clouds lit by the setting sun and three silhouetted heads peering curiously down at him.
‘What in … tarnation! Who the …?’ he started to blurt.
‘Mr Lincoln?’ asked one of them. An Irishman by the sound of his accent.
Lincoln groggily struggled to get himself up on to his elbows. ‘Now who … who ishhh the infernal f-fool of a halfwit that … that …’
‘Are you Abraham Lincoln?’
Lincoln’s eyes struggled to focus on the face that had said that. ‘And … and who the d-devil … wishes … wishes to know?’
A much deeper voice rumbled. ‘Please confirm your name.’
Lincoln’s eyebrows arched as he took in the sight of Bob. ‘Good g-grief, ssshir … are you a man or a … some s-species of a grizzly bear?’
‘Shadd-yah! Liam, check out the mess that wagon’s making!’
‘Jay-zus! That’s a pretty pickle. C’mon, let’s get him up,’ Lincoln heard the Irish voice say. He felt a strong pair of hands grabbing him roughly.
‘I … AM … FERPECTLY … I mean … p … puh … PERFECTLY … capable of shhhtanding up by my … by myself. Yesh … indeedy. Now UNHAND me D-DIRECTLY!’
He felt the hands release him. Slowly, with a lot more effort than he’d originally thought he’d require, he managed to pull himself back on to his wobbling-stilt legs. The twilight world of New Orleans was spinning round him like a cartwheel. And those three faces, none of which he could quite focus on, still seemed to be looking at him.
‘Are you all right?’ The Irish voice again.
‘I AM FINE!’ Lincoln bellowed hoarsely. ‘FINE AS A … a … a … FINE as a goat in a briar patch! Fine as an OIL PAINTING!’ He managed a grin. ‘Ah’m asssh FIT … asssh … a … a …’
‘As a …?’
He opened his mouth. He was thinking of saying horse. But instead what came out was something that sounded a bit like bleurghhh.
The last thing he heard before the world spun on to its side and he passed out was someone saying, ‘Oh … gross, all over my shoes – charming.’
CHAPTER 11
1831, New Orleans
‘… he’s a pitiful sight, so he is.’
It was wholly dark now. Lincoln could hear the gentle lapping of the Mississippi against the hull of a boat nearby and somewhere deep inside his throbbing mind he figured out he was slumped along the docks somewhere. The sky above was clear and the moon high among the stars, casting a surprisingly strong silver light across the river and the city, now finally settled and still for the night.
‘You think he’ll be OK if we just leave him here like this?’
‘He’ll be fine, I’m sure. He’s a big boy.’
The voices were speaking quietly, not quite a whisper, but almost.
‘Well now, since we missed both our return windows we’ve got all of tomorrow to wander around and explore New Orleans.’ A pause. ‘So, Sal … what do you make of 1831?’
‘Totally bindaas! It’s so real! But it feels unreal too. Do you know what I mean? Like, I can’t really be back here.’ That particular voice, the female voice, had an odd accent. Lincoln couldn’t quite place it. He’d once met a Welshman who’d had a similar, sing-song, way of talking.
‘Aye, I still have to pinch myself. Sometimes I wake up on me bunk still thinking I’m in 1912, the steward’s quarters … and all this time-travel nonsense has been a dream.’
‘Me too.’
A pause.
‘So, do you want to see if we can find rooms somewhere to sleep?’
‘I’m too excited to sleep.’
‘We can walk around a bit. Or wait here until sun-up and explore. Bob, how long until the return window opens?’
A deep voice. ‘The twenty-four-hour window will open at four. The time is now six minutes past one in the morning. You have fourteen hours and fifty-four minutes until the portal opens in the Jenkins and Proctor warehouse.’
‘Well … I could do with a walk. It’s a warm night. It’s nice to be out of the archway for once.’
Lincoln heard movement and closed his eyes. A moment later he felt a gentle nudge, the grain sack beneath him shifting, and the warm breath of someone leaning over his face.
‘He still asleep?’
‘Dead to the world, I think.’
A chuckle. ‘Jahulla, it’s hard to imagine this drunk being the President of America, isn’t it?’
‘He’s still got a while to sort himself out, so he has.’
‘Information: the American civil war begins in April 1861.’
‘Well, there you go … he’s got exactly thirty years to sort himself out. Loads of