Jude Martin woke in darkness, and for a moment he thought he was dead.
Then the pain hit—a throbbing ache in his skull, a burning sensation across his ribs, the sharp protest of muscles that had been pushed far beyond their limits—and he decided that death probably wouldn’t hurt this much.
He was lying on something scratchy. Straw, his brain supplied after a moment. He was lying on straw, in near-total darkness, and somewhere close by, someone was groaning.
Jude tried to sit up. The world spun. He lay back down.
Okay, he thought. One thing at a time. Where am I?
He could hear voices outside—low, murmured conversations in accents he didn’t quite recognize. Southern, maybe? And underneath the voices, other sounds: the creak of wagon wheels, the stamp of horses, the distant pop of what he was pretty sure was gunfire.
Memories came back in fragments. Papa’s workshop. The time machine humming to life. Clara’s face, lit up with excitement. Flynn’s voice saying something Jude couldn’t quite remember. And then—
Nothing. Just blackness, and the smell of smoke, and a sensation like falling through infinite space.
“You awake over there, son?”
Jude’s whole body tensed. The voice came from somewhere to his left, rough and tired but not unkind.
“Who’s there?”
A chuckle. “Could ask you the same question. But I’ll go first. Name’s Private William Tucker, 15th Alabama Infantry. Currently a prisoner of the United States Army, same as you—except I know how I got here, and I got a suspicion you don’t.”
Jude’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness now. He could make out shapes: the walls of a barn, the slats of light coming through gaps in the wooden boards, the form of a man sitting against the opposite wall with his legs stretched out in front of him.
“I’m not a prisoner,” Jude said automatically.
“That so?” Tucker sounded amused. “Then why are you locked in a barn surrounded by Union guards?”
Fair point.
Jude pushed himself up again, slower this time, fighting through the dizziness. “Where are we?”
“Few miles east of Gettysburg, best I can tell. Yanks picked us up after yesterday’s fighting—me and about thirty others.” Tucker paused. “And you. Though damned if anyone knows where you came from.”
“I don’t understand. I’m not a soldier. I’m fourteen.”
“Didn’t say you were a soldier, son. Said you were a prisoner. Two different things.” Tucker shifted, and Jude heard him wince. “Yanks found you unconscious near the creek, dressed in clothes nobody’s ever seen before. They figured you were a Reb spy—young ones make the best scouts, they say. Brought you here with the rest of us.”
Jude’s head was pounding, but pieces were starting to fall into place. The time machine had malfunctioned. He’d been thrown into the past—Civil War, obviously, probably Gettysburg based on what Tucker had said. But he’d landed behind Confederate lines, and now the Union thought he was a spy.
Which meant Clara and Flynn were somewhere else. Maybe somewhere close, maybe not. And he had no way to find them.
“I’m not a spy,” Jude said.
“Figured as much. No offense, but you don’t exactly look the type.”
“What do I look like?”
Tucker was quiet for a moment. “Lost,” he said finally. “Scared. Looking for someone.”
Jude felt tears prick at his eyes and blinked them back furiously. “My brother and sister. We got separated.”
“Ah.” Tucker’s voice softened. “That’s hard. This war’s separated a lot of families. I’ve got two boys back home—seven and nine. Haven’t seen them in eight months.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” A long pause. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jude. Jude Martin.”
“Well, Jude Martin, here’s the situation as I see it. We’re locked in this barn until the Yanks figure out what to do with us. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, they’ll probably march us to some prison camp up north. Your brother and sister—if they’re out there, and if they’re looking for you—they’d have to find you before then.”
“That’s not a lot of time.”
“No. It’s not.”
Jude pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. His jacket pocket crinkled, and he remembered—Papa’s backup notes. A small notebook, thin enough to fit in a pocket, containing simplified versions of the equations and schematics needed to operate the time machine. Papa had insisted they each carry one, “just in case.”
Just in case of exactly this, apparently.
Jude pulled out the notebook. Even in the dim light, he could make out Papa’s handwriting, cramped but legible. Most of it didn’t make sense to him—he was smart, but he wasn’t a genius… temporal mechanics wasn’t exactly covered in ninth-grade science—but there was one section he remembered Papa explaining:
EMERGENCY BEACON: The caesium oscillator contains a low-power transmitter that can be activated manually. If separated from the main device, the beacon will emit a signal on a frequency of 9.192631770 GHz—the hyperfine transition frequency of caesium-133. Any functioning chronometer tuned to this frequency can detect the signal within a five-mile radius.
Jude’s heart leaped. Flynn had the caesium oscillator—Jude remembered seeing him tuck it into his pocket back in Papa’s workshop. If Flynn still had it, and if he could figure out how to activate the beacon…
“Tucker,” Jude said suddenly. “I need to get a message out. To my brother.”
“Son, we’re locked in a barn. Not exactly a post office.”
“I know. But if there was a way—any way—to communicate with someone outside…”
Tucker was silent for a long moment. Then: “There’s a boy. Confederate drummer, captured same time as me. Name’s Charlie. He’s small enough to fit through the gap in the boards at the back—been sneaking out at night to scout the guards. Yanks haven’t caught on yet.”
“Can he carry a message?”
“Depends on where the message needs to go.”
Jude’s mind raced. He didn’t know exactly where Flynn and Clara were, but the Weikert farm had been mentioned in their history lessons—a field hospital during the battle. If Flynn had found the wreckage of the time machine, if he’d met anyone who could help…
“The Weikert farm,” Jude said. “Can Charlie get there?”
Tucker let out a low whistle. “That’s a ways. And it’s behind Union lines the whole way.”
“But is it possible?”
Another long pause. Then: “Charlie’s a clever kid. If anyone could do it, he could.”
“Then please.” Jude hated how desperate he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. “Please help me. My brother and sister are my only way home.”
Tucker was quiet for so long that Jude thought he’d fallen asleep. Then: “I’ve got kids of my own. If they were lost, if someone could help them…” He sighed. “Alright, Jude Martin. Write your message. I’ll make sure Charlie gets it.”
Jude tore a blank page from Papa’s notebook and pulled a stub of pencil from his pocket. His hands were shaking, but he forced them steady as he wrote:
Flynn and Clara—
I’m alive. Being held prisoner in a barn somewhere east of Gettysburg. Union thinks I’m a Confederate spy. They’re moving us soon—tomorrow or the day after.
If you still have the caesium oscillator, activate the emergency beacon. I have Papa’s backup notes. Together we can fix this.
Find me. Please.
—Jude
He folded the message and handed it to Tucker, who tucked it into his shirt.
“I’ll give it to Charlie in the morning,” Tucker said. “When the guards do their rounds, he slips out. He’ll have it to your family by sundown tomorrow, Lord willing.”
“Thank you,” Jude whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me yet, son. Long way between here and that farm.” Tucker shifted, getting comfortable. “Get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
Jude lay back on the straw, staring up at the darkness. Outside, the night sounds continued: voices, horses, the occasional crack of distant gunfire. Somewhere out there, the Battle of Gettysburg was still being fought. And somewhere out there—he had to believe it—Flynn and Clara were looking for him.
He just had to hold on until they found him.
