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

  “Don’t be a wise-butt . . .” Bill answered. “I was going to pass this on to you as sort of an heirloom.”

  Edmund nodded as he tried to breathe and laugh at the same time. “Don’t make me laugh, Grandpa, it hurts to breathe this foul air,” he said jokingly.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Edmund?”

  The young man from the future shook his head no. “Thanks anyway. And before I pass out from your heavy air, let me give you this.” He handed Bill a small, square silver box. “Put it on the coffee table and depress the top button. It’s a hologram of New Orleans and a message from Joseph Sergi, the council member whose case this is.”

  Bill did as he was told and was soon listening to Sergi’s message.

  “Greetings, Mr. Scott. I’ve been asked by the council to once again give you their thanks on the Hindenburg mission. We read the debrief and understand all that Mr. Brand went through. He did an outstanding job. Now, this mission is another bit of a puzzle to us.”

  Bill noticed that Edmund sat back with his eyes closed.

  The message continued, “As you will see, New Orleans was devastated by a wall of water that breeched their levee system. We lost many great people of history. Not to diminish the many others who died, but there are many who will not do what history assigned them to do, and that would be unbearable. The U.S. as a whole will be hurt for an incalculable time because of the loss of the seaports and oil that came from that area. Stories will never be written, sick people will never be cured, works of art will never be created and it will continue even past my time if this is not rectified.”

  The message paused as if for effect, then continued. “We think a problem with the steamboat Natchez’s boilers caused the explosion, but we still can’t understand why the explosion was so large. We think it would be best to send back an engineer; however, we leave it up to you to choose the best person for the mission. If you need anything, Mr. Scott, just let us know. We all thank you in advance.” The hologram went clear.

  Bill was still looking at the empty spot where he saw New Orleans disappear in a great flood. He turned and looked at his future grandson and said, “This could be a toughie, Edmund. I have to give it some thought. Got to pick the right person. I’m not an engineer so I’ll go through the club members’ resumes tonight.”

  Edmund looked tired as he sat looking back at Bill.

  Bill stood up. “Come on, Ed, I’m getting you back home where you can breathe.” He took the young man’s arm and helped him out of the chair.

  Edmund said in a whisper, “Do you understand the mission?”

  Bill nodded as he opened the door. “Yep. Now go home and take a deep breath. I’m on the case, so relax.” He gave his future grandson a hug. “Take that back with you, sonny,” he said with a smile. He closed the door and went to his study.

  There was another tap at his door, but this time it was the door to his apartment. He opened it and there stood Matt, his butler, with a cup of hot chocolate. He was also in his robe and although his hair was messed, he still had his upright bearing.

  “I heard the other door open and I thought you might need this, sir.”

  Bill took the mug and smiled. “Matt, you are the best. Thanks. Now go back to bed.”

  Matt bowed slightly from the waist and said, “Very well sir,” as he went back down the hall.

  Bill went through the resumes of the club members. He looked for an engineer, especially an engineer who worked on marine engines. No one in the club fit that category so he started looking at members’ hobbies.

  After two hours he found a fit. Thomas “Whitey” Madden, he thought, as he highlighted the name in bold type on his laptop. He read on. Born: 1970 in Brooklyn, New York; Profession: New York City Police Detective; Single and lives alone; Hair color: Blond; Height and weight; 5 feet 11 inches, 185 pounds.

  Bill remembered talking to Madden a few weeks ago. He was dressed in an 1865 New York City policeman’s uniform, the same type his great-great-grandfather had worn when he was a policeman stationed in Brooklyn. Tom Madden had a handlebar mustache that gave his handsome face a rugged look. It was also perfect for a person in the 1800s. It seemed that Madden had worked on a steam-driven locomotive when he was in the U.S. Army. The Army somehow had assigned him to drive the old train that circled Fort Knox. They taught him not only how to drive it but also to keep it running, and according to his own notes, he had to know every inch of the steam engine.

  Bill felt he had his man, now all he had to do was convince Thomas Madden that he was that man. Scott looked up the next day’s club reservation list and saw Madden’s name on it.

