Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club [Book I]

by Robert McAuley

  “Sure. He broke the Spaniards entrenched on it.”

  “Well, a probe just came back and showed us that he didn’t make the charge and a group of U.S. soldiers were captured.” The time traveler took a shallow breath before continuing. “The enemy used them as pawns to escape. The U.S. finally won the war, but there were more casualties than there were supposed to be. Many of the casualties didn’t go on to do the things they were supposed to do in history. It slowed down the progress of the nation to the point that the Japanese became the number one world power and dictated trade agreements worldwide for years.”

  “You got that all from a drone?”

  Edmund smiled. “Yes, and our computer projections. It’s ironic. Because we did such a good job cleaning up the environment, we can’t put a man back there and must use mechanical probes.” As if to emphasize this statement he took another shallow breath.

  “Because of horse waste and poor sewerage, the air was much worse in the 1800s than it is in your time. It’s so bad that we must send drones back. Well, the drawback with drones is that they can’t ask questions. They just can’t get that one-on-one that a person can get. We really don’t know what influenced Roosevelt to change his assertive nature.”

  Bill nodded, “So, you want me to go back and find the problem and fix it?”

  “That’s pretty much it, Bill. I can’t stress enough how important this mission is. Not just for my time period, but yours, too. The ripple effect will reach your time before mine, and the projections we are getting from our computers aren’t good for us at all. We might lose the First World War unless the problem is fixed.”

  “I have to change history?

  “No Bill, not change it, put it right. You’ve read the history books. Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill and became vice president, setting himself up for the presidency.” The young time traveler closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled slowly before he went on. “Since we first started sending back probes, we’ve discovered that there’s a possibility that events can change unless we help. I mean, we know how it’s supposed to turn out, so when we see it deviating, we have to step in and help straighten it out.”

  Bill said, “Hence, the 1800 Club.”

  “Right,” Edmund responded with open hands. “Your members are students of that time period, as you are. You were an easy choice to go back and help Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address when it wasn’t happening. Plus, when the club’s president decided to retire, you became the logical choice to replace him.”

  Bill pressed his visitor. “How much time do I have?”

  “As soon as you can. It just has to be done right. As you know, we can’t let Roosevelt get wind of the fact that you’re from his future. There’s a chance he’d start doubting himself, thinking that all he achieved was credited to us. He’d lose his self-confidence.”

  “I understand,” Bill, said with a nod, “Prescott explained it to me before he retired. Coax them, but let them take the lead.”

  “As long as the lead brings them to where history says they went.”

  Edmond got up unsteadily. Bill took his arm and asked, “Okay?”

  The young man from the future smiled weakly. “Just a little woozy. It’s hard for me to get used to this time period. If you need anything from us, do you know how to get in touch?”

  Bill nodded, as he opened the door. “Yes, I press ‘CALL’ on the Time Frequency Modulator.” Or if I’m in the field, use the text communicator. Prescott said you guys are pretty quick to respond.”

  “We always have someone assigned to watch for a call or text message. It’s pretty important to all of us. I know you understand.”

  “Yep, I do. After dinner, I’m going to do some research on Roosevelt, identify the main crossroads of his life and try to find the change point.”

  The two men shook hands. Then, as Edmund started out the door toward the future, Bill called to him. “Hey, give your grandfather a hug, kid.”

  Edmund smiled, and they hugged.

  At dinner, once again back in the ‘club time’ of the 1860s, Bill took a bite of his steak and thought dinner is outstanding. I’ve got to compliment the chef. He looked around the table. The club members were seated, eating and talking in low tones, mostly of the newspaper headline stating that some rebel troops had raided a U.S. military arsenal and made off with all the munitions.

  Among this evening’s guests were the Border brothers who sat next to each other and were dressed in period evening clothes. Next to them was Thomas Cradel, a New York stockbroker. He said that he had made his money in the sheep and beef that he sold to the Union Army. Bill knew it was his great-great-grandfather who really made the money and that Cradel was acknowledging him by portraying him in the club.

