Clockwiser (9 page)

I frowned. “I guess not.”

I glanced at him in time to see hurt fill his eyes. “No! You do affect me, I’m still affected, very, very affected, it’s just...”

“My presence doesn’t shoot you off into the past anymore.”

I reached for Nate’s arm. “I’m comfortable with you now, in a good way.” I smiled hoping for one in return. “It’d be really inconvenient if we tripped every time we kissed. We’d be like yoyos flying through time.”

The smile I was desperate for finally appeared on Nate’s face. “Good point. As long as your flame hasn’t gone out.”

“It’s not out, I promise you.”

“Good. So, anyway,” Nate said as we started walking again. He threaded his fingers through mine. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you that I had a little visit from your cop friends last night.”

“Oh, no.” I squeezed his hand. “Was it terrible? I’m so sorry.”

“Relax, it was fine. I actually didn’t have anything but the truth to tell. The last time I saw Tim he was walking into your house.”

“I’m not a good liar. They could tell I was holding back, but it’s not like I can tell them the truth.”

“No you can’t, so getting back to the task at hand.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How about bungee jumping?”

“Bungee jumping?

“Yeah, doubles. That should get your heart pumping.”

“But you do remember when we return, it’s to the exact same moment when we left. All of sudden we’d be hanging upside down over a river or something. And what about Tim? We’d drop him, and he could be killed.”

“Okay, maybe not a good idea.”

I didn’t notice the Toyota pulling into the parking lot, but when the driver’s dark head popped out, I recognised Lucinda.

“Your mom said you might be here,” she said.

“Hi,” I said, realizing I’d left my cell phone in my bag at home. Then I saw her eyes, all puffy and red. “Lucinda? Are you all right?”

She burst into tears, “Josh broke up with me.”

I was stunned. “Since this morning?”

“He dropped by on his way to work and said he didn’t want to drag things out anymore. He met someone at UF and even though they aren’t official, he didn’t want to lead me on. He likes her now, not me.”

She let out a huge sob, and I wrapped her in a safe, non-skin-touching hug. “Oh, Luce.”

I felt badly since I was the one who’d pulled strings to get them together. Josh was a friend of Nate’s, and if it weren’t for me, he’d never have noticed Lucinda.

I appealed to Nate with my eyes.

“Uh, Josh is...” Nate’s face flattened out. “He’s just... he’s not ready to...”

Lucinda drew a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. “Thanks, you don’t have to make excuses for him.”

The three of us sat on a bench, with me in the middle, all of us looking kind of lost.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Lucinda hiccupped.

“It’s fine,” I said, though I was starting to get antsy about sitting around and not finding a way to get back to Tim.

Nate must’ve felt the same way. “But we really should...” he started.

“Oh,” Lucinda said, “I totally forgot about Tim. Oh my goodness, Casey, you need to get back to him. “

“The question is how,” Nate said.

Lucinda wiped mascara from under her eyes with her tissue. “Have you tried making out?”

“Lucinda!” I said, my face growing crimson.

She flashed me a conflicted look. “Well, it used to work.”

Nate frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “We already tried that.”

Lucinda’s dark eyes grew wide. “And it didn’t work?”

“Lucinda, please. I need stress. Nate doesn’t stress me out anymore.” Though this conversation was.

“Okay, let’s think,” Lucinda said.

“We’ve ruled out bungee jumping,” Nate said. Lucinda sent him a “well, duh” look.

“It’s not like it’s anything specific,” I said. “I mean, I’m stressed out about Tim and my parents already. Why isn’t it working?”

“Time travel is anything but predictable,” Nate said. He got that right.

Lucinda jumped to her feet, almost knocking me off the bench. “I’ve got the best idea!”

Chapter Twelve

TIM

You know that “fight or flight” impulse they talk about when you’re caught in a difficult or dangerous situation? It’s true. I wasn’t about to fight Sara Watson, so it was time to flee.

“I gotta run,” I said flashing Josie a disappointed look. I really wished for a sweeter good-bye. “I don’t want to miss my bus.”

“Bus?” Sara said to my back as I took off.

“Bye, Timothy!” Josie called out.

I overheard Sara tear into her. “What are you thinking? Do you really want to damage your reputation this way? Timothy Donovan is nothing like his older siblings, but then again, neither are you.”

Oh, harsh. I felt bad I’d put Josie in that position, but there wasn’t much I could do about it now.

I made a quick stop at the cabin to grab my small bag of personal belongings (thanks mostly to Josie), and then kept going until I hit the main road in front of the house. Willie was there along with most of the Watson clan. I stayed off to the side so I wouldn’t get in the way of their goodbyes, trying especially hard to be invisible when Sara and Josie finally joined us.

Willie received hugs and tears from Mrs. Watson and the girls, and handshakes from Mr. Watson and the guys. I got glaring eyes from Sara while Josie blew me a discreet kiss, and the rest gave me several pats on the back. The carriage heading for training at Camp Cameron, a rendezvous and instruction camp, stopped on the road in front of us, and Willie and I climbed on.

Willie took a seat beside James Whitbey and I sat across from them.

The carriage was pretty full and was smaller than a city bus by a long shot--shorter wooden benches, narrower aisle with a worn wooden floor and a lower wood framed ceiling. You could tell the new recruits from the old ones by the eager and nervous looks on their faces. Those who were returning had sober expressions like they wished they hadn’t gotten out of bed.

Not me. I felt like I was truly alive for the first time in my life. I knew more than most about the hardships to come, but I was up to it. I wanted to fight.

I tapped my foot and jiggled my legs, trying to release some of my nerves until Willie shot me a look of annoyance. I didn’t want to get on his bad side, so I stopped.

“How long do you think we’ll train at Camp Cameron?” I said to make conversation.

