“Thank you,” I said, trying to summon up as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. The reins were thrust into my unwilling hand. The hilt of my sword dug into my side. Before I could say anything more, De Grasse said, “Let us be off.”
I could think of no alternative but to comply. Fortunately, my horse seemed disposed to obey my desperate efforts to control him. I clung to the saddle, desperately hoping I would not be thrown off, as my horse increased his gait to catch up with De Grasse’s steed.
“While I was in your country,” De Grasse said to me, “I had the pleasure of spending some time with the Army of the Potomac at the headquarters of General Meade. Are you acquainted with him?”
My heart sank as I realized that De Grasse was eager for a detailed conversation with me about his acquaintances in the Union Army. This was the last thing on my mind. Not only did I need to concentrate all my energy on staying on the horse, but I had no knowledge of Meade other than what I could recall from the books on the Civil war that I had read.
To admit the truth, that Meade had died some 75 years before my birth, was not something I was about to do.
“To my regret, I did not,” I said. “My service was in the West.”
“Then you knew General Grant there,” De Grasse went on.
Before I could think of a reply, providence intervened. De Grasse suddenly pulled his horse up short in front of a large stone building. As I followed suit, much less skillfully, I saw that it was guarded by uniformed sentries. From the number of officers entering and leaving the building, I realized we had reached our destination, the headquarters of General Trochu, Military Governor of Paris.
De Grasse dismounted, returned the salute of the sentries, and handed the reins of his horse to one of them. He turned and motioned to me to dismount. With considerable difficulty I succeeded in getting off my horse without falling flat on my face and joined De Grasse. Together we entered the building.
As we strode rapidly down the corridor of what appeared to originally have been a palace, I unconsciously moved to place my hand on the hilt of my dress sword. To my amazement, my hand hit the scabbard where the sword hilt should have been.
I stopped and looked down. The scabbard was empty; my sword had somehow disappeared. I was sure I recalled the sword being in the scabbard when I mounted the horse; all I could think of was that somehow it had fallen out of the scabbard during the gallop to Trochu’s headquarters.
The sword, a replica of a Union officer’s dress sword, had cost me several hundred dollars, which I could ill afford to lose. It had taken me almost an hour of cajoling and pleading with the owner of the store at which I had obtained my uniform to persuade him to agree to refund all but a small part of the sword’s purchase price if I returned it in good shape.
My concentration upon the problem of my missing sword was interrupted by De Grasse. Becoming aware that I was no longer at his heels, he had reversed his rapid progress down the hall, and was now tapping me on the shoulder. “Please,” the Colonel implored, “General Trochu is expecting us. We cannot keep him waiting. “
I put my hand over the vacant scabbard to conceal the sword’s absence and followed De Grasse. We reached the end of the corridor and stopped at an office guarded by two sentries. The staff aide seated at the desk just outside the office door rose and saluted us.
“General Trochu will see you now.” he said. Clearly, De Grasse had not exaggerated Trochu’s eagerness to see me. I hoped fervently my meeting with him would go well.
De Grasse stood back, permitting me to enter first. I did so and was immediately struck by the size of the room and by the ornate furniture it contained. To one side of the immense fireplace stood a large map stand. It had been placed where the maps could be more easily viewed by the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows which ran along the side of the room. Gathered around the map stand were several officers.
Hearing us enter, they turned around. One of the officers strode forward to greet me, his handed extended.
“I am General Louis Trochu,” he said to me in French as I shook his hand, “It is an honor to welcome the distinguished emissary of the American Army. You are the first foreign visitor we have had the opportunity to entertain since the siege began.”
“The honor is all mine,” I answered, hoping that my response was suitable.
Trochu introduced me to the staff officers who had been studying the map board with him. The group was evenly divided between regular army officers and those wearing National Guard uniforms.
As I returned their salutes, I was struck by the fact that the regular army officers appeared to be on cordial terms with those from the National Guard, a sharp contrast to the animosity I had observed at Colonel De Porte’s headquarters. Later, I learned that General Trochu was noted among the senior officers in the Imperial army for the close ties he had with the Socialists and other political critics of the Empire.
My face reddened as I noticed one of the officers staring at my empty scabbard. I decided not to attempt to explain it, hoping that those who noticed my sword’s absence would ascribe it to a differing tradition in the American army.
The staff officers excused themselves and the General proceeded to give me a detailed briefing on the state of the French defenses around Paris.
“With God’s help,” he said as he finished, “We will be able to hold out until Gambetta can send an army to relieve Paris.”
I recalled wryly from my history classes that Paris would surrender to the besieging German army in just two more months, in January l871. However, it would be foolish to inform Trochu of that fact.
Searching my mind for something appropriate to say, I heard myself declare in a voice whose confidence astounded me, “The gallant defense of Paris by your forces has won the admiration of the American army no less than that of the other nations of the world.”
I congratulated myself that it was probably as close to the truth as I could reasonably get. Trochu seemed touched by my words, bowing to me and smiling.
