A Ripple In Time [A Historical Novel of Survival]

by Zugg, Victor

  The big ship was within a hundred yards when it began turning to port bringing the first of its guns to bear.

  “This is an unarmed vessel,” Manny said. “They must know that.”

  “If they fire, it will be to teach us a lesson.”

  At that very moment Mason heard the loud boom of one of the schooner’s guns and immediately felt the entire boat shudder from the impact of a ball against the hull amid ship. He stuck his head up and saw a large cloud of smoke bellow across the water and engulf the sloop. Multiple cracks of musket fire followed. The balls splintered the surrounding wood.

  Suddenly Manny jumped up and began running toward the cabin. It appeared he was running away from the fire, but knowing Manny the way Mason did, Mason knew exactly what he was doing. Drawing fire away from the bow so Mason could get some rounds off.

  Just as intended, the musket balls followed Manny. Mason heard them thump into the deck. Mason had to take advantage of the diversion and tore his eyes away from Manny, still devoid of any musket ball holes.

  Mason brought his attention back to the schooner and immediately acquired several targets visible on its upper deck. Mason took aim and squeezed as he rapidly moved from one target to the next. He saw several men fall in the wake of his gunfire.

  Mason caught sight of the man whom had to be the captain. He wore a bright blue coat and a matching three-point hat with a feather. He stood aft near the helm. Two other men stood next to him.

  Mason took careful aim, squeezed the trigger, and saw the man closest to the captain fall.

  The captain glanced at the downed man.

  Mason ducked while he changed magazines. He felt the man’s eyes bore into the spot where Mason was hunched behind the gunwale. He heard another loud boom and glanced back just in time to see two cannonballs connected by a chain fly through the air almost in slow motion. The chain-shot sliced through Manny’s torso in a cascade of blood and tissue and then tore into the aft cabin in an explosion of fragmented wood.

  Mason could only imagine the damage it had done to those hiding inside. He turned his head back to the schooner as musket fire raked the wood above and around him. He raised up and fired all fifteen rounds in rapid succession. He didn’t wait to see if he had hit anyone before he ducked back below the top rail. It’s time to move.

  He changed magazines and crawled across the deck dragging his rucksack behind him. Musket balls thumped into the wood as he moved. Being careful to keep himself concealed as much as possible, he got to a kneeling position behind the thick wood base of the mast. Musket balls landed against the wood in a dull thud. It was then that he heard the crying and moaning from the aft cabin. And it was then that he realized his efforts were futile. He would die here, on the deck of an eighteenth century sloop three hundred years in the past. But not before he exhausted all of his ammunition. He thought of Karen and how he had promised to return soon. It appeared he wouldn’t be keeping that promise. And the worst part was she would likely never know what became of him and the other survivors. He closed his eyes for several moments. He felt the moisture accumulate in the corners and felt the tears roll down his cheek. He glanced back at the shredded wood of the aft cabin and saw Dorothy prone on the deck in the open doorway. A mass of blood had soaked through the layers of fabric and pooled on her back. He shook his head and lowered his chin as the tears continued to roll.

  After several long moments he wiped both cheeks with the sleeves of his t-shirt and then tried to focus on the schooner. The moisture in his eyes clouded his vision. He wiped both cheeks again, refocused, and brought the Glock up. He extended his arms around the mast while keeping most of his body concealed. He jerked his head over to take aim looking for the captain.

  Before he could find his target, he heard another loud boom and immediately felt the boat shudder violently. The thick mast before him exploded in a shower of wood. Mason felt himself being lifted into the air and flung backwards as the world before him began to darken. The colors muted into gray. Somewhere in his consciousness he felt the wet and coolness of water. The sounds of battle—explosions, men yelling, screams of terror, moans of agony—slowly diminished, as though being separated by a great distance, until all was finally quiet. Time became indistinguishable as his mind swam in a pool of dark confusion. At intermittent intervals he climbed to the edge of consciousness and a sense of drifting only to sink rapidly back into the dark void. Deep, somewhere in his mind, he saw a synaptic spark of blue among vague, constantly changing, colorless shapes. And then all went completely dark.

