“Hm-m-m,” remarked the general thoughtfully. “I am a simple soldier, Papa, as you know. While I appreciate what you have done for me—while I look forward eagerly to visiting all the most famous cavalry actions of the past—this does take a little getting used to. Perhaps we would be wiser not to hurry? Camellia has always been intensely interested in history. She probably is finding this, er, excursion highly entertaining and instructive. I wouldn’t want to deprive her of the chance to make the most of it. The count, this young lady’s father, is probably entertaining her quite lavishly, and surely we must do the same for his charming daughter, don’t you agree?”
Papa Schimmelhorn exchanged a few words with Ermintrude. “She says her papa thinks maybe Mrs. Pollard iss a Tatar shpy, but he perhaps vill not torture her because he vants der magic horse to bring his Ermintrude back.”
“Torture her?” exclaimed the general. “Why, that’s unthinkable!”
“Not for Tatar shpies in tvelve hundred und forty-vun,” answered Papa Schimmelhorn. “But don’t you vorry, soldier boy. I think she maybe iss okay. Like I tell Mama, my time machine iss different from oder time machines. Ve shtay here maybe a veek, it does not matter—vhen it goes back, it can go to exactly vhen it shtarted. Mrs. Pollard vill not know it has been avay vun second.”
“Well, anyhow,” said General Pollard, “it is a great relief to me to know that no harm is going to come to her. So why don’t we just lock the machine up again, and Ermintrude can be our guest here for a few days? We can, well, show her all the sights of the Twentieth Century, and—”
He broke off as Bluebelle snorted impolitely.
“Soldier boy,” said Papa Schimmelhorn, “you haff forgotten vun shmall thing. Your vife iss in der Thirteenth Century, but Mama shtill iss in New Hafen, here und now.” He shook his head. “Besides, poor Ermintrude iss vorried about her papa und eferybody there. She has asked me if I am somevun called a—how does she say?—a Priester—”
“A what?”
“A—” He hesitated. He exchanged a word or two with Ermintrude. “Nein, she says a Presbyter—somebody called Presbyter Johannes, a great king who comes on der magic horse to chase avay die Turks und Tatars, because now outsider der castle die Tatars burn und loot und rape.”
Suddenly General Pollard’s eyes were no longer fixed on Ermintrude. “Presbyter Johannes!” he cried out. “That was the German form of Prester John—the mythical Christian monarch of the East!” He leaped abruptly to his feet. “Millions of medieval Europeans believed he’d rescue them from the barbarians.”
Papa Schimmelhorn winked. “Maybe in der Thirteenth Century I could be for a lidtle vhile a great king. But I am modest—it iss maybe better for die lidtle pussycats if I am only a great magician und Graf von Schimmelhorn.”
“Pussycats!” The general snorted his impatience. “What year did she say she comes from?”
“Tvelve hundred und forty-vun.”
“What month was it?”
“August. It iss not yet qvite September.”
“My God!” the general gasped. “Do you know what this may mean? All authorities agree the Mongols broke off their invasion in the Spring. Ogatai, their Great Khan, was dead, and their law required that they return immediately to choose a new one. Subutai, their ranking general, insisted on it. Long before August they were gone. Papa, if what she says is true, something’s badly wrong! Back there, seven hundred years ago, Western Civilization is imperiled. Ask her if she is completely sure!” Ermintrude became deadly serious. She began to sob once more.
“She iss qvite sure,” translated Papa Schimmelhorn. “Die Mongols haff surrounded Vienna und Viener-Neustadt, und Drachendonnerfels, her papa’s castle. Dot iss vhy he thinks maybe Mrs. Pollard iss a Tatar shpy. Und efen if der Great Khan iss dead, they are going first to conquer Italy und Burgundy und France und eferything. She knows this iss all true, because her papa, der Graf Rudolf von Kroissengrau, has been told by Thorfinn Thorfinnson, who iss a great man in his own country und a general also, chust like you, only she says shtronger und more handsome.”