I realized with a start that since I had arrived in Paris, I was comporting myself with uncharacteristic effectiveness. Apparently, time travel had a salutary effect on my behavior.
General Trochu then asked with a smile if I had any questions. I considered for a moment what a visiting colonel from the American army might have been likely to say under the circumstances and then asked a couple of what I hoped were appropriate questions.
Trochu nodded approvingly and replied in detail. As he finished, we were joined by De Grasse, who had left the room for a few minutes. The colonel whispered something to Trochu.
The General turned to me. “Won’t you join us for lunch?”
Without waiting for me to respond, he put his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the door. Followed by De Grasse, we walked down the corridor to a large room. In the center was a long table, set for dinner. Standing around at their places awaiting us were some dozen officers.
“Gentlemen,” said, Trochu, “Colonel Snodgrass has consented to join us for lunch.”
The general motioned for me to sit down next to him at the head of the table. I did so, and the other officers followed suit.
Our meal was very similar to what I had been served at Colonel De Porte’s headquarters. The china and silverware were exquisite, the food barely edible. Apparently, the military governor of Paris and his staff shared the privations of the German siege encountered by lower echelons of command.
Conversation was lively during the meal. I struggled hard to maintain a polite conversation, frequently having to guess at the meaning of comments in French that I could not understand.
The major topic of conversation was whether Paris could hold out. Several officers asked me my opinion. I tried to keep my answers general. The going was rough and I was relieved when the meal was over, the mandatory toasts finished, and Trochu turned to me and inquired whether there was anything he could do for me.
This was the moment
I had been waiting for, fearful that it would not come.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, “I would be very grateful if you could have a photographer take a picture of us at the table. I would like to bring it back to the United States with me. It would serve as a testimonial to the warm reception I have received here and to the close relations existing between our two nations.”
Trochu nodded approvingly. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. He turned to one of his staff seated at the table and instructed him to summon a photographer. As the officer left the room, Trochu resumed polite conversation with me.
I was surprised that he could spend so much time entertaining me till he stood and beckoned me to join him at the map stand.
“Tell me, Colonel,” he said, “You have flown over the German lines. Can you suggest any way in which I can improve our defenses?”
It was obvious to me that Trochu’s desire to ask me this question was the reason for my invitation. I wondered about the propriety of Trochu’s request. I was, after all, purportedly a visitor from a neutral nation. Still, I had to admit that the position of the Paris garrison was exceedingly difficult and that had our positions been reversed, I would have sought his assistance.
“Well, general,” I began searching for something I could suggest, “Have you thought of air power? In the late American civil war, hot air balloons were used for observation and signaling with favorable results. I would recommend that you use balloons stationed over your lines and secured to the ground by ropes as elevated artillery positions. Marksmen in the balloons could then fire on the Germans.”
As I said this I hoped it would not irritate Trochu. I needed his cooperation to obtain the photograph I required. At the same time, I prayed that my suggestion would not prove practicable for the French to implement. The last thing I need was to return to my own time to find out that my presence in Paris had caused a significant change in the outcome of the Franco-Prussian War.
Trochu thought for a moment and then smiled. “That’s a brilliant idea.” He said. “I will implement it today.”
The general suddenly arose from the table. I thought he was about to commence work on the balloons immediately, but I was wrong. He led me out of the room and down the corridor to the door. There he donned his hat, given to him by an orderly, and put on his dress sword.
I followed Trochu out into the courtyard of his headquarters. Gathered there were some half dozen of his subordinates, all wearing hats and with their dress swords, standing around stools that had been placed in a row. Some yards to their front a photographer crouched behind a large wooden box mounted on a tripod. I realized that this was the 1870 version of a camera.
The general walked to the stool in the center of the row, sat down, and motioned to me to take the stool on his right. “I regret,” he said, as the other officers seated themselves, “That some of my staff are occupied by urgent matters and cannot join us for the photograph. I hope you will forgive their absence.”
I nodded sympathetically, and placed my hand over my vacant scabbard, hoping that Trochu had not noticed it. The photographer warned us to be ready and then proceeded to take the photographs. I was astonished at how long we had to sit motionless, as the glass photographic plates were exposed.
When the last photograph was taken, we stood. I breathed a sigh of relief. The photo showing me with Trochu and his staff, would be the proof I needed that my time machine really worked.
“General.” I asked, “How long will it take for me to get a copy of the photograph?”
Trochu turned to the photographer, who was carefully packing the photographic plates, and inquired. After prolonged discussion which I could not follow, Trochu turned to me.
“The photographer will start work developing the picture as soon as he gets back to his studio,” he said. “However, he is uncertain that he has enough of the developing compounds. The siege, you know.”
My disappointment over a possible delay in securing the photograph must have shown on my face.
“Do not worry, Colonel,” he added reassuringly. The photographer understands that you must leave Paris as soon as possible and will do his best to meet your need. Meanwhile, Colonel De Grass will endeavor to make your time here interesting.”
