[Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club 01.0] Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club: Book I

by Robert McAuley

  His walk took him to City Hall Park where he saw a pristine building in the middle of the small, lush park. Although low compared with the rising buildings of New York City, it looked majestic in the center of the green area. He entered the park stepping on the octagon-shaped pavement stones, which led to City Hall. As he went up the granite steps of the building, he was surprised there was only one policeman pulling guard duty.

  This is one of the reasons I’m drawn to this era, he thought, the easygoing atmosphere it has. The policeman eyed him and tipped his hat. Bill smiled and stopped.

  “Good morning, officer, beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “’Tis indeed, ‘tis indeed. And what might your business be, sir?”

  Bill removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I’m hoping that I might get an interview with Governor Roosevelt.”

  The affable policeman answered, “Not my job to say so, sir. ‘Tis Mr. Sean O’Hara you’d have to be asking. Mister Roosevelt’s assistant, whose office is up the stairs, first door on the right.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Bill responded. “Do you happen to know if the Governor is in today?”

  “Aye, that he is. A very prompt man. Always at his desk by eight o’clock, any day he’s in town.” The policeman smiled and pointed to a group of boys running across the lawn. “Got to do me duty, sir.”

  The policeman headed off toward the boys, and Bill took in New York’s City Hall, the nerve center of the great city. As the time traveler entered the building he noted that the workers were mostly men, all walking at a leisurely pace and carrying paperwork. The doors and windows were all open to the fresh air and sunlight.

  No air-conditioning yet, he thought . . . This is for real, not a picture in some schoolbook.

  At the top of the marble stairs was the office of Sean O’Hara, Assistant to the Governor of New York, as it stated on the door’s glass window.

  Bill knocked just as a heavyset man in glasses opened the door to leave the room. It was Roosevelt. Bill looked at the future president and was momentarily speechless.

  Roosevelt smiled and said, “Come in, come in. I’m just leaving.” He turned and spoke over his shoulder, “Sean, you have a visitor.” He turned back to Bill and gestured with his teacup, “He’ll be out in a minute. He’s making his morning tea.”

  Roosevelt started to walk past, as Bill held out his hand. “Governor, I’ve always admired your work.”

  The Governor stopped and accepted his handshake. “Well, thank you, sir. Any friend of Sean’s is a friend of mine.”

  A voice came from the open door, “Actually, your honor, I don’t even know this man.”

  Still shaking Bill’s hand, Roosevelt looked him in the eyes. “Well, sir, what would your business be then?”

  “I’m sorry, Governor, if I led you to believe I’m a friend of Mr. O’Hara’s. In fact, I was told to knock on his door to see if I could possibly get an interview with you.”

  “That’s impossible,” said the thin man from behind his boss, “the Governor has appointments all day. Besides, there is a waiting list that you . . . “

  Roosevelt interrupted. “Oh Sean. He’s here already. And if Mister . . . ?” he raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Scott,” Bill filled in, “Bill Scott, New York freelance journalist.”

  “Ah, a fellow New Yorker. Well, Mr. Scott, as I was going to say, if you can keep it to under one-half hour, we’ll talk over my morning tea. Good with you?”

  “Great with me,” Bill responded, unable to believe his good fortune.

  O’Hara had a dark look on his face and Roosevelt said, laughing, “Sean, look at it this way, I just did part of your job. And now you can sit and relax knowing where I’ll be for the next thirty minutes.”

  “Governor,” O’Hara sputtered, “we have protocol to follow.”

  “Well,” Roosevelt said in a stage whisper, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He slapped his assistant on the shoulder, which almost spilled his cup of tea. “Come with me, Mr. Scott,” and the Governor stepped away briskly.

  Bill followed as they went down the hall to the corner office. Roosevelt held the door open, and they entered a bright room with open windows and blowing curtains. A painting of wild animals hung on the wall behind a large desk covered with papers. Next to the painting was a photo of Roosevelt in full military regalia surrounded by a group of men also in military dress.

