I gave Tommy his colonial clothes to put over his modern ones.
“You got it, Captain,” said Liberty as we walked toward a secluded spot. He then took a deep breath and shouted, “Rush, rush, rushing to history!”
Chapter 9
The time portal opened and Liberty jolted forward so abruptly I didn’t have time to put my feet in the stirrups. I was looking down and not paying attention when he jumped. In the next second he landed on a wooden floor and instantly jerked to a sudden stop.
My momentum carried me up and over Liberty, through a dark and musty room, until I did a somersault midair and crashed feetfirst through the top of a large wooden barrel. My shoes smashed through the lid.
“Nice move, Mr. Revere,” said Tommy, still sitting in Liberty’s saddle. “You’ve got to teach me that flying ninja trick. I didn’t know you could do that.”
Neither did I, I thought.
Tommy scrunched up his nose about the same time I did. “Something smells like pickles,” he said.
“Oh, I love pickles,” said Liberty. “Dill pickles, sweet pickles, bread and butter pickles, even spicy pickle relish. Yum.”
The dim light from a lantern that hung from some nearby stairs gave off just enough light for us to see that I was indeed standing in a barrel of pickles with pickle juice up to my shins.
Liberty tried to cheer things up and said, “The good news is that pickles are low in cholesterol and a very good source of dietary fiber.”
“When we get back to modern day we should give your pickled socks to Elizabeth,” Tommy said, chuckling. “She deserves them.”
All of a sudden the entire room lit up and we heard a loud, deep bang. It sounded like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Liberty’s eyes got wide and Tommy turned his head quickly toward the door. The light from outside flashed and then went dark, like someone turning on and off a light switch. But there were no light switches in 1814; Thomas Edison had not been born yet.
“Ahhhhhh!” shrieked Liberty. “Is the floor tilting below us? Is this an earthquake?” The ground shifted to one side and then the other. Barrels and crates were stacked on either side of us. When a roll of cheese skipped past, Liberty shrieked again.
“Those sounds must be bombs exploding in the harbor,” I said.
“Bombs? That’s not very safe,” Tommy said.
“We are on a British ship in the middle of Baltimore Harbor in the middle of the War of 1812,” I said.
“Wait, did you say a British ship?! Why a British ship? 1812? Did Liberty mess up?” Tommy asked.
“I heard that,” Liberty said. “Wait, wait, wait just a minute. I may be surrounded by pickle juice but I landed exactly where I was supposed to.”
I carefully lifted one foot out of the pickle barrel and onto the wobbly ground until both shoes were pickle-free.
“Easy cheesy,” I said, channeling my inner Liberty. “Yes, we landed in the correct location. The War of 1812 was still being fought in 1814. A little confusing, I know, but I believe Francis Scott Key is somewhere on this boat. As history tells us, he came aboard to help an American doctor named Beanes, who was arrested by the British.”
“So this may be a really dumb question, but why is he still here?” Tommy asked. “I mean, why didn’t he help and then leave ASAP?”
I smiled and said, “You would think he would, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, while he worked to release Dr. Beanes, the Battle of Fort McHenry began and he was stuck.”
In the next flash of light I crouched toward a slat in the door and looked out. I could see the faint outlines of the deck of a ship.
“What’s going on outside?” asked Tommy.
I waved him over to look through the slats in the door, and saw the outlines of two Redcoats walking up and down the deck with guns on their shoulders. British boats filled the harbor like ducks at a family gathering.
“Whoa, I don’t know what’s more scary, the bombs or the Redcoats pacing out there,” Tommy said nervously. “I can’t believe we are back in a battle!”
“See all those huge boats in the harbor?” I said. “They are some of the largest ships in the British Royal Navy and they are firing thousands of bombs on the American fort named McHenry. Right now in history, the United States is at war again with Great Britain, twenty-seven years after we visited James Madison in Philadelphia in 1787.”
“This is like the longest football game ever. Except it’s not a game,” Tommy said. “They must be really tired of fighting.”
“Yes, I am sure they are. But the Americans are very determined to hold on to the freedoms they gained during the American Revolution,” I said.
Tommy crouched, looked out, and said, “Remember when we met William Bradford on the Mayflower?”
I was thrilled that our first adventure to Plymouth Plantation in 1620 made such a lasting impression on Tommy. “That’s right,” I said. “The Pilgrims made the voyage across the rough seas in search of freedom. Here, almost two hundred years later, the American people are still fighting to preserve them.”
A loud crunching noise could be heard behind us.
“Mmm, these pickles are scrumptious,” said Liberty, munching over the opened barrel. “I mean a little too salty but still really good.”
Boom! Boom! Boom! The bangs seemed louder this time.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” Tommy asked.
“C’mon, Tommy, we need to sneak out onto the deck and find Francis Scott Key,” I said. “If we wait until the British patrol passes, we can sneak outside. Liberty, you’d better stay here. It’s too hard to hide a horse on a ship.”
Tommy quietly opened the door and looked out. He whispered, “Grandpa will definitely not believe me when he sees these notes.”
“I think I’ve had enough,” said Liberty, who looked a lot rounder in the belly. “Seriously, I think I ate too many pickles. They were so good but I just remembered pickles make me gassy. But don’t worry. I’ll give you fair warning before . . . well, you know. Before I have to, um, degasify.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Uh-oh,” said Liberty. “I really shouldn’t have eaten so many pickles. Seriously, you should have stopped me. Friends don’t let friends eat that many pickles.”
Tommy started to laugh and said, “Hey, Liberty, I have a tongue twister for you.”
“Okay, but you better make it fast. These pickles are starting to talk to me, if you know what I’m saying,” Liberty exclaimed.
“Okay, here it is,” said Tommy. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?”
