Fortune

by Craig W. Turner

  “But that’s no different from what we don’t know about what’s going to happen in 10, 20 years, right?”

  “I see a difference, though. We’re much more heavily involved in making it happen. The people of this time seem more that they’re going with the flow. Think about the differences in media, the constant access to information that we have. We may not know what’s going to happen, but we know very well what’s possible in many ways, ways that could change our lives. I’m not sure I’d say the same for these people.”

  “These people had to build a country. We just have to keep it running.”

  “True.”

  Now there were more people on the road and more buildings to justify their presence. A few even nodded to them. Jeff would offer a tip of his hat; Erica, the dutiful wife of the 1830s, just followed along with an occasional nod.

  After about a half-hour of walking, they were into the city. Erica began to recognize things – at least, she recognized them from the map that she’d memorized. A specific intersection. A circle. “We’re up here about another half-mile,” she said.

  “That’s pretty good,” Jeff said, complimenting her. She looked at him and he was smiling. “I have absolutely no idea where we are. Of course, I’ve let my guard down because I trust you know what you’re doing.”

  “Where we are...” she said, thinking. “If you remember, on the ride to the park we passed right by here. That circle is still there. There was a post office right here and a Starbucks on this side. The circle had a statue in the middle of it, though we drove by too quickly and I didn’t get to see who it was.”

  “Every circle in Philadelphia has a statue in the middle of it,” he said. She smiled to herself. “So, the shop is this way?”

  “Yes, straight ahead.”

  “When did it burn down?”

  “In about three years, provided we’re where we’re supposed to be. Or when we’re supposed to be, rather. A lantern was knocked over and since the building was filled with papers, it went up quickly. Imagine the records, the history that was lost.”

  The street was fairly crowded now, with the business of 1831 happening around them at its own familiar pace. A farmer rode by on a wagon filled with squash and zucchini, and a pack of young boys chased after him for a good thousand feet, laughing and waiting for something to fall off. The farmer shooed them away and kept on moving. Men and women dressed identically to them walked along the sides of the street, entering and leaving the buildings. Erica saw a blacksmith’s shop and had an overwhelming urge to tug on Jeff’s arm and beg him to take her inside.

  Soon, they came to their destination, the records office, which was still standing, confirming that they’d at least successfully made it to sometime before the fire in 1834. In her research, Erica had found a charcoal sketch of the entire street and now that she could see it in real life, it was easy to see that the artist’s depiction of the shop had been unbelievably accurate. “This is so exciting,” she said. “I know it’s just a records shop, but to see this street come to life is just…” She never gave Jeff an adjective. She couldn’t come up with one that did justice.

  Without a word, Jeff approached the front door of the office and walked inside. Erica followed him in. Behind the wooden counter was a white-haired man wearing bifocals, and behind him were about a dozen rows of shelves stuffed with papers. Not surprisingly, her attention immediately went to the lantern hanging on a standing frame behind the counter. A small bump and it could’ve been sent – and ultimately would be – into the papers. Besides the lantern and what natural sunlight came in the window behind them, the room was fairly dark for the business it provided.

  “How can I help you today, son?” the man asked in a shaky, unassertive voice.

  “I’m looking for the record of a hanging,” Jeff said, without trying an accent. She was relieved – his practicing in the car made him sound like he was raised in Tennessee, and then moved to Brooklyn, with a year studying abroad in Trinidad somewhere in the middle.

  The man looked at him, not unsuspiciously, if still open-minded enough to help. “You new in town?”

  “Passing through, actually. We’re on our way to New York to make our fortunes.”

  The man laughed. “Aren’t we all trying to make our fortunes? Mine’s in paper.” He motioned with his thumb behind him toward the shelves. “I’m rich with it. When’s this hanging of yours?”

  “On or around August 13, 1770.”

  “In Philadelphia?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man nodded and slowly rose from his stool, heading into the racks. As he walked, Erica watched him disappear into the back even further than it appeared he could go. She shook her head sadly, thinking about the wealth of historical information that would be lost.

  The man’s voice came from out of the shadows. “If my fortune’s in paper,” he asked, “where’s yours?”

  “I design buildings,” Jeff said without hesitation. Erica looked at him. They hadn’t discussed that. He looked back at her and shrugged. “Not a role-player,” he’d said before. Apparently he was underselling himself.

  “You design buildings? What kind of buildings?” From the dark again.

  “Oh, courthouses, museums, banquet halls, libraries and other types of gathering places.”

  They heard rustling and a clanging of metal before the man emerged, limping toward the counter again with a large volume in his hand. “1770,” he said. “Go ahead, take a look,” he said, sliding it toward them.

  Erica watched as Jeff started to flip through the pages, but realized that he was going to need her, so she stepped up to the counter next to him.

  “You interested in this stuff, too, honey?” he asked.

  “Very,” she said, looking over Jeff’s shoulder at the pages.

