Time Change B2

by Alex Myers

  CHAPTER 2

  Thursday, June 25, 1857

  Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell

  “Dr. Blackwell, you are the best doctor I’ve ever had, and the best looking.”

  “Oh fiddle dee dee.”

  “Fiddle dee dee? People actually say stuff like that? The first female physician in the United States and you’re all mine. Do you know that you’ll be on a postage stamp one day, you’ll have all sorts of strange men licking you.”

  “Shut up, Jack, like you can foresee the future. You are not going to sweet talk me. I’m not releasing you from the infirmary.”

  Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell was fussy and normally all business, despite only being thirty-six years old. She was coordinating all the research at the facility and met with Jack often. She spoke fluent German and French and was an excellent administrator and go-between with the researchers like Louis Pasteur, Ignaz Semmelweis, and John Lister. Even with everything she had going for her, she spent so much of her time proving she was just as competent as a man, Jack thought she forgot she was a woman. They had a great relationship. They almost flirted.

  “I know you are keeping me here for my own good. I just have some things I need to do in the city,” Jack said.

  “It’s too jarring. All that bouncing around in a coach won’t be good for you.”

  “I’ll take my boat. I’ve been cooped up for two weeks.”

  “Ten days. A week of that, though, you were unconscious, so you can’t count that.”

  “The weather is good. I’ll get Sam Clemens to take me…”

  “I’ll say yes, you dickens, but I am warning you for your own good.”

  Jack offered the SAC $20,000 for Kaz’s return, no questions asked. He made the offer in a personal letter sent to Abner Adkin’s office in Williamsburg. In a return message, Adkins claimed to not know a thing and suggested perhaps Kazmer went back to Poland. Jack was still weak, otherwise he would have already have been to the SAC plant himself.

  They docked Jack’s boat at the same pier where they met Frances from a two-day trip to Baltimore.

  Sam snatched the bag she was carrying. Jack took her into his arms, tried to lift her from the gangway, and almost fell with her while trying to set her down on the dock.

  “You are still sick,” Frances said. It sounded like a statement, not a question.

  “I wouldn’t call it sick, I’m just not one hundred percent myself.”

  “How did you know I was going to be here?” Frances asked while smoothing out her dress.

  “I’m from the future, I just know things.”

  “The telegraph. I swear you use a telegraph more than anyone I know.”

  “Remember, I come from an era of instant messages to anywhere in the world. I like to keep in touch.”

  “Good evening, Miss Frances.” Sam stepped up and kissed her cheek.

  “Sam.” Frances looked at both of them until finally she asked, ”What do you two have planned?”

  “Something that remains a mystery still to me is on our friend Jack’s mind. It must be high-falutin’ cause he’s made reservations for us at the Atlantic Hotel.”

  Looking concerned, Frances said, “Please God, tell me you’re not going to ask me to marry you?” There was a knifing edge to her voice.

  Jack’s throat tightened, immediately angry. “That’s not cool, you didn’t need to react like that. To answer your question, no, I wasn’t going to propose to you.”

  “Then what is it about? Did you hear something on Kazmer?”

  “I was supposed to hear something this morning, but there’s no word,” Jack said.

  “What are you going to do? I mean, what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know who to go to for help. Not the FBI, they haven’t even been formed yet. What would the local police do? I think it’s something we’ve got to handle ourselves. I’ve got a man up there doing some spying for me. He should be back tomorrow.”

  Frances seemed distant.

  Jack noted Frances’ mood and brushed it off. “Just so you know, I’ve told Sam about my time travel thing, Frances. I need some advice from my two closest friends.”

  “What does this have to do with?”

  “I’d just soon we wait to get into it. I have a private room booked; let’s wait until we don’t have to worry about being overheard,” Jack said. He noticed a man paying a little too much attention to their conversation.

  They dropped Frances’s bags off at Jack’s boat. At the Atlantic Hotel, they gave her a chance to freshen up as they ordered drinks. Jack waited until their dinner had been served and he dismissed the waiter. “Everything I remember and have been able to gather tells me the war comes down to a lot of issues that… don’t look like they can, or will, be solved by the government. The bottom line is that despite whether they believe owning slaves is right or wrong, it’s a matter of economics. The Southern land owner is not going to have his free labor taken away from him.”

  “In my schoolboy days,” Sam said, “I had no aversion to slavery. I was not aware there was anything wrong with it. The local papers or politicians said nothing against it; the local pulpit taught us that God approved it, that it was a holy thing and the doubter need only look in the Bible. Now I feel that it would not be possible for a humane and intelligent person to invent a rational excuse for slavery. The skin of every man contains a slave, and yet, man is the only true slave. He is the only animal that enslaves.”

  “This is what part of the problem is,” Jack explained, “Sam here grew up in a border state, and his family didn’t even own slaves. What would it be like to have the slave mentality, engraved into you by generations? That it was a part of who you and your family were, engrained, entrenched, that this man, this woman, these children are not really human. That they don’t have the capacity for thought and emotions, that they are somehow just put on this earth to do toil and drudgery, and for no pay.”

