TimeTravel Adventures of The 1800 Club: Book 12

by P McAuley, Robert

  Fred entered the dates into his laptop and turned the computer to face Ted who put the bots down on the floor and typed in his name and I.D. number.

  “Nose filters?” the guard asked as he showed Ted a plastic bag with a pair of air filters in it.

  “Sure, might as well,” said Ted as he put them in his pocket. He picked up the two bots and Fred got up and opened the door for him. Ted went down the stone steps and at the bottom used his key to opened the heavy steel security door and stepped out into his yesterday.

  DATELINE: MAY 31, 2070 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

  It was a beautiful morning with the garden coming alive with color and sounds. He sat on one of the stone benches and activated the Frigate bot. He held its wings close to its mechanical body and tossed it up into the air. Immediately it spread its long wings and with a few flaps started its climb to 30,000 feet. Once there it would fold back its wings to resemble the sweptback wing of an aircraft, lower its beak and ignite its rocket engine to zip across the Atlantic Ocean at supersonic speed.

  With a smile Ted gave a mental ‘atta boy’ to his bot and went back inside the building. He took out his Time Frequency Modulator, entered Oct. 20, 1805 and grasped the doorknob.

  DATELINE: OCTOBER 20, 1805 PLACE: LIGHTLY FORESTED SECTION OF NEW YORK CITY

  Because the building that housed the 1800 Club was not built until 1820, the area he entered was a lightly forested section of upper New York City. He opened the door a crack and seeing nobody around quickly stepped out into the wooded area. He activated the big bot, tucked its wings close to its body and tossed it up in the air. Knowing that it was on takeoff that most accidents occur, he mentally crossed his fingers as the bird bot flapped its very long wings and fought for altitude. He watched as it got smaller and smaller as it climbed to its assigned altitude of 30,000 feet. Ted knew that in the much thinner air of 30,000 feet there is less resistance for the rocket-powered bot to fly through so it achieves supersonic flight quicker and easier.

  Knowing that the group counted on the information that the bot sent back, he once again mentally crossed his fingers as he walked back up the gaslight illuminated stairwell to his own time.

  DATELINE: JUNE 1, 2070 PLACE: HISTORY TRACKING CENTER, NEW YORK CITY

  Jerry was stretched out on the couch in the conference room when there was a knock on the door. As he got up the door opened and Matilda from the commissary smiled at him as she pushed in a cart of sandwiches, coffee, tea and cold drinks.

  “Lunch order, sir. Where shall I put it?”

  “In that corner please, Matilda,” Jerry said as he pointed towards the end of the room. He signed for it and she left. He poured a cup of coffee just as the door opened once again and the rest of the group entered.

  “Hey! No fair!” said John Hyder with a grin. “Jerry’s been alone with the food and probably took the best sandwich.”

  “Yep! All gone, folks. You should have seen the size of the lobsters.”

  Alexis grinned as she moved him away from the coffee urn with a bump from her hip. “Time to move, Jerry and never argue with a hungry woman.” She took an egg salad on rye and a coffee before sitting down. The rest of the group did the same except that their preference was ham and cheese.

  “My turn,” quipped Jerry with a make believe frown on his face. They sat and ate as they chatted about the upcoming mission.

  Thirty-five minutes later Ted tapped on the door before opening it. He entered with a few holograms. “Bots have sent these, Mr. Sullivan. There’s more coming and I’ll bring them in as they arrive.”

  Eager to get them, Jerry almost spilled coffee on the table. The first cylinder was marked, London, June 1, 2070. He placed it in the small hologram projector and then activated it. The scene was from 500 feet in the air. It bobbed slightly as a stiff breeze came up behind the bot before it could compensate for it. It flew a circular pattern above Trafalgar Square. It was a warm spring day in London with crowds of people filling the square. The column was the main attraction and children climbed all over it while others took selfies or had pictures taken with it as a background.

  Street vendors hawked their wares and every spot that there were no people was filled with pigeons.

  “Looks like a typical day in London,” said Maryellen as she nursed her cup of tea.

