The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “Professor, I have good news.” She forced herself to smile brightly. No sense in dwelling on upsetting things. “There was a man down in the square. His name is Mr. Augustus. I’m not sure if you saw him. But he owns a music shop. And he asked if I would be willing to play at the Steamboat Festival. He teaches music on the side, and there are other music teachers, expensive ones, that only the best families can afford. And their students are going to be playing, and he asked if I would play as one of his students.”

  “Why doesn’t he get one of his own students to play?” asked the Professor.

  “Who knows? But this is a big chance for me.”

  The Professor was thinking about it, and he didn’t look pleased. Why wouldn’t he be happy for her? He knew she made her living with her music, and this was an extraordinary opportunity.

  “Professor, it means I could be heard. There are going to be people here from up North and everything. There are conservatories up there, like one in Boston and one in New York that let boys play with them and pay all their expenses if they’re talented enough.”

  “Aw, Henry. It’s not that I don’t think you’re talented. You are. You are one of the finest players I’ve ever heard, and not just for a lad. You’re a fine player compared to grown men. But this man asking you to play and pose as his student, it doesn’t seem right.”

  “That part doesn’t matter! What matters is that I have a chance at something better.”

  “It could be dangerous,” said Brother Joe.

  “Dangerous? How?” Hazel demanded. She was beyond using her good manners. Why did these people insist on ruining her one good chance at a better life? Would they have her go to St. Aggie’s until her uncle found her?

  “The engines,” said Brother Joe. “The peroxide engines are having problems. They’re not safe. I’ve given extreme unction to a number of people at the hospital who died of injuries caused when they explode.”

  “What does that have to do with the Steamboat Festival?” Hazel asked.

  “The McCullen Manufactory has struck a deal with the largest shipping company in New Orleans. Their new ship will be making her maiden voyage,” said Brother Joe. “It will have one of the new peroxide engines, and the Professor and I have been talking. I told him about the injuries I’m seeing and hearing about. We both agree that the engine is unstable and could very well crack or even explode.”

  “But I won’t be on the ship. I’d be on one of the stages,” said Hazel.

  “Even so,” said the Professor, “it’s dangerous.”

  “And living on scraps and sleeping in empty buildings isn’t?”

  “Now, Henry. Be reasonable.”

  “I am being reasonable! The music shop owner said he’d be able to write letters of recommendation for me for the Northern conservatories. This is my only chance.”

  How could she tell them that in a year or so, once she could no longer pass as a boy, there would only be one profession open to her?

  “And besides,” said the Professor, “the boys who get paid room and board have to work for it. They work peeling potatoes or tending the boilers in the basement. It’s not without much hard work.”

  “I don’t care if I have to scrub chamber pots!” Hazel glared at him and hot tears stung her eyes, these ones from anger. Why did she cry when she was angry? So weak and womanish. She jammed her cap on her head and reached for her violin to go downstairs, but Miss Sanchez placed her hand on the case.

  “Stay here,” she said in a low voice. “You might be able to stay.”

  Hazel wasn’t sure what Miss Sanchez meant, but the woman’s eyes darted to the Professor’s back. He and Brother Joe were back working at the engine part. If Hazel wanted to stay with the Professor, she had to have better manners. Shouting or storming out would not do.

  “Tell me about this Steamboat Festival,” said Miss Sanchez.

  “What, you haven’t heard of it?” asked Hazel. Everyone knew about the annual event. It was an occasion for picnics or strolling, seeing and being seen. Many businesses shut down for the day and their employees had a day off.

  “I’m not from here. I live far away.”

  Well, that much was obvious if Hazel gave it any thought. Even Yankee women didn’t dress in men’s clothing. And Miss Sanchez’s accent was different than any she had heard, and with all the Italian, Irish and German immigrants, along with the Spanish, Mexican, Caribbean newcomers, African slaves and free people of color, she had heard quite a few.

  “Well, they have a big fair every year,” Hazel said. “The businesses around here put up booths selling food or iced drinks or hats or toys. All kinds of things. Everything you can imagine. And there are games like races and the ring toss. And of course, the steamboat parade, all down the river. All the finest ships go by in a big line, with lights and everything. They have bands play and last year they had a small orchestra for part of it. I stayed and even managed to speak with one of the players afterwards.”

  “Is this for Mardi Gras?” asked Felicia.

  Hazel shook her head. She had heard of Mardi Gras before, but only in a religious context. The Tuesday before Ash Wednesday involved a few small-scale luncheons and family gatherings, but nothing like the Steamboat Festival.

  “Mardi Gras will be something different this year,” said the Professor. “I heard there will be a parade.”

  Miss Sanchez suddenly looked distant and far from home. Hazel thought that perhaps she didn’t have anywhere to go either. Perhaps that was why she was with the Professor. He had no family in America, though Hazel had heard him mention a family back in Ireland.