  CHAPTER 26

  Mason heard voices. They were muffled and far away. He struggled to understand the words but all his mind could discern was a mass of unintelligible sounds. He felt pressure on his left bicep. He fought to open his eyes, clawing his way up. Before he reached the surface, the sounds faded, the pressure on his arm subsided, and he fell back into darkness.

  His mind stirred. Images flashed. An explosion of wood and smoke, submerged in water, cradled by the cool water. He drifted below flashes of orange and red. And then darkness.

  “Mister Mason, you need to wake up now.”

  The words were distant and vague, like they were being shouted from the next mountain. He struggled to clear his mind. He felt the weight of his eyelids, grogginess, and a dull pain in his head.

  “Mister Mason, I need you to wake up.”

  He felt something prod against his shoulder and felt pressure against his cheek. He saw a flash of white light, as bright as he had ever seen.

  “Mister Mason, you’re almost there. Wake up.”

  Mason opened both eyes and winced at the brightness. He snapped his eyes shut.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe. I need you to open your eyes.”

  Mason opened his eyes and saw a blurry image—a man hunched over him. He blinked to clear his vision and slowly the man came into focus.

  “Welcome back, Mister Mason,” the man said.

  Mason struggled in his mind to put words together. He licked his lips. “Where am I?” he mumbled almost incoherently.

  “You’re in a hospital,” the voice said. “I’m Doctor Turner.”

  Mason focused on the man’s face. Finally the details began to register—thin, white hair, clean shaven, metal framed glasses, and a white smock.

  “What happened?” Mason asked.

  “You were in an accident,” Turner said. “But you’ll be fine.”

  Mason became aware of the tubes protruding from his arm. He felt some discomfort in his groin and reached down.

  Turner caught Mason’s arm before his hand reached the source of discomfort.

  “You’re on an IV, and you have a catheter,” Turner said. “Don’t touch it. We’ll be removing it soon.”

  “What about the others?” Mason mumbled.

  “The others?”

  “On the boat,” Mason said in a slightly raised voice.

  “I don’t know anything about that, but there are some gentlemen anxious to speak to you,” Turner said. “Give us a little while to make you more comfortable and we’ll let them in. For now, just lie back and relax.”

  Mason lifted his hand and touched his forehead. He felt a gauze bandage that encircled his head.

  “You sustained a nasty bump on the head. You have a concussion, but you’ll be fine. We’ve conducted numerous scans. There’s no permanent damage.”

  Mason felt a squeeze on his shoulder.

  “Just rest.”

  Mason felt pressure building around his bicep. He reached for it.

  “It’s just a blood pressure cuff,” Turner said. “We need to keep that in place for a while.”

  Mason felt the pressure release. He blinked a couple of times, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes. He tried to relax, but suddenly Karen’s face flashed in his mind. He opened his eyes.

  The doctor was gone, but a nurse was next to the bed straightening his covers.

  “What city am I in?” he asked.

  �
�Jacksonville, Florida,” the nurse replied. “But you need to lie back and rest. I’m sure all your questions will be answered soon.”

  Mason nodded and rested his head back against the pillow. He closed his eyes. He tried to remember the sequence of events that brought him to this place. He remembered leaving Karen at the plantation, and he remembered himself with the others on the sloop. The rest of it was just bits and pieces of jumbled images that became more confused the more he tried to remember. He tried to clear his mind. Slowly, he felt the tension at his temples begin to release.

  ◆◆◆

  He felt a discomfort in his groin and a stinging in his penis. He opened his eyes and focused on two nurses.

  One of them smiled. She was young and pretty. “We’re taking the catheter out. You’ll feel much better in a few minutes.”

  The pressure he felt was replaced by an intense stinging. He put his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Doctor Turner will be in to see you in a little while,” the nurse said.

  “He was just here,” Mason mumbled.