  Bill pointed to the photo and exclaimed, “The Rough Riders!”

  “Yes, the Rough Riders. A bully bunch! A very bully bunch! Why, they would have followed me anywhere. A very bully bunch indeed.”

  “Do you stay in touch with them, sir?”

  “A few, just a few. Busy times these, are they not? Why, everyone wants something these days.” He spread his hands as he went on. “Unrest on the waterfront, unrest with the immigrants, unrest with first this group, then that group. Positively time-consuming! No, I should like to stay in closer touch with my Rough Riders, but we are all so damned busy these days.”

  He sat heavily behind the large wooden desk and motioned for Bill to sit in the guest chair facing it. Roosevelt looked back over his shoulder at the photo. “Taken just before we embarked for the war. As I said, ‘a bully bunch.’” He raised his teacup to the photo and said in a low voice, “Many are gone now, Mr. Scott, as I’m sure you know. In a way, they were heady days, carefree! In another way, it was a deadly business we were setting out to do.”

  He paused and took a sip of tea. He looked far away. “Only one year ago, but we were children then, only saw the romantic side. You know, get a medal and tell your story to all who will listen. One becomes quickly aware of one’s vulnerability when a bullet strikes the man next to you. Snuffs out a close friend’s life like that!” he said as he snapped his fingers. He took another sip of tea and looked at Bill over the cup.

  “I am aware, Mr. Scott, of the newspapers these days, stating that I should have thrown caution to the winds and charged up that damned San Juan Hill.”

  Bill replied, “Sir, I’m not here to question you on your past actions. I was hoping to hear your views on the future of the United States and the world.”

  Roosevelt pushed back in his chair and clasped his hands over his sizable midriff. He looked at Bill, eyebrows pinched in thought. “Not here to question my war record? That’s different, sir. Damned different. You are the first reporter to ask of my views of the future. Well, man, ask away.” He sat forward.

  Bill had his notepad and pencil ready. “Do you have any plans to run for the presidency?”

  Roosevelt answered emphatically, “None what-so-ever, Mr. Scott. None what-so-ever.”

  Bill was taken aback. “You mean if you were drafted to become president you would turn it down?”

  “Yes, I believe I would.”

  “But isn’t that what every politician dreams about? Becoming the President of the United States of America?”

  “Mr. Scott, you sound like Mr. O’Hara, my assistant. Why, there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t ask that very same question.”

  Bill said, “I guess I just assumed that you would want to be . . .”

  “President? Yes, I know that any man in my seat would use it as a springboard to that great office, but, sir, I cannot.”

  Bill put his pencil down. “Your honor, if you answer my questions on this matter, I’ll keep it off the record. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  Roosevelt looked at him, “Mr. Scott, I’ve never heard that said before: ‘Off the record.’ I like the sound of it. Perhaps . . . ”

  The door opened, and O’Hara put his head in. “Your honor, we have to meet with the dock leaders and must go over their demands before the meeting.”

  “They may have to wait a bit, Sean. Mr. Scott and I see things eye-to-eye and need about fifteen minutes.”

  O’Hara shook his head and slowly closed the door.

  “So, Mr. Scott, ‘Off the record,’ c
orrect?”

  “My word, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  The big man pulled his chair closer and clasped his hands before him on the desk.

  “Mr. Scott, I was raised to quickly calculate the probability of success for any decision I made and to choose only those options that would be to my advantage. If there was a chance of failure, it was instilled in me to use a different approach. I used this reasoning when I was in industry and as a commander on the battlefields of Cuba. As far as I know, it has never failed me, or my men. Later, however, armchair generals speculated that I should have charged up that damn hill in Cuba. These “generals” say that had I made that charge and succeeded, the world would be a much better place. I say to these gentlemen of the press who were not there, I agree with them! If I had made that charge and succeeded, Captain Lewis and his men would have been spared captivity. However, Sir, I go on record as saying the Spaniards would have chewed my men up before we would have made any difference in that battle. No, what I did was ingrained in me since childhood and what every fiber in my body told me to do, ‘Stay the course!’” He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes for a second before continuing.

