Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club. Book III Read online

  Time Travel Adventures of The 1800 Club

  BOOK III

  By Robert P. McAuley

  Published By

  Robert P. McAuley and Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 by Robert P. McAuley

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  The Premise

  The Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club is a 21 st Century haven for people seeking to escape New York City’s frantic pace. Dressed in clothes their ancestors might have worn during the 1800s, members enjoy foods of the period and read periodicals featuring news of a particular date in 1865. However, the 1800 Club also has an astounding secret . . . Time Travel. Members travel back in time nudging famous persons and key events just enough to ensure history unfolds, as it should. Guardians-of-the-past, living in the future, send robotic probes back through the ages, discovered that, at critical time-junctures, pivotal figures stray from vital tasks and actions. These Time Watchers of the past can’t go back and fix the glitch in the timeline because the atmosphere they breathe has been cleaned up over the years and the air of the past is almost unbreathable for them. Then an 1800 Club member from the 2000s are sent back to guarantee that events get back on track. The 1800 Club’s members aid Lincoln, Roosevelt, Bat Masterson, Mark Twain and many others. Without subtle interventions by these unknown agents, the famous might have been only footnotes, rather than giants of history.

  Dear reader, I once read a time travel book where the main character went back over one hundred years in the past to retrieve an object from a house. He entered the house, picked up the object and brought it back to his time. To me it was upsetting that he took us back in time and never once said anything about the house! Never described anything! He might as well have just gone back to a park where things never change. That is why I try to bring the reader along with me as I travel through time. RPM

  A peek into chapter 1

  A huge explosion not only destroys New Orleans, but takes the life of Mark Twain . . . unless the 1800 Club can stop it from happening.

  A peek into chapter 2

  For an unknown reason President of the United States Ronald Reagan is not born and the Soviet Union is on its way to world domination . . . with the U.S. as an unwilling partner.

  The Mark Twain Mission

  DATELINE: 1883, PLACE: MISSISSIPPI RIVER, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  A butterfly flew over the dark, muddy waters of the Mississippi River. It looked out of place because everyone knows that butterflies don’t fly in a straight line; they tend to meander and float along on the wind. The scene in front of the lone butterfly went from bright sunshine to a wall of water. The creature automatically went vertical and let the wall of water flow beneath its wings. The water was filled with parts of houses, boats, trees and other debris. It also carried humans.

  The butterfly-drone recorded the scene in the passionless, mechanical correctness it was designed to do. After the water’s tremendous flow was reduced to a trickle, the butterfly alighted on top of a tall tree and disappeared into thin air.

  DATELINE: 2066, PLACE: THE HISTORY TRACKING CENTER, NEW YORK CITY

  Joseph Sergi looked at the hologram downloading from the butterfly-drone. He stood at the table where the others of the History Tracking Center sat.

  “Let’s see what the probe has seen,” he said, as he reached over to begin viewing the hologram. Sergi moved quickly for a man of six feet six inches, his dark hair flopping around his face. “June 6, 1883,” he said, “that seems to be the last time anyone saw him.”

  “This isn’t good,” Alexis Shuntly said, sitting back in her chair and shaking her head as she squinted through her thick glasses. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

  John Hyder was writing on a pad, looking intent, as if he were trying to remember something. “What year did he write The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?”

  Sergi answered, as he watched the river rush at the drone, “1885.”

  “Bad news,” said Hyder, “bad news.” He was scribbling in his notepad. “If he disappears in ’83, we’re going to have a lot of people missing some of his best works.”

  “Worse,” said Jerry Sullivan, who sat at the end of the long table. “His stories had more than an entertainment value, as I’m sure you all know.” He ran his fingers through his longish, curly brown hair. “He brought out a justice that was missing in his day. His stories taught harmony in a tough time. He preached brotherly love through his Huck character. He had the boy on the river show everyone who read it how kindness and understanding could bring peace and harmony to the world. His writings will not only be missed, but the generations of writers who were inspired by him just will not happen.”

  “Uh-oh! Look at this,” said Sergi, pointing at the hologram. The other five Time Trackers turned and looked at the scene unfolding before them.

  The wall of dirty brown water rushed at them as seen through the sensors of the butterfly-drone, and they all instinctively ducked. The sudden vertical flight of the drone left most of them with a drop in the pit of their stomachs. The next scene looked down on the rushing waters, which were loaded with usually Earth-bound objects . . . many still moving. Most of the watchers looked away while Sergi sat down and clicked the hologram off.

  Maryellen Mulley clearing her throat broke the silence. “As the historian, I feel we have to look at this in a different way. It’s not just Clemens, or Twain, as he was known, I think we have to look into this new development. We have to see how damaging this event was to New Orleans.”