  “Don’t forget it’s not just free labor; he believes it is his property too, Jack,” Frances said. “Some of these slaves have been in the family for generations. And for generations, I might add, slaves and slave labor have been a way of life.”

  “You just cannot expect a man to give up his way of life just because some folks from the North feel it ain’t right. There is no equity in that transaction. It’ll set the Southern economy back a hundred years. And what, in their eyes, are the Yanks giving? We, and I’m speaking as a white man here, have ground the manhood out of the slaves and the shame is ours. Maybe we should have to pay for it.” Sam continued, “It is curious—curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare. To set the black slaves free would set the white man free also.”

  “That’s my point exactly,” Jack said. “Until now, there has never been more than a moral incentive for the South. But what if there was a financial incentive?”

  “Are you suggesting someone pays the South to free the slaves?” Frances asked.

  “In a roundabout way, more of a trade, I suppose.”

  “What could you trade to make them part with their free labor force?” Sam asked.

  “Machines.”

  “Machines?” Frances and Sam asked in unison.

  “Out at the complex, we have developed a mechanical cotton picker and refined the cotton gin. Both, by the way, can do the work of twenty men in about a tenth of the time.”

  “Are the machines expensive to make?” Frances asked.

  “Right now, very, but mass production could bring the cost way down.”

  “You’re not thinking of donating them, are you?” Sam asked.

  Jack laughed and said, “The cost would be a lot more than I could afford, but that’s what I wanted to talk to you two about. A plan to trade slaves for equipment. The best number I can gather is that there are about four million slaves right now in the South. What I’ve been able to discern is that about sixty percent of the slaves held actually work in the fields. So that means we have
a little over two million actually doing the work on the plantations. I figure we would have to manufacture about 100,000 machines. Samuel, you said a second ago that the South had a free labor force. I figure it costs about one hundred dollars a year to keep every slave held, that’s $2000 a year for every twenty—the average slaves owned by one person. Right now, the cost of both cotton machines is ten percent of that. These machines, I think, will drive down the slave’s value.”

  Frances was shaking her head; “You just don’t get it, do you Jack? Slavery is extremely profitable; a large part of the profit is in the increased value of the slaves themselves. Sure, the plantation owners are concerned with their production, but the negroes themselves can sell for as much as fifteen hundred a piece. The South, with only thirty percent of the nation’s population, has sixty percent of its ‘wealthiest men’. Their per capita income is almost two thousand dollars more per year than that of the North.”

  “That may be true on the whole, but the horrible jobs that nobody wants are done by slaves in the South. In the North, they have to pay some desperate person a dollar or two a week to do them. That lowers the per capita income levels.”

  “Jack,” Frances said, “have you even thought what will happen to all these freed slaves if all of a sudden tomorrow slavery was outlawed and they were all released? Perhaps there should be some way of implementing measures for a gradual emancipation?”

  Samuel jumped in without letting Jack answer. “This is a startling consideration. In Northern communities, where the free negro is one in a hundred of the total population, he is recognized and acknowledged often as a pest, and in many cases, even his presence is prohibited by law. What would be the case in many of our States, where every other inhabitant is a negro, or in many of our communities? Take, for example, the parishes around and about Charleston, and in the vicinity of New Orleans, where there are from twenty to one hundred negroes to each white inhabitant.”

  “I’m glad you two brought this up. The answer to that question lies within the machinery quotient. The only entity with the financial power to make this work is the U.S. Government. Sure, we trade machines for slaves, and the government subsidizes the difference to the landowner, but here’s the dovetail; the southern slave, for the most part, has no skills other than agricultural. So let’s set them up with their own farms, and they pay the difference back to the public bank.”

  “Where are the farms, this land, supposed to come from?”

  “Our expansion west,” Jack said. “The Homestead Act.”

  “I’m not familiar with this Homestead Act,” Samuel said.

  “Neither am I,” Frances added.

  “It’s because it won’t take place for another four years,” Jack said. “I am familiar with this because my great grandparents homesteaded and left the land to me. I remember doing a report on it in high school. In 1862, partly in an effort to expand and establish the lands obtained in the Louisiana Purchase, it gave land to heads of households. The act permitted an eligible person to enter or move onto unappropriated public land. They were given one hundred sixty acres of land that had to be worked, and after five years the land was theirs.”

  “Are you suggesting giving the negroes land, they farm it, and from their profits pay the country back?” Frances continued, “Jack, these slaves have lived their entire lives in captivity, they have no idea how to run a household or business. They’re used to having everything done for them, being told what to do and when. I think it’s too much to ask. Have you thought about this aspect?”

  “I certainly have, and the answer is education—education and cooperation. I suggest that they set up communities where they can pool their collective resources and work together. With the new technological advances in farming we have planned, they are going to know as much about working the land as anybody—perhaps better than most. Education, however, will be the key. Once educated, they can take their new found skills either back to the farms or strike out for a new workplace.”

