The Expedition

By Patricia B. Kaplan

Trish accidentally time travels to Lieutenant-Colonel Custer’s army camp during its final preparations for the 1873 Yellowstone Expedition. Luckily for her, she has her old-style flip cell phone with her, along with a ballpoint pen and plastic reading glasses. Even luckier, she is befriended by the regiment’s surgeon, who is officially in charge of her. He soon believes her story that she is from the future, and quickly realizes he can profitably take advantage of her knowledge of modern medicine – and future inventions, from automobiles to X-rays. But his female assistant is not as enamored with Trish as he is, finding her to be a real pain to deal with. Trish’s 21st century idioms and crudely blunt language make her a misfit in the crowd of 19th century Army officers and young soldiers– although they certainly enjoy being around her! Trish also discovers how time machines work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663217721

Patricia B. Kaplan

Patricia Kaplan graduated from Virginia Tech in 1981 with a B.A. in journalism, and lives with her husband on a small farm in Virginia where they raise ponies, dogs, and a variety of other critters. She is finally catching up on some long-deferred stories, paintings, and other projects.

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Copyright © 2021 Patricia Kaplan.

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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1771-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1772-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021901894

iUniverse rev. date: 05/17/2021

CONTENTS

References

Photo Credits

Cover Collage

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

W A R N I N G:

DON’T READ THIS STORY…

…if you’re easily offended

by

strong language, graphic crudity,

political incorrectness,

or history

You may want to have Google handy:

(…Who’s Buried in Grant’s Tomb?...)

Covor photo of Aristide Hignard; color photos of flip phone, eyeglasses,

ink pen, and horse Another Chance, owned by the author

Cover design by Laura F. Crews and Elaine Ochada

Dedicated to my dear friend Dr. Lianis Z. Bidot

Who knew I was working on it,

but tragically died before she had a chance to read it;

and to

Dr. James Irvin (Bud) Robertson, Jr. of Virginia Tech

I wish I could have known him better than the two times we spoke;

and to my pony

Country Roads Audacity (Melissa)

17 Apr 1990 – 5 Jun 2020

cantering%20level%20close%20up%20Melissa.jpg

(Photo courtesy of Laura F. Crews)

Story inspired by the cavalry horse Comanche

—Sole survivor of Custer’s Last Stand

1%20%20%20Comanche%20tiny%20saddle.jpg

(Photo courtesy of Google)

BIGGEST thanks go to:

etymonline.com (Etymology On Line)

wikipedia.org (Wikipedia) and google.com (Google)

~ and ~

~ Photo of Aristide Hignard, aka Sidney ~

Books:

Custer’s Last Battle, 1876 (1908) by E.S. Godfrey

(if you read nothing else, read this!)

Assorted biographies on George Armstrong Custer by:

* Especially T.J. Stiles: Custer’s Trials –

covers both Custer AND the Civil War *

But including

Frederic Van de Water: Glory-Hunter (read this one last, if at all!)

John Carroll: "The Benteen-Goldin Letters on

Custer and His Last Battle" (1991)

Memoir books by Libbie Bacon Custer (in this order):

Tenting on the Plains (1887)

Following the Guidon (1890)

Boots and Saddles (1885)

and

My Life on the Plains (1874) – by G.A. Custer

Assorted Civil War books by:

Shelby Foote

and

Virginia Tech’s Dr. James Irvin (Bud) Robertson,

Jr. (Jul 18, 1930 – Nov 2, 2019)

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_I._Robertson_Jr.)

REFERENCES

MUSIC:

These Dreams – Heart, 1986

Young Lust – Pink Floyd, 1979

Hotel California – The Eagles, 1976

Life’s Been Good – Joe Walsh, 1978

Paint It Black – Rolling Stones, 1966

Money For Nothing – Dire Straits, 1985

Too Much Time On My Hands – Styx, 1981

Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad – Meatloaf, 1977

Paradise By The Dashboard Light – Meatloaf, 1977

Stuck In The Middle With You – Stealers Wheel, 1973

What A Long Strange Trip It’s Been – Grateful Dead, 1977

Money For Nothing/Beverly Hillbillies – Weird Al Yankovic, 1989

MOVIES:

Young Frankenstein (1974); Office Space (1999) – 20th Century Fox

Raiders Of The Lost Ark (1981); Forrest Gump (1994) – Paramount

The Wizard Of Oz (1939); 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) – MGM

Taxi Driver – Columbia, 1976 ~ Fargo – Gramercy Pictures, 1996

Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988); Snow White (1937) – Disney

Jaws – Universal, 1975 ~ Gone With The Wind (1939) – MGM

Inception – Warner Bros, 2010 ~ The Terminator – Orion, 1984

Looney Toons (1930-1969) – Warner Bros (animated cartoons)

How The Grinch Stole Christmas (1966 cartoon) – MGM

Elvira: Mistress of the Dark – New World Pictures, 1988

Planet of the Apes (1968) – 20th Century Fox

Back To The Future (1985); BTTF II (1989);

BTTF III (1990) – Universal

TELEVISION:

I Dream of Jeannie – 1965-1970 ~ The Beverly Hillbillies – 1962-1971

The Andy Griffith Show – 1960-1968 ~ Gilligan’s Island – 1964-1967

South Park – 1962-2020 (present) ~ The Brady Bunch – 1969-1974

Star Trek – 1966-1969 ~ The Twilight Zone – 1959-1964

Bewitched – 1964-1972 ~ Green Acres – 1965-1971

Leave It to Beaver – 1957-1963

BOOKS:

Nineteen Eighty-Four (1948); Animal Farm (1945) – George Orwell

The Horse Soldier, 1776-1943, Vol. II (1978) – Randy Steffen

How The Poor Die (short story, 1946) – George Orwell

Animals in Motion (1957) – Eadweard Muybridge

Black Beauty (1877) – Anna Sewell

OTHER:

Horse feeds: Sentinel – Kent Corp. ~ Triumph Fiber Plus – Cargill, Inc.

