Bill went up the steps and looked out at the audience of reporters. They had their notebooks at the ready. As thunder rumbled overhead, Bill took out the notes he had been given by Prescott. As he looked at them, it suddenly hit him that he would be performing one of the most historic moments in history. What he would say now would help determine the future of the United States of America, and in many ways, the world.
He put the notes back in his pocket. As he began to give the famous speech, Reilly realized that Scott didn’t have to disguise his voice. The tremble in his delivery let the crowd of people know they heard words that would change history. The man speaking them didn’t need to read them as they truly were coming from his heart.
When the speech ended, the silence was profound. Bill took a last look at the stunned audience and slowly walked off the stage. Only then did the crowd go wild. They stood and cheered, and many had tears in their eyes. Bill had just recited the Gettysburg Address the same way Lincoln would have. He felt drained. Grant shook his hand long and hard.
“Mr. President,” the general said with feeling, “the world will learn of your words and join our worthy cause. You, sir, have inflicted a grave wound on the rebel armies.”
Bill nodded his thanks. He turned to Reilly and said, “Mr. Reilly, we have a long journey ahead of us, both as a nation and as travelers back to Washington. I suggest we start while the weather holds.”
Reilly replied in a low voice, “I agree, Mr. President.”
They walked back to the carriage through knots of soldiers standing with their hats in their hands. The ride back was quiet.
Later, a clean-faced Bill sat in his hotel room having a drink with Reilly and Prescott.
Reilly raised his glass. “Hail to the chief. You were masterful, sir. I do feel all believed your performance.”
Bill threw back his drink and poured another. “I shook hands with so many boys who are going to die. I looked into their eyes and saw hope. Hope in me! Me . . . a make believe President. They looked at me as a person who will hopefully bring this war to an end. I feel . . . dirty. As if I’m letting them down.”
Prescott patted him on his shoulder and said, “Don’t berate yourself. This is what it’s all about. Getting a chance to keep history on its correct track. It’s the same history, but with a personal touch now that you’re a part of it. You did a great job Bill and I congratulate you. Shall we go home?”
Bill nodded yes; Reilly finished his drink, stood, and offered his hand. “Gentlemen, thank you for the most wonderful adventure of my life. Will I see you again?”
Prescott shook his hand. “No, we will go back to New York, and then I’m off to New Jersey and retirement.”
“And I’m off to my own times,” Bill said as he shook Reilly’s hand. “But this has been my most fantastic adventure and I thank you both.”
Reilly nodded in agreement.
The next morning, Bill knocked on Prescott’s door. One moment later he opened it, half dressed.
“Good morning, Bill. Am I late?”
“No,” said Bill. “I am taking the liberty of staying another day in Washington. I want to take it all in before I return. Do you mind traveling alone or do you wish to extend your stay also?”
Prescott answered with a soft smile, “No, my friend. It’s time for me to go home. Our job is done here and my sister awaits me. You stay and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”
As the men were parting, Bill looked him in the eyes and said, “Prescott, will I see you again?”
Prescott shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I want to stay in my own time. I want to see my family and maybe do some painting.”
Bill left the hotel and went out into the busy streets of Washington. He was suddenly aware of how relaxed he was. He truly felt a part of the 1800s as he hailed an open carriage and deftly climbed up and took his seat. The driver looked back over his shoulder, “Where to, sir?”
Bill replied with a big grin, “Nowhere in particular. I just want to take a sightseeing tour of the area.”
The man relaxed the reins, lit his clay pipe, and allowed the horse to walk slowly down the street. Bill felt great satisfaction that he had pulled off the job that could have come only from a novel.
But here I am, he thought, back in the time I’ve always dreamed about, looking at buildings being built that are more than one hundred years old in my time.
The carriage turned down the tight streets of Georgetown and along the wider main streets. In the bright daylight, people strolled past quaint row houses and small restaurants along the cobblestone streets. As usual, the smoke poured from most of the chimneys as people prepared food. Bill noticed that the air seemed especially foul today and many people had their noses covered.
