“How? I mean, how is the sun up when it’s after eleven in the evening?” He shook his head as he looked around. “What’s going on, Bill? How did you do this?”
Bill put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and said, “I tried to ease you into this, Tom. The door really allows me to travel back in time. At this moment we are in September 15, 1864. I totally know that you are in a state of disbelief and a bit of shock. I know because I was there. When the past president brought me back here, I was in the same situation you are now, and it took me awhile to realize that I was back in time.”
Tom walked over to the gate and peered out. He turned to Bill and said, “Okay, so it looks like an old street, but aside from the sun, we could be in an old section of New York City. I mean, a section that was never destroyed by so-called modernization.” He tried the gate. It was locked.
Bill stepped forward and once again produced the key, inserted it into the lock and noiselessly swung open the heavy gate. He tilted his head toward the cobblestone street. “Shall we step out, Officer Madden?”
Tom eagerly stepped out. He looked up and down the quiet, tree-lined street. “Wow!” he said in a low voice. “This sure looks real.”
Bill motioned to his police badge. “I have to ask you to remove your badge. If a real 1864 policeman strolled by he’d have lots of questions to ask you. Questions we can’t answer.”
Tom looked back at him, furrowed his brow and said in a mumbling voice, “Er . . . yes, I guess they would. I mean,” he said, removing the badge, “assuming we really are back in time.”
Bill chuckled as he followed Tom out and locked the gate behind them. He took out his pocket watch and said, “It’s just before noon. Shall we stroll?” All Tom could do was nod in agreement.
Bill took the lead and they walked in a leisurely pace to the corner, with Tom a half-step behind. At the intersection Bill said, “I know you are still not fully sure that we’ve traveled back, but let me assure you that we have. And should we meet people, I beg that you stay in ‘club time’ and allow me to do the talking.”
Tom once again nodded in the affirmative. They continued their walk with Bill pointing out various things such as gas lamps, overhead telephone wires and many trees that were later cut down in the name of progress. He also pointed out the horse waste strewn throughout the streets.
“Just watch your step.”
Tom wrinkled his nose in agreement.
The newest time traveler was agog with the sights before him. They were approaching a small area of stores and he saw people walking about. This just can’t be! Tom thought. This is impossible, but there’s no way the club could have set all this up. There’s no way they could have kept this a secret in New York City. He paused in his thoughts, and then continued, that can only mean one thing. I’m back in time.
He turned to Bill who was also looking around like a tourist. “We really are here, aren’t we? I mean, you really took me back to the 1800s?” Bill nodded. “My God, man,” said Tom, “this is amazing.”
They were passing a small candy store with a heavyset dark-haired woman sweeping the sidewalk with a well-worn broom. Tom stopped. “Is it all right if I buy something? Some of that candy?” he said, pointing to a slip of white paper about three inches wide and ten inches long. It was dotted with colored candy drops.
Bill smiled. “Of course, but I bet you don’t have the currency needed for this period. Right?”
Tom’s face showed the reality. He wasn’t prepared for this. Bill put his hand in his pocket, grinned and gave him some coins.
Tom looked at them. 1862, he thought. Bill was ready to come here right from the start.
They went into the store, and Tom pointed out the candy to the woman who followed them in. She shuffled over and wrapped the candy in a piece of brown paper. She pushed back a strand of dark hair that had come loose from the bun on top her head. Tom gave her a nickel and she gave him four cents change. He looked at the coins in disbelief.
“Wrong change, sir?” she asked.
“No, no, sorry,” Tom said quickly. “It’s the right change. Thank you very much.”
“It’s little things that make us realize that the people from the past are the same as the people from our time,” Bill said, as they resumed their walk.
Tom stopped as they reached the next corner. “I have a question to ask you,” he said as he picked a candy dot off the paper and put it in his mouth. He offered one to Bill who took one and said,
“I’m sure you have a million questions, Tom. Shoot away.”
“More like a million and one of them. But let me ask you . . . have you shown this ability to the other members, too?”
“No,” Bill answered as he shook his head. “Not all of them. In fact, just two others.”
“Why only three of us? Why not all when we joined?”
Bill grinned at him. “Tom, think back to when you joined. If I had said, ‘oh and by the way, you get to travel back in time,’ you would have walked out right away thinking the place was loaded with kooks. Am I right?”
Tom looked sheepish. “Yeah, I guess so. So why me and why the other two?”
“Because I needed them for a mission. Just as I need you for a mission.”
Tom looked puzzled. “Mission? What kind of a mission?”
“Before we talk about the mission, isn’t there something you said you would like to do if you could get back here?”
Tom’s eyes went wide. “You don’t mean go see my great-great-grandfather, do you?”
Bill nodded as he saw a horse drawn cab approaching. “Should I get the cab?” he asked.
Tom stood for a second in thought, then said. “Absolutely! I must do this. I have to see him.”
Bill waved and the cab stopped in front of them. Two big, gray horses with sweat running down their backs stood there literally chomping at their bits as the cab rocked slightly on it’s steel springs.
“Where to, gentleman?” asked the driver, as he deftly reached down and flicked open the side door of the carriage. The man had a scarf around his mouth and nose, his way of fighting the smells of the city as his horses added to them.
