Chapter 4
Daytona, Florida; October 31, 1916
Jeffrey woke to a persistent, irregular dripping of water on his face; his eyes still closed, he reached up one hand to wipe it away. This action, however, was followed by a sudden stream, and he sat up with a yelp.
Unable to hold it in any longer, Bogg burst out laughing as he gave the wet handkerchief another quick squeeze, releasing a second stream onto the boy's tousled curls.
"I'll get you for that, Bogg!" Jeffrey threatened playfully. "When you least expect it!"
"I've heard that song before," Bogg grinned. "C'mon and get dressed; I don't know about you, but I think breakfast smells too good to pass up."
Jeffrey took a whiff and grinned back; if his appetite had still been asleep, it was wide awake now. Then he glanced out the window and saw by the sun that it had to be about seven o'clock. "Sharon's already gone to the school, huh?" he remarked.
"Probably." I sure hope so, was the thought he kept to himself.
"Did you get to talk to her last night?"
"Yeah. If we'd been someplace where we didn't have to worry about being overheard, you probably wouldn't have stayed asleep long enough to have that nightmare."
"That good, huh?"
Bogg snorted. "She was more than just 'kind of mad' at you; she was livid. The fact that the Council sent you back out with me really put a bee in her bonnet for some reason. Remember what Drake and Susan told us about a 'new mandate' that had both field workers and administrators behind it?"
"Yeah."
"Well, just because Drake turned out to be a hypocrite doesn't mean the policy will be abandoned; there are people who really do believe in it, and I'm starting to think Sharon's one of 'em."
"So what's that got to do with me?"
"I've never heard of a field worker who didn't go through Voyager school first, and that's just for starters. There's more that I don't have time to explain right now, not if we want to eat before we have to be at work," Bogg told him. "But what I told her goes for both of us, too: We don't have to like her, but we do have to work with her."
"Boy, this is one assignment I'll be glad to see the end of," Jeffrey grumbled as he tied his shoes.
~oOo~
It was midmorning when they completed the work and went to tell Arlene. "You two work so well, I'm almost sorry we don't have anything else for you to do," she smiled as she paid them.
"I'm just glad we could help," Bogg replied, then sobered. "Miss Tisdale, I've heard a rumor that I think you should know about. There's word the Klan may be marching on your school tonight."
"Miss Fields said that same thing this morning." She let out a sigh. "I knew there was going to be trouble when I heard they'd started up again last year."
"Before we go, I'd like to fill your fire buckets and leave them on the front porch. I don't think they'll actually try to start a fire," he hastily reassured her, "but they do carry burning crosses, and accidents happen."
She nodded. "That would probably be wise; I'll show you where we keep them."
"That's the plan?" Jeffrey asked when they were done and headed toward the boarding house.
"It's a start, at least," came the reply. "Once we get to our room, we'll check the Guidebook and see if there's anything new."
"Huh? Bogg, it's a book; how can there be anything new?"
"How, I don't know; they didn't tell us. Said it was beyond the scope of the course. But the main section updates itself automatically; that's why it's not a good idea to try to read it straight through. You end up confusing yourself."
"Boy, sometimes it seems like VHQ is half-magic."
Bogg chuckled. "Now you know how I felt when I first got there."
"What was it like? C'mon, Bogg, you've never told me, and all I've ever seen of it is the courtroom."
~oOo~
"…so I told him, "They're probably still cleaning your blood off the walls."
Jeffrey's eyes went wide. "You're kidding! You actually said that to a guy who just lost both legs? What'd he say?"
"Well, he was kind of startled for a second, and then he started laughing. We were best friends from that moment on."
"So he stayed at Headquarters, huh?"
"Yeah, but not because of his legs. They gave him a pair of…what'd he call it…bionic legs that were as good as the real thing. He could've gone into the field if he wanted, but he decided he wanted to work the engineering end of it."
"Wow! Real bionic legs? Like the Six Million Dollar Man?"
"Who?"
"This TV show that was on when I was little…"
Bogg cut him off as they approached the boarding house. "Tell me later; these people don't even have radio yet."(1)
The bell over the door rang as Bogg pushed it open; Mrs. Donovan came into the foyer at the sound. "You're back early," she greeted them cheerfully.