De Grasse approached me as General Trochu and his officers returned to the building. “I understand you have some hours free,” he said. “Let me show you our defense lines.”
I could think of no feasible way of declining the colonel’s officer and accompanied him to the front of the headquarters, where our horses were tied up. I feared I was in for a most unpleasant experience. I was right.
The next few hours were excruciatingly painful. De Grasse had thoughtfully provided a stand for me to use in mounting my horse. However, our tour of the French defense works included the advance outposts. We were observed by the Germans and drew rifle fire. Several bullets whizzed by my ears. I silently implored De Grasse to cut short our visit, but he went on for what seemed hours before he concluded and we were able to gain shelter.
Remounting my horse was less dangerous but more embarrassing. No stand was available and no assistance was offered. After several futile attempts to mount my horse, I finally succeeded only to have my hat fall off into the mud.
De Grass ordered one of the nearby soldiers to retrieve it for me. He handed it to me, smirking. I thought of rebuking him, but decided it was better to ignore it and say nothing.
The hat was a soggy mess. I cleaned it as best I could and placed it back on my head. Clearly, it would be impossible to sell the hat back to the company from which I had purchased my uniform. It joined my missing sword as another unexpected expense associated with my trip back in time.
Darkness had fallen by the time De Grasse and I reached Trochu’s headquarters. We dismounted, I again using the stand thoughtfully provided by one of the sentries. We entered the building, washed, and joined General Trochu and his subordinates at the same table at which we had lunch.
The evening meal was already in progress. De Grasse seated himself at a vacant place and I stood there embarrassed, wondering what I should do. Looking up, Trochu beckoned me to his side and instructed one of the waiters to bring me a chair.
As I sat down on Trochu’s right and took the napkin the waiter handed me, the General smiled.
“I am happy to inform you, Colonel, that the photographer was able to come up with sufficient chemicals to develop two of his plates. He sent them over and you may choose whichever one you prefer. I am sorry that the remaining plates have already deteriorated and are now useless.”
I looked at the two photographs the General handed to me for my inspection and was impressed by their quality. I hadn’t realized that the photographic technology available in 1870 was capable of producing such fine photographs. They were almost of equal quality. I choose the one that most clearly showed my face as I needed it to serve as proof that I had actually traveled back in time to 1870.
“Thank you, General,” I said, returning the other photograph to Trochu. I hope that you would be kind enough to sign your name on the back of the photograph with the date. And if you could, I would be most grateful if you could add something about my being entertained at your headquarters, referring to me as ‘Professor Snodgrass.’”
The general stopped his writing and the back of the photograph and looked at me sharply. “Professor…? Not Colonel?”
Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to come up with a reasonable excuse. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I frequently am asked to lecture at the United States Military Academy. I was planning to give them the photograph to display. They refer to me as ‘professor’ rather than by my military rank.”
Trochu nodded and resumed his writing. When he finished he handed me the photo. His written note on the back had complied fully with my request. If that didn’t serve to convince people that I had been entertained by him in 1870 Paris, I thought, nothing would.
I thanked him again and carefull
y placed the signed photograph in the safest place I could think of, the inside pocket of my uniform jacket. I hoped that I could return to De Porte’s headquarters and my time machine as soon as we finished eating, but it was not to be.
The seemingly obligatory ceremonial toasts went on forever. When they were finally done, we stood and I bid goodbye to General Trochu and his subordinates. Colonel De Grass came up and I assumed he would escort me back. However, he explained that he was the duty officer that night and that another of Trochu’s staff, a Major St. Clair, would accompany me.
St. Clair, a tall, surly-looking officer, was uncommunicative during our ride back to De Porte’s headquarters. I was elated over my success in obtaining the photograph of my meeting with Trochu and felt uncharacteristically talkative. From St. Clair’s monosyllabic replies I gathered that he was resentful over his having to accompany me on the ride and stopped my efforts at conversation.
We reached our destination; I thanked St. Clair, and dismounted with less effort than on my previous attempts. The major rode off and I walked up to the door. The sleepy-looking sentry guarding the building recognized me and displayed no interest my activities.
I was about to enter the headquarters when the idea struck me. It was a dark, moon-less night. If I left immediately, the darkness would shield me from any possible German fire. As much as I would have preferred to thank De Porte for his courtesy in entertaining me, an immediate departure was the wisest course.
I turned to the sentry and told him I was going to my balloon. To my relief, he saluted, and said nothing. I strode off as quickly as I could, hoping he would not reconsider and attempt to stop me. I turned the corner, said a prayer that I had gotten that far safely, and set about to find the street housing the shed in which the time machine was secured.
Because of the darkness, I made several wrong turns before luck led me to the right street. I approached the shed and was about to open the door when someone grabbed me from behind. Startled, I turned to find a militiaman holding a rifle. As I faced him, he released his grasp of my shoulder and pointed a rifle directly at me.
My Troubles With Time Page 5
