“The topography was vaguely familiar—the only thing that I can be sure of was dat I was listed as a main course on one menu en as an appetizer on another!”

“Yo son, that shit’s too funny. What really happened?”

“Your big chickens tried to eat me Eddie!”

“Oh, snap, sorry ‘bout that son. Your next trip will be much quicker and nicer. You good?”

“Yeah Eddie, I’m good.”

“Then grab a hold son, the shores of Perfidious Albion await your nekked self…”

…He came to life in cold ankle-deep ocean surf. A lantern bobbed to his left, where a small sailing ship rode at anchor. He could feel the waves lapping on the hull of the distant craft which was busy with many sounds; rope on wood, wood on wood, and wood on metal and leather. A small craft was being lowered over the side and men were clamoring on board from the larger craft above. Another lantern swayed on shore, higher than a man’s head. He heard a horse snort in the salty sea breeze and some leather creak from that direction.

He made for the horseman ashore and freedom from the cold grip of the sea. As he came toward the horseman, a small pot-bellied fellow in a cloak, high boots and a weathered top hat, the lantern’s light gave him away. With a start the man twisted in his saddle and leveled a flintlock pistol across his saddle bow. “Stand to you bare-assed Boney bastard! You walk Johnny Hardtack’s strand. Name your business!”

Jay—half blinded by the lantern—held up his hands and stood still, “Jus’ tryin’ to get dry Sir.”

“Don’t mock me. I’m no lord, and you’re no Boney boy either. I make you for a colonial—or whatever you call yourselves nowadays.”

Think on your feet dummy.

“I’m a West Virginia boy—Wheeling Sir, name’s Jay. You the law?”

“I’m the King’s law on this Strand boy—why look at the nob on you! and tasted the musket and bayonet for good measure. Strutting naked you are like the cock-of-the-walk frozen cods and all. I bet you have some bottom.”

Shoot, I hope this isn’t another queer.

“You be a back-shooting woodsmen too young to have fought in the war with the colonies, and hulled and scraped like one of Boney’s own guard. I’d say you’re late from the peninsula. Left old Hawk Beak to fend for ‘iself aye? From what regiment did you desert—or jump ship did you?”

The longboat was breaking through the light surf and dragging keel; boots and bare feet plunging into the foaming surf and wet sand.

“Well here you go boy. Drape this old horse blanket over your shoulders while I conduct my inspection.”

The horse was old and weary and the man was getting fat and arthritic.

You can take him down and make off dummy.

The blanket was rough and musty but draping it over his shoulders kept his body temperature from falling any farther.

“Thank you Sir.”

The silhouettes of seven men came into view, two hauling barrels and two hauling a crate between them. Two were armed with cutlasses and pistols, and one, the leader, was not armed at all, and had the air of a businessman.

Johnny spoke, “Who goes on the King’s Strand might I ask?”

The leader spoke, “It’s Ezekiel Heft you fat sod, with two barrels of rum and a case of hardtack, yes, and your pewter mug and jug of Jamaica’s finest for your efforts on behalf of his Majesty’s precious spit of sand.”

Johnny let go a long silent fart and otherwise maintained his composure. “Well Ezekiel, I have something here that should earn me an extra Jug of rum on our next meeting.”

He then holstered his weapon and tore the blanket from Jay’s shoulders, beaming the lantern on the naked man that stood at his stirrup.

The men’s expressions could not be seen, only their shadows as they examined Jay from the security of their night-shrouded semi-circle. Ezekiel spoke up in wonder, “And who-in-Hell is this?”

“He be a colonial veteran and deserter from the continent—a backwoods bastard no doubt. He’s seen battle, and by that stern mug and weathered nob o’ ‘is I’d say he’s got ‘nough bottom for the London Fancy. For now he’s your fresh hand. A present from Johnny Hardtack…”

As a seaman lit a torch-like candle from the trap of Johnny’s lantern, Jay’s ears began thrumming with rage. “Yer sellin’ me fer a bottle a rum, en on consignment at dat!”

He instinctively lashed out with his most potent weapon, the crocodile kick with his right shin, that Nicki the Thai bus boy had taught him in Virginia Beach. This caught Johnny’s old nag in the left front sock. It hurt like Hell, like kicking a tree. He even felt his hypertrophied shinbone flatten a little. But the horse’s lower leg made a slight hollow crack and the poor old mare and her fat rider pitched into the sand, the rider’s leg pinned beneath his nag’s flopping body.

