The Later Journeys - 9. Seeking

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So, the next day after the midday meal, we granted Ben’s request to go out and see the countryside, but during breakfast we reminded him that he was bound to be in for some surprises.

“The world has gotten much louder,” I began. I remembered a Twilight Zone episode from the 1960s, in which a scientist had manipulated time (with a machine, inevitably) to cause a Western outlaw to appear in midtown Manhattan, just ahead of the hangman. All I really remembered about that was how the visitor instantly pressed his hands to his head in agony and begged the scientist to do something about all that noise. We were lucky, as I’ve said, to be in a tiny, sheltered enclave, mostly surrounded by farms and the New Jersey Pine Barrens, but it really was tiny and one step in the wrong direction, at the wrong time, would destroy the most carefully constructed illusion that we were still at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution.

And so we sensibly decided to prepare Dr. Franklin for some of this. Yes, we told him, he’d be riding in the coach drawn by the same horses that had brought him here. He’d already been out in the daylight, so he’d be ready for that, but that there were going to be some very unfamiliar sounds. In response, Franklin gave us his now-routine head tilt.

“Horses and carriages have been upgraded,” said Warren. “Some amazing engines have been developed that burn fuel and make the wheels turn. No horses required. This came about not quite 200 years after you were born, sir.”

Franklin nodded slowly, appearing to accept this.

“Those engines are everywhere,” said Trevor. “Not only for smaller conveyances such as a carriage that holds four people or so, but very, very large machines with 18 wheels--”

“Eighteen? Really?” replied Franklin. “I should like to see something like that.”

“Oh you will; it’s only a matter of time,” I said, then ducked my head, feeling sort of silly tossing off a phrase like that in view of our entire situation.

“And, Dr. Franklin, the machines aren’t just on the ground.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Warren took a deep breath. “You may or may not have guessed what I’m about to say next, but we’ve developed machines with the capacity for flight. Airplanes, they’re called. Other types of machines called helicopters. Leonardo da Vinci may have conceived something like it. Somebody picked up on it and now they’re everywhere.”

“Different types of flying machines have distinctive sounds,” I added, thinking again of my childhood encounters. “If they’re very close, the noise can be deafening.”

“I should very much like to see such a thing,” said Franklin again, and I had a strong hunch that he wasn’t believing a word of this. He would require proof.

Fine. Whatever. I knew only that we had good, sunny weather and it wasn’t bitterly cold, so the guys went out to the stable to ready the coach. I stayed back with Ben.

I paused as we prepared to go out the front door. “I just wanted you to know also, Ben, that these --” I gestured down at my skirts and boots -- “are not typical garments worn in this century, either. We find them cumbersome and impractical. When you feel ready, we can introduce you to clothing that’s lighter, better suited to movement, and far easier to clean. But only if you’re willing. I mention this because there is a small chance we might encounter other people who are driving those machines we mentioned, or just walking along the road. Don’t be too shocked, all right?”

He looked at me for a long time. “All right,” he said finally as the coach pulled up, this time with Warren in the driver’s seat. Trevor hopped down from inside and started extending a hand to help me in, but I waved him aside. “Guest goes first,” I said. Ben did a double-take and looked dismayed at such a breach of manners. Trevor opened the door and led Ben to the steps to board. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him out of doors, even in bright sunshine, but the last time, I’d been answering his questions and anticipating others. This time there was less conversation.

It gave me an opportunity to really study him. He wasn’t looking at me, didn’t see me scrutinizing him. His hands were large, rough and scarred, with noticeable spots. His nails were yellow and tough. More discoloration could be seen on his nose and under his eyes. He was clean-shaven but there were stray hairs poking out from his chin, cheeks, nose and ears.

They were big ears.

This was an old man. An actor, perhaps, but an old one nonetheless. If this was an actor, Gerry had hit the jackpot. The set of Ben’s lips was precisely what everyone saw on the face of a one-hundred dollar bill.

