They both turned at the sound of a long whistle from the Natchez, as she told all of New Orleans she was getting ready to sail up the mighty Mississippi River.
Clemens smiled and said, “It’s a sound you never forget. Each time she sails, it’s a new adventure.”
Tom watched as Sam walked down to the steamboat, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigar as the writer vanished in the shimmering heat waves of the waterfront.
Tom took the City of Keansburg back to New York. It’s just not the same, he thought, as he watched the Atlantic Ocean flow by. The water’s too blue and the City of Keansburg has no planks; she has a modern propeller. She also doesn’t serve Missin’ Mississippi’s, he thought as he looked at the tall glass of beer he was drinking while watching the shoreline go by.
The ship docked at the same port it had left from and a ferry took the time traveler to the water’s edge of Manhattan. He hopped a carriage and when the driver asked where he wanted to go he started to give the club’s address then stopped. Wait, he thought, I have to see my great-great-grandfather one more time. He asked the driver, “Will you go into Brooklyn?”
The cabbie said, “It’s your money, pal. Where in Brooklyn?”
“Eleventh Street and Seventh Avenue, Pete’s Bar & Grill.” He sat back as the driver took off.
They went over the newly opened Brooklyn Bridge and Tom enjoyed seeing the number of people strolling over it. The cabbie didn’t have the amount of traffic Tom was used to and he made good time. He pulled up across the street from Pete’s, and Tom paid him and got out with his suitcase.
As he was about to cross the street he saw his great-great-grandfather, Thomas “Whitey” Madden carrying some packages and on his arm was Nora Mulvihill Madden. Although it was nineteen years later in their time, Tom recognized them right away with his white hair and her long, red hair. They were walking past the bar. Tom got misty-eyed as he saw his great-great-grandmother smile up at his great-great-grandfather. He knew he couldn’t talk to them. Time had fixed it so they were together, as they should be, and Tom hadn't aged at all. He got back into the carriage and gave the address of The 1800 Club.
In front of the 1800 club’s garden, he got out of the carriage and removed the communicator from his inside pocket. He went by the club’s garden wall and typed in: HELLO BILL. I’M BACK BY THE CLUB’S GARDEN. THE DATE IS JUNE 14, 1883 AND IT’S 1:30 PM. I’LL WAIT OUT BACK UNTIL YOU OPEN THE DOOR. TOM MADDEN. It took a few minutes before he got his reply.
GREETINGS TOM. WALK OVER TO PADDY DIAMONDS. I'LL DRESS AND MEET YOU THERE FOR A QUICK ONE. WE CAN DEBRIEF OVER A COLD BREW. BILL.
Tom picked up his suitcase and walked the few blocks to Paddy Diamonds Bar & Grill. He had two tall Schaffer beers set up as Bill walked in. They shook hands and Bill took the stool next to his.
“Cheers Tom, drink up, you look like you can use one.”
“Don’t mind if I do. It’s been a long couple of weeks,” Tom answered. “But I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I met some great men. Some really great men. I’m glad I took this mission and hope you keep me in mind for another.” He picked up his glass, and Bill lifted his. “Cheers,” Tom said, “to you and The 1800 Club. Thanks for a fantastic trip and for letting me meet my great-great-grandfather.”
They sat in Diamonds for a few hours as Tom debriefed. Evening fell and they left the bar. As they walked back to the club Tom said, “I have to see if there are some photographs of the Natchez. I want to get one and frame it.”
“I can do better than that,” Bill answered, as he opened the gate to the club. “I looked the steamboat up online and it seems she’s been saved and has become a restaurant. She’s permanently docked in New Orleans, and I understand the food is fantastic. What do you say to taking a little trip before you go back to the grind?”
Tom grinned broadly and said, “Dang right I want to see her.”
Bill laughed and said, “Thomas ‘Whitey’ Madden, I do believe you’ve gone southern on me.”
DATELINE: 2011, PLACE: NEW ORLEANS
It was early afternoon the next day as Tom and Bill left the Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans. They both had on light clothes and wore dark glasses. Each had a carry-on. Tom hailed a taxi and they hopped in, welcoming the air-conditioning.
