The Lincoln Hunters

by Wilson Tucker

  Evelyn entered on this tableau.

  She held a substitute watch in one hand and the sleeve of Bobby Bloch’s coat in the other. Bloch was uncomfortably occupying the coat. The man appeared distraught and very red of face.

  “Ready, Mr. Whittle,” Evelyn said smartly.

  Whittle smiled tremulously.

  Benjamin Steward glowered at the furiously blushing Bloch and turned on Evelyn.

  “Where did you find it?” he demanded.

  “In the men’s room of the lounge. Mr. Bloch had fallen asleep.”

  Her forthright answer sent new waves of blood washing through Bloch’s thin cheeks. He did not utter a word.

  The shoot began a few minutes later.

  Karl Dobbs climbed into the missile and lay down, his hands and feet in readiness. The engineers attached the terminal cables and raised the protective barrier about the dais. Whittle made with his silly little hand wave. Dobbs ignored that by closing his eyes. A switch was thrown and the projectile vanished from the chamber.

  They waited.

  Benjamin Steward paced the floor, marking the time necessary for Dobbs to untangle himself from the roots, climb the bank and scan the surrounding prairie. He knew Dobbs would be in no hurry; that cautious Character would take all the time he wanted to be absolutely certain, for Steward’s life in the next few minutes would depend upon his observation and judgment. Dobbs would not send the signal until he was satisfied the projectile had reached the target date, the correct date. He would make sure the prairie was empty of that earlier Steward who had overshot the day.

  They continued to wait.

  The chronograph key sparked into sudden life.

  Bird on the wing, fish in the creek, it snapped, come on in, dad.

  And a moment later the missile reappeared on the dais, awaiting the next passenger. The barrier dropped. Steward stepped forward and as he moved, trepidation picked at the network of nerves about his stomach.

  “Follow me, Bloch—and then Bonner.” Over his shoulder he called to the engineers, “My congratulations, gentlemen. Nothing succeeds like success.”

  He wriggled into the bullet and pulled down the key. The door was closed and locked. Steward curled his fingers about the handrails and then turned his head to look through the glass ports.

  Sam Wendy’s widow waited across the chamber, calmly watching him, as she had done on scores of previous shoots. Her keen, Oriental eyes gave him no message.

  Steward’s gaze lingered on her face for long, somber seconds and then he closed his lids and found himself locked in with his own thoughts.

  Sam Wendy’s ghost settled down in the machine with him, but this time there was an added weight.

  Benjamin Steward rode backward seven hundred years into history, dreading the misfortune he knew was coming.

  8

  DESTINATION

  A LIGHT RAIN had ended less than an hour ago, and now the clouds were breaking to reveal patches of sky. It was the same pleasant Illinois sky, the same brilliant sun of 1856, and the same undulating prairie of his earlier visit, now wet and freshly green under a new day. Steward hopped out of the projectile and breathed deeply. The old familiar taste of sweet clean air welcomed his arrival. This day seemed warmer, despite the recent rain.

  He was back again, crowding a menacing deadline he had never before encountered.

  Karl Dobbs was standing erect on the creekbank, surveying the new world. “You like this place?”

  “I thought I did.”

  “There’s no smoke in the trees yonder.”

  “We’re much too late for breakfast,” Steward said. He consulted his new watch. “When did you make it?”

  “Nine fifty-seven. And I’m not going to let you forget they gave us a nineteen-hour maximum tolerance.”

  “It is now ten-aught-one.”

  “The same,” Dobbs nodded. “Close the door and send that bottle back.”

  “It can wait. I want to talk to you.”

  Dobbs turned about and stared down at the man beside the waiting machine. He said solemnly, “I expected as much. When you said we were in for trouble, you meant trouble. All right, son, I’m listening. What else did you do, besides insulting Lovejoy?”

  “That’s the rub, Karl. I don’t know who did it—or will do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Lose his recording wire in the Hall.”

  “Jehoshaphat!” Dobbs was shocked. “Tell me.”