  John Hyder stood up and began to pace. “Um, we know for certain that on June 6, 1883, Twain was on the steamboat Natchez for a trip upriver from New Orleans for a rest. And now the drone shows us that there’s a flood or something on that date, and Samuel Clemens was never seen after that date. Coincidence?” Hyder shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think the Natchez was swamped or sunk and that’s why Clemens hasn’t been seen since then. I think we have to send another drone back to a later date to see how bad the flood was, what caused it and determine if he reappears at all.”

  “I agree,” said Muldey. “I read where New Orleans was devastated back in 2005, and if there was something similar in 1883, it would have been worse. They didn’t have the resources back then to recover.”

  Sergi went to the door and opened it. Outside stood Ted, the group’s special attendant who was on call whenever they were in session. The slim, dark haired young man entered the office at Sergi’s wave.
He stood before the group and had his notebook at the ready for instructions. Sergi closed the door behind him and said, “Ted, we have to send another drone back.”

  Ted nodded and made a notation. “Time?”

  Sergi looked at the group, his eyebrows arched in question.

  Muldey spoke up. “I’d suggest one to two weeks after the latest visit.” She closed her eyes in thought. “I’d say June 15, 1883. Do you agree?”

  They all nodded, and Ted noted it in his book. He then asked, “Place?”

  “Same as the last,” Muldey responded. “New Orleans. Full scan of the entire city from five thousand feet up right down to sea level. Try to get some fix on the levees. Maybe we can see the extent of the damage to them.”

  Ted finished writing and closed his book. “Got it. I’ll send it out right away and have the results ready in one hour.”

  Sergi nodded and opened the door. “I suggest we break for lunch and be back here in one hour,” he said. They emptied the room to await the probe’s new hologram.

  An hour later they were back in their places around the table and watching the new hologram. The scene showed nothing but dark brown water. The only difference was that just the treetops and the roofs of the highest buildings of New Orleans were visible.

  The Time Watchers sat speechless, and Sergi shut off the hologram.

  “Let’s sum this up,” he said. “We know a flood of that magnitude could take lots of lives. We know that it could really hurt the economy of the early United States. It would have destroyed a lot of the ports so vital to trade and commerce. And it could have been the cause of Mark Twain’s disappearance. Does that about sum it up?” he asked the group.

  They sat in silence. Then Jerry Sullivan half-raised his hand and said, “I have an idea. Let’s send another probe back to about an hour before the river surged. If the first probe saw the water coming at it as it flew downriver, it probably was seeing the waters from Lake Pontchartrain flooding the city. If we send another probe back to the lakefront area, we might see what caused the levee to fail in such a catastrophic way. Maybe it was an earthquake.”

  “No,” said Muldey her white hair flying as she shook her head. “There was never a fault line along that area. It must have been a failure of a levee.”

  “That’s a mighty big failure,” said Sergi. “I think it was more than one levee that went.”

  Muldey nodded again. “Highly unlikely. But I agree with Jerry, send the probe back to check the levees along the lakefront.”

  The group indicated consensus and Ted resent the butterfly-probe back to the specified time.

  An hour later they were sipping coffee, and Ted could tell they were getting tired as they tried to get to the cause of Lake Pontchartrain cascading over the levees designed to hold it back. He set up the hologram from the probe’s latest trip back to 1883. They all leaned forward as the scene unfolded once again. Ted had the probe appear in a fairly deserted area outside of Chalmette so no one would witness its arrival. He flew the butterfly up the Mississippi, the water moving beneath its wings, but this time the river was flowing in the lazy way it did when it was calm. The probe made a right turn as it approached New Orleans and did a slow fly-by over the city. It headed toward the lakefront and over the levees holding back the water. A few small boats were out for some fishing as townspeople strolled along the lakefront.

  All of sudden the Time Watchers saw it, a large white steamship docked at a wharf. It was a twin-stacked stern-wheeler and as the probe got closer, they could see the name on the side, Natchez.

  “He’s on that steamer!” exclaimed Sergi as he jumped up. “According to my records, Mark Twain was on the Natchez on this date. So what we are seeing now is the way it should happen. So far, so good.”

  Just then the ship exploded in a huge fireball. It engulfed the entire area of the dockside and rolled into the city. It seemed to grow as it expanded into a black and red cloud with flames shooting up. More explosions started in the stores abutting the docks, along with the cargo stacked along the wharf. As the debris drifted back to Earth through the smoke, a shuddering was seen along the blackened area. Slowly at first, then gathering speed, the waters of Lake Pontchartrain surged into the city past where the levees had been. People began to run in panic, but they were no match for the speed of the water. As the probe watched from a safe height, the town was slowly submerged. New Orleans as they knew it was gone . . . and so was Samuel “Mark Twain” Clemens.

