Time Travel Adventures of The 1800 Club
BOOK 1
Robert P. McAuley
Copyright 2014 by Robert P. McAuley
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The Premise
The Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club is a 21 st Century haven for people seeking to escape New York City’s frantic pace. Dressed in clothes their ancestors might have worn during the 1800s, members enjoy foods of the period and read periodicals featuring news of a particular date in the 1800s. However, the 1800 Club also has an astounding secret . . . Time Travel. Members travel back in time nudging famous persons and key events just enough to ensure history unfolds, as it should. Guardians-of-the-past, living in the future, send robotic probes back through the ages, discovered that, at critical time-junctures, pivotal figures stray from vital tasks and actions. These Time Watchers of the past can’t go back and fix the glitch in the timeline because the atmosphere they breathe has been cleaned up over the years and the air of the past is almost unbreathable for them. Then an 1800 Club member from the 2000s are sent back to guarantee that events get back on track. The 1800 Club’s members aid Lincoln, Roosevelt, Bat Masterson, Mark Twain and many others. Without subtle interventions by these unknown agents, the famous might have been only footnotes, rather than giants of history.
Dear reader, I once read a time travel book where the main character went back over one hundred years in the past to retrieve an object from a house. He entered the house, picked up the object and brought it back to his time. To me it was upsetting that he took us back in time and never once said anything about the house! Never described anything! He might as well have just gone back to a park where things never change. That is why I try to bring the reader along with me as I travel through time. RPM
Books 2 through 12 are also available.
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club: Book 1
The Abraham Lincoln Mission
A flash of lightning illuminated the newspaper folded next to a steaming cup of tea on the antique mahogany coffee table. The November 10, 1862 headline screamed in bold type - LINCOLN FIRES GENERAL MCCELLAN, WAR DRAGS ON! A slim finger slowly followed the smaller print beneath it.
Yesterday, November 9, 1862, it was announced, to the satisfaction of this newspaper and many others, that Major General George Brinton McClellan was dismissed as Commander of the Union Army. This newspaper wishes to applaud President Lincoln for finally taking such matters to task. It was after the Battle of Antietam, that he was ordered to turn over his command to his good friend, Ambrose E. Burnside, and go home to New Jersey to await further orders. We of Harper’s Weekly wish much success to General Burnside.
Prescott Stevens, president of the 1800 Club, raised the wick of an oil lamp he was reading by and picked up the TV remote next to his tea. He aimed and clicked it at the big-screen TV opposite him, and rubbed his eyes as he went to the Weather Channel’s 7: 00 PM broadcast. After finishing the mid-west coverage, the young woman said, “ . . . and in the New York, New Jersey, and in some areas of Connecticut, rain, accompanied by thunderstorms continue for the second straight day. It promises to let up early tomorrow.”
Turning the set off, he stood and stretched to his full height of five-feet seven-inches and rubbed his plump stomach. He faced the full-length mirror and buttoned the vest of his three-piece, brown suit then tightened a dark brown silk cravat around his starched collar, and pushed the pearl stickpin through and into the shirtfront. Stevens patted his short brown and gray beard and pulled and twisted the almost-full handlebar mustache until he was fairly satisfied. He pressed a button next to the large mahogany desk and was answered immediately by his butler and right-hand person, Matt.
“Yes, sir?”
“Matt, has the weather deterred many of our dinner guests?”
“No, sir. All guests have faxed or e-mailed their acceptances.”
Prescott nodded and asked, “So, we can expect Mister William Scott to attend then?”
“Yes, sir. Mister Scott e-mailed this afternoon that he’d be attending this evening.”
“Thank you, Matt. Oh, and Matt, I’ve just finished proofing the newspaper and it may be distributed for this evening’s dinner.”
Matt answered “Very well, sir.”
Prescott signed off and sat back down in the large, soft leather easy chair once again.
Less than one hour later a taxi splashed a torrent of water at Bill Scott, who nimbly jumped out of the way only to step into a rain-filled pothole. Shaking what water he could off his shoe he looked across the street at the six-story, brownstone Townhouse as he shivered. I’m going to get soaked by the time I get there.
Lightning flashed as he ducked under an awning across from his destination at 520 East Ninth Street in New York City.
“Almost there,” he said, getting a look from an elderly woman who brushed past to enter the building behind him. “Pardon me, ma’am.” She harrumphed and shook water off her umbrella; making up for what the taxi had missed.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm. Seeing a break in the traffic, Bill pulled his overcoat tight and ran between parked cars across the wet street and almost collided with the doorman at 520.
“Evening Mister Scott. Wet one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Jim, but it could be worse . . . could be snow,” Bill answered thinking: A standard answer for a rainy November evening.”