NASCAR – National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing

ADS – American Driving Society (horses and carriages)

War of the Worlds radio drama (1938) – CBS

PHOTO CREDITS

* (originally owned by Katherine Pearle Flintoff Saunders (1888-1915)

(Died age 26 from Type 1 diabetes; insulin was discovered in 1921, and became available in 1922)

COVER COLLAGE

Design by Laura F. Crews and Elaine Ochada

*(Black Hills Expedition of 1874, by photographer W. H. Illingworth)

53679.png

CHAPTER

ONE

I had apparently been sleeping awhile and was slowly drifting into a vague awareness of a woman speaking quietly elsewhere in the room. Under a lightweight blanket I stretched my legs and extended my feet, and realized I was on my back – very unusual for me. I rubbed my forehead and temples with the heels of my hands, then blinked my eyes and shoved myself up on my elbows before attempting to sit up. I immediately abandoned my effort because I bumped up against a splitting headache. I flopped back flat on my back to regroup my efforts, and immediately felt a hand on my left arm and heard a female voice ask, How do you feel, ma’am? I also perceived the sound of mechanical squeaking and creaking from across the room, which turned out to be a chair being repositioned and drawn up close to me. I distinctly heard a man’s voice softly ask, Fully awakened?

I think so, sir.

The cobwebs were lifting from my consciousness and I spoke, without opening my eyes or trying to move my head. "Oh dear. I’ve got another concussion. I recognize it. The headache. Crap! How did I do it this time?" I realized instantly that I had no memory of what I had been doing a few minutes earlier. I had absolutely no idea whatsoever of my most recent activities. And I hadn’t yet even started to wonder where I was.

The man’s hand gently replaced the woman’s on my elbow. You’ve hit your head before, young lady?

Oh yeah. At least three times – that I know of. I sighed and still refrained from opening my eyes. Trashed by horses twice, years ago; and the most recent – I still don’t remember it. I figured I tripped over a dog, but I have no memory of doing it, or waking up, or where it even happened. I just felt like crap when I tried to get out of bed the next day. I had this same splitting headache and had bruises all over the left side of my body. Obviously I did it the day before, and picked myself up, and finished my barn chores, and went the rest of the day without even noticing. It turned out I had a bad kidney infection, and kidney stones. I ended up in the E.R. a couple days later. That was in two thousand ‘n’ fourteen.

Two thousand, and fourteen?

Yeah. August. There was a silence that seemed peculiarly awkward. I continued, still afraid to try and open my eyes and risk dizziness. And you know? I have no clue right now where I am or what I was doing five mikes ago. I sighed in disgust at myself for hurting myself yet again. "I mean, I’ve whacked myself a number of times; I’ve seen stars going around – it really happens, just like in the cartoons! But it’s definitely little lights, not little blue birds flapping their wings and chirping. Once, like about twenty years ago, I fell off my truck bumper when I was unloading sawdust, and I started scolding myself and telling myself out loud that I’d better not be unconscious, because my husband was TDY in Europe, and I was completely alone. Then I realized I was talking out loud to myself, so I realized I wasn’t knocked out. I got up and finished unloading the sawdust. Easily a thousand pounds of sawdust. Then I drove my ponies, for the last time, a week before the State Fair. It takes me a week to clean tack, and pack, and load everything in the trailer, before a show. I’m very organized. I start a couple months ahead – I already have prize lists, and I know the dates way in advance – and I count backwards, mark the calendar, get my entry in on time, and Coggins done, and so forth. But the next day I was hurting so bad I went to the walk-in clinic. I thought I had broken my scapula, but palpation didn’t hurt.

"I told the X-ray tech ‘I have horses’ – and she said in that case, she wouldn’t be surprised at anything I might have broken. It turned out I had broken left ribs number two, three, four and five – in the front! I fell on my back, but popped ribs on the front! The X-ray tech and the doctor both told me they had never seen that exact injury, but considering I have horses, they didn’t question how it happened. Two and five were barely cracked, but three and four were displaced. They were, like, a centimeter apart from each other, and then a centimeter out of alignment. I was horrified when I saw the pictures. I was afraid I was gonna need surgery to screw or staple or wire, whatever, the ribs back together, ya know? But I was amazed: X-rays a week later showed the ribs were back in alignment, but not together. That took weeks and weeks. It hurt like hell, but only if I breathed, ha ha. I sighed again at the memory. You know what? Ribs number one and two are right behind the collarbones, so you really can’t see them on the pictures. You have to really, really know what you’re looking at. I’m pretty good at knowing what I’m seeing on X-ray, but I couldn’t get over those scary-looking ones.

"Anyway, I had to forfeit my entry in the State Fair. It really sucked. But there was no way I could handle the ponies and drive safely. I had free exhibitor passes to the Fair, so we went the following day, after the driving show, just to go. A friend in the club was doing this wagon-ride thing with her bay roan Belgians. I told her what had happened. She said everyone the day before had wondered where I was, since I had a show packet waiting for me. And I am, well, pretty well known. I do try and hit all the driving shows in Virginia – yeah, like all three of ’em. They finally realized we weren’t coming, and got on with the show. Heh-heh, a month later, the club had our annual Victorian Floral Carriage Festival in Richmond. We went to watch, but I still couldn’t drive. It took just one month for the rumor to spread all over the state of Virginia that I had finally wrecked my carriage. I’m known for being a wild and crazy driver; my ponies, at the time, were some of the fastest in three states. So I had to explain to everybody that my ponies and carriage were just fine; I just managed to fall off the back of my damn truck! At least it wasn’t moving! And I had a soft landing, inside the barn. I have an indoor training track in my barn, so I can drive my truck right up beside stalls and heave sawdust straight in. Actually, I was climbing over the closed tailgate, and my shoes had slick worn soles, and I slipped on the bumper. It sucked.