  “I checked the hail for particulars—you know the routine. A janitor was sweeping out the trash, shoveling it out of the window into the alley below. He also shoveled out a length of our wire-fifty feet or more. No spool, no recorder, just unwound wire.”

  “He didn’t notice it?”

  “He must have noticed it, but it didn’t mean anything to him because he threw it away.”

  “You left it in the alley?”

  “I didn’t dare bring it back with me!”

  “Hell and high water, Stew. A run-in with Lovejoy, and now a lost recording.”

  “Yes. Well, now you know.”

  “Now I know. Send that contraption back. Let me work on this.”

  Steward closed the door and watched the little time-traveling projectile vanish. The engineers would be waiting impatiently for it. He climbed the bank to stand beside his second in command.

  “You can get yourself into the dangdest messes!”

  Steward waved his hand over the prairie. “It’s just like tomorrow, only wetter,” he observed. “There’ll be some cattle grazing over there; a dog barking in the timber, and, of course, smoke from the cooking fire. All quiet, all peaceful.”

  “Pleasantly rustic,” Dobbs agreed, “but I prefer the cities. The old cities, of about this same period. London and Paris, specifically. Each was squalid and handsome in equal measure; squalid living conditions for the poor, handsome women and handsome music for all. And there was a very witty man named Disraeli. A genius.”

  A faint whispering was audible behind them as the time-tracking projectile made its third appearance on the scene. The whispering was followed by a grunt and then a violent thrashing as Bloch became entangled in the roots.

  “Doomsday is near,” he cried hollowly; “die all, die merrily.”

  “Haul your tail up here, sleeping beauty.”

  “Protest, I protest!” Bloch retorted. He got to his feet and eyed the now-slippery mudbank. “The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she has invaded man’s last domain. A most ignoble awakening.”

  “Lucky for you—Whittle was ready to bounce you. The unexpressive she saved your skin. Hey . . .!” Steward called down, “go back and close the door.”

  Grimacing, Bloch re-entered the jungle of roots to obey. He snapped the door shut and the missile melted beneath his fingers.

  “Company, villainous company, has been the spoil of me,” he complained, and negotiated the climb to stand beside them on the grassy prairie.

  Presently, Bonner joined them. This time the bullet remained in its bed, shimmering in concealment.

  “Hey!” he cried with quick delight, “look at that empty sky. No aircraft, no towering monstrosities. And the greensward—just like grandmother used to romp on.” He wiped his muddy feet on the greensward. “You picked a prize, Stew.”

  “Yes, didn’t he?” Dobbs muttered.

  “Where is Mr. Lincoln?” Bloch demanded. “I espy the lonely standpipe.”

  “Where,” asked Bonner, “is the standpipe? I will espy the lonely Lincoln later.”

  Bloch fixed him with a disapproving eye. “How oft when men are at the point of death, have they been merry!”

  Bonner grinned at the skinny actor. “Dad, you’re a sad-looking Romeo. Why, I’ll bet you played in Second Shakespearean stock!”

  “Oh, knock it off,” Steward interrupted them. “And watch what you say from now on. These people know nothing about a Second Shakespeare-he’s five hundred years in the future.”

  The Character scanned t
he surrounding prairie with a professional interest. There were a few head of grazing horses between them and the town, but the animals’ restricted movements suggested they were hobbled. He did not see the herd of cattle which would be present at tomorrow’s sunrise. West of the town, columns of smoke drifted lazily above a cluster of buildings; and another moving column was approaching from the north to join the others.

  “Railway trains,” he pointed out to the crew. “The main building is the depot and those others are the workshops. The trains are bringing in hundreds of convention delegates and sightseers from all over the state. If anyone should ask, we’re from Chicago. That’s the largest city to the north. We arrived on one of those trains.”

  He glanced down to make a final inspection of the bullet’s resting place. The only signs of their coming were the muddy, elongated footprints on the creekbank.

