A. D. 2000

In a minute the savory odor of cooking meat came to the nostrils of the watchers, while Cobb, taking it from the fire, poured it into a cup and began drinking it. Five minutes longer they watched him, during which time he had finished his repast, and had partially arrayed himself in clothing which he took from one of the boxes.

No longer able to restrain himself, Rawolle placed his head within the breach, and in a quiet tone of voice, so as not to startle Cobb, said:

“Your friends are here and waiting to assist you; what shall we do? See! we are at this hole which we have made endeavoring to gain entrance to your cell.”

As the words were spoken, the sound seemed to startle even the speaker, as well as the others, and Cobb turned, and for a moment shook as if some terrible vision had passed before his eyes; but, as the faces of the men were distinctly visible by the reflection from the fire and the incandescent lamp above it, he soon regained his composure, and in a weak voice asked:

“Who are you that have dared to break into this place? By what misfortune am I thus disturbed and my plans upset? By whose authority do you come? Have you gained the knowledge through Mr. Craft or Mr. Hathaway?”

“It is by the order of the former, sir, that we have broken into this chamber,” replied Rawolle, not knowing the exact import of Cobb’s question.

“Alas!” murmured Cobb, “are there no true friends on earth?”

With trembling limbs he sank down upon a box near the fire, but just in view of the others.

“We are ordered to rescue you, Mr. Cobb,” added Rawolle; “and your weak condition demands immediate succor. Waste no time, we implore. It is the President’s order.”

“Whose order?” quickly exclaimed Cobb.

“President Craft’s.”

Weak as he was, Cobb sprang toward the opening through which Rawolle was speaking, and excitedly cried:

“Is it not 1887? Who is President Craft? I never heard of him. Tell me, what is the year? Are we in 1800 or 1900?”

“Neither, sir,” answered Rawolle. “It is A. D. 2000.”

“My God! Have I been asleep since 1887?” and he pressed his hands to his brow, clutching his hair as if endeavoring to tear aside the veil of the past, that a realization of the moment might be made plain to him. “Have I slept a hundred and thirteen years? Am I now alive? or is this some terrible nightmare? No! no! I heard your voices! I live! I live again! Thank God! I have not failed in my undertaking.” He looked around him in a dazed manner.

“But can we not help you?” broke in Rawolle; “you have no time to lose in your weak condition. Tell us at once what we are to do; it will take over an hour to enlarge this breach. Have you no door, or mode of entrance?”

“Yes; there was a door, but it was sealed up after I entered this place. Go to the other side of the pedestal, and I will try to open it.”

They all passed around as directed, and Cobb applied himself to the wheel and gearing. Weak as he was, it became somewhat of a difficult task for him to turn the screw, but the mechanism had been so perfectly adjusted that it revolved even by his feeble strength. Lifting up the spring catch, he slowly turned the screw, and the door opened upon its rusty hinges.

A moment later, all were in the chamber of the Statue of Liberty.

Astonishment was depicted upon the countenances of all, as they beheld the interior of the chamber and its peculiar contents. But Rawolle gave no heed to the strange condition of the place; his thoughts were upon Cobb, who lay upon the floor, where he had fallen, unconscious, after opening the door. Quickly seizing him, they bore his body to the fire and rubbed back the departing life. His legs and arms were stiff from long inaction; his face was wan and his form somewhat emaciated. Their work was soon rewarded by a return to consciousness of their patient. Rawolle opened the box from which he had seen the clothing taken, and soon Cobb was clad in warm, comfortable garments. Ten minutes were consumed in preparing fresh broth and administering to the weak man’s wants.

Cobb’s strength returned quickly to him, thanks to the liquor and beef juice, and he moved from the fire toward the compass case.

“You say it is A. D. 2000?” he asked again; “are you not joking me? Is it indeed that year? or, rather, is A. D. 2000 this year?”

“For a fact,” answered Rawolle. “It is as I tell you; and we are now in the year 2000.”

All the others joined Rawolle in assuring Cobb that he was not the subject of any jest; it was just as had been told him.