  At the other end of the long table was Colonel Charles Fedders. He was dressed in a U.S. Army, blue dress uniform with crossed-cannons on his lapel, designating him as an artillery officer. He was talking to Emma Walters who sat next to him. She looked exquisite in a long, red dress with opera-length white gloves and her blonde hair upswept in the fashion of the day. She sat with her hands clasped as she spoke to him.

  “Colonel, if, as you say, the Union artillery is superior to the rebels, why don’t we just always make sure we have an overwhelming number of guns each time we meet them on the battlefield?”

  The Colonel smiled, as he dabbed at a bit of gravy on his graying beard. “Ma’am, if it were that simple, the war would be over by now, with us the victors. We must have transportation and men to run the trains. We must have our Navy making sure the Rebs don’t sneak ashore and wreck our ports of embarkation. Our great factories must also make belt buckles as well as bullets and bayonets. All this takes away from producing field pieces. But, as I’ve said in my letters to Mr. Lincoln, he would win in a short time if we followed my plan for producing twice the number of cannons we are producing at the moment.”

  “Surely you jest, Colonel. You wrote to the President? Pray tell, what was his reply to your great plan?”

  “Well, I haven’t really heard, yet. He must be very busy with the war and all. Or perhaps he feels he should say nothing while he acts on my plan.” He leaned towards her, “Spies you know, Miss Walters, they can be anywhere.”

  “Of course, Colonel: spies. We must be diligent,” she said with a smile.

  Bill mentally congratulated her on the way she had handled a rather boastful Army brass hat.

  After dinner, the guests followed Bill to a large room furnished with overstuffed chairs and couches of the period with a roaring fireplace as its centerpiece. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and their candlelights reflected off the well-polished wood floor. Matt served cigars and brandy as small groups gathered and engaged in their favorite pastime: conversing as though they were back in the 1800s.

  Henry Osgood sidled up to Bill as he watched the members mingle. “Great dinner, sir. Why, I bet your kitchen staff labored for hours to prepare it.”

  Bill nodded as he blew a large smoke-ring toward the high ceiling. “Indeed they did, Mr. Osgood, indeed they did.” He looked at his glowing cigar. “And a fitting way to end the evening, don’t you think?”

  “Cuban?” Osgood asked, as he looked at his own glowing cigar.

  Bill answered, “Yes. I had a batch brought in just this week. Lucky. The very next ship was stopped and boarded by a Confederate gunboat crew. Their ship and cargo were confiscated. It’s all in the timing, Osgood. Being in the right place at the right time, or in their case, the wrong place at the wrong time. Makes this cigar even more enjoyable does it not?” Osgood nodded in agreement as he took another brandy from the tray Matt offered.

  Bill noticed Emma Walters as she sat with her drink at one of the tables, reading the newspaper. “Excuse me, Mr. Osgood,” he said, “I feel I must mingle.”

  “But of course, sir, please do your duty,” Osgood said heartily.

  Bill walked through the small crowd and stood over her. “How are you this evening, Miss Walte
rs?”

  She looked up and smiled. “Fine, President Scott. And yourself?”

  “The same. May I ask what article intrigues you so much?”

  She laughed. “I could say it was the latest fashions from Europe, sir, but, in fact, it is the timetable of the trains leaving New Jersey.”

  “Leaving for where, pray tell?”

  “California. That’s where the future is, I do believe. San Francisco to be exact.”

  “Gold fever, Miss Walters?”

  Her steel-gray eyes flashed as she answered with a smile, “Adventure, President Scott, adventure! I’d love to take a train as far west as I can, then finish by coach. Maybe see some wild horses. New York is too tame, I feel.”

  “I’m sure the cowboys out that way would have their hands full with you, Miss Walters.”

  “Indeed they would, President Scott. You should see the real me.”

  Bill cringed inside. She’s going to slip up and speak out of ‘club time,’ he thought.

