Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  Casually deciding to change history, matter-of-factly deciding to whip back over a hundred years in time while casually sipping a scotch and soda in the year 1941, was one thing; actually getting yourself out on a limb and having to do what you’d planned, was another.

  But Reggie had no further time for stage fright, for at that instant the silence was broken by a squeaking of wagon wheels and a clumping of hoofs off down the road on which he stood.

  Wheeling, Reggie saw an ancient hay cart, pulled by two white work horses and driven by and old farmer, approaching leisurely.

  “Hmmmmmmm,” mused Reggie, “here’s where I get a lift and some very valuable information.” And then, for the first time, Reggie realized that he was still clad in the same garments he’d been wearing when he left the library of the Vanderveer manor. His dress, he knew, would definitely be odd in this historical background. However, he shrugged the problem off. He might easily pass as a juggler, an acrobat, or perhaps a vaudeville actor.

  “Going my way, old man?” Reggie addressed the old farmer who sat looking quizzically down at him.

  “Oui monsieur,” the old man said from atop his perch. “Climb on.” He seemed polite enough not to mention Reggie’s odd clothing. In a moment Reggie had climbed up beside the farmer, and the hay cart lurched into forward motion once more.

  Reggie looked upward. He had heard the sudden, ominous guttural noise of thunder.

  “Are we in for some rain?”

  The farmer shook his head sadly.

  “Then what do you call that?” Reggie demanded.

  “Monsieur, those are not the rumblings of thunder. Those are the Emperor’s cannon.”

  Reggie gulped. Momentarily he had forgotten where he was and why. Lowndes’ calculations had been correct—the cannon of the Emperor, of Napoleon, meant that he was within earshot of the battle of Waterloo!

  But he had to make sure. “Waterloo?” he asked shakily. “I mean, is that noise coming from Waterloo, where Napoleon is holding out?” The old farmer nodded.

  “This is a great day for France,” he said. “Or a sad day. We will not know which, until the battle is concluded.”

  Reggie looked curiously at him.

  “You are quite a linguist,” he said. “It is rather strange to find a French farmer who can speak English.”

  The old man glared at him. “Monsieur, are you mad?” he asked blackly. “I have spoken no word of English. I know not a word of the cochon tongue!”

  “Uck!” Reggie gulped, and ran a finger under his collar. “Not a word . . .”

  Absolutely, this was a problem for Lowndes—Doctor Lowndes—to answer! Until he could ask that gentleman of science, he would forget it. Which he did. He had other business to think of.

  Suddenly Reggie snapped his fingers. It came upon him in a sudden Dawning of Light that, if he were to jump into the stream of history—so to speak—and do something about changing the course of events at Waterloo this day, he would have to work fast, and plenty so.

  Reggie frowned.

  “How far are we from the battle ground?”

  The old man squinted into the sun.

  “About an hour’s fast gallop on horseback, monsieur.”

  “Where can I get one?”

  The old fellow was clearly perplexed.

  “Get one? Get what, sire?”

  “A steed, a nag, a stallion, a bangtail—horse to you.” Reggie was growing excited.

  The old man shrugged his shoulders.

  “Horses which one could mount are scarce around here. The Emperor’s army has appropriated most of them.”

  Reggie’s jaws clamped shut. This was a fine mess. He couldn’t miss this chance. But he would, if he were too late for the battle. Then he cocked his head to one side suddenly.

  “What’s that I hear, old boy? Sounds like your rear wheel is working loose!”

  The French farmer looked immediately concerned.

  “Better climb out and have a look at it, old boy. Wouldn’t want it to fall off, would you?” Reggie kept his voice casual.

  “No, monsieur,” said the old fellow, halting his horses and rising in the seat of his cart. “No, I would not like that to happen.”

  As Reggie sat there looking innocently and blandly at the reins so carelessly tossed beside him the old fellow clambered from his cart and went around to the rear. He must have been just bending down to inspect the rear wheel when Reggie suddenly came alive, grabbing the reins and shouting a loud: “Gidyap!”

