Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club. Book III

by Robert P McAuley

  Sam flicked a long, gray ash as he nodded his head and looked on in disbelief. “Tom, I believe you,” he said, shaking his head. “My heavens, you do come from the future. Can I see your machine?”

  Tom passed it to him. Sam turned it over and felt its weight. “It’s light! It’s so small. I can’t believe this. I’m sitting in a room with a man who lives over one hundred years in the future.” He turned to Tom and squinted his eyes. “Why me Tom? Why tell me and not Captain Richard Owens?”

  Tom smiled wryly. “Because I needed an ally. Someone who knew the territory. And when I decided to tell you I knew no one would ever believe you, if you told them you met a man from the future.” He grinned at the writer. “Let’s face it, if you said I came from the future, they’d say, ‘Oh that Sam Clemens. There he goes again telling stories.’” He looked at Sam, still smiling, and said, “Right?”

  Sam returned the smile. “Damned smart of you, Tom. You are right. Your secret is safe with me anyway.” He looked at the machine in his hands. “When do we get the answer?”

  “If it goes as I think it will,” Tom said, “in about eight hours. And believe me, Sam, that’s fast. I’m cutting through a lot of red tape, going through a lot of back doors to get the information. Sure hope we can use it.”

  Sam passed the text machine back to Tom. “Well, Tom from 2011, I got to get some rest. It’s been a long day and visiting the bottle gets me tired. Think I’m gonna do a slow walk back to the Natchez. See you for breakfast?”

  Tom nodded and said, “I’ll be there. Say, at seven thirty?”

  Sam waved a hand over his shoulder as he walked out the door. “See you Tom, and I sure hope you turn up with some good news. Good night.”

  Tom closed and locked the door. He changed into the cotton robe the hotel provided, filled up the washbasin and took as close to a bath as he could using a facecloth and soap. The cold water woke him up as he had planned. He sat up in bed and read the newspapers while waiting for Bill to get back to him.

  The New Orleans Chronicle had a fiery editorial about companies outside of New Orleans selling trinkets and beads to stores in the city. How dare they, it read, sell to New Orleans what New Orleans created? Tom turned the page thinking, The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  As much as he tried he couldn’t stay awake. He nodded off and on until he heard a rooster call as the sun came up. The time traveler looked at the text screen. It was still empty. He went back into the washroom, washed and shaved and then dressed in his cleanest suit and picked up the communicator just as it vibrated. A message! He sat down to read the information he had requested.

  HI TOM. HOPE I GOT TO YOU IN TIME. TALKED TO SERGEANT REID AND HE JUST GOT BACK TO ME. THREE PEOPLE TOOK OUT POLICIES IN THE NEW ORLEANS AREA DURING THE TIME YOU ARE IN. FRED GRIMES, MARYANNE DOWERY AND LOUIS WARD. MARYANNE DOWERY HAD MORE THAN FOUR TIMES AS MANY POLICIES AS THE OTHER TWO. SHE STANDS TO MAKE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS IF NEW ORLEANS IS DESTROYED. KEEP IN TOUCH AND GOOD LUCK. BILL. PS. REID SAID YOU OWE HIM SUPER -SUPER BIG TIME.

  Tom laughed and wrote the names on a piece of paper, stuffed it in his pocket and left the room. He looked at his watch. It was six-fifteen. He suddenly realized his life and others depended on what happened in the next few hours. Even though it was early, Tom decided to walk back down to the Natchez.

  He went to the foot of the street and looked up at the majestic form of the steamboat, he saw three figures standing by the wheelhouse. He walked up the gangplank and saw Boyce walking off, frowning. Tom continued up the stairs to the wheelhouse and saw Sam and Owens. They waved him over.

  “We got some problems, Tom,” said Sam, as he handed him a mug of coffee from a silver tray.

  “What’s wrong gentlemen?” Tom asked taking a sip.

  Owens looked over the railing toward the rising sun, “Boyce says the forward gear is broken. He says he can’t get the part he needs until a supply boat comes down from Baton Rogue.”

  “And,” said Sam, “he doesn’t think it’ll get here until noon.”

  Tom took out the piece of paper with the names on it. “We have to work fast then.” He showed them the paper. “There are three names on this list. My contact says they all have insurance policies taken out throughout the city. But one has more than four times as many as the others.” He pointed to Maryanne Dowery.

