Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  “N—no,” he stammered, “I’m not. None at all.”

  General Sheridan wrinkled his brow and shook his head thoughtfully.

  “Amazing likeness,” he muttered, half to himself. He turned slowly, but stopped and peered at Reggie again.

  Reggie wondered with rising hysteria what was wrong. He squared his shoulders, straightened his uniform automatically.

  “I get it,” General Sheridan cried suddenly. He grabbed Reggie’s hand abruptly and crushed it between his own two big ones. “I understand perfectly,” he said warmly. “We can’t ever repay your family for all the assistance they’ve given us. You had me a bit puzzled until I noticed your uniform. Good luck.”

  With this the general wheeled and strode away. Reggie scratched his head in bewilderment. Was the general going loony? Reggie shrugged helplessly. It didn’t really matter. With Sheridan and his men out of the way it would be a great Confederate victory. He looked about the encampment and saw men saddling and mounting their tough, wiry cavalry horses. Sheridan’s command was ready to march—in the wrong direction. Reggie peered closely at the heavily bearded faces of the Union soldiers, trying to pick Major Vanderveer out of the pack. He wanted to see the chap once before he departed with General Sheridan and his men to historical oblivion. The door behind him was suddenly thrown open and a lithe, muscular figure, dressed in an unfamiliar uniform hurried by him and climbed to the saddle of a near-by horse.

  Reggie choked back a gasp of surprise as the horse wheeled and its rider’s face was visible. He was too shocked to move or speak, all he could do was stare in dazed bewilderment—at the spitting, mirror-like image of himself, Reggie Vliet!

  The image of himself on the horse stared at him in equal astonishment and then, as a shouted command echoed through the air, he wheeled his horse, and with a last look over his shoulder at Reggie’s open-mouthed figure, he dashed away.

  Reggie shook his head unbelievingly. The likeness was too exact to be possible. The man’s bearing and features and expressions were the exact duplicates of Reggie Vliet. It was incredible. Like looking in a mirror and seeing yourself in different clothes performing different actions. Reggie came out of his dazed fog as he became aware of the presence of a grizzled veteran standing next to him.

  Reggie grasped the man’s arm excitedly.

  “That fellow who just rode off,” he said quickly, “Who was he?”

  The veteran spat a huge quid onto the ground before replying. “Him?” he said querulously, “Thought ever’body knew him. He’s the Frenchie, Major Vanderveer!”

  CHAPTER V

  A Change in Plans

  Reggie digested this in stunned silence. He opened and dosed his mouth foolishly. It was strangely disturbing news. It was more than that. It was deuced astonishing. His reason told him that it was merely a coincidence, but his instinct was telling him otherwise.

  Major Vanderveer, the man he was going to discredit, was his own spitting image. That much he could appreciate. But his conscience was pricking him at the thought of sabotaging, as it were, this chap who looked enough like him to be his twin. It was like cutting off his nose to spite his face—or something.

  It was while he was brooding over these confusing thoughts, that a voice behind him said:

  “Here’s an important dispatch for you, Major Vanderveer. Lucky I caught you before you rode off with General Sheridan.”

  Reggie turned guiltily and saw a dusty, tired looking dispatch rider, standing next to a lathered horse. The dispatch rider, a slim youthful chap, was holding a leather-covered roll of paper toward him.

  Reggie knew a painful moment of indecision. The dispatch rider had obviously mistaken him for Major Vanderveer. If he took the message he might be embroiling himself in some sort of intrigue or trouble. If he didn’t take it, the dispatch rider might became suspicious, do a little investigating, and the soup would soon be in the fire. Reggie took the dispatch.

  He opened it after the rider had saluted and led his tired horse away. Enclosed in the leather roll was a letter addressed to Major Vanderveer, attached to Sheridan’s command. There were only a few lines to the letter and Reggie read them quickly. When he had finished, he replaced the letter in the leather roll and placed it in his pocket. His hands were trembling with excitement. The information in that letter had hit him with force of a bombshell. It was an astounding, an amazing revelation, but its authenticity was beyond question.

