Book 11 Read online

  The man stopped in his tracks and said, “Glory be! Me an’ my two friends were just talking about that place. Here,” he said as he passed Bill the folded newspaper, “take a read of this. It seems that there’s a new taxi company operating from there and they plan to start operations this very day! Problem is they don’t use horses! They drive them about town with electric devices.” He shook his head, “Me and the boys took a wager that they’ll be outta business in a month. Why, no person with a right mind will trust a carriage without a horse.”

  Bill ducked his head to fit his six-foot two inches into the cab without bumping it on the door jamb. “Well,” he answered as he sat back on the almost soft padding and opened the newspaper, “it’s a coincidence that I have some business in that area.”

  “Mind ya don’t get run over by one of them electric buggies, cause they say ya can’t even hear them coming. Naw, I’ll stay with the horse.”

  Bill stuck his head out of the window and asked, “Cabby, can you pass by 45 East 18th street on the way?”

  The cab driver looked down from his perch and tipped his high black hat, “No problem, sir.”

  The time traveler sat back and enjoyed his ride through New York City of 1897. The heat was climbing and more than a few men had their collar open and carried their jackets.

  Poor ladies, he thought as they went about on their business, some carrying parasols to ward off the bright sunlight while others wore wide brimmed hats. They all have to wear a long, heavy skirt and tightly buttoned high collared blouses and there was no carrying their jackets, as it just was not done in this time period.

  Suddenly he heard laughter and the carriage rolled past a group of boys and girls all running around the street with no shoes on and soaked to the skin as one of the bigger boys had opened a fire hydrant and played the water on them. Their elders walked by and, although they were shaking their heads and tsk-tsking, Bill knew they wished to be able to do the same.

  A sudden tapping on the roof of the cab was followed by the cabby announcing, “Sir! 45 East 18th Street. Shall I continue on?”

  “Yes,” shouted Bill as he looked out the window and saw the Old Town, a bar and grill he had dinner at just three nights ago.

  Three nights, he corrected himself, and 117 years ago! He watched as the cab passed the beautiful mahogany and glass front of one of the oldest bars in New York City.

  The Old Town’s interior gave the feeling of being back in the mid 1800s with its massive 55-foot long, mahogany and marble bar and the 16-foot high tin ceiling. As it had in the past, the men’s room was still on the main floor while the ladies were upstairs. Bill smiled as he thought, Only in New York would the men’s Hinsdale urinals be considered a historical icon along with the oldest active restaurant dumbwaiters. He made a mental note to come back and visit with a few of his time traveling friends.

  His carriage slowed and came to a halt and another pulled up on the right as another stopped on his left. He heard grumbling from his driver and the one on either side of his carriage. Bill opened the door to see the reason for the traffic jam and was joined by the passengers of the two cabs and more that joined the jam.

  It really didn’t bother the time traveler that he was in a traffic jam as he had built in some time for his arrival and he enjoyed the sights of the area along with the everyday people of the time he loved to visit. He joined the others as they shaded their eyes against the bright sunlight to see what the problem was. Then he saw what the holdup was: a line of at least twenty wagons, each pulled by two struggling horses. To save weight, the driver walked alongside their team holding the reins. Each wagon had dirt and various size stones piled high and the wooden bottoms were actually sagging beneath the loads.

  “Big construction going on about six streets over,” said a man as he lit a cigar. Bill nodded and felt an old reluctance to carry on a conversation with someone who he knew was long gone in his time.

  The man turned and said as he pointed with his cigar, “Them fellows work all night by the light of oil lamps, then go home and sleep all day.” He shook his head, “A man has to feel for them. When they finally get to see the sun, they feel the heat as they unload their wagons and brush down their horses and get ready for another night’s work.”

  “All for a better and bigger New York,” said Bill.

  Suddenly one of the wagons stopped as the driver adjusted his horses’ strap and the waiting traffic became like a chariot race all trying to get their passengers aboard to dash through the opening in the traffic. Bill’s driver was happy to see that his passenger was spry and easily slid into the carriage as he slapped his horse with the reins and they were the first through the unexpected gap.