  “Maryanne Dowery?” Owens said. “I was at her wedding.”

  “So you know her then,” said Tom. “Can we talk to her?”

  “We can talk to her husband,” said the captain. “He’s my engine man, Sylvester Boyce. She kept her maiden name because her insurance company was named Dowery Insurance and she didn’t want to confuse her clients, she said.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Tom. “I just saw him leave in a huff.”

  “Well,” said Richard, “that’d be my fault. I told him we had to sail right away and he said it’s not his fault the gear broke. When I asked him how come it broke if we just had an overhaul. He took that as me accusing him of buying poor-quality parts on the cheap and pocketing the savings. He walked off.”

  “Could be well-timed, too,” said Clemens. “Kind of well-planned.”

  “It does get him out of danger,” said Tom.

  “But,” said Richard, “I never told him about the possibility of an explosion.”

  Tom nodded, “Exactly captain. Not saying he’s in on it, but he is getting out of harm’s way.”

  “It just seems too pat, Richard,” said Sam, finishing his coffee and tossing the grounds overboard. “Think of this: There might be an explosion on the Natchez at the dock; The explosion can sink the city allowing a policyholder to collect; The major policyholder is the wife of the engine man aboard the ship that’s supposed to blow up, and he says the boat can’t be moved because of a part he purchased. Plus, he gets steamed and leaves.”

  He lit up a cigar and continued, “As I said, too pat.” He shook out the match. “Dang! Why, I couldn’t have written this story better myself.”

  “But,” said Tom, “if it is the Natchez that blows, where are the explosives? Was there anything brought aboard this morning?”

  Richard shook his head. “No. Gentlemen believe me, there are no explosives aboard this ship. I went over her from bow to planks and she’s clean.”

  Sam nodded in agreement, “So did we. She is clean.”

  Tom took some papers out of his jacket pocket. He looked at the notes he had made from Richard’s notebook. He thumbed down the list stopping at the item, ‘Planks.’ “Gentlemen, please forgive me, but when you say planks, you mean the deck boards, right?”

  Both Sam and Richard broke into laughter.

  “Heck no, Tom,” said Sam, as he put his arm on Tom’s shoulder, “planks are just slang for the stern paddles.” He pointed to the rear where the large wooden paddles that propelled the ship stood idle.

  “And you had new ones put on the Natchez, Captain?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. Why?” Richard answered, “The new paddles are the latest in paddle design. Where the old ones were solid oak, these new ones are hollowed out and filled with sawdust.”

  “Sawdust?” asked Tom, “Why sawdust?”

  “Because,” the captain went on, “the hollowed ones are lighter than the solid oak, even though they fill them with sawdust to keep them rigid. The Natchez has twenty-four paddles and lighter means we can carry more cargo and use less coal. And that, of course, equals more profit for us.”

  Tom looked at the ledger again and read it out loud, “Planks, GoodWood Corporation and Nobel Incorporated.” Tom closed his eyes and thought as both men watched him. His eyes flew open and he said, “Nobel?” He turned to both of them. “Quick, what time is it?”

  Sam took out his pocket watch and said, “Eight forty-five.”

  A low rumbling from alongside the Natchez caught Tom’s attention. “Is that a steamboat?”

  Owens looked out and nodded. “Yes, small lugger. It plies the river bringing su
pplies in to where big steamers can’t go. They’re all over the place.”

  Tom shook his head. “That’s how Boyce planned his escape. The city would be out because it gets flooded, so he makes his escape in a lugger.” He pointed to the small craft that had just pulled away from the rear of the Natchez. “There he goes, gentlemen, the killer of New Orleans.”

  Sam and Richard stared down at Boyce as the lugger pulled away. He smiled up at them and waved his hat.

  “Quick,” Tom said, as he started to the rear, “follow me.” They ran to the paddles. Tom saw that half of them were underwater, but the other half was high and dry. The three men started climbing down the latticework of wooden spars that held the wheel in place.

  “What are we looking for, Tom?” shouted Sam.

  They were slipping over the smooth wood bracing, and twice Tom almost fell into the Mississippi River. He yelled back, “Dynamite!”

