before continuing. “The enemy used them as pawns to escape. The U.S. finally won the war, but there were more casualties than there were supposed to be. Many of the casualties didn’t go on to do the things they were supposed to do in history. It slowed down the progress of the nation to the point that the Japanese became the number one world power and dictated trade agreements worldwide for years.”
“You got that all from a drone?”
Edmund smiled. “Yes, and our computer projections. It’s ironic. Because we did such a good job cleaning up the environment, we can’t put a man back there and must use mechanical probes.” As if to emphasize this statement he took another shallow breath.
“Because of horse waste and poor sewerage, the air was much worse in the 1800s than it is in your time. It’s so bad that we must send drones back. Well, the drawback with drones is that they can’t ask questions. They just can’t get that one-on-one that a person can get. We really don’t know what influenced Roosevelt to change his assertive nature.”
Bill nodded, “So, you want me to go back and find the problem and fix it?”
“That’s pretty much it, Bill. I can’t stress enough how important this mission is. Not just for my time period, but yours, too. The ripple effect will reach your time before mine, and the projections we are getting from our computers aren’t good for us at all. We might lose the First World War unless the problem is fixed.”
“I have to change history?
“No Bill, not change it, put it right. You’ve read the history books. Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill and became vice president, setting himself up for the presidency.” The young time traveler closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled slowly before he went on. “Since we first started sending back probes, we’ve discovered that there’s a possibility that events can change unless we help. I mean, we know how it’s supposed to turn out, so when we see it deviating, we have to step in and help straighten it out.”
Bill said, “Hence, the 1800 Club.”
“Right,” Edmund responded with open hands. “Your members are students of that time period, as you are. You were an easy choice to go back and help Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address when it wasn’t happening. Plus, when the club’s president decided to retire, you became the logical choice to replace him.”
Bill pressed his visitor. “How much time do I have?”
“As soon as you can. It just has to be done right. As you know, we can’t let Roosevelt get wind of the fact that you’re from his future. There’s a chance he’d start doubting himself, thinking that all he achieved was credited to us. He’d lose his self-confidence.”
“I understand,” Bill, said with a nod, “Prescott explained it to me before he retired. Coax them, but let them take the lead.”
“As long as the lead brings them to where history says they went.”
Edmond got up unsteadily. Bill took his arm and asked, “Okay?”
The young man from the future smiled weakly. “Just a little woozy. It’s hard for me to get used to this time period. If you need anything from us, do you know how to get in touch?”
Bill nodded, as he opened the door. “Yes, I press ‘CALL’ on the Time Frequency Modulator.” Or if I’m in the field, use the text communicator. Prescott said you guys are pretty quick to respond.”
“We always have someone assigned to watch for a call or text message. It’s pretty important to all of us. I know you understand.”
“Yep, I do. After dinner, I’m going to do some research on Roosevelt, identify the main crossroads of his life and try to find the change point.”
The two men shook hands. Then, as Edmund started out the door toward the future, Bill called to him. “Hey, give your grandfather a hug, kid.”
Edmund smiled, and they hugged.
At dinner, once again back in the ‘club time’ of the 1860s, Bill took a bite of his steak and thought dinner is outstanding. I’ve got to compliment the chef. He looked around the table. The club members were seated, eating and talking in low tones, mostly of the newspaper headline stating that some rebel troops had raided a U.S. military arsenal and made off with all the munitions.
Among this evening’s guests were the Border brothers who sat next to each other and were dressed in period evening clothes. Next to them was Thomas Cradel, a New York stockbroker. He said that he had made his money in the sheep and beef that he sold to the Union Army. Bill knew it was his great-great-grandfather who really made the money and that Cradel was acknowledging him by portraying him in the club.
At the other end of the long table was Colonel Charles Fedders. He was dressed in a U.S. Army, blue dress uniform with crossed-cannons on his lapel, designating him as an artillery officer. He was talking to Emma Walters who sat next to him. She looked exquisite in a long, red dress with opera-length white gloves and her blonde hair upswept in the fashion of the day. She sat with her hands clasped as she spoke to him.