The doorman held the door open and Bill entered. He went downstairs, sliding his hand along the well-polished, curved mahogany banister, and then walked on the dark brown wall-to-wall carpet. An oversized ornate wooden door with a large brass handle faced him. His cold fingers fumbled for the old-fashioned key each club member used for entry. This is one of the many things I love about the club: No electronic entry card, no worry about a power failure, a plain and simple old-fashioned and reliable key. This is the way it should be.
He inserted his key, and the door swung open noiselessly. He went in and heard a low hissing sound. Gaslight, he thought. No neon or incandescent lighting making harsh shadows. Just gaslight with its soft yellow flickering glow that makes a person feel safe. Bill’s theory as to why people felt safe around the controlled, dancing gaslight flame was that it had been ingrained in the culture since early mankind discovered that fire kept the danger away. But whatever the reason, it did make him feel more relaxed.
Standing at the end of the hallway was a short, slim
man with thinning, reddish-brown hair parted down the middle. Dressed in dark pants, jacket and shoes, a red vest over a white, heavily starched shirt with a dark bow tie at his neck told Bill that he was one of the club’s butlers. However, unknown to Bill was the fact that Matt came from a long line of butlers who ran some of the largest homes in England over the years and as the job description of ‘Butler’ was out of date in Europe, it was he who made the 1800 Club tick.
Bill acknowledged him, “Good evening, Matt.”
“Good evening, Mr. Scott. May I help you change, sir?”
“No thanks, Matt, but if you could put my coat and shoes somewhere to dry, that’d be great.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll attend to that straightaway. I understand that you will be staying for dinner.”
Bill nodded. “Yes, I am. Do you know what’s on the menu tonight?”
“Roast goose, sir, with baked potatoes, glazed carrots, gravy and beets.”
Bill smiled, “I’m drooling already. Tell me, is Stan Walker here this evening?”
Matt’s eyebrows arched over his blue eyes as he quickly went over the guest list before nodding yes and Bill cringed as he thought, Oh well, maybe I can avoid him.
He entered a small walk-in closet that had his name etched in a silver nameplate on the door and sat on an upholstered bench to remove his wet shoes and socks. From the rack he selected a brown, wool three-piece suit, white shirt with a stiff collar, and a brown cravat. He added a mother-of-pearl stickpin and sat to button his brown, high-topped shoes. A final look in the full-length door mirror revealed a six-foot, two-inch dark-haired man from the mid-eighteen hundreds looking back at him. He opened the door and handed out his damp shoes, socks and overcoat to Matt and after thanking him for his service, Bill walked down the mahogany-paneled hallway to another door and pressed a button. A humming sound announced the arriving elevator. The door opened, and a young man in a dark brown uniform topped off with a flat cap greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Scott.”
“Evening, Drew. Nice size crowd tonight?”
“Not bad, sir. Especially for a rainy evening.”
“Good, good.”
The door opened on the main floor, and Bill stepped out. He heard the mumble of indistinct voices as he headed to the spacious room filled with other club members. He saw a stack of newspapers on a small, mahogany table just outside the doorway and picked one up and looked at it.
I love it! No e-mail here, he thought as he folded the newspaper, no Charlene Greene either. Then again, no Charlene Greene out there anymore, either, except of course when I go to work. Boy, I really have to change jobs. He winced, Got to stop thinking about her . . . got to, but four years is a long time to hear her suddenly say, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then asking if I could get a different apartment. He shook his head; she seems to have forgotten that she moved in with me four years ago!
He stood straight and looked in a long mirror. “It’s a new life,” he said to his reflection. “Each day is a new day and I’m going to have fun doing things I’ve always wanted to do.” He smiled at himself- “Like coming to my club and indulging in my favorite pastime; pretending that I’m back in the mid-eighteen hundreds.”
He entered the room and noticed the cigar smoke that clung close to the ceiling. A waiter approached him with glasses of white and red wine. “Wine, sir?”
“Thanks,” Bill said, lifting a glass of the red.
He walked over to a window covered by heavy, red, floor-to-ceiling drapes, which were always kept closed. No sense in making believe that we are back in the mid-eighteen hundreds if we see the present-day New York skyline. He put down his wineglass and picked up a cigar from one of the silver trays strategically placed around the room and lit it. He blew a large, round oval of smoke and watched it join the haze close to the ceiling.
“Bravo! I tell you, Bill, we should have a smoke-ring contest. I do believe you are the only person who can get close to matching my orbs.”
Bill smiled at Philip Corouso, a heavyset, gray-bearded man in his mid-fifties. “Well, Philip,” he retorted, “I do believe that you take lessons from those smoke-belching cannons of your artillery unit.”
The big man laughed and the medals on the breast of his blue uniform tinkled against each other. The crossed-cannons on his collar denoted that he was a colonel in the Union Army’s artillery unit. “You also have the fastest retort in the club.”
Bill nodded graciously.
