Time Travel Omnibus, page 254
Early looked up at Reggie as one of the underofficers returned.
“It’s all ready, suh. And good luck to you. Lee and the Confederacy will owe you an everlasting debt, suh, if you are successful.” Early held out his hand. Reggie gulped twice and forced a smile of confidence . . .
REGGIE had forded Cedar Creek astride a great gray horse, and was now heading for the camp of the Union forces. He was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the cavalry of the Grand Army of the Republic. In his saddle pouch, he carried several excellently forged papers.
A sentry picket of blue uniformed soldiers stopped him at a road several hundred yards from Cedar Creek.
Reggie forced a calmness he didn’t feel.
“Take me to General Sheridan,” he told the picket. “I have a dispatch from headquarters.” The Union soldiers looked doubtful, and Reggie had an unpleasant vision of himself dangling from a noose end, or standing before a firing squad. He produced his papers, and while they were inspected, resisted a wild desire to gallop the hell away from there.
“Can’t leave our picket,” one of the boys in blue said at last, handing the papers back to Reggie. “But you’ll find Sheridan stopping over in Winchester, about thirty miles down the road. He’s jest come back from Washington. If you could wait at our general encampment about a mile from the road fork, he’d be a-coming in about ten hours.”
Reggie stuffed the papers carefully back into his saddle pouch. Then he dug his spurs into the flanks of his great gray mount, and the animal lurched into stride.
“Can’t wait,” Reggie shouted back over his shoulder. “This is urgent!” And then to himself, he added: “And how!”
Reggie bent low over the neck of his horse, letting the animal have its head. He was riding hell for leather—toward Winchester . . .
IN SOMETHING around three hours later, Reginald Randhope, clinging to the reins for dear life, galloped into Winchester. And in less than five minutes he had reined up in front of the encampment to which he had been directed. General Sheridan was there, mustached and dashing, the picture of devil-may-care gallantry. And he looked quizzically at Reggie as he stumbled up to him and saluted.
It took Reggie several seconds to get his breath. Then he said:
“I come from Headquarters, General. I’m to accompany you, according to orders, to the end of the town. You’re needed badly back at Washington, sir.”
Sheridan’s frown was dark, and he grabbed the papers from Reggie’s shaking hand. After scrutinizing them for several minutes, he turned to an aide standing behind him.
“There’s been a change of plan,” he snapped. “They want me back at Washington. Muster out the troops, have ’em ready in five minutes. We’re riding back.”
General Sheridan turned then and peered closely at Reggie. His eyes traveled in keen scrutiny over the French uniform that Reggie was wearing.
“Are you,” he asked, “by any chance a relation to our Major Vanderveer?” Reggie swallowed nervously. This was ticklish going, he thought.
“N—no,” he stammered, “I’m not. None at all.”
General Sheridan wrinkled his brow and shook his head thoughtfully.
“Amazing likeness,” he muttered, half to himself. He turned slowly, but stopped and peered at Reggie again.
Reggie wondered with rising hysteria what was wrong. He squared his shoulders, straightened his uniform automatically.
“I get it,” General Sheridan cried suddenly. He grabbed Reggie’s hand abruptly and crushed it between his own two big ones. “I understand perfectly,” he said warmly. “We can’t ever repay your family for all the assistance they’ve given us. You had me a bit puzzled until I noticed your uniform. Good luck.”
With this the general wheeled and strode away. Reggie scratched his head in bewilderment. Was the general going loony? Reggie shrugged helplessly. It didn’t really matter. With Sheridan and his men out of the way it would be a great Confederate victory. He looked about the encampment and saw men saddling and mounting their tough, wiry cavalry horses. Sheridan’s command was ready to march—in the wrong direction. Reggie peered closely at the heavily bearded faces of the Union soldiers, trying to pick Major Vanderveer out of the pack. He wanted to see the chap once before he departed with General Sheridan and his men to historical oblivion. The door behind him was suddenly thrown open and a lithe, muscular figure, dressed in an unfamiliar uniform hurried by him and climbed to the saddle of a near-by horse.
