Time For Survival by George O. Smith
The storm ruined my plan.
Not by seasickness. I'd come prepared for the worst, knowing how rough it could get on a sailing ship of the Nineteenth Century. I outrode the storm easily, stowed away in the hold. Not even the breakage of some of the 1700 barrels of alcohol carried as a cargo bothered me although the stench was terrific.
But on the morning of 25 November 1872, the first mate, Albert Richardson sent the second mate, Andrew Gilling below with two of the German seamen to assay the storm damage. They found me and I was hauled aloft before Captain Briggs as a stowaway.
Captain Briggs of the Mary Celeste eyed my strange clothing with deep curiosity, but his interest was obviously more concerned with my unauthorized presence. He said sternly, "When did you get aboard?"
I realized that I had to impress him. I smiled. "You delayed your sailing from the Fifth November to the Sixth so that you and Mrs. Briggs could have dinner aboard Die Gratia with Captain Morehouse," I said.
"How can you know so much?" he exclaimed. "How can you live as a stowaway for almost twenty days?"
I held up my chronithon contactor, knowing that now I could impress him indeed. "Captain Briggs," I said, "I am a time-travelling historian from the Twenty-Second Century." I pointed to the big red button on the top. "Until I depress this button and return to my own day and age, every morning I receive my daily ration of food and water. It's about—"
I'd timed it close. I was interrupted by the click of the chronithon as it time-transferred my daily ration. I opened the cabinet and offered a bite of twenty-second century breakfast to the captain.
