Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club Book VIII

by Robert P McAuley

  Bill’s answer was a grin that made Patty believe that he had guessed correctly.

  “So,” answered Bill, “if it is as you guessed and my team had mocked up a scene from 1903, you will have no problem accompanying me there?”

  Patty shrugged his shoulders, “Heck no!” He looked around the room and went on. “If you and your team can replicate a room such as this, I’m sure you guys can create something to mimic 1903, . . . and I really would love to see it. The time they held rehearsals was seven in the evening.”

  “Good!” said Bill as he stood and picked up the overcoats. He tossed one to Patty, put his on and said, “If you are going to play along with me, Patty, put that coat on as it is the type they wore in 1903 and we need to cover up the 1865 clothing we are wearing. Makes sense, right?”

  Patty smiled his answer as he put his coat on. “What next?”

  Bill fished between the buttons of his shirt and slipped out the pendant he wore on a gold chain around his neck. He punched in 5 p.m.; November 22, 1903 then took an ornate key from the same chain and opened the large mahogany door, turned to his guest and said, “Best that I lead the way.”

  Patty had his coat on and, still wearing a smile said, “I insist that you do, sir. Lead me to new adventures and I shall, indeed, pay my dues for another year.”

  Bill swung the door open noiselessly and they stood on the landing. Their shadows danced against the wall as the gas lamps that lined the red brick stairway, flickered. He looked at Samson who started to follow them.

  “Stay, boy. I’ll take you out later.” The Beagle settled down in front of the fire.

  Patty looked around the landing. “Pretty impressive, Bill. I love the gas light touch, . . . they add authenticity to the club.”

  “Yep!” said Bill as he closed the door and started to go down the stone stairs, “They stay lit even when the occasional blackout hits the city.”

  Once at the bottom they faced another door, this one large and built of steel. Bill again took out the key and opened the lock. He then stood to the side as he held the doorknob and said, “Welcome to November 22, 1903, Patty.” With that, he threw the door open and both men felt a chilled air enter the stairway.

  DATE: NOVEMBER 22, 1903 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

  Patty took Bill’s invitation and stepped out first. He entered a well laid out garden and he could see that even though the plants were dormant for the winter, it was beautiful. The six-foot tall stone wall that encompassed the garden was dwarfed by the Evergreens that surrounded the perimeter. One corner of the garden was completely dedicated to a waterfall and pond and Patty could easily visualize the bubbling water in the warm sunlight. Traces of white from an early snowfall accumulated on the spaces between the slate stepping stones that took you from the door to a wrought-iron gate that guaranteed a secure, relaxing place for Bill and his guests.

  Bill watched as the club’s newest time traveler took it all in, without realizing he had gone back in time.

  Patty looked down again at the slate walking stones. “Mmm, when did it snow?”

  “It hasn’t snowed yet,” answered Bill.

  “But, well just look here. On the ground. That’s snow. Right?”

  “Yep! And I bet it snowed the night your grandfather met Caruso.”

  Patty nodded, “Actually, it did. I remember him saying that it snowed lightly on and off that entire day and into the night.” He looked at Bill with a questioning look on his face and said simply, “Naw, . . . we can’t be.”

  “We can’t be what?” asked Bill with a sly look. “We can’t be back in the time you asked for?”

  Patty shook his head. “Are you saying that we are back in 1903?”

  Bill answered by taking him by his elbow and guiding him to the gate as he retrieved his key. He unlocked it and said, “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

  They stepped out and Bill locked the gate behind them. It started to snow and a chilled wind hit them as they left the enclosed garden. Both men pulled their collars up against the elements. The street was deserted until they reached the corner and that was when Patty knew they had gone back in time.

