“So, gentlemen, how was your lunch? Satisfactory, I hope.”
Prescott once again patted his stomach, “My Lord, Tim, you have outdone yourself. I don’t think I’ll be having anything to eat for . . . for . . . well, at least until this evening.”
Timmy and Bill laughed at the man making fun of himself. Prescott paid the cashier and left a tip for Timmy who quickly pocketed it as they went out into the bright sunny day.
“Prescott, that was magnificent! Can we stroll for a bit?”
“A bit is about all I can do, Bill. I have a game knee that keeps me sitting a lot.”
Their attention was taken by the sound of a marching band. Coming up the street toward them was a military band followed by a group of men in civilian clothes being marched by a grizzled old sergeant as best he could. Running alongside the column were excited children.
Prescott frowned as they passed. “Poor sods,” he said. “Marching blithely off to victory and glory. Of course, getting maimed or killed is not on the recruiting posters. And to think that more Americans will be killed in this war than in any other future war.”
Bill looked at him. “Talking out of ‘club time,’ Prescott. That could get you kicked out, you know.”
Prescott laughed and slapped Bill’s back. “Ha! Right you are my friend, right you are. Must remember where, or rather, what period I’m in.” Then, becoming serious, he said, “It’s just the knowledge of knowing there’s nothing we can do to undo the bad parts that we know are coming.” He shook his head. “Frustrating!”
Bill nodded in agreement.
A rumble of thunder threatened their walk, and Bill reluctantly offered to end it prematurely. Prescott agreed and they turned back.
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Back in the club sipping a brandy, Bill stared into his drink and said, “Amazing. Breakfast in 2011, lunch and a stroll in 1863 and brandy back in 2011. Amazing.”
Smiling, Prescott queried, “Are you ready to take the trip, Bill?”
“Absolutely! When?”
“November nineteenth.”
“Two weeks away.
“No, I mean November nineteenth their time. You can go whenever you are ready. I can avail you of our very extensive library. It also contains the complete speech by Lincoln at Gettysburg.”
“I do need to go over that. What do you do to get me to the time needed? Sort of dial it up?” Bill asked.
Prescott explained, “A good analogy. I have a TFM, short for Time Frequency Modulator. With it, I can dial up any time I wish, back until 1820. That’s when this building was built. We can go back earlier, but we’d have to operate outside of this building. The TFM has been entrusted to me by the Time Watchers of the future.”
“I would love to take a look at it,” Bill said.
Prescott looked at him pensively. “You will, and I hope that soon it will be yours.”
“Mine?” Bill wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
“Yes. You see, as I said, this is an interview. The job consists of not only doing what’s asked of you in the past from time to time, but also running this club.”
“Running this club? What do you mean?”
“Simple, Bill. I’m tired. I want to spend more time with my family . . . back in 1860. I’ve had a great experience over the past twenty-five of your years. I’ve traveled extensively and met some of the most important people in history. But I’m tired. And part of my job was to watch for someone to inherit the club. And Bill, I think you are that person, as do the Time Watchers.”
“They know about me?”
“Yes, of course. We had a meeting yesterday, and they went over your records. With my recommendation they agreed that you would be the best person to run the club. What do you say?”
“I . . . I don’t know. What do I have to do? I mean, my job, my apartment . . . “
“This will be your job. At whatever your price, although money for living expenses will not be needed. The club has been owned privately since the very beginning. The dues more than cover the costs. And as for your apartment, this is a six story Townhouse in the heart of New York City. And all you have to do is, when contacted by the future people about a kink in time, fix it. Any more questions?”
“Just a million or so,” Bill said. “But if I accept, what happens to you?”
“I’ll be going back to my time.” He sighed as he spread his hands wide. “Bill, this is a wonderful period that you are from, but I do miss the slower pace of the 1800s. I’m sure you understand.”
Bill raised his eyebrows and asked, “Are you financially all right?”
