New Jersey Yankee In King Arthur's Court Read online

  A New Jersey Yankee In King Arthur’s Court

  By

  Robert P. McAuley

  Smashwords Edition

  What happens when a group of pre-teenagers and teenagers from an orphanage are transported back to the days of King Arthur? Finding themselves in a much different world than they were growing up in, they must use guile and 21 st Cntury technology to even exist, never mind take it over.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  A New Jersey Yankee In King Arthur’s Court

  by Robert P. McAuley

  The boys, dressed mostly in expensive, trendy jeans and pullovers, were on the field trash-talking the batter as their pitcher threw the second strike. There was a man on first and he only got there by being too close to the plate and an inside pitch clipped his hand. The boy at the plate showed the pressure he was under as his teammates watched the second strike go by.

  “C’mon, Lance, hit it outta the park and show them punks,” called Garret from behind him as the team lined up behind the backstop fence.

  The score was one to nothing and, even though it was just the fifth inning, the clouds were darkening fast and the sound of thunder could be heard in the, not too far, distance.

  The third pitch went past him before he knew it and his heart dropped as the trash-talking from the kids on the field increased.

  Lance walked away from the plate shaking his head and saying to the team, “Not fair! I wasn’t ready.” For a thirteen-year old boy it was one of the longest walks of his life. He mumbled, “I think maybe we should use the bats on them town-guys.”

  Arty walked to the mound and ruffled Lance’s longish, blond hair.

  “Don’t sweat it, Lance. He waited until you were fixing your grip on the bat before he threw it.”

  Although only sixteen, the five-foot ten inch, Arty was one of the biggest kids on his team. His yellow tee shirt was stained under the armpits as he swung at an imaginary pitch to loosen up. The pitcher pulled his hat down a touch so Arty couldn’t see his eyes. The kids on the field repositioned themselves deeper as the bigger boy stepped into the batter’s box.

  Lionell called out from the line of kids dressed in yellow tee shirts, “Ya better go deep, ya punks! ‘Cause that’s where Arty’s gonna hit it!”

  Arty pushed back his thick, shoulder length, black hair and the pitcher took advantage of the moment to put a fastball over at his waist.

  “Strike,” called the ump, another town-kid, but, thought Arty, Kind of fair.

  “Hey” Arty shouted to the pitcher, “Hey, wise-butt! You’re pretty good at pitching when the batters not ready yet. Right?”

  “I don’t know what ya mean,” called back the lanky kid on the mound. He was as tall as Arty but not near as muscular so he kept his trash-talking down for the moment.

  Arty tipped his head forward and his mop of hair followed. He made as though he was going to push it back but squinted through the locks to see the pitcher throw what he thought was going to be another quick strike. With clenched teeth he swung and connected, sending the ball far out into right field.

  “Run Lucas,” he shouted as he quickly approached first base and the smaller Lucas ran as fast as he could to reach second. The team dressed in yellow tee shirts screamed encouragement, “Run you guys! They didn’t get the ball yet. Run!”

  The right fielder finally got to the ball and threw it to the second baseman that turned to throw it home as Lucas crossed the plate. The first drop of rain hit the ground as Arty ran full steam towards home plate. He watched as the catcher held his hands out to catch the ball as he blocked the plate and knew it was going to be close. He slid, upending the catcher and watched as the boy bobbled the ball and dropped it.

  Arty got up and grinned as he dusted the dirt from his jeans. Screams of “We won, game’s over. Called on account o’ rain!” emanated from his teammates.

  The town-kids left the field without saying a word and Lucas called out to them, “Hey guys. Want to play again tomorrow?”

  “Naw,” called the pitcher with a smirk on his face, “we spend Saturdays with our folks. Guess you guys will be in the Hollin’s House, huh?”

  Lucas hung his head and muttered, “Ah, okay, okay. Well, maybe . . .”

  Arty shook his head and patted him on his back, “Ah, who care about them dumb butt-heads? Look at it this way, Lucas, if they don’t show up tomorrow we got the whole field to ourselves. Right?”

  The smaller boy perked up and answered with a grin, “Yeah! Who needs those town-kids anyway? Screw ‘em!” He looked at Arty’s shirt and said as he bit his lip, “Hey Arty, you tore your shirt. Mrs. Grinnel will be mad.”

  “Where?” asked Arty with a touch of fear in his voice as he looked over his shoulder.

  “Back here,” said Delvlin as he pointed to a hole on the back of Arty’s shirt. Right above the words, ‘Hollin’s House.’

  “Boy,” said Arty as he shook his head, “I really have ta get a job. First, I broke the plate yesterday morning and now I tore my shirt. Boy oh boy!”

  Suddenly the skies opened and the rain poured down. The team all started to run while at the same time playfully punching and pushing as they tried to trip each other up. Arty grabbed his motorcycle jacket and quickly became the frontrunner as he led them out of the park and across the playground. Lightning appeared and he slowed a bit to let some of the younger boys catch up. Even though they had smiles on their faces, Arty knew that some of them were afraid of the lightning.