“I cannot understand it; I cannot see why I have lain so long. I should have been awake years ago, in 1988; something has gone wrong,” and he moved closer to the compass case. “It must be here, if anywhere,” and he leaned over the box and gazed upon the needle and wheel-work. An instant only he looked, and then he sprang back and exclaimed:

“Ah! what is this?” and an expression of blank astonishment came over his face. “What is this? The needle of the compass not at 260, but still far away to the east of it!” and he examined it most carefully.

There it was, not at 260, but away to the east of those figures – at 899, or to the reading of 14 degrees 59 minutes. There was some mystery about this that sorely puzzled the brain of Cobb.

As the others attempted to speak, he bade them be silent until he could solve this problem.

Looking down, his eye fell upon the iron bar which the workman had let slip through his hand in opening the breach. It rested just under the aluminum rod attached to the wheel-work. From the bar his eyes wandered inquiringly from one to the other.

“It shlipped out of me hond in making ther hule,” said the man who had dropped it into the chamber.

The mystery was solved. The iron bar, in slipping through the workman’s hands into the chamber, had struck the aluminum rod and set the wheel-work in motion; everything else had worked perfectly, and as Cobb had designed that it should work. But one other thing troubled him very much, and that was why did the compass-needle mark 899 instead of 260, as it ought to do?

“Give me a pencil and paper,” he said to Rawolle, “and be still but a moment, and I will answer your questions.”

The materials were given to him, and he busied himself a moment in putting down some figures.

“Yes, as I thought,” he soon exclaimed, throwing down the pencil. “It was I who made the mistake. Gentlemen, you see that needle marking 899,” and he pointed it to them. “Well, a hundred and thirteen years ago, or, more accurately, in December, 1887, it marked 1,007.8. I computed that it would move to where that catch now is, at 260, in one hundred years; but, like many another man, I made a most simple error. In my work, I read 14.355, instead of 1.4355 – the mere misplacing of the decimal point. It came near costing me my life. Instead of the needle moving 732.7 points, as I thought it would, it moved but 73.27 points in the hundred years that I anticipated remaining here. It has moved only 108.7 points in one hundred and thirteen years.”

It was well that Cobb had made this great mistake, for the movement of the magnetic meridian was, in reality, so slow on the meridian of San Francisco, that he could not have used it with any degree of safety. One hundred and eight points, or an arc of 1 degree 48 minutes, was too small to work upon, as any great magnetic storm, earthquake, or other disturbance might have caused it to oscillate over such a small arc and spring the wheel-work. In fact, the needle, as Cobb had set it, would not have arrived at the little catch before the middle of June, A. D. 2198.

Without losing another moment, Cobb wrapped himself in a heavy overcoat taken from the iron box, and requested Rawolle to take the other box with him, and to take him to a hotel at once, as he needed rest and refreshment.

The party then left the chamber which had been Cobb’s abiding-place for so many years, and proceeded to the Occidental Hotel, leaving a man to guard the place and its contents.

Arriving at the hotel, Cobb was at once shown to his room, and refreshments ordered; later on he detailed the whole story of his long and death-like sleep, and received, in return, all the information concerning the finding of the safe and the mission of Rawolle and Lyman.

Despite the secrecy with which all had been done, the papers of the next day contained the following:

“MOST WONDERFUL!“Is it a Hoax? Is it True?“One Hundred and Thirteen Years Asleep, but now Alive!“Junius Cobb, a Lieutenant in the Army in 1887, was Last Night Taken from a Chamber Cut in the Solid Masonry of the Statue of Liberty on Mt. Olympus“The Rescue Made by a Party Sent from Washington“The Paraphernalia Still in the Base of the Pedestal“The Story of the Guard Who was Left to Prevent Entrance into the Interior“The Man Now at the Occidental Hotel“Copy of the Dispatches sent by the Chief to the President of the United States.”

And then followed column after column of the news, which startled all San Francisco at nine the next morning, when the extra edition was sent into the streets.

Thousands upon thousands of people visited Mt. Olympus after twelve had struck that day, and by midnight of that 22d of June, A. D. 2000, the whole world had heard the news, and wondered and wondered.

CHAPTER VIII

The sun was streaming into Cobb’s eyes; he was restless; he awoke. The room was empty, not a soul in sight, and he lay in his bed, all alone. How long he had lain there he could not tell, but he knew it must have been some time, for his bones felt sore, and he had a great desire to get up and stretch himself. The room was the same that he had entered the night before; of that he felt assured as he glanced around.

