Thank you for the comments, and they're always a welcome surprise (even when I've broken a 'time travel rule')!

I welcome constructive criticism.

As always, grammar (& historical) mistakes are mine.

End notes are optional reading.

WARNING - Because of the era, racial biases/stereotypes are part of the story. I won't use Extreme racial slurs common to the period (some are still in use).

Trigger Warning:

Purchase of slaves. (Refer to notes for my rationale and historical research.) the slavery laws allowed little wiggle room and wanting to keep everyone in the US, I went with 'money talks.'

Chapter 15–The Invisible Visible

Blaine and Sheriff Beiste stood across the makeshift desk. Judge Walters reviewed the submission to declare Marshall Campion's slaves free. A series of 'uh-uh' and 'hmm' came from his mouth, shuffling the papers in front of him and lifting his glasses from his nose, only to set them back down. He flipped through his daily journal pages, jotting numbers on paper and adding or subtracting as needed. The Judge rose once to pull out thin books of California law from a carpetbag or trunk and thumbed through another much more comprehensive book on Federal law. He pulled out sheets of folded papers stuffed in between the pages. Sheriff Beiste, nervous at each uh-uh, would lean forward, only to have Blaine touch his leg to see the lawyer's slight nod to wait. The Judge removed his glasses, setting them gingerly on the paperwork. He rested his arms on the desk. "These slaves, Azimio, Jake, Jane, Cedes, Phil, and the boys Boaz and Osias, are requesting to buy their freedom from their owner, Mr. Goolsby?"

"Yes, your honor. They have accumulated a sum of twelve thousand two hundred and fifty dollars in gold." Blaine kept his hands behind his back, his middle and index finger crossed.

"And they did not convey this to Mr. Goolsby before their presumed escape?"

"No, your honor. There wasn't time. Only Jake has a rudimentary ability to read, and the rest are illiterate. They don't understand the law or how it works and believed they were free."

"Buying and selling slaves is against the law in California."

"I am aware, but our state newspapers publish advertisements for slaves. The state isn't prosecuting the owners or the newspaper advertising them for sale." Blaine rocked on his feet, confident the Judge would buy his argument; they gained the money through work and savings. Perjury or an ethics violation wasn't on Blaine's mind when he presented his idea to Ana, Quinn or the Hummels. Still, when Shane mentioned Jake's savings in the bank and who would get the money if they returned him, Blaine couldn't help but ask Sebastian. His lover confirmed the bank held various amounts for Jake, Cedes, Azimio, Phil and Jane. Not sufficient to buy everyone's freedom, Blaine went begging. Much to Kurt's horror, Burt plucked out five hundred dollars from the small leather pouch he hid in his mattress, adding another five hundred from Kurt. Quinn donated a thousand she held at the bank. To Blaine's surprise, Emma inquired if she and Sheriff Beiste could contribute to the Black's cause, passing him seven hundred and fifty dollars. Emma said she "appreciated Boaz and Osias' diligent work ethic and patience with my oddities." Miss April hailed him from her balcony, announcing to Blaine that her 'girls' collected a basin amounting to another thousand, and Aphasia passed him two hundred. He also received smaller contributions from Sugar, Shane, Tony, the Roses, Elliott and Rick Nelson. Figgy gave him a modest bag of dust, claiming he "missed the children's pranks on Miss Sylvester" and then implored he didn't mention it to Miss Sue. Both doctors apologized for their small amounts. Their patients swapped tangible goods for their services, not cash. Leaving him and Ana to deal with the last twenty-three hundred dollars.

"It will take months, if not a year, to receive Mr. Goolsby's response. Where would the enslaved people stay? Will the Sheriff keep them jailed? Do you have plans?

A nervous smile crossed Blaine's face, glancing over to the Sheriff, who rubbed his hand over his chin. "I don't understand the question, your honor. I… I mean, I answered it. As I stated, they'll stay on and work on Rancho Pacifico. Under our care. As officers of the court," Blaine gestured to Sheriff Beiste. "We're obligated to uphold the law. They won't escape if that's what you're asking."

"How large is Miss Lopez's ranch again?"

"Rancho Pacifico encompasses nineteen thousand four hundred and twenty-five hectares, your honor."

"What's that?" Judge Walters performed the mental math. "Forty-eight thousand acres?"

"What I figured out, too, usin' a pencil and paper." Sheriff Beiste grinned like a school kid getting the top grade from his teacher. "Took me a while longer."