  Good, he thought, hopefully by this time tomorrow I’ll be able to let the people uptime know the mission has started. Now I have to get some sleep. He went back to bed.

  The next evening, Bill was dressed for dinner and was just checking his pocket watch as Matt tapped on his door.

  “Dinner will be served in five minutes, sir,” he said through the closed door.

  “Is Madden here, Matt?” Bill asked as he logged off his computer.

  “Yes sir, he is,” Matt answered.

  “Good,” Bill said as he stepped in front of the tall mirror and looked at his attire. He wore a dark brown jacket over a highly starched white shirt that sported a brown cravat at the neck. His pressed tan slacks draped easily over the high-buttoned brown shoes. He straightened the cravat and satisfied opened the door and they walked down the hall to the stairs that would take them into the den next to the dining room.

  The room was full, Bill noticed. He smiled to himself remembering when he was just a typical member before past president Prescot Stevens brought him into the world of time travel. As he looked around he knew the members were playacting as their favorite characters in a by-gone time: the 1800s.

  As usual the Border brothers were dressed in tuxedos as though they were going out to a stage play after dinner. One had a white silk scarf draped over his shoulders and the other, a black silk scarf. Their conversation revolved around which was the more acceptable for eveningwear.

  Josie Finnell was talking to Stan Videl. Stan wore a pinstriped three-piece suit and his white shirt set off his rugged tan. When he walked into the room women always gathered to him. Bill smiled as Josie dropped her dainty white handkerchief and Stan retrieved it. Kerby Cottonwood, a new member, stood in a corner watching the members chat. He was dressed as an American Indian scout. Bill remembered reading how his great-great-grandfather had been a scout at one time for General Custer.

  This, Bill thought as he looked around, was what the club was all about. Leave your present-day identity at the door and become whoever you secretly always wanted to be.

  Colonel Philip Corouso was dressed in his usual U.S. Army dress-blue uniform with crossed cannons on his lapel. Bill noticed that he had a new ribbon on his tunic. He was talking to Tom Cradel, a New York stockbroker, about his dissatisfaction with the way the War Between the States was being run.

  Bill mingled with the crowd as he looked for Thomas Madden. Matt caught his eye and tilted his head toward a small knot of people. In the center, telling a story, was Thomas Madden.

  Dressed as an 1865 policeman, he was telling a story that in all probability was true and had happened to his great-grandfather and had been passed down through the family. He was animated as he related, “ . . . so there we were, all of the four o’clock shift waiting to be relieved at midnight. Now, we had a few drinks in us and were standing on the docks in Red Hook, Brooklyn as a full moon illuminated some empty beer bottles we had set up on the pilings. We were shooting our pistols at the bottles, and not with much success I might add, when our relief showed up. Well, not to be outdone, they joined us in shooting at the bottles. Soon we had pretty much the entire precinct shooting at empty beer bottles in the Hook. To make a long story short, the whole precinct was out of bullets and the 12 to 8 shift was on duty with empty guns.” The crowd was laughing as Madden mimicked a man looking
at his empty pistol.

  Matt announced that dinner was being served and Bill took the opportunity to walk next to Madden.

  “Mr. Madden,” he said, “you certainly can hold a crowd spellbound.”

  “I learned a long time ago that if you keep a crowd listening to you, then they won’t have time to get rowdy,” he said, winking at Bill. “It’s an old police trick that’s been around for years but not mastered by many, President Scott.”

  “Better to use one’s head rather than one’s pistol. Eh, Mr. Madden?”

  “Well said, Mr. President, well said,” answered Madden as they headed towards the table.

  “Will you sit at my right this evening, Mr. Madden?” asked Bill.

  Thomas Madden gave a big Irish smile as he said, “Why, Mr. President, I’d be honored.”

  “Believe me the honor is all mine, sir,” said Bill. “The club is only as good as its members. Besides, I’m intrigued by police stories. Especially if I hear them firsthand and don’t have to read them in the Police Gazette.”