Bill looked at Tom who responded, “Brooklyn. Union and Court Streets. The 76th Precinct.” The driver snapped the whip over the horses’ heads and they were off.
"Hope you don't get seasick," said Bill in a low voice.
Tom shrugged his shoulders and answered, "No, why?"
"Because we have to take a ferry," he said still in a low voice, "the Brooklyn Bridge hasn't been built yet."
Tom’s eyebrows arched, "Ohh, wow! Hadn't thought of that."
They went down Broadway to Water Street and the Manhattan/Brooklyn Ferry. Both men watched as the driver edged through the traffic of other horse-drawn wagons to a spot close to the front.
When they stopped Tom and Bill got out. The driver sat with his foot on the brake holding the reins as he lowered his scarf to take advantage of the sweeter air coming off the river. The engine rumbled and they walked to the railing and held on as the ferry wallowed out into the waters between New York and Brooklyn. They scanned the skyline and reacted to it as though they were out-of-towners. They were pointing out spots long gone in their time and spots where tall buildings would appear. They both went silent as they gazed on the spot where the Twin Towers would stand for a relatively short time.
As they closed to the far shore the ferry's whistle signaled and the people went back to their carriages and wagons. They docked with a bump against the wharf at the foot of Atlantic Avenue and once again the controlled chaos started as the ferry emptied.
After a teeth-jarring carriage ride along a cobble-stoned Atlantic Avenue they made a right turn at the Brooklyn water front. They rolled along about twenty blocks until they reached Union Street and made a left turn.
The predominately Italian neighborhood was filled with vending carts selling fruits and vegetables. There was hardly enough room for the carriage to pass and a small enterp
rising boy went in front pushing carts out of the way. When the carriage reached the police precinct on Union and Court the driver tossed him a coin. The boy ran off shouting in old-world Italian of his good luck.
“Wait here for us, driver?” Bill asked, handing him two dollars. The driver tipped his hat, stuck a pipe in his mouth and agreed to wait. Bill turned to Tom who stood there quietly looking at the police station wide-eyed. “He may not be there, Tom.” Bill said.
“I know,” Tom said in a low voice, “but I have to see.” He started walking toward it when Bill stopped him.
“What are you going to say?”
Tom looked lost. “What? What am I going . . . oh . . . I . . . I don’t know. What should I say?”
“You can’t say who you really are; they’d put you away for being some sort of a crazy person. These are some of the things you have to think about. You’re really back here, not at the club playacting.”
Tom seemed to come around. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t think about any of this. Any suggestions?”
Bill nodded, “Sure. I’ve got plenty of them. But what would you do in an undercover situation? A situation where you have to get in and have to come up with a story on the spot?”
Tom thought and looked at Bill. “Man, you are right. I know what to do. I’m going to ask the desk sergeant how a person goes about joining the force.”
Bill smiled. “That’s it. Now what’s your name?”
Again Tom looked puzzled. “My name? Tom Madd . . . oh, wait! I can’t be Tom Madden. My great-great-grandfather’s name is Tom Madden.”
“Right,” said Bill. “Use Jack Kelly. It’s worked for me in the past. And I do mean in the past. But that’s another story. Now first we have to get rid of your blue police coat. Removing the badge isn’t going to be enough if we go into a police station.”
He looked around and spotted a men’s clothing store across the street. ”This way,” he said. A small man with thick glasses turned at the sound of the bell that sounded as they opened the door. He feigned concern as Bill explained his friends’ loss of clothes on the train from Chicago. They picked out a jacket and five minutes later were walking toward the police station with Tom wearing a blue tweed jacket that came close to matching the color of his pants. He had his police jacket wrapped up in brown paper under his arm.
They walked up the steps of the brownstone police station and entered through a large, heavy wooden door with glass windows. The floor was wooden, and Tom remembered walking on the same floor years in the future as he did research on a school project.
Policemen in tall helmets were walking in and out as they went or came back from patrol. The station was a bustle of activity just as they were throughout the ages, Tom mused. The sergeant’s tall mahogany desk was also the same kind he remembered, but this sergeant was a heavyset redheaded man sporting a handlebar mustache and thick sideburns. Tom was surprised at how he felt right at home.
The sergeant looked down at them both. “Can I be of service, gentleman?” he said with his hands clasped.
Tom nodded and spoke. “Yes sir. I was wondering if you could give me some advice on how to go about joining this fine establishment?”
The sergeant squinted at him, and then put on his eyeglasses. He broke into a wide grin as he stood now, with both hands on the desktop looking down at Tom. “My God, man, you are the spittin’ image of Whitey Madden. Tell me, lad, did he put you up to this? Is he trying to fool with the ol’ sarge? ’Cause if he is I’ll cuff his ears. Now where is he?”
Bill and Tom looked at each other. Tom looked at the desk sergeant and shrugged. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The sergeant stepped down from behind the desk and grabbed a few of the policemen in the house, “McGrady, Higgins, come here. Tell me who this rascal looks like.”