  A red and black, track-bound trolley car glided past them ringing its bell to alert people crossing the wide street. Going the opposite way was a wagon pulled by two of the biggest horses Patty had ever seen. A heavy-set man, wrapped from head-to-toe in a horses’ blanket, piloted the wagon. His red nose stuck out between the scarf and the pulled-down knitted cap he wore. A clay pipe that protruded from just beneath his nose gave off a puff of gray smoke that was quickly whipped away by the brisk wind. The wagon groaned with the weight of its load: blocks of ice stacked high and covered with burlap. The printing on the side of the wooden wagon read: Morgan’s Ice Delivery. We deliver upstairs.

  Bill slapped Patty on his back as he saw that Patty had just become a believer. “Come on and meet a friend of mine.”

  Patty just gaped at the scene and followed Bill closely as the wind-blown snow started to make it hard to see.

  Bill stopped at a well-lit establishment and Patty read the lettering on the large windows: Diamond’s Bar and Grill.

  Patty followed Bill into the bar and the heat from the cast iron radiators immediately started to melt the snow off their shoulders and shoes. Patty felt relaxed as he took in the scene he had only seen in old, black and white pictures. The thirty-foot plus, wooden bar was well worn, as were the high backless stools, many of the seats slightly ripped with the horse hair stuffing sticking out, lined up waiting for customers. A long, brass foot rest ran the length of the bar and the floor was composed of one-inch, hexagon black and white tiles . . . many of them missing revealing the gray cement of the floor. At the end of the long bar was an opening in the wall that led to the men’s restroom and above that opening was the large head of a stuffed moose. That the doors on both ends of the bar were not properly sealed against the foul weather was evident by the long cobwebs hanging from the moose’s head as they danced in the breeze.

  “What do you think?” asked Bill.

  “I don’t know what to think,” answered Patty. “Are we really back in time and why am I taking it so easily?”

  “Ha!” said Bill, “You are taking it easily as that’s what we do at every club meeting we attend: dress up and playact as though we were back in time.”

  A bartender came up a flight of stairs from the basement carrying a case of soda. He put it on the bar and sauntered down towards the two men. He was a big man of six-feet, two hundred and twenty pounds, and as he ran his fingers through his pure white head of hair he had a smile and outstretched hand.

  “Bill Scott,” he said as they shook hands, “How ya been?”

  “Great, Paddy, just great.” He turned and directed his attention to his companion, “Paddy Diamond, this is Patty Gelardi.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” both said in unison.

  Paddy wiped the bar in front of the two men. “What’ll it be, boys?”

  “I’ll have a cold Schaeffer,” said Bill.

  “Same here,” added Patty.

  They watched as Paddy Diamond went and pulled two cold beers, returned and placed them down, their thick white foamy heads flowing down the glasses sides and puddling the bar top.

  Bill placed fifty cents on the bar as Patty reached into his pocket for money. Bill put a hand on his and said with a smile, “I’m sure that any money you have on you is from our time and will look counterfeit here.”

  Patty looked embarrassed, “Oh, wow! Right! What was I thinking of? But, how did you know to bring money from this time period?”

  “After you gave me the date that Caruso met your grandfather, I got some club money for this period.”

  Patty lifted his glass and both men touched glasses, “Cheers,” said both of them and took a sip of their beers.

  Patty put his mug on the bar and asked, “So why did you bring me back here? I mean, this is great, even fantastic, but why? Do all of t
he club members get to go back or forward in time?”

  Bill shook his head, “No. Just a select few.”

  “And I’m one of the select few?”

  Bill looked him in the eyes, “Yes, sort of. You see, Patty, by means that I’ll explain later, we found that sometimes there’s a hiccup in the time stream and an event happens when it shouldn’t or, an event doesn’t happen when it should. In either case a computer runs the scenario of what will happen if that event is allowed to become a reality. And in that case we must send someone back to that specific time to help straighten it out.” He took a long pull of his beer as he watched Patty’s reaction.

  “So, do you mean that the club changes history? Like shooting Hitler before he takes over or something”

  “No! We are not allowed to kill anyone no matter what we know about them today. We have to make sure that history unfolds as it does in our history books.” He paused and took a sip of his beer. “If someone dies before his time, there is a ripple effect that we cannot predict. For instance, we had a mission to save Mark Twain, the author. (Author’s note: The Mark Twain Mission; Book II) The computers told us that if he died before his time, many of today’s writers would never have been inspired by his wit and imagination.”

