The Later Journeys - 2. Arrival in the night

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November 9, 2030, 11:00 p.m.


I have just got to slip out of here soon and get to a library, or Starbucks, or someplace I can plug in and type like a normal person. Writing by hand is just bullshit. But as long as I can at least use a well-hidden Bic for this, and not a goose-quill, I guess I’ll manage. It astonishes me how long everything took in the 18th century. Even the “running hand” I was taught looks like tangled spaghetti if I don’t take my time. Only meditation (and occasional commiseration through looks and facial expressions with W and T) has helped me come to the realization that time is a concept and nothing more. BF isn’t expecting me to hurry through tasks the way a 21st-century person would ... and for now, we are 18th-century people and that is that.

OK, so I’m relaxing, I guess, and will try to recall as much of the last couple of days as possible. And I really hope that at least one of the guys is doing the same, so it’s not all on me!

The coach arrived at 11:15. The horses were taking their time, clop-clopping up the roadway to the front door, and then Trevor passed his hand in front of the lantern next to him. He did it twice, and slowly. That was the signal I'd hoped to see. No blink of the light would have meant no go for the mission. The two slow blinks were just to make sure I saw them. But by now, they'd have seen my silhouette in the window anyway.

The door of the carriage opened, and Warren assisted the passenger from his seat and down the steps. I saw exactly what I had expected to see: A short, stout man with longish brown hair, dressed in waistcoat and breeches with clocked stockings and buckled shoes. Trevor came down from his perch and got the luggage, and little old me greeted the three of them with a hospitable and gracious smile. I studied BF’s face as best I could. He looked tired, but not confused or unduly alert. He was shown through this large cabin of ours to his guest room, and fortunately Warren was in need of the “necessary” out back, so he showed BF how to get there and let him use it first.

So far, so good. Trevor brought the bags in and then took the horse and coach to the stable. I worked to stay calm, knowing the first strange note to hit Dr. Franklin would occur when Trevor came back into the house and joined us at the table. We all agreed that social conventions could only go so far -- we were not about to exclude Trevor from anything from that point on. Dr. Franklin is a man of the world. He can figure out that many “Negroes," which is the term he would most likely have used in 1785, are well-educated, slavery is a thing of the past, and hopefully after the first 24 hours pass, he will come to understand that the world as he knew it would simply not stay that way. Tomorrow we have tentatively planned to start breaking it to him that clothing has changed, so sooner than later, I’m gonna be out of this damn dress and stockings and shoes and corset and all the rest of that crap. Bring on normal clothes that don’t itch (wool sucks!) and don’t restrict movement! Including my SPORTS BRA! Franklin can’t handle that, I’ll put on a jacket.

So anyway, back he comes with Warren. He was offered refreshment, apologies for the late hour, and what we hope passed for an explanation of what he was doing here. Warren used his real name (Dr. Warren Hopper), as did Trevor (Dr. Trevor Montgomery, who noted the firm handshake and no hesitation), and I (Dr. Jasmine Judge -- a little head tilt from Franklin there. No handshake, just a little pseudo-kiss on the hand). He doesn’t have to know about time-travel just yet, but it’s coming, and very soon. We just want to keep him comfortable and not alarmed for now. And the old early-to-bed thing seems to have been quite accurate because he showed no real interest in staying up and gabbing with us. Off to bed with him, goodnights all around and one humongous sigh of relief between Warren, Trevor and myself once his door closed. Of course, we sighed very quietly.

But oh. My. God.

We did it.

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