"I rounded." Judge Walters gave the Sheriff a stern glance for speaking out of turn. "Lots of land to get lost in Blaine or make an easy escape. If I were you, I'd hang on to the gold. You and Miss Lopez have your own legal battles."

"Um, yes, your honor. That's progressing, albeit slowly."

Judge Walters exhaled. "Let's cut the crap here, Blaine. You were my summer clerk, and I know your politics. This sounds like a ploy. It's difficult to believe these Blacks have saved over twelve thousand in gold. The gold's exhausted. The easy gold."

"Easy river gold is indeed vanishing, your honor. But we have it on good authority gold is still plentiful in the hills."

"I see. Who's delivering this offer to Mr. Goolsby? Not yourself, I presume."

"Uh…"

"My youngest son, Charlie, is returning home to Galena, Illinois, next week to attend to some family business. He could bring Mr. Goolsby's answer back for a small carrier's fee. He's a lawyer and trustworthy."

"That would be very helpful, your honor." Blaine let out a sigh of relief.

"And what if Mr. Goolsby doesn't? Have you thought this thru?"

"No, we haven't, not really, your honor. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Fair enough." Judge Walters reached for his pen dipping it into the ink well. "I'll reject the extradition, holding these seven blacks in the care of you and Ana Lopez. On the property known as Rancho Pacifico for a term of one year or until we hear from Mr. Goolsby." Blaine gave Sheldon a thumbs up with the scratch of Judge Walter's pen on the paper. "A piece of advice, Blaine, my experience with these southern gentlemen. They don't give up anything without a fight. They're deeply entrenched in honoring their old aristocratic values. We must change our ways of thinking to lead the world into a civil democracy. Otherwise, I fear the worst will come to our forefather's experiment, and both my grandfather's fought in vain under General Washington's command."

"Yes, your honor, I fear that too." Blaine gulped, recalling Brittany's prediction of the upcoming Civil War less than ten years away.

"Are you staying in town this evening? If so, it would please me if you and Sheriff Beiste joined Charlie and me for dinner. Give us a chance to catch up. I've some news from back east."

"We'd be honored, your honor."

"Excellent! Have my clerk make a copy." Judge Walters, now the ink had dried, folded the paper, handing it to Blaine.

"Thank you, Judge Walters."

"You're welcome. Now tell me, since you refer to the Rancho as ours, will I receive an invitation to upcoming nuptials?"

"I… Uh… " Blaine, aware of his face turning red, glanced at the Sheriff, who bit his bottom lip to stifle a laugh. "That is… We… Uh."

"Holding out, is she? After my father-in-law accepted my request to marry his daughter, my Gracie made me wait three years for an answer. If she says no, I have a daughter, Jessica."

"Uh… I think I'll wait, but thank you, Judge Walters."

"Shame, you're one of the more honorable Mexicans I've met in this state."

Ana stood on the hotel's balcony. The road bustled with traffic. A team of oxen added their pathetic paltry moos to the familiar shouts of men on their over-burdened wagons, the mules braying in protest. Impatient whinnying horses lingered behind as their riders cussed at the wagons. Four squealing piglets raced under and around wagons while two inexperienced children chased them. The Chinese butcher carried caged, clucking hens to their execution. Men enclosed the theater frame with the incessant clatter of a hammer's head. She observed Burt sweeping the boardwalk, halting to chat with Dr. Meeks. Next to him stood a man with his head bandaged. She guessed from reading The Lima Heights Gazetteer it was the Marshall. As did Sue's pathetic stumble, his disastrous mishap made the front-page news. Her name and Quinn's weren't mentioned. Instead, Jacob wrote, Sue attempted to oust an unruly, anonymous patron. Diego's presence at the publisher's office with his rifle, a holstered gun hung around his hips, and a sheathed blade kept Jacob from publishing names. Diego howled, describing the editor shaking in his boots. His high-pitched, girly cry squeaked out his pledge to never disclose Ana or Quinn, then he wadded up his notes, surrendering them to him. Together, they watched as the flame turned to ashes in the hotel's washbasin.

