[Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club 01.0] Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club: Book I

by Robert McAuley

  “I am. Just let me gather my notebook and pens.” Bill repacked the writing materials and the two men left.

  After another bone jarring carriage ride, Bill found himself in front of the White House of 1863. An armed Army officer checked O’Neil’s credentials and waved them through. As they walked down the corridor, Bill was amazed by how much the building looked like the White House he had seen back, or rather forward, in the 1980s on a high school tour. O’Neil led the way upstairs and stopped in front of an unmarked door, knocked and waited. Reilly opened it. He had no jacket on, and Bill saw an 1860 Navy Colt pistol strapped under his arm. Reilly smiled broadly and greeted Bill like an old friend.

  “Bill Scott! Damn, man, good to see you again,” he said as he pumped his visitor’s hand and slapped his back, allowing his hand to casually drop to the small of Bill’s back. He guided his guest to a seat by gently grasping his arm. Bill didn’t let on that he knew he had just been frisked by a pro. Reilly went over to a bar on one wall and picked up two glasses.

  “Your pleasure, Bill?”

  “Brandy, Kenneth.”

  “Brandy it is then. I must ask a favor, Bill. In our encounter with Mr. Lincoln, I ask that you call me Mr. Reilly.”

  “I understand,” Bill responded. “What’s the procedure?”

  “Simple. At 2 P.M. I will take you into his private chamber, introduce you, and you follow his lead. You will have one half hour. Will that be good for your needs?”

  “Hope so,” Bill said. “I guess I just want to observe him. But believe me, this is fantastic! To meet one of our most famous presidents is almost beyond belief!”

  Reilly handed Bill his drink and said, “Almost beyond belief? My God, man, it is beyond belief! I mean to have traveled back and forth in time. Why, it is like that French writer Jules Verne. He writes as though he has been in the future.”

  “Yes, he had, or rather, has, a fantastic imagination,” Bill said.

  Reilly sat down and selected a cigar from a box, offering one to his guest. Bill declined, but Reilly lit his and let out a long plume of smoke.

  “Have you read any of his works, Bill?”

  “Yes, I have, and I’m guessing you did too.”

  Reilly responded enthusiastically, “I got my hands on his notes of a future book he is working on, through a friend of mine, ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.’ Nothing but fantastic! Why, a vehicle that carries men under the oceans? Preposterous.” He suddenly sat forward. “Or, is it preposterous? Does the future hold such an under-the-ocean carriage?”

  Bill took a sip, and, looking perplexed, said, “I don’t want to sound as if I’m speaking down to you, Kenneth, but do you really want to know such things?”

  Reilly seized the opening. “I am by nature a curious man, Bill. I’m curious about you and Prescott. I’m curious about your mission. I’m curious about the people who sent you here. Why should I believe that Mr. Lincoln must deliver this speech? What happens if he doesn’t deliver it?”

  Bill started to say something, but Reilly put up his hand and stopped him. “As I said, Bill, I’m curious. But, after getting a glimpse of your world and hearing what Prescott had to say, I want to go along with your plan. I, too, believe that the speech must be made. I also feel that I’m doing my part now to preserve the United States of the future. And that overrides all of my curiosity. My duty calls from years after I am in the ground, and I shall answer that call. So if I ask for a little glimpse into your world, please, sir, indulge me.” He drew on his cigar and exhaled through his nostrils, reminding Bill of a dragon.

  Bill nodded. “You have a point, Kenneth. I’m not sure of the rules, if any, that this group has, but they did bring you into this plan. They needed you, so I will indulge you. You asked if an under-the-ocean vehicle exists in my time? Well, one not only exists, but it was an American named John Holland who perfected it. I have been on one many times.”

  Reilly’s eyes opened as a child seeing birthday presents. “Lord, man, tell me what it’s like. I mean to travel beneath the waves and not even get a drop of water on oneself? Amazing!”

  Bill went on, “Amazing, true. But the submarine, as we call it, became a weapon of war. In fact, it’s safe to say it’s the ultimate weapon of war. It can’t be seen or heard except by another submarine. It can sit on the bottom of the ocean and wait for months to do what it has been designed to do . . . wage war. We’ve become very good in the future at creating weapons that science fiction writers have only fantasized about. So you see my reluctance in enlightening you.”