  He led the ten boys across the dirt path that the town’s horseback riding club used and almost lost his boot in the thick mud. They ran across the square with the Civil War statue perched there for the birds to sit upon, when, even above the sound of the boy’s feet as they ran and the heavy rain and loud thunder, he heard his name called. Still running he spotted Jennie standing in the rain with one hand over her eyes blocking the downpour and the other wrapped around her waist, her shoulders hunched high in the sudden chill. Dark spots appeared on her yellow tee shirt as the raindrops hit her.

  “Arty!” she called again, “Mrs. Grinnel sent me to get you guys.”

  “C’mon,” he answered as he ran past her, “follow us and we’ll all go back later.”

  “But,” she said squinting in the rain as she trotted over and ran next to him, “where are we going?”

  “Just come with us,” said Gareth as he ran up next to her. She followed with a look of concern on her pretty face.

  After another two blocks Arty turned into an alley and they ended up at the rear of the Keansburg Museum. The boys and Jennie stopped short as they turned the corner and there stood Arty, one finger up to his lips in the universal sign of, ‘shhhhh, stay quiet.’ He stooped over the small window in the bottom of the museum and Jennie knew by the looks on the boy’s faces that they had be
en here before.

  Arty gently pried the window open and motioned for them to quickly enter. Once again it became obvious to Jennie that the boys had been here before as they quickly scampered through the open window.

  “I’m not going in there!” she said defiantly to Arty as he held the window open for her. “That’s against the law and Mrs. Grinnel will put us on short rations if she finds out.”

  “You can stand here and be our lookout if you want. Or you can leave and say that you didn’t find us.”

  “What’s in there?” she asked as she got a chill and shivered.

  “Lots of neat things,” he said. “Things that the museum never puts out on display. And it’s nice and warm in there. Besides,” he continued, seeing that she was coming around to it, “we do it all the time and the place is closed.”

  He looked up at the rain and she did the same as he put out his hand, “C’mon and I’ll help you in. It’s a real short drop.”

  “Just for a little while, Arty. Just for a little while.” She almost lost her step in the gooey mud as she kneeled down. “I don’t want to get any mud on my jeans.” Arty didn’t mention that she had mud on her yellow shirt.

  He helped the girl and after she dropped to the cement floor he quickly followed and closed the window behind them.

  Except for a small security light, the room was mostly in shadow. It took Jennie a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dark and when they did, she saw that the room was huge with boxes piled high all around. Some of the boys were lounging as others began opening the unlocked ones and Arty said, as he sat on a small wooden box, “Remember guys, we have to put everything back where it belongs or else they’ll know someone was down here.”

  He took a cigarette out of an almost crumbled package and lit it with his Zippo lighter.

  “Arthur! Jennie said in a motherly tone of voice that made the boy hesitate. “Where did you get that? And don’t you know that smoking is bad for you?” The five-foot two-inch girl stood with crossed arms as she eyed the smoking cigarette.

  “So? So is eating that crap they feed us at the Home. Besides, I’m almost eighteen and soon I’ll be outta there.”

  “Me too,” quipped Bruno, a tall thin black boy who took a drag on Arty’s cigarette.

  “No way, man” said Arty with a grin on his handsome face, “You got two more years to go before you’re eighteen.”

  He looked around at the boys as they rested on the many boxes catching their breath. “And Gerry Haad is only fourteen and,” pointing at a reddish-blond haired boy, “Lance is just thirteen.” He pointed to a tall red haired boy with freckles and went on, “Garret is fifteen, and,” he nodded to a heavy-set boy with short brown hair, “ Percy is . . .”

  “Better not let him hear you call him Percy,” said Bruno as he took another drag on Arty’s smoke. “That boy gets real upset when somebody calls him Percy.”

  “Well,” said Arty, “I can still knock him on his butt, but in this case I’ll call him by his nickname, Lefty. But no matter what he wants to be called, he’s still only sixteen.” He took another drag and went on as he nodded at Lionell, a boy who almost matched his height of five-feet nine inches, “Now, Lionell, he’s fifteen but looks like he’s twenty,” he looked at Bruno and added, “But, he’s still only fifteen.”

  He stood and shook his hair out as he continued by tipping his head at Garth, a short stocky boy with thick blond hair and a hint of sideburns, “an’ Garth is sixteen,” and then we have the body builder, Lucas, who’s sixteen and Triston who’s still fifteen, and,” glancing at a tall thin boy with long blond hair he said, “Lance, who’s only thirteen and lastly,” he said pointing at a short boy who was built like a fire plug, “Delvlin just turned sixteen.”

  He took the last drag of his cigarette and squashed it out under his motorcycle boot. “So, ya see, I’ll be gone from here an’ all youse guys will still be here eatin’ ol’ Grinnel’s poor excuse for food.”

  “Don’t I count?” asked Jennie as she brushed her shoulder-length blond hair out.

  “Yeah, of course ya do, you silly girl,” said Arty as he threw an arm around her small shoulders. “I’m pretty sure you’re sixteen. Am I right?”

  “That’s for me to know.”

  “What’s the big secret?” asked Arty with hunched shoulders and outstretched arms, palms facing up.

