by Tim Black
Overseeing the table of goodies was a black man in a chef’s outfit. Minerva wondered who the dignified man might be? Was he one of Washington’s slaves or a free man?
Minerva picked up a dish of ice cream and turned to Mr. Greene. “Who is the chef, Mr. Greene. Do you know?” she whispered.
“I believe that is Washington’s slave Hercules. He is the family cook and one of the eight slaves that Washington brought from Mount Vernon. I believe he oversees the making of the ice cream as well. He was quite capable.”
A small group of men had gathered in a far corner of the dining room and Mr. Greene wandered off to eavesdrop, Minerva and the others following their teacher. Minerva looked back at the goodies table and noticed another man copying Samuel’s waffle cone trick. He apparently had seen Samuel manufacture the first ice cream cone. Then another man adopted the waffle cone and it spread. Minerva saw Hercules curiously watching the men make ice cream cones from the waffles. The slave smiled at the white men.
As Mr. Greene neared the group in the corner, he stopped and said softly to his students, “I believe this is a meeting of the Federalists. Washington is not going to run for a third term in the fall and the party needs another candidate. They must be trying to get John Adams to run.”
Suddenly a voice broke through the whispers and the chamber music. “I told you, gentlemen, I have to talk to Abigail. I must consult with my wife on the matter.”
Minerva knew all about Abigail Adams. She admired her, and she knew Abigail’s husband admired her as well. He wouldn’t run for President without her blessing, Minerva thought. But of course, John Adams would run, would win a close election against Thomas Jefferson, who in an electoral college quirk, would be named Vice President because he finished second in the presidential election. Imagine today, a Republican President and a Democratic Vice President. That is too weird to contemplate, she thought.
Just then Professor Bridenbaugh floated up to Mr. Greene and said, “Tesla is ready to take off, Mr. Greene.”
“Yes, alright. Time to go, students. We are off to New Hampshire. Did you find Ona Judge’s quarters, Professor Bridenbaugh?” Mr. Greene whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Greene.”
“Go ahead, students, I need to talk with Professor Bridenbaugh a moment.”
As the other students exited the dining room on their way to the front door of the Presidential Mansion, Minerva lingered behind, her curiosity aroused by Professor Bridenbaugh’s appearance. She had always prided herself on her exceptional hearing and even though the string quartet played on and people were chatting she easily eavesdropped on her teacher’s whispered conversation with the dead colonial historian. And, unlike the other people in the room, she could hear Bridenbaugh’s voice clearly.
“And you planted the homing device?” Mr. Greene asked softly.
“In her packed suitcase, Mr. Greene.”
Homing device? What the heck? thought Minerva. What is going on?
“Her bag was already packed?”
“Yes.”
“Then she is planning to flee after the party. Tonight.”
“It would appear so,” Bridenbaugh replied.
“Well, what do you know, we came to Philadelphia on the night Ona Judge escaped,” Mr. Greene murmured, smiling.
So, Minerva thought. They were following Ona Judge on her escape.
As she retraced her tracks to the front door of the house, Minerva paused a moment to make eye contact with Ona Judge once more and give her a smile. She was surprised when George Washington’s slave smiled back at her. Minerva wanted to tell Ona Judge that her escape would succeed. She wanted to shout the news to guests at the Presidential Mansion and see the look on the snobby Martha Washington’s face.
But, of course, she couldn’t.
*
Back at the classroom, Mr. Greene addressed his students. “I must tell you Mr. Tesla invented a tiny homing device and that while you and I were eating ice cream, Professor Bridenbaugh was searching the Presidential Mansion for the room that Ona Judge shared with another female slave. The professor found the room and attached Mr. Tesla’s homing device to a packed suitcase that belongs to Ona Judge. It appears that fortune smiled upon us and tonight is the night that Ona Judge will flee the Presidential Mansion.”
“Perhaps not, Mr. Greene,” Tesla cautioned.
“Huh??”