And then, the next year was nine-eleven, and we went, but it was the last year they had the driving show at the Fair, thanks to NASCAR, who bought the fairgrounds. ‘No more damn horses on State Fair property! We hate horses!’ And the rest, of course, is history. It’s a pisser. I still fumed at the thought of it all. "They had recently built like three hundred new stalls; had a steeplechase racetrack since, like, the thirties; and NASCAR just went in and tore down all the barns and turned the beautiful racetrack into a fucking parking lot! No more horse shows or horse races, just fucking car races!"

That much animated, emotional talking had worn me out temporarily. Sorry if I bored you with my griping. Almost twenty years later, and I’m still mad about it. I took a deep breath, turned on my left side, raised up on my elbow, and supported my head on my hand. I opened my eyes to get a look at the man and woman I knew were sitting close beside my bed, apparently some sort of gurney. They both were leaning toward me, obviously listening intently, but with an expressionless stare on their faces, broken only by frequently blinking their eyes in what appeared to be shock and disbelief. They turned to one another and the woman shook her head slightly. They both leaned back in their chairs and resumed staring blankly at me. The man crossed his arms and sighed exhaustedly, as if he had barely managed to endure my long and boring story. He looked about thirty, with long, almost shoulder-length wavy brown hair, a full mustache and luxurious beard, obviously lovingly groomed. Pretty nice-looking, actually. No. Better than that.

The woman I figured was also about thirty, and she was wearing a sort of lacey, bonnet-scarf on her head, and some sort of old-fashioned dress. I got the vague impression that she was perhaps Amish, which was still a little strange and not quite right, because she was black. I got the feeling she was a nurse or EMT of some sort. I had to close my eyes again because dizziness was starting, along with the headache. Well, I said, I guess I should ask where I am and what happened.

The man gently and deliberately answered, You were found on the plain.

"Ha ha, that can’t be true! I haven’t even been near an airport in years!"

No response.

I opened my eyes to try and figure where the conversation was going. The man was pensively stroking his furry chin and studying me. The demure, slender lady was sitting erect and tall in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap. She glanced at her companion to her right with a brief, anxious look. I shifted my gaze to take in my surroundings and was struck with a strange impression. "Am I in a…. a tent? Then it occurred to me: Oh my god! Am I at a horse show? Is this temporary stabling? I scrambled to jump off the gurney in a panic. Oh my god! I’ve finally done it! I’ve wrecked! My ponies! My feet touched the floor and I promptly fell down on my knees. My attendants grabbed me and set me back up sitting on the gurney, which was actually a little low cot. Are they OK? Where are they? Where’s my husband? Melissa! Fantastic! Did he catch them? Oh, shit!" I was approaching full, befuddled panic.

The lady braced me by holding me back by both shoulders. Miss, it’s all right. Sit here a little while. I sat on the edge of the cot. She turned to her companion and whispered to him, She mentions ponies. He’ll want to know every detail.

Yes.

I started to come to my senses somewhat. "Wait a minute. I haven’t competed in years! I don’t even have current Coggins on anybody. Fantastic’s been dead for at least twelve years. We had to kill her for Cushing’s. I’m not at a show. Not competing, anyway. I looked down at myself to see what I was wearing, in an attempt to orient myself: one of my long-sleeved esoteric literary George Orwell black tee shirts, with the cryptic IngSoc slogans from the famous novel Nineteen Eighty-Four" in bold white letters:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

I had on khaki work pants, with plenty of pockets; nylon belt, and even had on socks that matched. No shoes. I seemed pretty clean, and dressed half decently, so obviously I had not been doing barn chores. And if I’m wearing long sleeves, it means I started out with a jacket, too. Where are my shoes? I was feeling better, probably due to dizziness being supplanted by panic. The lady clasped her hands in her lap again and turned to the man anxiously. He again was sitting back, arms crossed, observing me with a controlled lack of expression. He tilted his head slightly, as if he could get a better view and comprehension that way. Actually, I said, I’m a bit thirsty. I winced. Do you by any chance have a Coke? Then I added, holding up my right index finger, As long as it’s not diet. I do not do diet.

She glanced anxiously at him again. He answered me, expressionlessly, and without taking his eyes off me, We have coffee, whiskey, and water.

Water would be great.

The Amish lady quickly stood up and crossed the tiny, cluttered room to a small table and poured some water from a metal pitcher into a metal cup and brought it to me. I needed that. "Look. I’m really confused. I don’t know what happened, or where I am, or who you are… Hey: are you wearing costumes?"

No, he shook his head slightly, still studying me in a penetrating, disconcerting manner.

Wait a minute! Is this some sort of Civil War re-enactment? With the tent, and… and yes you are – I pointed my finger at him and bounced it – yes you are in costume. Is this Endview Plantation? I mean, I know re-enactments are popular and all, although I’m not really interested in them. Well, I may be more interested now, since I’ve been reading up on history.

This is not the Rebellion.

I had nothing more to say at the moment. I set my metal cup on the floor. I reached up to feel my hair. I could tell it was a mess, partially pulled out of my covered rubber band. I began tugging on the elastic to extricate it from my tangled hair. Sorry. I didn’t know my hair was such a disaster. I got the bright pink elastic the rest of the way out and slipped it over my right wrist. I leaned over the edge of the cot and shook my hands in my hair. A little dried grass – not hay – fell to the floor. An ink pen also fell out of the entanglement. I quickly, possessively, picked it up and set it on the cot beside me, but my swift movement made me extremely dizzy. I fell over face down toward the foot of the cot and curled up with a groan. I shouldn’t have moved that fast. Look. If you guys found me fucked up this way, you really should call nine-one-one.

You were brought here by ambulance.

"I was brought here by ambulance? What the hell? If you had an ambulance, why the hell didn’t it take me to an E.R.? I’m sure I’ll be OK – I always have been before – but I really should be checked out by a doctor."

"I am a doctor."

"WHAT? Yeah right. And you found me on an airplane? That really makes a lot of sense! But that’s what you said. I did not misunderstand you. So who the fuck are you, really?" I started sitting upright again, separating sections of my long blond hair apart with my fingers and carefully combing them through to detangle my thick, wavy blond rat’s nest. I could peer at them both through the gaps in my hair.