The general’s eyes rolled. His nostrils flared. He began pacing up and down. “We can’t just sit here and—and watch Western Civilization founder under us. Never! Those people need a leader and one who understands the use of modern cavalry. Papa, your time machine is a godsend to the Thirteenth Century. Let us leave at once!”
“But my machine has room only for me und lidtle Ermintrude,” demurred its inventor.
“Then I must ride it back. She can come with me.”
“Soldier boy, you do not understand. First, you must know how to ride.”
“I don’t know how to ride?”
“Not a time machine,” said Papa Schimmelhorn, “efen if it looks like a horse. You vill haff to practice a lidtle at a time, first maybe chust to yesterday or tomorrow.”
Abruptly, General Pollard realized that no training manual on the mastery and management of time machines had yet been issued. “There’s certainly no way to mount more than two on your device,” he admitted reluctantly, “unless, of course, Ermintrude could sit sideways on my lap?”
“How about me?” put in Bluebelle aggressively.
“You?”
“Me. Look, Gen’ral, sir, if you go kitin’ off to save Europe from them Mongrels, it’s goin’ to take you quite a spell. Pore little Mrs. P.’s gonna get stuck back there with yer, and stayin’ with all them counts and dukes and what-alls, she’ll need more’n jest shorts and a halter. She’ll need me, too, takin’ care of her, and that ain’t all—sir, how’re you goin’ to get by without Sarjint Leatherbee?”
General Pollard admitted to himself that her points were well taken. Mrs. Pollard would undoubtedly want to cut a figure worthy of him in the social whirl of Drachendonnerfels Castle, and certainly he had not gotten by without his combined chauffeur and orderly, farrier, and confidant for many years.
“And perhaps, Mrs. Bottomley,” he growled, “you have thought of a way to take us all back there?”
“Sure,” answered Bluebelle vigorously. “If you can’t get everybody onto a horse, you just hitch a buggy onto it.”
“We do not own a buggy, Mrs. Bottomley.”
“Nossir, but you got that pony cart you bought for yer grandkids. We could hitch it to this here time-pony smart as Sunday.”
The general, visualizing the vehicle in question, closed his eyes and shuddered. Then his sense of duty prevailed. “Can this be done, Mr. Schimmelhorn?” he asked.
Papa Schimmelhorn scratched his head. “I think maybe ja. In der car I haff some lidtle copper tubing, about tventy feet. Ve tie it all around, und—how vould Albert say?—zo ve can stretch der time field. I haff to pump die pedals harder, dot iss all.”
“Well, then!” Once again, the general was his decisive self. “Let’s set about it! Mrs. Bottomley, tell Sergeant Leatherbee to report to me at the stable immediately. He is to dust off the pony cart and pull it out between the stalls. I will give him his other orders there.”
“Yes, sir!” replied Bluebelle enthusiastically, banging off down the stairs.
General Pollard followed at a more restrained pace, and Papa Schimmelhorn, laden with the time-pony and with Ermintrude clinging trustingly to his arm, brought up the rear. He paused on the stairs to kiss her pretty neck and listen to her giggle, and then, when the general glared back reprovingly, marched on.
Bluebelle found the sergeant in his cottage just behind the stable, still in dress blues and drinking a tall beer. Rather incoherently, she told him all about the time machine and what had taken place; and his rugged countenance, rendered even more picturesque by the fact that it had once been stepped on by a mule, betrayed no emotion whatsoever at her news. At her mention of the Mongols, he did grunt, “Arrh—gooks!” and took another swallow of his beer. Finally, he asked her
if that goddamn old civilian really had fixed himself some kind of time machine; and when she assured him that this was indeed the case, he drained his glass, buttoned his blouse, and stood up ready for the fray. “Now that’s real nice,” he commented as they headed for the stable after he had left word with Mrs. Leatherbee to hold the fort while he was gone. “Mebbe he can run me back to Ringgold, back in ’37. Hank Hokinson—he was the topkick for old F Troop—he owed me pretty near eleven bucks from poker. Got himself killed off before I could collect.”
