My Troubles With Time (6 page)

I had just screwed the control panel back on when I felt a tap on my shoulder at turned around. A militia officer who had been one of my fellow diners on the previous night, saluted.

“Colonel,” he said, in broken English, “I am Captain Picard. Colonel De Porte presents his compliments. He wishes you to return with me immediately. General Trochu has invited you to come to his headquarters.”

I quickly considered climbing into the time machine and attempting to return to my own time before Picard could stop me. However, the captain was watching me carefully. By luck or design, he had placed himself between me and the time machine’s door. To make matters worse, he was a large man and I had little chance of overpowering him.

Regretfully, I concluded that I had no choice but to comply with Picard’s request. As we left the shed, I barked an order to the sentry to lock the door and to make certain that no one entered until I returned. Looking back, I was pleased to see that he was complying with my command.

With difficulty I managed to keep up with Picard. We reached Colonel De Porte’s headquarters. To my surprise, Picard halted rather than enter. An officer in a beautifully tailored uniform approached and saluted me.

“Colonel Snodgrass,” said Picard, returning the salute, “May I present Colonel De Grasse of General Trochu’s staff.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Colonel,” I said in French, returning his salute.

“The pleasure is all mine,” responded Colonel De Grasse in excellent English.

My surprise must have been apparent on my face. “I traveled to your country in l864,” he said with a smile, “During your lamented civil war, and had the opportunity to observe the operations of the Army of the Potomac. I have worked to maintain the fluency in your language that I acquired during my stay in America.”

“Shall we go?” he said, directing my attention to two saddled horses whose reins were being held by a militiaman. “Colonel De Porte has kindly offered to lend you one of his horses.”

De Grasse pointed to a large black horse, who was giving every indication of anger at being restrained. My heart sank. I had never ridden a horse in my life and had no idea of how to mount the beast, let alone induce it to take me where I wanted to go.

Before I could voice my concern, De Grasse strode to a white horse contentedly standing next to the black one, put his foot into the stirrup and swung easily into the saddle. He turned to look at me and seemed perplexed that I was still on foot.

“I’ll need to some assistance,” I said, thinking hurriedly. “The damned injury to my leg that I suffered during the war has made it difficult for me to ride.”

De Grasse looked down at me sympathetically. I was thinking about suggesting that I be provided with a carriage for the journey when I felt myself picked up bodily and placed on the horse. Greatly embarrassed, I looked down and saw that two husky militiamen were responsible.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to summon up as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. The reins were thrust into my unwilling hand. The hilt of my sword dug into my side. Before I could say anything more, De Grasse said, “Let us be off.”

I could think of no alternative but to comply. Fortunately, my horse seemed disposed to obey my desperate efforts to control him. I clung to the saddle, desperately hoping I would not be thrown off, as my horse increased his gait to catch up with De Grasse’s steed.

“While I was in your country,” De Grasse said to me, “I had the pleasure of spending some time with the Army of the Potomac at the headquarters of General Meade. Are you acquainted with him?”

My heart sank as I realized that De Grasse was eager for a detailed conversation with me about his acquaintances in the Union Army. This was the last thing on my mind. Not only did I need to concentrate all my energy on staying on the horse, but I had no knowledge of Meade other than what I could recall from the books on the Civil war that I had read.

To admit the truth, that Meade had died some 75 years before my birth, was not something I was about to do.

“To my regret, I did not,” I said. “My service was in the West.”

“Then you knew General Grant there,” De Grasse went on.

Before I could think of a reply, providence intervened. De Grasse suddenly pulled his horse up short in front of a large stone building. As I followed suit, much less skillfully, I saw that it was guarded by uniformed sentries. From the number of officers entering and leaving the building, I realized we had reached our destination, the headquarters of General Trochu, Military Governor of Paris.

De Grasse dismounted, returned the salute of the sentries, and handed the reins of his horse to one of them. He turned and motioned to me to dismount. With considerable difficulty I succeeded in getting off my horse without falling flat on my face and joined De Grasse. Together we entered the building.

As we strode rapidly down the corridor of what appeared to originally have been a palace, I unconsciously moved to place my hand on the hilt of my dress sword. To my amazement, my hand hit the scabbard where the sword hilt should have been.

I stopped and looked down. The scabbard was empty; my sword had somehow disappeared. I was sure I recalled the sword being in the scabbard when I mounted the horse; all I could think of was that somehow it had fallen out of the scabbard during the gallop to Trochu’s headquarters.

The sword, a replica of a Union officer’s dress sword, had cost me several hundred dollars, which I could ill afford to lose. It had taken me almost an hour of cajoling and pleading with the owner of the store at which I had obtained my uniform to persuade him to agree to refund all but a small part of the sword’s purchase price if I returned it in good shape.

My concentration upon the problem of my missing sword was interrupted by De Grasse. Becoming aware that I was no longer at his heels, he had reversed his rapid progress down the hall, and was now tapping me on the shoulder. “Please,” the Colonel implored, “General Trochu is expecting us. We cannot keep him waiting. “

I put my hand over the vacant scabbard to conceal the sword’s absence and followed De Grasse. We reached the end of the corridor and stopped at an office guarded by two sentries. The staff aide seated at the desk just outside the office door rose and saluted us.

“General Trochu will see you now.” he said. Clearly, De Grasse had not exaggerated Trochu’s eagerness to see me. I hoped fervently my meeting with him would go well.

De Grasse stood back, permitting me to enter first. I did so and was immediately struck by the size of the room and by the ornate furniture it contained. To one side of the immense fireplace stood a large map stand. It had been placed where the maps could be more easily viewed by the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows which ran along the side of the room. Gathered around the map stand were several officers.

Hearing us enter, they turned around. One of the officers strode forward to greet me, his handed extended.

