That would be Charles Francis Adams, in London, I thought.
“Palmerston?” whispered the prince.
“I think the PM would prefer to delay,” she said.
“Vicki… we cannot permit this madness. Insist… that Palmerston bring Russell’s note to you.”
“Yes, dear, of course.”
He murmured something else. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it might have been, “Schnell… schnell—” Quickly, quickly. He was determined to outlive and remold his own predestined history.
And now the literal anomalies begin.
One history says he died December 1, 1861, another on December 14, 1861. Both are right, of course, depending on in which world one lives. I, who write this, am a citizen of both worlds. Except that I renounced my citizenship in that gloomy world where Albert, Prince Consort, died December 1.
For in the history I now relate, he did not die on December 1. As we can look at any of his stone-carved memorials, we see from the dates there engraved that his great spirit left my newly adopted world on December 14. And in that additional two weeks he changed history drastically and dramatically and forever.
What gave him that extra two weeks? Did Dr. Wright’s typhoid vaccine help? Maybe a little. Did the cold baths help? Perhaps. In my own humble opinion I believe his own iron will gave him the added time. He was determined to stop the war before it started.
At six-thirty on the cold dark morning of November 30, 1861, Victoria in her dressing gown and carrying a lantern, brought Lord Russell’s proposed notes to Albert’s bedside. The ministers had evidently worked on them all night in the conference room downstairs. I watched from a crack in the study door.
“Let me think about it, Schaetze,” he said.
So she left him. I hurried out and helped him struggle to his study desk. He sat there, read the papers by gaslight, and groaned. “This means war! Oh what fools!” He began fumbling for pen and paper. I put them in front of him.
He picked up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell with trembling fingers, then waited until his hand steadied. “Lincoln,” he murmured. “Abraham Lincoln surely never authorized stopping the Trent.”
“Can you give him a way out, sire?”
“I think so. He’s smart, and he’ll meet us halfway.” He dipped the pen in the inkwell again. This time his hand did not tremble. He whispered the words as he wrote, slowly, carefully, “The Queen returns these important Drafts,” (German-style, he capitalized all nouns) “which on the Whole she approves… but she cannot help feeling that the second Draft… is somewhat meagre. We would like to have seen the Expression of a Hope that the American Captain did not act under Instructions, or if he did, that he misapprehended them… The U.S. Government must be fully aware that the British Government could not permit its flag to be insulted.” He sat back in his chair, exhausted. I heard him mutter, “Ich bin so swach ich habe kaum die Feder halten koennen.” I am so weak I can scarcely hold the pen. It was true. He dropped it to floor. I picked it up and returned it to his desk.
It was 7 A.M.
“Wells,” he muttered, “this is the end. I am soon gone. In a year I will be totally forgotten.”
“Sire,” I said, “You completely misapprehend your position in history.
“The English people finally awakened to your benefits to the country. You will be known as Albert the Good. Monuments will be erected to you all over London. Indeed, all over the country. Historians will proclaim you England’s greatest king since Alfred. And all this without knowing that you probably prevented a war today.”
He just looked at me, puzzled. “I fear you’re greatly misinformed, Wells. I think it likely that at most I’ll be remembered as a horseman. I once jumped a five-bar fence… that’s all these people care about. They’ve already forgotten the Great Exhibition of 1851, and the things I did for science and education.”
“Sire,” I said, “aside from how the English regard you, I strongly believe that your rescript will let Mr. Lincoln win his war and free five million slaves.”
“Do you really think so, Wells?”
“Of course, sire. Shall I help you back to bed?”
“Please. Then you’ll have to leave. The messenger is due back any minute.”
As we all now know, the prince’s rescript to Lord Russell was his last memo and last official act. A week later he was moved into the Blue Room, where he died on December 14.
I said goodbye, got in the Time Machine, and pressed the lever forward, to 1894 and Major Banning. And Jane. Especially Jane.
11. 1894
When the room stopped trembling and came into final focus I found myself staring straight into the barrel of a Webley 38. In the dim half-light, just above the revolver a grim face looked down at me. It was Major Banning. Not surprising. He was supposed to be here when I “came back,” and indeed, here he was. But he looked… somehow different. And for God’s sake, why the pistol!? Something was wrong, terribly wrong. I continued to look up, with my eyes going back and forth between his face and that horrid weapon. “Major Banning?” I said weakly.
His weapon barrel did not waver a micron; yet when I called his name his eyes widened. He said, “I’m Captain Banning. Who are you? How did you come here?” Translation: Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t scatter your brains all over the carpet.
I hit the depths then. In this new world he was not the queen’s trusted equerry sharing a crucial mission with me. He was not a major. He was a captain in the Windsor guards, and he was my enemy.
What else was strange and different? Jane? Did I still have Jane? Would she know me?
“My name is Wells,” I said mournfully. “H. G. Wells.” Just then I thought of one last possibility of salvation. “Major… Captain, I mean… would you please call Sergeant Roper. He knows me. He can vouch for me.”
He frowned. “There’s no one around here named Roper, sergeant or otherwise.”
No Sergeant Roper, either. Of course.
“And now, Mr. Wells, I’ll thank you to raise you hands and step out of that infernal machine. Real easy, now.” He made an imperious motion with his pistol.
“All right,” I said. Very quickly, I looked about the study. It was night, that much was per schedule. The only light in here still came from a small electric bulb sconced on the study wall. I could see no changes. In the half light I surreptitiously unscrewed the back-time lever from its stud and stuck it up my sleeve. A desperate idea was forming.
“Up, up!” Captain Banning commanded. “And tell me, what is this thing?”
I stood up slowly from the saddle, raised my hands, and stepped down out of the vehicle. “Captain, I’ll explain everything. But first, please tell me what day it is.”
He looked puzzled. “Thursday, of course.”
“The full date?” I persisted.
“June 7, 1894, about one-thirty in the morning.” He glowered at me. “All right young man, your turn. What is going on here?”
I sighed. Right place, right time—but everything was wrong. I said, “This is a machine for traveling in time, Captain. I’ve just come from the year 1861. I was attempting to prolong the life of Prince Albert.” First the captain frowned, then he grimaced, and finally he grinned. (This was not going well.) I said, “I know how this must sound, Captain, but I can assure you, it’s true. I’m not crazy. But tell me, is Prince Albert alive or dead?”
That got him to frowning again. “You really don’t know?”
“I don’t know. Please tell me.”
“Dead these many years, laddie.”