CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I DO WHAT I was trained to do.
First, I witness the event from afar, in this case from a copse of trees across the dusty road from the Three Swans Tavern near Cambridge, Massachusetts. Tied to the rail in front of the establishment are several horses, while in the field next to the building two wagons sit waiting. Lantern light flickers in the windows and I can hear voices now and then. Calls for more drink and food, I assume.
Carefully, I record arrivals and departures, describing each man—they’re all men—by the clothes they wear, their height, and whatever else makes them stand out. At fourteen minutes and fifty-three seconds after eight p.m., I watch myself walk into the tavern. This I also enter into the log as I make a mental note that I could use a haircut.
The person I’m most interested in arrives six minutes later. Young Richard Cahill. I know it’s him because I’ve seen him when he’s older, on the trip I made the day before. He’s considerably thinner here but the eyes and nose and mouth are the same.
I celebrate the moment by drawing a box around his name and time of arrival. My job isn’t done, though. It’s only beginning. I remain where I am until Cahill leaves the tavern at 8:47 p.m. and 21 seconds. After I witness my own departure at 8:51 and 11 seconds, there’s no more reason for me to stay.
The hop I make is not a long one, merely thirty minutes back in time and a half mile east into the woods where no one else is. There I refresh myself with a food bar from my satchel as I study my notes. When I’ve committed all the necessary times and descriptions to memory, I hop forward again, arriving near the empty wagons beside the Three Swans. I reach the tavern’s door at 8:14 and 53 seconds.
The room is lit by several lanterns and large enough for three long tables but not much else. Seven men are scattered around, most with enough space between them to indicate they’re alone. Only two men are obviously together. They sit opposite one another and are leaning forward so they can talk in low voices.
I have a quick choice to make. Somewhere in this room is the person Cahill will meet with, and though I’ll be using my directional recorder to pick up the conversation, I’d like to be close enough to hear it for myself. It’s the way Marie taught me.
The patrons are largely weary farmers or businessmen who only want to eat their meal and be on their way. So, after writing most of them off, I settle on two possibilities for the person Cahill will meet—the man who’s looked at me twice as if wondering whether or not I’m someone he should know, or one of the two men who are together.
Not wanting to narrow it down further, I take a spot midway between my targets. Moments after I sit, the back door opens and a thin woman who looks older than she probably is enters carrying two bowls of something steaming. She acknowledges my presence with the barest of nods before setting the bowls in front of the two men who are together.
“You’re eating,” she says to me a moment later.
“Yes, please.”
Without another word, she turns and exits the way she came in.
The things that always surprise me when I travel are the smells. It doesn’t matter how far I go back—a decade, a century, or the nearly two and a half I went this time—the smells are unique. Spices and sweat and sewage and perfumes and God only knows what else. Some make me cock my head in wonder, while others cause the bile in my stomach to rise to my throat.
Unfortunately, the smells in the tavern are much closer to the latter than the former, so I reach into my pocket and pull out my tiny savior. Pretending to cough, I cover my nose with my hand and break the capsule, releasing the chemical blend that will dull my sense of smell for the next several hours. I should’ve taken it before coming in but I always forget.
As I’m slipping the spent capsule back into my pocket, the outer door opens and in walks Richard Cahill, exactly on time. He stands just inside the room, much like I did, and surveys those present. When he spots the two men sitting together, he walks toward them.
My mission today is to confirm the small part Cahill plays in the history of the empire, giving his descendants in House Cahill the official certification they seek.
One would not think upon first seeing Richard Cahill at this time that he’d be so important. He’s nineteen and rail thin, and while he seems to be putting on a brave face, I can tell from where I sit that he’s nervous. But if the history we’ve learned is correct, he’s a linchpin—albeit a minor one—in the development of the North American portion of the empire. His actions on this very night will put a quick end to a nuisance that might have otherwise troubled the kingdom for a few more years.
At first Cahill sits quietly, far enough way from the duo to give the illusion he’s alone. While he waits for the serving woman, he looks around the room. When his gaze turns in my direction, I make sure I’m looking down so I don’t come off as a threat.
Once I sense his attention’s no longer on me, I remove a worn-looking wooden box from my pocket. If anyone were to open the top they would find tobacco and a pipe. I leave the top down, however, and instead touch the edge that activates the built-in recorder, then I position the box so that the microphone is pointing at Cahill and his friends.
It’s not until after the woman returns with my stew and leaves to get Cahill his that the larger of the two men says, “Now is not the time for nerves.”
“I’m not nervous,” Cahill answers, his voice shaky. “But this is all—”
“Calm yourself,” the big man’s partner says.
Their voices are so low that I strain to hear every word. Their caution is understandable. They are, after all, in territory largely infiltrated by the rebels. If they’re caught, they’d likely be dragged into the woods and shot. I know that won’t happen but they don’t. For them this is real, this is now. For me, it’s like the first time seeing a performance of a play I’ve read many times. Cahill is destined to die at the ripe old age of fifty-four, after being gifted land and title for his service to the king. I’ve seen this already. Today I’m seeing the making of the man.