  Joseph Sergi pushed back his chair and looked at the others. “If you feel as tired as I am, I suggest we return tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. I also suggest we give thought as to why the Natchez exploded. I for one am not versed on ships of this period and would like to do some research before taking the next step.” He rose and said, “Agreed?” Everyone nodded. “Fine then,” he said, wearily. “I say we all return at nine in the morning.” He walked toward the door and the others followed.

  The next morning the Time Tracking group met as scheduled. They took their seats and Sergi stood and addressed them.

  “All I got from the historical records of the period was that these steamboats were overall pretty reliable and safe vessels. But if they blew up, it was mostly because the water pump failed and the boilers didn’t get enough cold water to keep them cool.”

  John Hyder raised his hand and got to his feet. “Yes, I read that, too. But I also read they had a pressure-relief valve on each of the boilers that powered the ship. Some of these rear-wheelers were powered by nine steam engines. They heated water in boilers, which then turned into steam, which turned a gear that turned the rear paddle wheel propelling it forward. Now, if the pressure built up too fast, the pressure-relief valve opened, letting some of the steam blow off to keep a safe pressure in the boiler. If the pressure-relief valve stuck, it wouldn’t open to let the boiler blow off steam and the pressure became so great the boilers exploded.”

  “What would cause the valve to stick?” asked Maryellen Muldey.

  “Not sure,” said Sergi, “but they were made of iron and had springs in them, so you have lots of things that can fail.” A look around the table showed Sergi that the group agreed with this theory. He went on, “We have to send someone back to prevent this tragedy. Especially since this never happened in our history. I have the computers working up a possible future with New Orleans and Mark Twain gone. Tim will bring in the data when it’s finished processing. Now what type of person should we send back?”

  “I would imagine we should send a sailor,” said Jerry Sullivan, as he cleaned his already-clean glasses.

  “Someone who knows ships,” Maryellen Muldey said in seconding the motion. “I think Jerry’s right. A sailor would be familiar with that stuff.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Anthony Landi as he stood and faced them. “I think we need an engineer or someone who understands that type of engine. I don’t believe a sailor would necessarily know the workings of the ship’s engines, but an engineer would. And that’s what I think we need here, someone who knows if a valve is stuck or broken.” He sat back down.

  Joseph Sergi nodded and said, “That sounds about right to me, Anthony.” He scanned those assembled and asked, “What do you all think?”

  Members of the group looked at each other for confirmation and in near-unison said they agreed.

  There was a tap at the door and Sergi opened it.

  Ted stood there holding some sheets of paper. “The computer data you requested, Mr. Sergi,” he said, handing them over.

  Sergi thanked him, sat at the table and glanced at the printed matter for a few minutes. “As I thought,” he said. “If this explosion is allowed to take place, we lose not only the use of the port for many years to come, but the economy of the U.S. is hit hard. Future oil refineries are in jeopardy of ever being built.” He read more, then said, “And worse, there are many people killed who are direct ancestors of people who perform great works over the years—a possible forty-nine persons
who were in government, thirty-six who became doctors and one hundred and thirty-four artists and writers.”

  He put the papers down and looked at the group. “Ladies and gentleman, we just cannot let this happen. We have to stop the Natchez from blowing up.” He went to the door and motioned Ted back in. “Ted,” said Sergi, “Am I right in saying that Edmund Scott is our contact to The 1800 Club in 2011?”

  Ted nodded, “Yes sir, he’s a direct ancestor of Mr. Bill Scott. In fact, Edmund is his grandson.”

  “Good,” said Sergi. “I’m going to write an electronic message I’d like him to deliver to Scott in 2011. It’ll be ready in an hour.”

  “Yes sir,” Ted responded, “I’ll be right outside the door.” He went back out as Sergi began to write up the mission order.

  DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

  Is that a knock at the door? Bill Scott thought. “Can’t be,” he murmured, looking at the clock by his bed. Three-ten in the morning, he thought as he turned over, but there it was again, a definite knock at the door. Not just any door though. It was the Time Portal door. As he stumbled toward it he was thankful that he had had the room off the living room converted to his bedroom. It was closer to the door that made this club so important.

  Pulling a terry-cloth robe tight around his tall frame, he said, “Okay, okay, I’ll be right there.” He fumbled for the key around his neck and opened the lock, then the door.

  “Edmund,” he said as he saw his future grandson. “Come in, Ed.” He took him over to one of the overstuffed chairs in the living room. “Sit, relax.”

  Edmund smiled as he caught his breath and said, “Greetings, Bill. You’re looking great. Come the holidays, I know what to get you,” he said, as he pointed to Bill’s tattered bathrobe.