"We finished the job," Bogg told her with a shrug.
"Well, go on and get cleaned up; there's a buffet-style lunch set out in the dining room. If you're interested in a movie, there's a theater on Main Street; the matinee starts at one-thirty."
Jeffrey's face lit up. "Can we, Bogg?"
"I don't see why not; we've got plenty of time."
~oOo~
With classes over for the day, Sharon was on her way out the door when she heard the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen. Diverting her steps, she looked in to see that someone had dropped a jar of honey. "Need a hand, Colette?" she asked the teacher who was carefully plucking shards of glass out of the sticky mess.
"No; we're fine," came the reply. "But this was the last jar of honey, and we were going to make some honey cakes for tonight."
"Want me to run down to the store and pick up another jar?"
"I don't think it's in the budget, Sharon."
"Don't worry about it; I'll pay for it myself." She turned and was out the door before Colette could protest.
She thoroughly hated those assignments where she had to deal with kids, Sharon reflected as she headed for the grocery store. At least this batch was fairly well-behaved. On an earlier assignment, in 1935 California, she had dealt with the Switzer brothers, Carl and Harold, ensuring that they won their roles in the Our Gang series. By the end of it, she had been ready to strangle the entire pack of Little Rascals with her bare hands.
But then there were Jeremy Whitmore and his gang, she thought as she spotted those boys further down the street. From everything she had heard, they could make even the Little Rascals look like angels, and that was saying a lot. What she saw as she reached the grocery store made her duck quickly inside; she could swear that was Alfred who had just come out of the side street, right in front of the seven boys. Peering out the door, she watched as he spent a few minutes talking to them. When he turned and walked away from them, she pulled back inside before he drew close enough to see her.
The one thing all field workers had in common was a finely tuned "gut instinct," and right now hers was telling her that something was horribly wrong. Alfred had asked where Phineas and Jeffrey were staying; once she had told him, he'd said he would take care of the matter, presumably planning to come get the kid himself. So why was he talking to the Whitmore gang? Worried, she made her purchase and hurried to the school to drop it off, then made for the boarding house at a run. There, she consulted her Guidebook and found that Jeremy's entry had been updated. Her features substantially paler than normal, she set about gaining access to the south wing.
~oOo~
Jeremy and his friends were discussing their plans for the evening. At fifteen and sixteen, they were too old for guising,(2) but still young enough to enjoy the mischief and petty vandalism long associated with Hallowe'en. Soaping windows, chalking walls, and upsetting outhouses where they were still in use were old favorites, and they were gleefully plotting their targets for tonight's merry mayhem when a man tumbled out of a side street, landing right in front of them.
"Are you okay, sir?" Jeremy asked as he helped him up.
The dark-haired stranger brushed off the trousers of his odd-looking suit. The coattails and the satin stripe on his trousers suggested formal wear, as did the six-point collar, but none of them had ever seen such a large, elaborate bowtie. "I'm fine," the man answered. He gave the group a measuring gaze, then said, "I believe you may be just the young men I'm looking for."
~oOo~
Bogg and Jeff were both still laughing when they came out of the theater. Manhattan Madness might not have been one of Douglas Fairbanks' best roles, but the comedy had proven once again the truth of the old saw about laughter and medicine.
"You ever see a silent movie before, kid?" Bogg asked as they headed back toward the boarding house once more.
"Yeah; one of the TV stations back home used to show them sometimes. They had a Charlie Chaplin week on one of them the week before you fell into my room."
"Isn't he the guy with the cane?" Bogg then launched into an imitation of the actor's trademark waddle that had the boy laughing again.
"Bogg, that was perfect!" he gasped when he could talk again.
"Every Voyager has to be at least part actor," Bogg told him with a shrug. "I thought you'd figured that out by now."
They were still discussing their favorite scenes when they walked into their room, only to stop dead in their tracks to see Sharon waiting for them, her apron and the bucket of cleaning supplies she'd left by the door explaining how she'd gained admittance to the south wing. Both sobered instantly at the look on her face. "What's wrong?" Bogg demanded as he shut the door.