Ana took no satisfaction in her childish actions or Blaine's wrath afterward. Rancho Pacifico was her life. The land, the families, seeing the children grow, parents embracing new births, grieving the losses. She celebrated and wept with them. The work of running the Rancho, routine decisions, or those determining its future. Exploring its vastness only to realize its limitations. Her limitations as a woman and her responsibilities as a landowner. Cesar would inherit the Rancho provided they made it prosper. The Rancho would endure, even if she wouldn't. Until the Land Office recognized her claim, she needed to concentrate on Pacifico. What was it Blaine advised her? Get her priorities straight.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Ana caught the rail. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. On my walk back from Hudson's, I saw you here.

Ana peered back, averting Quinn's eyes. "No, you're fine."

"You didn't come down to breakfast."

"I slept in. Emilio brought me breakfast."

"Yes, mother noticed your guard changed this morning." Quinn closed the door, treading carefully closer to the balcony rail. "Look, it's none of my business, but the Ana I know doesn't hide away. She walks through this town like she owns it, and everyone makes way for her."

"I lost my temper."

"Since when do you care? You pushed Sue Sylvester out of the way."

"That's not what I remember."

"If it makes you feel better, I dropped by the Sheriff's office. The witnesses all agree Sue tripped."

"Huh…."

"Sue stepped back on her dress and fell backward." Quinn drifted closer. "You did nothing wrong." Wrapping her arm around Ana's waist. "Will you speak with Dani before you leave?"

"I don't see that's your worry."

"It is when she's turned into a petulant little storm cloud."

Ana lifted her chin. "That bad?"

"Between her and Brittany, my china won't make it to the end of the year."

After a snort, "I'll speak to her."

"You and Dani are such good friends, so close, like sisters. I miss my close friends. My sister Franny is much older. She felt like another mother to me growing up." The hammering stopped. Quinn watched as Noah and Rachel spoke to the carpenters. "I don't want to see anything sever your relationship with Dani. She looks up to you, and not just her; all the young women in town do."

"It won't. A girlish disagreement. It happens even with the best of friends."

Quinn bobbed her head, turning her eyes away from the theater to Ana. "And Brittany?" Quinn was once again struck by Ana's profile. Long lashes, her hair pulled back to her nape, full lips, clear caramel skin, and a straight nose. She thought Dani was pleasant in a foreign, native fashion, but Ana was beautiful.

"She's returning to Pacifico when Blaine returns."

"Maybe she should stay here. Brittany doesn't strike me as a farmer's daughter. She's too well-read and lacks common household skills, and her physical appearance never looked like someone who walked across the plains." Quinn glanced across the street, watching Rachel and Noah enter the MacIntosh Hotel.

A furious glance at Quinn. "What's your point here? Your interest in Dani, me, and Brittany."

Quinn used her free hand to smooth her dress with small strokes. "Nothing. Nothing at all." Satisfied to see Ana's passion again as she watched her only Californio friend abruptly move out of the embrace and trod back to her room.

The next day, Sheriff Beiste and Blaine rode into town, heading straight to the jail, where they found Marshall Campion resting on a bench. Sheldon dismounted his horse, securing it to a post, then stepped up to the walkway, looking at Campion's lips move and hearing whimpers of muffled speech. His hat slipped back as he rose from the bench and dangled from the knot on his crown. Drool, streaks of broth, and dust stained his bandages. Sheldon reached up to his hat's brim, a slight tip to acknowledge the Marshall. Blaine followed behind him with a "Good day, Marshall." Sheldon hung his hat on a hook and walked over to his desk, passing a deputy to help Rick while he was in Sacramento, grabbing his key from the drawer. "Your lucky day, boys. Judge is releasing you two to Mr. Blaine here. You can't leave the Rancho without Mr. Blaine or Miss Ana's permission, but you can see the blue sky and stars without bars blocking the view."

"You kiddin' me, Sheriff?" Phil jumped off his cot, followed by Boaz grabbing the bars.

"No, joke, boys. Got yourselves a talented lawyer and boss, boys." Sheriff Beiste twisted the key in the lock and gave the bars a yank as he stepped back; the jail's door pivoted on its hinges, emitting a loud metallic screech as it swiveled open. "Go now. Don't want you back here unless it's for gamblin', boozin', or fightin'."

Marshall Campion across the room, rage in his eyes as he read the signed document, tossing it to the floor. He shot a venomous look toward Blaine. A torrent of undecipherable grunts and growls issued from his clenched mouth. Stomping toward the door with unmitigated fury in his eye, his arms up and palms out to stop his captives from escaping. Phil looked at Blaine before making his move to the exit. Campion grabbed Phil's shoulders, head-butting him. Phil's head bounced back, and whimpers of agony wailed from Campion's lips. Phil rubbed his forehead. "Old fool is crazy."