He climbed into the coach slowly with more than a few sharp exhalations. It wasn’t a clumsy, hesitant slowness; rather, a measured, dignified one. Once again, this was not someone inclined to hurry. I envied him that. In the 18th century, it seemed there was all the time in the world.

What was our hurry, really?

*

“This really is a most handsome coach,” said Dr. Franklin, running his hand over the taut red leather seat, plump with its horsehair stuffing, as the wheels revolved faster beneath us and the horses transitioned almost to a trot. As long as we were alone on the road, Warren didn’t mind giving them freer rein. “Very comparable to some I’ve seen in London and Paris. And,” he glanced at Trevor, “you and Dr. Hopper are quite skillful drivers.”

“That’s appreciated, sir,” said Trevor, not bothering to mention anything about his limited overall experience and the rather intensive course he and Warren had undergone. We sat four-square, with Dr. Franklin facing ahead, Trevor and I side by side, our backs to Warren’s.

“Now,” Franklin asked, “these machine conveyances you mentioned. Have you ever ridden in one, Dr. Montgomery?”

“We both have,” I responded, wanting to make sure to be included in everyday conversation, with no assumptions that I spent all my time at hearthside. “We drive them, too, on a daily basis, and Warren has been known to race them.”

Trevor asked “How fast do you think this coach is traveling, Doctor? In miles per hour, let us say?”

Franklin appeared to do some calculations in his head; he gazed out the window and craned his neck to look at the road passing below. “Without slowing, I believe we could travel ten or more miles within the hour.”

Trevor and I nodded. It was more like 6 mph, we thought, but saw no need to quibble. “I ask because I wanted you to have a good idea of what those machines are capable of.”

“Automobiles,” I added. “Or, cars as we typically call them.”

Franklin smiled, evidently liking the word "automobile."

Trevor said, “The typical legal speed limit on major roadways is 55 miles per hour, but 70 is much more realistic in light traffic with no rain. Local roads like the one up ahead? 35 to 40. But race cars can get up to 300 miles an hour or more.”

Franklin looked positively dumbstruck at this. He stared at a point somewhere near the floor of the coach for a moment. “But...is that safe? What happens if there is an obstacle? According to an English fellow by the name of Newton--”

“Yes,” I said. “His laws of motion. Originally set forth by Aristotle. Car makers and safety experts are all too familiar with those laws. That’s why we have laws -- rules -- limiting what you can do when operating a car. For example, even this coach has a yellow triangle on the back, indicating a slow-moving vehicle. Motorcars need to yield the right of way. if we were in a car now, we’d be wearing seat belts. We’d all be facing forward unless we were in a limousine. And there would be airbags in the front, so that if we did strike something, we’d have a better chance of remaining in the car, instead of flying through the windshield. There are even more protections for children --”

“Wind shield?” Franklin interjected. Trevor picked up the thread and described that, as well as mirrors, headlights, taillights and other basic features of a car.

“And the tires are rubber,” he concluded, “Not iron.”

“None of us would be legally permitted to operate a car without an official license,” I said. “Break the law, and you can lose your license, or your life. One of the worst things you can do is be caught under the influence of spirits when you’re behind the wheel.”

“‘Behind’ the wheel?” queried Franklin. “We would not be above the wheels as we are now?”

“The steering wheel,” Trevor explained, initiating a new round of exposition.

We continued on our quiet way, seeing nothing unusual. Then Franklin said “Are we near the inn?”

“The Flatiron?” I asked, looking at Trevor, wondering what this was about.

Trevor responded by tapping the seat where Warren sat to get his attention. Warren slacked the reins and Trevor raised himself up to speak with him. A moment later, Trevor sat down again.

“We’re near it; it’s maybe half a mile from here.”

“Might we go there?” asked Franklin.

What could we say? Trevor passed the request to Warren and he flicked the reins again.

I kept looking out the window, now hoping to see something out of the ordinary. Anything that could distract Ben from this new notion of his. I was terribly afraid of what would happen when we arrived at the Flatiron, now known as the Pine Branch.

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