“My guess is that she will leave on Sunday, after church as Mrs. Washington gives her the rest of Sunday off. I floated over the house while you and the students were in the receiving line and listened to the slaves in the stable talking about returning to Mount Vernon on June 13th, which is Monday. So, I figure she is going to escape the day before.
“So why did she pack a bag?” Mr. Greene asked.
“For the trip to Mount Vernon I think. When she leaves, I doubt if she leaves with anything more than the clothes on her back. Here, read this, Nathan,” Tesla said. “This is an interview Ona granted an abolitionist newspaper in 1845, the Granite Freedman.”
“This is from the interview students,” Mr. Greene said as he began to read. “‘I had friends among the colored people of Philadelphia and had my things carried there before hand and left while the Washingtons were eating dinner.’ And then the article goes on to state that Ona went into hiding in Philadelphia as her friends searched the docks looking for a ship going north with a captain who would not be too curious about his passengers. Eventually, Ona’s friends whom she didn’t name but may have been Quaker abolitionists…”
Was that why Ona Judge smiled at me? Minerva thought, because she assumed I was a Quaker abolitionist? That makes sense, she thought.
“Anyway,” the teacher continued. “They found a sloop named the Nancy and a captain named John Bowles whose home port was Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Bowles was a successful merchant. He left for Portsmouth in late June of 1796. So, it appears Ona Judge stayed in hiding until after the President and his wife set off to return to Mount Vernon for the summer. We don’t know if Bowles knew that his human cargo in late June was a runaway slave or that she was the property of the President of the United States. If Bowles knew, he could be risking his life if brought to court in Virginia. Slave states saw harboring and aiding runaway slaves as illegal confiscation of property, a crime punishable by death. Isn’t this ironic that the Presidential Mansion, which housed several slaves, was only a short walk from Independence Hall, where ‘all men are created equal’ was proclaimed. How is that for irony?”
“Pretty good, Mr. Greene,” Bette Kromer said.
“So, Mr. Greene,” Samuel said. “Are we going to stay around here until the ship sails then?”
“No, Samuel. It is time for us to be off to visit Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
“Always wanted to see New Hampshire,” Victor said, sarcastically. “The Granite State. I guess their slogan of ‘live free or die,’ was for real, huh?”
“Seems so, Victor,” Mr. Greene agreed. “Mr. Tesla take us to Portsmouth.”
“Any special date?”
Carl Bridenbaugh spoke up. “See if you can hone in on the day that Ona Judge was spotted by Elizabeth Langdon, daughter of New Hampshire senator John Langdon. She was a friend of Martha Washington’s and had often seen Ona Judge at the Presidential Mansion. It was she who wrote to Martha Washington. Figure late July would be my guess. You see, students, up until that chance meeting on the streets of Portsmouth, George and Martha Washington had no idea what had happened to Ona Judge. Martha thought she had been seduced and taken off to France by a notorious Frenchman, who was something of a rake. She could not believe that a well-treated slave would even consider running away from her. That a slave would prefer freedom to life as a slave, no matter how gilded the cage, was beyond Martha’s ability to comprehend.”
“Thanks, professor, I can take it from here. Anyway, Martha showed George Elizabeth’s letter, and let us just say that Mount Vernon erupted. The President of the United States quilled a letter to Joseph
Whipple, Collector of Customs in Portsmouth on September 1, 1796 requesting that Whipple ‘seize her and put her on board a vessel bound immediately for Alexandria, Virginia.’
“Whipple found Ona, but during an interview with her he was impressed by her bearing and her character and convinced of what he later called her ‘thirst for complete freedom,’ that Whipple decided not to return Ona to slavery. Instead he wrote back to Washington saying. and I quote. ‘I regret to say that I cannot arrest her and return her as popular opinion here is in favor of universal freedom and such an action might cause trouble with anti-slavery people.’ And then this little custom official suggested to the President of the United States that he use the courts rather than the Customs House to retrieve Ona Judge. When this letter arrived, Mount Vernon had a second eruption. You see, Ona Judge was a dowry slave, owned by Martha and she had promised Ona to her granddaughter for a wedding present. Washington wrote to Whipple a second time on November 28, 1796, but Whipple, while polite in response to the President, was not moved to help. By this time, Adams had been elected President and Washington was a lame duck and filling out the last days of his presidency until Adams’ inauguration the following March.”