  “Well, that will have to do,” said Brother Joe. He removed a small light blue tube of liquid and attached mechanism from the vise and set it on the work table. The Professor eyed it.

  “Looks like I’ll be paying a visit to McCullen first thing in the morning. Either I’ll get this sorted out, get locked up or they’ll find my body in the river.” He laughed, but Hazel saw that Miss Sanchez and Brother Joe did not appreciate the joke.

  Chapter 11

  Seamus stepped back and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. With a sigh he wiped his eyes. They had returned to his house around midnight, once he was certain McCullen’s men would not return. At least he hoped they had the good grace not to knock on doors in the middle of the night. He glanced out the window, but the street was silent and empty.

  The fumes from his latest chemical test burned his eyes and nose, and he needed to stop for a bit. His sleeves were rolled up and his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. He knew he looked a sight, but if Miss Sanchez was offended, she did not give any indication. She had remained sitting in a nearby chair, flipping through some books and outdated women’s magazines that Mrs. Washington had given her.

  Mrs. Washington’s daughter had worked as a housekeeper for the house’s previous residents, and she had departed with the family when they had moved, leaving behind a few odds and ends, including magazines and some old clothing. It had been a lucky thing, as Miss Sanchez had needed more feminine articles than Henry had purchased.

  He turned up the two gas lamps on either side of the work table. Miss Sanchez moved the magazine away from her face a few inches, and he realized that she had been struggling to read it. He reminded himself that he was no longer the poor farm boy forced to conserve lamp oil. He could burn both gas lamps as much as he liked, and pay for it easily. And if he ran into financial difficulties, an evening of gambling would resolve the problem. He knew that his head for numbers and probabilities gave him an unfair advantage, but it wasn’t as if he were cheating, so he had no qualms about making a few extra dollars. Besides, his acquisition of money was in the name of scientific progress.

  Miss Sanchez tossed the magazine aside. “I have an idea. As long as I’m here, I might as well be useful. Do you
think Mrs. Washington has any moldy food?”

  “I should hope not! Why—”

  “Penicillin. You don’t have it here, but I can grow it. It’s good against infection.”

  “This mold will become medicine?”

  “Only one way to find out. In the morning, I’ll ask Mrs. Washington to let me have some stale bread or old cheese. I can try growing it on various organic mediums. I know which mold it is. At least, I think I do. I could use your microscope and set my things up in a warm, dark corner of the laboratory. Maybe over there.” She pointed to a corner work table.

  “Won’t it create a bad smell?”

  “Not if I use enclosed containers. Now, let me see.”

  While she sorted through the things on his table, making room for her project, he suppressed the urge to eject her from the room. It was only a small corner, he reminded himself. And if anyone understood the need for a space to experiment, it was he.

  Seamus wiped his eyes and picked up some protective goggles, silently chiding himself for forgetting them. Again. In his enthusiasm for figuring out what exact chemical was inside the faintly glowing blue tube, he had neglected safety procedures. He should know better.

  “Are you okay? I mean, all right?” asked Miss Sanchez as he tucked his handkerchief away.

  “Yes, I’m all right.” Seamus opened a window. The air outside was uncomfortably cool, but it dispersed the fumes. It would not do to have him dizzy or addled while working on such an important project.

  “What does the term ‘okay’ mean?” he asked. “I understand it is a synonym for being all right, but what do the letters stand for?”

  Miss Sanchez looked as if she had never thought of it before. “I have no idea. Just one of those terms that evolved over time I suppose. But there’s a sign for it too. Like this.” She made her index finger and thumb into a circle with the other three fingers sticking up.

  Seamus knew a few hand signs of his own, though none of them were suitable for a woman. He decided not to further Miss Sanchez’s education in that area.

  “So, how is it going?” she asked, watching the smoke rise in a white cloud from his chemical set.

  “Not well. I can’t figure out what the blasted substance is.”

  “I took some chemistry as an undergrad. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Seamus almost gave her a condescending look, imagining how silly it was that a young woman could possibly assist him in figuring out something so complex, but he stopped himself. He bit back the quick dismissal he had been about to say and motioned her over.

  He explained the tests he had run, seeing what reactions he could get from mixing the glowing blue fluid with other known fluids. Miss Sanchez nodded and stopped him a few times to ask questions. Her understanding was not as complete as his, but then, she had said that she was studying medicine to be a doctor. Perhaps she possessed greater knowledge of tonics and creating medicinal tablets than he did.

  “I wish I knew more about science in your time,” Miss Sanchez said. “And I wish I’d studied history. The way everyone here speaks seems off. It’s not like the 19th century books I had to read in English class. And you talk about atoms, but I’m pretty sure atomic theory didn’t exist in 1857.”

  She bent over his notes, and from this proximity, he could smell her hair, a soft, sweet, almost fruitlike scent. Her hands were small and delicate, and she flipped back and forth through the pages.

  “Only a few people understand it,” he said. “That, and a few other unique pieces of information I have were the only things that let me keep my professorship after the accident.”