  Reilly sat back in his chair. “I do, sir, I do. You must forgive me and my curiosity.”

  “Of course.”

  The security man looked at his pocket watch. “Finish your drink, Bill. The time is near.”

  They drained their glasses, and Reilly clipped his cigar before they left the room. He led the way up a flight of stairs then down a red-carpeted hallway towards a large white door guarded by two armed soldiers. The time traveler smiled to himself as he noted there were only fifteen paintings of past Presidents on the walls. Bill was nervous as Reilly tapped on the door. A voice sounded from within.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. President, it’s Reilly.”

  “Come on in, Reilly.”

  Reilly opened the door and stood aside to allow Bill to enter. Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth President of the United States, sat behind a desk that looked too small for him. He was signing some papers and looked up as the men entered. Bill’s first thought was how large his hands and head seemed.

  “Afternoon, Reilly,” he said as he lowered his glasses until they dangled close to the end of his nose, “who’ve we got here?”

  “Mr. President, this Mr. Bill Scott, a reporter from Chicago who wants to interview you for an article to run in next week’s paper. I told him he has no more than one half hour because at three o’clock you are meeting with General Grant.”

  The president rose and offered Bill his hand. Lincoln smiled and said as he took in his height, “My, but you’re also punished with having to look high an’ low for garments that fit. I know what you go through in the everyday clothing and shoe store, sir, and I pity you.”

  Bill smiled at the natural warmth Lincoln exuded and was amazed how his own large hand seemed to disappear in the president’s.

  “Mr. President, I’d like to thank you in advance for allowing me a few minutes of your precious time.”

  “Nonsense. Sit down, sir. Coffee or somethin’ a mite stronger perhaps?”

  “No sir. But don’t let that stop you.”

  “I can wait. Now, what paper is it that you write for?” President Lincoln asked.

  “The Chicago Times, sir.”

  “Well then, shoot away,” Lincoln, said as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  The half hour flew by, thought Bill as he closed the door behind him. He walked past the soldiers and over to Reilly’s office.

  “How did the interview go?” Reilly wanted to know.

  Bill was still tingling. “What a great man! He has such an easy-going attitude and speech. No wonder he goes down in history as one of the greatest men of all time.”

  “Yes, Bill, he is a great man. And I’m truly sorry that you have to help him through this. He has a great load on his shoulders and I can understand how it could get a strong man down. But, if as you say, history doesn’t know of these trying times of his, well, I’ve done my job.”

  “You and your team have done a great job, Reilly, a great job.”

  They shook hands and Reilly said, “Let me get O’Neil to take you back to your hotel.”

  “No,” Bill said. “I’m going to walk. I have so much to think about. It’s been a great day and I want to savor it. Thank you.”

  “Prescott said he would brief you about the day of the switch. Do you feel comfortable with it, still?” Reilly asked.

  “I do. I believe I can pull it off.”

  “You may need this
pass during your stroll back,” Reilly said as he scribbled on a White House memo pad, tore the sheet off and handed it to him. “See you soon, Bill.”

  “Good afternoon, Kenneth.”

  Bill walked back to his hotel thinking he truly was in a different world. The atmosphere had more than an odor to it; it had a feeling that, at any moment, something could happen. The streets were alive with squads of marching soldiers and cavalry. Bill noticed that cannons were placed at various spots throughout the city. He felt that the soldiers could pick him out as an outsider every time one looked at him. He turned a corner and saw a field cannon being set up in a small square and stopped to watch the men unlimber the weapon. As he watched a young captain approached him.

  “You enjoy watching soldiers set up their pieces, mister?” he asked.

  Caught off guard Bill nodded and answered, “Yes. Are you on maneuvers?”

  The captain took a step back and put his hand on his pistol but didn’t open the holster cover. “Why don’t you show me some papers, mister?”

  Bill was puzzled and mumbled, “Wha? Papers? Why?”