  “Dynamite?” shouted Owens as he almost slipped overboard. “What’s that?”

  Tom didn’t answer but he just kept crawling farther out the main wooden spar. At last he reached the first of the twelve paddles sticking up out of the water. Then he saw it: A long sparkling line in the shadows. He shouted, “A fuse! He lit a fuse! There’s probably one fuse for each of the paddles sticking out of the water. We have to put them out. Hurry!”

  “Tom, it’s too late. Dive overboard. It’s eight fifty-six,” shouted Sam as he climbed back up to the deck.

  Tom was stretching for the fuse, but it was out of reach. Damn! he thought. He lit them from the lugger. The only way to put them out is from the river.

  He looked over at Richard who looked back. Each had a look of frustration mixed with resignation.

  “I’m sorry, Richard,” Tom said to the captain on the other spar, “sorry I didn’t figure this out earlier.”

  The captain shook his head. “Not your fault, Tom. He was a good engine man, and I knew he was a bit shady at times. But, I never thought he was this shady. Good-bye. You have become a friend of mine and I’m sorry.”

  They both automatically turned back to the sparkling of the lit fuse, which crept closer to the small hole in the dynamite-filled paddle.

  Suddenly and very slowly the paddle started retreating from them and in its place was a wet one from the river. The bottom-most paddle went underwater, snuffing out its fuse. Then the next paddle went underwater followed by the next one, and suddenly all twelve were underwater with their fuses out. Tom and Owens looked back and saw Sam coming out of the engine room, greasy and smiling.

  “I backed her up boys, didn’t need a forward gear for that, just put her in reverse.”

  Both men just grinned at the best engine man on the Mississippi River.

  Shortly after, they were enjoying a Missin’ Mississippi drink in the main lounge. The three of them were dirty and Sam had grease on his white suit. Passengers were embarking and the livestock was being made ready.

  Richard raised his glass. “To the men who saved the Natchez and New Orleans. Cheers!” They drank to his toast.

  “Tom, tell me how you knew the explosives were in the planks,” Sam asked.

  Tom grinned and answered, “Well when I saw the paddles were made at GoodWood Corporation and Nobel Incorporated, it sounded familiar. Not the GoodWood Corporation, but Nobel. Alfred Nobel is the name of a man who just recently invented an explosive known as dynamite. It comes in a granular state and can’t blow up unless it’s packed tight in a container and is ignited with a lit fuse. When I saw the name and heard the planks came with sawdust in them, well I figured why not pack the paddles with the dynamite instead of sawdust? I figure Boyce had the paddles made by GoodWood but emptied them later and filled them with the dynamite he bought from Nobel. Nobel never knew. Boyce probably told them he was with a mining outfit. It didn't dawn on him to remove their name off the bill as the company is brand new and not a well-known name.

  “He won’t be running anything on this river anymore,” said Richard. “In fact when they catch him he’ll be breaking rocks.” He looked at Tom and asked, “Is it safe to sail with the planks still filled with dynamite?”

  Tom shook his head yes. “The dynamite is soaked by now. Boyce had to open the spot that he put the explosive in to set the fuse and now they’re waterlogged.” He took a sip. “But if I were you, I’d change them first chance I got.”

  The three men finished their drinks, and Owens asked, “Another round, gents?”

  Tom shook his head no. “Thanks just the same, Richard, but I’ve got to get back to New York.”

  Clemens patted Tom’s back. “Well Thomas Madden, anytime you want, you can come back and ride the Mississippi River with me.” He looked at Richard and said, “What say we initiate ol’ Tom into ‘The-Brotherhood-Of -The-Under-The-Rail Club’?” Owens agreed with a broad grin.

  They lead the perplexed Tom around to the wheelhouse and Owens put out his hand to Sam, “‘The-Brotherhood-Of-The-Under-The-Rail Club’ knife, please.”

  Sam reached in his pocket and came out with a penknife, opened it and passed it to the captain who turned to Tom and said, “Thomas Madden, will you honor us by joining ‘The-Brotherhood-Of-The-Under-The-Rail Club’?”

  Tom answered, “Of course. If you two are members, I’d be honored to be one too.”

  “Fine then,” said Richard. “Kneel down here in front of the wheel with us.” Tom joined them, and the captain handed him the penknife and pointed to the bottom of the mahogany rail that ran around the entire wheelhouse.