“March?” Samuel said. “I thought the President is sworn in at noon of January 20th of the year following the election.”
“Yes, but until the 1936 election, the President was sworn in in March. But let’s not digress about that. Mr. Tesla, before we take off for Portsmouth, can you tell me where Ona Judge hid out in Philadelphia before she found a ship to take her?”
“Let me see,” Tesla said as he consulted his computer. “Looks like a house on Elfreth’s Alley, Nathan.”
“That makes sense. It is close to the Delaware River. And far enough away from the Presidential Mansion. There were less than 30,000 people in Philadelphia according to the 1790 Census, but it was the second largest city in the new nation, following only New York City. Neither Philadelphia nor New York were really cities in the modern sense, but rather large small towns. So, Ona Judge probably had to stay inside and not be seen on the streets until she found a ship that would take her. Are there any questions?”
“I have one, Mr. Greene,” Samuel said.
“Go ahead, Samuel.”
“In that interview in the 1840s, why didn’t she divulge where she stayed in Philadelphia and who helped her?”
“I assume she didn’t mention names because the people who helped her were still alive as it was forty-nine years since her escape. But I am not certain. Anyone else? No? Okay, Mr. Tesla, let’s be on our way. Buckle up, students,” Mr. Greene instructed. “We have a quick hop to Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
*
Tesla found a clearing outside the tiny town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. and brought the classroom in for a soft landing just before dawn. Immediately, he applied the cloaking device. Mr. Greene went to a classroom window and, satisfied that no one saw the landing, gestured to the students to exit the portable. Professor Bridenbaugh floated ahead to reconnoiter the area.
As they exited the classroom, the students were met by the salty smell of the sea, ocean air that had drifted in from the east. Mr. Greene and his students headed for the shadowy silhouettes on the horizon, the outline of the buildings of the town of Portsmouth, the main port of New Hampshire.
“Portsmouth was the destination of Paul Revere’s first ride,” Mr. Greene said as the group walked toward the town. “December 13, 1774, Revere rode the fifty-five miles from Boston to warn the people of Portsmouth that the British were sending troops to reinforce Fort William and Mary, which at the time had only six soldiers, but a stockpile of powder and ammunitions. Some historians contend that this ride was the event that marked the start of the American Revolution and not the Battle of Lexington, as is commonly cited. The rebels in Portsmouth quickly captured the fort and secured the armaments. A total of four hundred Patriots engaged in the raid on the fort, which was defended by a half dozen British regulars, and what they did was an act of treason, for they stole the king’s property, including, not only arms and ammunition but over a dozen cannons as well. And treason was a capital offense. As I have mentioned before, King George III was a huge fan of drawing and quartering of traitors,” Mr. Greene said, adding, “When British General Gage’s force appeared in Portsmouth to relieve the beleaguered garrison, the fort had been stripped of its armaments with the products sent to the interior of New Hampshire.”
“So,” Victor said. “Paul Revere actually completed a ride after all?”
Mr. Greene laughed. “Yes, and in some ways the first ride was the more important. Or as Longfellow might have written, ‘listen my children and you shall hear, of the midday ride of Paul Revere,’” the teacher said, laughing on his play on words of the more famous ride of Paul Revere from Boston to Lexington in 1775, which was immortalized because of the popularity of the poem, The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. “For without the rebel capture of the fort at Portsmouth,” Mr. Greene explained, “there might have never been a Lexington or Concord. After Portsmouth, the British army went searching for colonial stores of ammunition. Let’s stop for a moment and look east. Look, the curtain is coming up on a brand-new day,” the teacher said enthusiastically, as he pointed to a rising sun that seemed to be emerging from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. A first-rate optical illusion, Victor thought, even though he was more a fan of sunsets than sunrises, as most teenagers were. In his mind he heard the first notes of a classic tune and the lyrics entered his mind.