With distinct pronunciation he asked, What is ‘ee-yar’? And what is ‘heir plain’?

Look. I don’t feel like playing.

I am not playing, miss. You have used many odd words. I am unfamiliar with your dialect – your idiom.

"What? Oh, I’m sorry. Horse terms."

No. Not horse terminology. What have you?

What have I what?

"What have you?" he asked again.

"What have I what? What have I done? That’s what I’m trying to find out!"

No! What have you, there? He nodded toward my hands as I continued picking and smoothing my hair.

"What? What’ve I got?" I flipped my palms upwards and downwards several times, beginning to wonder if I had cut them or bruised them, or something even weirder. Hell, they didn’t even look dirty!

What have you round your wrist – both wrists? He reached forward and held my right hand very gently, rubbing his finger along my covered rubber band. He turned his attention to my left wrist, delicately stroking my watch.

What? It’s just a cheap men’s watch. I’m very rough on watches so I get cheap ones. I smash them. I lose them. I hate digital, so I want a big analog face I can see without my glasses.

I see it’s a timepiece. There’s no cover on it.

Why the hell would I want a cover on it? That would defeat the purpose, now wouldn’t it?

The lady leaned close to me and touched my covered rubber band. You had that in your hair.

…Yeah…? I responded cynically, Well excuse me for dressing so casually! I didn’t know I needed to wear a color-coordinated scrunchie to be properly attired for getting a concussion! Fuck that shit!

The man leaned close and held my right hand in his, then gently grasped the covered rubber band. May I see this? He didn’t really inquire, because he was already removing it from my wrist.

"You have got to be kidding."

The lady leaned close to him as he fondled the covered rubber band and stretched it gently between his hands. It’s rubber, covered with fabric, he commented. How clever. He handed it to the lady, who stretched it in different directions, fascinated. Then, predictably, she let go with one hand, and it ejected to the floor, landing under the man’s chair. Alarmed, she quickly bent over to fetch it, and gave it back to me immediately, almost apologetically, as if she feared she had damaged some valuable piece of property not hers. I put it back on my right wrist.

So, I began, sarcastically, …you’re saying you’ve never smacked yourself with a rubber band? Maybe I’ve got a spare one in my pocket for you to entertain yourself with…. I never know what I may find… maybe a horse tooth, maybe a big dead fly, a stray nail, an interesting rock, sometimes even a freshly dead baby rodent… maybe you’ll get really lucky and I’ll find a fucking paper clip to round out your office theme. But don’t expect a Xerox machine! I leaned to the side and lifted my shirt slightly, reached into my right front pants pocket and felt a few wadded, used facial tissues and paper towels. I squirmed around on the cot and jammed my left hand into my left pocket and pulled out a couple of pieces of paper. I unfolded them and held them at arm’s length since I didn’t have my glasses. A quick glance revealed one piece was a horse feedbag label, on the reverse of which I apparently had a shopping list for the feed store. The other paper was some sort of newspaper story I had ripped out. I folded them up again and shoved them back into my pocket. I noticed the man noting my action with intense interest, suspicion even. He quickly shifted his glance away to disguise his interest, but it was too late.

He chuckled. Yes, it’s like a tiny little slingshot, very elastic. What a clever idea.

"Mister, your hair is long enough to put in a ponytail. How do you do it?"

"I don’t. He seemed a little insulted. Then his expression softened slightly and he leaned toward me again, tentatively offering his outstretched hand. What else have you?"

Where are my shoes? I deftly smoothed my hair into a ponytail high on my head and twisted the covered rubber band around it several times, flipping the long tail of my hair out of the way, all in a matter of about six seconds. That’s better.

They both watched my actions, fascinated. We have them, he replied.

Well? Where are they? I don’t dare walk without shoes. I’ve broken my feet too many times. I have horses. I don’t go unprotected.

We have them, he repeated. Apparently the subject was closed.

"Well, ‘Welcome to the Hotel California’!" I commented sarcastically, unable to resist.

We are not in California, he answered seriously. What have you there? It was in your hair.

Yeah, and I put it back in! The Mysterious Covered Rubber Band!

No. There was something else. It fell.

Oh! My pen? I groped a moment and recovered it from where it had rolled under my right thigh. I shifted it to my left hand and prepared to shove it in my hair, above my hair band.

Give it to me, he ordered, with authority, outstretching his hand close to me.

What the hell? Was he afraid I would get really mad and stab him with it? I held it back, out of his reach, and said, "I have to warn you: I am very possessive of my ink pens! It’s an old habit. I’ll let you use it real quick, but I won’t take my eyes off it. It’s so stupid, but the fact is, if I lose it, I’m fucked. I added cynically, For ‘want of a nail’ you know." I offered it to him.

He took it gently and held it horizontally in both hands. The lady leaned over to examine it close up, wrinkling her forehead. It was a pen I had swiped from a doctor’s office, with the name and address printed on it. Both ends were a bright light blue, with an opaque middle, with a spring-loaded shiny silver button at the end for clicking the writing tip open and shut. It was one of the thicker pens, with a textured rubber finger grip and a clasp at the button end. It was not the type I prefer to put in my hair, because the rubber finger grip and the clasp cause the pen to not slide easily and to get hair wrapped around it. Obviously I had grabbed it because it was convenient. So apparently I had left home on an errand, most likely to the feed store. I had no memory whatsoever.

What is this? he asked, slowly rolling it in his fingers. It has writing on it. Such neat and tiny writing. How did they do that? It resembles a thermometer. He held it up toward light, and peered through it. But there are no calibrated numbers on it. There are some numbers and some abbreviations, but I do not understand them. What is this?

"What?"

What is this? he repeated. He tapped his fingernail along the pen, listening to the hollow sound. What is this material? It is not glass, but I can see through it.

The lady tapped her fingernail on it to hear the hollow little sound. She waved her finger on the other side of it, amused that she could see through the plastic.