Willie adjusted the cap on his head. “They move the boys through fairly quickly. I’d guess only a few days.”

I hoped he was right. I wanted to get out on the field before I had to head back to the Watsons to find Casey. At least for a couple days, just long enough to get a few good shots off, maybe take down a confederate or two. Then I’d sneak away. Defect. Another sort of rebellion that excited me.

The carriage turned off the main road and down a long drive through a farmer’s field. The funny thing was, this was my turf in my own time. But here, I didn’t recognize anything. There weren’t any identifying landmarks. I had no clue where I was exactly, though I’d overheard the camp was somewhere near Somerville.

We came to a bunch of outbuildings and the horses stopped, letting out several snorts and whinnies to announce our arrival.

A blue-eyed man with a mustache and hair long enough to stick out from under his cap greeted us. He had golden buttons done up to the collar of his uniform and decorative stripes on the ridges of his shoulders that meant he was a fourth lieutenant or something. He stood with hands to his sides and though I understood he was in charge, it seemed he was just as surprised as anyone to be in his position of authority.

“Welcome, gentlemen. You are now officially part of the regiment known as the Massachusetts 13 Infantry under the command of General John Pope. You will be trained here to march and fight. The battle rages on, and you are now required by God and country to fight for the restoration of the Union.” He pointed to a younger soldier dressed in the same blue and grey uniform as me. “Private Jennings will direct you to the barracks. Training begins promptly at eleven hundred hours.”

Several long buildings, at least fifteen, stood side by side like gigantic loaves of bread. Private Jennings called out our names and barrack numbers, and I was relieved to be assigned the same barrack as the rest of the men on our coach. The barrack felt even longer and narrower from the inside. The wooden building had doors at both ends and bunk beds lined up along the length of both walls. The middle walkway was straight and narrow, like a long, singular bowling lane. There was room for a hundred guys, and it smelled like it. I wrinkled my nose at the lingering scent of body odor and bad breath.

These were built in a hurry. I could see daylight peaking through cracks in the wall as I picked an upper bunk near the front and climbed up. The thin mattress was hard, filled with hay or something equally unpleasant and bumpy. The blanket was rough wool, worse than the stuff my itchy pants were made of. Okay, so not the Hilton.

I studied the government-issued backpack full of goods on my bunk. I pulled out a set of the long, cotton underwear the guys around here called “drawers,” a button-down shirt, a pair of wool socks and one pair of wool “trousers.” Man, didn’t they know it was summertime?

Over this I was to wear a boring-looking jacket and pair of tie up boots. It was topped off with a cap deep enough to gather nuts and berries. Which was why it was called a forage cap, I learned.

I put the uniform on and wished there was a mirror for me to check out my appearance. I was sceptical and suspected I’d become a nineteenth century nerd. The jacket hung loosely, and the pant legs ended at my ankles. The cap was meant for a man with a larger head than I had.

I dumped out the haversack they gave me. Lots of goodies in there. A canteen, a comb, a sewing kit, and some kind of metal kazoo looking thing. I held it to my lips and hummed out a tune. It tickled.

A small book. I picked it up and viewed the title.
The New Testament
. That was part of the Bible, right?

A pipe and tobacco. Ah, now we were talking. I imagined myself encamped around a fire, sitting back, smoking my pipe together with the other guys. Male bonding at its finest.

I stretched out on my bunk. Even though it was lumpy and uncomfortable, I liked how I could see everything in the barrack from the vantage point of my head on my pillow--with the exception of the bunk directly under me. Willie and James took the bunk opposite the bowling lane. I recognized the guy next to James. He was engaged to Sara Watson.

“Hey, Henry,” I said.

Henry raised a dark eyebrow.

“It’s Tim, uh, Timothy, from the Watsons. I met you at the barn dance.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Hello.”

Henry wasn’t much into small talk. He set his belongings at the foot of his bed, then sat on the edge with folded hands.

I leaned up on one elbow and called out to Willie.

“Is it really that bad out there?” I’d heard some of the guys grumbling about the marching and waiting.

“Out where?”

“On the field, in battle?”

“I suppose it depends on what you mean by
bad
. I wasn’t particularly fond of being shot at.”

I hrumphed. Willie broke his arm in a fall. It wasn’t like he took a bullet. “But, wasn’t it exciting? The whole battle situation, I mean.”

Willie raised an eyebrow and James started chuckling. “Got a live one here, Willie,” he said.

Willie’s face darkened. “It’s not like target practice. Real people die real deaths. They go home in a box.”

Eh, loosen up. I flopped down on my back and folded my arms across my chest and worked to calm my nerves. I was ready to get this party started.

The next day I was hoping to get on with target practice, but the fourth lieutenant guy made us march around a big field instead. We had to line up in long rows, with our jackets and packs on, just like if we were marching in the field. One of the lieutenant’s peons would shout orders and we’d have to follow them, turning left or right, then straight or stop. Boring stuff like that. I supposed we would’ve looked impressive from the bleachers, if there were bleachers here. A thousand guys marching in unison like a huge band.

My head sweat under my cap and I melted under the stupid wool coat. My shoulders burned from the pack. I was more than relieved when the bugle sounded and we were dismissed for lunch.

After a so-so meal in the mess hall, a male-only version of a high school cafeteria with bad jokes and body noises, Private Jennings announced that the lieutenant was waiting for us at the armory building. Finally we were going to be given weapons.

A musket was produced and a whistle went up in the crowd.

“Yes, men,” the lieutenant said. “These are 1861 Springfields.” He ran his hand along the smooth barrel. “It’s thirty-eight inches long with a range of five hundred yards. Much more accurate than the 1855.”

An approving murmur ran through the crowd of men as we lined up to receive our new weapons.