The colonel continued, “I’m serious. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak out of ‘club time.’”
“It’s easy for me not to drift out of it, sir, as I’ve always been happy in ‘club time.’ And I do believe we are walking a fine line even acknowledging the term ‘club time.’ Agree?”
“Yep! Right you are,” answered the colonel taking a long pull on his cigar.
“I do not wish to be another Stan Walker,” Bill said looking around. “I understand he’s attending tonight’s dinner.”
Philip nodded as he exhaled. “Yes. He’s still a member. But . . . the word is he’s on probation, and nobody will talk to him. Nobody wants to take a chance and slip up if he starts speaking of . . . of . . . err . . . speaking of other things.”
Bill winked. “Right.”
Phil took a final swig of his drink. “Got to excuse me, Bill. Have to use the facilities, and it’s hell with these buttons.” He grinned and walked off.
Bill looked around the room at the other members, but he was content to lean against the windowsill and enjoy his cigar, sip his wine and glance at the Harper’s Weekly headlines; LINCOLN FIRES GENERAL MCCLELLAN, WAR DRAGS ON!
It’s easy, he thought, for me to stay in ‘club time’ because I’m happy in ‘club time.’
He had long felt that the 1860s must have been a wonderful period, except for the war. But it seemed as though there was a war almost every twenty or thirty years and it came with the territory.
Bill glanced up to see a thin man approaching him. Darn! It’s Stan Walker.
Too late to escape, Bill smiled and started a conversation along the correct lines.
“Evening, Mister Walker. It seems as though Mister Lincoln fired another general. Pretty soon we’ll have no one left to lead our boys to victory. What say you of this latest turn of events, sir?”
Walker fidgeted with his cravat, obviously uneasy with it. “Uh . . . yes . . . I . . . err . . . I haven’t seen tonight’s paper. He fired McClennon you say?”
“McClellan, Mr. Walker, not McClennon. General George McClellan. They say he was inept. Kept letting the Johnny Rebs slip away.”
“Oh McClellan. Yes, I remember now. He lost a few battles, didn’t he?”
“More than a few, sir.”
“So, Mister Scott. How do you think the war will turn out?”
“Hard to tell, Mr. Walker. We northerners have the railroads and that’s a big thing in our favor.”
“Yes, and if I remember my history correctly, the rails are what won the war for-“
Bill abruptly turned to leave as he shook his head. “Mr. Walker, I do not mean to be rude, but you speak as though you know the end result of this turmoil, and we both know that’s not possible. Am I correct, sir?”
Walker knew he had slipped up . . . again. He had spoken out of ‘club time.’ He looked around to see if he had been overheard.
Bill leaned closer and said softly, “Walker, for your own good and mine, I’m ending this conversation. I truly enjoy this club. No hassle, no hustle and bustle. It’s my few hours each week that I can escape reality. Some people drink to escape, this club is my refuge, and you keep breaking its only rule by speaking out of ‘club time.’”
Walker looked embarrassed. “I . . . I try. I just slip up now and then.”
“Maybe you’re not as at ease as the others, Mr. Walker. You wouldn’t be the first person to quit.”
“No, no, I really like the club. It’s just that I seem to forget and –“
A waiter approached Walker and said, “Mr. Walker, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the President’s office?”
Walker looked lost. “The President’s office? Why would he want to see me?”
Walker was escorted away. Bill shook his head, sank into one of the overstuffed, leather chair and started to read again as thunder rumbled in the background.
“Dinner is served,” Matt announced.
Bill checked his pocket watch and noted to himself, “Eight sharp.”
He followed the small group into the club’s lavish dining room. Looking around, he saw that Stan Walker was missing. Then Bill noticed that club president, Prescott Stevens’ seat at the head of the table was empty.
As he chose a chair next to Miss Alexander, a thirtyish blonde with an oversized bustle, she turned and said, “Hello, Mr. Scott. Terrible weather, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is, Miss Alexander.”
“Please, call me Jane.”
Bill nodded. “And call me Bill,” thinking; Charlene never understood my love of this period. Too bad she couldn’t be more like Jane . . . oh well.
She inclined her head, and then turned her attention to Phil Corouso across the table.
“Colonel, please enlighten us as to the reason our great President fired General McClellan?”
The colonel furrowed his brow and, sensing that he had just become the center of the table’s conversation, pushed back his chair and pronounced, “Well, ma’am, General McClellan was in way over his head, so to speak. He sat still so long that General Lee just built up his resources and struck first. He forced the President’s hand.”
“Tell me, sir, what would you have done in the general’s position?” came a question from Andrew Giddons, an “old money” member whose fortune came from the railroads.
The colonel shifted his chair to face Giddons. “I’d have attacked two months ago. The weather was perfect, and he had plenty of manpower and supplies available to him.”
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