  They chatted through dinner and when it was over the diners retired to the club’s den for brandy and cigars. Bill steered Madden to a balcony. The evening air was cool and a refreshing change to the club that didn’t have air conditioning. Such technology would have been out of character for the 1800s.

  “Beautiful evening, isn’t it, Mr. Madden,” asked Bill through a cloud of smoke.

  The other man nodded and raised his glass. “Mr. President,” he said, “to The 1800 Club. You can’t imagine how refreshing it is to come here after doing a tour in the city.”

  Bill nodded. “Oh but I can,” he said. “Before I became club president I was working eight to ten hours a day. Then Prescot Stevens, our previous club president, handed the presidency over to me, and now I work twenty-four hours a day.”

  Madden broke up at that, and they clinked glasses. Bill took a sip of his brandy and looked at Madden as he also took a sip. At a little under six feet he came close to Bill’s height. Thomas Madden was a well-built man who carried his 185 pounds well. They put their drinks down on the concrete railing that wrapped around the balcony and Bill said, “Mr. Madden, if you aren’t in a great hurry this evening, I’d like to show you parts of the club that are generally off-limits to members.”

  “Why?” asked Madden. “Please excuse me for being so direct, but as a policeman when I’m offered something that others are not, I have to wonder why.”

  Bill took another pull on his cigar and smiled. “I understand, Mr. Madden. But think of this as the next step in being an 1800 Club member.”

  Madden was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Other Club members been ‘upgraded,’ too, so to speak?”

  “Yes,” Bill said. “A few others have been let in on other parts of the club’s operations. And, as you can guess, they have been asked to keep it a secret.”

  “Well,” said Madden, “that would answer why I haven’t heard of this before.” He smiled at his host and said, “Boy, I’d be damned happy to see more of the club. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Later, the grandfather clock struck ten, and a few people started drifting out of the den and saying good night to other members. By eleven o’clock all the guests had changed back into their 2011 clothes and left for home. Matt started cleaning up as Bill walked toward the staircase that went up to his apartment.

  “Come this way, Mr. Madden,” Bill said. They went up the stairs and into the apartment.

  Madden looked around. He saw the desk Bill used for his laptop. “Wow! That’s a beauty!” he exclaimed. Then he saw the overstuffed chairs and an 1860s coffee table. “President Scott, you have some beautiful period pieces. They are fantastic.”

  Bill smiled as he motioned to the chair. “Please sit down.”

  “Sit?” Madden said. “Sit in that chair? But it’s priceless.”

  “I insist,” said Bill. “They were made for comfort, so be comfortable.”

  Madden sat down easily and smiled with pleasure. “Boy,” he said. “They really made them for comfort.” He patted the arm. “Feels like it was made yesterday.”

  Matt entered with a tray carrying brandy and glasses. He put it down on the table and left. Bill poured two drinks and offered one to Madden. Madden picked it up and Bill said, “Mr. Madden, may I call you Thomas?”

  “My friends call me Tom. Tom or Whitey, whichever you prefer.”

  Bill raised his glass, “As you said, Tom, here’s to The 1800 Club.” They each took a drink and Bill continued, “Please, call me Bill.”

  Tom nodded, “Bill it is.” He looked around. “This is a great apartment. It really gives the feeling of being in the 1800s.”

  Bill nodded. “It does. It’s one of the perks of the job, but it’s also one of the ways I keep in character almost twenty-four seven.” He paused. “I guess that as a policeman you get to see pretty much everything. Not too many things surprise you, I imagine.”

  Tom nodded. “Yep! Some of it not so nice. That’s one of the reasons I love this club. It’s like going back to a time when things were easygoing and less hectic.”

  Bill smiled knowingly. “Oh I think they have their hectic moments.” He put his drink down and sat forward. “As a policeman, I imagine you have to see things to believe them. I mean, you want to see evidence before you make a judgment. Am I right?”

  Tom shrugged his broad shoulders. “I guess so. In my business people try to hide facts from me and I have to see beyond what they offer me as a story. So, yes, I have to seek hard evidence before I can make a judgment.”