I was dumbfounded.

He grasped the pen firmly and began shaking and flicking it sharply. He held it up in front of him and squinted, remarking, There is a tube within it. He held the lower end of the pen in his fist, scrutinizing the vertical pen. How does it work? What is its purpose? Why do you wear it in your hair?

What the hell? It’s just a pen. I wear it in my hair so I’ll have it when I need it. I prefer thinner ones because they slide easier and they’re more comfortable in my hand. I don’t like the thick ones because, well, they’re uncomfortably thick. You’d be amazed at all the stuff I can do even with a pen between my fingers. I can almost even type, but not quite. If it’s not in my fingers, it’s behind my ear or in my hair. Like I said, I am very jealous of my pens! Don’t fuck with my pen, I warned. "I will get bent out of shape over the loss of my pen. The proverbial horseshoe nail. I know it sounds petty, but what the hell: if I don’t have it, I can face work stoppage in an instant. Do not fuck with my pen. I will get pissed off!"

They both shifted their gaze to me, in utter bewilderment. Then they resumed watching the vertical pen in his upraised hand.

"What are you doing? I asked impatiently. Paying homage to the mighty pen, ha ha? True, I’d consider that a compliment." I held my hand out, beckoning the return of my indispensable cheap little ink pen.

Does it contain mercury? he asked, shifting his gaze momentarily from the pen to me.

"Mercury? What? Are you kidding? Why the hell would they ever put anything so dangerous as mercury inside a cheap pen? Inside any pen? To make it truly more powerful than the sword? To give it wings on its ankles so it can fly? To make it write in silver? I began laughing incredulously. For a spy to assassinate with the written stroke of poison? That’s too damn funny! But that is a good idea, ‘armed with an ink pen!’ HazMat! Call the E-P-A! I can see it now: ‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’… ‘There’s a man in here, armed with a thermometer! And he’s not even American! He must be a terrorist!’… ‘Oh shit! A terrorist armed with a micro chemical weapon!’… ‘Hurry! He’s gonna drop it on the floor and turn it loose!’... I did once handle an idiotic call where people panicked over powdered soap on the bathroom floor, beside the sink… Anyway, I sure do hate mercury thermometers. By the time I can find the little red bar, it’s dropped down five degrees! Thank god for the electronic ones. Except of course, when the battery dies. Then you’re really double-fucked..."

They both stared at me again, transfixed, blinking in bewilderment.

OK, game’s up, I announced. Give it back. I’m not dicking around. The pen goes back in my hair. Safe keeping.

So…. It is a hair pin? It certainly is a strange one. He plainly doubted me.

"A ‘hair pen’! Ha ha, that’s a good one! Well, the thinner ones work a lot better, and I have actually jammed one in there to hold my hair, but it doesn’t work very well. Come on. Hand it over." I wiggled my fingers on my outstretched hand.

No, he said. Not at this time. He pushed it down into a pocket in the dark blue vest he wore.

You’d better hide it a little better than that, I advised derisively. You don’t want to get caught with a stolen advertisement ink pen. And you surely don’t want to go around in a Civil War outfit, spoiling it with a twenty-first century, cheap souvenir ink pen sticking out. It’ll just ruin the whole ensemble.

He stood up and tugged his vest down smooth, made sure the pen was completely concealed, then paced back and forth near my cot a few times in indecisive contemplation. I noticed a gold watch chain snaking out of his other vest pocket.

Ah, you have a pocket watch? I commented in a desperate attempt to soften the atmosphere after my tirade. "I bet I gotcha beat. I have an exquisite lady’s gold watch. Solid gold. It belonged to my father’s uncle’s first wife. It’s the real thing. It was made in 1885. No! 1886. Yes, 1886. And it still runs. After a hundred-plus years, it still runs. Well, that is, after I had it fixed, like in 1974. It’s worth a lot of money, probably twelve to fifteen thousand dollars, I think. If only it could talk! Think of the history it has witnessed. Needless to say, I don’t often wear it. It is truly beautiful. I have a matching little bracelet, but my wrist is too big for it. I mean, it’s a tiny children’s gold bracelet."

He stopped, turned to stare at me a moment, and mandated, Hettie, stay close to her.

Yes, sir, the lady answered.

Then he stooped down and exited through the tent door flap, simultaneously grabbing a broad-brimmed, Australian outback-style black hat hanging on a rack beside the flap. I heard his muffled voice outside the tent say No one, but I couldn’t understand anything else. I heard another man’s voice respond with an unintelligible sound.

I didn’t feel that I was in any sort of danger. I was impatient, irritated, confused, amused, upset, and a little bit punchy because of the absurdity of the situation, and no doubt because of the bump on the head. This just could not be happening! I wasn’t worried about my concussion. I’d had others. I’d get over it. Then I couldn’t resist. I started to mumble the song: "Welcome to the Hotel California…. Such a lovely place, (such a lovely place), such a lovely face, (such a lovely face…) …Plenty of room at the Hotel California…

"…Relax, said the night man, we are programmed to receive… You can check out anytime you want, but you can never leave…"

Hettie reached over and gently took my hands in hers. Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?

Well, I’m gonna have to pee soon.

I don’t understand.

How could she not understand? Something was very wrong here. It had to be me. English was obviously her native language; she had no accent, not even a trace of the ubiquitous Ebonics. She appeared educated, probably a New York actress portraying a black slave for this Civil War re-enactment. Look. Hettie?

Yes?

I leaned close to her conspiratorially and spoke quietly. "Here’s what I think. I think that maybe, my mind thinks I’m saying things that make sense— No. OK… maybe my mouth is not saying the things that my mind thinks it’s saying. Because I’ve hit my head. Maybe… it sounds right to my ears, but it doesn’t sound right to your ears?"

I don’t know, miss. She patted my thigh reassuringly. I closed my eyes and smacked my left hand against my forehead a couple of times. Oh, don’t do that, ma’am! Hettie cautioned.