"We have a problem," she said. "The Guidebook's been updated. Jeremy's listed as a major historical figure now; it says he and his friends attack the one who chased them away from the girls yesterday. That's you, Phineas. Now we may not agree over Jeffrey here, but I've never wished him ill. You have to leave him here during the march tonight."
It was only with effort that the boy held his tongue, and Bogg rested a hand momentarily on his shoulder before he asked Sharon, "Any ideas for a plan?"
"Not really," she admitted.
"Me, either, outside of waiting in the woods to stop whoever decides to throw things at the marchers."
"It's as good a plan as any," Sharon nodded. "We just have so little information this time, I feel like we're taking shots in the dark."
"We are," Bogg remarked. "What'll you be doing?"
"I'll be just inside the front door, ready to run out and grab one of those buckets if things go wrong," she replied as she retrieved the cleaning supplies. "I'd better get out of here before they figure out I'm not a maid."
"You're not going to listen to her, are you?" Jeffrey asked once she had left.
Bogg leafed through his own Guidebook; finding what he was looking for, he handed it to him. "You tell me."
Whitmore, Jeremy
Born: March 21, 1900, Daytona, Florida.
Died: November 1, 1980, Daytona, Florida.
Father: Andrew Whitmore.
Mother: Jennifer Martin
Status: Major historical figure.
Summary: This individual is noted for a very vindictive nature, and for carrying out his vendettas in a violent manner. On Hallowe'en of 1916, he attacked a person who, a day earlier, had prevented him and his friends from harassing students from Mary McLeod Bethune's school.
"But you're the one that chased him and his friends away yesterday," Jeffrey protested. "How does that make him a major historical figure when nobody knows about Voyagers?"
"Because a Voyager is a major historical figure by definition."
"Because of what we do?"
"Yeah. So if somebody does something that could prevent a Voyager from carrying out his assignment, that automatically makes that person a major historical figure."
"But that means—Bogg, you can't go out there alone! There were seven of 'em yesterday; if they all come after you, you won't have a chance!"
"That's if they can find me in those woods in the dark," Bogg returned.
"So if you're the one they're after, why'd Sharon hint they might come after me?"
"They saw you with me. Ever hear of 'guilt by association'?"
"They can't come after me if I'm at the school. Some of the richest people in the country are supporting it; that's why even the Klan never tried to do more than scare the people there."
Bogg shook his head. "The teachers say that's true of the adults, but not the kids. We can't take the chance," he said very seriously. "Not when I've seen some of the things you're supposed to do. I'm sure you know what the Code has to say about that."
Jeffrey's face fell. "You have to make sure I'm around to do them," he replied unhappily.
"Now tell me how that applies to your own duty as a Voyager."
After a moment's thought, he slowly answered, "I guess it means that since I know I have a future, it's my job to make sure I'm around for it, too."
Bogg's smile told him he'd given the right response, but the older Voyager wasn't done yet. "And what do you think that means?"
The boy hung his head. "It means I have to stay put when you tell me to."
"Voyager's honor?" Bogg pressed.
Jeffrey's head snapped up in shock. Far more than a simple invoking of one's honor, the phrase was a direct reference to the Voyager oath, an oath he hadn't taken yet. But then he remembered what he'd read just the previous evening, about the field training of Voyagers: …the safety and well-being of the recruit becomes the field worker's responsibility… Between that and something he'd been told not too long ago—if he fouled up badly enough, Bogg could be penalized for it—he realized that, in some convoluted way he was barely able to understand, much less put into words, it was Bogg's honor that was being invoked as much as his own.
The silence dragged on as he pondered these things, finally broken by Bogg's prompt. "Jeffrey?"
Clearly he wasn't going to let it go until he got the promise; reluctantly, Jeffrey nodded.
"Say it."
He opened his mouth, then left his jaw hanging slack, his eyes widening as the full significance of the moment struck him. For the first time, Bogg was treating him like a peer! A broad grin split his features; his eyes snapped with pride. "Voyager's honor," he nodded, voice and motion firm.
1 The radio had been invented much earlier, but didn't make it into public use in the US until after WW I.
2 An early name for trick-or-treating, a practice still in its infancy at that time.