  “Accident?”

  Blast. He had been careless in speaking too freely. The fumes must be affecting his mind. Miss Sanchez was waiting for him to answer, watching him with those eyes that were too light a shade of brown. In the lamplight, they looked almost gold.

  He turned to open the window further and Miss Sanchez stepped back. Good. He needed a little space to work.

  “There was a little accident,” he said. “An explosion in our laboratory at Tulane. No one was killed. But the building seemed to—well, it wasn’t entirely all there.”

  “What do you mean? You blew it up to rubble?”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Gone. Just gone.”

  “How could it be gone? Like vaporized or blown to dust?”

  “No, it seemed to have gone somewhere else.”

  “I see.”

  Seamus nodded, pleased that she understood. He pulled the safety goggles down over his eyes, making sure the cloth padding was pressed securely against his face and the strap was snug.

  “You think it went to another time?” she asked.

  “I do now. It wasn’t only that some parts of the building were missing. Objects were missing. Files, experiments, whole bookshelves. But things came through to this side also.”

  “Things? What kind of things?”

  “By luck, it was late and McCullen and I were the only people in the building. I thank God for that. And, as neither of us was harmed beyond a few cuts and bruises, we sorted through the debris. It was lucky so much of the building vanished, or we would certainly have been killed when it collapsed. As it was, there was plenty of space and we found a few things. Some files and a radio.”

  “A radio, in 1857,” Miss Sanchez said in wonder. “My God, that could change everything. Imagine a radio in use during the Civil War, coordinating troop movements. Or President Lincoln giving the Gettysburg Address by radio.”

  “President Lincoln? You mean Ezekiel Lincoln, that man from Illinois?”

  “No, his first name was Jacob. Jacob Lincoln. He was president during the Civil War. He insisted that the union be kept together and he wouldn’t allow the South to secede.”

  “Ezekiel Lincoln died right before he would have been elected senator of Illinois,” said Seamus. “He was predicted to win, but he got ill suddenly and was dead before the next morning. There was talk of poison.”

  “But he was supposed to die in the Ford Theater. He was shot.”

  Seamus thought for a moment, then tore off his goggles and strode across the room. He didn’t need anything from that area of the room, but he knew he had to move. It helped him think.

  “This is good. Better than good!” he said. Miss Sanchez looked amused and he realized he was grinning at her. “This means that we are completely sure you are from an alternative universe, as you call it. There are more than just differences in technological advances like airships and automatons. I think I could account for those. But something as vastly different as a president—that’s big. What’s more important is that there might not have to be a Civil War. It’s not a certainty, only a possibility!”

  “You think it can be stopped?”

  “We might not need to. There might be no need to do a thing. The men named Lincoln don’t even have the same first name. And even if they are the same man, nothing is certain. If Lincoln was central to it—you did say he was important, correct?”

  She nodded.

  “Right. So if he’s not president, maybe there won’t be a war.”

  “But if there’s no Civil War, then the slaves won’t be freed. They could be slaves forever. And then there would be no Civil Rights movement, no Martin Luther King Jr.” she trailed off.

  “You said a street was named for him?”

  “Yes. He helped black and white people to integrate. You know, so they could eat together and go to the same schools and get married. This was in the 60s.”

  “At the same time as the Civil War?”

  “No, the 1960s.”

  “And this is important to you? This integration?”

  He saw a flash of anger cross her face, and
then her effort to control it. “It’s important to everyone. The idea of people being segregated and treated differently based on race is abhorrent to most people. It needs to die out.”

  “Then what must you think of me?”

  She drew back at the directness of his question, but he watched her think it over. She was nothing like the women of his world who would have laughed and fluttered their fans in dismissal. Either that, or they would have bid him a curt good night and sailed from the room, nose in the air.

  “I think you are a decent man, though mistaken in your complacency,” Felicia began. “Gravely mistaken. But it’s not your fault. You are a product of your time, I suppose. You can’t help it.”

  Her tone made Seamus think that she was trying to spare his feelings by being polite. He loathed the feeling it gave him, of being condescended to and pitied. He would rather she rant and rail at him if she didn’t like something. Treating him like an ignorant schoolboy galled him.

  “First of all, my thoughts and ethics are my own. I can, as you say, help it. I am not some ancient barbarian, ignorant and in need of you to bring me enlightenment. And secondly, I don’t like slavery,” he said. “If I think about it, I wish it didn’t exist. But it’s one of many evils in the world.”

  “Then why don’t you oppose it? Why stay quiet? You should be fighting against it.”

  How could he explain to her what it was like to be a penniless immigrant, so concerned with his own survival that he never thought about slaves or anyone else? It wasn’t as if he could help anyone by trying to oppose established practices. One man could do nothing. And even once he was established financially, he was still powerless to help anyone. The best he could do was to keep quiet and out of trouble, and he could barely manage that.