was coming on. He didn’t want to be too far out of town in the event that it became bad enough to lose his vision.
Bastards! Matt reached up with his gloved hand to rub where they’d clubbed him in the head, then retook the reins to slow Thunder. He moved the leather straps across the horse’s neck to change direction.
“We gotta head back, boy,” he said. “I’m cold.” The horse hesitated, but then followed the command. Thunder was smart enough to know that turning in the road signaled the end of their trip. “Tomorrow’s another day,” Matt said. He patted the horse’s neck and searched the woods for the dog. “Scout, let’s go!” he yelled into the wind. There was nothing at first, and then shuffling as the dog came bounding through the snow and brush. The horse shook his head and made the pwafft sound that was his usual reaction to the dog. “We’re going home.”
The dog looked down the road toward their destination. They’d lived in Philadelphia for less than four months, but Scout could already recognize most of the people and places by name. Matt had worried that it might be hard for the animal to become accustomed to the city, but Scout took easily to the lifestyle. James Baker, the teenage boy Matt cured of a stomachache on his way to Philadelphia, took care of the dog while Matt tried to get his business off the ground. The teen let Scout follow him around on his daily chores and let him ride atop his wagon during deliveries.
Matt’s original timeline had crumbled to the point where he had no idea when he’d be able to return to Richmond. After a promising start, it had proven impossible to make enough aspirin to sell. The first couple of small reactions had worked so well and looked so pure that he chanced taking the drug himself and was happy to learn that the aspirin did what it should. Matt could synthesize it in small quantities, but every time he tried to scale the reaction up, it turned to brown tar. Four months of constant work had yielded only ten doses.
The recent blanket of snow muted the sounds on the country road except for the strong breathing of the horse and the jangling of the buckles on the dog’s leather collar. The sun was low on the horizon and the lanterns of the city pubs appeared as they moved closer to town. The pubs were always better lit than the houses and easiest to spot in the distance. Matt’s plan was to return to the Bakers’ complex, bed Thunder down in the stable, and go back to his room for strong tea and aspirin to push his headache away.
The Bakers didn’t condone Matt’s bringing the dog into the room he rented, but they looked the other way since the weather had turned harsh. Matt couldn’t remember it being as cold in Philadelphia as it was now. He dwelled on this thought for a moment, thinking this might be an entirely incorrect way to think about his experience. It wasn’t the past he remembered, was it? His memories were from the future, so technically his experience hadn’t happened yet. It wouldn’t be as cold in the future, two hundred and fifty years from now. His mind grew tired when he focused on his place in the timeline for too long.
The dog’s ears perked up now as they moved into the city. Sometimes stray dogs harassed them, or rats scurried along their path as they passed. Scout would bark or growl when he thought a dog might be threatening, and always at the rats, who didn’t capture his imagination like the rabbits in the countryside. The dog took his role as protector very seriously. Today, though, they were alone as they stepped through the large chunks of ice and piles of drifted snow that blocked their path.
**********
Thunder was still steaming when Matt finally walked him up to the stable. Matt opened the barn door and led him inside. There was no heat, but the barn was relatively warm from the eight animals housed there. Matt checked the horse’s bedding and feed, walked him into his stall and closed the gate. He’d come back later and cover him with a blanket after the perspiration had dried. As Matt situated the horse, the dog wandered over to his sleeping area.
After young James Baker convinced his father that the dog wouldn’t bother the horses, the man agreed to let Scout sleep in the stable. As time went on, the elder Baker became downright comfortable with the dog, often spending long moments talking to him, scratching his head, and bringing him bones. Matt heard him saying “good dog” one day in response to Scout’s barking at anyone who entered the stable who wasn’t a member of the Baker family. The dog had a way with people and gravitated toward those that were solid and sincere. Matt wondered at times how an animal could be so good at judging character.
Matt poked his head into Scout’s stall and saw that he was intently chewing on a bone left by the older man. After checking his water, Matt decided to leave the dog in the barn. “I’ll see you later,” he said. “You may be here all night with the size of that.” The animal glanced up but returned quickly to chewing. Matt shut the door of the stable as he walked outside. The ground was brittle with snow that crunched as he walked and made him shiver.
