The Eternal War

CHAPTER 11

1831, New Orleans

‘… he’s a pitiful sight, so he is.’

It was wholly dark now. Lincoln could hear the gentle lapping of the Mississippi against the hull of a boat nearby and somewhere deep inside his throbbing mind he figured out he was slumped along the docks somewhere. The sky above was clear and the moon high among the stars, casting a surprisingly strong silver light across the river and the city, now finally settled and still for the night.

‘You think he’ll be OK if we just leave him here like this?’

‘He’ll be fine, I’m sure. He’s a big boy.’

The voices were speaking quietly, not quite a whisper, but almost.

‘Well now, since we missed both our return windows we’ve got all of tomorrow to wander around and explore New Orleans.’ A pause. ‘So, Sal … what do you make of 1831?’

‘Totally bindaas! It’s so real! But it feels unreal too. Do you know what I mean? Like, I can’t really be back here.’ That particular voice, the female voice, had an odd accent. Lincoln couldn’t quite place it. He’d once met a Welshman who’d had a similar, sing-song, way of talking.

‘Aye, I still have to pinch myself. Sometimes I wake up on me bunk still thinking I’m in 1912, the steward’s quarters … and all this time-travel nonsense has been a dream.’

‘Me too.’

A pause.

‘So, do you want to see if we can find rooms somewhere to sleep?’

‘I’m too excited to sleep.’

‘We can walk around a bit. Or wait here until sun-up and explore. Bob, how long until the return window opens?’

A deep voice. ‘The twenty-four-hour window will open at four. The time is now six minutes past one in the morning. You have fourteen hours and fifty-four minutes until the portal opens in the Jenkins and Proctor warehouse.’

‘Well … I could do with a walk. It’s a warm night. It’s nice to be out of the archway for once.’

Lincoln heard movement and closed his eyes. A moment later he felt a gentle nudge, the grain sack beneath him shifting, and the warm breath of someone leaning over his face.

‘He still asleep?’

‘Dead to the world, I think.’

A chuckle. ‘Jahulla, it’s hard to imagine this drunk being the President of America, isn’t it?’

‘He’s still got a while to sort himself out, so he has.’

‘Information: the American civil war begins in April 1861.’

‘Well, there you go … he’s got exactly thirty years to sort himself out. Loads of time.’

A pause. ‘What do you think, Bob? Reckon we’ve patched up history?’

‘The target person is alive. History data files show that he will embark on a career as a lawyer in the next few years. Then go into politics.’

‘Lawyer? Shadd-yah! You’re joking!’

‘Negative. Not joking.’

A pause.

‘Hmmm … I could imagine him as a lawyer. He’s got the temperament. Argumentative, so he is. Anyway …’ He heard a footstep. ‘Come on, Sal, let’s go and explore New Orleans while we got the chance. He’ll be fine. We should leave before he wakes up. With a bit of luck he won’t even remember us.’

Movement again. Lincoln heard the swish and rustle of cotton skirts. Then the receding sound of footfalls down the wooden planks of the dockside. He opened his eyes once more and watched the three dark shapes: one a giant of a man, another a slender young man and the third a young woman. His mind was still foggy from the whisky he’d been drinking earlier in the afternoon, foggy … but still able to function. In the last couple of minutes he’d heard enough to make a feebler-minded person than him question their very sanity.

… 1912 … time travel …?

As a boy Lincoln had once discussed such an absurd idea with a friend — what if a man could speed up the turning of a clock? Or slow it? Or stop it? Or … even wind it back the wrong way? What if a man could walk in days past? Meet great men from history and talk to them. An absurd idea. A fanciful notion for their imaginative young minds. Yet … here it seemed to be, the very idea he and his childhood friend had playfully considered while resting in the branches of a sycamore tree.

Is this possible?

Perhaps in some far-off future time — 1912, for example — it could be possible. The ingenuity of man seemed to know no bounds. Every year it seemed a new device was being invented, new knowledge of how God’s earth functioned uncovered. Who knows what science men would be wielding like magic in the year 1912?

He eased himself into a sitting position. His head pounded as if some small gold prospector was at work in there with a rock hammer.

And what was it the much deeper voice had said? That he would be a lawyer? And one day … did the girl actually say it? Did she actually say the word president?

He felt a shudder of excitement course through him, blowing away the cobwebs of his hangover.

President?

If that was true, really true, if those three strangers did actually come from a time beyond his own and could know such things, know his destiny … then they would know how it would be possible that a poor fellow like him would one day lead this country as its president.

His skittering mind reached out further. Perhaps there was an even greater goal, a greater destiny for him than a life of politics. He realized it would be a far greater thing to be the only man from 1831 to visit the future, to actually see with his own eyes all the wonderful devices on air, sea and land that man’s ingenuity could create. He imagined the cities of this time full of towers of glistening crystal that prodded the very heavens.

I would truly like to see this future …