  The short trip took longer than he anticipated as traffic was building, but the driver turned onto Broadway and in ten minutes he pulled tightly on the reins as he announced, “Broadway and 52nd Street, sir.”

  Bill hopped out of the cab and asked, “How much, driver?”

  “Dollar fifty, sir.”

  Bill handed him two dollars and as he started to dig into his pocket for change, Bill waved him off. The cab driver tipped his high hat and said, “Have a nice day, sir.”

  Bill’s leather heels echoed as they sounded on the large gray, slate slabs that the sidewalks of the city were composed of. He walked along Broadway towards 53rd Street and stopped in front of the ex-armory. The building had two large wooden doors and over them hung a sign that read, ‘Morris and Salom-Electric Carriage and Wagon Company- 1684 Broadway’. There was a single door next to them.

  This is it, Bill thought as he took out his pocket watch, 8:40. Perfect.

  He walked past the building as a horse drawn cab pulled up in front of 1684 and a man stepped out. As the passenger paid the driver Bill suddenly recognized him as the man he had spoken with at the traffic jam. Bill kept walking away from the building and turned once to see the man enter the building through the single door.

  In the next five minutes three more cabs dropped off three men who entered the building through the same door.

  A low chime went off on Bill’s pocket watch and he checked the time: Yep! Nine on the dot! He put the watch away as a rumbling sound accompanied the opening of the two wooden doors.

  Although he was ready for the sight, he was still surprised at how elegant the vehicle looked as it rolled out of the building’s dark, cavernous interior. Bill smiled as he thought, Wow! The first electric taxicab in New York City. Another surprise was the driver who was the same man from the traffic jam. He had changed his clothes and now wore a dark, Navy blue, jacket and pants along with a dress hat, which gave him the appearance of a military man very much in charge of his futuristic steed.

  Photo: The Electrical World

  The driver set his brake and got down from his high perch and went back inside to get something giving Bill the opportunity to inspect the taxi.

  He was like a little boy with a new toy and although he had read up on the vehicle, he went over the specifications in his mind as he ran his hand along the cab’s smooth lines.

  The front bicycle-type drive wheels are 36 inches in diameter with three-inch pneumatic tires, while the steering was done by two slightly smaller rear wheels. The cab itself is a work of art and weighs 3,000 pounds, which includes the 1,200-pound batteries, and, as it was mostly made of wood, had a fine finish for the outside elements. Each hansom cab was powered by two Lundell electric motors that gave 1-1/2 horsepower each allowing the vehicle to drive 25 miles at 12 miles per hour before having to return for a charge or change of batteries. The front passenger section seated two or three if a child was present and had clamshell type doors that helped against the elements. The driver sat on the high rear seat mounted upon the battery box, which gave him excellent visibility over the top of the cab. The wooden cab was a high gloss black with bright red piping and was built by the Charles S. Caffrey Company, of Camden, New Jersey, one of the most respected carriage makers in the country. Bill smiled to h
imself, There will be eleven more battery-powered taxicabs joining this one today, but I want to be in the first one.

  “I see that you admire fine machinery, sir.”

  Bill turned to where the voice came from and saw the driver returning and now the time traveler was positive it was the man from the traffic jam. “Yes, I do. It is a work of art,” he said as he offered his hand, “Bill Scott, sir.”

  The man suddenly recognized him from the same traffic jam and pumped his hand as he said, “Well, it surely is a small city, sir. I am Mister Henry G. Morris of the Morris and Salome Company.” He turned and gestured towards the building.

  “And am I correct, sir to say that you are taking the first electric taxicab out for a test run?” Bill asked.

  Morris shook his head, “No, sir, in fact I am taking the first electric taxicab out in hopes of getting a passenger as I want to see first hand if there are any unforeseen problems.”

  “Then I would enjoy being that passenger, sir. I also have a strange request: may I just sit back and enjoy the ride wherever you wish to drive and you can drop me off at 520 East Ninth Street when you are in need of returning to your garage for a battery charge?”