The driver said over his shoulder, “Poor luck for us, sir. The wind brings the Potomac’s smell this way today.” Bill remembered the river was polluted at this time.
The carriage casually turned a corner, and he suddenly spotted Reilly sitting in an open-air restaurant having mid-morning coffee.
Bill was about to stop the carriage when he saw that Reilly was not alone. He was with another man. The difference was striking. The man was dressed fashionably with long hair pointed beard and mustache while Reilly wore a nondescript three-piece suit. The man was good-looking and quite animated.
I told him that I wouldn’t be seeing him again, Bill thought as he decided to keep going, but looked back. Reilly’s companion seemed familiar, but he thought, that’s impossible. I can count on one hand the people I’ve met in this time.
The cab turned down another street, and Bill’s attention drifted at the sight of children running beside a marching military band leading more recruits to their barracks.
Washington and History passed by as the cab plodded slowly along.
DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
The next day Bill was back at the club. He sat behind the large desk that once belonged to Prescott, sipped coffee and munched on toast with peanut butter. He was tired from the long Washington to New York trip and looked forward to sleeping that evening in the large Federal-style bed that came with the job. He thought about calling Charlene and telling her about his new job then shrugged it off. It’s over. Forget her. He sat straight up as he realized he hadn’t thought of her in days. He smiled as he finished his coffee. I’ll trot over while she’s at work and grab my stuff. Heck, maybe I’ll even leave her a note.
After breakfast, he took a book on Lincoln from the huge library and with a magnifying glass studied a photograph of the President at Gettysburg as he stood outside an Army tent. Bill chuckled as he remembered how he had tripped over one of the tent-peg ropes. Every soldier around and even a general had rushed to help him.
He returned the book to the shelf and scanned over some of the other titles. He stopped at one, Lincoln: Birth, Life and Death of a Great Statesman. Bill took it over to his desk and began to thumb through the pages. Grainy black-and-white photos illustrated the large coffee-table book. He stopped to look at himself once more outside the tent and smiled again.
As he turned the pages in the section titled, “Death of a President,” a small photo caught his attention. He stared at it and reached for the magnifying glass. It was the man Reilly had had coffee with. Bill’s eyes went wide. The caption read. “John Wilkes Booth shot President A. Lincoln on April 14, 1865.”
He gasped as he thought, John Wilkes Booth! Why was Reilly having coffee with him? Doesn’t he know . . . ? No, wait! Of course, he doesn’t know. I’ve got to go back and tell him. He sat back and continued to stare at the photo. Tell him what? That his friend is going to kill his boss? No, I’ve got to do some more research on both men before I act.
Thirty minutes later Bill sat on the floor, books strewn about. “Prescott, where are you now that I need you?” he muttered. “Man, I have to think about this.” He scrambled to the desk and grabbed a pencil and some paper as he thought, All right, let me make a l
ist of all this.
#1: Lincoln has spells of depression; the top level of his Security Service knows it and covers it up.
#2: Reilly knows John Wilkes Booth, Lincoln’s killer.
#3: Or, Reilly doesn’t know that Booth is a killer.
#4: Is Booth using Reilly to get information about the President so he can kill him?
“Or #5: Reilly knows that Booth is going to kill the President and is in on it.”
Bill’s mind continued to race. Either way I have to handle this carefully. I don’t want to go back and start being seen by Reilly in case he is in on the assassination, so I have to pick the right time to be there.
He looked at the book and read again, John Wilkes Booth shot President A. Lincoln on April 14, 1865. He slammed the book closed. “That’s the time. That’s when I have to be there,” Bill said to himself.