  The cart lurched suddenly forward as the heavy horses responded instantly to the flicking whip that Reggie slashed down on their rumps. And as the horses dashed madly ahead, pulling Reggie and the cart behind them, the old man’s shouting could be heard faintly in the background . . .

  The horses were just about spent, white with lather and breathing gaspingly through foam flecked lips, and the cart was practically bounced into five or six pieces, when Reggie thundered up to the first straggling line of French troops on the roadways.

  The cannons’ thunder had been growing louder and louder as Reggie had jounced along the rutted clay roadways. And now he could hear intermittent volleys of rifle fire, louder and more prolonged.

  The troops straggling along the road were, for the most part, returning to the scene of combat. Many of them, from their appearances, had left the battle only long enough to have their wounds dressed and were now returning to the fray. None of them seemed tremendously enthusiastic, and Reggie suspected that things were not looking rosy for one N. Bonaparte.

  It was while Reggie was flaying the remaining segments of hide from his already exhausted work horses that he suddenly realized he would have to get a change of clothes before he could safely take to the battlefield. In addition to the fact that his garments were most inappropriate it was also very important—considering the plan he had in mind—to get himself a uniform of some sort.

  Seconds later, he saw what he wanted. The spread tents of an army camped some four miles off along a narrow side road. He could get a uniform there, he was certain.

  Reggie lashed the weary animals down the side road, galloping frenziedly along and through several sentry posts who fired wildly in their efforts to stop him. From the uniforms of the sentries Reggie suspected that they were a division of Wellington’s troops for they were dressed quite differently from the French soldiers he had seen.

  This was even more luck than Reggie had hoped for, since an English uniform would serve his plan even better.

  His jaunt off onto the side road had again taken him away from the immediate vicinity of the battle and now the sounds of cannon and musket were muffled to an almost inaudible murmur. Reggie slowed his galloping nags to a halt, for the camp was now only a few hundred yards away and got down from the cart.

  There were trees lining the roadway, and Reggie kept close to these as he approached the camp stealthily. The English troops weren’t going to like what he would do—for it was going to lead to a complete reversal of the Battle of Waterloo.

  At last Reggie crouched in some shrubbery at the edge of the encampment. A large tent, ornately beflagged and standing apart from the rest, caught his eye immediately. It was obviously the staff headquarters of a general.

  Reggie worked frantically uprooting a section of shrubbery, and when he had it loose from the ground at last, he used it as a movable camouflage, inching across the open stretch that lay between him and the great tent. Soldiers, hurrying about, paid scant attention to the moving shrub which was Reggie Vliet. And finally, he was beside the rear flaps of the great tent.

  Peering cautiously into the tent, Reggie breathed a sudden sharp gasp of astonishment and glee. A general, spangled and gaudy, sat alone at a table in the center of the tent, pouring over maps.

  Reggie took a deep and tremulous breath. A general! He’d expected to deal with an ordinary private, perhaps a corporal, or possibly a lieutenant—but a general! And then Reggie steeled himself. A general’s uniform would be
even better than any other military regalia he could don. It would suit his purposes perfectly.

  So far, the warrior in the tent hadn’t noticed his presence. And so far, no one on the camping grounds had seen Reggie’s stealthy approach on their leader’s tent. But he would have to act swiftly. He entered the tent.

  Reggie moved softly coming up on the General from behind. As he drew closer to the general, who was oblivious to all but the maps over which he hunched his great shoulders, Reggie picked up a heavy overcoat from a cot.

  With one swift spring, Reggie leaped forward, enshrouding the startled military dignitary in the vast folds of the coat. The gurgling cries of the general were well muffled by the thickness of the garment as Reggie squeezed inward.

  Reggie’s next move was to relieve the general of his side arms.

  This being done, he was able to remove the overcoat from the general’s head and step back, carefully pointing a heavy pistol at that military gentleman’s skull.

  “Not a peep out of you, old boy. This is serious, understand?” Reggie’s words came hissed, and made him feel quite triumphantly dramatic. The general, being wise, shut his jaw firmly at the sight of the menacing pistol. He seemed, now that his shock was over, to be quite willing to comply with Reggie’s every wish, rather than get plugged in the center of the skull.

