More Stories from the Twilight Zone (35 page)

“My latest invention. I call it a time machine.”

 

Several hours later, Crockett sipped a cup of black coffee as he sat across a small dining table from his host. While David, who had not enjoyed a full meal during his period of near-starvation inside the Alamo, consumed a large dinner, McCracken rambled on about what he referred to as his “experiment.” An amateur scientist, he had devoted most of his life to building weird devices that might lead to progress for mankind. He'd tried to create a boat that could travel underwater, a wagon that might fly into the sky. And what he'd just recently completed: a machine able to move people forward or backward in time.

“Why me?” Crockett bellowed. “If ya wanted to make this here monstrous piece o' work, what'd ya pick on me ter do it?”

McCracken looked as if he might break into tears. “Colonel, you've always been my hero. When I was a child I read stories about your courage on the battlefield.”

“Well, there's ‘stories,' an' there's history. My first engagement with the Creeks? I got sick to m' stomach. When it was over, fell down on m' knees, lost m' lunch. Admitted as much in that autobiography I published.”

“That may be the fact, Colonel. But time has turned you into a legend. In truth, not many people read your book anymore. But they devour the monthly
Crockett Almanac
s, all about your adventures in the Rocky Mountains—”

“Why, I never stepped foot in the Rockies!”

McCracken grinned. “See what I mean? There hasn't been a man to compare with you since the fall of the Alamo. That's why you're here. Colonel, I believe we need you. Now more than ever.”

“Hold on a minute, bub. Since the fall of—?”

“Nine years ago today. Though I'm sure it only seems like a few minutes to you, I employed my device to draw you out of that battle at the last possible moment.”

Frowning, Crockett leaned across the table. “Mind telling me just where I am? And when?”

“Certainly! David Crockett is alive and well and living in Philadelphia on March 6, 1845. Isn't that wonderful?”

“Ain't so sure. Don't mean to sound unappreciative, Mr. McCracken, but maybe you shoulda left well enough alone.”

 

McCracken couldn't wait to show his guest the brave new world that had developed in Philadelphia during the past decade: advances in urban transportation, new systems for lighting the downtown area, and recent improvements in such important matters as running water and sewage removal. Also, restaurants that offered cuisine from around the world right here, so every citizen could try international delicacies to cultivate more sophisticated tastes. The inventor couldn't believe Crockett's reaction: While this throwback to the now-all-but-bygone frontier did marvel at what he observed, the colonel grew nostalgic for the old ways.

“I know, I know,” Crockett said as they strolled through a magnificent three-story building in which one could purchase virtually any goods from the globe's four corners. Crockett wore a suit that McCracken had ordered for him; his buckskins were hanging in a closet of the inventor's home. “Beautiful, sure. But not fer me. I miss the old trading posts, the rustic general stores. The way we were.”

“Davy,” McCracken sighed, as they were now on first-name terms. “If I'd known how unhappy you'd be, I never would have—”

“Y' meant well, Angus. I do know that.”

The one place Crockett deeply desired to go was Liberty Hall, to see the great bell that symbolized the land he loved and had done so much to tame and settle. McCracken noticed his new
friend's eyes light up at the sight, Davy grinning from ear to ear when he considered the large crack running the entire distance from the bell's top to bottom.

“Y' know, Angus, when I first got t' Congress, I set out t' patch that up. Got me some mortar, marched right in, made m'self t' home, spent a day fillin' that space. Looked just like new. Wall. I let it sit fer two days, then struck it with a gong. Soon's I did, the mortar fell away, an' there was the crack again, big an' bold as ever.”

“If David Crockett couldn't fix it,” Angus admiringly observed, “I don't guess anyone could.”

“I allus took it as a sign from On High. Democracy by its very nature can't be perfected. Too complex, too many edges. May not reach the ideal, but in the real world, it's the best mankind can ever know. Way I see it, that crack reappearin' was God's way of tellin' me so. ‘Davy,' the Good Lord was a-sayin', ‘do your best to make things better.
Go ahead!
Just understand: There will always be limitations to what you, or any man, kin accomplish.' ”

Angus marveled at the profound philosophy that this uneducated soul spouted in impromptu poetry which conveyed the voice of the common man. “You really do believe that?”

