THE BETTER PART OF VALOR - Morgan Mackinnon

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doesn’t ascribe to marriage. So what to do?

      “At present, I am not sure. I hope to keep him in this time long enough for him to understand how society has changed in this regard and how he would not be ruining his entire life by, you know, dating a nice girl, and…but I’m going to be going against standards he’s lived with all his life.”

      If Rick Berstem hadn’t noticed how Cresta’s professional tone suddenly veered off into teenage girl, Jim Sanford had. He thought they had the gist of the issue, but she would have to be the one to find a way to integrate Keogh with his mission.

      She also had two more things with regards to the questions Berstem asked at the beginning of her talk.

      “You asked how he will react to the explanations. We’ve already talked to him. I think he was receptive. He has a college education, majored in Classics, and his writing and grammar are impeccable, so he’s obviously very bright.”

      For reactions, she would have predicted he would listen to them calmly and then, just as calmly, ask what the next steps would be. As a commander of cavalry, a man had to be, if nothing else, coolheaded and despite a reputation for being reckless with his own life, Keogh had always made careful levelheaded decisions when it involved the lives of his men. Her predictions were right on.

      “What I propose to do with him right now is to get him acclimated to time here and then take him on a road trip. Take him to some Civil War battlefields where he saw action and perhaps to the Little Bighorn where he will die. I’ll have to make that call later, but it might be enough of a psychological kick in the pants to get him to understand what’s at stake here.”

      “Cresta? You said there was one other thing. What’s that?”

      “Oh, yes. Well, Myles and I had dinner at the Captain’s table on the City of Paris the fifth night out. Seated at the table was a gentleman I will describe as a snake-oil salesman who called himself Master of Illusion. Think of Terry-Thomas with a handlebar moustache. He never gave a name and seemed to be quite fond of drinking, smoking, playing cards, and propositioning young ladies who frequented the after-hours gentleman’s only club. He never told me his real name, but he made several hints during my conversation with him that suggests he had knowledge of the future. For instance, one day, he and I were having a drink in the reading and writing lounge, and he said it would be such a shame this April crossing if the ship were to encounter an iceberg and sink. He also made references to flying.”

      Sanford asked her a question. “What if the whole conversations were what-ifs? I could sit here today and joke about an igloo on Mars, and maybe in two hundred years, humans will have igloos on Mars.”

      There was a brief pause as Cresta opened her journal and checked her notes. “There were other anachronisms as well. First, he mentioned how fond he’d been of the Brownings and then told me Robert Browning was the first one to record his voice on an Edison wax cylinder and that’s true…except Browning did that right before he died in eighteen eighty-nine. Another thing is that the Master of Illusion mentioned King’s Dominion. The theme park didn’t open until nineteen seventy-five.”

      There was a quarter now being displayed in her palm. “He sure wasn’t joking about this. He gave it to me right before he vanished. No, it is not mine. I have kept this quarter secreted in my corset since then. I took nothing modern with me to the past other than my makeup kit, my retrieval device, and my notebook, but I knew I would have to bring this back. I can’t make you believe that, and you don’t have to, but here it is.”

      Sanford and Berstem looked a little shaken.

      “What’s your gut feeling?”

      She handed the quarter to Sandford. “I’ll let you worry about this, but it seems to me there may be someone else out there who is out of his time. Or someone who may not belong on Earth at all. He virtually disappeared. Said some odd things like me not being too hard on the Captain because we’d need each other before the end. Freaked me out then and it still does. Before the end of…what?”

      Chapter 21

      Cresta was just finishing up with Secretary Berstem and Dr. Sanford when George Montoya returned to the office. He was happy, declared a successful outfitting excursion, and dutifully reported he’d dropped the Colonel and his pile of purchases off at Cresta’s home.

      “By God, Cresta. That Colonel of ours is a damned fine man! He’s smart and adaptable. We hit three men’s stores and purchased him a wardrobe so extensive it should cover all the bases. Even bought him a formal black suit although he might not need it. Do you know he didn’t know what a zipper is? All the trousers in his day were fastened with buttons. Can you imagine? Listen, as far as underwear goes, he’s used to what I can only call a union suit but was willing to try out a midthigh-length brief. At least it’s something. Now. He didn’t like Levi’s. Liked khakis and cords but…we had an issue with footwear. Does not like sneakers. Likes boots. We bought him five pairs of boots. Short boots in black and brown. A pair of high black boots I can only describe as riding boots. Two pairs of tough-man boots…knee-high but with those straps and rings and things around the arch and heel. My point is, he got the narrow-legged or slim trousers so he can wear the boots on the outside of the pants. Like he did in the army. I was thinking it was too old-fashioned until I saw women shoppers going crazy over the look. I’d get some for myself, but I’m afraid I’d look like Santa Claus.”

      Montoya was digging in his jacket pocket for receipts he handed to Sandford. “One pair of dress shoes in black. Oh, and I got him two pairs of Bermuda shorts, although he says they would be immodest and vows he won’t wear them. That part is up to you, Cresta. Let me think. Socks, of course. A dressing gown. I got him a couple of leisure-loungewear two-piece things, and he’s okay with those. With his approval, we settled on a leather and sheepskin coat, which cost plenty, and a regular parka for winter. Um, if he’s here that long.”

      Cresta was pleased with the progress. “Did you feed him lunch?”

      “Oh, yeah. I took him to Flanagan’s, that Irish bar up on Delancey? He loved the place. We had corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, soda bread, and whiskey. Our guy does like his whiskey. Especially Jameson. Did you know that corned beef and cabbage isn’t Irish? I feel sort of let down. He liked it but said it’s not traditional in Ireland. We talked, and he told me stories about how the Union Army constructed these pontoon bridges over rivers during the Civil War so they could transport mule-drawn carts with ammunitions and provisions, not to mention troops. Good engineering for that day and age. In fact, it’s a miracle how both armies conducted a war that required movement of troops, supplies, munitions, cavalry…all with a fair amount of precision. They even developed a hot-air balloon to use for surveillance.”

      Cresta closed her eyes. Good Lord. The project’s chief engineer had just taken their Irish Lieutenant Colonel to an Irish bar and fed him God-knows-how-much whiskey. Brilliant. She’d best get home as quick as she could.

      When she got to the farm, she found the Colonel mellowed out on the sofa in her library, flipping cat treats in the direction of Mehitable and Max. Since meeting this strange man the day before, both cats stopped their hissing and accepted that he might be a cat person after all. For his part, Keogh arrived at the conclusion these little gargoyles just might be cats because they did meow a lot. This morning, Cresta dressed Mettie in a pink sweater and Max in a striking black and white striped sweater. Keogh still found it strange cats in this time wore sweaters, and she explained again how this particular breed of cat had to be kept warm because they had no fur.

      Setting down her handbag and satchel, she inquired as to how Keogh was feeling (the answer was “fine”) and then had him stand up so she could admire his new outfit. Paired with dark gray cords was a light blue pullover sweater which made his Irish eyes even bluer yet. He was barefoot, and she applauded that because most of the time, so was she. For a man out of his time, he looked pretty good.

      “Okay, well, don’t forget we’re having Mother for dinner tonight.”

      “Ah. What are we going to serve with her?”

      It

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