Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

November 19, 1863

The two men appeared in a grassy, gray field in a flash of blue light. The ground was hard, covered in sparkling frost; all around were barren trees and a pale gray sky. On the horizon was a crowd of people, along with the sound of faint singing.

Charles took in the scene around him and then strode fearlessly across the cold plain, saying, “Well, we’d better find President Lincoln.”

Benoit remained rooted in place, all of his arguments for the impossibility of this adventure suddenly silenced. They were truly here, in Gettysburg–more than two hundred years in the past.

“Why did you decide on Gettysburg in particular?” Benoit asked as he jogged after the younger man.

Charles glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish look. “The only place I could think of when I thought ‘Abraham Lincoln’ was Gettysburg.”

The two kept their hands in their pockets and trudged on, the hymn echoing through the fields. They had nothing to say to one another; in some ways, Benoit was still in denial about being here and about his purpose here–and Charles, meanwhile, was grinning eagerly as he walked on, a spring in his step.

Benoit pulled up the sleeve of his suit-coat to look at the watch-like device on his wrist. “For a prototype, these things seemed to work rather well,” he murmured. “Your father must have been a remarkable inventor.”

“Oh, he was,” Charles chirped.

“Truly–this is an unprecedented thing we are doing, being here. And a feat unheard of for an amateur scientist… did your father ever get any recognition for his work?”

“No, no, everyone wrote him off as mad,” said Charles nonchalantly. “All of our wealth comes from my great-great-something grandfather, not from Dad. He didn’t do much except for science experiments. And then, of course, he disappeared, so that ended all of his efforts.”

Benoit turned to Charles with a horrified look. “I heard he died! What happened?”

The young man shrugged, rubbing his hands together for warmth in the crisp, November air. “I was about twelve. Dad was in the attic, inventing, like he always did, but this time, he never came out. We looked for him everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. No traces of him, no body–Mom assumed he’d been in some accident or something, but it was evident to the rest of our family that he’d run out on us. Either way, we don’t speak of him much.”

“I’m sorry–I didn’t know,” Benoit began, but Charles waved his hand to quiet his companion.

“It’s nothing. My family carried on. I did, too.”

They said no more, for neither felt they had anything to add to such a grim story. They walked onward to a great crowd of people all wearing black and facing a small stage far in the distance. The crowd was hushed, eerily quiet as the hymn had ended; not even a whisper was spoken–the only sounds were the whistling of the wind and someone in the distance speaking. All was still, yet Benoit stood as rigidly as the others, eyes wide while Charles craned his neck to look about.

“That voice,” Benoit said, hardly above a whisper. “It must be President Lincoln–”

Charles furrowed his brow and said, “Do you think we’ll have to steal his hat right off his head?”

Frustrated by Charles’ interruption, a few people at the edge of the crowd turned to scowl at him and hush them, but he paid them no mind.

On the edge of this mass of people was a maroon-colored tent the size of a small house. This is what caught Charles’ attention. He silently made for the little tent, leaving Benoit behind to take in the scene. His mind was set on finding President Lincoln’s top hat. If he couldn’t reach the president now, he reasoned, he may as well search around for some sign of it first. He would not be the one to lose his own competition.

No one stood guard around the tent; any soldiers needed at the event were close to the platform from which the president now spoke.

Charles wordlessly stepped into the tent, and found before him a small desk, a chair, an oil lamp, and a stack of papers–beside all of this on the desk was a simple, dark, top hat. He raced towards his prize, swiftly snatching it off the table with a hungry look in his eyes.

The feel of the smooth fabric against his fingertips surprised him–this object that he had imagined and had seen in old photographs and caricatures alike, was real, and was now out of the pages of a history book and in his hands.

For a moment, his smile faded, and he felt a twinge of fear that someone might burst into the little preparation room and take him away. Still, he steeled himself and strolled calmly out of the tent, remaining calm so as not to draw attention to himself. He approached Benoit and tapped his shoulder with a little grin. “Time to go,” he said.

Benoit turned, an alarmed look on his face. “What–now?”

Charles casually held up the top hat with a little shrug of his shoulders. “‘We came, we saw, we conquered. We can go.’”

The young man strolled off silently, while Benoit stood in shaken silence. Just as soon as they had invaded this little place and time, they could go–as if what had happened here was nothing. Benoit glanced back in the direction of the others, towards the far-off stage. A part of him wanted to stay, but Charles halted in the middle of the empty, frosted field, and began to fiddle with his watch, the top hat under his arm. The older man left the crowd, his head bowed in reverence as he returned to the side of his time-travelling companion.

A bright blue flash in the field caused President Lincoln to falter in his speech for only a moment before he carried on in his part of history.