DATELINE: APRIL 14, 1865 PLACE: FORD’S THEATER, WASHINGTON
The evening of April 14, 1865, was warm in Washington. Bill purchased a ticket at Ford’s Theater and went into the lobby where he heard other theatergoers saying excitedly that the President would be there for the evening’s performance. As he went in to find his seat, he looked up to his right saw the empty presidential box draped in the flag of the Union.
Scott’s seat was in the downstairs center, and he looked up again at the presidential box. It was still empty. He continued to familiarize himself with the theater, noting the exits, and spotted a door on his level marked ‘To Balcony.’
Then he heard murmuring from the back of the house. The sound increased as more people turned around and whispered, “The President and Mrs. Lincoln have arrived.”
The audience began to applaud as President and Mrs. Lincoln were seated in their box. One moment later the President stood and graciously bowed.
Bill saw Reilly and a uniformed guard in the open doorway behind the seated Lincolns. Excusing himself, Bill left his seat and headed toward the balcony door. He mentally shook his head at the lack of security when he found it unlocked. The time traveler went quickly and quietly up the poorly lit carpeted stairs. Opening the door onto the balcony, he saw another box next to the one in which the Lincolns sat. Its deep red curtains were half opened, showing it was empty.
He stepped inside and peeked around to see the rear of the presidential box. He saw the guard standing in front of the curtain. Reilly must be inside, he thought. His mind began some quick calculations, and he thought should I confront Reilly? What will I say? What if I somehow screw up history?
Then he heard Reilly addressing the guard. “If you need to have a latrine break, this is the time. Then I’d like you to tell Lieutenant Pearson that I want a few more men up here. I just heard a rumor that there are some bad elements in town tonight.”
Bill heard the soldier walk away briskly and go down the stairs.
It’s time, he thought. I can’t just stand here. I’ve got to confront him.
He stepped out of the box and walked toward the President’s box. Suddenly Reilly was in front of him, pistol drawn, cocked and aimed at Bill’s head.
Reilly blurted out, “You? I had a feeling there was someone in that box, but not you! What are you doing here?”
“Just lower the pistol and we can talk,” Bill said.
“Not on your life. Hands high. Walk over there and turn around,” Reilly said, gesturing toward an out-of-the-way corner.
Bill did as he was told, and Reilly patted him down. “No concealed weapon,” Reilly said, as he kept his pistol on Bill. “Why are you here? I thought your mission was over a couple of years ago?”
“That mission was over. This may not even be a mission. Tell me about John Wilkes Booth,” Scott responded.
Reilly’s eyes narrowed. “How did you find out about him? Were you following me?”
Bill shook his head no, “Just by chance. You met with him in a restaurant the day I was supposed to leave Washington. His face looked familiar. It was. He is the man who killed Abraham Lincoln.”
Reilly was suddenly jubilant. “So, the plan works! The world is done and finished with that self-righteous, depressed, poor excuse of a man.”
Incredulous, Bill said, “But you are Lincoln’s protector! Why do you wish him harm?”
With some eagerness, Reilly began to explain, “I don’t wish him harm. Other factions do. I intend to bring them to justice after the deed is done. I see this as a chance to strengthen the States. When the President is shot, Booth has no way out but past me. I’ll shoot him during his getaway and that shot will be a signal for others to take over Washington for its own protection. After all, the people don’t know how many other criminal elements are in on the act. They’ll believe anything we tell them.”
“But why? I thought you were all for a great democracy. Why turn this into a dictatorship?”
Reilly leaned toward Bill and said fervently, “Because I want the United States of America to be the one and only power on the face of the Earth. I want all other governments to prostrate themselves before us. We shall stop all tyranny in the world and there will be one central seat of power . . . Washington!”
Still trying to make sense of what he was hearing, Bill continued, “How would you do that? I mean England and France would never stand for that. They’ll join forces and invade and defeat you.”
Reilly smiled. “Very simple. The submarine! Thanks to your information, I’ve tracked down Mr. John Holland and asked him of his plans for an undersea craft. He was quite enthusiastic to share them with me. I told him to keep the meeting a secret and that I would see about getting the U.S. Navy to finance it. I have friends in the Navy who are quite willing to back it.”
