Midnight Ride in Time

I stumble out of the haberdashery. They said the coat I picked up had just been donated, abandoned in a local alley or a similar story of the sort. I didn’t care to hear the story. I just needed something to help conceal my person.

I will say this coat may not do the trick. It’s certainly an odd style. It seems to be made of dyed leather—better black than my usual red— and there’s is actual metal built into it with the buckles. As I try to button it closed, I only find a few buttons—metal as well—but they’re hardly enough to keep it closed. Sewn into the edge of each lining is a strange flexible iron.

I do wish I’d listened to the story that came with this jacket, but patience was not my partner in that moment. Nor is it now. 

A horse trots down the cobbled lane, and I turn my face away. I do find that the adjustable collar works in my favor, though the garishness of the coat may draw more attention than it’s worth.

Perhaps I’ll discard it once I accomplish my heretofore assigned task, that is assuming I can gain entrance to the rebel barracks.

My face is not one easily forgotten. It usually accompanies the death of a comrade. That’s not my fault, I am simply a messenger of the King, his royal decrees, and the latest obituaries for the crown.

The news I have could be of utmost importance, though it may fall to deaf ears. These colonists, or Americans as some prefer to call themselves, are nearly as stubborn as we are. It only stands to reason since they are us, only removed by a sea and a newfound hope and taste of freedom.

As a habit, I pat the outsides of the coat, in case it might look like I’m concealing a weapon. With such sensitive information as I have, it would be absolute travesty to be fired upon before sharing. Of course, that wouldn’t be so pleasant for my self either.

I do notice a bulge in the right pocket of this peculiar coat, but it is of no concern for it is small and imperceptible to any soldier waiting.

I glance up at the hanging sign. It reads, “PHYSICIAN,” and I know I’m at the right place. 

I do hope I’m not too late. I don’t understand their signaling system, but I’ve heard lanterns are involved—a very traditional technique, but it will suffice. My current espionage will not soon be forgiven, but I don’t plan to stay in Massachusetts or even New England. This is my last act of defiance, and then I will travel west until I outpace the guns.

I’m told the doctor is trustworthy and that he has a man, what was his name? I must learn to listen in times of haste. Something of reverence comes to mind, perhaps a biblical name. I recite the gospels and all books I can remember in the Holy Word, but none strike my mind as accurate. 

I enter through the oak door, verifying the name on the glass insert as I do. “Dr. Warren.” Yes, that’s my man, though no his man, the one who will ultimately make known our…their…plan.

As I stand in what might be considered a lobby, a secretary greets me.

“Ma’am,” I interrupt her. “I hate to be rude, but my news is of utmost importance. Might I speak with the doctor posthaste?”

“What might this pertain to?” Her chipper voice replies. “Is it an emergency of the body or of the mind?”

“Once again, I apologize,” I say as I push by her. This is most obtuse behavior, and if I fail my mission, I will forever be shamed. And that is why I press on. 

“Sir!” she says, her voice somehow higher than before. “Doctor!” She screams. I imagine a simple yell would have sufficed.

Along with my clopping footsteps, I hear another set from further down the hall. I also hear the familiar click of a flintlock.

I stop near the door from which the shuffling emanates. 

“Doctor,” I try to say firmly, though my wavering voice betrays me. “I bring news that is of dire importance. I mean no harm or disrespect, only to warn you of impending danger.”

“Step away from the door,” a man’s voice booms, and I’m thankful that is all that thunders. 

“I am clear, good sir.”

The slide handle disengages, and the door swings open quickly. As expected, I stare down the barrel of a fully prepared blunderbuss, held firmly against the shoulder of an unassuming medical practitioner. Yet, I have no doubt the man knows how to use it.

“You have a limited amount of time to explain yourself. There are few reasons for such an intrusion, and I am within my rights to remove you as a whole or in pieces.”

Despite my excited nerves, I decide that I like this man, and that I’m doing the right thing here.

“I am here to warn you of something, but I must beg a private audience with you,” I say as I turn to the receptionist who is squatted under her desk. I also spy a man in the doctor’s suite.

“What are you wearing?” The doctors asks, and I have no response. I’m not sure I know myself. “Empty your pockets, and I will decide what happens next.”

My instinct is to back away and try another approach, but I’ve made it this far. I do fear that whatever object hiding in my pocket may work against me. I lower both hands from the “surrender” position towards my pockets.