  She put the paper down and stood, “I’m a quick-draw champion, President Scott.”

  Bill put out his cigar as he looked at her. “Do you mean that you do fast sketches for a newspaper or other periodical, Miss Walters?”

  She smiled at him, as her eyes flashed again. “No sir. I mean a quick-draw champion. A person that can outdraw another in the act of taking a six-gun out of the holster and pulling the trigger before the other person can.”

  Bill’s eyes widened as he reminded himself to read up on all the members’ hobbies. “That is amazing, Miss Walters. I have never met a quick-draw champion. How did you come to develop that interest?”

  “My father taught me, sir. He had a Colt pistol and he became quite good at drawing it. I wanted to be just like him, so I started to practice with it and after a while, I was faster than he was. He was so proud that he entered me in tournaments. Soon we were on the circuit competing with cowboys and want-to-be cowboys, and I was beating them all.”

  “I’d truly love to see you perform, Miss Walters.”

  “Perhaps someday you will, President Scott.” The clock chimed ten thirty and she looked at it. “I must be off, sir. It’s been a long day.”

  “Will you be back soon?” Bill asked her. “The club is closed tomorrow for some painting, but on the following evening, the menu is fresh trout.”

  She smiled. “Well, fresh trout! Then I simply must be here.”

  “Good. Good then. Maybe you’ll show me your quick-draw?”

  “That sounds fair. Fresh trout for a quick-draw exhibition.”

  Bill took her hand and did a small bow, “Until then,” he said.

  She smiled, “Good night, President Scott.”

  She walked out as many heads turned to watch her leave.

  Later that night, she sat in her living room cleaning a six-shot, Colt 1844 revolver by the light of the television. She smiled at a funny line by David Letterman. He is tall, just like President Scott, she thought. She looked at the pistol, which really didn’t need cleaning, but she realized she wanted it to be in the best shape possible to show President Scott. She put the pistol in a red, felt-lined case next to its twin and closed and locked it. Got to get some sleep, she thought. Dad always said, ‘never handle a weapon when you’re tired.’ She shut the TV off, and the room went dark.

  Early the next morning, Bill sat at his computer munching on toast spread with peanut butter and sipping the coffee Matt had delivered. A biography of Theodore Roosevelt was on the screen and Bill was carefully entering notes into a book he kept on his desk.

  He learned that Theodore Roosevelt became Governor of New York State in 1899 and often worked in City Hall in downtown New York City. The following year he became President McKinley’s Vice President and assumed the Presidency after McKinley was assassinated in September 1901.

  Roosevelt had lots of friends including the cowboy, Bat Masterson, whom he named U.S. Deputy Marshal of New York City. A little-known fact was that Roosevelt and Masterson often discussed military strategy.

  Intrigued, Bill thought, Well, I think I’m going to visit Governor Roosevelt. It’ll be nice to stroll in New York in June of 1899. He patted his stomach, besides I need the exercise.

  He finished his breakfast and went to his dressing room. The time traveler selected a typical outfit of the 1890s: a brown, three-piece suit, a white shirt with a stiff collar and matching cravat with an inexpensive stickpin. Knowing that he planned to do some walking, he put on a pair of soft leather, high-buttoned shoes and topped it all off with a brown derby and walking stick. The new president of the 1800 Club looked at himself in the full-length mirror of his dressing room. “Enjoy your walk, Mr. Scott,” he said to himself.

  He picked up a period writing tablet and two pencils and put them in a small leather folding case. Quite dapper for a periodical writer, he thought. He walked over to an intercom and pressed the button.

  Immediately, Matt’s voice answered, “Yes, sir?”

  Bill folded some writing paper as he said, “Matt, I have to make a trip out the private door.”

  “I understand sir. Can I be of any assistance?”

  “Yes, can you bring me one hundred U.S. dollars, for an 1899 trip? Tens, singles and some coins should do it.”