  “What’s your interest in a hanging?”

  “Well,” Jeff said, stepping in, “we believe that a beloved great uncle of my wife’s was hanged in Philadelphia right around this time and we’re trying to find out if it’s true.”

  Erica couldn’t help herself. “It was such a tremulous time in the colonies,” she said, “that anything could’ve happened to him. We’d like to know for sure.” She’d thrown in a hint of Cockney British and saw Jeff trying not to smile about it.

  That was apparently enough of an explanation for the man, so he went about his own business. From her research, Erica knew his name – it was Thomas Meeks – but she really didn’t know anything else about him other than the fact that he ended up burning down his business.

  The records in front of them were overwhelmingly detailed, but seemed to be ordered pretty well by date. The folio contained newspapers from each day, as well as public municipal records – property transactions (including slaves), business licenses, legal matters and criminal sentences. Jeff flipped to the appropriate days and they saw a register of names of criminals with their charges listed next to them. He glanced over at her and she nodded at him, actually squeezing his arm to let him know they were on the right track. She felt him stop for a moment, so she let go of his arm as he ran his finger down the page.

  Near the bottom of the page for August 13, 1770, among four names was an entry for a male, name unknown, who was hanged for impersonating a British soldier. There was smaller writing underneath – someone had crammed some more information into the tiny space – but in the shadows it was difficult to read. Erica watched as Jeff leaned in to see the words, but he couldn’t. She let out a small sigh, then her eyes focused on the lantern.

  “Sir, may we use the lantern?” she said.

  The man nodded, so Erica pulled the lantern down from its hitch. She placed it on the counter next to the book, the shadows dancing around them. They leaned in and read the words at the same time, then looked at each other. “... for theft of jewels belonging to His Royal Majesty, the King.”

  She looked up at Meeks, who was off in his own world, straightening up the far side of his desk.

&
nbsp; “Do you believe me now?” Jeff asked her quietly. “I told you Garvey took those stones”

  She laughed nervously, then pulled him to the side where they could talk more privately. “It’s hard not to. But this still doesn’t help us to be in the same place as he is at any given time. We can’t pop into the middle of a hanging and zap him out of there.”

  “Why not? That might be our only choice. He’s not likely to be alone anywhere.”

  “What if we could cause a commotion?”

  “Then we could get hanged ourselves. That’d shorten the trip.”

  Meeks cleared his throat, getting their attention. “Did you find what you need over there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeff said. “If we could have a couple more minutes with the book, we’ll be all set.”

  The old man grunted something and retreated into the racks.

  “Is this a business?” Jeff asked, seemingly fascinated with the man and his papers despite what they were there to accomplish. “Does he have customers and stay in business?”

  “It’s a municipal building. He works for the city. Stay focused.” Erica walked back over to the book and flipped several pages ahead, looking to see if there were reports of actual arrests included. She was rewarded when she found a newspaper from a few days prior to the hanging, which contained a brief about a break-in at Major Garvey’s home. “Look at this,” she said, and read aloud: “‘Garvey’s home was burglarized by four thieves, who were subsequently apprehended by British soldiers. Three of the encroachers escaped the soldiers’ grasp. The last was captured and will be held at Old Stone Jail until Monday, when he is scheduled to be hanged in The Commons.’ I’m assuming this is your little group?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Old Stone Jail was known for overcrowding and disease. We won’t be able to get to him until he’s out of there. There would be too many people around.”

  “The only time he’s leaving will probably be when they’re marching him to the gallows.”

  Erica stopped to think for a moment, engaging all of her insights to the time. Being a prisoner in the Colonies was not a comfortable circumstance. In truth, it was probably a blessing that he was hanged a few short days following the arrest – a large number of prisoners died from dysentery, small pox, or some other quickly communicable disease. In fact, that gave her concern about even letting him get into the prison at all. “What about before?”

  “Before what?”

  Meeks returned to the front desk and approached them. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “We did,” Jeff said.

  “And?”

  Jeff looked at him puzzled for a moment, so Erica jumped in, “It looks as though we were right.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Meeks said, then laughed at himself. “Not good that he was hanged – good that you found what you needed.”

  Jeff folded up the book and handed it to him. Meeks took it and put it aside, and then Jeff picked up the lantern and handed that to him as well. “You should put that somewhere a little more stable than that rack,” he said.

  Erica poked him hard in the arm and Meeks said, “Come again?”

  Jeff looked down at her then back at Meeks. “It’s just that you have all this paper here,” he said. “I’d hate to see an accident happen.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah right,” Meeks said, and set the lantern on the counter. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, thank you for your help. Do we owe you anything?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Well, thank you again,” Jeff said. Erica nodded politely and they both walked outside.

  Once outside, she stopped in front of him. “Why did you say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “About the lantern?”

  “I don’t know – I thought I’d help you out.” He was grinning.

  “Help me out?”