Bluebelle gave him a hand dusting the pony cart, and everything was ready when Papa Schimmelhorn appeared, having located his coil of copper tubing in the back seat of the Stanley Steamer. As he began to putter with it, General Pollard briefed the sergeant once again in concise military terms.
Sergeant Leatherbee listened, standing at attention.
“At ease!” said the general finally. “Sergeant, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir—” Pointing at the time-pony and the cart, which Papa Schimmelhorn was endeavoring to unite, he hesitated. Then, “General, sir,” he blurted. “With the general’s permission, sir, it just ain’t right for the general to be riding in that hickus! It—sir, it ain’t dignified. Sir, I could saddle up Mrs. Roosevelt with your field saddle, and you could ride right alongside of us.”
At the mention of his favorite bay mare, the general groaned. The pony cart had a tubby wicker body, reached by two metal steps and an opening in the back. Its seats, arrayed around its sides, were perhaps adequate for children. Even by itself, it was scarcely a vehicle for a ranking general officer.
“Papa,” said General Pollard wistfully, “would it be at all possible?—I mean, could I ride alongside?”
“Nein, soldier boy,” replied Papa Schimmelhorn. “I haff not enough copper tubing, und anyhow maybe Mrs. Roosevelt vould not hold shtill.”
The general squared his shoulders. “Our duty to Western Civilization,” he declared heroically, “is more important than mere appearances. Let us proceed!” He looked at his watch. “Be ready to move out in half an hour. Full field uniform, rations for at least a week, first aid supplies, side-arms. And boots and spurs, Sergeant—in that century we very well may have to function mounted.”
“Yes, sir!” barked Sergeant Leatherbee. “I’ll pass the word to my old lady.”
“Mrs. Bottomley, please get together all the clothes and trinkets you believe Mrs. Pollard may require. And Mr. Schimmelhorn, if you need any additional equipment, please say so now.”
“I take maybe two or three cuckoo clocks, but already I haff them in der car.”
“Cuckoo clocks?”
“Ja.” Papa Schimmelhorn winked at him. “Dot iss vun reason Cleopatra thinks I am a god.”
He went back to the congenial task of hitching the time pony and the pony cart together with the copper tubing (which now began and ended in the box containing the pedal-driven mechanism) and with odds and ends of leather straps and latigos, which he fastened to the shafts and to a miscellany of loose ends. And General Pollard, after one last unhappy look at the contraption, went off to array himself for his great task.
Half an hour later, all was ready. Bluebelle, in her Sunday best, had packed two suitcases and an overnight bag. Sergeant Leatherbee, booted, spurred, helmeted, and under arms, had loaded the specified supplies into the pony cart, together with a few quarts of the general’s bourbon and a case of ale, while Mrs. Leatherbee watched disapprovingly. Papa Schimmelhorn had brought three cuckoo clocks in their cardboard cartons from the Stanley Steamer, and had demonstrated one of them to Ermintrude. Finally and magnificently, the general had put in his appearance. He wore his World War II helmet, to which his five stars had subsequently been attached, and his pre-World War II leather field belt, from which hung, not just his service pistol, but also the splendid sword of honor presented to his grandfather by the grateful citizens of Fredericksburg, and he had not forgotten his binoculars.
He regarded his command approvingly. “Report, Sergeant!”
“All present or accounted for, sir!”
“Very well. We shall dispense with an inspection. Papa Schimmelhorn, you may stand to horse. Sergeant Leatherbee will ride behind you, and Miss Ermintrude in the cart with Mrs. Bottomley and me. At my command, we shall—”
At this point, he was interrupted by a torrent of words from Miss Ermintrude, to whom Papa Schimmelhorn had whispered a running translation. She would not ride back there with that old man—she did not trust him. She wished to ride pillion behind the great magician, who was so nice and strong—
The general got the message, and gave in with ill grace. Bluebelle snickered rudely from her seat among the bags. The general, summoning all his dignity, stepped up into the vehicle and sat down next to her, his knees almost to his chin; and he was followed by the sergeant. Papa Schimmelhorn and Ermintrude mounted the time-pony.