  “There was no artillery to cover my troops. And my choice was the only one I could have made. And now, I am being chastised for it. Now, I am being told that it is my fault that the Japanese are becoming the dominant traders in world goods. It’s supposed to be my fault that they are the sea power of the globe. And with the Europeans at each other’s throats, the Japanese are going to stay as the power to be reckoned with, for years to come.”

  He paused and looked out the window. “Now you see why, Mr. Scott, I cannot become the president of this great country. I would always be making a decision on the side of the safest and easiest thing to do. No, I’m afraid the country needs a strong, determined man who takes chances when it is called for. And, Mr. Scott, I am not that man. I’ve read the great works of the crusades and knights of old, even cowboys. These are the people the country need, not the present-day Governor of New York.”

  “You mention cowboys, your honor. What did Mr. Bat Masterson say of your ambitions?”

  Roosevelt raised his eyebrows, “Mr. who?”

  “Mr. Bat Masterson. The cowboy who is making a name for himself out West. Surely you have heard of him?”

  The Governor shook his head. “Never heard of him. I do read the penny papers of the Western adventures of Wild Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley and others but not this Masterson fellow.”

  Bill shook his head, “Excuse me, sir, for lingering on this. I thought Bat Masterson was a close friend of yours?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Scott. I’ve never heard of him.”

  A rap on the door and it opened as a determined O’Hara put his head in. “Chief, they need you now.”

  Roosevelt nodded to his assistant and stood up. He put out a large hand and Bill shook it. “Mr. Scott, it was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sorry if I beat around the bush on things, but now we are pressed for time.”

  “Mr. Roosevelt, the pleasure was all mine, believe me.”

  They walked out the door, and Roosevelt disappeared into a crowd of dock leaders.

  Bill walked back toward the building that housed The 1800 Club in 2011. He was puzzled. The books I read on Roosevelt said he was not only a close friend of Bat Masterson’s, he thought, but also that they used to sit around talking military strategy. I just don’t understand it. From all I’ve read about Masterson, he was a man full of confidence and it rubbed off on his friends, so maybe by not meeting him, Roosevelt simply followed his upbringing and took the safest routes in life.

  He stopped and headed toward a newspaper stand. This stand is already looking old, thought Bill, as he fished for change. He looked over the available periodicals. The old man who evidently owned the stand leaned out and watched him as he thumbed through the Police Gazette and a few others.

  “What’cha looking for, mister?” the man asked.

  Bill looked up, “Um . . . I’m not sure. Do you carry Wild West stories?”

  “Another cowboy admirer,” the man mumbled, as he reached over his head to an inside section. He passed three magazines to Bill. “Here. I got ’ta keep ’em inside ’cause these kids read ’em without paying. I got’a make a living, too, I tell ’em. But do they care? No. They just want to know what’s going on ’cross the continent. They can all go and stay there if ya’ ask me.”

  Bill nodded in agreement to keep him talking. “Do any of these have Bat Masterson stories in them?”

  The old man took off his knitted cap and scratched his head. “Bat Masterson, ’ya say? Don’t know if I heard of him. Is he a new one? They seem to get new cowboys every time I turn around. Is he a white hat or bad guy in a dark hat?

  “Ah, I believe he wears a white hat,” Bill said, as he thumbed through one of the pulp magazines. “I hear he’s a lawman.”

  “Well, he better be quick on the draw out there, ’cause if’n he ain’t, he ain’t gonna be in them books too often.”

  Bill nodded again. “How much for the three?

  “Gimme twelve cents and we’ll call it even.”

  Bill paid for the magazines, rolled them up and put them in his pocket as he headed uptown and home.

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

  Bill ate alone in his living room that evening as he read the stories in the magazines he had purchased that day, or rather, that day over one hundred years ago. He pushed back his plate and stared out the window at the New York of today. The magazine he had purchased spoke of Annie Oakley and her shooting abilities, Wild Bill Hickok and Jesse James, but not a word about Bat Masterson.