The driver turned and said with a smile, “Welcome to N’Orleans, gents. Where to?”
Bill held up a printout and read out loud. “The Natchez Restaurant at . . . ”
The driver finished for him, “Foot of Main Street. Know it well. First time here?” he asked as he eased into the traffic.
Tom smiled at his face in the rear-view mirror. “I’ve been here a couple of times, but it’s a first for my friend.” Tom watched as they passed places he had left over forty-four thousand yesterdays ago. Not too much has changed, he thought.
Bill was taking it all in. “You’re right. I’ve never been here before.” He looked at Tom and said, “You did this, Tom. You saved this beautiful city.”
The taxi wound its way through the traffic of tourists in wagons pulled by donkeys. Music was beating out of almost every storefront. As they pulled up at the foot of Main Street Tom saw her. The Natchez. He got out while Bill paid the fare. Tom was staring up at the steamboat as Bill put his hand on his shoulder.
“Pretty wild, huh guy?”
Tom nodded speechlessly, as he stared at her. They walked up to the dock.
Tom shook his head. “She hasn’t changed! Not as far as I can make out. Look,” he said pointing to the top deck, “there’s the wheelhouse. That’s where Sam Clemens, Captain Richard Owens and I ran from to try to defuse the dynamite.”
They went aboard and the deck hands were just college kids playacting at their summer jobs. They entered the main dining room and were greeted by the headwaiter.
“Reservations?” he asked.
Bill answered “Yes, two for Mr. Scott.”
The waiter smiled and asked them to follow him. They left the main dining room and went back on deck.
“What’s up, Bill?” asked Tom, puzzled.
“You’ll see. Just follow him,” he said, pointing to the waiter as he led the way up the stairs and opened the door to the wheelhouse.
Tom looked around and saw four tables, two of which had people eating at them. It was obvious that this room was off limits for most. The waiter took them to a table for two by the great wheel. After they were settled an elderly, gray-haired waiter came to the table to take their order.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Will you be having drinks?”
Bill nodded and asked, “What kind of beer is on tap?”
Before the waiter could answer, Tom asked, “Wait. By any chance do you make Missin’ Mississippi’s?”
The waiter nodded. “Actually, yes we do. However, this is the first time I’ve ever had one ordered and I’ve been here thirty-four years. If you don’t mind, could you tell me how you heard of that particular drink?”
Tom shrugged, “An old friend told me to order it.” He looked at Bill. “Two?” Bill nodded as Tom looked back at the waiter. “Two Missin’ Mississippi’s, please.”
The waiter walked away.
“You’ll love them,” Tom said to Bill, “they’re old New Orleans.”
Bill was looking around the wheelhouse. “These were special seats, and I figured you’d appreciate them.”
“Danged right I do, danged right. Let me just see somthing,” he said as he ran his hand under the still-beautiful mahogany railing. He gave a big smile as he stopped his searching fingers and got out of his seat.
“Come here, Bill, you got to see this.” He stooped down and Bill followed him as the other diners looked amused at the two men crouching under the rail by the great wheel.
Bill looked to where Tom was pointing. He smiled as he saw the names. “This is fantastic! This is history.” Bill said. They sat back at their table as the waiter brought their drinks.
Tom was grinning from ear-to-ea
r. “They kept the old lady as close to original as possible.”
The waiter stood by as the two men touched glasses and took a sip of their drinks.
Bill shook his head and quipped as Tom grinned, “Wow! These are great.”
The waiter smiled as he stepped forward and offered them menus.
Tom said, “Want me to recommend a great meal?”
Bill pushed back from the table and folded his hands over his stomach. “Feel free.”
Tom turned to the waiter and said, “For starters some lettuce, tomato and cucumber salad topped with your bittersweet sauce and crushed warm bacon. Then a bowl of your chilled soup and sourdough bread with warmed butter.” He looked at Bill and asked, “Do you like baked catfish?”
Bill nodded yes.
