Alex Scarrow: TimeRiders: The Eternal War

Lincoln belched. A real howler that turned heads up and down the street and solicited tuts and muttered disgust from a portly gentleman and his sour-faced wife as they walked past him.

He tipped his hat and grinned at them before congratulating himself on a world-class burp. He ambled drunkenly into the street, his long legs feeling as unstable beneath him as a pair of circus stilts.

He was just about to take another stride forward when he felt something grasp the back of his coat collar and suddenly found himself lurching backwards, flying through the air and landing heavily on the ground.

It took him several moments to comprehend the fact that he was lying on his back in the dirt and looking up at salmon-pink clouds lit by the setting sun and three silhouetted heads peering curiously down at him.

‘What in … tarnation! Who the …?’ he started to blurt.

‘Mr Lincoln?’ asked one of them. An Irishman by the sound of his accent.

Lincoln groggily struggled to get himself up on to his elbows. ‘Now who … who ishhh the infernal f-fool of a halfwit that … that …’

‘Are you Abraham Lincoln?’

Lincoln’s eyes struggled to focus on the face that had said that. ‘And … and who the d-devil … wishes … wishes to know?’

A much deeper voice rumbled. ‘Please confirm your name.’

Lincoln’s eyebrows arched as he took in the sight of Bob. ‘Good g-grief, ssshir … are you a man or a … some s-species of a grizzly bear?’

‘Shadd-yah! Liam, check out the mess that wagon’s making!’

‘Jay-zus! That’s a pretty pickle. C’mon, let’s get him up,’ Lincoln heard the Irish voice say. He felt a strong pair of hands grabbing him roughly.

‘I … AM … FERPECTLY … I mean … p … puh … PERFECTLY … capable of shhhtanding up by my … by myself. Yesh … indeedy. Now UNHAND me D-DIRECTLY!’

He felt the hands release him. Slowly, with a lot more effort than he’d originally thought he’d require, he managed to pull himself back on to his wobbling-stilt legs. The twilight world of New Orleans was spinning round him like a cartwheel. And those three faces, none of which he could quite focus on, still seemed to be looking at him.

‘Are you all right?’ The Irish voice again.

‘I AM FINE!’ Lincoln bellowed hoarsely. ‘FINE AS A … a … a … FINE as a goat in a briar patch! Fine as an OIL PAINTING!’ He managed a grin. ‘Ah’m asssh FIT … asssh … a … a …’

‘As a …?’

He opened his mouth. He was thinking of saying horse . But instead what came out was something that sounded a bit like bleurghhh .

The last thing he heard before the world spun on to its side and he passed out was someone saying, ‘Oh … gross, all over my shoes — charming.’

‘… 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, singsong, 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.