  Patty took a pull of his drink, “So, you want me to go fix something that happened in 1903?”

  “No. We want you to stop Jack The Ripper from killing victim number six.”

  Patty’s eyes went wide as he said, “Jack the Ripper? But he only killed five women, not six.”

  “In our history books, yes, but as I said at times history seems to go off course and that’s when we must step in. You were chosen because of your knowledge of the murders.”

  “Me? But there are hundreds of others much more knowledgeable about him than I am.”

  “Maybe, but they’re not club members.”

  “And that’s a perquisite?”

  “Yes. The whole reason for the club’s existence is to train people to feel at ease while in the past. We do that by having all of the members dress the way people dressed in the 1800s. We ask them to stay in ‘club time’ and not speak of anything that happened after the date we selected that evening. You see, if we need to send someone back to fix a glitch in history we can pick a club member who is familiar with the incident, such as you and Jack The Ripper, and we know that they will feel at ease because of the playacting we do in the club.”

  Patty nodded. “I get it.” He suddenly sat straight and said, “Wait! Today is November 22, 1903, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that means that tonight my grandfather will be at Caruso’s rehearsal, correct?”

  Bill smiled as he watched the possibilities set into Patty’s mind.

  “C-Can we go there? Can we go see my grandfather and Caruso?”

  “No problem. What time was it that they rehearsed?”

  “Seven in the evening. They loosened up before the show and those who knew usually gathered around to listen.”

  “Great, it’s five-thirty now. Lets catch a cab.”

  “Are there taxis in ‘03?”

  “Yes, but they’re horse drawn.”

  Patty mentally slapped his forehead, “That’s right.”

  “Come on,” said Bill as he put a dollar bill on the bar.

  Paddy saw them getting up and waved. “See ya soon, gentlemen. Have a good evening and mind the snow.”

  “You too, Paddy,” said Bill as they both waved and left the bar. The snow was falling at a faster rate and once again both men turned their collars up. A black cab stood at the corner and they approached the driver as he was putting a blanket over his horse.

  “Sir,” asked Bill, “are you working?”

  “Yes sir,” he answered as he brushed the thick wet snow from his handle bar mustache. “Where do ya wish ta go?”

  Bill looked questioningly at Patty who answered: “64 Columbus Avenue.”

  The man tipped his black, Beaver hat and opened the door to the invitingly dry interior of his cab. Both men quickly jumped in as the door closed behind them. The cab tilted and squeaked as the driver climbed up to his seat and with a crack of his whip against the side of the wheel the horse took off.

  The ride was a combination of bouncing off the cobblestones as they met the steel rims of the carriage wheels and sliding as the steel rims met patches of quickly forming ice. The seats were dry but hard, as many passengers before them had long flattened the horsehair stuffing.

  As much as they wanted to keep the sliding glass window up against the snow and wind, Bill and Patty found themselves constantly lowering the glass to wipe away the accumulating snow so they could see New York of old go by.

  “Pretty wild, huh, Patty?”

  “Boy, this is nothing but fantastic, Bill.” He turned and looked at his companion, “Do you do this often? I mean do you just hop back whenever you want?”

  Bill grinned like a little boy. “Sometimes when I want to smoke a good Cuban cigar and take in the sights of New York’s Central Park at the same time, I simply go back to the park’s opening in 1873. There was no law against smoking in public back then. Other times I hop back to 1868 and have lunch and a beer for less than a buck in Paddy Diamond’s Bar & Grill. I have some great poker-playing friends back there too and if you want a high stakes game just sit in with Bat Masterson. So, the answer is: yes, I hop back whenever I want.”

  Patty smiled, “What a great gig.”