“I am General Louis Trochu,” he said to me in French as I shook his hand, “It is an honor to welcome the distinguished emissary of the American Army. You are the first foreign visitor we have had the opportunity to entertain since the siege began.”

“The honor is all mine,” I answered, hoping that my response was suitable.

Trochu introduced me to the staff officers who had been studying the map board with him. The group was evenly divided between regular army officers and those wearing National Guard uniforms.

As I returned their salutes, I was struck by the fact that the regular army officers appeared to be on cordial terms with those from the National Guard, a sharp contrast to the animosity I had observed at Colonel De Porte’s headquarters. Later, I learned that General Trochu was noted among the senior officers in the Imperial army for the close ties he had with the Socialists and other political critics of the Empire.

My face reddened as I noticed one of the officers staring at my empty scabbard. I decided not to attempt to explain it, hoping that those who noticed my sword’s absence would ascribe it to a differing tradition in the American army.

The staff officers excused themselves and the General proceeded to give me a detailed briefing on the state of the French defenses around Paris.

“With God’s help,” he said as he finished, “We will be able to hold out until Gambetta can send an army to relieve Paris.”

I recalled wryly from my history classes that Paris would surrender to the besieging German army in just two more months, in January l871. However, it would be foolish to inform Trochu of that fact.

Searching my mind for something appropriate to say, I heard myself declare in a voice whose confidence astounded me, “The gallant defense of Paris by your forces has won the admiration of the American army no less than that of the other nations of the world.”

I congratulated myself that it was probably as close to the truth as I could reasonably get. Trochu seemed touched by my words, bowing to me and smiling.

I realized with a start that since I had arrived in Paris, I was comporting myself with uncharacteristic effectiveness. Apparently, time travel had a salutary effect on my behavior.

General Trochu then asked with a smile if I had any questions. I considered for a moment what a visiting colonel from the American army might have been likely to say under the circumstances and then asked a couple of what I hoped were appropriate questions.

Trochu nodded approvingly and replied in detail. As he finished, we were joined by De Grasse, who had left the room for a few minutes. The colonel whispered something to Trochu.

The General turned to me. “Won’t you join us for lunch?”

Without waiting for me to respond, he put his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the door. Followed by De Grasse, we walked down the corridor to a large room. In the center was a long table, set for dinner. Standing around at their places awaiting us were some dozen officers.

“Gentlemen,” said, Trochu, “Colonel Snodgrass has consented to join us for lunch.”

The general motioned for me to sit down next to him at the head of the table. I did so, and the other officers followed suit.

Our meal was very similar to what I had been served at Colonel De Porte’s headquarters. The china and silverware were exquisite, the food barely edible. Apparently, the military governor of Paris and his staff shared the privations of the German siege encountered by lower echelons of command.

Conversation was lively during the meal. I struggled hard to maintain a polite conversation, frequently having to guess at the meaning of comments in French that I could not understand.

The major topic of conversation was whether Paris could hold out. Several officers asked me my opinion. I tried to keep my answers general. The going was rough and I was relieved when the meal was over, the mandatory toasts finished, and Trochu turned to me and inquired whether there was anything he could do for me.

This was the moment I had been waiting for, fearful that it would not come.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, “I would be very grateful if you could have a photographer take a picture of us at the table. I would like to bring it back to the United States with me. It would serve as a testimonial to the warm reception I have received here and to the close relations existing between our two nations.”

Trochu nodded approvingly. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. He turned to one of his staff seated at the table and instructed him to summon a photographer. As the officer left the room, Trochu resumed polite conversation with me.

I was surprised that he could spend so much time entertaining me till he stood and beckoned me to join him at the map stand.

“Tell me, Colonel,” he said, “You have flown over the German lines. Can you suggest any way in which I can improve our defenses?”

It was obvious to me that Trochu’s desire to ask me this question was the reason for my invitation. I wondered about the propriety of Trochu’s request. I was, after all, purportedly a visitor from a neutral nation. Still, I had to admit that the position of the Paris garrison was exceedingly difficult and that had our positions been reversed, I would have sought his assistance.

“Well, general,” I began searching for something I could suggest, “Have you thought of air power? In the late American civil war, hot air balloons were used for observation and signaling with favorable results. I would recommend that you use balloons stationed over your lines and secured to the ground by ropes as elevated artillery positions. Marksmen in the balloons could then fire on the Germans.”

As I said this I hoped it would not irritate Trochu. I needed his cooperation to obtain the photograph I required. At the same time, I prayed that my suggestion would not prove practicable for the French to implement. The last thing I need was to return to my own time to find out that my presence in Paris had caused a significant change in the outcome of the Franco-Prussian War.

Trochu thought for a moment and then smiled. “That’s a brilliant idea.” He said. “I will implement it today.”

The general suddenly arose from the table. I thought he was about to commence work on the balloons immediately, but I was wrong. He led me out of the room and down the corridor to the door. There he donned his hat, given to him by an orderly, and put on his dress sword.

I followed Trochu out into the courtyard of his headquarters. Gathered there were some half dozen of his subordinates, all wearing hats and with their dress swords, standing around stools that had been placed in a row. Some yards to their front a photographer crouched behind a large wooden box mounted on a tripod. I realized that this was the 1870 version of a camera.

The general walked to the stool in the center of the row, sat down, and motioned to me to take the stool on his right. “I regret,” he said, as the other officers seated themselves, “That some of my staff are occupied by urgent matters and cannot join us for the photograph. I hope you will forgive their absence.”

I nodded sympathetically, and placed my hand over my vacant scabbard, hoping that Trochu had not noticed it. The photographer warned us to be ready and then proceeded to take the photographs. I was astonished at how long we had to sit motionless, as the glass photographic plates were exposed.