by Mark J Rose
“How’d you know about me?”
“I’ve developed my abilities.”
“You saw me in a vision?”
“No,” Ferguson replied firmly, but then he seemed to regret his answer. “Dr. Franklin’s efforts to market your tablets made me curious about their inventor. Imagine my surprise to learn this inventor was one of most prosperous men in Virginia and a member of its House of Burgesses. We share similar aspirations, you and I.”
“I’ve as much as I need,” Matt said, hoping not to sound arrogant. He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. It had been his most noted lapse in frugality as a young man. He’d once spent an entire signing bonus on that watch and a new car. He sometimes guessed at what had become of the car. He hoped his dad had sold it. He no longer obsessed about having enough money, though. Grace took full charge of the business after learning accounting under Robert and Graine Martin, and Matt only half-listened when she gave him financial summaries. He was proud of the numbers—mostly because she was—but the care that consumed him now was protecting the future of his wife and children.
Ferguson’s voice pulled Matt from his thoughts. “I allow that my wife has a greater concern with our financial status than I. I wish to command.”
“I didn’t have a chance to meet your wife,” Matt said. “I hear she is from a distinguished family.”
“Our wives married down, perhaps?” Ferguson’s grin was warm. “Celia has been patient in our attempt to be accepted by the nobility.”
Matt shrugged.
Ferguson fixed on Matt’s face, waved his hand casually and shook his head. “Modern Americans like to act like they have little concept of birthright. They bow instead to their celebrities, their wealthy. There is nothing worse than a lie we choose to accept. . . and live by.”
Matt shrugged. “Gotta love the media.”
“People want leaders from an elite lineage,” Ferguson explained. “Even your John Adams will want to refer to the president of the United States as Your Majesty. A little-known fact about your government is that some years after it’s formed, a considerable contingent will lobby to replace the president with a monarch from one of the European royal families. Even Americans don’t believe that the vulgar man is qualified to lead.”
Matt gave Ferguson a knowing smile. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “I don’t have a college textbook on American history.”
Ferguson answered with a face that was a combination of satisfaction and amusement.
“What about you?” Matt asked. “Do you have the pedigree to lead?”
“Mine was a renowned family that was bombed out of existence during the second world war. My father was orphaned and never recovered.”
“You’ve done much, then, to reestablish the Fergusons’ prominence.” Matt gestured at the richly decorated office.
“My father died a broken man trying to regain all that had been destroyed. Would it not have been better to deter such suffering altogether?”
Matt found himself leaning back, shaking his head, and clenching the arms of his chair. Catching himself, he raised his head and looked directly into Ferguson’s eyes. “The devil’s in the details.”
“I’d like your help in changing the course of history,” Ferguson announced.
Matt looked back at Ferguson with a blank face, waiting for more of an explanation. Ferguson took it as either disinterest or disagreement.
“You’d risk your farm and family in a revolution?”
“I’m hardly in a position to stand in your way,” Matt replied.
“Why did you come across the sea?”
“Franklin asked me to join him.”
Ferguson frowned. “I’d like to believe that we are incumbent men.”
“Why did you take the textbooks?”
“They’ve contributed little to my success.”
“Yet you’ve never returned them.”
“They made cupcakes,” Patrick replied. “They were doing quite well when I left. How are they?”
“Successful.”
“What shall happen to the Morris women when British soldiers occupy Philadelphia?”
“And you’d prevent that?”
“The American Revolution will waste financial and human capital. The damage done to the British Empire and the world will not be realized for another hundred and fifty years. It’s our moral duty to prevent it.”
“You can trace every fucked-up thing that’s ever happened in the world back to someone’s concept of moral duty,” Matt said. “There’s going to be a cost if you try to change history.”
Ferguson did not attempt to hide his pained and disappointed expression.
“We can debate whether you have the right to change the future,” Matt continued, “but I’m certain you don’t have the ability.” He smiled mildly.
“Almost eighty million people are going to die in two world wars because the Americans and the Brits can’t get their act together,” Ferguson explained. “This city will be decimated in the Blitz. Thirty thousand people will die. . . right here.”
“You think you can avoid two world wars?”
Ferguson gave Matt a knowing smile. “You wouldn’t have come all this way if you didn’t believe I had some capability. Franklin knows?”
“I do believe you could make a mess of things. And yes, Franklin knows.”
“You’ve been perfectly happy to enrich yourself.”
Matt waved him off with a casual sweep of his fingers. “I sleep fine.”
Ferguson looked sternly back. “My children have been treated with a new vaccine for smallpox. It comes from cows. William Jenner was not supposed to publish these discoveries until the end of this century, yet there they are.” Ferguson scrutinized Matt to gauge his reaction. “You sell a medicine to treat wounded soldiers. Is it an antibiotic? Are you not worried that your cures may save the next Joseph Stalin or Pol Pot?”
“The antibiotic is penicillin or at least some form of it,” Matt replied. “And yes, I’m behind the publication of the smallpox cure. I’m glad your family has been vaccinated.”
