A New Birth Of Freedom: The Translator

Prologue

Edwin Blair

(July 6, 1863)

Edwin Blair’s headache ebbed and flowed as remnants of what-used-to-be clashed with the influx of what-now-is deep in the cavernous recesses of his mind. At least, he thought, as my memory evaporates in the passage of time, I should expect the rebellion of one against the other to do me less and less harm. Although no one was looking at him at the moment as he leaned against a shady tree, were they to do so they would perhaps have noticed a hint of bitterness on his visage as the word time passed through his ruminations. He had neither expected nor wanted any of the Pests to survive. For as long as he could remember, his mantra had been—and he chanted it to himself—the only good Pest is a dead Pest. With all of them dead, he reasoned, a new future would develop without the horrors these Pests would mete out. They simply wouldn’t exist in this modified future. But he soon realized this would bring about a self-defeating dilemma. They have to invade the planet where and when I come from. Otherwise, I’d never have come back to the past to stop them in the first place. He clenched his teeth at the thought and sighed. We can’t kill them all. Maybe that’s why previous attempts to change the future have failed—if there were any. It’s just not possible to exterminate them. Logic trumps everything. The surviving Pests change things. If they somehow escape and warn the all the others about what I’m doing, they could prevent me from doing anything at all, and I’d have to start all over. But I have to do something. He shuddered and looked off toward the fourteen imprisoned Pests. There’s one thing I know for sure, however. We don’t need their eggs.

With his valise safely stowed with President Lincoln’s personal belongings and guarded around the clock, he was reasonably confident the mission could be salvaged. But how? He adjusted his back against the trunk of the tree as an early morning mist became an un-refreshing drizzle, and turned the collar of his black leather jacket up around his ears. At least it’s quiet, he mouthed while scribbling into one of the notebooks he had given to John Hay. Using an unfamiliar quill pen, his words only on occasion approaching legibility, he wrote.

Everything now depends on you following through with your plan. You may have lied to the others about your intentions, but you can’t lie to me. If you are reading this, then we have been successful.

At least I think so. He looked up again, put the pen into the inkwell filled with a pale pink liquid sitting on the ground next to him and rubbed his eyes. Then again...will I even believe I wrote this to myself? He picked up the pen and tried to smile, looking this time toward several of his companions that were getting ready to consume coffee and a few hardtack biscuits, perhaps even some pudding. He nodded to them before returning to his journal.

Only the continuing threat of the Pests still lurking in the two prisms is supporting this truce. It’s more fragile than it appears. They think the danger is over, but it’s just begun.

John Hay noticed Blair’s glance from several paces away and pointed to his own steaming cup of coffee with raised eyebrows. He shouted, Mr. Blair, can I get you some?

Please. Blair kept the volume of his own voice down, relying on an accompanying nod to be sufficient.

No hardtack yet, but there’s sugar. I’ll be back soon. Hay strode off with Joseph Pierce at his side.

Thanks, John, Blair muttered as he watched the two of them depart. Pierce was waving his arms with some sort of patterned repetition—no doubt trying to explain some complex Indian phraseology he thought might be useful. Washburne, Stanton and Pinkerton were nowhere to be seen. Probably already with Lincoln in his tent. He returned to his writing.

If I’ve really succeeded, then all these changes should be reflected in the historical records on the computer—the fight with the Pests and this truce—but if not then something’s gone terribly wrong.

He stopped writing for a moment and shook his head. I’ve got to get back into the computer soon. I shouldn’t have even turned it off. I don’t like logging in while people are watching. I should probably change the pass-code, but it’s based on my wife’s birth date so I’m not likely to forget it. Should I take the chance?

The only thing I know that’s changed is my memory. The historical records may not have changed at all, but I’m slowly losing my memory of them...and everything else too, it seems. My guess is that the changes I’ve made to the history I used to know so well are rapidly affecting future events—too rapidly. As a result, my memory about them is no longer referring to anything, yet it continues to try.

The sounds of hooves slogging through the rain-soaked grass and the clattering of wagons startled him but didn’t interrupt his writing.

The courier traffic is beginning to intensify, and as the circus gets larger it will become unmanageable. Maybe today Lincoln will issue the martial law decree he promised...or threatened...depending on one’s perspective.

He wasn’t planning to write much—just enough for his words to be a reminder of what he had to do. If I have to try again, I have to make sure these same people are included...did I write that list of four names to myself on a previous attempt? Was it me? If so, nothing has changed. Am I just repeating everything over and over in an infinite circularity? He paused and looked over what he wrote. How can I know? Have I written this before? I have no memory of earlier attempts...but that means nothing.