For some time he lay half awake and half asleep, his thoughts running in a most confused channel. In memory he wandered back to his old friends, Craft and Hathaway. He was living, but where were they? And his kindred, where were they? Dead! all of them! Not a single soul of all those whom he had known and associated with were living. Indeed, he was alone in the world! In his mind, once again he viewed the longings and cravings which he had cherished for a knowledge of what the world would be at a future day, and the vision materialized into a full knowledge that at last he had the power he so long had desired. What a wonderful experience! What a remarkable transition he had passed through! He had become a king, an emperor, a very god, for he had annihilated time, and passed, in a second, over many score of years. Was he to find such changes in the world as he had anticipated? Was he to be satisfied with things as he should find them now? Had he thrown away a life of quiet enjoyment and comparative ease, among his friends and kindred, for a new life in which he would be dissatisfied, miserable? Was the light worth the candle? All these and many more were the questions he asked himself as he lay there awaiting the approach of some one from whom he might possibly receive an answer. He could lie there no longer; he must arise and be about. Had they all deserted him, that he was thus left alone? No, that was hardly possible; they would soon come. He rose upon his elbow and looked about the room.

No sooner had he raised himself in his bed than a door opened and a man entered and quickly approached his bed.

It was Lyman, and Cobb instantly recognized him, though he appeared to be so differently dressed from the style which he was accustomed to seeing that it made him doubt his identity.

Approaching close to him, Lyman looked into his eyes with a searching expression, as if endeavoring to fathom his very thoughts.

Still upon his elbow, Cobb returned his gaze and asked:

“Well! is it time to get up? Why do you look at me in such a manner?” and a feeling of fear ran through him that he might be laboring under a hideous dream, and that he was not only alive again, but had never been dead to the world, as he thought.

The sorrowful expression of Lyman’s eyes disappeared, and a glad smile parted his lips.

“Thank God, my boy, you are yourself again! We have watched you for a long time, hoping for this return to consciousness. Do you indeed know me?” and he leaned over and took the other’s hand.

“Of course I know you. Have I been sick? have I lain here long? Has everything been a dream? or am I awake in the new era?” and as he asked the question, he sat up in bed.

“You are laboring under no delusion, Mr. Cobb,” Lyman replied, smiling at the man’s eagerness on the subject. “You are the same man whom we rescued from the pedestal of Sutro’s statue, and you are still in the land of the living, after years of inanimation. You have had a long and most severe struggle for your life since being brought here on the night we dug you out of the pedestal. It is now the 16th of September, almost three months since your release, and you have lain upon your bed or sat in your chair nearly all the time. Your mind has wandered, and you have known no one until to-day. We have sat near you for hours, and for hours have listened to the history of your life.”

As he ceased speaking, he arose and filled a glass with wine, and gave it to the other, saying that it was necessary that he should get well as soon as possible, now that he was himself again.

“And I have lain here since June 22d?” Cobb asked again.

“Yes; lain, sat, and walked – for you did walk a very little of late.”

“It is strange! But, really, is it A. D. 2000?”

“In truth, it is.”

“And Rawolle; where is he?”

“Out; but he will soon be back, for he has not left your side, except for brief periods, since we brought you here. One of us has always been near you.”

Cobb looked at him a moment, and then asked:

“Will you please explain why you are wearing such outlandish clothing, for it is entirely different from anything I have been accustomed to seeing,” and he surveyed the other from head to foot.

Lyman smiled, and took a step backward that a better view of him might be obtained.

“All in good time, my boy,” he answered. “Suffice it to say that this is the custom, or style, now. We have got a full suit for you as soon as you are able to put it on.”

Saying this, he went across the room and threw open the doors of a wardrobe, disclosing a number of articles of wearing apparel hanging therein.

To Cobb, he presented an appearance quite out of the general order of dress, and an aspect quite comical; yet, the more he looked at him, the more he was inclined to admit that his dress was becoming, and, no doubt, very comfortable. It seemed to him that he had seen styles similar to that his friend wore, depicted in the old prints as worn by his forefathers. The main features were: tight-fitting knee-breeches, but coming a little lower down than those of the old style; black silk stockings and low-cut shoes, the shoes having large gilded buckles upon the instep; vest low in front, but closing at the neck; close-fitting cutaway coat without tails, unbuttoned in front, but held together by frogs; neither collars nor cuffs, but in their place small and neat rufflings. There was no shirt-front visible.