I lift a spoonful of stew to my lips but am careful to not ingest any. I’ve received all the inoculations to protect me from parasites, but to be safe, I seldom eat anything other than food I’ve brought with me. Instead of putting the spoon back in the bowl, I move it under the table and let the contents dribble onto the floor.
“So,” the large man whispers, “did you find out?”
Cahill nods. “There’s a meeting tonight at eleven.”
“Where?”
“At the Hensons’ farm. In the barn.”
“Will you be there?” the smaller man asks.
Another nod. “I’m to be on standby in case a message needs to go out.”
“You need to get in close enough to hear what they say.”
“I’ll try.”
“No. You’ll do it,” the large man says. “We need to know their plans.”
“I…I—”
“Is there a problem?”
Though I’m not looking at him, I imagine Cahill’s lip trembling as he says, “No, sir.”
I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Not only does this confirm that Richard Cahill was indeed a British agent working undercover as a messenger for the rebels during the American incident, but this meeting at eleven has to be the same one where he learns of the traitor George Washington’s whereabouts. This he will pass on to his contacts before the sun rises, and by twenty-four hours real time from now, Washington will be dead and the ill-fated rebellion squashed. As I said, it’s but a minor point in the history of the kingdom, but it’s fascinating to witness.
The woman enters the room again, this time with Cahill’s meal. The young spy and his companions exchange few words as they eat. My work here is basically done. The only task I have left is to witness Cahill’s predawn arrival at British headquarters with news of what he’s learned. But I know from my previous observations that I don’t depart until after Cahill leaves the tavern, so I busy myself push
ing my stew around and pretending to eat more.
The two men finish off their bowls first. The larger man pulls a small cloth pouch from his pocket. As he sets it in front of Cahill, I hear the distinct jangle of coins.
“As promised,” the man says.
Cahill peeks inside the bag and then looks at the men, confused. Forgetting to whisper, he says, “This isn’t all.”
“Hush,” the short one says.
I turn my head away just as he looks over his shoulder.
“You’ll get the rest after you report on the meeting,” the large man says.
“That wasn’t our agreement,” Cahill counters, anger seeping into his voice.
“I caution you, sir, to remember whom you are speaking with,” the short one tells him. “Would you rather we take you in and lock you up as a traitor?”
The tension is as thick as fog. Casually, I sweep my gaze across the room, like anyone sitting alone might do. I expect to see Cahill’s cheeks red with anger, but instead the fear is back in his eyes, and I start to think he’s not quite the willing spy my pre-mission research has led me to believe.
Do these men have something on him and he’s being coerced? If so, that would be the opposite of what the client expects to hear.
When Cahill gets up to leave, I put a coin on the table and pick up my wooden box. At the same moment, the serving woman reaches around me for the money, bumping my elbow and causing me to loose my grip on the box. It falls to the table with a loud clack.
Cahill, nearing the door, stops and looks back. When he sees what’s caused the noise, he turns to continue on his way, but the strap of his bag catches the corner of the nearby table, stopping him again. After he frees the strap, he exits the tavern. As is my habit, I reach into my pocket and push the button that will mark the time of his departure on my clock.
The woman doesn’t even give me so much as a grunt as she heads to another table. I put the box away and open the satchel just wide enough for me to see the Chaser’s screen and double-check my exit time. My attention, however, is drawn to the time marked as Cahill’s departure.
Certain I’m remembering incorrectly, I check my notebook. The time I’ve written down is 8:47:21. The problem is that the time marker on my Chaser indicates the door was opened at 8:47:33. I know I may not have hit the button at the exact moment he left, but there is no way I was twelve seconds off.
I find it suddenly hard to swallow.
I’ve caused a change.
It’s okay. It’s only twelve seconds. It won’t affect anything.
This is what I tell myself over and over as I head for the exit. I don’t even think to check my own time until I’ve already pushed the door open. I’m early. A full two minutes early.
Again, I tell myself that’s okay. I matter even less than Cahill’s discrepancy.
As I step across the threshold, I trip. Not enough to fall to the ground, but more than enough to prove that the timeline I witnessed earlier from the trees is no longer valid.
I rush around the building and into the dark, deserted meadow where the wagons are. I set my device to take me to three a.m. near the British military headquarters where Cahill will report his findings.
The trip is so short I never even see the gray mist. I do experience a short headache, though, which has never happened for a trip of this distance. Once my Chaser is stowed, I head toward the fort.
All is quiet when the British garrison comes into view. The only bit of light is the dull flicker of a lantern leaking over the top of the wall.
It’s possible Cahill has already arrived. The records I found on the matter indicated only that he comes before sunrise. But the distance between the fort and the farm where the rebels meet means it’s highly unlikely he’d get here before four a.m. The other factor supporting this argument is that if he’s made his report already, I’d see activity at the fort. There is none.
I settle in to wait.