He stopped and pulled the list out of his jacket to look at it. The same as it used to be...or is it? How would I know? He drew a deep breath while rubbing his temples, his teeth gritted. I really have to find out somehow if any changes have occurred in the future. I have to get into the computer. I just may have to start over immediately. Another interruption ended his contemplation.

Mr. Blair! You’re in luck. There was fresh coffee...genuine coffee, to boot! I watched a soldier crush the beans with a rifle butt. And there were a few hardtack puddings, too. John Hay trudged through the sodden grass, placed the steaming cup and plate on a rock behind Edwin Blair, and then put his hands on his hips. ’Tis good to have the Tycoon amongst us, though he’s a bit jarred by the Hellcat’s carriage accident a few days ago. But, as suspected, Mrs. Lincoln has earned her reputation. The very ground she fell upon was too terrified of her to do her any serious injury. Then, laughing, he added while looking skyward once more, How are you this gloomy morn? It may rain again, judging from the clouds.

I’m puzzled, John. Blair picked up the coffee then paused to shake his head.

As you usually are, sir.... Why this time?

It’s that... Blair took a swig of the black brew. Yeow! He promptly spit it out. It’s scalding! People nearby glanced over at him, shocked at the sound. And it tastes terrible.

Hay laughed and shook his head. I never did see anyone quaff hot coffee before. Quaffing’s for cold beer. And it tastes better too.

Blair swirled his tongue around the roof of his mouth, wincing and muttering curses under his breath. After a moment, he ventured a much smaller sip. When I first met you in the President’s office, if you had remembered me being here before, that would have been very odd, right?

It sure would have, Mr. Blair! It would have been impossible! Hay rolled back, laughing. No one remembers you from before. You were a real top sockdolager to us all then.

Blair eyed Hay directly and just above a whisper said, Someone remembers me.

Hay scrunched his brow. Who?

Blair inclined his head toward the prisoners’ enclosure. That Pest.

Section One

Joseph Pierce

(July, 1863)

(July 18, 1863)

As the day began, Blair watched Private Joseph L. Pierce, his skull wrapped in a clean bandage, assume his usual position on a stool in front of the enclosure that held the fourteen remaining Pests. I wonder how he copes with the constant ache in his head. It was already muggy and showers threatened, but it was not quite as hot as the third day of July, the day the truce began. More important, in Blair’s mind, was that the truce still held. After only two weeks, it seemed to him, and most likely to all, that this passage of mere days was more akin to the passage of an age.

Morning, private. John Hay held a cup of coffee up to engage Pierce’s attention. Want some? It’s hot. He tossed a sly look back toward Blair who was approaching.

Pierce rubbed his head. Ayuh. Sure do, sir. It’ll maybe help me focus. He winced. Mah head still throbs now and then. He adjusted the fresh bandage with both hands to a new and more comfortable position.

Hay smiled before turning to one of General Hancock’s orderlies standing nearby and gesturing for him to follow through with the request.

As the orderly left, Edwin Blair arrived, steam curling up into the crisp morning air from his own cup. It’s not quite coffee, but, he pointed to the vapor, it’s certainly bacteria free. He swirled his tongue around the roof of his mouth again before sighing. I burned myself again.

Hay smiled. How are you feeling this morning otherwise, Mr. Blair?

Blair shook his head. Better than Private Pierce... He fixed Hay with a glare. I don’t suppose you’re ready to call me by my name yet.

"Mr. Blair is your name, sir."

Others from the crowd—soldiers in blue and gray, newspapermen and photographers, civilians from Gettysburg, well over one hundred strong now—were rousing themselves from sleep and beginning to assemble close to the Pests. Adding to the growing din came the authoritative thunder of approaching hoofs from the Union lines across the field on Cemetery Ridge.

Blair, Hay and Pierce turned to look toward the Federal position in time to see the pennant of the Second Corps amid a contingent of couriers. It’s General Hancock, Blair shouted at the other two. I sure hope he has some word about establishing order!

The noise from the crowd abated as the snorting horses came to a halt, kicking up clods of muddy turf in the process. Hancock surveyed the assemblage, making sure to capture everyone’s attention as he leaned over to pat the neck of his horse. Seeing Blair and Hay, he offered them a casual salute, and then sat upright. Gentlemen! He paused for a moment then tipped his hat to a collection of women. And Ladies! Satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he nodded toward one of his retinue. Captain Riley has an announcement to read.