  Now the Captain unbuttoned his holster and said, “You a Reb spy or somethin’? Ya’ better show me some convincen’ papers real fast, mister, and don’t make no sudden moves.”

  Bill put his hands out as though to show he was weaponless. He saw the Captain looking at his writing case. “I’m a writer, Captain. I just had the good fortune to interview President Lincoln.”

  The military man eyed him as he said, “You interviewed Mr. Lincoln?”

  Bill bent down slowly and removed his writing tablet and showed it to him. “Yes, I just left the White House this afternoon.”

  The captain looked at his notes and shrugged his shoulders, “Danged if this proves that you’re not a Johnny Reb. I need to see some papers.”

  Bill reached inside his jacket with his left hand and removed the note Reilly gave him. He wasn’t sure what it said and he was upset with himself for not reading it.

  The Captain took and opened the folded paper as he stepped back a safe distance from Bill to read it. His eyes opened wide. He refolded it and returned it to Bill. He did a slight bow and smiled as he said, “Sorry Mr. Scott, but these here are hard times for all of us and I just can’t take no chances. I do hope you understand.” He pointed at the river, “Johnny Reb is right across the Potomac. Dang spies can be anywhere.” He did a casual salute and walked back to his troops who were leaning against their gun while not being supervised by him.

  Bill watched as the captain started shouting orders at his men and they got back to setting up the field gun. Got to remember that Washington is in the front lines in this war, and I also have to read the note Reilly provided me, he thought as he smiled, I might be important. He opened the note and read it. It was simple and to the point, “Let this man pass. He is a reporter, Mister William Scott. Ordered by White House Security Chief, Kenneth Reilly.” It was signed with a very flourished Kenneth Reilly signature. Looks like it’s Reilly who’s important. Bill thought as he put the note away.

  DATELINE: NOVEMBER 19, 1863 PLACE: WHITE HOUSE

  The morning of November 19, 1863, was cold with overcast skies. Bill and Prescott were with Kenneth Reilly in a room with no windows. The security man stared at the tall man in the black coat and high hat, familiar to all as Lincoln-like attire. Prescott stood back and admired his handiwork. He passed a small hand mirror to Bill who looked at himself. He saw the sixteenth president of the United States staring back. Now he understood Reilly’s shocked look.

  Bill said, “Prescott, you’ve missed your vocation. You should have been a stage makeup artist.”

  “Believe me, Bill, the makeup kit I was given was made to have only one effect. To have you look like the President,” Prescott responded.

  Reilly spoke up. “Damn, man, he is the President’s double!”

  Bill fingered his fake beard and said, “Never had a beard . . . and now I know why. It’s just not me. And thanks for the mole, Prescott. Nice touch, but it will come off later, right?”

  “It’s guaranteed.” Prescott answered.

  Reilly checked his watch. “Let me hear you speak,” he said to Bill.

  “Fourscore and seven years ago . . .”

  Reilly winced. “You have to speak in a higher tone of voice.”

  Prescott handed Bill a large handkerchief. “You have a cold, remember? Use the cloth as a cover for a deeper voice.”

  Bill covered his mouth and spoke a few more words.

  Reilly nodded and said, “Better. And I’m going to keep everyone away from you. A few key people know of this. They are watching over Mr. Lincoln who is in one of his states just as Prescott predicted he’d be. The fewer people who know, the better. Keep reading your speech, and I’ll let on that you are under pressure to put it to memory. We’d better move out to the carriage.” He turned to Prescott, “I’m afraid you have to stay behind, Prescott.”

  “I understand. I’ll wait at the hotel. Good luck gentlemen.”

  Reilly opened the door, and Bill, in his Lincoln guise, started to follow.

  Prescott caught up with them and whispered to Bill, “Walk tall, sir, you are the President of the United States of America. Make all who see you, believe it.”

  Bill walked purposefully out the door and climbed into the carriage. Reilly climbed in next to him. As they drove off, Bill held the speech so it shielded his face. He turned to Reilly, “What are you going to tell Lincoln about this when he reads of it in the papers?”