  “That was yesterday,” the nurse said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be up and about in nothing flat.” She tidied the covers over his legs. “We’ll be back in a little while.” Both nurses left the room.

  Mason immediately reached down and massaged his penis. It began to feel better. He gazed through the window at the tops of trees and buildings. He surveyed the room. It was sparse, with only one chair in the corner, and a bedside retractable table with a pitcher of water and a glass. Electrical instruments and monitors lined the wall behind him. He tried to remember how long he had been there but finally gave up with no earthly idea.

  After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. It swung open.

  Doctor Turner walked in with the pretty nurse. “How are we today?” He turned to the nurse. “Is the catheter out?”

  “Yes, a few minutes ago,” she said.

  He continued until he stood at Mason’s bedside. “Do you remember anything?”

  “Yes,” Mason said.

  “Do you remember being on an airplane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember how you got in the water?”

  “Mostly,” Mason said.

  “So you remember the crash?”

  “We didn’t crash,” Mason said. “We ditched.”

  Turner paused for several moments. He took out a small flashlight and shined it into each eye. He stuck the flashlight back in his pocket and stared at Mason for several moments. “Okay, do you remember what you were doing before you got on the plane?”

  “I was hurrying to the gate.”

  “Good.” Turner studied Mason’s face for a few moments. “Do you feel up to visitors? There’re some men who would like to ask you about the airliner and what happened.”

  “No problem,” Mason said, as he reached for the glass of water. He took a sip through a straw. “When does the IV come out?”

  “Probably later today, after we get you up and walking.”

  Mason nodded.

  “The gentlemen will be in shortly,” Turner said, as he headed for the door. “I’ll check in later.” He turned and exited.

  “Is there anything you need?” the nurse asked, as she moved the bedside table closer. “Do you need the bed pan?”

  “No, I’m fine for now,” Mason said. He glanced at the needle in his arm and the tube running up to a bag of clear liquid on a metal hanger. “Can you take this out now?”

  “Soon, Mister Mason. I’m sure we’ll have it out before this evening.”

  Mason took in a deep breath and exhaled. He didn’t like being sick, and he didn’t like waiting, but it appeared he didn’t have a choice. “Okay.”

  The nurse went to the door and pulled it open revealing two men in suits. One was Mike Reeves. The nurse left and the two men entered.

  “Hey, Mase, you’re looking a lot better than I last saw you,” Reeves said.

  Reeves was just as Mason remembered him. He always wore a suit and tie. He had a slight pouch, but was otherwise in excellent shape for a man of fifty. He still wore his dark hair short. He said it showed less of the gray patches.

  “This is Dan Miller with FAA,” Reeves said.

  The man was also dressed in a gray suit. He was much younger, medium height and weight. He was ordinary but with a serious expression.

  “We have a few questions,” Reeves continued. “Do you feel up to it?”

  “I’m fine,” Mason said. “A bit of a headache.”

  “We won’t take too much of your time,” Miller said. “We just want to get some preliminary information. We can work on the details later as needed.”

  Mason nodded.

  Miller scanned the room, apparently for a chair, and ended up leaning against the window sill.

  Reeves stood at the foot of the bed.

  Both men took out a pen and a pad.

  Miller produced a small recorder and placed it on the bedside table. “We need to record all questioning,” Miller said.

  “No problem,” Mason said, as he adjusted himself in bed to raise his torso against the pillows. “Shoot.”

  Miller switched on the recorder. “Interview of Stephen Mason. The date is June twenty third, twenty nineteen, University of Florida Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida. The time is ten fifteen AM. Those present are myself, Daniel Miller, FAA, Mike Reeves, Federal Air Marshal’s Service, and Stephen Mason, Federal Air Marshal’s Service.”

  They both made notations on their pad.

  “What can you remember about the flight?” His voice was direct, even toned, almost fatherly.

  Mason had listened to everything the man said, but not much registered after June twenty third, twenty nineteen. That was only four days after he boarded the plane to Charlotte. Mason did not let his expression change as he tried to wrap his mind around that single concept. Obviously he had returned to his own time period within days of the event even though he had been gone for months.