The captain cleared his throat, took a breath, and then in a booming voice gave them all the news: By order of General Meade, Commanding General of the Army of The Potomac, martial law is hereby declared in the township of Gettysburg and the surrounding environs. All persons entering this area must have good reason to do so and be possessed of the proper identification. Anyone wishing to enter will do so through check points on all thoroughfares and roads leading to and from Gettysburg town. He stopped to clear his throat again, while Blair and Hay gave a sigh of relief. "As for this immediate field bordered on either side by ridges so-named Cemetery and Seminary, effective immediately no civilians will be permitted without a military pass. That news occasioned a lusty groan and a few hisses from a large portion of his audience. Riley raised his voice further. Everyone without official authorization is hereby ordered to leave this area at once." He folded the paper, placed it in a leather pouch, and then saluted to General Hancock as a lieutenant rushed to line up a small contingent of Federal soldiers and urge the civilians to back off and disperse. Several shouts of protest sounded, but after a few moments of encouragement with fixed bayonets, they complied.

While the contingent made ready to leave, Hancock leaned down to Blair. One more thing, he said in a quiet tone. The president asked me to assign someone from the signal corps to assist Private Pierce and to keep a record of what you’re learning from those... he looked toward the fourteen prisoners who stood motionless, their bulbous eyes fixed on their interrogators. ...Pest things. He gestured back toward one of the riders. "Sergeant Chemberlin’s going to do the recording. You make sure that record’s complete, you hear?"

As Blair nodded, the stenographer dismounted and approached, greeted the men, and then smiled Call me John. I sure am pleased to do this. It’ll be a lot more interestin’ than totin’ those heavy signal flags. And I’ve seen the elephant far more than I’d care to remember.

Blair looked to Hay and shrugged.

Hay used his hand to direct his whispered response. He means his nerves are battle-jangled.

Blair nodded while turning toward the troopers. Can someone find a chair or stool for this man?

One of the soldiers waved his hand then went off to secure seating for the new arrival.

Pierce turned toward Blair with concern written on his face. Mr. Blair?

Yes, Blair sighed, that’s my name, it seems.

Well, now it’s funny that you say that.

Why?

It has to do with a problem I’m a-havin’ right now, ya see?

What problem?

A small stool being delivered interrupted Blair’s response. I guess you’d better get started, sergeant. He motioned to the stool then stood waiting.

Unpacking his pouch, Chemberlin gave Blair a nod. Sure will. He turned to Pierce. Private, I’d take it kindly if you’d slow down a bit. I’m a-gonna try to do this word for word, and I’m going to have to get used to your Boston accent.

Pierce smiled. Me too with your Pennsy talk, sergeant.

They both laughed and got themselves arranged.

Blair caught Pierce’s eye. Your problem, private. What is it?

Right. It has to do with names. I was figurin’ that it might be useful to know what these...ah...Pest things go by.

Blair sighed. I suppose if I want to find out how and why that thing knows me, it’d be helpful to know its name. So what do they call themselves?

Thing is, Mr. Blair...they—ah—don’t. He shrugged. I made the signs for ‘how-you-called’ and they just stood there. Then I told them that there was somebody’s name scratched right onto them...on their bodies but they didn’t move. Then I tried an Inj...ah...Native American name...kind of as an example.

You don’t have to keep doing that, private. ‘Injun’ is fine.

Chemberlin looked up and squinted at Blair, but returned to his task without saying anything.

Okay, Mr. Blair. Well, sir, anyway I gave them the name of Black Hawk...you know, the Sauk Injun they named that war after some thirty years ago. Still nothin’. I tried my name, your name, Mr. Hay’s name, all the while pointing at me, you and Mr. Hay. They didn’t move at all...just kept lookin’ at me.

Blair looked squarely at the lead Pest, but spoke to Pierce. "So how do they refer to one another, if they don’t know anything about names?"

Pierce just shrugged. "Oh, they know what names are. They just don’t use ’em."

How do you know that? Blair gave Pierce a steady gaze. Sometimes I wonder if he really knows what he’s doing....

’Cause they’re a-lookin’ fer two people, and they call ’em by their names.

Blair chilled. "Well who, for God’s sake?"

They call one of ’em, near as I can tell, ‘Big Mouth’ and the other one, ‘White Hat.’ Pierce’s eyes locked with Blair’s. Injuns, I s’ppose, from the sounds of it. Don’t know of any Whites named like that...Chinese either.

John Hay jolted to attention. Why? What do they want with them? The president has some worries about the, ah, Indians out west. This may be a matter of great interest to him.

Pierce shrugged again, Don’t know why they-ah are a-lookin’ for ’em. They never answered that question, and I put it to ’em plenty. But I do know they want one thing. He nodded and scrunched up his mouth. Ayuh. They seem real sure about it, too.

