Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club, BOOK I Page 6

recruits.”

  “Without the club members knowing it.” Bill added.

  “Yes, of course. I mean, I couldn’t really advertise that I was looking for time travelers, could I? Would you have joined the 1800 Club reading that advertisement?”

  Bill shook his head and said, “No, guess not.”

  “That’s why I set up the club.”

  “To start your own farm team.”

  “Farm team? I don’t follow you.”

  Bill explained, “Baseball talk for training up-and-coming possibilities for their team.”

  “Oh, I see. Well then, yes. The group did set up this club to attract certain types of people. People who could operate in the time that needed attention. People who could blend in and complete the mission.”

  “And you are the person who selects that person. Correct?”

  “Correct. I am that person. And, correct again, sir, I believe that you could travel around in that period and be accepted as one of them. Therefore Bill, I shall allow you to do just that. But after I buy you lunch at my favorite restaurant in 1863. Agree?”

  Bill smiled broadly. “Agree!”

  The clock struck once again and Prescott shook his head and laughed. “However, not this evening. It’s way past my bedtime. Tomorrow, say, 11 am?”

  “You’re on! Where?”

  “Come to the club and change. Matt will bring you to me and I suggest you wear walking shoes. Till then, Bill, pleasant dreams.”

  The two men shook hands and Bill left the club, tired yet completely awake.

  For Bill, the next morning took a long time to arrive. Finally, dressed in the clothes of a gentleman of the mid-1800s, he stood with Matt as he knocked on the big wooden door. Prescott opened it and said, “Good morning, Bill.” He gestured him into the room as Matt left and closed the door behind him. They shook hands.

  “Good morning Prescott.”

  “Are you ready for a leisurely lunch?”

  “I ate hardly anything all morning,” Bill said. “I still can’t believe it.”

  Prescott unlocked the door and went through, as Bill followed close behind.

  DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: The 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK

  They entered the garden and went out through the iron-gated entrance in the wall. Prescott locked it behind them and tucked the key inside his starched shirt. He smiled at Bill and said, “Shall we dine, sir?”

  “A wonderful idea, Prescott. Which place do you prefer?”

  “The Botterhouse Restaurant over on Worth Street,” came the answer. “Bit of a walk but worth the trip. Up to it?”

  “Lead on, Prescott, lead on.”

  They walked downtown and Bill was agog at seeing sights he had only dreamed of or had seen only in black-and-white, grainy photos. That’s when it hit him; everything was in color! Living color! He was used to looking at black and white photographs of the era and here it was in every day color! He was surprised at the variety of colors they wore. Bright yellows and reds replaced the flat dark colors that appeared in the old photos.

  Prescott was right. The people were real, as real as anyone Bill had ever encountered. But the air was even more horrible than he thought it would be. Horse waste was giving off a scent that individuals were fighting with overpowering perfumed scents of their own. It’s a battle they’re losing, Bill thought as he covered his nose with his handkerchief as though he had a cold. Birds sat on trees overhanging the streets and added to the waste.

  The noise of the city was also different. No automobiles or bus engine noise, no horns or underground train noises. He could hear horses braying and the clopping of their hooves on cobblestones. But this noise was all on a smaller scale than he was used to hearing. He found he could hear the people as they chatted amongst themselves without having to shout over the noise of a busy street of his time.

  Still, Bill was part of it. He was one of them. People walked past him with parcels under their arms. He was happily surprised to note that they were not staring at him. He truly was one of them . . . and he loved it! He noticed that they all did the same thing when crossing the street - look left and right then down to step around and over the horse waste. It was everywhere, as were the thousands of flies it brought. Still, he loved every minute of it!

  All the while, Prescott was giving a running commentary as they worked their way toward the restaurant. They turned right on Worth Street, leaving Broadway behind. The old buildings that Bill remembered were now new. Many had long, high sets of stone steps and banisters going up to second floor doors. Too bad they would be torn down, he thought, to make way for the wider streets of the future. He took note that even though the weather was warm, the city was powered by coal burning furnaces and the soot they gave off was horrendous. The black smoke, which belched from the chimneys, darkened the buildings’ facades and tended to mix with the already foul air.

