Time Travel Adventures Of The 1800 Club, BOOK I
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Time Travel Adventures of The 1800 Club
BOOK 1
Robert P McAuley
Copyright 2014 by Robert P. McAuley
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, å
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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?” <
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“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