  “Yes,” quipped John, “let’s hope the next bot has some more information.”

  “Wait,” called out Joseph as he stood and pushed back the lock of curly black hair that constantly fell before his eyes. “Jerry, can you zoom in on Nelson’s statue a second?”

  Reaching over to the projector, Jerry turned the small knob on the side and they watched as the scene zoomed in on the statue. There was a combined gasp as they realized the statue was not of Lord Nelson, but of Napoleon Bonaparte of France.

  Jerry removed the hologram and inserted the second one then broke the silence. “This,” he said in a slightly shaky voice, “is the battle. Let’s see what happens.”

  Once again the scene was from 500 feet above the bright blue waters just northwest of Cape Trafalgar. The silence was broken by the

  sound of cannon fire that came from the French and Spanish warships as they fired broadside after broadside at the two lines of approaching British ships. White water spouts showed where the heavy shots hit the water while small holes appeared in the British canvas sails where the shot registered.

  As it was programmed to do, the bot dropped almost straight down to the HMS Victory, the ship that Vice Admiral Nelson was aboard. Ted figured that all eyes aboard the ship would be looking forward at the enemy ships and not take note of a bird seeking rest on the topmast. The scene below showed the beautiful, well-kept ship with all of her guns manned. The wooden deck was covered in sand for one reason: so that the fighting man did not slip on the blood that was sure to come. As the Victory got closer to the enemy line of ships some of her men seemed to just disappear while at their station. A cannon ball ripped through the air down the length of the ship tearing away ropes, bracings, and men before tearing out a section of wood bracing at the ship’s aft end. One sailor was spoke with another as they kneeled by their gun and he looked away momentarily. He turned back to continue the conversation and saw two deck hands take his gun-mate’s limp body and toss it over the side. Life went that fast aboard a man-‘o-war. Out of the thick gun smoke flew cannon balls that might hit you or strike a wooden rail creating huge splinters that were just as dangerous as the ball itself. It was not unusual to see men’s limbs just disappear as they were struck by the ball or the debris it created and there was a continuous line of wounded sailors walking or being carried below deck for the ship’s surgeon to work on. As men around them were struck down, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson and Captain Hardy walked the deck looking as casual as they could to brace their men up for the battle ahead.

  Nelson summoned Lieutenant John Pasco, his signal officer and gave him a message to be hoisted for all the ships to see. It read, ‘ENGLAND CONFIDES THAT EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY.’ Pasco asked that for speed, he changes the word ‘CONFIDES,’ to ‘EXPECTS’ as they have that word in their signal book and the word ‘CONFIDES’ would have to be spelled out.

  Nelson said as he resumed his walk on the deck, “That will do, Pasco, make it directly.”

  A great cheer rose up from the men of his fleet as the signal flapped in the breeze. It was at that moment that a French cannon ball flew down the length of the HMS Victory and struck Nelson killing him instantly.

  There was a sudden scrapping sound of chairs being pushed back as the group of History Trackers all cringed at the sudden death scene they witnessed.

  As it was programmed to do, the bot captured the scene below as officers and men ran to Nelson before having a quick meeting and instructing Lieutenant Pasco to signal a new message. It read, DISREGARD PLAN OF ATTACK. TURN TO PORT AND ENGAGE ENEMY IN NORMAL BATTLE FORMATION.

  The British fleet turned to port and as they saile
d up next to their chosen opponent immediately started to fire their broadsides. The more numerous enemy fired back with effect.

  Joseph was the first to speak. “What happened? I thought Nelson got shot by a sharpshooter after they pierced the French and Spanish line of ships?”

  “That’s the way it was supposed to happen,” said Alexis as she squinted looking through her thick glasses at the battle still being fought on the conference table. “And that’s why we are here: to catch it before it becomes reality.”

  Jerry sat back in his chair, folded his arms and said, “I believe we need to send someone back to fix this.” The group nodded in agreement as he stood and paced the floor. “Guys, this is a tough one. You can’t just introduce someone on a British man-of-war. What sort of a cover could they use? A new officer? No, all the officers knew one another and a stranger would not be allowed on the ship especially if Nelson was aboard.”

