Assassins of History- Transference Read online

  Lord Dendaras called for the Security Officer.

  

  I was so scared that I didn’t have enough time to even yell. I just backed up, came up on the balls of my feet (as I had been taught in Aikido) and extended my arms out in front of me in preparation for the attack.

  In the moonlight, I estimated the dog to be of medium build, about thirty-five to forty pounds, long-haired and not scared of me at all. He went directly to the attack. I put my left arm out for him to bite on. When he did, I plunged the fingers of my right hand toward his eyes. I must have made contact with one of his eyes because he yelped, let go of my left forearm and ran squealing back under the house porch from whence he came, shaking his head from side to side.

  With that blasted dog howling to high heavens, it was bound to wake the household and create a search to see what had caused the dog’s yelping. I had no time to lose. I began running toward the street that I envisioned would be there and, thank the Lord, it was. I entered it and began a steady pace to get to the western edge of town as quickly as possible. My adrenalin was definitely pumping and my leg was holding up. I ran four blocks before I started to give out. I heard a few dogs bark, but none came after me. I didn’t realize that there was a hill that I had to climb at the end of the road, which caused me to stop running.

  Nevertheless, breathing heavily, I kept up a fast walk. I reached the top of the hill. The road dead-ended into a farm road running north to south. I turned left on the southern branch and hoped to hit the main road going to Shepherdstown.

  The moon had gone behind a cloud and it was so dark that I almost missed the road I wanted. The only thing that saved me was stumbling in a rut on the main road. I turned right and headed west to Boteler’s Ford.

  I tried to keep up a fast-paced walk, but, after what seemed like an hour, which was probably only a few minutes, I knew I had to stop and rest or I wouldn’t make it to my destination. I found a tree next to the road, sat down, and leaned back against it. I felt something trickling down my arm. I was bleeding. This was just what I needed: a dog bite in the supposed 19th century without any antiseptic available.

  I took off my T-shirt, tore off an arm of the cloth, wrapped it around the place on my arm that hurt the most and tied it off. Then I put the shirt back on and leaned back against the tree. I hugged my upper body with my arms to generate some warmth and dozed off.

  I woke with a start not knowing how long I was out. I was shaking and knew I had to get a move on to keep from getting hypothermia. So, I reluctantly got to my feet and, feeling light headed but not nauseous, I staggered onward following ruts in the main road leading westward.

  I wanted to get to the Potomac River before sunrise and it seemed like it was taking forever to get there. At one point just outside of Sharpsburg, the moon came out and I could see “The Grove Planation” off to my left. This is where President Lincoln and General McClellan had met after the Battle of Antietam in 1862. I continued westward on the dirt road but saw few houses on the way.

  At one point in my journey, I could see a house off to my right and heard two dogs barking. I continued on my way, but I sensed the dogs’ barking was getting closer as they ran down the farm lane toward the main road. I stopped in the middle of the road. I couldn’t out distance the canine posse trailing me. The coming confrontation could signify the abrupt end of my existence. My wife or anyone I knew would never know what happened to me and no one here would know who I was.

  But suddenly, I didn’t care. Anger welled up in me from deep in my psyche. I was mad as a hornet and I was sick of yelping dogs attacking me in the night. I didn’t care if these mongrels were as big as Saint Bernards. I was looking forward to this battle.

  I looked down at the road bed. With the aid of the moonlight I selected two large rocks. Catching the scent of my bloody arm, my canine adversaries’ blood lust must have been aroused because their barks turned to baying as they broke out of their farm lane and raced toward me. I had just enough time to distinguish they were just curs and each ogre only weighed about forty pounds.