“Colonel, if, as you say, the Union artillery is superior to the rebels, why don’t we just always make sure we have an overwhelming number of guns each time we meet them on the battlefield?”
The Colonel smiled, as he dabbed at a bit of gravy on his graying beard. “Ma’am, if it were that simple, the war would be over by now, with us the victors. We must have transportation and men to run the trains. We must have our Navy making sure the Rebs don’t sneak ashore and wreck our ports of embarkation. Our great factories must also make belt buckles as well as bullets and bayonets. All this takes away from producing field pieces. But, as I’ve said in my letters to Mr. Lincoln, he would win in a short time if we followed my plan for producing twice the number of cannons we are producing at the moment.”
“Surely you jest, Colonel. You wrote to the President? Pray tell, what was his reply to your great plan?”
“Well, I haven’t really heard, yet. He must be very busy with the war and all. Or perhaps he feels he should say nothing while he acts on my plan.” He leaned towards her, “Spies you know, Miss Walters, they can be anywhere.”
“Of course, Colonel: spies. We must be diligent,” she said with a smile.
Bill mentally congratulated her on the way she had handled a rather boastful Army brass hat.
After dinner, the guests followed Bill to a large room furnished with overstuffed chairs and couches of the period with a roaring fireplace as its centerpiece. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and their candlelights reflected off the well-polished wood floor. Matt served cigars and brandy as small groups gathered and engaged in their favorite pastime: conversing as though they were back in the 1800s.
Henry Osgood sidled up to Bill as he watched the members mingle. “Great dinner, sir. Why, I bet your kitchen staff labored for hours to prepare it.”
Bill nodded as he blew a large smoke-ring toward the high ceiling. “Indeed they did, Mr. Osgood, indeed they did.” He looked at his glowing cigar. “And a fitting way to end the evening, don’t you think?”
“Cuban?” Osgood asked, as he looked at his own glowing cigar.
Bill answered, “Yes. I had a batch brought in just this week. Lucky. The very next ship was stopped and boarded by a Confederate gunboat crew. Their ship and cargo were confiscated. It’s all in the timing, Osgood. Being in the right place at the right time, or in their case, the wrong place at the wrong time. Makes this cigar even more enjoyable does it not?” Osgood nodded in agreement as he took another brandy from the tray Matt offered.
Bill noticed Emma Walters as she sat with her drink at one of the tables, reading the newspaper. “Excuse me, Mr. Osgood,” he said, “I feel I must mingle.”
“But of course, sir, please do your duty,” Osgood said heartily.
Bill walked through the small crowd and stood over her. “How are you this evening, Miss Walters?”
She looked up and smiled. “Fine, President Scott. And yourself?”
“The same. May I ask what article intrigues you so much?”
She laughed. “I could say it was the latest f
ashions from Europe, sir, but, in fact, it is the timetable of the trains leaving New Jersey.”
“Leaving for where, pray tell?”
“California. That’s where the future is, I do believe. San Francisco to be exact.”
“Gold fever, Miss Walters?”
Her steel-gray eyes flashed as she answered with a smile, “Adventure, President Scott, adventure! I’d love to take a train as far west as I can, then finish by coach. Maybe see some wild horses. New York is too tame, I feel.”
“I’m sure the cowboys out that way would have their hands full with you, Miss Walters.”
“Indeed they would, President Scott. You should see the real me.”
Bill cringed inside. She’s going to slip up and speak out of ‘club time,’ he thought.
She put the paper down and stood, “I’m a quick-draw champion, President Scott.”
Bill put out his cigar as he looked at her. “Do you mean that you do fast sketches for a newspaper or other periodical, Miss Walters?”
She smiled at him, as her eyes flashed again. “No sir. I mean a quick-draw champion. A person that can outdraw another in the act of taking a six-gun out of the holster and pulling the trigger before the other person can.”
Bill’s eyes widened as he reminded himself to read up on all the members’ hobbies. “That is amazing, Miss Walters. I have never met a quick-draw champion. How did you come to develop that interest?”
“My father taught me, sir. He