  Bill pondered: Could this be the reason that Roosevelt was a changed man? Masterson was a big influence on him. What if they didn’t hit it off? What if they never met? Bill lit a cigar and paced the floor. Matt came in and removed the dishes. He saw that Bill was in a quiet mood and left him to his thoughts.

  According to the Roosevelt he spoke with, the Governor never met the lawman. Bill flopped down on a large, comfortable 1848 couch. He flicked his ash into an upright ashtray and came to a decision. I have to meet Bat Masterson. And I have to go soon because this is getting eerie. He booted up his computer and typed into the search engine: Bat Masterson: Timeline.

  He scrolled down the cowboy’s timeline. Bill found that Masterson was in Dodge City, Kansas, in 1875 and was recruited by Wyatt Earp as his deputy marshal.

  He called Matt. “I’m making another trip tomorrow, Matt, and I’ll need two hundred U.S. dollars, from the 1875 period.”

  Matt asked, “Will you be gone long, sir? The club will be open tomorrow.”

  “Not sure. It’ll run without me for a day or two.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Oh, and another thing, Matt. I’ll make out a list of clothes I’ll need, along with a Colt pistol and holster. And I’ll need about thirty rounds with it. I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The next morning Bill tried on a dark outfit with scuffed boots that Matt had provided from the club’s large and ever evolving clothing section. His clothes were well worn and his pistol and holster looked used, as well. He studied his image in the full-length mirror as Matt held a long, black range-coat and a ten-gallon, black, cowboy hat.

  “Sir, did the fellows on the wrong side of the law really wear black hats?” Matt queried.

  “No, Matt. That’s stuff that the pulp magazines printed for the cities on the East Coast.”

  Matt handed him the 1875 bills and the coat, which Bill put on. He then placed the money in his billfold and satisfied, changed back to his three-piece brown suit and packed his western outfit in a light carpetbag, carrying case.

  “Have a safe trip, sir.” Matt said, as he watched Bill open the door to the past.

  “Will do, Matt. See you soon,” Bill replied. He went down the stairs and out into the garden of 1875.

  DATELINE: 1875 PLA
CE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK

  Bill stood by the gate until a horse-drawn cab strolled into view, and he hailed it.

  A big mustached man wearing a frayed top hat looked down from his high seat and asked “Where to, sir?”

  “I need to catch a train to Kansas,” Bill answered. “What would be the best way to go?”

  The driver scratched his chin as he said; “I’ll take you to the ferry to New Jersey. From there, you can catch a coach and sleeper to as far west as the weather or them Indians let it go.”

  “That’s all I can ask for,” quipped Bill as he placed his bag into the cab’s interior, stepped on the iron rung and into the well-worn cab.

  It was a thirty-minute, bumpy ride on the cobblestone streets and Bill was all-eyes as he passed places he had seen only in the 1800s club library. He was happy when the cab pulled over to the curb as the horsehair-stuffed seat had been flattened by many passengers before him making it feels as though he had sat on a wooden board for the whole ride.

  The ferry ride was an adventure itself with bucking horses and drivers trying to calm them down as they all jockeyed for the best position . . . it reminded him of the chariot race in the movie, ‘Ben-Hur.’ The ship rode low in the water, its single tall stack belching thick, black smoke, and Bill thought the other steamers came a little too close at times. He marveled at the sight of the much lower New York City skyline but was glad when the trip across the Hudson River was over.

  Bill had asked a deckhand the best way to the train station, and found that it was attached to the Ferry Terminal. Finally, he was at the station and in front of the ticket counter.

  A very efficient man behind a small window sold him a ticket that stated in small type: “The holder of this ticket may ride all the way to Kansas on this railroad company line, and if they must change for another line, because of weather or Buffalos, this line will honor the seat or the sleeping quarters he has paid for.”