  “There are a lot things to go wrong here,” Frances said. “Lots of opportunity for graft and cheating, theft and confusion—do you think it will work?”

  “It’s got to work. You are both right: when the slaves were emancipated after the Civil War, in my version of history, they flooded the cities. There weren’t enough jobs and they, even to my day, are and were some of the poorest people this country has ever known. And since they scattered everywhere after the war, they weren’t able to set up the infrastructure other ethnic groups were. The Italians, the Irish, the Chinese all had their own communities and they watched out for each other, helped each other, with jobs, with places to live, churches, even forms of benevolent welfare.”

  “What happened to the negroes?” Sam asked.

  “Well, by the time the blacks—I still can’t get used to calling them negroes, that would be a derogatory remark in my day—started thinking about having a community of their own, they were too diverse and really had nothing in common but their poverty and suffering. There are some blacks that still, in 2013, can’t get past the slavery issue, but it’s easier to put the blame for your inability to advance yourself on someone else, especially when it looks like the system was set up against you. And, by the way, it was.

  “I have released the patents for the picker to the McCormick Company and the new type cotton gin to the Deere Company. Both companies already sell its equipment on an installment basis, and they will be a tad more liberal with the blacks on extending credit. The ex-slaves will have the same purchasing opportunities as anyone else. They have assured me of this, and they’re too big to be bullied.

  “After a while, these other ethnic groups I mentioned integrated their way into mainstream America and are doing fine. I’m hoping as much for the blacks. There’s got to be hope, because if there’s not hope, that part of a society dies or rebels.”

  Frances smiled at this, but it seemed she still had a hard edge to her. Jack looked forward to spending time with her in the coming week. He tried several times to catch her eye, but for some reason she was distant. He wished he had spent some time alone with her before springing the meeting with Samuel.

  Jack still had more to say, so despite her strangeness he continued, “You both know of my meeting at the church.”

  “It was a real bomb!” Samuel said, and cracked himself up.

  “I taught him that saying.” Jack said, shaking his head.

  “I don’t really understand, but please continue.” Frances said. She was growing colder.

  “Anyway, at my meeting with what would have to be called the most influential men in America, each is out doing his part in his own way to make this happen. I want the Southerner himself to decide that slavery is more trouble than it’s worth. I’m hoping if there’s not an economic or agricultural tie that binds the slave owner to his slaves, the prices will drop and it’ll diminish the desire to own them. I don’t know if this is right or wrong, I could be making things worse, but in the meantime, this at the very least should delay the war for a few years.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Thursday, June 25, 1857

  If Jack thought the ill wind that was blowing from Frances was directed toward Samuel, he found out later for sure it was directed at him. Sam said he was going to have another drink, another couple of smokes, and would meet Jack back at the boat.

  “Can you please take me home? It’s been a long trip and I’m really quite exhausted.”

  “I’ll hire us a ride,” he said, and waved a driver over. She kept her eyes down, but Jack was determined to lighten her mood. “I love this street, it’s so clean and peaceful—right here in the middle of the city. If I was going to live in town, it would have to be here.” They headed down Main toward Market Square.

  One felt like they were on the streets of New York, or at least a bigger city than Norfolk at the time. Main Street had wide sidewalks, handsome lamps, fences and stair rails back-lit perfectly in the early twilight. The steeple of the St.
Mary’s Cathedral rose in the distance. As they rode further along the tree-lined street, they passed men in tall silk hats and ladies in plumed bonnets strolling on the sidewalk.

  “Pretty nice evening, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

  “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  Their driver was completely obscured from their view, and Jack wondered what the man was hearing. “What? The plan?”

  “No, us.”

  He searched anxiously for the meaning behind her words in her face and only saw her stony continence. He felt a sick rush of adrenaline course through his veins. “What are you talking about? Everything’s going so well.” He turned and thought a moment more; whenever he had experienced anything remotely like this, there was only one valid reason. “There’s another man, right?”

  She stared at him, her eyes blazing and a stiffness in her gaze, but she didn’t answer.

  “You’re not answering! That’s it, you’ve met another man!” Jack yelled. He was furious.

  “I didn’t answer because that question doesn’t dignify an answer. No, there is not another man. The problem is with us.”

  “Wait! The last time I saw you, when I was recovering in the hospital, we seemed better than ever?”

  “There are just too many differences between us. Too many things that would have to change, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life nagging you. I think if I can’t love you for who you are, well, maybe we shouldn’t be together.” She seemed to be building a case against him.

  “I don’t get it. I think you’re bi-polar.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but I’m sure it’s not a compliment. Can’t you let it go? This whole notion of us? Things change.”

  “Things didn’t change—you changed. This is totally out of the blue.”

  “I am not going to argue about this with you on the street. If you want to talk about this wait until I get home. Otherwise, I’m going to catch a ride on my own.”