  “Fix this location in your minds—you may have to come back here separately, and if you forget it, you’re done for.”

  “Yes, wicked master.”

  “You’re repeating yourself, Bobby.” Steward again read his pocket watch. “Check this: ten-aught-nine. Don’t compensate if the local time varies by a few minutes; keep the difference in your head. You know the routine.” And he thought to add a final warning: “Dobbs arrived at nine fifty-seven. Our nineteen-hour tolerance limit began at that moment.”

  “Hadn’t we better check the recorders?”

  “Yes. Do it now.”

  Steward watched their hands dip into coat pockets to release the switches on the tiny mechanisms, and he wondered which of them would be coming back with an empty pocket—or at the very least, which one would bring back a recorder lacking a spool of wire? The crew members did not adjust their positions for the test, relying on the sensitive microphones concealed in their shirt collars to pick up any sound.

  Dobbs nodded their readiness.

  “I will borrow a page from Mr. Bloch’s beloved Shakespeare—the Original,” Steward enunciated clearly. “To wit, and as follows: Time travels in divers places with divers persons. I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who it stands still withal.”

  Doc Bonner was sorrowfully shaking his head.

  “A slight correction, my dear sir. That last should read, and who he stands still withal. If you will take my solemn advice, don’t consider the stage as a career. You are something less than terrific.”

  “I bow to the superior judgment of Character Bonner, and to the horrified expression of Character Bloch. I will not compete with them in the theater. Okay, play it back.”

  One by one they replayed the minute lengths of wire and listened carefully to Steward’s self-conscious words. The machines had performed their tasks faithfully, repeatedly underscoring his inability as an actor or a public speaker.

  “I guess that’s why I failed in life,” Steward confessed when they were done.

  “Don’t forget to erase,” Dobbs warned them.

  “I’m going to record the entire evening, start to finish,” Steward continued. “Save your wire for Lincoln. Owen Lovejoy will be your cue. Lovejoy comes on and whips everybody into a froth—Lincoln follows him to the platform. I don’t know how long the man will talk. When Lincoln finishes, the crowd goes wild. Get out then, if you can manage it. If not, there’s another speech. A fat man called Judge Somebody follows Lincoln and calms the crowd. It breaks up after that.”

  “Fixed,” Dobbs said.

  “Dobbs, wangle a seat in the front row if you can. I’ll try to be there, too. Bonner will stay near the door.” He pointed an admonishing finger. “And Bonner, if anything goes wrong, fly to save the bacon. Forget about us and get that speech back here to the machine. Jump for the chamber—you know the emergency routine.”

  “Aye,” Bonner nodded.

  “Bloch will circulate through the hall; lean on the wall if you wish, that place will be jammed and you’ll have to fight for space. Now, this is important: the escape hatch is a small doorway behind the speaker’s platform. If trouble starts, use it. Make sure you have your recorder and the wire, and use it. Rendezvous at the Last Chance saloon.”

  “But don’t wait too long,” Dobbs added cautiously.

  “Correct. Use your own judgment if anyone fails to show. Leave your mark on the hitching rail so we’ll know you’ve been there. But do not, for any reason, stay later than midnight. Jump for home, with or without us.”

  “Ah, we’ll be home in bed by midnight.”

  “We should be. The speechmaking is supposed to be over by seven, this evening.”

  Bloch cleared his throat. “In the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon.”

  “That one missed fire,” Bonner commented. “Learn to be more selective.”

  “I am not in the role of common men.”

  “That is precisely the trouble.”

  Steward said, “Stuff it, pardners. Let’s hit the trail.” And he struck off at a fast walk, with Dobbs at his side. The remaining pair tagged along behind, halfheartedly protesting the pace.

  The town was seething.

  They reached the water tower and turned into the road which shortly formed itself into a street. Steward flicked a casual finger at the saloon which was to be their rendezvous. A few horses were tied at the rail and the place was obviously busy. The street became more crowded as they moved toward the center of town; even the side streets contributed to the throng.