  For minutes Reggie Vliet remained rooted to the spot, his brain churning madly with a dozen problems and complications. Then as the shock wore off, he realized with frantic desperation, that action, immediately vigorous action, was demanded of him. He had to ride after General Sheridan, stop him and send him back to meet the Confederate forces at Cedar creek. For it was of the most vital importance that the Confederate forces be defeated. They had to be defeated. And Sheridan and his men must share in the glory. That was imperative, too.

  Reggie wheeled and raced for a horse . . .

  Reggie caught up with the rear guard of Sheridan’s forces in a little less than an hour. And in exactly three minutes of hard riding, Reggie finally drew up to the head of the column and alongside of Sheridan and his twin, Major Vanderveer.

  “G-g-g-g-g-g-generrrrrrral!” Reggie blurted from his jogging mount. “T-t-t-thhhhhheee Reb-b-b-ellls have struck at Ced-d-d-dar Creek!”

  General Sheridan instantly threw up his hand, and far down the road the entire column came to a halt.

  “What’s that you say?” he demanded.

  Breathlessly, Reggie explained. But all Sheridan wanted was the synopsis of what had happened. And now fire danced in his Irish eyes, and his handsome jaw was set. He wheeled his mount—his famous black charger. To his fellow officers and Reggie, he bellowed:

  “Ride, soldiers, we’re going back!”

  The next four hours were a breathless nightmare of anxiety of Reginald Randhope. Never had he been swept along on the crest of greater excitement, and confusion. Thundering wildly through Winchester, Sheridan and his men swept down the road to Cedar Creek, passing the straggling remnants of a retreating Union army.

  Reggie, up in the fore, found his own steed matching Sheridan’s black charger stride for stride, mile for mile. On the other side of Sheridan, raced major Vanderveer, saber in hand, shouting lusty encouragement to the Union forces.

  Louder, louder, grew the thundering of cannon and the salvo of scattered Union rifles. Sheridan had drawn his gleaming saber, now, and he held it high. Imitating the gesture, Reggie, too, swung a sword wildly above his head.

  And then, led by their gallant leader, Sheridan, the Union forces on the roadway turned back toward Cedar Creek, strengthened in courage and determination.

  The infantrymen were singing wildly, and Reggie heard their voices above the pounding of gunfire. “The Battle Hymn Of The Republic” was the tune those voices bellowed, and tiny icicles of pride and excitement trickled down Reggie’s spine.

  Irresistibly, the dashing cavalry leader swept onward, and irresistibly, the infantrymen behind them followed up the charge. They were in the thick of the confused and shaken Confederate soldiers, now. Soldiers who had found sure victory was turning into certain death and defeat.

  Reggie felt no sense of danger. He didn’t give a damn if a cannon ball hit him in the midriff. He felt as though he could hurl it back smoking. This was a new Reginald Vliet, a Vliet inspired by the very strength of the comrades who rode beside him.

  And in one vast rolling wave, the Union forces swept over the field of battle. The Confederates now were frankly routed, and any semblance of order that they had previously had was shattered. Gray clad rebels ran for safety, and those who stayed to fight fell beneath the thundering hoofs of Sheridan’s cavalry and the bullets of Union infantry.

  Bugles trumpeted wild retreat, and answering bugles screamed attack. And somehow, through all this, Reggie Randhope kept his saddle. Kept his saddle alongside General Sheridan and these newfound comrades.r />
  At last it was over. Infantrymen, still poured onto the scene, mopping up the last resistance of the boys in gray. Sheridan, still at the head of his men, slowed his gallant column to a trot.

  His eyes were shining, and there were tears in them as he gazed down from his black charger at the sprawling bodies of boys in blue and gray. For Sheridan was a soldier.

  And then General Sheridan’s black charger was beside Reggie’s weary gray horse, and he extended a gauntleted hand.

  “Fine riding, Lieutenant,” Sheridan said.

  Reggie choked up and couldn’t reply. Then Sheridan moved off, and Major Vanderveer, the amazing image of Reggie Vliet, jogged up beside Reggie.