After witnessing a smallpox outbreak in Philadelphia, Matt had convinced Franklin to publish a home remedy in every major newspaper in the colonies. The remedy consisted of substituting cowpox for smallpox during variolation, which was a crude eighteenth-century form of vaccination. It had taken a few years to break down skepticism, but now the procedure was widely available. Farmers were propagating cowpox in their animals, collecting the pustules that resulted, drying them, and selling them to local doctors.
Cowpox was a mild variant of the smallpox virus passed from cows to humans. It produced few facial pustules and was rarely fatal. The immunity of milkmaids to smallpox had been part of local lore for some time, though no one recognized the connection to cowpox. The expressions “pretty as a milkmaid” and “milky smooth” skin spoke to the fact that milkmaids were unscarred by smallpox because their exposure to cowpox had made them immune. Now, due to Matt’s intervention, almost anyone could be immune.
Fine! Ferguson had it right. If Matt was indeed worried about changing the future, he wasn’t acting like it.
Chapter 31
Western Man
An hour later, Ferguson had not gotten to anything that resembled a proposal. Matt’s head was swimming, and he didn’t want his concept of possible futures to interfere with Ferguson’s explanation of his plan.
“Cut to it,” Matt finally said. “What do you want?”
“If you’re not going to help, at least stand aside,” Ferguson said. “I’ve initiated a ten-year plan to strengthen the British Empire. England is the world’s best hope. No one will challenge western civilization for a thousand years.”
“No one could challenge western civilization in our time,” Matt said.
“Call it God, call it karma, call it whatever you want,” Ferguson said. “We’ve been sent back to the eighteenth century for a reason. I believe it is to abate human suffering.�
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“Strengthening the British Empire will abate suffering?” It came out of Matt’s mouth more cynical than he intended.
“British Common Law created the most successful countries the world has ever seen. Wouldn’t you like to be the one responsible for ending slavery in the United States a century early?”
“We’d be messing with things we can’t control.”
“I feel fortunate that I was never given a chance to return to my old time. I can make a difference. Here. Now.”
“Say that in theory, I agree. Say that I’m even willing to help you. What’s your plan?”
Ferguson looked hard at Matt with a silence that was longer than was comfortable. His first expression was one of doubt, then it went to quiet contemplation, and ultimately, a kind of “what-the-hell, why-not” acceptance.
Ferguson pulled some pages from the leather portfolio on his desk and pushed them across to Matt. He spent the next half hour systematically listing the details of his plan.
Chapter 32
Brothers in Arms
After their conversation was finished in Ferguson’s office, Matt followed Ferguson across the second floor of Ferguson Manor. The noise of the crowd became louder as they neared the staircase. Ferguson motioned for Matt to stop and then continued to the edge of the balcony. There was no longer any light streaming through the windows, so the illumination came from eight massive oil chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The chandeliers rode on pulleys bolted to the roof and could be raised or lowered from the ground floor using chains. Matt inspected the lamps and the assemblies as he stood on the second floor, thinking that the chains must be strong to support the massive lamps, especially when they were full with oil at the beginning of the evening.
Ferguson signaled to the attendant who had been watching the stair. The attendant walked to the opposite side of the second-floor rail while putting on a pair of white gloves, and stood at a chest-size copper-plated bell. He picked up a padded mallet, swung it three times, and the tones echoed through the hall. He waited to let the sound take its effect on the crowd. Voices were still loud, so he took three additional swings. This time, the floor went silent. The attendant looked at Ferguson and Ferguson signaled that he could step away.
Now that the man was no longer near the bell, the crowd collectively turned their heads to Ferguson. An oil chandelier gradually lowered to where Ferguson was standing and bathed him in brilliant light. The other chandeliers were beginning to descend from the ceiling. Ferguson’s black velvet mask and red-trimmed cape shimmered brightly in the lamplight. “Welcome!” he shouted to the crowd as he raised his arms. “Welcome to the Masquerade!” He scanned the crowd below the steps and then walked about ten paces along the rail to look out over the Great Hall. He put his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes from the light of the lanterns. “Are you all having fun?” he shouted.
“Yes!” was the reply and then a roaring applause. “Capital, capital!” Ferguson shouted back. He waited for them to settle. “We’ve done many experiments since the last party. Do you want to see an electricity shew?” The chandeliers were now almost at floor level with the effect that their light was concentrated in seven different areas to highlight the people that stood below. More applause answered the sight of the lowered lamps, and people stepped back to let them touch the ground.
Ferguson remained quiet until the seven chandeliers were resting on the floor. Six lit the Great Hall, and the seventh was in the entry at the base of the stairs that led to the second-floor balcony. Servants now surrounded the brightly glowing oil lamps in all seven locations. Ferguson pointed at the base of the staircase, and they extinguished the lamps instantly. The steps went completely dark.
Now all eyes were on the Great Hall, which was still bright from the six chandeliers resting on its marble floor. Ferguson waved to the farthest end, and those two chandeliers went dark. He motioned to the middle of the room, and the light from two more vanished. A woman in the audience cried out.