I had to figure this out. OK, let me try this. I picked up the tin cup from the floor beside my cot and took a small sip of water. I held up the cup, like I was making a TV commercial, and pointed at it with my right index finger. I drank too much water. I patted my abdomen.

Oh! Hettie said. I can help you. She stood up, and so did I. I felt a little woozy so I grasped her forearm. I stepped toward the doorway to our right. She stepped to our left, toward a dressing screen. I hung on to her. The tent was about fifteen feet by fifteen feet, and crammed full of things: two cots, the two chairs, a simple little wooden desk with books and lots of other things on it; the little table with the water pitcher, some cups, and a couple bottles of, perhaps, whiskey; multiple sets of shelves with assorted antique apothecary bottles and some books on them; a taller, sturdy, long and narrow table; at least four large, rustic old-fashioned shipping trunks, piled high with blankets and towels; and two dressing screens surrounding the long, tall table. It looked quite authentic; but of course, those hobbyists are very particular. I couldn’t take a step without being able to touch something to brace myself. Hettie stepped behind the dressing screen and held up what I supposed was a… chamber pot?

I quickly responded, Oh, I’m sure I can walk well enough, if I can hold on to you. You’d need to show me anyway. I was thinking more along the lines of a port-a-potty. I smiled a little self-consciously.

I don’t understand.

Oh no. "Look: I’m sure I can walk. Just take me to the port-a-potties—"

The what?

The port-a-potties— I drew one in the air with both my hands. You know: blue, green, white… with the blue stuff, the stifling heat and the miserable stench by the end of the day… you know, the port-a-potties, with all the long lines and the torn-up grass and mud where everybody tromps all day long at horse shows and festivals like this one? Or maybe a stall or a horse trailer? You’ve got horses here, right?

She nodded slowly in the affirmative.

"So, at the very least, you’ve got horse trailers parked somewhere, even if I have to sneak into one. I’ve pissed in many a horse trailer, and changed my miserable clothes in the impossible heat, too. It’s not like these guys rode their horses here!"

She looked at me with the bewildered, anxious expression she had earlier. What was I saying that didn’t sound right to her? It sounded right to me! I tugged her arm. Look, let’s just go out and you show me where to go.

She grabbed me back with both hands. Ma’am, you’re not permitted to leave this tent.

What do you mean, I’m not allowed? Then it dawned on me. Ohhhh! They’re in the middle of the thing, right now? And I would look really, really stupid if I just walked into it. I mean, I’m not dressed, or anything. I pointed with both hands inwardly at my Orwell shirt. "Wrong war. Wrong century! Where are my shoes?"

I’m not permitted to tell you, ma’am.

I don’t understand. This time I was the one saying it. What do you mean by that? I need to contact my husband and let him know what’s going on.

Where is your husband?

"I don’t know! I whined. I’ll just call him— I patted my hips, feeling my pockets. Hey! Where’s my phone?"

She slowly shook her head.

My patience was running out. "I should have my phone, my car keys, a jacket, and most likely my red backpack! WHERE ARE THEY?"

Hettie shrank back away from me. At that moment, a young man, in costume, poked his head into the door flap and asked authoritatively, Is there something wrong in here?

Yes! I announced, stepping unsteadily toward him. I need to get out and find my stuff! I groped for the flap opening, shoes or no shoes.

He thrust his left arm straight out and shoved me back firmly. I have orders to keep you inside!

"Orders? You have ‘orders’?"

Hettie intervened and gently but firmly pushed me down to sit on the edge of the cot. Please, she said, Shhh. Be quiet.

I barely heard some male voices just outside the tent, murmuring.

Hey! I began, raising my voice, "There’s nothing going on out there! There’s no fake battle, no guns, no loudspeaker explaining shit! I started to stand up. The male character turned his rifle sideways in both hands, plainly intending to shove me with it. This situation was now very uncomfortable. Worse than that. I was obviously here against my will. They’d done something to me! Did this guy, right here, whack me in the head earlier, with his reproduction rifle? There was no question that I was experiencing the aftermath of a real concussion. I struggled to prevent myself from hyperventilating. This was no longer just frustrating. Y’all know very well what I’m saying, don’t you? You’re not fucking confused! What the hell is going on?"

You’ll have to take that up with Major Judson, ma’am, he said calmly.

Who?

He turned to Hettie. I’m right out here, Antie Het. He ducked back outside. I heard a male voice in the background call out: What shall they do with the girl? Our cheeky little guard called back, On with you! Stay away!

I glared at Hettie. I then realized I’d better pee while I had a chance. I obviously was not going anywhere else. I pointed toward the dressing screen. May I?

Of course. Do you need help?

No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not that reckless.

Do you need help?

"What? No! I’m sure I can walk by myself well enough! My hands were trembling. What a horrible nightmare this was becoming: I had been abducted and was a prisoner. Something similar had happened to me several years earlier. A part of me wanted to relive that incident, and a part of me at the same time dreaded to revisit it, and wanted to block the anxiety of the memory. It was plainly apparent that I was experiencing repercussions from my private investigation into the previous incident. I decided I had to keep my wits about me if I wanted to live through this. The men from the previous home invasion had vowed they would get me yet, and kill me. What a clever way to do it! I pissed in the little pot on the floor – lucky for me I’ve spent years and years squatting in the barn and peeing on the floor – and left it, returning to the cot. I don’t… know what to do with it…"

That’s all right, miss. I will attend to it. That is my job.

That’s your job? I said nothing aloud. I hope they pay you well. I slouched on the edge of the cot, put my elbows on my thighs, and laid my face in my hands. I braced myself, but it was no use. I began shaking, and then the sobs started. I couldn’t control it. Crying could have been brought on by the concussion. I began the familiar hyperventilating. Hettie sat down beside me and put her left arm around me. It’ll be all right, honey. We’ll find out what happened to your husband.

Yeah, right, I thought. I’ve heard quite graphically what they do to their victims. Then she added, You’re in good hands here. You’re safe with us.