  Reilly lit a cigar. “I’m going to tell him he did a wonderful job today. You know, Bill, being with a person who has an illness, who you really like, makes you a great liar. He doesn’t think we know he has these bouts of depression, and we make believe that we don’t know. I’m not here to change him, just to protect and serve him and the Union.” Bill nodded agreement, and they rode on.

  The journey was short, bumpy and chilly. Bill was nervous about his upcoming speech, not so much about the speech, but rather in meeting General Grant and being an important part of history. At the train station, the military guard surrounded him as they walked to the waiting train. A man dressed in a red jacket and black pants with a broad red striped down the legs stood tall with a large smile as he motioned to the car that was empty of all passengers and ready for President Lincoln and his guard. No sooner had they all taken their seats then the whistle blew announcing its departure. Bill looked out the clean windows and saw the trainman still smiling as he waved his hat and he smiled and waved back. The time traveler grinned to himself as he thought, someone is going to have a nice story for their grandchildren.

  The train ride took two hours and Bill was thrilled to just sit back and look out the window at the scenery going past. He had a cup of hot tea and some cookies from another trainman who deftly walked through the rocking car.

  Once at their departure Bill and Reilly entered a horse drawn coach as a group of Calvary took over escort duty and led the way.

  Reilly was drifting off into a nap when the officer of the guard rapped on the side of the carriage. “Gettysburg, Mr. President.”

  Reilly was awake in an instant and out of the carriage. He held the door for Bill.

  “This way, Mr. President,” the security man said as he pointed toward the sea of Army tents on an open plain. Broad, flat boards acted as bridges over mud puddles. Wet laundry hung on ropes tied from trees, and it was so cold that Bill could see his breath. The area had the smell of troops who worked hard and didn’t have a chance to wash well. There was also, the now familiar, odor of horses along with beef being slaughtered for food.

  Funny, Bill thought, when you see pictures of the famous meeting, it looks gray and colorless, and here in person, it is gray and colorless.

  Soldiers emerged from their tents to see what the fuss was. When they realized it was their President, they started to cheer him. Bill was startled and looked to Reilly for guidance.

  Reilly gave a
sly nod and said in a low voice, “Wave to them, sir. They are seeing their President. Give them a danged good wave. Show them confidence.”

  Bill smiled and waved to the gathering crowd. Sergeants stepped between the soldiers and Bill, shouting for them to stay at ease and quiet down. They fell silent and watched in awe as history unfolded before them.

  The officer in charge stopped at a tent larger than the others, and a heavyset figure stepped out putting his hat on. Bill tried to hide his excitement at meeting General Ulysses S. Grant, victor of the Civil War. Grant stepped forward and saluted his Commander-In-Chief. Bill answered it with a snappy salute back and offered his hand. Grant’s eyebrows rose, and he smiled as he shook Bill’s hand.

  “Mr. President. Good to see you again.”

  Bill coughed, cleared his throat and in a deep voice answered, “Good to see you too, General. How have you been? This is nasty weather.”

  “I’ve been good, sir. Nice of you to ask and yes, the weather is nasty. Are you coming down with a cold?”

  “I am, sir,” the impostor said. “But how can I complain when I see the field conditions that you and the troops must endure.”

  “As you know, Mr. President, we shall be marching in a short time, and if it goes as I plan, we shall be in warmer weather soon.”

  Bill smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure it’ll go your way, General. Pray Godspeed to you and your men.”

  The officer in charge stepped in and said, “Excuse me, sirs, but the scheduled time of Mr. Lincoln’s speech is approaching, and we feel that the weather shouldn’t be tempted. There are a few of them photographer fellas here who would like some pictures for their papers and they promise to be swift.”

  After a few flashes, the cameramen were having a hard time igniting the illuminating powder with a light mist from the clouds. Grant took Bill’s elbow and said, “Come, Mr. President, there are newspaper reporters from the four corners of the world awaiting your words.”

  The General and the President walked toward a small wooden stage sheltered by an awning. In front of the stage were wooden seats for the reporters. It was apparent that Bill would be on the platform alone when Grant, the officer, and Reilly stopped at the bottom of the three steps going up to the stage.