View source for A Hop, Skip, and a Jump

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Mid-May, 1520

Honorable Miss Gwendolyn,

My infiltration of the house of Han is complete. They accept me as an avatar of their own Monkey God, and I think that it is through this disguise I will be able to bring the Chinese into the light of world civilization. Already they have begun to colonize and have established trade routes into India. This may be my shortest jump yet. 

I pray that it is not, simply because as yet there has been no appearance of any of my comrades. We hit the Jump Pocket at the same time—at least, I think we did, for it was at a mad dash to avoid the cannons—and I distinctly saw Hamilton disappear into the matrix at the same time as myself. 

In the meantime, I will await further news and the arrival of my companions as I attempt to soak up as much of this fascinating culture as I may be allowed. 



January 30th, 1691

Fairest Gwendolyn,

This missive comes to you from the main hold of the Dauntless, a frigate that was, until three days ago, flying the colors of Spain.  Now we sail under a pirate flag, with a crew of free men and one horse-faced woman, and the captain who is named Turlogh O’Brien is one of the angriest people I’ve ever encountered. As unbelievable as it may seem, they no more than fished me out of the ocean than I was able to gasp out an explanation for myself than I was asked to join their crew. 

Now, while I have started at the bottom of the ranks, and indeed have a long way to go to win over this motley bunch of rogues and cutthroats, the captain seems quite nonplussed by my very existence. One would almost think that I was not the first talking gorilla he had encountered. At dinner tonight he made a cryptic reference to my ‘impending usefulness’ once we reach Tortuga. I have no idea what that means, but given his volatility, I will have to tread carefully in order to find out. 

Have you figured out exactly why I jumped? In my previous letters, I explained my mistake, one that I had hoped to correct, that resulted in China closing themselves off from the “foreign barbarians” in their words. I am confident that had I been allowed to remain another six months, I could have persuaded the Emperor to reconsider his position and bring the Celestial Empire across the entire planet. If you have not heard back from my previous entreaty to return, please ask after it at the home office.

No word from my companions, either, but I have the distinct impression that one or more of them may in fact be operating within this Time Frame. My earlier suspicion, coupled with that natural nonchalance the Captain seems to have in abundance, makes for an anticipatory trip to Tortuga and what I might find there.


October 18th, 1764

My Dearest Gwendolyn, 

I have once again jumped, and I cannot say for certain if my circumstances have improved or declined. Gone are the fierce screams of battle, the thrashing sea, the cannon fire, and the blood. In its place I find muck and filth, buildings made of wood and stone, and a new era to learn. I believe I am in France.  

I find that I am also once again without my companions. Whether this confirms my hypothesis or not is too soon to tell. I presume that you would have told me if you had heard from the others by now.  I have the distinct impression that they have gone sideways from me, perhaps in a parallel direction, but I have nothing to base that on save my own intuition. I wish I had paid more attention to Karkel’s lectures, now. 

As much as I miss Livingston, I find I am most lonesome for Jefferson and Jackson’s company the most. I miss their constant bickering, their need to fill every silence with banter, and their fierce loyalty to one another. We complained fiercely when they were around; now that they aren’t, the silence is deafening. 

For I am alone, once again, and have to start over from nothing. Already I have been seen out in one of the innumerable thickets that adorn this part of the world, and while my knowledge of French may be described as spotty at best, I distinctly heard the man call me “the beast,” and judging from his reaction, he was expecting to find one. I am grateful that he was a terrible shot, and while he reloaded, I easily evaded him. 

This will not do. I was seen as heaven-sent by the Knights of Malta. Now I’m among the lowest order, and in a god-fearing country, no less. I have my work cut out for me. 

More later, as I get my bearings,
Hamilton


April 4thth, 1866

Dear Gwendolyn, 

What a miserable existence I have been thrown into this time! What has happened in the past hundred years is so vast and bewildering that I fear I might not recover from the shock. The English colonies have broken off and become their own sovereign state—and no sooner than they did this but they have waged a terrible war against one another in the name of the rights of individual states to allow for the ownership of slaves. When did this barbaric European practice migrate into the new world? It is strange to think, but then again, I am in absolutely no position to talk. I, too, am considered a thing to be hunted or owned, regardless of my intelligence. I do not know, sometimes, why we are charged with helping them evolve.

Lest you think I am once again embroiled in conflict, let me assure you that, while this time is quite violent, the war has passed. The cost, I gather, was considerable. And the truce remains an uneasy one, particularly in the Southernmost region of America, as it is now called. They wanted slaves as laborers—people from Africa, of all the cheek—and they have lost that fight. Now they are being imposed upon by the Northern states, and as you can imagine, their system of government has nearly broken down in the chaos. 