What the fuck? I leaned away from her and stared at her in utter perplexity. I probably had more incredulity on my face than the two of them combined had a few minutes earlier. "Are you allowed to talk about any of the ‘five dubyas’?" I asked.

She was blank.

OK, as in: where am I? I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

Oh. We are in a camp, a detachment from Fort—

"NO! Drop the whole living history thing! I get that! I need real answers! I can’t have gone far. Are we at Endview? Yorktown? Newport News Park? State, National Park? I can’t have been taken very far or for very long. There’s no way they would fly me anywhere. They couldn’t get me through an airport. Well, maybe a private landing strip… But I’m not worth that much money! I know enough for them to want me dead. We know that. It’s old news. They have the salt marshes and the crabs, and they have Dipshit’s cremation oven. So obviously they want to keep me alive to ‘play with me’ before they kill me. That was the plan, before. I’m happy to tell you all about it – it’s no secret – but not right now."

Miss, no one will kill you. She dropped her voice to a whisper. No one can get to you. Not here. You are protected here. You are hidden here. She rubbed her hand back and forth on my back. There is a guard outside the door. No one comes in, and no one goes out – including you.

My mind had to change gears and go an entirely different direction. "So… you guys rescued me? You found me, and rescued me?"

She nodded vigorously.

Now I suddenly felt weak and on the verge of collapsing with relief. I began to cry. I couldn’t help it. She hugged me securely and comfortingly. I said, So I got lucky…. All the ‘soldiers,’ they came in really handy! I thought, now, of how propitious the circumstances, not how horrible.

Yes, indeed, she encouraged.

I think I understand now. What a stroke of luck. Well, no. Divine intervention.

Oh, yes! Divine intervention!

What a slick idea! Hide me in an ‘army camp’; they’ll never think to try and search the tents.

No.

Thank you. I leaned limply against her. Presently I asked, Did they get my stuff? That would account for why I had in my possession only what I wore.

Yes.

I thought: if they try and call my husband, he would be suspicious of anything they may say or threaten. He would be safe. They had only gotten me. Ambushed me somewhere, hit me over the head, robbed me of personal possessions, left me for dead…. And I had been found and hidden here. Thank god! So… how big is the ‘camp’? How many tents, like this one?

Mmmm… We have over fifteen hundred men, so there are many.

Fifteen hundred! This is huge! Must be a big crowd. How long is it going on? Just the weekend?

Fifteen hundred… is big but they are about to leave on an important expedition. But we are not in a permanent fort.

OK, so we’re not like, at a permanent exhibition, like at Fort Lee or Appomattox or something. I wiped my nose again and took a calming breath. It’s a temporary display?

Yes.

So where, exactly, are we, actually?

I can’t tell you, miss.

OK. That would be answered later, apparently. Just be glad those assholes didn’t have a clue I had disappeared right in front of them. Then I said aloud, with a sardonic grunt, Just like the big warehouse at the end of ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’!

I suppose so, she answered reassuringly.

I felt so comforted. Well, Miss Hettie, my name is Patricia. Patricia Kaplan. I took her right hand in both of mine, and squeezed firmly.

And I am Hetitia Judson.

Judson?

Yes. Call me Hettie. That is how everyone knows me.

So you are in charge? I pointed toward the tent doorway. He just now said something about that?

Oh, no ma’am. He meant Dr. Judson. She motioned toward the small desk.

Oh, are you two married?

Oh, no ma’am! She seemed embarrassed.

I thought of Forrest Gump upon his arrival in Vietnam with his black buddy Bubba. I quoted, What, are y’all twins or somethin’?

She didn’t catch on to the reference. Oh no ma’am, but we did grow up together. I’ve been in his family all my life.

Like brother and sister? Peas and carrots?

My job here is with him, but I mostly take care of ladies in camp, she said.

You’re a nurse? I felt in good hands.

Yes, ma’am.

An E.M.T.? Can you check me out, in that case?

I do not understand.

My vitals. What are they? How are my eyes? I can see clearly, but of course not up close. Damn, I need my glasses. I leaned my face close to hers so she could get a good look at my pupils. She pulled away from me. I placed my right fingers on my neck and found my carotid. I lifted my left hand up to see my watch. Suddenly that seemed too difficult for me to concentrate on. I didn’t even bother to count. Where did he go? I asked a minute later. Oh no! He mustn’t call local authorities! It’s got to be federal! New panic started.

"Well, we are," she assured me.

What do you mean?

We are United States Army.

Do you mean to say we are on an Army base?

Well of course!

Then how did I get on base? You said they took my stuff. So I have no I.D. card on me; I couldn’t possibly get on any military base without one. I have a retired civilian Air Force CAC card. With it, I can get on any base, anywhere. Without it, no way.

She thought a minute, then slowly explained, Two scouts found you. We sent an ambulance and brought you back here.

"Two whats found me? Wait – don’t answer that. If I were in an ambulance, I said slowly, why did it not take me to a hospital in the city? I know how this stuff works, trust me! I began talking more forcefully. An ambulance simply cannot, and will not, take a civilian onto a military base. Doesn’t happen. Civilian and military don’t mix well, either way. Look: We had a soldier, injured in a one-car wreck; she smashed her skull to pieces when she did airborne donuts into a tree, cracked her head in a dozen pieces like a broken eggshell. She was brain dead so nothing really mattered anymore anyway, except to restart her healthy young heart and keep it beating long enough to cut it out, and cut her lungs and other organs out, and use them again. But we had to get an off-post civilian ambulance to come get her, take her off post, and have a helicopter come land in a field, then fly her to a civilian hospital. The helicopter wouldn’t even land on post, even though we gave it permission to! Where did he go, anyway?"

Hettie had recoiled away from me, her hands clasped to her chest. She had a sickened look on her face, her eyes wide in disgust.