"You want to charge him for assault, Phil?" Sheriff Beiste said.

Phil studied Marshall Campion's masked face. Compassion rushed through his heart for a second as he watched the wounded animal. He recalled Cedes's expression that good always follows bad. Phil didn't want to tempt fate. "Nah, didn't hurt me. Been through worse in my life." He and Boaz could leave. Step out of the building into the fresh air. Not as a free man. A man with a different owner. That war Miss Brittany spoke of couldn't come fast enough for him. As he sat like a caged animal, he made a promise to return east if the army allowed black men to join.

"Are you sure?" Blaine asked.

"Yeah, I just want to see my family. Can we go, Mr. Blaine? Sheriff?"

Blaine hurried Phil and Boaz out the door while Sheriff Beiste went to help Campion. "Marshall, let me help you back to the hotel, then I'll send the Doc over."

"What's this mean, Mr. Blaine? We're free?" Boaz was behind Phil and Blaine as they walked to the hotel.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. You're all restricted to the Rancho for the immediate future. Ana and I will pay you for any job you choose. You'll not be under our thumbs. Or, if you, Cedes, Jake, Jane or Azimio prefer to return to town to work, I'll sign a note, and the Sheriff will keep an eye out. All we ask is a promise you stay out of trouble."

"Why don't me and Osias gets to move back to town?" Boaz said.

Phil glanced over his shoulder. "Probably cos you two can't stay out of trouble."

Blaine stopped, turning to Boaz, his hand on the boy's shoulder. "We thought you two would like to help Cesar with the horses. Vaquero apprentices." Blaine paused, letting the good part of his idea sink in before mentioning the less agreeable part. "And you'll both attend school with Cesar."

Boaz frowned. "School doesn't sound free to me, and especially not if it's taught in a language I don't understand."

"How would you know you've never gone to school? Maybe you teach me to read," Phil said with a hint of a smile. "I'd like to read Mr. Jacobs' newspaper." Watching Jacob navigate the wagons to get the latest news from Blaine.

Brittany needed wire, preferably silver or copper, stranded, 22-gauge with a blue coating to maintain uniformity with the ship's wiring diagram. Fat chance at finding that in Lima Heights, she thought as she searched Hudson's Warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates stamped 'stove,' 'tubs,' or smaller crates stamped 'pans,' 'pickaxes,' or 'drills and one marked 'gunpowder-explosive.' Along with large, heavy spools of rope or twine and a pile of iron bars, someone had ordered and never picked up. Finn offered to sell them to her. Even by gold rush measures, it would've been a decent bargain. When she asked Kurt, he informed her the mercantile didn't stock copper kettles, calling them a 'poor seller' and "too genteel' for rough and tumble miners. Those who cooked favored the more durable cast-iron pots and pans. However, he could order them from his San Francisco supplier. It could take six weeks or six months to arrive. Gold would work, but industry standards rated it at a lower conductivity rate than copper or silver, plus its characteristic to spark. Brittany swiped her hands together in a futile act to remove the dust from her hands, realizing she would find nothing in the warehouse to use. She strolled toward the light streaming from the door leading to Finn's front office to hear Elliott asking Finn about the chemicals he ordered from San Francisco.

At the opening, she watched Finn move small crates, searching for the one stamped 'chemicals,' lifting it onto his counter. "Here we go. This one has your name on it." Finn pointed to a red sign that read 'hazardous chemicals.' While Finn thumbed through his journal, Elliott pried the lid with a claw. He dug aside the straw, unaware of where it touched down. He drew out an ominous brown glass bottle and studied the label. "I got it's paid for, so you're good to go."

"Thank you." Elliott replaced the bottle and gathered some of the straw that fell.

"Didn't find what you needed, Miss Pierce?"

Brittany shook her head, "No. No silver wire or copper either."

Elliott leaned over to the right, aligning the lid's nails with the holes. "May I ask why you need silver or copper?"

"Uh…" Brittany drew a blank.

"The locals, the Mexicans, have silver jewelry. Maybe you should ask one of them."

"That's right, they do. Or they did. Don't see it anymore. They've sold it or are hiding it." Finn said.