Prescott laughed heartily. “I’m fine. I have all I’ll ever need. I’m supposed to live another twenty plus years, and I want to be with my sister and her family.”
Bill’s mouth dropped. “You . . . you know when . . . when . . . “
“When I’m going to die? Yes, July 9, 1886. In Port Monmouth, New Jersey, while at the beach. The papers will say I passed quietly while napping on a blanket on the beach with my sister and her grandchildren. I had to look it up. Just had to.”
Bill nodded. “Yes, I guess I would have to, too. I’m sorry.”
Waving off Bill’s concern, Prescott said, “Sorry for what? Sorry that I died? I did, in your history, but as you can see I’m still very much a warm-blooded being just like you. Now, let’s get down to business. Ready?”
“Ready!”
Prescott took a small cell-phone-sized unit out of his pocket and showed it to Bill. On the face were number pads.
“The TFM. Now, to open the portal, you simply type in the date and time you want. As I said, this building was built in 1820, and the door is always the way into and out of the period you selected.”
“Does the TFM have to be recharged?”
“No never. But the next thing you have to do is memorize Lincoln’s speech.” Prescott handed Bill a small notebook. “I’ve picked up a copy from our archives. When you are ready, we’ll schedule the trip. Meanwhile, we have a meeting with the security gentleman in one hour.”
Bill flipped through the pages. “I’m a quick study. I’ll have it memorized by tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Prescott led him back to the door. “One more thing Bill, your resume states that you are single. Is that still correct?”
Bill nodded his head and smiled, “Yes, that’s correct. And it’ll be this way for a long time.”
DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK
It was a sunny day in 1863. A little boy ran by, frightening a flock of birds into the air as his nanny chased after him. The birds fluttered over the large park bench where Bill and Prescott sat and they ducked instinctively. A man dressed in a brown, three-piece suit with matching cravat over his heavily starched white shirt strolled by and nodded at a woman pushing a baby carriage. He stopped and smiled at Prescott as he tipped his top hat. “Good day, sir. Are you waiting for someone or may I sit a spell?”
Prescott tipped his hat in response. “Please, I insist. It’s a beautiful day and one simply could not enjoy New York better than by sitting in the park.” He turned to Bill and asked, “Don’t you agree, Bill?”
“I do, I do. One should live each day as though it’s the first day of the rest of his life.”
The man looked at him admiringly. “Well said, sir. Well said.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a small, silver calling-card case and flipped it open in his palm.
“Kenneth Reilly. My card, gentlemen.”
Both men accepted a card, and Prescott turned to the man with a similar case, saying, “And mine, sir.”
The two men shook hands as Bill patted his breast pocket. “Blast! I seem to have left mine in my other jacket.” He read the card in his hand, as he introduced himself. “I am Bill Scott. I write for a small newspaper based in Chicago, Mr. Reilly. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir.” The two shook hand
s.
Prescott smiled at Reilly. “All is well, Mr. Reilly?” he asked.
The newcomer nodded, “As well as can be, sir.” He tipped his head towards Bill and said, “This, then is the person who will step in for my employer?”
“He is.”
Reilly looked at Bill, and Bill returned the gaze. Reilly was stocky with jet-black hair streaked with white through his beard and mustache. His handshake was powerful, and Bill felt that Reilly was sending him a message. Bill’s handshake was as firm as the security man’s and Reilly nodded in acknowledgment.
“A powerful grip for a newspaperman,” he said.
“From setting lead type on deadlines,” Bill responded.
Reilly addressed Bill in a low voice. “Prescott has told me a mighty wild tale, sir. I thought him to be one of the new science fiction writers that seem to be popping up these days.” He smiled and went on, “But a close and very dear friend of mine vouched for him and begged that I would hear him out.”
Reilly continued, “I am assured by him that you will pass for my employer, and I don’t doubt it. However, if, as Prescott says, the world must never know about it, you must do nothing unless I say so. Do you agree to this?”