Reggie choked back a gasp of surprise as the horse wheeled and its rider’s face was visible. He was too shocked to move or speak, all he could do was stare in dazed bewilderment—at the spitting, mirror-like image of himself, Reggie Vliet!
The image of himself on the horse stared at him in equal astonishment and then, as a shouted command echoed through the air, he wheeled his horse, and with a last look over his shoulder at Reggie’s open-mouthed figure, he dashed away.
Reggie shook his head unbelievingly. The likeness was too exact to be possible. The man’s bearing and features and expressions were the exact duplicates of Reggie Vliet. It was incredible. Like looking in a mirror and seeing yourself in different clothes performing different actions. Reggie came out of his dazed fog as he became aware of the presence of a grizzled veteran standing next to him.
Reggie grasped the man’s arm excitedly.
“That fellow who just rode off,” he said quickly, “Who was he?”
The veteran spat a huge quid onto the ground before replying. “Him?” he said querulously, “Thought ever’body knew him. He’s the Frenchie, Major Vanderveer!”
CHAPTER V
A Change in Plans
REGGIE digested this in stunned silence. He opened and dosed his mouth foolishly. It was strangely disturbing news. It was more than that. It was deuced astonishing. His reason told him that it was merely a coincidence, but his instinct was telling him otherwise.
Major Vanderveer, the man he was going to discredit, was his own spitting image. That much he could appreciate. But his conscience was pricking him at the thought of sabotaging, as it were, this chap who looked enough like him to be his twin. It was like cutting off his nose to spite his face—or something.
It was while he was brooding over these confusing thoughts, that a voice behind him said:
“Here’s an important dispatch for you, Major Vanderveer. Lucky I caught you before you rode off with General Sheridan.”
Reggie turned guiltily and saw a dusty, tired looking dispatch rider, standing next to a lathered horse. The dispatch rider, a slim youthful chap, was holding a leather-covered roll of paper toward him.
Reggie knew a painful moment of indecision. The dispatch rider had obviously mistaken him for Major Vanderveer. If he took the message he might be embroiling himself in some sort of intrigue or trouble. If he didn’t take it, the dispatch rider might became suspicious, do a little investigating, and the soup would soon be in the fire. Reggie took the dispatch.
He opened it after the rider had saluted and led his tired horse away. Enclosed in the leather roll was a letter addressed to Major Vanderveer, attached to Sheridan’s command. There were only a few lines to the letter and Reggie read them quickly. When he had finished, he replaced the letter in the leather roll and placed it in his pocket. His hands were trembling with excitement. The information in that letter had hit him with force of a bombshell. It was an astounding, an amazing revelation, but its authenticity was beyond question.
For minutes Reggie Vliet remained rooted to the spot, his brain churning madly with a dozen problems and complications. Then as the shock wore off, he realized with frantic desperation, that action, immediately vigorous action, was demanded of him. He had to ride after General Sheridan, stop him and send him back to meet the Confederate forces at Cedar creek. For it was of the most vital importance that the Confederate forces be defeated. They had to be defeated. And Sheridan and his men must share in the glory. That was imperative, too.
Reggie wheeled and raced for a horse . . .
REGGIE caught up with the rear guard of Sheridan’s forces in a little less than an hour. And in exactly three minutes of hard riding, Reggie finally drew up to the head of the column and alongside of Sheridan and his twin, Major Vanderveer.
“G-g-g-g-g-g-generrrrrrral!” Reggie blurted from his jogging mount. “T-t-t-thhhhhheee Reb-b-b-ellls have struck at Ced-d-d-dar Creek!”
General Sheridan instantly threw up his hand, and far down the road the entire column came to a halt.
“What’s that you say?” he demanded.
Breathlessly, Reggie explained. But all Sheridan wanted was the synopsis of what had happened. And now fire danced in his Irish eyes, and his handsome jaw was set. He wheeled his mount—his famous black charger. To his fellow officers and Reggie, he bellowed:
“Ride, soldiers, we’re going back!”