“Two baked catfish with whole, baked small potatoes garnished with garlic and cloves with a side of carrots and black-eyed peas. We’ll follow that up with Key lime pie and coffee.”
The waiter nodded, “This might take a bit longer than what we have on the menu. Is that okay with you gentlemen?”
Tom winked and said, “It’ll be worth it.”
Bill smiled. “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about. Old recipe?”
“Over one hundred years old, and believe me it will taste as good to me now as it did then.” He winked.
After they finished, they left the wheelhouse and walked down the stairs to the main deck. As they passed the captain’s cabin they saw it was open to the public so they went in.
The captain’s desk was set up as it was back then with a set of drawings of the original Natchez on it and the captain’s white hat was hanging on a peg on the wall. Next to it were pictures of various personalities posing with him onboard the steamship. And in the center was an old black-and-white photo of three men with grease on their faces. They were on the wheelhouse deck and in the center stood Tom Madden.
There was a brass plaque beneath the picture identifying them as, “Members Of The Brotherhood-Of-The-Under-The-Rail Club: Samuel Clemens, Thomas ‘Whitey’ Madden, Captain Richard Owens.”
Bill looked at Tom and said, “Boy Tom, you guys made a heck of a team.”
Tom answered with a faraway look in his eyes, “We did, Bill, we dang well did.”
Back in New York, life went back to normal. Tom Madden went back to work and every now and then he went to Farrells' Bar and Grill in Brooklyn, which had replaced Pete’s in name only. He liked to stand in the same spot he did over one hundred and twenty-five years ago with his great-great-grandfather. He’d look into the same mirror, and be pretty sure he saw his great-great-grandparents smile back at him over the years, as they strolled by arm and arm.
Three days after Tom returned and Bill sent a debrief uptime, he got a text message from his future grandson Edmund Scott in 2066. He read it as he drank a cup of hot chocolate and munched a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
GREETINGS FROM 2066. THE COUNCIL IS EXTREMELY HAPPY WITH THE NEW ORLEANS MISSION. AS YOU KNOW WE ARE CONTINUOUSLY SENDING PROBES BACK TO IMPORTANT SPOTS IN HISTORY. WE ARE SEEING A PROBLEM STARTING TO DEVELOP WITH U.S. PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN. DON’T KNOW IF YOU CAN HELP BUT I’LL KEEP YOU INFORMED. LOVE YOU, GRANDSON, EDMUND.
Bill went to his wall-to-wall library as he dwelled on this latest text message. He selected a leather-bound book: Reagan; Actor to President.
Wonder how this is going to act out for me? Oh well, this is what makes this job so interesting: you never know what's over the next hill.
End
The Ronald Reagan Mission
DATELINE: 2009 PLACE: WASHINGTON, D.C.
The television announcer cut into all the programs scheduled for the eight o’clock slot. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is Ted Castle bringing you greetings from the nation’s capital. The next half hour is brought to you by Kuziban Oil products.”
Castle wore a practiced smile on his handsome face as he continued, “In a few moments we will bring you President James Cribbens and his Council. After the State-of-the-Joint Unions, we will have a discussion by our esteemed panelists, so stay tuned to this channel. And now, the president and his Council.”
The television camera went in for a close-up of the president as he stood at a lectern flanked by two men in military uniforms whose careers were depicted in their multiple rows of ribbons. President Cribbens smiled at the red light that let him know which camera was active. His white hair was combed straight back and looked like a lion’s mane. It showed off his deep tan. His six-foot-three-inch frame made him tower over the other two men. All three were in their sixties. The man to Cribbens’ right wore a blue uniform, the other, brown.
Above and behind Cribbens was a painting of President Thomas Jefferson. Almost invisible on top of the gilded frame was a small, round two-inch globe with tiny vibrating transparent wings. It watched and recorded all that went on in the Oval Office.