“To everything there is a season. Yup. All that happens is fer a purpose. Sometimes, though, it kin be pretty tough figurin' out precisely what that is.”

“Including my bringing you here?”

“I wish I could figure out what I'm supposed t' do. Ain't been able to so fer.” Crockett's voice turned melancholy.

“So you still wish you could go back to where you came from? Even knowing that to do so would mean instant death?” The only time and place other than here that Crockett could be placed, according to the paradigm that McCracken had created for his time machine, was precisely where he'd been picked up: in
Davy's case, a split second before his death at the hands of the Mexican soldiers.

“In all honesty? Yes. More I think on it, the Alamo wasn't just somethin' that happened to happen. It was in my stars. Why, I'd been born fer it. I feel . . . robbed!”

“I had hoped you might do wonderful things here. I understand now this was a mistake. A man belongs to his own generation. Let's head back to my place and fix it.”

 

Crockett looked happier than he had since the moment McCracken had brought the buckskinned buckaroo into his own time period. An hour later, the colonel appeared sadder than he had throughout the past two weeks. “What's wrong?” he demanded, growing a little surly.

“I just don't know.” McCracken had helped his guest into the machine, set the controls, and pulled the lever. Nothing happened. The inventor could only guess that, when trying it out for the first time, something had gone wrong. Perhaps that explained why so much smoke poured out, which had surprised him. “It's just not working.”

“So ‘m stuck here?”

“I'm . . . afraid so. For the time being, at least.”

“Why, if that don't beat all.” Crockett began pacing around the room like an animal confined to a cage.

“I'm so deeply sorry.”

“Sorry don't make it right.”

“I know. Davy, let me go out and buy some equipment to try to fix it. That's all I'll work on, day and—”

“Look me in the eye,” Crockett insisted. McCracken did as commanded. “You really think you can get this infernal thing-a-ma-jigger goin' again?”

“Probably not.” McCracken found it impossible not only to lie
but even put a positive spin on the situation when staring into Crockett's honest-as-oak face. “But I swear to you, Davy, I'll give it everything I got.” This did not visibly hearten his guest, Davy's eyes growing misty.

 

For the next week, Angus came and went, purchasing gadgets, sending all the way to New York for others not yet available in Philadelphia. Hours passed; he labored hard. Crockett, who had grown uncomfortable with the suit, went back to wearing his buckskins. This made McCracken feel even worse. He had learned the hard way that, as an old adage put it, the road to hell may be paved with good intentions. By saving Crockett's life he'd robbed his hero of a birthright—a gallant death at what had, during the past decade, come to be considered America's greatest shrine of liberty.

“Where you goin'?” Crockett called out as McCracken headed for the door.

“Post office, see if the new materials came in. Care to come along?”

“Nah. Don't feel t' home out there.”

“We've got to keep hoping. Sooner or—”

“Later, I'd imagine. Much later.”

Guilt-ridden, McCracken ran off to get the goods. Left alone, Crockett continued his daily ritual of reading the papers, particularly intrigued but also disturbed by front-page news about Texas. Initially he'd been thrilled to learn that two months after the fall of the Alamo, Sam Houston and his ragged group of volunteers had defeated Santa Anna's army along the San Jacinto River. Texas had immediately declared itself a sovereign country. More recently, though, the governments of Texas and the United States agreed to abandon the former following its nearly decade-long status as a republic, entering its Lone Star into the American flag.

Two days before leaving office, President John Tyler signed the legal papers; the Mexican government announced this was tantamount to the United States declaring war on Mexico. The new president, James K. Polk, nervously sent troops, led by that old warrior Zachary Taylor, down to the Rio Grande to protect what were now U.S. citizens. Mexico's moderate leader, Jose Joaqin de Herrera, considered Polk's offer of many millions of dollars to maintain friendly relations fair. The military quickly deposed him, sending troops up to the Rio Grande, now a powder keg waiting to explode. Reading this, Crockett grimaced. Somebody ought to do something! But . . . who?