  This raised my spirits. At least I would not be facing indomitable hounds from hell. I allowed the reptilian portion of my brain full sway. I raised a primeval banshee squall and threw one rock with all the force I could muster at the face of the lead dog. It hit the beast a glancing blow on the right side of its head and it went down like a poled ox. The second mongrel, seeing the leader of the pack get its just desserts, thought retreat the better part of valor. It veered off the road to the right into a tree line. As most cowardly dogs, once they have been successfully accosted, they reverted from their hound-from-hell persona to the loud barking of mangy mutts. Even though savoring the victory, I didn’t wait around to see what might happen next. I couldn’t run any more. I was too tuckered out. I turned and continued tottering west at a somewhat steady pace as the dog’s barking faded into the distance.

  After what seemed like an eternity, I came to where the main road went straight down what seemed to be a steep hill. It was hard to make out what was at the bottom of the hill.

  I thought for a moment, but couldn’t remember where this road might have led in olden days. I said out loud, “I sure hope this is where I think it is.” Looking to the right in the very early morning light I could barely make out a very large house, possibly two or three stories tall. I suddenly remembered that this must be Ferry Hill, where Henry Kyd Douglas, Stonewall Jackson’s aide, lived.

  Scanning to the left again and looking down where the road made its steep descent, I remembered this was the road that led to Boteler’s Ford. So, I turned into its entrance and began the downward plunge.

  Just then, I heard some singing in the distance, probably near the bottom of the hill.

  Chapter 3

  The Dark Mage’s Log: Axeylon 5: Galaxy Date: 16313

  Agent 714, Jarlene, the security officer stood before Lord Dendaras in the throne room as he gave her orders in person. “Make a full investigation. Find Jarreal! If the infiltrator is still there, kill him. If he isn’t there, find him and kill him. I have an Astral Conveyance Vehicle waiting for you. You have only two ‘Earth 3’ hours until their dawn. Now go!”

  “Yes, my liege,” she responded, bowed, clicked her heels, about faced and marched out of the throne room.

  Once Jarlene left, Lord Dendaras thought, “Unfortunately, we can’t go back in time and rectify the situation. Apparently, we don’t have control of the infiltrator. He has no tracking device and no extermination code. Time is of the essence.”

  

  I skirted the road to the left, entered a tree line and crept down the hill paralleling the road.

  Soon I heard some slurred words in an off-key warbling voice coming closer. Eventually, I made out a figure on either a mule or a horse singing an indecipherable ditty at the top of his lungs. As the gloom of the night was slowing giving way to the early morning light, I saw it was a bearded man on a mule. He didn’t have a saddle, but just a horse or in this case a mule blanket that he had used for a barrier between him and his animal. He had his left arm wrapped around a jug, which must have contained some kind of whiskey due to his readily definable inebriated state. He had the mule’s bridle reins in his right hand.

  He stopped the mule in the middle of the very steep road and positioned the jug to take a swig. He placed both hands on the jug and started to bring it to his lips. He tilted his head way back, probably due to the container being almost empty. This realignment caused him to lose his balance. In almost slow motion, he flayed his arms, dropped the jug, made an attempt to catch the jug, hit the ground with a thud and didn’t move. The jug broke and what little amount of liquid that hadn’t been previously dispatched was quickly absorbed by the dirt road. His noble steed didn’t move other than to look back to see why the load he had been carrying had suddenly gotten lighter.

  I moved out of the tree line and approached the man. The mule must have been older than Methuselah because it didn’t eve
n move a muscle when I approached the scene of the unfortunate loss of his load. The reek of whiskey permeated the air and it wasn’t just from the broken jug. It was also from the drunken heap of humanity lying in the middle of the road.

  I put my hand on the man’s chest to see if he was still breathing. He was. The mule just looked back at me with a sort of quizzical gaze, if you can attribute human facial features to an animal.

  I decided to drag the fallen imbiber off the road to examine him further and tie the mule to one of the trees in the tree line. A plan was starting to form in my mind.

  I grabbed the back-country example of a boozehound by his arms and, after many stops and starts, dragged him through the tree line to a small field beyond.

  I kept looking at the mule, but it just stood in the middle of the road with most of its weight on its front legs and the hoof of its left back leg planted next to its right back leg in a jocular sort of way. It made no attempt to leave the scene. The mule seemed to be waiting on someone to tell it what to do. It observed my machinations with the sot, but did little else.