“Move out!” commanded General Pollard.
“Yoicks!” shouted Bluebelle. “Tally-ho!”
One of the cuckoo clocks spoke its piece raucously four times.
Then all of them, the time-pony, and the cart wavered momentarily, turned vaguely purple, and disappeared.
* * * *
While the Lady Ermintrude had tried to tell the simple truth when she said she had touched none of the controls, she was mistaken, for her gown, in mounting, had flicked at one of them. Therefore poor Camellia Jo Pollard had to endure a difficult few minutes which she otherwise would have been spared.
When she and the time machine first appeared in the great hall of Drachendonnerfels Castle, her consternation was no greater than that of the multitude assembled there. She looked around her, at swords and spears and chain mail and ferocious faces, and panicked. She leaped from the machine, darted left and right, uttered a bloodcurdling cry, was attacked by a great slavering hound, took refuge behind a vast bearded blond man with a horned helmet on his head, was seized at someone’s order by two knights, and then was set upon by a mitered archbishop with shrewd eyes, who seemed determined, at one and the same time, to question her and exorcise her. It was in this confusion that Ermintrude rashly made off on the magic horse—which did nothing to improve matters. Ermintrude’s father, Graf Rudolf, red-faced and whiskered and mighty as a beer barrel, strode down from his high seat through the crowd and demanded what she had done with his beloved daughter. The archbishop at once cautioned him against being too rude to a witch who, as they had seen, possessed unknown and terrible powers. And Mrs. Pollard, understanding none of this, and seeing that he was apparently a man of God, burst into tears, dropped to her knees before him, implored him to save her, and kissed his crucifix—which was, of course, the best thing she could have done, for instantly those present were split into two factions, one still afraid she was a wicked witch and doubtless a Tatar agent, the other sure she was a good witch sent by God to save them from the enemy. Tumult raged; some arguing loudly that they should waste no time in dragging her before the torturers, others that they should give her gifts, feed her with rich meats, and otherwise seek to win her favor. Several women shrieked. Then the archbishop placed his right hand protectingly upon her head and pointed out that wicked witches did not kiss crucifixes and argued wisely that any ill-advised decision might not only lose them a powerful ally, but also endanger the missing Ermintrude.
And at that point, the magic horse returned.
It returned dramatically. In that unreal pearly shimmer which is time travel, when the whole universe seems to consist only of the travelers and their time machine, General Pollard had been alarmed by an idea. “Papa!” he shouted. “How do we know there won’t be other people? I mean, or things? There in the hall, in the same space where we’ll appear?”
“Don’t vorry, soldier boy!” Papa Schimmelhorn shouted back. “Dot iss impossible. Und anyhow der crystal in der box makes a vibra
tion, zo efery body alvays iss sheared avay! Also, this time ve—how do you say?—ve try to jell a lidtle shlowly, und chust before they see us maybe you shoot der pistol vunce or tvice in der air.”
“See to it, Sergeant Leatherbee,” the general said.
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant drew his pistol. “Soon as Mr. What’s-his-names gives the word.”
Around them, the great hall of Drachendonnerfels became vaguely visible. Instinctively, part of the crowd was’ giving way.
“Ve can see, but for a second they cannot see us,” said Papa Schimmelhorn. “Now qvickly mitt der pistol—”
Sergeant Leatherbee clicked the safety off.
“Shoot!”
The .45 roared three times in the hall.
And there they were.
Hubbub surrounded them: the shouts of men, the screams of women, the howling of assorted dogs, clashes of steel.
Instantly, the Lady Ermintrude jumped from the time-pony, seized Papa Schimmelhorn’s huge hand to drag him with her, and darted to her father where he stood, sword half drawn, in front of them.
“Ermintrude!” he bellowed joyfully, embracing her. “You are safe?”
And Ermintrude assured him that she was, that she had been treated like a queen by the nice magician she was clinging to, whom she had thought was Prester John, but who insisted he was only Graf von Schimmelhorn—though he had a magic castle far away where they used fresh water for the strangest purposes—and he was going to save them from the Tatars, and—
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