  A silence said that the group had no ideas and Maryellen raised her hand.

  “Yes, Maryellen?” asked Jerry as he sat back down.

  She said with a shrug, “Well, being that we are going to use Bill Scott’s 1800 Club, why not see what he thinks?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Alexis.

  “Okay,” Jerry said, “I’ll work up a hologram to send to Bill. There’s really nothing more for you guys to do right now. I’ll buzz you when I get some information.”

  Fifteen minutes after the four Time Watchers left the conference room Jerry opened the door and smiled at Cathy Avalone on duty from the Drone and Hologram Department.

  “Good afternoon, Cathy. Would you get this hologram to the 1800 Club for me?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sullivan.

  DATELINE: JUNE 1, 2015 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

  Bill Scott grinned at his reflection in the full-length mirror. “Quite the dandy, Mister Scott,” he mumbled. “If the guys from my old SEAL group ever saw me dressed like this, they’d disown me.” He spoke about the outfit he had selected to step back and blend in with the folks of 1762. It was a dark satin jacket that reached just below his knees and although there were thirty cloth-covered buttons running down its length, it was worn open to show the twelve-button light blue silk vest. The front of the buttoned up vest was cut in a deep ‘vee’ to show his white shirt with its frilly front that ended just beneath his chin. The shirt’s very frilly cuffs could also be seen as they popped out from his jacket’s sleeves. His dark satin pants ended at just below his knees and were met by his knee length white cotton stockings and there were square decorative silver buckles on his highly polished black shoes. Bill used his black walking stick to adjust his three corner black hat at a sharp angle. Skipping the white wig he wore his longish hair in a small ponytail.

  He walked down the stairs listening to his footsteps on the cool stone steps. The time traveler stopped beside one of the hissing gaslights and couldn’t resist putting his hands together and creating the shadow of a rabbit on the opposite wall. Once at the bottom he unlocked the steel security door. He knew that the building that housed the 1800 Club was built in 1820 and if he needed to go back earlier than that he would be stepping into a lightly forested area. In 1762 that area became popular to live in and be away from the hustle and bustle of the downtown New York area. The time traveler had to be careful and peek out of the security door to make sure the area was clear. He took out his Time Frequency Modulator and entered his password, SAMSON. Next he entered MARCH 17, 1762, 10 A.M. and pressed the activate button.

  DATELINE: MARCH 17, 1762 PLACE: WOODED AREA NORTH OF NEW YORK CITY

  Bill opened the door a crack and the stairwell that he stood in was instantly bathed in sunlight. Seeing nothing but grass and trees, he opened the door more and put his head out. Except for a group of squirrels that quickly took to the trees, he was alone in the woods. Bill stepped out and closed the door, looked around and placed three stones in a natural looking triangle marking the entrance to the security door of the 1800 Club.

  Heads I go by water and tails I go by hitchhiking down to the tip of New York, he thought as he flipped a coin and allowed it to fall on the grass. He picked the coin up and said, “Water it is . . . hopefully.” He then started a brisk walk towards the East coast of Manhattan Island.

  It was a thirty-minute walk that took him past five houses, two large and one small farms before he saw the blue waters of the East River and a few gray canvas sails bobbing in the water as fishermen sought to catch dinner for their families and sell the rest to the restaurants at the tip of New York.

  A heavyset red haired man puffing on a pipe sat near a campfire and looked up as the well-dressed man stepped off of the dirt path.

  “Good morning, sir,” Bill said as he tipped his hat.

  “And to you too, sir,” said the big man. He tipped his stocking hat and asked, “Pray tell, is this your property I sit on, sir?”

  “No, sir. I thought that I would stroll down to the tip of New York and realized it would indeed be a long walk. I was led to believe that for a coin or two a captain would allow one to join him on his trip down to sell his fish. Could this be true?”

  “Aye, tis true. If ya don’t mind sharing my boat with a few fish, sir, the trip is free as I must go there anyway to sell fish to the fort.”