  The inventor pulled his pointy mustache and answered, “Mmmm, if you wish, but we will be charging the same as a horse-drawn hansom and that’s one dollar the first two miles and an additional fifty cents each following mile. So I would say, seven dollars.”

  “Seven dollars it is, said Bill as Morris opened the clamshell doors and Bill stepped up into the cab and closed the door. He smiled to himself, Wow, it has that new car smell and, he thought as he tested the red cushioned seat, comfortable too.

  The cab swayed as Morris climbed up and into his seat. He opened the sliding glass window on the roof, looked down at Bill looking up and asked, “All set Mister Scott? All set to be the first passenger in an electric taxicab in New York City?”

  “Yes! I’m set, sir.” After all it was what I had planned, he thought, To be the first passenger in an electric taxicab in the Big Apple.

  The taxicab suddenly and noiselessly pulled away from the curb and drove down the cobblestone street with hardly a bump or a sound thanks to the pneumatic tires on the wheels and the lack of horse’s hooves meeting cobblestone.

  Morris drove down to First Avenue, made a right and drove at a steady clip of nine miles an hour.

  Everyone who he passed or passed him gawked at his horseless hansom and the crazy passenger who allowed himself to be transported in such a dangerous vehicle. Morris easily maneuvered his half-as-large electric hansom between and around the standard horse-drawn hansom.

  Seemingly unmoved by the cab ride, Bill was actually recording the entire trip with his cell phone camera set on video. He cupped the phone in his hands. Wait until the guys see this, he thought as he pictured John Brand and Rocko Perna, two time-traveling friends from the club, watching it over a few beers.

  On 17th Street a large wagon took up most of the wide street and as it was loaded with crates, it was also slow. Morris swung around the wagon and as he got in front of it, another hansom cab appeared on their right. The sudden appearance of the noiseless hansom spooked the horse and as the driver pulled tightly on the reins, his horse reared, making the wagon’s wheel slip into a section of missing cobblestones and with a loud crack, the wooden wheel folded under the carriage. Morris stopped his cab in front of the disabled hansom and both he and Bill ran back to the other cab.

  “Are you well, sir?” Morris called to the driver still holding the rein as the horse settled down.

  “I-I do believe so, sir. But, pray tell, what is it that you are driving? Where is your horse?”

  Before Morris could answer, the door of the disabled cab opened and a slim, middle-aged man, half climbed and half stepped awkwardly out of the cab as he tried to straighten the jacket of his three-piece charcoal gray suit and place his bowler on his head.

  “Sir,” asked Bill as he took his arm, “are you fit?”

  “Yes. Yes I am. Thank you for your support for I did hit my head.” He removed his bowler style hat, pushed out the indentation on it and rubbed his head as his brown, droopy mustache wiggled back and forth. He stepped uneasily back to his cab, reached in and retrieved a leather writing tablet.

  “Sir,” said the driver of the horse drawn cab as he addressed Morris about his hansom, “I for one look about as I guide my hansom about town but I also listen for the sound of horse drawn carriages. If what you drive is to be the future of taxi service, then I fear that there will be many accidents because of the loss of the sense of hearing.”

  Bill grinned as found himself agreeing with him as the very same fight was going on right now in his own time. People not hearing the sounds of an automobile engine as they step off the curb have made Detroit think of putting some sort of sound in their very quiet electric cars.

  Morris was shaking his head in agreement as well. “Sir, I will send for some of my workers to retrieve your hansom and fix the wheel.” He opened his wallet and passed the man some money, “Please take this and I shall take your passenger to his destination.”

  Doing a quick calculation, Bill thought with a grin, Not if it’s over twenty-three miles.

  The driver took the offered money and shrugged his shoulders as he addressed his passenger, “Sir, another hansom may be along at any moment should you wish to stay out of that contraption.”