Matt’s room was behind the building where they kept surplus equipment for their candlemaking workshop. The room was comfortable by colonial standards but was cold in the winter like most eighteenth-century buildings. It was dark when he entered except for a log that was still glowing in the fireplace. It always smelled strongly of smoke when he entered for the first time. Matt grabbed another log and tossed it onto the smoldering embers. Sparks flashed and traveled up into the chimney. He poked the split wood until it was sitting fully on the red coals and fiddled with it until it burst into flames.
Matt poured water int
o the kettle and pushed it over the fire, wondering again why the room didn’t have some sort of stove. When he was still in Richmond, he had started a list of inventions that had by now grown substantially. His most desired invention, since winter had started, was a Franklin stove. He’d been under the impression that everyone had them in colonial times, but he hadn’t seen one yet. The cold Pennsylvania winter was teaching him firsthand that the traditional fireplace wasn’t efficient for either cooking or heating.
Matt changed out of his riding boots into thick wool socks and short black shoes. The fire was starting to pop and steam was rising from the kettle. He put three times the usual amount of tea in his metal pot, poured the hot water, and let it steep for a couple of minutes before pouring it into a cup. He walked to the windowsill where he kept the milk and added some to the tea along with a spoon of honey. The tea was strong but tasted as good as any he could’ve gotten in his own century. He stood there looking out the window, waiting for the caffeine to take effect, hoping it would prevent his headache.
Matt lit a candle and sat back in front of the fire to read. He reached around for his book until remembering he’d left it at the laboratory. He rested there for a while, watching the fire dance, but after he finished his tea, he became bored. There had been too many nights recently, in between the headaches, where he’d obsessed about getting his business off the ground. Tonight he needed human company. Matt replaced the metal screen in front of the fire to prevent embers from popping out into the room. He grabbed his wool cloak that had been warming near the fire, put it on, and walked out again into the cold winter air.
**********
Matt felt surprisingly warm as he walked the four blocks to Poor Tom’s Tavern. His head and his mood were both better after the tea. There were two other taverns on the way, but he chose to go the extra distance. The taverns he skipped were full of men with thick Cockney accents whose primary purpose, it seemed, was to get drunk and fight in between propositioning whores. Poor Tom’s attracted wealthy businessmen and educated people, and the women there were at least subtle in their approach.
A sweltering steam of unwashed humanity confronted Matt as he opened the door to Poor Tom’s. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the warmth, and while he noticed the smell, it no longer bothered him as it once had. There was a band playing off in the corner. It sounded like an Irish tune, but most tavern music in the eighteenth century sounded Irish to Matt, so he wasn’t sure. He walked to a table next to the bar and sat. Charity, an attractive barmaid who was probably five years younger than him, looked over, and he signaled her to bring him an ale. She smiled flirtatiously through locks of dark brown hair as she set it down.
“Good evening, Mr. Miller,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“I’ve been busy with work,” Matt replied. “The weather hasn’t helped.” He surveyed the tavern and realized there were more seats open than usual. “Anything exciting?”
“Cold’s keeping people home.”
“I needed to get out,” Matt replied.
Charity was staring over Matt’s shoulder in the direction of a table in the corner. Matt turned to see three men sitting there. One was gesturing excitedly to the two others as he spoke. “It may come to blows,” Charity said to Matt, rolling her eyes.
“I’ve never seen them in here,” Matt said.
“Dr. Franklin hasn’t been for a while,” Charity explained. “He’s recently returned from England.”
“Ben Franklin?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “Do you know him?”
22
Founding Father
Matt felt star-struck as he tried to get a hint of recognition from a face he’d only seen in two-hundred-year-old paintings. He resisted the temptation to pull out the hundred-dollar bill he carried in his pocketbook. He had often joked to himself that meeting one of the founders of the United States of America would be no big deal, but now he was paralyzed.
“Mr. Miller,” Charity said, noticing his change in manner. “Have you had some dealings with Dr. Franklin?”
“No,” Matt replied, “but I’m aware of his reputation.”
“Do you desire an introduction?”
“You know him?”
“He’s quite charming,” she said, smiling warmly. “Send them ale. Did you wish to speak on some topic in particular?”
Matt was dumbfounded. He was from Philadelphia and had spent his childhood walking through the Franklin Institute, and now he had no idea what to say to Ben Franklin. “I’m a scientist,” he mumbled.