Four a.m. passes without even the sound of a footstep. It’s still quiet at four thirty. At five, I begin to hear soldiers starting their day inside the fort. This is followed soon by the smell of cooking meat wafting into the woods where I’m hiding. And yet the gate remains closed.
At twenty to six, I hear the pounding of a horse’s hooves on the road leading up to the fort.
Thank God, I think. He’s finally here.
But my sense of relief vanishes when the horse that appears is carrying not Cahill but a British soldier. He hails one of the sentries at the fence, and the gate parts for him to enter.
An hour past sunrise, there’s still no Cahill.
Perhaps the historical records have it wrong. Perhaps Cahill came later. Even as I cling to this thought, I fear the truth is something far different.
There’s no dispute about when and how George Washington is ambushed. The event is well documented as taking place just after three p.m. on this very day, by soldiers from the garrison I’m spying on. But to be in position to take advantage of that situation, the British troops would need to begin organizing almost immediately.
I wait, my panic growing with each passing minute.
It was only twelve seconds, I tell myself. How could that have changed anything?
During one of the training lectures, we were taught that even a change of only a fraction of a second could ripple out to cause a much larger change. This is why it was stressed over and over again that we are observers, not participants. Yes, we would, on occasion, interfere in some lives, but those instances are to be kept short and as noninvasive as possible. Those who belong to the lineages of princes and dukes and lords are to remain untouched at all costs. Violating this rule would bring the severest of punishments.
A voice in my head says, “Go back to last evening and stop yourself from going inside.” This is the fix that should put everything back as it should be. At least, I think it is. Then again, what if my not being there causes Cahill to leave sooner? Maybe the woman serves him faster, or…or…
God, nothing messes with your head more than messing with time.
“If you get hung up on paradoxes, you’ll end up huddled in a corner as your sanity sprays out of your ears,” Marie told me during training. “The truth is, they exist. You can be in two places at once, or even three—or a dozen. You can interact with yourself, like I did on the roof in Chicago. Hell, you can even shake hands with yourself and you won’t implode. It’s your particular moment in time that’s important. If something changes, it’s what comes after that’s affected. You are the constant.”
So I can change things back.
Probably.
Before I go meddling again, though, I should gather more information, starting with finding out what happened to Cahill. I can go back and stop myself for entering the tavern later. That point will always be there for me to fix.
Calmer now, I pop back to the tavern on the evening before, but remain in the shadows so my other selves don’t see me. There’s no sense creating more confusion at this point.
When Cahill comes out, I glance at my Chaser—8:47:33. The same twelve-second variation from the natural timeline.
Once I see which way he’s going, I take a tiny hop in both time and distance along the road, arriving several seconds before he does. After he goes by, I hop forward again. I do this until he doesn’t appear where I expect him to. Backtracking both physically and in time, I find him turning down a road that leads west.
I’ve memorized a partial map of the area in anticipation of this trip, but his destination falls outside this region. My guess is this is the way to the Hensons’ farm. Keeping my trips even shorter in distance so I don’t lose him again, I track him through the countryside.
After we’ve been traveling for a good thirty minutes in real time, he turns down a rutted path that leads to a dark farmhouse. If this is the Henson farm, he’s over an hour early.
I watch from the cover of an outbuilding as he gets off his horse and approaches one of the windows of the main
house. Quietly, he taps on the pane.
The window opens but it’s too dark inside for me to see anything. I can hear whispered words but am too far away to make them out. After several moments, a hand juts out the window and Cahill puts something in it.
Frustrated, I study the house and see some shrubs not far from where Cahill is standing. I pop behind the brush and back in time thirty seconds before Cahill first arrives at the house.
Again, Cahill gets off his horse and taps on the windowpane. When it opens this time, I can see a shadowy figure inside but it’s still too dark to make out the face.
“Richard?” The voice sounds surprised, and though it’s high enough in pitch to be a woman’s, I get the distinct impression it belongs to a boy.
“I need you to do something,” Cahill whispers.
“What?”
“Take this.”
The boy reaches out, and Cahill puts what I can now see is the pouch of coins from the tavern in the kid’s hand.
“Is this—” the boy starts to say.
“Give it to Father. Tell him I’ll bring more later, but that should help.”
“He’ll want to know where you got it.”
“Tell him it doesn’t matter. It’s money.” Cahill pauses. “You can tell him I didn’t steal it.” He backs away.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to do something.”
“What?”
“I’ll see you later.”
Cahill sprints back onto his horse and rides away.
This can’t be where the change has occurred. With or without the twelve-second delay, he must have always planned on stopping here.
Confused, I take up pursuit again and trace him as he stays to the roads outside of town, passing nothing along the way but the sleeping silhouettes of other farmhouses.
Given that it’s less than fifteen minutes before the meeting is supposed to start, he can’t be more than a mile from the farm when I see two British soldiers riding toward town on a road from the east. They reach the junction with the road Cahill is on a mere five and a half seconds after the reluctant spy passes by.
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