His glance was but momentary, yet it was long enough for him to note these few changes and minor details in Lyman’s dress.

“Come, Cobb,” said Lyman, “get up and dress. I will bring you your clothing.”

With the aid of Lyman, it was but a few minutes ere he was thoroughly arrayed and fitted out in the prevailing style of the day.

Handing him a fine pair of boots of very light material, Lyman said:

“Put these on, for it is wet outside; the low shoes are worn only during dry weather.”

Putting on the boots, which fitted him perfectly, Cobb surveyed himself in the glass. He liked the change from the old style. It was indeed a comfortable substitute for the heavy and loose-fitting trousers and long-tailed coats formerly worn. No collars to cut one’s ears, nor cuffs to hang down over one’s hands. It was handsome withal, and permitted a free action of the limbs.

“Is this now the prevailing style?” he asked Lyman.

“Yes. No other style of clothing but this is worn by men,” was the answer.

“And how long has this been the custom?”

“A great many years – how many I cannot say. It has been the style since I was born. I believe I have heard that it was inaugurated in 1910. Certain gentlemen in the city of Chicago were the first to start the movement, as near as I remember it. Anyway, the change was made, and now it is the only style of gentlemen’s wearing apparel in the United States. Of course, there are certain modifications of it, as for summer and winter, and in certain trades, but the one main idea is adhered to, namely: close-fitting clothing and knee-breeches, with shoes for dry and boots for wet weather.”

“I think it a jolly change. It seems like old times, when I dressed for mounted duty with my troop.” And Cobb took a turn around the room, bringing back the memories of the days when he had, in his top-boots, swung the belle of a frontier town.

At this moment Rawolle entered the room, and started at seeing Cobb up and dressed. With unfeigned pleasure he rushed up to him and grasped his hand, crying:

“Cobb, I congratulate you on your return to consciousness!”

“Pray don’t mention it. I am just as glad to be up and around as you are to see me.”

“And how do you feel? Have you had a good rest?”

“Good rest! Well, I like that! I should say I have. I hope you don’t think a man can sleep three months without being satisfied, do you?”

“No. You ought to be ready to get up by this time, I must admit; but that is not to the point: are you in condition to start for Washington to-day?”

“Yes; any time you desire.”

“How glad I am!” Rawolle quickly returned. “I have been away from home so long that I am most anxious to get back to my family. I will look into the matter and see if we cannot go to-day. In the meantime, look over the morning paper,” and he tossed the paper which he had in his hand to him.

“Yes,” said Lyman, going over to the other side of the room and taking up a large grip; “busy yourself with the news while I get our traps into shape for traveling.”

Cobb took the paper as it fell into his hand, and opened it. It was a very large daily, and seemed to contain a vast amount of information. Looking at the heading of the paper, he saw that it was the “Daily American.” At the first glance over it, he perceived that it was quite different from the papers which he had seen in former days. Leaning back in his chair, he carefully looked it over.

It was not headed San Francisco, as he thought it would be, but America; and the date was the 16th of September. Where was America? he asked himself; he knew of no such place. It must be some new and very large city close by, else the paper could not have reached them so soon. No paper that he had ever before seen contained the amount of news that this did. There was news from all parts of the world; not scant and close-cut, either, but full and elaborate accounts. What appeared to him as very peculiar was that each column had its own heading, as, “From Europe,” “From Asia,” “From South America,” etc. Another thing that appeared very remarkable was that there were no advertisements, nor time-tables of transportation, nor lists of places of amusement. In fact, there was nothing local in the paper that he could ascertain. It was just such a combination of news as would as quickly interest a man in New York as one in San Francisco. He also noticed that the printing was peculiar; that but two or three kinds of type were used in the body of the paper, and that the ends of lines were not, as formerly, flush with the ruling of the next column.

All this was so very strange to him that he was on the point of asking for information from Lyman, when his eyes met the word “Cobb,” in big headline letters. Of course he must read what was said of him before asking any questions regarding the paper in which the account was given. He read:

“COBB!