“Of course,” Bill said. “This is your territory and you know the ground rules better than I do.”
“Well said, sir. I believe we’ll get along just fine. Now then, what is the plan of action?”
Prescott shifted closer to both men. “The date of the speech is November nineteenth. Is there a way we can have Mr. Scott observe your employer before that? Say, November seventeenth or eighteenth? It’ll give him a chance to get acquainted with his mannerisms.
Reilly opened a small black appointment book and thumbed through it before saying. “Better we set the interview for the 10 th at two pm. My employer will never question it because he tends to forget things told to him because of his . . . his . . . shall I say, times of forgetfulness? I suggest that you take a room in the Anthony House Hotel on 12 th street. My assistant will greet and escort Bill to my office.” “
As both time travelers nodded in agreement Reilly scratched his beard in thought.
“M . . . m . . .m, we have a bit of a problem. Mr. Lincoln is scheduled to leave the White House on the eighteenth and take a train to Gettysburg. That evening he is to attend a dinner and mingle with the many statesmen that will also be attending. I am not comfortable with Bill surrounded by so many of the president’s friends and colleagues.” He then slowly shook his head as he looked down at his feet.
“Sir,” asked Prescott perplexed, “is there a problem with the plan?”
With a shrug Reilly said, “It’s just that the President was to travel with,“ he looked up, closed his eyes tightly as he ticked off the names of the group who were to accompany Lincoln: “Secretary of State William Seward, Postmaster General Montgomery Blair, Interior Secretary John Usher, his personal secretaries John Hay and John Nicolay, several members of the diplomat corps, some foreign visitors, a Marine band, and a military escort.” He opened his eyes and looked at both men. “Gentlemen, if I may make a suggestion?”
Bill looked at Prescott with raised eyebrows as he passed the question to him.
Prescott nodded, “Please, sir. Proceed.”
“We have Mr. Lincoln come down with a cold.”
“Pray tell, sir, what does that do for the mission?” asked Prescott.
“It would allow the others to travel down on the eighteenth as planned but I would have them believe that Mister Lincoln should stay in Washington and travel down the next day, thus riding alone.”
“Can you persuade them to do so, sir?”
Reilly sat back and said with a grin, “I shall make the trip on the eighteenth more attractive by adding on a wine and spirits car with the White House covering all expenses.” He nodded as he continued grinning, “Believe me, sirs, I know this group well and to be out of sight of their boss and their wives with the free flow of spirits around would entice them all to travel the day before the president does.”
“Excuse me, Mister Reilly, “asked Bill, “but is there another train the next day?”
“Yes. The President takes standard scheduled transportation whenever possible. There will be a group of soldiers located at both ends of the car so the center section would be for us two only. The trip is but two hours and ten minutes long and then we travel by coach for a short distance.”
“Well,” Prescott quipped, “it sounds as though the nineteenth is the day of your trip, gentlemen. What time do you leave the White House, Mister Reilly?”
“Eleven in the morning.”
Prescott nodded and continued, “I need two hours to apply the makeup. Any suggestions as to where?”
“Indeed I do. I suggest you both check into the Anthony House Hotel on the nineteenth where you’ll find reservations for you both. My assistant will greet and escort you both to my office. If, as you say, the President will be, ah, incapacitated, I shan’t need to worry that he might call and there is no safer place to do this transformation than my office.”
Bill and Prescott nodded in agreement, stood up and shook hands with the security man, then walked away into the sunny afternoon.
DATELINE: NOVEMBER 10, 1863 PLACE: RAILROAD CAR
Eleven am on November 10 found Bill and Prescott traveling in an almost-empty 1860s railroad train. Although it was stuffy they kept the windows closed because every now and then hot embers from the coal-burning engine would fly into the train’s interior along with the smoke. Old burn spots on the seats and rug kept them alert for fire. Bill thought the hissing of the overhead gas lamps were annoying whenever they sat in a station until they pulled out and the sound was replaced by the much louder clackerty clack of the steel wheels as they rolled over the small space between the separate rails. A middle-aged conductor made his way through the cars, touching the seats briefly to steady himself from the sway of the train. He stopped and tipped his hat to them.