  “You will remove your uniform,” Reggie directed, waving the pistol ever so slightly. The red face of the general grew lobster crimson, and his veins turned to bulging purple cords in his forehead. Obviously the suggestion had pricked his dignity.

  But Reggie waved the pistol again ever so slightly.

  It was obvious that the mad gleam in the eyes of the young man in the masquerade suit was dangerous. So the general grudgingly did as he was told. In a moment he stood shivering before Reggie in—of all things—long red flannel underwear!

  Reggie restrained the guffaws he felt like unloosing. It was delightful to realize that he was controlling history by the mere wave of a gun. He wished for one delicious instant that Sandra were here beside him, so that she could see the sort of stuff he, Reggie Vliet, was made of. But then grim purpose returned to him, and he realized he didn’t dare tarry here any longer. He had a battle to win for Napoleon and this disrobing of a British general was part of his plan. Time was still essential.

  Holding the pistol clumsily, Reggie managed to remove his toga and don the general’s uniform without deflecting the point of the weapon from the fellow’s skull. This done, he grabbed the general’s tri-cornered hat, popped it jauntily on his head, and grinned.

  “Well, old boy, old Son-of-Wars-and-Thunder, I’ll be toddling along now. I have a battle to win and a bit of history that needs changing. Wish you could come with me, old chap. So sorry!”

  The expression on the face of the be-underweared general had changed sharply. Changed to a look of infinite mortification; utter, naked shame. His voice, husky and trembling, gave Reggie further surprise.

  “Please,” the general pleaded. “Please. Do with me what you will, but give me back my uniform. The disgrace, the utter shame, the horrible embarrassment, it will—”

  Reggie laughed quietly, but with vast pleasure.

  “Exactly, old boy. Perhaps it will keep you confined to your tent, eh? Perhaps it might be wise to save embarrassment and climb under the blankets on your cot.”

  Like a whipped and beaten thing, the general darted to his cot hurling himself on it and pulling heavy blankets up to his neck. There he remained, while Reggie looked on grinning.

  “If I am ever able to find you again,” breathed the crimson-faced general, “I will kill you for this!”

  Reggie laughed once more, and stepped outside, resplendent in his spangled general’s uniform, closing the tent flaps behind him. He felt certain that there would be no sounding of any alarm. Not at any rate, until the general found something to cover up his red flannel underwear.

  There was a horse tethered just outside the general’s tent. A huge, magnificent, all-white animal—the general’s mount. Reggie saw a soldier approaching him hurriedly, and just as hurriedly he leaped to the horse, climbing into the saddle.

  “General,” the soldier shouted. “The time has arrived. The message has come. We are ready to follow you!” Reggie wheeled his great animal, reaching down and plucking an envelope from the hand of the excited orderly.

  “Stay as you are until my return!” he commanded the orderly. “Say nothin’ of this to anyone. I’ll be back!” And he took care to keep his face well hidden in the large collar of the general’s tunic. Then he raked the sides of his mount with the sharp spurs he was now wearing.

  Reggie galloped off in a cloud of dust . . .

  The sounds of battle pounded furiously in Reggie’s ears, and the rhythm of the hoofbeats of his mighty steed was music as Reggie thundered up to the battlefield of Waterloo a half-hour later. As he rode, he had mapped out his plans in the last detail. The plans that were to save the day for Napoleon Bonaparte.

  It would be simple, for Reggie remembered something of his high-school history, something of what had happened at Waterloo. Excitement pounded in Reggie’s temples, for at last he was really accomplishing what he had set out to do. At last he would win, for once and for all the hand of Sandra Vanderveer.

  The cannon thunder was terrific, and on every side of him Reggie saw men fighting, riding, charging, and dying. Bugle notes split the welter of sound occasionally, summoning fresh waves of fighting troops which met in the center of the melee, locked in death grips. On a tiny knoll, about a hundred yards from Reggie, a small band of officers were gathered, standing respectfully behind a short, dynamic figure in a wide flaring cape—Napoleon Bonaparte!