“S. F., 15, 22 D. – The physicians in charge of Junius Cobb report no change in their patient during the day. Food is administered at regular intervals, and taken with apparent relish by the sick man. Mr. Cobb has gained rapidly in flesh, and his health seems to be almost perfect, save the one remarkable condition of insensibility to surrounding objects. The physicians in charge have strong hopes that another week will bring forth great and marked improvement, and that the man’s mind will return to him.”

And again, further on:

“JUNIUS COBB

“Washington, 15, 11 D. – In the Cabinet meeting to-day, the President said, referring to the peculiar condition of Junius Cobb, the Lieutenant taken from the tomb in San Francisco last June, ‘that if his condition did not soon show some signs of improvement, he thought that it would be to the best interests of the man, as well as the nation, that he should be brought to Washington for treatment.’ He further said, ‘that all of the apparatus used by Cobb in his experiment had been received at the State Department, and was there held until Cobb would be able to arrive and explain its use.’”

And still further on:

“LIEUTENANT COBB!

“S. F., 15, 5 D. – The excitement in the case of Lieutenant Cobb has not in the least abated. Crowds of people have, for weeks, endeavored to gain admission to his room, but have been prohibited by the doctors. The Lieutenant has shown wonderful vitality in passing through the fever which followed his resurrection from the dead. Rawolle, the President’s messenger, has shown most commendable skill in keeping his patient quiet and holding back the crowds of reporters who wished to gain admission.”

He dropped the paper, closed his eyes, and sat in a kind of dreamy state, revolving over the extracts which he had read. The world had not forgotten him yet. He was still an object of interest, and his condition was the subject of special telegrams to the papers. What would be the next dispatch sent out to the world, when it was found that he was up and in his right mind; was able to start for the capital city – was, in fact, on his way? How would he be received when he reached there? Whom would he meet? and what would his future be?

His reveries were broken into by the entrance of Rawolle, who took a telegram from his pocket, saying: “We are going to-day. I have just received this dispatch, and will read it to you:

“To Albert Rawolle, Occidental Hotel, S. F.

“Telegram received. If Cobb can travel, give him the orders of the President to report with you at once in Washington. The President has read your dispatches with the greatest interest, and awaits further information in the matter. Notify me of the hour of your departure. Acknowledge receipt.

“N. A. Miles,“Secretary of State.”

Cobb listened attentively to the reading of the message.

“Miles, Secretary of State; and the same initials,” he mused. Then aloud:

“Is this Miles, who is signed here as Secretary of State, any relation to Brigadier-General Miles, of 1887?”

“Not to Brigadier-General Miles, Mr. Cobb, but to General Miles, who died in 1918. He is a great-grandson of that noble and illustrious general.”

“And who is President now?”

“Emory D. Craft, of Illinois.”

“Craft, did you say?” Cobb quickly asked, and he went back to his old friend of the artillery, who had so nobly aided him in his work.

“Yes; but why does it seem to interest you so much? you do not know him;” and Rawolle looked puzzled.

“Perhaps not,” smiling; “but I may have known his great-grandfather; in fact, I may possibly have been an intimate friend of his – who knows?”

“True. Your status is so different from that of any other man, that I would not be surprised if you had been his bosom friend.”

Then turning to Lyman, he continued:

“Come; it is time we were attending to business. Let us go at once and see about our transportation and check. Cobb will excuse us for a few minutes, will you not?” to the latter.

“Certainly. By all means get our tickets as soon as possible, for I will then feel that we are soon to be on the road.”

Saying this, he lighted a cigar and watched them depart.

A few moments later he went to the window and pulled aside the heavy lace curtains and gazed out upon the busy street below him. This was his first view of the outside world, in daylight, since 1887. A hundred and thirteen years ago he had had rooms at this very same hotel. Was it possible that he was not dreaming? Was he, in fact, alive and well, and again standing in a place that had known him so many years ago – that had been his home at a time so long since that every mortal man who then lived was now dead and crumbling into dust? His thoughts wandered back to the years long past, to his old friends, to the happy days passed in their society; and then to the darling girl whom he had left in Duke’s Lane – his betrothed. Alas! they were no more! But he: he was here, and alone in the world!