President Cribbens smiled and said to the millions of people watching, “Greetings, comrades. I bring you some wonderful news. The former African state of Botswana, has agreed to our assisting them with their economic problems. They have invited Secretary of State Georgi Achrimoniv to be present as their armed forces give up their weapons and stand down while our armed forces, along with the armed forces of our friends of the Council, enter their country. They are the last state in Africa to accept our help, and now we are showing all of that continent the way of a united world, under our banner.”
He looked to his left and continued, “Marshall Valdinof has assured me that our combined forces are capable of thwarting any plans the rebels, who still roam parts of the continent of Africa, may have of stopping this glorious movement.”
He turned to his right and said, “Air Marshall Gibel has said that even as I speak, his paratroopers are dropping into the heart of Rwanda to fight the rebels there and stabilize that government.” The dour military man nodded nervously into the camera as Cribbens continued, “For those few of you who were against the United States of America joining forces with the Soviet Union, I say, look to the future as I have. Together we shall bring stability to the planet Earth. And I take this moment to once again invite Australia to follow England and France and open your borders to us. Let us help you realize a greater future. Join us in our endeavor to unite the world as never before. We of the Council urge you to take this step. We must have your answer in thirty days. One continent cannot stand in the way of the new wave we are establishing. Thank you and good night.”
The television cameras returned to the newscasters as they began to comment on the presidential message.
DATELINE: 2066 PLACE: HISTORY TRACKING CENTER, NEW YORK CITY
The room was dark as the five History Trackers sat around the conference table and watched the hologram that the drone had brought back. “What year was that?” asked John Hyder, as he stretched out his legs.
Maryellen Muldey looked closely at the scene. At the bottom there was a date, place and time continuously reading out. “2009, two minutes after 8 p.m., Washington, D.C.” she said as she adjusted her glasses.
Joseph Sergi stood up and began to pace, his long black hair bouncing with each step, a sign that he was in deep thought. As he usually did when he paced, he began to think out loud. “Two thousand nine. But that was Barak Obama’s first year as president. What could have changed?”
Another voice said, “And what could have made us merge with the Soviets?” The other five members of the group turned to see Jerry Sullivan who now stood and asked himself questions. He started to pace on the other side of the table from Sergi.
Muldey stood and put her hands, palm out, toward them. “Okay, group. Let’s all sit down and take a look at what’s going on here.” The two men returned to their chairs and looked at Muldey, whose case this was.
She sat back in the big leather chair at the head of the table, and said as she pushed back her short, white hair from her eyes, “So, let’s see what we have here. A different president is i
n office, when we know that the president at that time was President Obama. At that time, too, the Soviet Union had dissolved into smaller independent countries.”
She looked at the now-still hologram that depicted the U.S. president flanked by two Soviet military men, as she continued. “It also seems that they are taking over, or as they say, uniting the planet, in what they call, a ‘united world.’ I’ll bet anything that’s another way of saying ‘occupied’ by the so-called Council.” She sank lower into her seat. “Any ideas?”
Alexis Shuntly raised her hand and at a nod from Muldey stood and said, “I suggest we send back a probe to the previous presidency. I believe that’s George Bush the second. Let’s see where the time shift happened.”
Muldey looked at the others and said, “Agreed?” They all raised their hands. “Fine then,” she said, as she walked to the door and opened it.
In the hall just outside the door sat Ted, their drone-deploying assistant. As usual, he was on call whenever the group was in session. He stood as soon as the door opened and nodded to her.
“Ted, will you please step inside?”
“Certainly, Ms. Muldey,” he said, as he followed her into the room.
She went back to her seat and turned to the young man. “We need you to send another probe, Ted. This time to 2000 . . . ?” She looked at the group questioningly.
“Two thousand seven,” volunteered Joseph Sergi. “I looked it up on my computer. George W. Bush left office in 2009 and Obama won the race against John McCain.”
Once again Muldey turned to Ted, who was taking notes. “Will you take care of that Ted? Two thousand seven and see if we can get an address to the nation. Maybe we can pinpoint when the Soviets, er, joined us.”
Ted closed his notebook as he said, “It’ll take about an hour to program the probe, send it and receive it back, Ms. Muldey.”
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club. Book III Page 8