“But his submarine won’t be ready until 1893, that’s still twenty-eight years away,” Bill replied.
Reilly grinned. “In your time, perhaps. But from what I understand from your mission, history can be changed. And by getting Mr. Holland the funds he needed years earlier, we can shortly have a fleet of undetectable, quiet craft, and, to quote you, ‘the ultimate weapon of war.’”
Bill shook his head and responded, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
“Well said, sir, and now I’m afraid you will have to die as one of the gang of hoodlums.” He cocked the pistol at the same time a muffled shot erupted from behind Bill. The crowd screamed and Reilly smiled again. “Right on time. The President is dead! Good-bye Mr. Scott . . .”
Bill lunged at him the same moment a shot rang out. He grasped Reilly around the waist, only to feel no resistance. Both men fell to the floor, and then Bill’s eyes were even with the security man’s. The bullet hole in Reilly’s forehead puzzled Bill for a moment.
Then he saw someone wearing brown boots step out quickly from a nearby box. Holding a smoking pistol was O’Neil. He looked down at Bill and asked, “Are you hurt, Mr. Scott?”
“N . . . no . . . no, just shook up. Did you hear everything?”
The young security man was already turning away. “Everything. I can’t believe Reilly was a traitor. I must see to the President.”
Three hectic days later Bill and O’Neil were having a drink at a local tavern.
“Mr. Scott, what you tell me is fantastic,” O’Neil said. “Extremely hard to believe, yet all you say comes true.”
Bill nodded in agreement. “True, all right. It’s hard for me, too. I’m new at this. But I’m puzzled. Why were you at the theater?”
“I thought it strange,” O’Neil confided. “The President and Mrs. Lincoln were going to the theater, and Reilly gave me the day off. Not the way he usually did things. But I had already become suspicious. Mr. Reilly seemed to be spending a considerable amount of time with a new group of friends. Many were officers in the military, but others were more doubtful. He met with them at their homes or clandestinely. He had taught me many ways to spot a dangerous fellow, and he started to exhibit the same traits.” O’Neil sipped his drink. “So I started to follow him. He met many times with Mister John Holland, a che
erful fellow and not part of this conspiracy as far as I can tell. One day, by accident, I saw some plans on Reilly’s desk with Mister Holland’s name at the bottom. They were drawings for an ocean-going ship of destruction. I once asked him about Holland, and he became furious. Not really like him at all.”
Bill raised his glass. “I’m glad you did. And because the public has enough grief at this time, you decided to let them think Reilly was shot by Booth?”
O’Neil spread his hands and shrugged. “What good would it have done to expose him? I’ll have the officers quietly removed from their posts and let it all die down. Do you agree with my tactics, Mr. Scott?”
“I do, Mr. O’Neil, I surely do. You’re hitting the ground running as far as I can see.”
“A strange saying, sir, but I take it as a compliment, sir.”
Bill slapped him on his back and said with a smile, “It is. You’ll go far in this business.”
O’Neil shook his head. “No, sir. I’m leaving the security business.”
“Leaving? But why?”
O’Neil leaned back in his chair. “Too much intrigue and too many late nights. I want to enjoy my family. My wife and I have a six-month-old baby girl, and I want to be there with my wife and watch her grow up.”
Bill nodded, “I understand. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Such as?”
“Such as a holiday in New York . . . in my time?”
O’Neil shook his head. “No, thank you anyway, Mr. Scott. But I do believe my wife would not want to see a change in me, and I do not want to tempt myself to see things I should not, as Mr. Reilly did.”
“Wise of you, sir. But will you take a little advice? Purely for the sake of your wife and child?” Bill offered.
“And what would that be, sir?”
“There’s a man looking for advice and financial assistance. His name is James Plimpton.”
[Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club 01.0] Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club: Book I Page 6