"Blaine wears a silver cross beneath his shirt. I'd wager Ana and Dani do, too. "

"No, I need a length of silver or copper wire. Jewelry wouldn't work." Brittany opened the exit door for the assayer. "Thanks, Finn."

Elliott lingered for Brittany, then strolled alongside. "The blacksmith might have a small sheet of copper you could purchase. Or buy a piece of jewelry from a local. You can melt both ores into a cylinder ingot. Stretch it through an extruder to get the length and diameter."

"You can do that?" Her experience with wire came from a supplier out of Chicago, pre-made rolled-on spools in rainbow colors.

"If it's a small piece, I could put it in my crucible and melt it in my oven. The extruding part, you'd need a blacksmith."

Brittany listened to the tall assayer. She wondered how he knew about the cross. She saw it once, the evening she arrived at the Rancho with Kurt, but not since. Blaine dressed conservatively, like his future doppelgänger. "Yeah, but the wire still needs a rubber jacket."

"Uh… as a gentleman, I shouldn't say this to a lady." Elliott stopped to cross Golden Way, thankful for a break in traffic. Brittany followed him as he hurried across the road, then waited at his office door. "You could ask Miss April for, um… uh… a specialty item she might have on hand."

Brittany reached for the assayer's access handle, giving it a twist. "April has 22-gauge stranded wire?"

With his shoulder, Elliott leaned against the door, pushing it open where two miners sat waiting for him. "No, the other item you mentioned… the jacket."

"The jacket?" Brittany wondered what item April had that she could use. "Oh! The rubber jacket." Her voice changed to the lighthearted, flirty manner she practiced with Kurt and Blaine at home. "Why didn't I think of that? Guess I'm not as sharp as a man." She said as she continued to flirt with the assayer. "All I need are jewels." Elliott's face turned a deeper shade of red. "Thank you." Brittany reached up to plant a kiss on Elliott's cheek. "If I find bling, I'll be back."

Puzzled and embarrassed, Elliott glanced at the giggling miners and cleared his throat. "How can I help you, gentlemen?"

In the mirror next to the bordello's door, Aphasia adjusted her hat one more time, not that it moved since she'd walked from her room upstairs. The swelling around her eye was still visible. She smoothed her green skirt and adjusted the slender cord around her wrist where her black crochet handbag hung. She wouldn't walk the streets of Lima Heights looking like a whore. Even if folks in town didn't respect her, she respected herself. Satisfied her hat wouldn't move, Aphasia reached her gloved hand down to the door handle when the door lurched open where a blonde woman stood. Startled, her hand now on her chest. "May I help you?"

"Hi, I'm looking for April Rhodes. Is she here?"

Aphasia stepped back to size up the tall, blonde, white woman. "Aren't you one of the dance hall girls?"

"No. Sue doesn't like quitters, and I left without notice. Now that I think about it, I quit working for Quinn, too. But I'm still a dancer, not a quitter."

"You lookin' for a job?"

"No. I just need to talk with April."

"She's upstairs in her office. The last door on the right. Knock first. She might have a guest."

Aphasia watched as the blonde slipped past her and climbed the stairs. She shook her head. "Strange," she said to herself as she exited the bordello. She didn't cross Golden Way to avoid the new theater's construction. Instead, she passed the new business in town, 'Matt Rutherford Barber -Cutting hair for all colors.' She met Matt when he visited the bordello with Tony, both fine-looking black men. She offered him a free tumble, but he said maybe next time when his business was more established. From her view through the window, it looked like it would be soon. Matt was working on the Irishman, Rory Flanagan, with Brody Weston and Jean Baptiste waiting in chairs. All three men were frequent customers at Miss April's, Rory refusing her offers, and Brody and Jean were both regulars. At Rose's Cafe, she crossed the street, taking the alley leading to China Garden, then turning at the rear of Hudson's. Aphasia followed the path between the backyards of China Garden and the building facing Golden Way until she came to the backdoor of The McIntosh Hotel. At Campion's room, Aphasia paused, biting her top and bottom lip as she squeezed her bag, and with a deep breath, she knocked.