  Bullets were zinging by Reggie’s ears now, and he bent low over the neck of his charging mount, not quite certain as to who was shooting at him, but well aware that he presented a tempting target.

  Seventy thousand Frenchmen were fighting against an equal number of English, fighting to change the destiny of the world. And Reggie gave his plan one last thought as he spurred his horse through the milling ranks of combatants. The whole scheme depended on a ditch.

  For Reggie remembered that it had been a ditch, a sunken road, into which unsuspecting French cavalry fell when making a last and decisive charge against the English, that had turned the tide at Waterloo. Turned the tide in favor of Wellington’s forces.

  Reggie’s plan was simple. In his English general’s costume, mounted as he was on a great white steed, he could marshal the troops of Wellington into a charge before the French cavalry went into action. He could get enough of them into the charge, at any rate, to fill up that sunken road with the bodies of English rather than French soldiers. Then the French would be able to ride the ghastly span and defeat the English, rather than vice versa, as it had been.

  Of course there was another point, but Reggie had taken it into consideration also. The second element that defeated the French at this historic battle had been the failure of a division of French reserves to arrive on the scene at the right moment. But Reggie had shrewdly taken into consideration the fact that the English who would now fall into the ditch would compensate for the lack of French reserves. And the French cavalry would then do the rest.

  Reggie Vliet’s jaw was grim, purposeful, and he wheeled his steed in the direction toward which the dynamic figure on the knoll was facing. Over there, he knew, on the opposite side, would be the soldiers of Wellington. The men milling around him were—and suddenly Reggie’s jaw fell slack and he gulped hastily. He was on the French side of the battlefield, and it had never occurred to him until this instant!

  Milling around on a white horse in the uniform of an English general. Nonchalantly dashing through hordes of fighting Frenchmen!

  Reggie shut his eyes tight, and wondered frantically why someone hadn’t shot him down by now, or dragged him captive from his horse. He dug his spurs in deeper, urging his mount on, praying that his luck would hold, praying that t
he French wouldn’t realize they had an English general in their midst. Ahead, perhaps two hundred yards, he could see the ditch, the sunken road, that he would have to span to get to the English sides of the lines. He flayed the sides of his horse again.

  And then, in the midst of the shouting, shooting and confusion, someone grabbed the halter of his horse. Grabbed tightly, jerking the animal’s neck back violently, while rough hands reached up and dragged Reggie down from the saddle. French hands!

  “They’ve got me,” Reggie bleated desperately, even as he was being dragged downward. “I’ll be shot as an English spy, or something!”

  Two French battery gunners were holding Reggie. Their faces and uniforms were blackened by gunpowder and sweat.

  “General,” cried one, “we cannot permit you to make such a heroic, such a foolish, charge into the midst of our enemy, the English. We will not allow you to sacrifice yourself, Sire!”

  Reggie blinked dazedly at them. What was this? French soldiers addressing him as—and then Reggie noticed with a sudden sweeping wave of horrified despair. Their uniforms were the same as his own! He had taken an unfamiliar French uniform, instead of an English uniform as he had imagined! The general, the fellow he had left back in the tent—the chap who was now cowering in his long underwear—was a Frenchman!

  Reggie groaned. Groaned and threw his hands to his face.

  “You must go to the rear, General,” the French battery gunners begged him. “We will hold off Wellington’s charge, Sire, even though we die!”

  But Reggie wasn’t even listening. Cannons thundered all about him, louder than before. And from the hill where Napoleon stood, the French Old Guard Cavalry swept down in a sudden charge toward the sunken road and the English lines!

  Reggie’s heart was in his heels, for even as he watched this gallant, reckless charge, he knew that he had failed, that this was the end of the Little Corporal.

  An Empire was tumbling about the ears of Reggie Vliet, and there on the other side of the ditch, where Wellington waited with cannon that would wither the gallant French Cavalry, another Empire was being born.