  “I have no quarrel with that, sir. How soon will you start out?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders, tapped the remains out of his pipe and said, “I shove off when you are aboard.” He pointed to a sloop with its bow resting on the sandy shore. “The Sea Lassie,” he said as he kicked sand onto the small fire and stood.

  “William Scott,” Bill said as he offered his hand.

  “James Bunty and I hesitate to shake your hand only because of my handling of fish, William,” he said with a grin. “Now step aboard and I’ll shove us off.”

  Bill stepped from the sandy shore into the open boat. He had to squeeze past a high wooden structure with a hinged double door on top. His nose told him that inside of the structure was the catch of the day. James placed a shoulder against the bow of the boat and shoved. His bare feet dug into the sand as the boat started to slide back into the water. Free of the shore, the Sea Lassie tipped sharply as its owner climbed over the side.

  “Are ya settled?” James asked as he raised the single sail.

  Bill nodded and sat on the center wooden seat as the captain sat on the rear wooden seat and held the tiller. With his other hand he gripped a rope attached to the sail and using them, backed away from shore then turned the boats bow south and allowed the sail to fill with the early morning breeze.

  Forty-five minutes later the small boat pulled up next to the military fort at the tip of New York known as the Battery. Bill was surprised to see a chubby British soldier put down his long rifle and shout out, “Greetings James. Toss me your rope an’ I’ll tie ya up.”

  James tossed the rope, which landed at the soldier’s feet. “Mighty kind o’ ya, Kenny. Got some nice flounder for you this day.”

  “Best we hurry then,” said the soldier. Me an’ some o’ the boys are having a march in a bit.”

  James stood and offered Bill his hand. Bill took it and stood as Kenny tied the rope to an iron loop attached to a wooden dock that also had a short ladder attached to it.

  “Follow me, William,” said James as he easily climbed up the wooden ladder. Bill did the same.

  “Now,” said James to Kenny who produced a burlap bag, “What’s this about a march?”

  “A large amount o’ the men from two regiments are from Ireland and as today is March 17, we honor our Irish heritage and say a prayer to St. Patrick as it’s his feast day.”

  “So, where does the march come in?”

  “We petitioned the Colonel to allow us to have a parade for St. Patrick’s Day, an’ he said fine with him. So we march at noon.”

  “Where will you be marching?”

  “At noon we’ll strike out for John Marshall’s Inn at Mount Pleasant near th
e College. We’ll probably heft a pint or two before marching back. From what I understand there are many Irish civilians that are going ta join us in the march and in the Inn.”

  James smiled and said, “If I empty my boat o’ fish, I’ll watch as ya march by, so bring a few of the boys from the kitchen down an’ we’ll load some of those burlap bags with my catch.”

  “Will do, James. Wait right here.” The young soldier turned, picked up his rifle and ran back to the Battery.

  “A parade for the Irish,” said James as he shook his head. “These young kids will do anything to get outta work.”

  Bill grinned, “James can I be of assistance with loading those burlap bags?”

  James arched an eyebrow and said, “No, thank you anyway, William. Best you be off before the men induct you into the dirty work an’ spoil yer finery.”

  “James, I thank you for your kindness and may you always find your nets full.”

  Bill left the fort and walked up Broadway as he thought, According to my history books, Mount Pleasant, near the College is the present day intersection of Barclay and Church Streets in downtown Manhattan. He strolled out of the Battery and right away knew that it had not rained in a few days as whenever a wagon went by a cloud of dust was raised from the hard packed dirt. The sidewalks were wide enough for two people to walk along and while many homes or business were made of brick wood, many more were built with wood and as wood for the housing demand grew, the northern wooded area receded, slowly but surely, north. All of the buildings had their windows open as it was a warm day and the smell of food cooking drifted through the streets mingling with the logs burning in the fireplaces where the cooking was done. Young children sat at the open window and most had their little brother or sister on their lap as their mothers did the household chores. Also it seemed to Bill that in most cases the smaller child was crying. Bill quickly found out that their crying depended on the wind’s direction as smoke from the chimneys of the low buildings obscured sections of the area and people walked with a handkerchief held to their eyes and nose.