  Tom looked at the spot he pointed to and saw two names carved into the bottom of the rail, ‘SAM CLEMENS’ and ‘CAPTAIN RICHARD OWENS.’ He looked at both men and said, “I’d be proud to place my name with this august group,” and carved ‘THOMAS “WHITEY” MADDEN.’

  Sam spoke when they stood up. “One night after Richard and I had had more than a few Missin’ Mississippi’s, we decided to put our names permanently on the Natchez. But knowing that someday, some fool would paint them out, we discovered this spot under the rail. Now,” he said as he raised his hand, “how we discovered it is up for conjecture. Richard here says he was helping me up from the floor and I’m pretty dang sure it was me helping him up, but whoever it was looked up and found a great hiding place for our secret society. Now, Tom Madden, you are in on it, too.”

  “And one of us,” said Richard.

  Tom responded warmly, “Well I’m proud to be in such company,” then he looked at his pocket watch and said, “Captain, I know you want to shove off and it’s getting near my time to leave, too.”

  “One last request, Tom. We’re starting a new service aboard the Natchez. We hired a glass plate photo-engraver man to take some pictures of our passengers. What say us three take one for history?”

  Sam smiled and said, “Fine with me. I love thinking about things that last past my time.” He looked at Tom. “What about you? Want to be a piece of the past and future?”

  Tom looked at him with amusement and said, “I sure do, partner, I sure do.”

  After the picture was taken, they went down to the main deck.

  “Gentlemen,” Tom said, “as much as I hate leaving this great city of yours, I really have to get back to New York.”

  Richard offered, “Can I give you a lift? I’m going upriver.”

  “Thanks, but no. The City of Keansburg will be leaving at three o’clock this afternoon and I have to pack. How long before you sail?”

  Richard looked at his pocket watch and said, “Two o’clock. That’s one hour from now.” He turned to Sam. “You still going upriver with me, Sam?”

  Clemens nodded and answered, “Sure am, Richard, after all you’re short an engine man and I’m still working on that story. But,” he said, turning to Tom, “I’ll walk our northern friend to his hotel and be back in time for push off.”

  Tom put out his hand, and he and Captain Richard Owens shook hands.

  “Tom,” said Richard, “if ever you are by the Mississippi,
jus’ hop on any ol’ boat and tell them Captain Richard Owens is good for it. You come back real soon, ya heah?”

  “Will do,” said Tom, “will do. Thanks for everything.”

  Tom and Sam left the big white steamboat and walked up the main street. Halfway between the Natchez and the hotel Sam pointed to a tree with a wooden bench around its base much like the one in Baton Rogue.

  “Let’s sit a spell,” he said.

  Tom smiled and asked, “Another ‘It’s-all-right-to-have-a-problem tree?”

  Sam laughed and answered, as he lit a cigar, “Ha, no sir, Tom, a man only comes across one of them trees in a lifetime. No, I just want to say a few things. First, thanks for coming down to New Orleans and thanks for coming downtime ’cause, I do believe you set out to try to save my worthless hide and I’m pleased to know that my works are somewhat appreciated in the future.” He sat back against the tree and took a deep inhale. He smiled at Tom and said, “I scrapped the story I was frettin’ on and came up with something else. Like to hear it?”

  “Darn right I do,” Tom replied.

  “Well, it’s about a fella going back in time. But because I can’t describe what it looks like in your time, I used my time as a start-out. So I’m sending him back to King Arthur’s time. What do you think about that?” He sat forward and said, “You being from the future and all, does it sound too far-fetched?”

  Tom shook his head and with a smile said, “I think it’ll be a huge hit. Do you have a title yet?”

  Sam smiled and with a twinkle in his eye said, “I was hoping you could give me one.”

  Tom smiled back. “How about ‘A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court’? How does that sound?”

  Sam smiled back broadly and said, “Suits me fine.” He stood and offered his hand. “Going to say good-bye here, Tom. If we went to your room, I’d be trying to talk you into leaving me that little writin’ machine.”

  They shook hands and Tom said with genuine affection, “Sam Clemens, it was my pleasure to meet and drink with you. I’ll remember it the rest of my life.”