“A scientist?”
“Hard to believe?”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Why?”
“The lettered men who come in here are exceedingly proud,” Charity said.
“So am I,” Matt said, smiling.
She rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was intrigued. “Too proud for a simple barmaid, then?”
“You shouldn’t judge me so harshly.”
She smiled at him and then, much to his surprise, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. The warmth of her lips contrasted with the coolness of her hair as it traveled across his face.
“I guess that works,” Matt said. He could still feel the softness of her lips.
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
She curtsied and walked away with a spring in her step.
Matt sat drinking his ale, still with no idea of what he’d say to Franklin. He felt like he knew everything and nothing about the man. He considered talking about electricity and tried to remember when Franklin did the kite experiment. His train of thought was broken as he watched Charity take three mugs over to the table. Franklin turned and waved him over.
“Thank you for the ale,” Franklin said, standing up to shake Matt’s hand when he had reached them. The two other men stood hesitantly and gave Matt suspicious stares.
“Matthew Miller. I’m a scientist and have followed your work for some time.”
“Dr. Benjamin Franklin,” the older man replied, still grasping Matt’s hand. “What kind of science?”
Matt decided it would be best to speak the truth. “Apothecary,” he said. “I’ve invented a few different medicines.”
Franklin glared at his companions. “Are you going to introduce yourselves?” Both men shook Matt’s hand and said their names.
“We can continue the conversation another day,” Franklin said to the two men. “The Crown will not forget us anytime soon.” The men shook Franklin’s hand to leave. One put money down on the table and they both walked away. Neither had touched the drinks Matt bought.
“They’re a bunch of old mad toms whenever we talk about the king’s taxes,” Franklin explained. “There’s naught we can do sitting here.”
“Nothing is certain but death and taxes,” Matt said with a grin.
“Ho! ’Tis true,” Franklin cried. “Would it vex you if I were to repeat that?”
“Not at all,” Matt said, feeling shameless. He was sure Franklin had been the one to say this, but it was obvious from his reaction that he hadn’t said it yet. Matt wanted to kick himself. Why hadn’t he prepared for meeting someone famous? Coming from Philadelphia, he should have at least thought about meeting Ben Franklin, his childhood hero. It was going to be hard to lie. Franklin was the Leonardo da Vinci of the eighteenth century. He was well-traveled and might know enough to spot discrepancies in Matt’s story. There was also the problem that Matt could no longer use the elaborate cover story he developed in Virginia, which involved telling everyone that he was from Philadelphia.
“Have a seat, young man,” Franklin said, pointing to one of the chairs vacated by his colleagues. “What brings you to Philadelphia?”
“I moved here recently from Richmond,” Matt replied. “As I said, I’ve invented some medicines and I’m trying to establish an apothecary business.”
“Where did you take your education?”
Matt thought quickly. “The College of William and Mary.” He changed the subject before Franklin could ask any follow-up questions. “Someone said you’ve recently returned from England. How long is that journey?”
“Six to twelve weeks, depending on whether you’re coming or going and how stubborn the captain.”
“Does the wind blow differently in one direction?” In his own time, it took an hour longer to fly west across the United States than east because of the jet stream.
“The currents flow favorably in some parts of the sea,” Franklin replied. “It’s only a matter of convincing the captain to take a less obvious route.”
Matt remembered something about Franklin discovering the Gulf Stream, but he hadn’t been aware of the practical use until now. “Do you make the journey often?”
“Only when necessary. What can you cure with these medicines of yours?”
“Headaches, pain, and rheumatism. I’m working on something that will prevent morsel.” Franklin’s eyebrows went up. Matt wasn’t sure whether he was excited or doubtful.
“Do you have a storefront?”
“Grace Apothecary, one street off Market.”
“I might come to buy some of this rheumatism medicine.”
“I have a few tablets with me now.”
“Here?” Franklin asked, surprised.
“You should see them fizz,” Matt said as he waved to Charity. She beamed and walked to the table. “We need two cups of clear water.”
When she had left the table, Franklin observed, “Seems that young lady fancies you.”
“I’m already pledged to a lady in Richmond.”
“Anglicans?” There was some disdain in his voice.
Matt nodded.