 

An hour later McCracken returned, ready to begin again, if fearful his latest experiment might achieve no more than everything else he'd tried. He found the house empty.

“Davy?” he called out. “Where are you?”

No answer. McCracken headed into the dining room. There he found a scrawled note waiting on the table:

 

My good friend Angus—

When you read this, I will be long gonne. Not in yer
counfounded time travel thing, but on my own too sturdy legs.
'Preciate how hard ye be tryin. Yet I cain't stay confined no
longer. Mebbe you was right. Mebbe there is some work needs to
be done: here, now. If so, you was correct bringin' me forwerd in
time. If that indead be the case, my chore now is to discover it.
First though I muste earn me some money. Go ahead!

Yours trooly,
David Crockett

 

“Oh, Davy,” Angus wept. “Forgive me if I have done wrong. I hope and pray you are right. And that, in time, there truly will be
some meaning to all of this. Like that old song you so love: ‘To everyone there is a purpose.' ”

 

“I'm half horse, half alligator, and a little teched by a snappin' turtle. I can outride, outwrassle, outshoot, outsmart, outrun any man in Tennessee. My pappy could lick a den o' wildcats before breakfast, and I kin lick my pap—”

“Thank you. Next?”

The theatrical team had been interviewing actors for their new show all morning. Each subsequent hopeful appeared more poorly fitted for the title role than the previous. This weak attempt caused Anne Semple, the show's producer, to wonder if mounting a play to mark the tenth anniversary of the fall of the Alamo was such a good idea after all.

The piece, which she'd penned out of respect for that battle's greatest hero, bore the title
Wildfire
; the central character was Jeremiah Nimrod, a fictionalized version of David Crockett, dead nearly a decade. Every nation needs its epic hero: Crockett had become America's Heracles. The fly in the buttermilk, as a Texas native like Anne Semple would put it. The larger-than-life image of this man whose memory she hoped to enshrine made it difficult to cast. Every one of these seasoned actors auditioning for the role
played
at being Colonel Crockett. Anne and her colleagues sensed this wouldn't work. What they needed was not a traditional performance, but a presence. This caused her to consider closing down the show before any more money could be wasted. After all, who could embody such a figure?

“Let's ‘go dark' for lunch,” she whispered to her assistant, who had interrupted the latest actor while signaling for the next. “I can't take anymore.”

Quickly, the fellow instructed the group of hopefuls to return in ninety minutes. Then he, Anne, and the four key members of their team exited the Philadelphia theatre.

“Miss Tinley's Tea House?” the assistant, George, suggested. A pleasant and refined place, this was where a respectable lady like Anne Semple ordinarily dined.

“I need a beer,” she announced. “Let's try Barney's Beef and Brew down the street.” Refined women did not ordinarily retire to such male-oriented establishments. Then again, they knew Semple to be a suffragist, demanding voting rights and equal opportunity for all American women.

Twenty minutes later, they sat around a large table, partaking of a hearty stew washed down by large mugs of ale, processed in the brewery located behind the restaurant. The repast helped them relax, at least a little.

“I'd hate to see this wonderful project close down simply because we have a casting problem,” Michael, one of the largest investors, sighed.

“I know, I know,” Anne replied. “Never did I think this would become such a serious problem.”

“Let's face it,” George agreed, “without a strong central figure, it doesn't matter how much time or cash we lavish on theatrical trappings. It just won't work.”

Michael was about to make another suggestion when a large, lumbering man, holding a mug in one hand, obviously drunk, approached. “What's a woman doin' in here?” he demanded, eye-balling Anne with fiery orbs.

“My good sir,” George said, about to rise and face the ill-mannered fellow, “would you please leave us to our—”

“Sit down,” the huge oaf bellowed, pushing George back in his seat before he had a chance to try to be Anne's white knight. Everyone in the bar fell silent, nervously waiting to see what might happen next. “Too many changes goin' on these days. Now why don't you git—”