“‘Bout ten minutes ‘till Washington, gentlemen,” he said through a droopy white mustache, “Sorry about the delay. Some day they just haf’ta put up some fencing to keep them dang sheep off the tracks.”
Bill and Prescott smiled at him, and the conductor shuffled through the door and into the next car.
“Prescott, I’ve been wondering: do you really think that the makeup will allow me to pass for the president?”
Prescott nodded, “I’ve had to use the makeup kits supplied by our friends of the future a few times before and believe me, it will allow you to pass for Lincoln.”
Bill shrugged and asked, “So is it more than grease paint and powder?”
Prescott sighed and nodded, “Much more, my friend. You see each kit is designed for a specific person to look like a specific person. In your case our friends have pictures and measurements of you and they worked on a model that was a duplicate of you. The kit uses a molecular changing formula that when applied transforms your facial muscles into a replica of Abraham Lincoln. It also contains synthetic hair for a beard and mustache. Please don’t ask me how it works but the ends of the hair have a molecular additive that adheres to your skin.”
“And how is this all removed?”
“A simple solution that when mixed with water and splashed on the face allows your normal facial muscles to take over and allow the real Bill Scott to return.”
“And the beard and mustache?”
“Ahhh,” answered Prescott, “I’m sure you’ll have your shaving kit with you, correct?”
“Yes, I will. Is that how the beard and mustache is removed?”
Prescott grinned as he said, “Yes. But just think: if you ever wondered how you would look in a beard and mustache, this is your chance to see.”
On arrival in the city, Bill was conscious that Washington had the same bad smells and smoke-darkened buildings as New York City did. At the station, they caught a horse-drawn taxi over to the Anthony House Hotel on Twelfth Street. The newest tim
e traveler found the cobblestone streets jarring and more than a match for the primitive suspension system of the carriage.
Three flights of stairs took them to their rooms. Prescott’s room was across from Bill’s and he said as he opened his door. “See you in a few minutes, Bill.”
Bill opened his door to find overstuffed furniture and heavy curtains, which made the room gloomy. He opened the curtains, put his overnight bag on the high bed, and went to the washbasin, scooped up water and buried his face in it. After drying off, using a clean but thin towel, he took out a soft, brown leather attaché case that contained a small inkbottle, straight pens and paper in a pocket holder. He put his hands on his hips and said with a grin, “Tools of the time traveling writer’s trade.”
A light rap sounded on his door and he opened it to let Prescott in.
“How good are you with the straight quill pen?” asked Prescott as he pointed to them.
“Not good. Barely passable.”
There was another knock at the door, and Bill opened it to find a slim, young, blond haired man in his mid-twenties with his hat in his hand.
“Mr. Scott?” he queried.
“Yes, I am Scott,” Bill said.
The man offered his hand.
“O’Neil, John O’Neil. I’m with White House security.”
They shook hands, and Bill turned toward Prescott and said, “Prescott Stevens, my editor. We are both with the Chicago Times.”
“I understood that it’d be just you here for the interview,” O’Neil said to Bill.
“Mr. Stevens is here to do some research on another article we are working on,” Bill explained.
“Good. Mr. Reilly isn’t one for surprises or changed plans,” O’Neil said, with relief.
Prescott walked out the door past O’Neil and said, “In fact, I must go to my room and prepare for it now. Good luck, Bill. See you for dinner?”
“Dinner it is, Prescott. I’ll knock on your door after my return.”
O’Neil took a watch from his vest pocket. “Two past noon. We shall have to leave now to make our appointed time. Are you ready, sir?”
[Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club 01.0] Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club: Book I Page 4