  The man grinned. “Sir, before you, stands a reporter for the fine newspaper, the New York Sun and it is my duty to sniff out a story whenever and wherever it may appear and I do believe that fate has stepped in and presented this story to me.” He turned to Morris and said, “If your offer still stands, sir, I shall gladly sit next to this fine gentleman and enjoy this new form of taxi cab.”

  Morris offered his hand and said, “Henry Morris, sir, at your service.”

  “I am Francis Pharcellus Church and as I said, I sense a story.”

  Morris pointed towards his cab, “I’m sure my passenger wouldn’t object to your riding along,” he said as he turned to Bill.

  “Not at all,” the time traveler said, “There’s plenty of room, and I’m Bill Scott”, he added as he offered his hand.

  “And I am Francis Pharcellus Church, however Francis will do.” He gripped Bill’s hand and both men hopped in and the reporter’s face lit up as the hansom took off without any noise whatsoever.

  “Lord! This is like one of those mythical flying carpets!

  Bill grinned at the analogy.

  The two men chatted and frequently the reporter rapped on the ceiling’s sliding door to ask Morris a question and then jot the answer down in his small notebook.

  The hansom went all over the city as Morris was determined to try every type of street and road with his vehicle. He even slipped silently into Central Park and tested the hill climbing ability of the electric cab . . . it was excellent and, Bill thought, It will prove itself to be outstanding in deep snow.

  Finally Morris opened the top and told his passengers, “Gentlemen. I’m afraid to say that I must drop you off as my indicators tell me that the batteries are running low and I must return to the charging station of my garage. Shall I drop you off at 520 East Ninth Street”

  Bill looked at the reporter and asked as he took out his pocket watch, “Eleven forty. Tell me, Francis, do reporters have a beer with their lunch?”

  The slim man’s mustache went up at its ends as a smile crossed his face, “Indeed we do, sir! Indeed we do!”

  “Then,” he said as he addressed Morris through the still open sliding ceiling, “would you change that address to 97 East 11th Street?”

  The man grinned and said as he turned his machine down a side street, “That would be Paddy Diamond’s Bar & Grill. Correct?”

  “Absolutely correct. My favorite watering hole,” answered a surprised Bill to the driver. “Would you be my guest for lunch, Morris?”

  “Bill, as much as I would love to, I fear that I must
finish my tour to better understand what my drivers will be going through.”

  “I understand. Another time perhaps?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He pulled over to the curb and climbed down as the two passengers opened the clamshell doors and stepped out. Bill handed him the agreed price and they all shook hands as Morris said, “Mister Church, I look forward to your article.”

  “I hope it makes this Sunday’s paper, my friend.”

  They all shook hands and Bill and Francis watched as the electric cab rolled away with a group of young boys running along side of it.

  Bill turned and felt at home as he gazed on the bar that he visited in every year since it had opened in 1860. As the bar was passed down in the Diamond’s family, he was careful to never come in when there was a young Paddy tending bar and his father was around. It would be too awkward trying to explain how he drank with the father and now the son without visibly aging.

  He held the door for Francis and followed him in. Bill grinned as he saw the very same bar that he hung out in, in the 21st Century. He took one of the two backless stools at the end of the forty-foot long wooden bar and Francis took the other. Patty Diamond Jr. was behind the bar and spotted him immediately. He pulled a tall cold beer and in a few steps the big bartender placed it in front of Bill as he said while offering his hand, “Bill Scott! How’ve ya been?”

  “Great Paddy,” he answered as they shook hands. Bill turned to Francis and introduced the two men to each other.

  “What’s your drink, Francis?” asked Paddy as he automatically wiped the dry bar in front of them.

  “A beer will be fine, Paddy. It’s a hot one today.”

  Bill watched as his six-foot plus, white haired friend walked down to the center of the bar and pulled a beer for Francis. Wow, thought Bill, he looks exactly like his father and his son will look like him as will his son’s son. Guess that’s why I feel so at home in here no matter what the year is.

  “What is that aroma, Paddy?” he asked as the barman put the mug down in front of the reporter.