Blair and Hay looked at each other, not sure whether to wait for Pierce or to laugh at yet another of his melodramatic pauses.

Yes... Blair forced a weary smile onto his face.

"They want those two brought to ’em right here. And right now!"

* * * *

Lincoln’s Office, as everyone now called the extra-large tent pitched next to General Meade’s small headquarters shack, was busy to the point of chaos. Blair, Pierce and Hay trudged towards the guards, having walked the entire way from the enclosure, nearly a mile, as spare horses were not to be found. Blair was not terribly disappointed, not being overly fond of that mode of transportation anyway. At least the sun isn’t beating down on us yet, but we’re still near drowning in this lung clogging mugginess.

The guards pulled the heavy tent flaps aside so that they could enter without delay. They were expected.

Lincoln sat to one side of the largest table that the tent could possibly accommodate with Elihu Washburne looking over his right shoulder and Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War, looking over his left shoulder, while George Gordon Meade and Robert Edward Lee stood side by side facing him, well-worn maps opened and sprawled out between them on the table. Slightly behind Lincoln, and grumbling under his breath, stood Allan Pinkerton. Pointed fingers and sweeping gestures from one map to another accompanied mumblings and murmurs, as if choreographed with the rise and fall of the voices. The tableau reminded Blair of a backwoods courtroom with lawyers contending over property rights in front of a wily county circuit judge. His second thought was that his first thought was pretty much on the mark.

Lincoln looked up at the three new arrivals and motioned for them to have a seat while he concluded his business.

After watching the proceedings for a few moments, Hay leaned closer to Blair and whispered, You know, Mr. Blair, I think we are witnessing the culmination of this imbroglio here at Gettysburg.

As promised by Lincoln, Lee was being allowed to lead his army back to the comparative safety of his home state. Blair squinted at the general and thought about the history he had originally studied. Although the battle, as it now stands, is pretty much a stalemate, Lee knows he can’t sustain himself in enemy territory much longer, and Meade’s army is gaining strength hourly. No matter that Lee’s army is basically intact. His incursion into southern Pennsylvania has become a de facto defeat. He has not destroyed his enemy, and the failure is largely of his own making.

Blair hushed his own voice as well. More than that, John it just may be the end of the war itself.

Hay nodded and continued to whisper, while keeping his eyes focused on the president and the two generals. Maybe, but only if the Union is restored in the process.

Still hushed, Blair nodded toward the generals. This agreement is a major step in that direction. Probably no one can fully appreciate this collaboration. It’s too immediate and right now they’re all dealing with the other necessities of the moment as well as the war. All of these exigencies forced on them by me...me and a couple thousand Pests. But none of it will last. Blair smiled at how ingrained his scholarly training was. It affected even his private musings. I analyze everything to death.

A moment of silence brought the eyes of one and all to Lincoln as he stood up to engage the hands of Meade and Lee, and then waited as they packed up their various papers and, together with their respective couriers and staff, left the tent. The rebel commander gave his opponent a brief bow and allowed him to precede him outside.

Ever the gentleman, Blair mused with a touch of wonder.

After they were gone, Lincoln spent several minutes inspecting his own charts and maps with a self-satisfied grin on his face before turning around to his three new guests. Gentlemen, the General is leaving for home. He lowered his voice to continue. And he has made me a promise in return.

"I still think he’ll still be a trouble to us. Pinkerton shook his head. I do nae feel he should get off so easily. I do nae trust ’im."

Stanton nodded. Many of us feel the same, and we are not alone. He shook his head, and muttered while smashing a fist into his open hand. "We should deal him and his army a death blow now that we’ve got a bulge on them! To Lincoln he added in a more hushed voice, We believe he is a traitor and should be treated as one."

Lincoln re-seated himself and leaned back in the chair until it tilted on its rear legs, all the while smiling at his Secretary of War’s bellicosity. He was, Mars. But now he’s not.

Pinkerton sputtered. Meade should arrest a body like that and put ’im in leg irons!

Meade seems happy enough not to deal with him any longer. Lincoln raised his eyebrows. Maybe we should be as well.

We should nae make deals w’ traitors, else they find us lily-livered like McClellan! Pinkerton rubbed his sore side where a spent bullet was still lodged. A deal like this with Lee gone awry, Mr. President, will nae doubt cost ye the up-coming election.

That reminds me of when I was a new lawyer on the circuit in Illinois.

Stanton’s eyes rolled.

Washburne shook his head and smiled.