“Do not fear, madam,” Ferguson shouted. “The dusk still proceeds the dawn.” He waved again, and the light from the nearest lamps was gone. Only the cluster closest to Ferguson remained. The attendant who had rung the bell began diming the lanterns one by one until Ferguson faded from view. Now, the manor was completely dark. Another woman cried out in fear and then came the shout of a man. Ferguson waited until the crowd went still, and then began to speak. “And so it was, when the earth was created, God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” Electric bulbs, high on poles, illuminated from the same places where the chandeliers had been burning. They went dark abruptly, and Ferguson said, “And God said that the light should be divided from the dark.” A group of bulbs in the farthest corner lit, and then the next, until all the bulbs around the perimeter where shining. Then they extinguished in the same order until the room was dark again.
The crowd stood hushed, waiting for the next light. A horn sounded, and the bulbs in the farthest corner flashed on, and then off. Another horn sounded, this time in a different tone and the opposite corner flashed. This repeated across the Great Hall with the sounding of trumpets and corresponding flashes jumping from place to place. The pitch of the tones increased as the lighting began to move in a counterclockwise pattern. Matt snickered at how similar it all was to Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
Abruptly, the lighting reversed, now moving clockwise and the speed of the sounding horns increased to match the racing lights. It went dark, and the Great Hall filled with another applause. They stood in black until the clapping finished. Gradually, the sculpture of Hercules in the center of the hall began to illuminate. First, his legs were visible, slowly to his midsection, then his chest, and finally his arms and the two long metal swords that he held high above his head. There was buzzing, and then a mechanical sound like an electric train engine. A spark snapped from one of Hercules’ hands to the other. There was another snap and a full electric arc formed between the two swords.
The arch snapped and disappeared, and another formed to take its place. This next crackled further up the sword. It, too, snapped and was gone. The arcs repeated maybe twenty times, each one traveling further than the last, before disappearing. The crowd shouted in awe with every small thunderbolt. Men now stood around the oil chandeliers to light the lamps. The perimeter of the room was taking on the warm hue of burning oil as they raised again.
The final snap of electricity coincided with the chandeliers reaching their apex. Clapping, whistling and cheering filled the room, and Ferguson bowed three times to the crowd. When the applause was finished, he shouted. “Should we have a display of swords?”
People barked, “Yes!” and there was clapping and cheering.
Ferguson waited for it to become quiet. “Usually I ask for a volunteer from the crowd for the demonstration,” he said, “but tonight, we have an occasional guest, Mr. Matthew Miller from Virginia. He’s a man of parts who most recently helped fight pirates on the Atlantic Ocean.”
Ferguson motioned for Matt to come forward, and Matt walked carefully to join him, wondering what Ferguson had in mind and how he knew about the pirates.
“Mr. Miller,” Ferguson shouted into the crowd. “Do you agree to be a partner in a display of swords?” Matt looked out to the masses, still not knowing what he was volunteering for. There was applause as Ferguson put his arm on Matt’s shoulder and waved. Ferguson leaned into Matt. “Agree, please,” he said. “There’s no mortal threat to your person.”
Matt faced the crowd and shouted, “I agree!”
As the crowd applauded, Ferguson took the moment to lean back into Matt. “I cannot guarantee your pride, although.”
Matt waved his acceptance to the people below, and he and Ferguson made their way down the stairs. Servants were already scrambling around the long banquet tables. In a flurry, they transferred all the food to other tables at the perimeter of the Great Hall and pulled the tablecloths to reveal a wooden platform that was
the length and width of three boxing rings stacked end to end. There were steps on each side.
New servants moved through the crowd with a velvet-topped cart. Shimmering weapons covered its surface.
Chapter 33
Freight Train
Matt was relieved to see that there were only swords and daggers along with some fighting cloaks on the velvet-topped cart. Ferguson had an odd eccentricity about him, so Matt humorously feared that the table might contain shields, spiked balls on chains, or Thor hammers. Ferguson guided Matt through the crowd to select the weapons. Franklin was standing a couple of rows away from the platform. The older American gave Matt a disappointed headshake when their eyes met. Matt put his hands up in a “what can I do?” gesture.
When they were at the velvet-covered cart, Ferguson put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “One or two,” he said. The swords were all practice rapiers, so the normally sharp sides and tips were rounded. This also was a relief. Matt practiced with real swords, but it wasn’t something you did with a man you only just met and mostly didn’t trust. “They are the finest blades from Spain,” Ferguson said to Matt. “I insist on them, even in practice.”
Matt was already eyeing a rapier with an elaborate handguard. He hefted it. The handle was comfortable, and it was well balanced. Matt studied Ferguson’s face hoping the need for two weapons became apparent. The practice daggers were like short swords rather than knives. Fighting with two weapons was not Matt’s preference, but he decided he could always drop the dagger, so he grabbed one and put his two blades aside.
“Excellent choice,” Ferguson said loud enough for the crowd to hear. “He’s chosen a sword of Spanish steel and a short blade from the finest swordsmith in London. Mr. Miller must know a thing or two about blades.” Matt waited, then, for Ferguson to select his weapons, hoping he wasn’t going to pick two daggers. The last thing Matt wanted was to have to fend off some kind of crazy Kung Fu fighting style, but Ferguson also selected a dagger and a rapier.