  “Yeah – you were going on and on about what a tragedy it was that all of those records were lost. I didn’t see any harm in tipping him off. Maybe by the time we get back he doesn’t dump the lantern over and burn the place down. Then you’ll have your records.”

  “You can’t do that, Jeff,” she said heatedly, then took a glance around to make sure there weren’t people close by. There were some milling about, engaged in their own conversations, but they hadn’t attracted anyone’s attention. “We’re not here to change history. We’re here to fix a mistake that you made. This isn’t your little universe to re-determine whatever might fulfill your needs.”

  “My needs?” he asked. “I did that for you.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything for me,” she said. “You don’t have the authority to determine what should be changed and what shouldn’t. That building burning down – just like the Wilton raid and everything else you’ve screwed up – is a part of history. All of us are what we are – or aren’t what we aren’t – because things happened a certain way. Even causing what you think are insignificant or positive changes can have a dramatic impact on multitudes of people. I’d hoped that you understand that by now.”

  “Then why are you here with me?”

  “I’m here for one purpose, and that’s to help you get your friend back. Not for a historical sightseeing tour. And not to change things that any of us think are wrong.”

  Jeff nodded his head rather solemnly. From the look on his face, she could tell that maybe she was finally getting through. She could understand, though. It was tempting to just drop the sense of responsibility and bask in the opportunity to experience something that no one had ever experienced before. She, herself, had even considered the historical benefit of the records office not burning down, given the opportunity to change its fate before admonishing herself for the thought. The luxury of having 21st century knowledge while enjoying the simplicity of the early 19th century was almost too much to handle.

  And of course, in a strange way, it was kind of sweet what he’d tried to do. She thought about when she’d squeezed his arm and wondered if he’d taken it the wrong way. Either way, there were more important things on which she needed to focus.

  “You were saying something about getting Dexter before he goes to prison?” His attempt to recover from his scolding.

  Back to reality for her – or, what was left of it. “Yes, I was,” she said, still trying to be admonishing, but also productive. “Once Dexter gets into prison he’ll be under lock-and-key the entire rest of the time. What also clicked in my mind was that we absolutely do not want him coming back to the present time with any kind of disease he might pick up in a crowded colonial prison. Those are outdated diseases, and God knows what kind of epidemic he could start. It’s probably best if we get him before he’s even incarcerated.”

  Jeff was thinking, nodding, so she continued. “As long as we wait until you actually go back to the present, we can get to him any time after that. What’s more important is that we know exactly where he’ll be – at least for several minutes after you disappear – and then we can follow him if necessary. Tell me exactly what happened before you returned to the present. Specifically, what happened to Dexter.”

  They started walking in no particular direction. More so just to not be loitering.

  “Well, I’m not totally sure,” he said, his face in a reminiscent stare. “We were trying to get all of us together in the backyard of Garvey’s house, but Dexter got separated from us. He was inside and he poked his head out the door and told us to leave without him. Then he ran inside. We started after him, but a handful of British soldiers came through the doorway with their guns pointed at us. Abby clicked the button and saved us before they could get a shot off.”

  “So the last you saw him he was running back into the house. How many British soldiers do you think there were?”

  “I think three came through the door. I couldn’t tell you how many were in the house, though.”

  “Well, let’s be safe and assume that there were at least a couple
inside to arrest Dexter, since the other three ran right past him toward you, right?”

  “I think that’s smart.”

  She thought for a moment. “Are you comfortable punching someone?”

  He laughed. “Really?”

  “It’d just have to be for the shock value. You wouldn’t have to put the guy down – just separate him from Dexter long enough for us to grab hands and push the button.”

  “Well, no, but Emeka can handle that, so it’s not an issue. What’s your plan?”

  She shook her head as they passed another general store with a handful of kids in front, kicking dust clouds at each other in the dirt and yelling. “We’re not getting Emeka. We’re going now.”

  He stopped and turned to face her.

  “What do you mean we’re going now?”

  “You just told me that the problem was that you couldn’t get everyone together to trigger the device. It’s going to be hard enough coordinating with three people, much less five. We have to set the bar lower on this one. Unless, of course, you don’t have the coordinates.”

  “No, no, I have them,” he said, making her wonder why he would, even though she’d bet correctly.

  “I only saw two lines on that arm.”

  He pulled up his other sleeve, showing another set of coordinates. She could see him processing the new information. He wasn’t sure about what she was suggesting and didn’t seem to like that the ideas were coming from her. But she knew she was making sense. She’d been hell-bent on having some control over the situation, and leaving his other teammates out of it was the best way to do that. Plus, they’d never know it was happening – if they were successful, the history would shift around them. Though she hadn’t gotten a good look at the coordinates before he’d rolled down his sleeve. Without those, they weren’t yet on equal footing.

  She looked back over her shoulder and down the street. They were a good quarter mile from Meeks’ shop.

  “What are you looking at?”