  “I say,” he said, with a puzzled frown, “we resemble each other a good deal y’know. I don’t believe I know you but I feel, somehow, as if I should.” Reggie grinned broadly. “You should,” he said lightly. He patted the precious leather packet nestling inside his jacket. The packet containing the all-important letter. “If I told you the whole story,” he said to the puzzled Vanderveer, “you’d think I was as nutty as a fruit cake, so I won’t try.” Still grinning, Reggie reined his horse away from the battle scene, and dismounted. He felt as buoyant and giddy as a school-girl. Success, complete and exhilarating, was within his reach. Everything he had set out to accomplish had been handled with dash and éclat. He felt once again of the leather packet within his jacket and then squared his shoulders.

  “Vanderveer you damned old goat, put up your hands—here I come!”

  And with a vast sense of accomplishment, an overpowering feeling of confidence Reggie Vliet reached down to adjust the dial on the wrist-watch-ish time machine.

  Smilingly, he waited for the old familiar sensation of blackness to assail him. It would be great to get back. And it would be even greater to stay there—for good, and with Sandra.

  He wondered vaguely how long he would have been gone by the time he returned. Wondered and then realized that barely five or six minutes would have elapsed. Maybe less.

  “Pip pip!” said Reggie.

  Nothing happened. And with a horrible dropping sensation in the pit of his stomach, Reggie realized that almost a minute had elapsed while he’d been sitting atop his horse, waiting to be returned to the Present.

  And still nothing happened.

  The smile slid from Reggie’s face. Frantically, now, he raised his wrist to his ear. The watch-like time machine was silent.

  It was supposed to tick. All the time.

  But it was silent.

  Sweat in great rivers, broke out all over Reggie Randhope. He shook his wrist. Then put his ear to the watch.

  It was still silent.

  “Oh my God!” Reggie bleated. “I’m trapped!”

  Reggie didn’t hear the sudden thunder of a cannon to his left. A cannon discharged by Union soldiers in celebration of the victory. He was too stupefied, too frozen, by the horror of his situation. His heart had turned to ice.

  But Reggie’s startled gray horse had heard the cannon. Heard, and leaped madly, bucking Reggie’s startled figure to the ground. Then it was galloping wildly away, while the still terror-stricken Reggie watched it go.

  Despairingly, automatically, Reggie put the watch to his ear.

  Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick!

  The jar to earth had started the thing working again.

  Reggie felt like screaming his joy and hysterical relief as the old sensation of blackness closed in around him . . .

  CHAPTER VI

  A Vanderveer—And a Vliet!

  Reggie completed the trip from the Civil War to the Present in what he considered to be jig time. The whirling, rushing blackness enveloped him, it seemed, but for an instant, and then he opened his eyes to behold the familiar surroundings of the Vanderveer library.

  Memory swept over him in an electrifying wave. He was back in the present with all of the evidence and information necessary to completely blast Colonel Vanderveer’s idolatry of his ancestors. One Vanderveer an out-and-out fraud, a traitor and villain of the first water, and the second illustrious Vanderveer—he felt carefully of the rolled leather packet in his breast pocket and chuckled triumphantly. It would be worth one million dollars to see the old goat’s face when he learned that—

  “Pardon sir,” Lowndes’ suave voice interrupted his thoughts, “but I see you’re back.”

  Reggie looked up at Lowndes and smiled.

  “You bet,” he said happily. “Your time thingumajig worked like a charm.” He unstrapped it and handed it to him. “Be a good chap now and get me a change of clothes. I’ve got a lot to talk over with a certain opinionated old goat and I’ll feel better when I climb out of this uniform.”

  Twenty minutes later Reggie slipped into a well-tailored tweed coat and stared at himself in the mirror. Then he slipped the leather packet from his pocket and, with it gripped firmly in his hand, he strode through the doorway and down the carpeted stairway that led to old Vanderveer’s study.

  But as he passed the staircase that led to the upper floors of the house, he looked up and saw Sandra descending. Sandra looking sad and wan, but still the blue-eyed apple of his eye.

  “Darling,” he cried.

  She turned to his voice, her face lighting like a Christmas tree.

  “Reggie,” she exclaimed. Then she was running down the steps and the next instant his arms were around her. “I’m so upset,” she sobbed, “we can’t get married unless father changes his mind.”