  Once I got the man off the road, I went back for the mule. I picked up its reins and pulled it toward the tree line, but it wouldn’t budge. I next grabbed the bridle next to its jaw and tried to pull it again, but to no avail. It was like one person trying to move a heavy stalled car by himself. I wanted to hide this animal as best I could because I didn’t know how many people were familiar with its owner and would recognize the mule if it was found riderless in the vicinity. This could lead to a search for the sot and probably me being incarcerated.

  I finally left the mule in the road and walked through the tree line to the field, which I hadn’t paid any attention to before. The field was full of head high corn. Each stalk abounded with young roasting ears, as we refer to them in Arkansas. I picked a few and started shucking them as I walked back to the mule.

  As I approached the mule, I believe it could smell the corn. Its ears shot up as it turned to look straight at me and it moved its back leg to a stance with its weight equally distributed on all four legs. I held out the three small savory ears of sweet corn and the resuscitated animal moved toward me. I backed up and it continued to follow me through the tree line. Once I got to the field on the other side of the tree line, I turned around and held out my hand with the corn. The mule came to me and I expertly fed the roasting ears to the lop-eared beast by putting the corn in my palm with the fingers of my hand beneath its chin. I had been taught this as a young city boy while visiting my friends to ride horses on their farms after Sunday church. The mule crunched on the corn to its heart’s content. I got its reins and tied the contented jackass to a tree. I put some more roasting ears on the ground in front of it and made sure the additional treats could be easily reached. Hopefully this would keep the munching hybrid occupied enough to prevent it from braying.

  The first part of my plan was accomplished. Now, I implemented the second part.

  I wanted to see what this guy was carrying on his person. I unbuttoned his coat and laid it open. The stench of his body odor that immediately hit me was sickening. However, I forced myself to rummage through his coat pocket (He only had one.). I found a few coins amounting to about $2 dollars. I had never seen this type of money so I took a few seconds to study the coinage.

  Next, I turned his trouser pockets inside out and found a folding knife, some twine, and a large key. On closer inspection, I found a longer knife that had a blade of about four inches in a homemade leather scabbard stuck in his belt. Taking stock of his valuables, I relieved him of his folding knife, which seemed to be pretty generic cutlery. His long knife looked as if it could be recognized so I discarded it along with his coins, twine and key.

  This part of my plan included confiscation of the sotted soul’s apparel and donning it to fit in with the populace. So, I stripped him of his coat and pulled his bracer straps (suspenders) off his shoulders and down so I could get his trousers off. I unbuttoned his fly buttons and taking his trousers by the cuffs pulled them off his body. His underwear or drawers were filthy. If I thought the body odor was bad before, now it was absolutely revolting. I didn’t want to even think about the stains that made up the majority of the seat of his undergarment. I unbuttoned the four buttons on the front of his shirt, which probably hadn’t been washed since Noah’s flood, and manhandled it off him. Finally, I untied his brogans’ (shoe) laces. They had so many knots in them to repair breaks that I wondered whether they could really be laced up. I pulled the brogans off his feet. His socks had holes in the heels and toes on both feet. The toes that stuck through the holes had some sort of red rash on them. Needless to say, I left the socks on their master’s feet. My socks would provide a lot better coverage and would be well hidden in the brogans.

  During this whole sequence, the drunken man hadn’t moved. All the jostling hadn’t elicited a groan, a moan or even a sigh.

  With the well-oiled mule rider’s clothing at my disposal, I began the monumental task of dressing in his paraphernalia. I took off my clothes except for my underwear, socks and T-shirt.

  At that moment, the stripped intoxicant snuffled and sat straight up.

  I was standing to the man’s left side. He looked at me and said, “Who are ya?”

  I yelled, “The devil incarnate,” and slugged him with a right cross that in his pickled state laid him out colder than a cucumber. A pain suddenly shot through my right hand. I moved my fingers and they were mobile, but they hurt like the dickens.