Yes, I continued, she was as good as dead from the moment she wiped out. No seat belt. There were brown and green stains on her paperwork from spilled blood and splattered brains. We had to put her papers in plastic sleeves to handle them. It was very sad. They kept her alive for like ten days before pulling the plug on her. Her whole head was literally soft and flexible because it was in so many pieces. She was dead from the start. I saw the pictures of the car. It did donuts through the air and slammed a tree. The girl was only eighteen years old. Dead from a silly mistake. They cut organs out of her, obviously. Heart, lungs, liver, eyes. At least they could keep her alive long enough to do that. I corrected myself: "Well, they kept her heart beating for a week and a half after she was dead. Let’s just put it that way. She was dead the moment she hit that tree. She just didn’t really die, permanently, for another week or so."

Hettie had stood up, her hand over her open mouth, as if terrorized or perhaps sickened by my story. She was inching backward away from me.

The bottom line, I said to her, Is she would have lived if she had fastened her seat belt. Now, where did your buddy go? I need to explain some very serious things to him. Then I added, And he needs to explain a whole lot of very serious stuff to me.

He went to give his report. She seemed reluctant to reveal anything more.

Oh. He had to get on stage, so to speak. And do his thing. He’ll be back soon? He’ll bring someone in charge I can speak to? Things were making more sense once again.

"Oh, yes, miss. Yes, he surely will." She seemed edgy at the thought of what was going to happen soon.

I put my head down in my hands. My phone is gone, I muttered. In it, I have the number to the Virginia State Police, in Chesapeake.

Ma’am, we are not in Virginia.

What? Where are we?

Why, we are in Montana.

This new information took my confusion to a new level. For one thing, it simply could not be true. If it’s not true, from whence did the notion come? A sketchy thought flitted past my mind. These people were either playing with me in a cruel way, or my mind was playing with me in a cruel way. Could it be that I was dreaming? I am prone to vivid, explicitly detailed dreams, always in color. Most of my dreams are frustrating in nature, but a few can be entertaining, as if I am watching some sort of movie. There are several themes or locations that often get revisited. But this one, so far, was unique.

I didn’t recognize anyone. I didn’t recognize the location. Wait a minute. If I’m sitting here, analyzing the dream, I almost certainly am not dreaming! But then again, a couple of times, I have had lucid dreams in which I was both some sort of actor, participating in the dream, as well as an audience member, watching the dream and even making comments about it. But that has only happened two or three times, and the details weren’t all that interesting. The story being told in the dream was not important. The point of the dream was that I had been aware, that I had been a knowing participant. Such an unlikely notion, while improbable, could possibly account for all this silliness.

Hettie moved her chair farther away from my cot, then sat down and eyed me suspiciously. I asked her, "Do you know where my shoes are?"

No ma’am.

I waited for her to say anything else. Nothing. She lowered her eyes but from time to time glanced up at me, then lowered them again. I slouched, resting my forearms on my thighs. I rubbed my hands together, then interlaced my fingers. So, I started, What happens next? She didn’t respond. "Do we just sit here, while nothing goes on outside? There are usually announcements filling the air at these things. Ads. Commentaries. Introductions to the actors portraying whomever. Remarks of thanks to whoever owns the land, and so forth. Testing, testing, one two three!"

I don’t think I should talk with you. She slowly shook her head, cringing.

I scrutinized her. I leaned way to my left, then way to my right, examining her from different angles. I spoke quietly. A minute ago, you were reassuring and helpful. Now you’ve fallen off the edge. I sat up a little higher, crossed my arms, and tapped my feet a little.

Finally I decided to voice what I had begun venturing to suspect. You know what I think? I began. She looked up at me. I held up my left index finger. "I think…. that maybe… just maybe, your character hasn’t been written well enough. She looked aside to her left, as if she wanted to turn away from me but couldn’t because she was assigned to watch me. I leaned toward her, interlaced my fingers again, and turned up my intimidation just a tad. I think you’re just ‘filler,’ a little bit of ‘fluff,’ thrown in there like the little sign on TV that announces ‘Please stand by, we’re having technical difficulties’. I put my hands together in front of my face, pointed my fingers toward her, and wiggled them like I was a mysterious magician. Her eyes widened in astonishment and she cringed back away from me even more. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re a little…. intermission, a rough draft…. unfinished…. not defined yet. A working title in my imagination. She averted her eyes again, and held the back of her left hand to her face, with her palm toward me, as if warding off evil. This is wild! I whispered loudly. I flicked my hands up in delight. This is a whole new dream category! Damn! I hope my alarm doesn’t go off! She was motionless. This is great! I continued. You’re, like, on hold, like a character in a video game that’s stuck! Flickering, bobbing, jerking, but unable to really move. I was so relieved! My anxiety from before slipped away. In an incredible, bizarre way, I had willfully taken over my own dream! This is good shit!" I smiled triumphantly. I decided to ride it out and to enjoy it while it lasted. A couple of minutes passed.

I looked at my watch. One-nineteen. OK. Then I realized I didn’t know the day of the week, or the date, or the month. I probed, Can you tell me what day it is, and the month?

It is Sunday, June fifteenth.

"June? And I’m dressed this warmly? I should be wearing a short-sleeved tee shirt. Oh well."

Ma’am, I do not even understand what you are wearing. She resumed her duty looking at me.

Oh, my Orwell shirt? I pulled the bottom corners away from me so I could read it, upside down. "Yeah, it’s pretty esoteric. You either understand it – or you don’t. I happen to be a huge Orwell fan. You can pretty much ask me anything. I first read ‘1984’ in 1974 and it made a very sicko impact on me. And now? Ha! It’s very pertinent, maybe even more so than ever. ‘Big Brother’ is alive and well! He’s called ‘Big Government.’ I also have a couple of ‘Animal Farm’ shirts, and they really confuse people. ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’ People have commented that they agree, but they’re referring to the rivalry between pet cats and dogs. No, no, no, no. I usually don’t bother trying to explain the actual meaning. Again, you either know it – or you don’t. You either recognize it, or you have no clue."

She was staring at me in total blankness, yet again. And she had seemed so educated to me. You’d think that EVERYBODY by now had at least heard of