The next four hours were a breathless nightmare of anxiety of Reginald Randhope. Never had he been swept along on the crest of greater excitement, and confusion. Thundering wildly through Winchester, Sheridan and his men swept down the road to Cedar Creek, passing the straggling remnants of a retreating Union army.
Reggie, up in the fore, found his own steed matching Sheridan’s black charger stride for stride, mile for mile. On the other side of Sheridan, raced major Vanderveer, saber in hand, shouting lusty encouragement to the Union forces.
Louder, louder, grew the thundering of cannon and the salvo of scattered Union rifles. Sheridan had drawn his gleaming saber, now, and he held it high. Imitating the gesture, Reggie, too, swung a sword wildly above his head.
And then, led by their gallant leader, Sheridan, the Union forces on the roadway turned back toward Cedar Creek, strengthened in courage and determination.
The infantrymen were singing wildly, and Reggie heard their voices above the pounding of gunfire. “The Battle Hymn Of The Republic” was the tune those voices bellowed, and tiny icicles of pride and excitement trickled down Reggie’s spine.
Irresistibly, the dashing cavalry leader swept onward, and irresistibly, the infantrymen behind them followed up the charge. They were in the thick of the confused and shaken Confederate soldiers, now. Soldiers who had found sure victory was turning into certain death and defeat.
Reggie felt no sense of danger. He didn’t give a damn if a cannon ball hit him in the midriff. He felt as though he could hurl it back smoking. This was a new Reginald Vliet, a Vliet inspired by the very strength of the comrades who rode beside him.
And in one vast rolling wave, the Union forces swept over the field of battle. The Confederates now were frankly routed, and any semblance of order that they had previously had was shattered. Gray clad rebels ran for safety, and those who stayed to fight fell beneath the thundering hoofs of Sheridan’s cavalry and the bullets of Union infantry.
Bugles trumpeted wild retreat, and answering bugles screamed attack. And somehow, through all this, Reggie Randhope kept his saddle. Kept his saddle alongside General Sheridan and these newfound comrades.
AT last it was over. Infantrymen, still poured onto the scene, mopping up the last resistance of the boys in gray. Sheridan, still at the head of his men, slowed his gallant column to a trot.
His eyes were shining, and there were tears in them as he gazed down from his black charger at the sprawling bodies of boys in blue and gray. For Sheridan was a soldier.
And then General Sheridan’s black charger was beside Reggie’s weary gray horse, and he extended a gauntleted hand.
“Fine riding, Lieutenant,” Sheridan said.
Reggie choked up and couldn’t reply. Then Sheridan moved off, and Major Vanderveer, the amazing image of Reggie Vliet, jogged up beside Reggie.
“I say,” he said, with a puzzled frown, “we resemble each other a good deal y’know. I don’t believe I know you but I feel, somehow, as if I should.” Reggie grinned broadly. “You should,” he said lightly. He patted the precious leather packet nestling inside his jacket. The packet containing the all-important letter. “If I told you the whole story,” he said to the puzzled Vanderveer, “you’d think I was as nutty as a fruit cake, so I won’t try.” Still grinning, Reggie reined his horse away from the battle scene, and dismounted. He felt as buoyant and giddy as a school-girl. Success, complete and exhilarating, was within his reach. Everything he had set out to accomplish had been handled with dash and éclat. He felt once again of the leather packet within his jacket and then squared his shoulders.
“Vanderveer you damned old goat, put up your hands—here I come!”
And with a vast sense of accomplishment, an overpowering feeling of confidence Reggie Vliet reached down to adjust the dial on the wrist-watch-ish time machine.
Smilingly, he waited for the old familiar sensation of blackness to assail him. It would be great to get back. And it would be even greater to stay there—for good, and with Sandra.
He wondered vaguely how long he would have been gone by the time he returned. Wondered and then realized that barely five or six minutes would have elapsed. Maybe less.
“Pip pip!” said Reggie.
Nothing happened. And with a horrible dropping sensation in the pit of his stomach, Reggie realized that almost a minute had elapsed while he’d been sitting atop his horse, waiting to be returned to the Present.
And still nothing happened.