  Both men enjoyed the rest of the ride quietly, each with their own thoughts as they looked out the small windows. The white snow covered the refuse piled high against the building’s sides and it also tended to mask the smell of horse waste on the street. Finally the driver pulled back on the reins as they pulled up to the curbside. The man was a pro and when Bill opened the carriage door he was happy to see the twelve-inch high cement step put there to make exiting cabs easy for passengers. He looked up at the man who held up one finger that protruded from the knitted gloves he wore, and paid him the one-dollar fare plus a fifty-cent tip. The driver smiled and tipped his hat at the generous passenger.

  Bill and Patty stood in front of the Metropolitan Opera House. Patty looked at the “Yellow Brick Brewery,” as it was nicknamed in the early years because of the yellow tinted brick used for its façade. He had been here many times before but tonight was special: his grandfather was present too.”

  Patty shrugged his shoulders as he asked Bill, “What should I do? I mean if I tell him I’m his future grandchild, he’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “You’re right, you can’t tell him that. In fact you really have to use your judgment as to whom you tell at all. I found that sometimes you have to do a little creative fibbing and stay in character.” He smiled, “You can do it, Patty, you’re a member of the 1800 Club.”

  “Right!” Patty said with determination in his voice. “I can do it and I will.” He motioned to the rear of the building, “Come on, Bill, let’s go meet Caruso and my grandfather.”

  Bill followed him to the rear of the building. The buildings had blocked most of the snow and as they went into an alley they heard singing emanating from a doorway that had its door half open. A short, elderly man dressed in coveralls and tattered high hat was brushing snow away from the door as they approached.

  “Excuse me, sir,” asked Patty, “but is that Enrico Caruso I hear singing in there?”

  The man stopped and said as he leaned on the long shaft of his broom, “Dunno who he is, but he sure got a sweet voice.”

  “May we go in and listen?”

  “Not supposed to allow nobody in,” he looked up at the gray sky and added, “but in weather like this, heck, ya just gotta let folks get out of it. Go ahead on in.”

  As they walked past, Bill put a dollar bill in his hand and was rewarded with a big smile and a tip of the man’s hat.

  Once inside they found themselves in a janitor’s room with the inside door open. The view from the open door showed a long
hallway with props, scenery and unlit lanterns. The singing was sporadic and voices could be heard as the singers chatted amongst themselves. Patty walked down the hall followed by Bill and they stopped by another group of admirers straining to hear the singers. There were six girls dressed in dance costumes, three stagehands and one man with a black mustache and shoulder-length black hair whose black eyes seemed to glow whenever Caruso sang a few notes.

  Bill watched as Caruso walked around the large area as he sang. He seemed to be in another world as he rehearsed Rigoletto.

  Patty nudged Bill and talking low, said, “The man playing the piano is the great Italian conductor, Maestro Vigna. Next to him is Giuseppe Campanari, the baritone and next to him is Marcel Journet, the big basso, and opposite Caruso is Aristide Masiero, the second tenor. The woman wearing the large plumed hat is Marcella Sembrich.“ He shook his head his eyes taking in every detail. He remembered that the great tenor at one time struggled with the higher notes and tended to resort to a Falsetto voice. Patty also knew that he conquered his fears of the upper ranges in the early years after meeting with his grandfather.

  As the great man walked around singing, Patty automatically joined in, but in a much quieter tone of voice. Another voice joined in and he saw it was the man with the mustache singing harmony with him. His eyes were now fully adjusted to the dark area they were in and knew right away that the man was his grandfather, sans the pure white hair he remembered him with.

  Bill realized the situation immediately and with a raised eyebrow, warned Patty. A slight nod from Patty told Bill that he understood: Stay in club time.

  “Excuse me,” said the man, “for joining you in song, but when I hear a good voice I have a need to enjoy it the best way I can: by singing along. I hope I didn’t upset you, sir.”

  Patty smiled as he offered his hand, “No, sir, you didn’t upset me at all. I enjoyed it immensely. I am Patty, ah . . . Donatto.”

  “And I am, Pasquale Gelardi. Pleased to meet you.”