Here comes the sun, Victor thought, remembering George Harrison’s composition for the Beatles. He heard the music streaming through his head and began to hum along with the music until Minerva nudged him with a gentle elbow.
“Are you alright, Victor?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Just heard George Harrison singing Here Comes the Sun.”
“Oh,” Minerva replied. A Beatles fan, Minerva’s mind, acting like an old juke box in which someone had inserted a quarter, began to sing the song in her mind. “Now it is my mind.”
“What is?” Bette Kromer asked.
“The song Here Comes the Sun.”
Bette smiled and began singing, “Little darling…” and Minerva joined her in a duet, followed quickly by Heather who made it a trio. The boys looked at one another and just shook their heads. But Mr. Greene, who was old enough to remember the Beatles, joined in the singing, off key, and the group sang the number all the way into Portsmouth.
*
As the group entered the town, an assortment of vendors was setting up tables to display their produce. Fruit and fish predominated, but there were assortments of freshly baked breads and cakes as well. Headless chickens with their feathers still attached hung from a rope across the face of a makeshift booth. Fresh eggs from the farms seemed everywhere. It reminded Minerva of the weekly farmer’s market outside Cassadaga that she enjoyed attending with her mother.
“It is a market day,” Mr. Greene said, explaining the obvious. “Farmers from out of town and bakers from in town are getting ready to sell their wares. This will bring a good many people out. Perhaps we will see Ona Judge among the crowd. I wouldn’t be surprised. It is a small town.”
As if on cue, the ghosts of Carl Bridenbaugh and Nikola Tesla joined the group.
“Gentlemen, good to see you,” Mr. Greene greeted the spirits. “I am surprised, but delighted, that you joined us, Mr. Tesla.”
“Yes, I was feeling a bit cooped up, Nathan. Sitting at the computer the whole trip, why I might have wound up with carpal tunnel syndrome,” he chuckled.
“But you are a ghost, Mr. Tesla,” Heather began to say, then suddenly realized that the Serbian scientist was joking. Everyone laughed at Heather’s expense and her face flushed in embarrassment.
Carl Bridenbaugh spoke up. “I saw a young Negro lady carrying a wicker basket, Mr. Greene. She was walking this way.”
“Ona Judge, professor?”
Minerva raised her hand. Mr. Greene recognized her. “Yes, Minerva?”
“Mr. Greene. I made eye contact with Ona Judge in Philadelphia. If she sees me she might become alarmed.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” Mr. Greene said. “If she sees us, she might remember us from the Presidential Mansion and bolt and not meet Elizabeth Langdon. Washington writes his letter to Whipple on September 1 and it is early August, is it not, Mr. Tesla?”
“It is,” the ghost concurred.
Mr. Greene swiveled his head back and forth and stopped. He pointed to an alley. “There, let’s go into that alley and watch the people from there,” he advised.
While the ghosts floated up and down the street in different directions, Mr. Greene and the students stood watching the market day from an alley off the main thoroughfare in Portsmouth.
A few moments later Nikola Tesla floated over and announced, “I believe I spotted the daughter of Senator John Langdon. She is well-dressed and in the company of another well-dressed woman who just addressed her as ‘Elizabeth.’ The two women are standing beside a booth that is selling cakes, I believe,” Tesla pointed. “Do you see her?”
“Yes,” Mr. Greene said. “Good work, Mr. Tesla. Look students, do you see the young African American woman carrying the wicker basket.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to say ‘African American,’ Mr. Greene,” Bette interjected.
“Bazinga!” Heather commented, invoking the favorite word of the fictional Sheldon Cooper from the television show The Big Bang Theory.
“Touché, Ms. Kromer,” Mr. Greene conceded with a blush. “The Negro woman carrying the wicker basket,” he said, correcting himself.