  Prescott started to cross the street, but stepped quickly out of the way of a horse team pulling a wagon loaded with kegs of beer. When it had passed, he and Bill headed across to the open door of the Botterhouse Restaurant. The sidewalk menu boasted the freshest leg of mutton in New York City. On entering, a rotund man in a red vest greeted them.

  “Good day, Mr. Stevens. Have you been out of town? Haven’t seen too much of you lately.”

  “Yes, Timmy, I’ve been visiting my sister over in New Jersey. How’s business?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Just got some of your favorite liver in yesterday. Got it before Linden’s Restaurant even knew it was available. Interested?”

  Prescott patted his ample stomach. “Now, that sounds like a great lunch. My friend and I would like to sit by the window, if possible. He’s from New Jersey and doesn’t get to see much of our town.”

  Timmy ushered them around full tables to a window seat facing Worth Street. The windows all had their awnings down, trying, in vain, to keep the sun’s heat out of the restaurant. He gave them menus and then went to attend to other customers.

  Bill focused on the specials written on the chalkboard and said, “Leg of lamb, roasted potatoes, cabbage and carrots smothered in a thick brown gravy. Chicken soup and a special Botterhouse greens dish with their own secret dressing . . . no burger and fries, I take it?”

  Prescott smiled. “Not yet. But, the liver and onions is done with true love here, and I haven’t had any in over three weeks. It’s also not as heavy as the lamb dish.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll have that, too,” Bill said.

  “And a beer?”

  “Sure, that’d be perfect.”

  After the meal, Prescott sat back and offered Bill a cigar. “No law against smoking in restaurants yet, Bill. Have one?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” They both lit up, as Timmy reappeared.

  “So, gentlemen, how was your lunch? Satisfactory, I hope.”

  Prescott once again patted his stomach, “My Lord, Tim, you have outdone yourself. I don’t think I’ll be having anything to eat for . . . for . . . well, at least until this evening.”

  Timmy and Bill laughed at the man making fun of himself. Prescott paid the cashier and left a tip for Timmy who quickly pocketed it as they went out into the bright sunny day.

  “Prescott, that was magnificent! Can we stroll for a bit?”

  “A bit is about all I can do, Bill. I have a game knee that keeps me sitting a lot.”

  Their attention was taken by the sound of a marching band. Coming up the street toward them was a military band followed by a group of men in civilian clothes being marched by a grizzled old sergeant as best he could. Running alongside the column were excited children.

  Prescott frowned as they passed. “Poor sods,” he said. “Marching blithely off to victory and glory. Of course, getting maimed or killed is not on the recruiting posters. And to think that more Americans will be killed in this war than in any other future war.”

  Bill looked at him. “Talking out of ‘club time,’ Prescott. That could get you kick
ed out, you know.”

  Prescott laughed and slapped Bill’s back. “Ha! Right you are my friend, right you are. Must remember where, or rather, what period I’m in.” Then, becoming serious, he said, “It’s just the knowledge of knowing there’s nothing we can do to undo the bad parts that we know are coming.” He shook his head. “Frustrating!”

  Bill nodded in agreement.

  A rumble of thunder threatened their walk, and Bill reluctantly offered to end it prematurely. Prescott agreed and they turned back.

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

  Back in the club sipping a brandy, Bill stared into his drink and said, “Amazing. Breakfast in 2011, lunch and a stroll in 1863 and brandy back in 2011. Amazing.”

  Smiling, Prescott queried, “Are you ready to take the trip, Bill?”

  “Absolutely! When?”

  “November nineteenth.”

  “Two weeks away.

  “No, I mean November nineteenth their time. You can go whenever you are ready. I can avail you of our very extensive library. It also contains the complete speech by Lincoln at Gettysburg.”

  “I do need to go over that. What do you do to get me to the time needed? Sort of dial it up?” Bill asked.

  Prescott explained, “A good analogy. I have a TFM, short for Time Frequency Modulator. With it, I can dial up any time I wish, back until 1820. That’s when this building was built. We can go back earlier, but we’d have to operate outside of this building. The TFM has been entrusted to me by the Time Watchers of the future.”

  “I would love to take a look at