The smile slid from Reggie’s face. Frantically, now, he raised his wrist to his ear. The watch-like time machine was silent.
It was supposed to tick. All the time.
But it was silent.
Sweat in great rivers, broke out all over Reggie Randhope. He shook his wrist. Then put his ear to the watch.
It was still silent.
“Oh my God!” Reggie bleated. “I’m trapped!”
Reggie didn’t hear the sudden thunder of a cannon to his left. A cannon discharged by Union soldiers in celebration of the victory. He was too stupefied, too frozen, by the horror of his situation. His heart had turned to ice.
But Reggie’s startled gray horse had heard the cannon. Heard, and leaped madly, bucking Reggie’s startled figure to the ground. Then it was galloping wildly away, while the still terror-stricken Reggie watched it go.
Despairingly, automatically, Reggie put the watch to his ear.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick!
The jar to earth had started the thing working again.
Reggie felt like screaming his joy and hysterical relief as the old sensation of blackness closed in around him . . .
CHAPTER VI
A Vanderveer—And a Vliet!
REGGIE completed the trip from the Civil War to the Present in what he considered to be jig time. The whirling, rushing blackness enveloped him, it seemed, but for an instant, and then he opened his eyes to behold the familiar surroundings of the Vanderveer library.
Memory swept over him in an electrifying wave. He was back in the present with all of the evidence and information necessary to completely blast Colonel Vanderveer’s idolatry of his ancestors. One Vanderveer an out-and-out fraud, a traitor and villain of the first water, and the second illustrious Vanderveer—he felt carefully of the rolled leather packet in his breast pocket and chuckled triumphantly. It would be worth one million dollars to see the old goat’s face when he learned that—
“Pardon sir,” Lowndes’ suave voice interrupted his thoughts, “but I see you’re back.”
Reggie looked up at Lowndes and smiled.
“You bet,” he said happily. “Your time thingumajig worked like a charm.” He unstrapped it and handed it to him. “Be a good chap now and get me a change of clothes. I’ve got a lot to talk over with a certain opinionated old goat and I’ll feel better when I climb out of this uniform.”
TWENTY minutes later Reggie slipped into a well-tailored tweed coat and stared at himself in the mirror. Then he slipped the leather packet from his pocket and, with it gripped firmly in his hand, he strode through the doorway and down the carpeted stairway that led to old Vanderveer’s study.
But as he passed the staircase that led to the upper floors of the house, he looked up and saw Sandra descending. Sandra looking sad and wan, but still the blue-eyed apple of his eye.
“Darling,” he cried.
She turned to his voice, her face lighting like a Christmas tree.
“Reggie,” she exclaimed. Then she was running down the steps and the next instant his arms were around her. “I’m so upset,” she sobbed, “we can’t get married unless father changes his mind.”
“He’ll do that,” Reggie promised grimly. “I’m going to give that fire-eating father of yours his last chance to give us his blessing. Come along my dear. Chin up.”
“Oh Reggie,” she cried, her eyes shining, “you’re wonderful.”
Reggie took her by the arm.
“You’re probably right,” he said modestly. “It’s a pity, though, that your father doesn’t quite share your opinion.”
Then they were standing before the oak-paneled door that led to the lair of Colonel Vanderveer. Reggie squared his shoulder and shoved the door open and marched into the Vanderveer study.
The Old Goat was seated behind his massive desk thumbing through a thick copy of ARISTOCRACY OF AFGHANISTAN, or BLUE-BLOODS OF THE BUSH.
He looked up as the door banged and then he coughed.
A rumbling, ominous cough. His eyes lighted with the recognition of a man renewing acquaintance with a water moccasin. He opened his mouth and four flabby chins shook angrily.
But Reggie beat him to the punch.
“Now listen to me, sir,” he said grimly. “I intend to marry your daughter and you and your entire gallery of sourpussed ancestors can be hanged.”
Colonel Vanderveer eyed him with cold dislike.
“A Vanderveer marry one of your stripe?” he snorted derisively. “You must be mad. “I’ve given you my decision and it’s final.”