“Slowly,” he says, and I abide.

When my left hand enters the pocket, I’m relieved to find nothing, though the fabric is quite elegant, like silk. Inside the right pocket awaits the real mystery. As I touch it, I recognize the coolness as some sort of metal, thought it—like the fabric around it—is smoother than anything of its kind I’ve ever felt.

“Sir, I beg your forgiveness,” I preempt. “I recently acquired this coat after growing sick of my latest crimson claddings. I do not rightly know what awaits in my pocket, but it seems wonder—“

I do not finish my statement, for the next thing that happens has me questioning all things and nothing all at once. For a moment, I speculate that I’ve been in a feverish dream all night. It would explain my ridiculous plan and traitorous actions.

However, dreams are never as vivid as this. The nearest feeling I can equate is like that of falling of a horse at its maximum gait, when the world speeds up and slows down at the same time while giving no allotment to thought or action. 

And like being thrown from a stallion to face the power of gravity and physics, my world goes black.

***

As I awake, I believe myself concussed. I instinctively pat myself to ensure I’ve survived whatever has happened. Perhaps the item I retrieved was some sort of weapon that prompted the doctor to fire. 

However, the jacket is gone and so is the smooth device I’d held in my hand only moments ago. In addition, I am as whole as I’ve ever been and only slightly vertigous. 

Vertigous? I question myself. Such a word doesn’t exist, so I’m surely not in my right mind.

The next thing I notice is the noise. I was only just standing in a not so serene but quiet office, and now there are strange noises from every direction. 

As I spin to survey my surroundings, it doesn’t help my lack of equilibrium. This is nothing like the place I’d just stood, and I wonder once more if I am dreaming or have been shot to the end that is death. 

A large machine thunders by, only a few meters from where I stand. Somehow, it is self-propelled, or has been launched. I see others halt, then continue, and I can’t imagine what sorcery or science would make this possible.

From another direction I hear something like music, yet it is constantly interrupted by abrasive percussion. It seems to fit a rhythm, though the sounds assault my soul like a chorus of schoolmarms rebuking in unison.

I see someone wearing my jacket—not mine, but the one I’d had one just before whatsoever happened to me. Surely it’s the same one, for there was none like it in the world when I’d found it. 

I pursue the man, though I learned from my last encounter to proceed with more humility.

“Kind sir,” I request, and the young man’s eyebrows crinkle. At least that is one familiar thing in this strangest of worlds; humans have such limited yet universal faces that had we not spoken the same language, I still would’ve know his thoughts. “I believe you are wearing my coat.”

“Whoa, dude,” the boy says, and I wonder what language he does indeed speak. Neither of those words match any of the languages I’ve heard.

“I think you got the wrong guy, man,” he says. I understand these words and realize he’s simply speaking another variation—albeit uncommon variation—of English. His accent is peculiar as well, though not too far removed from mine.

“I understand,” I lie. “Perhaps you could tell me what is in the right pocket of your jacket. If it is a small, metal-like sphere, then I will request it—and the jacket—back.”

From his countenance, I deduce that he is not so willing to check the pockets. Perhaps if I had a musket aimed at his pock-marked face, then he would do as commanded. I do wonder if he is infected or diseased, though he stands like a healthy person.

“Whatever, dude. If it makes you feel better, fine.” 

He reaches into his pockets, and removes them, bringing the silken linings out as well to prove their vacancy. Now, it is I who shares the universal sign of confusion.

“My apologies, good sir. Might I inquire one other thing from you?”

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Sure, man.”

“Could you tell me where I am?”

“Um, you’re just outside of Boston.”

I stare expectantly.

“In Massachusetts, in the Colonial States of Great Britain.” 

This much I know, though the name is a bit different.

“And perchance the date?” I ask, adding for good measure, “And year?”

“Okay, sure. It’s Tuesday the 18^th of April, 1975.”

And once again, the world fades away.

***

When I awake, I stare at a graying sky and thank the Creator that it has not changed.

It seems England was as mighty as she boasted those two centuries ago. I doubt my presence could have made any sort of difference, but the possibility of that midnight excursion haunts me. The doctor's man could have done something, though I doubt one man can change the fate of an entire revolution. What was his name? I really need to learn to listen while in haste. Something revered…Paul, perhaps?