A small army of blue gathered. “My Lord,” said Higgins, “it’s Whitey Madden himself. But a shorter Madden. ’Tis like looking at his son. That is if he had one.”
“Maybe he does,” said a short thin detective. “Maybe he has another life he doesn’t speak of.”
The men laughed. The sergeant commanded, “Higgins! Give a shout up the stairs. He should be up there writing a report.”
Higgins walked over to the wooden staircase and shouted, “Madden! Come down. The sergeant wants you to identify this mug.”
An answer of sorts came back down and footfalls were heard on the wooden stairs. Whitey Madden appeared, putting his jacket on and mumbling, “I’m off duty, sergeant. If you need a lineup using my services you’ll have to talk to me about some time off.” He got to the bottom of the stairs and as he faced Tom, his eyes opened wide.
“My God, lad. Where did you come from? Are you from my sainted mother’s sister’s side? Have you only arrived today?”
Bill felt he was looking at twins. And except for Tom being a few inches shorter than his great-great-grandfather they seemed identical. Tom shook his head not sure what to say. He looked at Bill and got back a look that said, Make it work. He felt this was the undercover assignment of his life.
He relaxed and said in as casual voice as he could, “Sir! I am as perplexed as you are! I just picked a random police station to inquire as how to join the force and am told that I have a twin here. And looking at you, I must say, that you, sir, are a good-looking man.”
The policemen around him broke up in laughter as the sergeant said, “Jeeze, Whitey! He must be related to you. He’s as loaded with blarney as are you!”
“So,” said Whitey, “you just happened to come into me precinct?” He shook his head. “Well no relative, or one that looks like one, is going away without having a beer with me.” He put out his hand, “Are you for it?”
They shook hands and Tom said, “Jack Kelly,” and turning to Bill, “This is Bill Scott, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. And yes, I’d love to have a beer with you.”
The sergeant rolled his eyes as they walked out, “Lord protect the population. A Madden and a look-alike-Madden are having a drink together.”
The three of them hopped into the waiting cab and went to Pete’s Bar & Grill on Seventh Avenue and Eleventh Street at the police officers’ suggestion. It was one of the oldest bars in Brooklyn, and there were no stools at the long bar and sawdust pretty much covered the wooden floor.
Whitey exclaimed, “If a person has ta’ sit ta’ have a sip, they’re not a man and have no place in Pete’s.”
Everyone seemed to know Whitey and respect him. He bought Tom and Bill beers and they talked about the pros and cons of being a policeman as they ate cheese sandwiches on pumpernickel bread smeared with horseradish.
It was after more than a few beers that the bartender caught Whitey’s eye and said under his breath, “Ahh, Whitey Madden, I do believe Nora Mulvihill is at the window trying to get your attention.”
Tom started to turn around but Whitey stopped him. “Don’t look. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m leaving because I knew she was here.” He took another drink of his beer. “I sort of have to make as though it’s my idea to leave now,” he said and winked. “You know, sort of like a game we play. She would be a great catch, but we make as though we are just good friends, so I can’t just drop and run if I see her. Ya’ understand, don’t you lad?”
Tom nodded with a smile as he looked at her through the bar’s mirror. It was his great-great-grandmother but he couldn’t say anything. He just smiled. “I understand. Well, we really have to be going now anyway.”
The big man put out his hand and as they shook hands, Whitey put his arm around Tom and said, “Jack Kelly, any time you are around I demand that we have a drink together. And I do think you would be a great person to have on the force.” He shook hands with Bill, finished his drink and said, “Now, I really must go.” He tilted his head toward the window. “I do plan on marrying Miss Nora Mulvihill and don’t want her thinking I couldn’t be a good husband and father by being owned by the bottle.”
The big man looked down at Tom and smiled warmly. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Kelly. I do hope we cross paths again. I feel something of a bond between us.” He walked to the door as good-byes were exchanged from the crowd.
Young Tom Madden looked at Bill and smiled. “Bill, that was the greatest moment of my life. Thank you for that.”
Bill noticed his watery eyes. “Let me buy us a round, then head back to the club.” Tom nodded, and Bill summoned the bartender.
DATELINE: 2011, PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
They reentered the club and locked the doors behind them. Bill called Matt who brought coffee up for them. The grandfather clock struck four.
Tom looked at his watch. “Wow, it’s four in the morning. Time flies when you’re having fun. No pun intended.”
Bill laughed as he picked up his coffee mug. “I’d like to brief you on the mission, but if you’re too tired it can wait until tomorrow.”
Tom almost dropped his mug. “Tomorrow? Are you crazy? I have to hear it all now. Man, I’ll never sleep tonight anyway. No, I’m wide-awake and all ears. Please, go ahead.”
“Okay,” said Bill as he sat back in his easy chair. “I’d like to start off by telling you why I selected you for this mission. I read in your bio that you are somewhat of an expert on steam engines. Correct?”
Tom nodded. “True, although it was sort of forced on me by the Army, I really got into them. It’s also a dying profession.”
“Well, let me tell you what our mission is all about.”
It took the better part of an hour to tell Tom about Mark Twain disappearing and New Orleans being destroyed. They were on their second mug of coffee when Bill finished.
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club. Book III Page 3