  Jennie placed her hands on her hips and said as she squinted her green eyes at him, “’Cause you think you know everything, mister wise-butt!”

  Arty’s eyebrows arched as he honestly asked, “Wha? What did I say? I don’t think I know it all. I mean, most stuff I know, but not everything. And, so what if I do? I didn’t say anything bad about you.”

  Jennie just rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling as she crossed her arms. “I’m going to catch cold. I think we should leave before we get in trouble.”

  Arty shrugged again and said, “We will. But let’s just wait till it stops raining so heavy. Okay?”

  Before she could answer, Garth called out, “Hey! Hey guys, look at this.”

  The boys went over to see what Garth was looking at. He was next to a wooden box and had the lid up as he peered in.

  “Wow!” said Lance as he reached in. “Hey Arty, come and see this.”

  “Lemme see,” said Arty as he edged in between Lance and Garth. “Wow!” he said in a low voice followed by a louder, “Hey Bruno, come see this.”

  Now all of them were looking into the ten-foot long by four-foot wide box. A chorus of ‘wows’ went up as a flash of lightening illuminated the items inside. There were suits of armor of various sizes accompanied by swords, chain armor, daggers and helmets with decorations etched on them. Gerry Haad reached in and took out a breastplate and held it up to his chest.

  “Hey look, I’m a gladiator!”

  “That’s not a gladiator outfit, ya stupe,” quipped Delvlin as he pulled out a helmet and placed it on his head. His voice sounded like he was in an echo chamber and they all laughed as he said, “I challenge yez to a duel!”

  All at once the group grabbed the armor and emptied the box as they tried them on. Jennie had to laugh in spite of herself as she saw them strut around in the heavy iron outfits as they bumped into each other and fell wearing the cumbersome armor.

  A tall, very thin man dressed in painter’s jeans and red and white flannel shirt was on the second floor carrying a bucket and mop. He angled the bucket beneath a steady drip that seemed to come from the chandelier right above the small, red steam locomotive in the center of the big room.

  “Dang! I told them at least one hundred times to let me fix that stupid roof, but do they listen? Noooo! They’re too busy shining up the brass bell in the other room or this stupid train. Just ‘cause it’s the first train that went from Keansburg, New Jersey to New York City they think everybody wants ta see it.”

  He shook his head and his long, gray ponytail went from side-to-side across his back, proving that for every action there is an opposite reaction. The man stepped on the steel step of the steam engine and placed the bucket on a flat surface to catch the rainwater and as he did he saw his reflection in the shinny brass fittings. Wow! He thought as he rubbed his short gray beard, I guess I better shave before the meeting next week. These folks that run this place think that if ya don’t look sharp, ya can’t be very sharp. He pushed back a strand of his hair and shook his head again as he continued his thoughts, and Mister Jacobs made it pretty clear last week that he thinks my beard and long hair puts a bad spin on the museum. His museum! Anyway, he thinks it’s his! That’s what working here for thirty years gets me . . . a new top guy who thinks because he comes from the Met in New York that he’s the best.

  The handyman grinned to himself as he thought, Wonder why he left the Met? Or, did they ask him to leave? A sudden flash of lightening was followed by a crash of thunder and the lights flickered momentarily.

  He put the mop down and walked towards the door that led to the ba
sement as he thought, better check the basement and make sure the security light didn’t blow out on that one. He opened the lock and turned the doorknob but stopped as he heard a commotion down the stairs. He turned to walk away as he thought, Robbers! Some robbers broke in and are stealing the artifacts. I have to call the police. He closed and locked the door behind him, and then stopped as he pondered, wait! What if it’s not robbers? What if it’s just some cat or something that got in somehow? I call the police and I’ll be the laughing stock of Keansburg. Then the new guy will really be out ta get me. Dang! What do I do now?

  He sat on the locomotive and shook his head with his new problem as he said to himself, “Danged if I do and danged if I don’t!” He suddenly came to a conclusion and muttered to himself as he approached the door again, “If I stop the museum from being robbed, I’ll be a hero and then the new guy will have to leave me alone. I’ll just make lots of noise and whoever it is will think that there’s more than just me and they’ll run off.”

  He quietly unlocked and opened the door a bit. He was rewarded with the sounds of iron and steel clanging against each other and hesitated as he wondered what could be making those sounds. Shocked at his actions he found himself going down the stairs while trying to pierce the dark shadows.

  As luck would have it, one of the things he wanted to have fixed was the very stair that was his undoing as it sagged and caused him to lose his balance. The group of boys didn’t hear his stumbling as they were making enough noise of their own and suddenly the man was face-to-face with a crowd of knights in shining armor. His eyes bulged as he screamed causing the knights to see him and scream at the same time as they fumbled about trying to get out of the unfamiliar garments and run to the window at the same time.

  The man suddenly felt faint as he said, “Lord! Ghosts in the basement! Preserve and save me and I’ll never have another drink again.”

  The chaos increased as the group of knights seemed to all gather around the window at the same time and, as one slipped and fell he pulled the others down with him. It was then that the handyman figured it out.