The Mission of Oskar Hammar, Ch. 2, Part 2

 Metairie Ridge, 1854

: Oskar Hammar is alone in a field, sitting in front of a table containing a humming silver orb, and surrounded by his luggage. He’s done it. He’s here. He looks around. He is exactly where he was, physically; in the exact space where his bedroom was--or, will be in another century or so. But, for now, he is completely alone in this open field. Nearby, he can hear running water. Looking in the direction of the sound, he sees a large canal, and what looks like two small dirt roads on either side of the canal. That will be where Metairie Road will one day be, he thinks. His research has served him very well.

He pushes himself back from the table, the chair scraping up small clouds of dust from the dry ground and tall grasses beneath. He pushes aside the trunks and steps out into the mid 19th century. He reaches inside his breast pocket and pulls out a map he traced from a book that has yet to be printed. He walks a few yards away and discovers a decently-sized creek where the drainage ditch off Shirmaine Lane would be. Nowhere nearly as deep as the drainage canal it will become. Beyond that, it is nothing but trees and wilderness. Heading back to where he ‘landed’, he pulls out one of the large bags and begins to unfurl a heavy, treated canvas tent. He notices that the tent, barely above dry rot and filthy with the dust and dirt of a century of disuse in 2023 is now bright, clean, and like new in 1854. Still, the process of unrolling it and setting it up to cover all his possessions is time consuming. Even in the cool weather of the day, he is sweating profusely some three hours after he has started.

Now, the tent is up and all his possessions are inside. He then spends the next hour or so breaking off bits of grasses and trees to camouflage the tent. Wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve, he stands back and admires his work. Perfect, he thinks. No one will ever see it or notice the tent is there from the road.

The road. From his research, he knows that the dirt roads along the canal will take him at least two hours, maybe more to walk into New Orleans. Still, it must be done. He’s come to far now to just turn back. He reassembles himself for the journey. The last thing he does is put on a pair of old woolen gloves, again made new here. Gently, he steps inside the tent and picks up the orb, which goes silent. He places it in the carpetbag he’s prepared just for the occasion, closes it tightly. Turning himself towards the canal, he pops his hat onto his pink head, picks up the carpetbag, and begins his long journey towards New Orleans.

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The dirt road Oskar walked alone for over two hours ended at another, larger canal choked with fetid water. Fortunately, the overwhelming smell of camphor in his clothes traveled rather well through time, and caused every mosquito to avoid him like the plague. He had to avoid the inhabited areas so no one would wonder about his business. He ended up hiking another mile out of his way before he found a narrow place where he could hop over the brackish water. He managed to walk back along the canal, and finally arrived across from where he had started, turned, and began the long, hot walk up the semi-dirt path that led to Canal Street and downtown New Orleans. 

Hours later, well-baked in the swampy sunshine and fully marinated in his own juices inside that wool suit, he finally found his way into town, and the first sights he recognized; the buildings on Canal Street. Now he knew where he was, and it was only another 30 minutes or so that he found the Gem Saloon. 

His research before he traveled had shown him that the owner had started renting out the empty rooms on the top floor recently, having taken out an advertisement in the Bee the previous week. Having ready cash helped tremendously. After laying out the princely sum of two dollars and 75 cents, which purchased the best room available for a month, he was soon ushered upstairs to the furnished corner apartment closest to Canal. As the landlord left, Oskar had requested that he hire a wagon and a man for tomorrow morning to collect his things outside of town. He noticed that when he told the landlord where they were going, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Now, finally alone in the room, he throws open both windows, welcoming in a cool, gentle breeze scented with the somewhat stringent perfume of the nearby river. The cityscape before him now, slowly growing dim in the indigo darkness creeping in from the Westbank, is very different from the one he knows. But, it's still New Orleans. That never goes away. He turns back inside the room, picking up a box of matches and lighting the gas lamps to chase away the gloom…This is My New Orleans.