  

  The Dark Mage’s Log: ‘Earth 3’ Date: 18620911

  Agent Jarlene arrived on the scene and immediately found Jarreal. He was alive, but still unconscious and suffering from a severe head trauma. Jarlene placed the injured Jarreal in the Astral Conveyance Vehicle (ACV), entered the coordinates for Axeylon 5 in the computer, and returned with the comatose Watcher.

  

  For some unapparent reason, I looked down at the wrapped wound in my left arm. The makeshift bandage was held in place by some coagulated blood. I would worry about that later. One crisis at a time!

  The sky was starting to really lighten up and I wanted to get across the Potomac River before dawn if possible. So, I began to put on what looked like 19th century trappings.

  First, I put on the shirt. With my T-shirt as a buffer the shirt’s grime only accosted my arms. Next, I slipped on the trousers. The prior owner probably outweighed me a good 50 pounds, but was shorter. Once I pulled the bracer straps up on my shoulders, the trousers hung loosely on me, but they didn’t drag the ground.

  However, I could feel the dirty coarse wool trouser material rubbing against my legs and knew that it would soon chaff my legs badly if I didn’t procure some type of long underwear for a cushion. Lastly, I stuffed my feet in the man’s brogans, which were about a size too large. Needless to say, they were uncomfortable and rubbed against my heels even with the socks I was wearing.

  I stood up and let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Once I inhaled, I bent over and retched. The combination of the time travel, the panic attacks, the dog confrontations, the wounded arm and now my newly purloined and reeking clothes brought on a nausea that suddenly hit me.

  I straightened up and got dizzy. I put my hand against a young sapling to keep my balance. Then the thought hit me, “What am I going to do now?” I realized I was in a very precarious situation.

  A new thought barged its way into my consciousness, “How can I get back?” I stopped moving for a few seconds and pondered this mental intrusion. Unfortunately, all that came to mind were worst case scenarios.

  I knew I had to get control of myself and let go of these thoughts. I closed my eyes and descended into a slightly squatted Wu Ji stance. Next, I completely relaxed my body and took twenty deep slow meditative breaths. I gently straightened up and felt better.

  Suddenly the thought hit me, “Keep to your plan.”

  This thought snapped me back into my strategy. If I was go
ing to make a perfect getaway, I had to do something with my old clothes. So, I confiscated the drunk’s long knife and went into the tree line. I dug for a few minutes in the soft ground, which produced a hole deep enough to bury my tennis shoes, jeans and wrist watch. I put my wedding ring in my trouser pocket.

  I dropped the drunk’s long knife next to his half naked body, turned and hiked down the hill toward the Potomac River.

  I walked a few feet before a tree branch slapped me in the head. It suddenly dawned on me that I had forgotten the drunk’s hat. I turned around and went back to the disrobing site, but there wasn’t a hat to be found. I ventured back to the road from which I had dragged the stoned mule rider and there was the hat in the middle of the road next to the broken jug.

  I picked up the hat and put it on my head. It reeked of whiskey and was so large it pushed my ears down so that I must have looked like the village idiot. As an afterthought, I decided to pick up as many pieces of the jug as possible and get them off the road.

  Once back at the site of the purloined clothes, I threw the jug pieces into the field. The drunk was still out cold and the mule was contentedly munching on the sweet corn, so I headed down the hill to the river.

  I meandered down the steep hill staying in the woods until the foliage abruptly stopped. I halted and looked out on a landscape for which I wasn’t prepared. Before me lay about fifty yards of open ground that ended with the C&O Canal (Chesapeake & Ohio Canal). I had forgotten all about this man-made obstacle.

  When I had visited this area in my prior life, it was drained of water and there were only a few historical markers. Back then the canal’s towpath was used for hiking and bicycle riding. What lay in front of me now was a fully functional lock with a cross bridge over it and about four houses in the general area. Apparently, these houses were occupied by the people who operated the lock.