  “Yes, sir, straightaway.”

  Bill put the small leather carrying case in his inside breast pocket and patted it flat. He went to his desk drawer and took out a brown leather billfold with matching identification folder. It held a grainy black and white photograph of himself dressed in period clothes and identified him as William Scott, freelance writer. A tap at the door brought Bill to his feet. “C’mon in, Matt.”

  Matt entered, carrying a white envelope. He emptied the contents on Bill’s desk and said, “One hundred dollars in U.S. currency of the 1890s, sir. Will you be gone long?”

  Bill scooped up the bills and put them in the billfold and the change in his pants pocket. “I don’t think so, Matt. It’s in 1899 in New York City, so it’s just a matter of exiting the garden and going downtown to City Hall. According to the old newspapers, Theodore Roosevelt will be working out of there for two weeks, and I’m going to try to have a chat with him. I’ll be back by tonight.”

  “Very well, sir. As you know, the club is closed this evening and you’ll be dining alone,” Matt pointed out.

  “Good. If I’m late, no one will miss me.”

  “Have a safe trip, sir.”

  “Thanks, Matt, see you later.”

  With Matt gone and the door locked, Bill took the key from around his neck and opened the large mahogany door at the back of his office. He took the Time Frequency Modulator from his inside breast pocket and used the keypad to type in June 6, 1899, 10:00 am.

  Bill opened the door and walked down the cool, brick-enclosed stairway. At the bottom, he once again unlocked and opened the heavy, steel door. He stepped out into a sunny morning in 1899 and heard the clop of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones.

  DATELINE: JUNE 6, 1899 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK

  Bill locked the door behind him and walked through the lush garden surrounded by eight-foot-high stonewalls, toward the wrought iron gate. He took out a cigar and lit it as he peered out into the quiet world of the New York of 1899.

  A woman pushed a baby carriage and held the hand of a little boy who wanted to pet a horse pulling a wagon full of vegetables. She scolded him as they approached Bill’s gate.

  He tipped his hat and smiled. “Good day, ma’am.”

  She smiled back and looked embarrassed at the boy, who was determined to pet the horse. “George! Stop pulling this instant. You’ll be trampled by that horse and wagon if you don’t stop.” She looked at Bill again. “Lord, the children of today. I don’t know how this generation is going to take our place. All they want to do is play.”

  Bill nodded and smiled in agreement. “Oh, I suspect they’ll do just fine.”

  He watched them as they went down the tree-lined st
reet. What a great time to be alive, Bill thought, as he puffed on his cigar, Quiet, easygoing times. He took a deep breath but wrinkled his nose immediately as he got a whiff of horse waste. Oh well, one must take the good with the bad, he thought.

  He set off in a leisurely stroll toward New York’s City Hall and Theodore Roosevelt. Along the way, he bought an apple from a street vendor for two cents and a soda pop for a penny. A guy could live real well here, he thought taking a bite of the juicy fruit.

  Bill had been back to the 1800s at least a dozen times, yet he never really got over the feeling that people were staring at him. He had to keep reminding himself that he was one of them even though he was from their future. They were living and breathing just as he was. They were not the poor-quality, black and white, grainy photos that he had seen in history books; they were live people with hopes and plans for their own futures.

  I have to snap out of this! I need to enjoy the present, or the past as it may be, and get on with the mission, he thought, as he sipped his soda pop.

  Bill walked further down Broadway than he had to, just to see the low buildings that would be replaced with one of the most beautiful buildings of its time, the AT&T building at 95 Broadway. He recalled working there for a short time in 1998.

  An elderly woman stood on the corner, wiping bird droppings from her wide-brimmed hat. Bill looked up and noticed the wires were still above ground and a favorite perch for thousands of city birds. He also noticed that people tried to avoid walking under the wires whenever they could. He spotted a trolley car with the destination sign on the front noting its final stop was City Hall. Maybe I’ll take it back uptown for the return trip, he thought.