  The downtown thoroughfares were congested with excited, loud-talking men and not a few women. Numerous running children and a sprinkling of glum, impassive Indians were in evidence. The dirt streets were hard and compact; it had not rained long enough to whip them into mud. Teams and their vehicles contributed to the assembly, unable to move at more than a turtle’s tread. Sweating drivers frequently climbed down from the wagons to lead the horses through dense masses of people.

  The noisy mobs surged to and fro along each downtown street, seemingly going nowhere—but determinedly going, nevertheless. Collectively, they were possessed of the notion that to remain still was to stagnate; they would miss the elusive excitement. Movement and disorder, motion and sound were the decrees of the day. People milled about the hotel lobbies, jostled their ways into and out of saloons, haunted the newspaper bulletin boards, swarmed about the railway depot and continuously circled the courthouse square, all searching for something or nothing.

  A deafening din hung over the town like weighted dust. Anticipatory elation was rife.

  “These Republicans-to-be take their conventions seriously,” Dobbs commented. He moved nimbly aside to avoid a passel of roistering delegates.

  “Watch them tonight-thousands of them will be jammed around the courthouse square. The Governor is making the wind-up speech. He talks for three hours.”

  Dobbs glanced at him. “My briefing was obviously more brief than yours.”

  Steward grinned. “I read newspapers.”

  “We should avoid that mob.”

  “We will. Take a route around the courthouse.” And then he motioned at the corner of an intersecting street. “Down this way. The Hall is on the next corner.”

  Bloch had stopped and was staring in the opposite direction.

  “Ah,” he cried happily, “I espy the theater. A genuine, primitive theater.”

  “Be careful, you fool!” Dobbs said warningly.

  “I espy a genuine, pretentious theater.”

  “That makes two of them, at least,” Steward said. “The Hall doubles in brass—there’s a girl-show coming in tomorrow night.”

  “A pity we cannot stay.”

  “Waste of time,” Bonner retorted dryly. “Girlshows are all the same, year in, year out.”

  “But the faces are new and different.”

  “And only the faces,” Bonner conceded. “Everything else is a carbon copy. The same routines, the same dances, the same skits and the same jokes. Compare this one to the show you saw last
week, or last year.”

  “Jaded sachem!”

  “Maybe—but I know what I’m talking about.”

  “This way,” Steward interposed politely, “if you gentlemen have finished discussing culture.”

  He led them the length of the block and paused at a wide doorway.

  “Upstairs,” he cautioned, “and watch your tongues. We’re highboys from Chicago—we’re willing to go Republican but we want to be convinced. We want to see the wheels go around, and listen to them rumble.”

  They climbed the stairway to the third floor.

  Two workmen were decorating the auditorium with flags and bunting. Steward shot a quick glance around and was relieved to find the custodian absent. The workmen only gave them curious glances.

  They studied the hall in silence, and after a while Dobbs muttered a low, soft, “Fixed.”

  “Alley door?” Steward asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Lectern?”

  “Yes.”

  “Find a spot about four feet this side of the lectern and fifteen inches downstage. Near that hammer.”

  “Got it.”

  “Our man will be standing on that spot.”

  “Fixed.”

  “Good enough. Let’s take in the town.”

  Like casual tourists, they gaped a moment longer and filed out of the hail.

  “I wish to inspect the theater,” Bloch announced when they had reached the street. His eager gaze turned that way with anticipation.

  “Why?” Bonner wanted to know.

  “To read the playbill.”

  Steward waved his hand. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  Bloch winced.

  “He means, lay on, Macduff,” Bonner pacified the actor, and then turned his attention to the crew leader. “For shame, sir. I trust your collection of bright and pithy sayings is not equally as inaccurate.”

  “I’m a mite rusty,” Steward admitted.

  Bonner snorted. “A mite, he says.”

  Struggling against both the pedestrian and vehicular traffic, against noisy, charging children and occasional drunken revelers, the field crew worked their slow way back to the main street and crossed it to continue westward toward the theater.