  “He’ll do that,” Reggie promised grimly. “I’m going to give that fire-eating father of yours his last chance to give us his blessing. Come along my dear. Chin up.”

  “Oh Reggie,” she cried, her eyes shining, “you’re wonderful.”

  Reggie took her by the arm.

  “You’re probably right,” he said modestly. “It’s a pity, though, that your father doesn’t quite share your opinion.”

  Then they were standing before the oak-paneled door that led to the lair of Colonel Vanderveer. Reggie squared his shoulder and shoved the door open and marched into the Vanderveer study.

  The Old Goat was seated behind his massive desk thumbing through a thick copy of ARISTOCRACY OF AFGHANISTAN, or BLUE-BLOODS OF THE BUSH.

  He looked up as the door banged and then he coughed.

  A rumbling, ominous cough. His eyes lighted with the recognition of a man renewing acquaintance with a water moccasin. He opened his mouth and four flabby chins shook angrily.

  But Reggie beat him to the punch.

  “Now listen to me, sir,” he said grimly. “I intend to marry your daughter and you and your entire gallery of sourpussed ancestors can be hanged.”

  Colonel Vanderveer eyed him with cold dislike.

  “A Vanderveer marry one of your stripe?” he snorted derisively. “You must be mad. “I’ve given you my decision and it’s final.”

  With calculated deliberation Reggie drew the carefully-wrapped letter from his pocket. Without answering Colonel Vanderveer’s blast, without so much as looking at him, he proceeded to slowly unwrap the leather wrappings, until the letter, now wrinkled and yellowed with age, was in his hand.

  “This,” he said, with diabolic deliberation, “might be of interest to you, Colonel Vanderveer. It is a letter to Major Vanderveer of the Union forces. It is from a fairly well known gentleman of that time. Shall I read it to you?” Colonel Vanderveer was trying unsuccessfully to restrain his curiosity.

  “G—go ahead,” he said breathlessly, “Major Lucius Vanderveer is one of our proudest ancestors. A nobleman, a gentleman, a true blue-blood of the first water.”

  Sandra Vanderveer was looking at Reggie in undisguised admiration.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked happily. “You really are so terribly smart at times, Reggie.”

  “Oh just around in—in a nook,” Reggie answered non-committally. “Now I’ll read this letter. It’s addressed to Major Lucius Vanderveer, attached to the command of General Philip Sheridan.” />
  “Yes, go on, boy,” urged Colonel Vanderveer from the edge of his chair.

  “My dear Reginald,” Reggie began loudly and distinctly.

  “Here!” Colonel Vanderveer cried testily. “You said the letter was to Lucius. What’s the blooming idea of this Reginald.”

  “Will you permit me to continue?” Reggie asked with all the aloof dignity he could muster.

  Colonel Vanderveer subsided scratching his head perplexedly.

  “My dear Reginald,” Reggie began again. “There are not words to express this country’s fervent gratitude to you for your gallant services in her behalf.” Reggie paused, and then spoke the next sentence emphatically. “The Vliets of France should well be proud of you for your efforts in behalf of Liberty and Union.”

  Reggie rushed on before Colonel Vanderveer could interrupt.

  “The name of Vanderveer which you have been forced to assume because of possible international complications has been honored excessively by your courage and idealism. But it is my stern duty to ask a still greater favor of you. It is my wish that you renounce your family name of Vliet and legally adopt the name of Vanderveer to circumvent the possibility of our foes learning that you have aided us.

  “You are well aware what that might mean on the troubled international front. I am sure that one who has suffered and sacrificed as you have for our cause will not hesitate to make this last and most heart-felt sacrifice of an honored and distinguished family name. Trusting that you will grant me this last favor, I salute you for the last time as Reginald Vliet, and greet you for the first time as Lucius Vanderveer.”

  “Preposterous!” snorted Old Vanderveer. “Expect me to believe that our noblest forbear was a Vliet, one of your people. Rot! Absolutely tommyrot!” Reggie smiled.

  “The paper and ink are genuine, the seals are authentic. It is, I am happy to say, the absolute and unimpeachable truth.”

  Beads of perspiration were standing out on Colonel Vanderveer’s forehead. Reggie’s casual air of assurance was upsetting him.