Lincoln took no obvious notice of their reactions. I got into a fracas with a certain judge in a deal about us trading horses. A wily smile cracked his lips. Neither one of us could trust the other not to back out so we agreed we’d each bring our respective steeds to an appointed place and time for trading on pain of forfeiting twenty-five dollars. He looked around at his audience; some looked bored and some seemed to be rapt by the tale. When the judge arrived, leading his part of the bargain, it turned out to be the sorriest looking specimen I’d ever seen. He paused and chuckled. But I went one better. I showed up, dragging along behind me a termite-infested saw-horse! He concluded by slapping his knee.

Stanton shook his head. Yes, yes, yes. But letting Lee go seems like you’re the one getting the saw-horse.

I suspect that Lee may think so, too, Mars. But when he comes fully to his senses, he’ll see that we both made out as best we could under the circumstances. Each one of us wanted to destroy the other, but neither one of us got what we wanted. It remains to be seen what will happen in the long run, but for the moment each of us gets something. And I think you’ll see that although we got the nag, Lee wound up with the wood. He gets to take his army back to Virginia and we will return to him full possession of his ancestral home, Arlington House, where he will reside for the remainder of the war, and will do so under our watchful eye.

Do ye trust the man, this treasonous and treacherous thorn in our side? I da nea.

Might I remind you, Allen, that we have constructed five well-maintained forts surrounding the estate. Once he is there, and I assume he will have his wife rejoin him, he is, for all practical purposes, our prisoner.

Aye, but he will still be in a secesh state with the remnants of his army back in Virginia as well, Pinkerton grumbled. A devil in our midst.

Better in our midst than not. Lincoln stretched out his arms with a look of satisfaction on his face. And, although he doesn’t quite realize it yet, his withdrawal will give us back Virginia... His expression broadened into a smile. And with any luck, the entire south.

How so? Stanton said and scowled.

Lincoln’s smile continued as he announced with a feigned, matter-of-fact tone in his voice, He has promised to resign his commission in the rebel army.

That news caused a wave of shocked gasps.

Lee, Lincoln continued, will begin arranging for the removal of the Army of Northern Virginia immediately, and will take as many of his wounded as can be transported. He will head back through the Shenandoah Valley to his point of departure on the banks of the Rappahannock. Thereupon, as agreed, he will tender his resignation to Jefferson Davis and will not in any way be dissuaded from his pledge. At the same time, Meade has orders to deploy simultaneously all but his Second Corps, under General Hancock, back to Washington, keeping the army between the rebels and the capital. He displayed a devilish smile. His orders include making a demonstration on both of Lee’s flanks—and in his rear—just to make sure there are no, shall we say, deviations from our agreement.

Stanton grumbled with venom in his voice. It would be so easy to destroy the Army of Northern Virginia once and for all. Even our somewhat reluctant Meade could be convinced to do it.

Lincoln narrowed his eyes, grinned, and just above a whisper added, Sometimes, Mars, the better part of valor is discretion. We need Lee. It will do us no good to harm further the thing he loves. He paused, noting that his war secretary did not seem pleased. Besides, putting Lee’s army out of commission this way costs us no further lives.

Stanton scowled, but motioned his acceptance.

Changing his tone, Lincoln went on. A brigade of around two thousand assorted rebel troops, led by Longstreet and one of his division commanders, John Bell Hood, are to remain behind to represent the rebels in dealing with the Pests. A devious smile emerged. If Lee’s favorite corps commander is here...he can’t be elsewhere.

Blair brightened That’s certainly a major change from what I still remember, but it’s logical. This notion eased his worry somewhat, but there was always that other horrifying event in the back of his mind. What should I do about the assassination? If anything.

Washburne wiped his hand across his mouth. I don’t know, Mr. President, an armed rebel brigade right here in our midst...

Our remaining troops more than outnumber them, Elihu.

Blair’s mind wandered. I know at this moment, the Pests are a secondary concern for Lincoln. But not for me. These changes in history are momentous and too many changes can stymie all of my efforts. At least some major events are not going to be altered at this instant. Grant will put Tennessee out of the war and be made a Lieutenant General, like George Washington. That development will remain intact for the most part. But what about all the other possible effects? Blair felt chills run up and down his body. I don’t know...I just don’t know.

Mars, I want you to put me in contact with General Grant immediately. I have plans for him.

Stanton gathered some papers together and shoved them in a leather pouch, then looked into Lincoln’s eyes. Good. Should I give him an idea what you have in mind?

No. I’ll tell him after he arrives. Set him up at the Willard.

Stanton presented a short, formal bow and left.

Lincoln then