  “Then if you look around my apartment, all the evidence says you’re sitting in an office in 1865. Correct?”

  “Not when I see your laptop.”

  Bill smiled and held up his hand. “Got me there. So if it were out of sight, would you believe you were back in the 1800s?”

  “Sure,” Tom said, “but my mind keeps it real. It says that I’m still in 2011. It says there’s no such thing as going back in time to the 1800s.”

  Bill nodded. “You joined the club because it gives you the chance to do some playacting. A chance to make believe that you are back in the 1800s. Correct?”

  “I guess so,” Tom said. “I’ve always liked to read about that time, so I guess that’s a big reason I joined.” He leaned back in the easy chair and began to reminisce. “My grandfather was a cop and he used to tell me about his grandfather who was a cop, too. “He came over from Ireland and started a tradition of Maddens being on the force. He was stationed in Brooklyn in 1864 till 1882. He left a daily diary and it kind of got me interested in that period. It was tough on him as an immigrant, and I have to hand it to him for sticking it out.”

  He looked over at Bill. “Hey, it might sound crazy, but every now and then I go past his old precinct in Brooklyn and picture him there. You know, like him going out on a tour, or coming back from one.”

  Bill nodded. “Wouldn’t it be great to be able to go back and see him?”

  Tom smiled and nodded in agreement. “Boy, that would be the best.”

  “You couldn’t let him know who you are, of course,” Bill said.

  Tom looked at him in puzzlement. “You mean if I could go back. Right?”

  “Of course, that’s what I mean. What else could I mean? But as you said you are a policeman. You can listen to whatever I tell you and not make a judgment. You would just demand that I produce evidence before you make a judgment. Correct?”

  “Yes,” Tom said thoughtfully. “Why? Is this part of the next step in being a club member?”

  “Sort of. If I know that you would not refute what I say until you can prove me wrong, then it’s part of the next step. Can I tell you something without you saying it’s impossible until I show you the proof?”

  Tom did a slow nod. “Yes, I can keep it professional. What is it?”

  Bill pointed to the large mahogany door with ornate brass hinges and lock. “Tom, if we went through that door I can take you back
to 1864. I can take you to see your great-great-grandfather go out on a tour from that Brooklyn precinct.”

  He watched as Tom digested that information and before he could say anything Bill went on, ”And I have proof. Shall I show you?”

  “Um, so is this part of the club’s magic? Take one member at a time, sit them here and tell them they really are a door away from being back in the time period that they’d love to visit?”

  “Don’t speculate,” Bill said with a smile. “It’ll lead you to making a judgment before you have seen the evidence. Remember your training as a policeman.”

  Tom opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “Right you are, right you are.” He clasped his hands shut and sat back. “Okay, you can take me back to the 1800s and you have proof right behind that door. I’m all for it. Let’s go.” He stood as though to call Bill’s bluff.

  Bill smiled as he rose and produced a key from beneath his starched white shirt. “Follow me,” he said as he walked toward the door. “Follow me for the trip of your life.”

  He opened the door and Tom saw the flickering light produced by the hissing gas lamps that lit a brick-walled stairway leading downward. They entered and he felt cool air flow past his cheeks. He half expected Bill to stop at this point and tell him he had passed the test or whatever this was, but they came to another door. This one was made of steel but had the same ornate hinges and hardware of the mahogany one at the top of the stairs.

  Bill turned and smiled as he opened the lock. “Are you ready? Ready for your dream to come true?”

  Tom smiled back as Bill swung open the door and stepped out. He turned and motioned Tom forward, and they stepped out into the garden.

  DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 15, 1864, PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

  Tom looked around and saw the eight-foot-high walls surrounding one of the most beautiful gardens he had ever seen. Birds and butterflies flew and danced among the colorful flowers, shrubs and trees. There was a small pond filled with fish and water plants. At the end of the garden was a wrought iron gate that looked out onto a cobblestone street. He turned to Bill as he realized the sun was high in the sky.