2022

In front of the computer screen again, to Artie, it felt like watching paint dry. Nothing. Unicorn 4 stopped sending even a keep-alive ping in over a week. Each scenario Artie imagined brought new questions. Did Unicorn 4 experience a catastrophic power failure? An intentional power shutdown to perform repairs? Had they, whoever they were, found Brittany out? Was she imprisoned or injured or both? Did she have a modern space-age technology repair that 1852 machinery couldn't adapt? Artie knew enough history to pass his name, place, and date exams in high school history and forget them the next day. He could instantaneously pull musical or film trivia from the recesses of his memory when friends found him an irritating pain in the ass. Unicorn 4 was something beyond his imagination or understanding. It was special effects on steroids. Behind him, Artie heard the door slide open. Not recognizing the footfall, he wheeled around.

"This is where you hang out." The stranger said.

Artie's eyebrows shot up as he adjusted his glasses. "Goolsby?"

"That's special agent Goolsby to you." he took out his badge long enough to open it and slip it back into his leather coat's inner pocket.

"In what universe?" Artie slack jawed said. "And that badge looks like a prop."

"How do you know you didn't see it? Unless they magnified those glasses you wear." Goolsby walked around Artie's chair to the desk.

"They're not. Aren't you a choir director at some never-wins private Christian academy in Mississippi?" Artie spun around to monitor the questionable special agent.

"Nah, not since I found out hot babes like the handsome, good looking, easy on the eye 007 guys better than choir directors." Dustin walked around Artie, peering under keyboards. "Rumba suggested it, and well, I' have more hair than him and am more gorgeous too, so I jumped over rent-a-cop to full-fledged G-Man. You should try it… Well, maybe not. Your chair is a real turnoff. Anyway, I hate kids."

"Pretty sure that feeling was mutual. What are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for the human brain. That's code to you noncombatants unacquainted with secret aliases." Goolsby looked under the desk.

"The human brain wouldn't be Brittany?"

"How did you know?"

"Well, this is her lab, and the human brain was her superhero alter-ego at McKinley's Secret Society of Superheroes."

"Huh… I better let N-A-S-A know, or is it the CIA?" Goolsby tilted his head with his index finger beneath his bottom lip. "Could be the NASDAQ or USDA?" Lines formed between his eyebrows. "Maybe it's the FBI? No, that's not right. Ah, forget it; I'll just google it."

"I think they pronounce the acronym NASA. Why is the US Department of Agriculture or the National Association of Securities Dealers Automated Quotations interested in Brittany?"

"They aren't. What made you think that? Didn't that fancy film school you attended teach you anything?" Goolsby wiggled the mouse. "Who are these people?"

"Uh, Santana. Brittany's wife and their daughter Mila. Isn't that information in your files?"

"No, I'm still waiting for them to fax over the file." Goolsby righted himself, pulling the bottom of his jacket.

Artie took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, "You've got AirPods Pro earbuds and still rely on a fax machine?"

"Too old for you millennials?"

"No. But encrypted email with a pdf attachment is faster."

"Yada. Yada. Yada. Well, I see nothing here of interest, and you're being uncooperative, which I'll include in my report. Until next time, ciao and adios."

Artie's phone buzzed in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw Tina's name on the screen. "Hey, babe."

"Hey boo. How's your morning?"

"Um…" Artie opened his mouth, then closed it several times before finding the right word to describe Goolsby's visit. "Surreal?" He watched Goolsby struggle to close the sliding door until he gave up and disappeared.

Notes:

In my research, I didn't find an exact incident where a recaptured slave purchased their freedom. What I found in California were escaped slaves who were never found and slaves who bought their freedom, and slaves freed by their owners. However, outside of California, there are documented stories where Quakers, Methodists, and other religious activists or affluent people who knew the slave, purchased slaves to free them. One example: Elizabeth Keckley, a St. Louis seamstress, couldn't guarantee the money, but her affluent customers did. Miss Keckley moved to Washington, DC, where she became a favorite seamstress to wives of government leaders and many wealthy women, including First Lady Mary Lincoln.

Not sure about the pass requirement, but I read that slaves who were allowed out on their own did need a signed pass from their owner.

Sacramento wasn't California's first state capitol. From 1849 until 1862, it bounced between San Jose, Sacramento, Vallejo, and Benicia, California. Sometimes the legislature met for a few days. However, in 1852, except for 12 days when it met in Vallejo, the legislative session stayed in Sacramento. (Boy, I got lucky with that guess. Whew!)

Not getting into a long, drawn-out discussion, just something I read. The idea of changing the past during time travel. Couldn't the time traveler go back and correct their errors? Have a redo after a few years, months, days, or even hours? And if you can travel thru time, why couldn't you do it? Not to change the future, but to keep it in line with present historical facts.