Do not worry; I have every intention of keeping clear of it. I’m tired of fighting, anyway. Was I not the cultural attaché of the group? And so, instead of showing humanity how to utilize their celestial gifts, I have taken lives in great abundance. I do not have a taste for war, but it seems to have a taste for me.

I am currently traveling with a group of troubadours and performers. They have graciously allowed me safe passage in their wagons, for it seems the Provincialism I encountered prior to my sojourn into Paris and my employment with the King’s Guard is not only alive and well in America, but positively fervent. 

They picked me up in a town called Baltimore, where I had been hiding amidst the sewers and subsisting on garbage. I was without weapon or clothing, save the cape I snagged from the Cardinal’s Guard. Despite my nocturnal existence, I was spotted several times by the watch. I won’t recount for you the chases, nor the appellations they hung on me, as you can well imagine and as such, is not worth writing down. Suffice to say, I’ve never been more insulted. Orang-Utagne, indeed.

This is all wrong. I am worried, and not just because I have yet to meet up with any of my companions. Rather, the appearance of the Simian Swashbuckler, whom I never got close enough to engage directly, leads me to think I’ve jumped timelines. I don’t know where, and I cannot quite explain how this came to be. But one thing is certain: I need an extraction. 

If I am pulled out, I am quite sure I can backtrack and repair whatever damage has been done. Your letters have been quite vague on the matter. Is it something I did? You must tell me. And moreover, I have yet to receive any communication from the home office. Is Hancock still in charge of the program? Please inquire, and write me back. Maybe he has heard from his brother. Knowing that Livingston is still alive would bring me no end of comfort.

I must cut this letter short. We are riding through “Indian” country. I’ve seen these so-called Indians, and they are actually closer to the Inuit people I met during King Louis’ court. Regardless, they are savage and more than somewhat angry at the “Palefaces” as they call the people. My role in this new roving family is one of security. To that end, they have given me these firearms—pistols with a revolving cylinder that fires six bullets before reloading. Truly an age of marvels. 

As ever,
Hamilton 


December 25th, 2009

Gwendolyn,

I can see it now. I know what has happened. The singularity came, but it did so without me. I got out of synch, and as of this writing, I have no way to get back into the Chronal Stream to correct the course. And what is worse, I have rejoined a prior bifurcation and now my doppelganger is loose in this world. He is my self that did not make the jump out of the Age of Piracy. I thought at first it may have been Livingston, but now that I have seen him up close, there can be no doubt about it. My dark half. My Temporal Other. 

I suspect from your last letter that there is no hope of my immediate extraction. I would not mind this so much if I could just be made to understand why this is. What sins have I committed that were so great they could not be undone? I ushered in the Age of Steam, by Jerusha. Doesn’t that count for anything? 

Forgive my strident tone. I do not mean to take it out on you. But in between my last jump, at the turn of the century, to right now, the most miraculous thing has happened. All of the prejudices, the fears, and the unreasoning hatred of the outré have vanished into thin air. Men now walk on air, burst into flame, and control the very lightning in the sky. This is performed with a most blasé demeanor, and what’s more, the unadorned public actually thank and worship them. The gods and monsters now lead the world, rather than shun it.

This would seem to be wondrous and miraculous, save for one thing: the talking gorilla in the room no longer represents what is possible, but rather now represents the status quo. To wit, how can I get anyone to believe in the impossible when the impossible is shattered on a daily basis?

Is this my punishment? My just desserts for botching the job? How can I fix my mistake if no one lets me out of here? I have accepted that my companions are gone and I shall likely never see them again. But the fact remains: keeping me here only encourages me to try and free myself, especially as I am given no instructions and frankly, you have been no help to me in this matter. Whether this is unintentional or by design I cannot begin to guess. But this is my last letter to you. I will understand should you wish to forward it to the office. Or not. I really don’t care anymore. If you cannot, or will not, provide me with an exit strategy—if my supervisors have hung me out to dry—if my comrades are truly lost in time and cannot find me—then I will find my own way back to the Axys. 

But you mark my words, Gwen, and you mark them well: if I find out that this was part of the Grand Design all along, I will not be happy. Seven hundred years of warfare have honed me into a formidable thing when I am angry. If I get back, and I am met at the door with anything other than open arms, they will pay dearly for stranding me. 

I wish things could have been different between us. Maybe one day they will reset me, and we can try again. I would very much like that. I hope you would, as well.

Hamilton Gargus
AKA The [[Gorilla Gunslinger]]
[[Category:Stories]][[Category:User Created Lore]]