  “Mister Mason.”

  Mason raised his chin.

  Reeves smiled. “He’s been through a lot. Give him a moment.”

  Miller relaxed the pen in his hand and nodded. “When you’re ready.”

  “The flight,” Mason finally said. “It was normal out of Miami.”

  “Yes, and?” Reeves asked.

  Mason’s mind spun. If he told the truth, they would think he had completely lost his mind. He could make things easier and say he couldn’t remember. He was in his seat on the plane and the next thing he knew he was in the water. In reality, today’s reality, that was the truth. But it wasn’t his truth.

  “Mister Mason?” Miller prompted.

  Mason adjusted his pillows. “Everything was fine until we were about an hour out of Charlotte.” He explained how Karen had informed him of the loss of nav instruments and his visit to the cockpit where the captain confirmed the loss of all navigation except the Inertial Reference System. He repeated Captain Anderson’s description of the sudden loss of all contact from the outside including the radio.

  Miller tapped his pad with his pen as he considered the information.

  “Did the captain have any idea as to why?” Reeves asked.

  “Not really,” Mason said. “We passed through a storm, but otherwise it all just went out.”

  “And all other systems on the plane were working correctly?” Miller asked.

  “According to the captain and first officer, they were. Only nav and the radio were affected. Basically, they weren’t receiving any kind of signals from the outside.”

  “So what caused the plane to crash?” Miller asked.

  The point of no return, Mason thought. Crossing this threshold with the truth meant he’d be labeled a lunatic. He thought of Karen, Lisa, and Jeremy at the plantation, and he thought of all those who had apparently perished on the sloop at the hands of Edward Low, a pirate—an eighteenth-century pirate who died three hundred years ago. Even Mason found it hard to believ
e.

  What the hell, in for a penny in for a pound. “We didn’t crash. We ditched.”

  “The captain ditched.” Miller stated rhetorically.

  Miller cocked his head, as did Reeves, the two of them almost in unison.

  “Flight controls are working fine, you have fuel, any one of a number of airports is a few minutes away, and he ditched,” Miller said.

  Mason nodded his head up and down. “Actually we had no fuel and there were no airports. We had no place to put her down.”

  “I don’t understand,” Miller said.

  “We continued on the route, flew over Charlotte, flew over Savannah, Hilton Head, Columbia, Charleston, and Wilmington. Where once there were sprawling cities, there were only trees. No airports, no runways. We flew around until we were nearly out of fuel. We finally ditched just off the coast of what would be Myrtle Beach.”

  “What do you mean by what would be?” Miller asked.

  Mason took a deep breath and exhaled. He proceeded to tell them the entire story. He went through the sequence of events on the plane and the ditching. He talked about how the survivors washed up on a deserted and desolate Myrtle Beach, their efforts to find food and water, the death of Captain Anderson, their encounter with the Catawba Indians, the chest of Spanish silver dollars, their trip to early Charles Town, the sloop, the plantation, and the battle with Edward Low. He described everything in detail including the plantation’s location, the house, number of rooms, the property, the fields, and the people, including the surveyor, the barrister, Mrs. Stewart, and the slaves. And, of course, he described how Karen, Lisa, and Jeremy came to remain behind.

  When Mason finally stopped talking Miller walked over and flipped the recorder off. He glanced at Reeves.

  “All of this is clear in your mind, there’s no fogginess?” Reeves asked.

  “It’s clear,” Mason said. “It happened. Look, I know my story is impossible to believe, I hardly believe it.” Mason pinched between his eyes and reengaged Miller. “Did you find any wreckage from the plane? Any bodies besides mine?”

  “No,” Miller said. “When we lost contact with the plane, we initiated the regular protocol. A search was up and running within an hour. You were found floating in the water unconscious, draped over a piece of wood, eighteen hours after we lost contact. You were fished out of the water and brought here. The search was, still is, being managed from here, Jacksonville.”