He made no attempt to escape the nimble seamen, who hustled him into their boat and rowed for their ship. All the while old fat Johnny Hardtack screamed, cried and cursed from underneath his horse. He was cold, naked, and felling guilty about the poor old horse. But the volcanic anger was gone. He was actually excited about the ship, and these guys that looked like low-rent pirates. The only two books Dad had ever read him were the Bible and Treasure Island. He had always wanted to be a pirate!

The seamen were babbling in some kind of strange language, which the leader also spoke. Ezekiel seemed to be a man that never did anything without thinking it through. Jay always respected people with that kind of discipline. When they were pulling steady beyond the mild surf, the man handed Jay their candle stalk and then lit his pipe from it. It was obvious that he was not going to speak to Jay until he had a smoke.

“Jay is it? A Scotch-Irish whiskey-making colonial by your accent. I’m not a slaver Jay, nor a friend to the Admiralty and their bloody press-gangs—who have taken all my English-speaking seamen. So long as we can avoid a British man-o-war you are a free man. I simply ask for the work of your hands while you sleep on my boards and drink my rum. I’m a Dutch Jew without a friend in the world except for these Barbados Boys ‘ere. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The crewmen, who he had not realized until now were all Black, were still babbling excitedly.

“What are they babbling about Sir?”

“About you son, about that nice trick on the beach. They are also laying odds whether or not old Johnny manages to get from under his horse before the tide comes in and finishes your work.”

He looked back toward shore were the fallen lantern half-illuminated the fat man and his struggle, and then put it from his mind.

Good riddance.

“What year is it sir?”

“Queerest thing I’ve ever been asked son. It is the year of Johnny Hardtack’s Lord Eighteen-hundred-and-nine, the morning of the eighth day in the month of May.”

The morning breeze was wonderful, and to their backs, as they sailed for the Atlantic, with the heights of Devon and Cornwall to their left. There was only a crew of 10, including Jay. Ezekiel sat at a desk all day on the open deck, the desk being lashed to the deck by way of four iron rings. Jay stood, in what seemed like rough hospital pants, before the desk while Ezekial, a man of about 40, with a patchy brown beard, lectured him, “The profit from every shipment is broken into one hundred shares. I earn fifty as the ship’s master, and twenty-five as its owner. Black Tim there earns ten shares. The rest of you split the balance, dicing for odd shares. Any questions Jay?”

“Yessir. If anything strange happens to me Sir, could you please swear to meet me in Baltimore Harbor on this day, in Eighteen-twelve? For this consideration I surrender any claim to my shares.”

“You are an odd sort Jay. If I were in your worn trousers I would forswear engaging in the barbaric pugilistic pastimes of the English Fancy in order to preserve what remains to you of

your mental powers…Agreed, Baltimore in three years. Go see Black Tim. He was born on one of your plantations. You two should be able to make yourselves known to one another. Learn the arts of the sea my boy, for she is a cruel mistress.”

Time flies when one is having fun, and for Jay nothing could have been more fun than 12 hours hauling tackle, climbing ropes and masts, and reefing sail-cloth. It was simply invigorating.

He lived this idyllic life for three days, listening to Ezekiel read the Old Testament after dinner, and listening to the Barbados Boys sing over rum into the night, as Black Tim played a Jew’s harp.

Then came the cramps, the heat in the belly, and the longing for…death?

Is that it? Are you hoping you don’t reconfigure this time so maybe the Man Below does not get his hands on you as one whole conscious being?

This was coming on fast. Perhaps he had been writing it off as sea-sickness [which he had never had before] or task-related cramps all day. He did not know how long it would be. The rest of the crew was gathering for their chow so he excused himself and went to the head. As he sat bare-assed on the hole above the open ocean he saw the dark cloud, the red pulsating star, the brilliant radiance…

He returned after a brief journey through the void, surrounded by wide-eyed primitives

who where just beginning to peek out from behind the hands they had used to shield their eyes.

Eddie hit him with the same battery of questions. The answers were different: three-and-a-half days in country for a total four–day turn around. Eddie swore they had recalled him immediately. The extreme difference in the transit times made sense to their unscientific minds, but the in country disparity did not. Eddie dutifully recorded the notes.

“You know what Jay-Bone, this thing stayed light, like it used to be for a couple days. The first time though, it stayed light for only an hour or so. I think this thing has got some kick to it. Grab a-hold Jay-Bone, test pilot’s on deck.”

It is getting easier…