Liberty raised an eyebrow. “That’s a good one. But the word pickled has only accelerated the fumigation countdown. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen . . .”
“Let’s go, Tommy,” I whispered, hurriedly. “Quietly open the door and tell me what you see.”
Liberty continued his countdown, “Eleven, ten, nine, eight . . .”
“Is the coast clear?” I said, nervously. I had been around Liberty when he was gassy before, and let’s just say it’s not something I wanted to experience again.
Another bang in the sky lit up the ship giving us a clear view. I said, “Deck’s clear; let’s go now!”
“Five, four, three . . .” Liberty counted.
Tommy and I ran toward the mast of the ship. Just as we got to the other side, footsteps of British soldiers pounded across the deck toward the door we just exited. We crouched behind some wooden crates and observed the closed door to the pickle room. I hoped Liberty would turn invisible in time!
Suddenly the door creaked. “What’s that noise?” said one of the soldiers.
“It’s coming from inside the storage room,” said the other.
The soldier in front began to open the door, and as he did I turned to Tommy and whispered, “Here it comes.”
Tommy grinned, “I hop
e nobody lights a match.”
The soldier cried out, “Ugh! Knock me into a cocked hat; what’s that smell?”
The second soldier gagged. “Good heavens! It smells like a sewer of rotten pickles. You should go in and check it out.”
“I’m not taking my smeller down there,” said the first.
Tommy covered his mouth and tried not to laugh out loud.
“Liberty’s making the perfect diversion,” I said.
Again, the sky lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Wow, look at that,” Tommy exclaimed as something streaked across the sky and exploded, falling into bits and pieces of light toward the ground. “Are you sure this is safe, Mr. Revere? I mean, the fireworks make me think it’s a holiday and we should be barbecuing but those are real bombs, right?”
In the distance we could make out a small building on the end of a stretch of land, shaped like a star.
“Yes, it’s beautiful, if it were not so dangerous,” I replied. “But we’re safe here. The fort you see in the distance is Fort McHenry. There, a small group of Americans led by General Armistead is determined to defend the city of Baltimore from the British.”
“Mr. Revere, why are we looking for Francis Scott Key right now? Shouldn’t we wait until the battle ends and find him somewhere else?”
“Normally I would agree, but tonight, September 13, 1814, Francis Scott Key writes our national anthem. We need to find out exactly what inspired him to write it.”
“Oh, wow,” Tommy replied, “I’m in.”
We crawled from behind the boxes and made our way closer to the railing. There, we found a ladder and snuck down to a quieter section of the deck away from the growing number of soldiers. Cannons continued to fire around us, and as one lit up the sky, we saw a man thoughtfully pacing back and forth. He was tall and around his mid-thirties, well dressed, and definitely not a British soldier. He stopped to look out over the ship’s railing toward Fort McHenry. Then, he brought a retractable handheld telescope up to his eye and slowly scanned the bombardment of Baltimore.
“Look, I think that’s Francis Scott Key,” I said.
“I should ask him to sign my baseball,” Tommy joked, pulling the ball he caught at the Nationals game from his pocket.
I laughed, “How did you sneak that . . .”
Suddenly, the ship tilted to one side. We both stumbled and Tommy lost his grip on the ball. It dropped to the deck and rolled directly toward Key. The ball hit his right boot, causing him to look down. Curiously, he picked it up and tried to study it in the darkness.
Tommy didn’t waste any time. He jumped to his feet and ran toward the ball. “Sorry about that, Mr. Key. I accidentally dropped my baseball.”
Francis Scott Key forced a smile and handed the ball to Tommy. “I’m not familiar with a baseball,” He said, “I’m sorry, have we met before?”
“Oh, um, well no,” Tommy said, looking at me nervously.
I said, “We apologize for interrupting you. I am Rush Revere, a history teacher. This is my student, Tommy.”
Lights continued to flash in the sky, and cannons boomed. A light rain started to fall.
Along with writing the national anthem, this exceptional American was also a leading attorney in Washington, and he fought as a soldier in the War of 1812. It is Francis Scott Key.
“My name is Francis Scott Key. It is a pleasure to meet you. There are few of us Americans on this prison ship, but I am hopeful we will be returned to Baltimore soon. Much depends on Fort McHenry. By tomorrow we will know our fate.” He paused and sniffed the air. “That’s odd. I think I smell pickles.” Thankfully, he didn’t give it too much thought.
Key turned away toward Baltimore and nervously looked through his spyglass. “Yes, good, it is a relief to see the American flag still flying. Here, young man. Take a look through this spyglass.”
Tommy put the glass up to his eye. After a few seconds he said, “I can see it. There is a big storm, and the flag is really waving hard.”
“Do you know what it means, young man, if that American flag is not flying?” asked Key.
“I’m not really sure. Do they take it down in the rain?” Tommy asked.
Key smiled, “No, that is a small storm flag, and it is raised during battles or bad weather. It will come down only if the Americans lose control of Fort McHenry.”
“Are the Americans fighting back?” Tommy asked.
“They are trying, but their guns do not have the range to reach the British in the harbor. The Royal Navy ships have fired thousands of bombs and rockets at the Americans for almost a full day. They plan to destroy Fort McHenry and force a surrender.” I felt my heart beating fast as Francis Scott Key spoke.
“So if the Americans lose the fort, they will lose the whole war?” Tommy asked.
“That is right,” Key said. “And we will be forced to again swear allegiance to the King, the same one who burned our Capitol to the ground.”
Terra Rubra is the birthplace of Francis Scott Key. He was born August 1, 1779, in Carroll County, Maryland.
As the rain continued to fall I was glad we were wearing coats.
The bombing grew heavier. Nearly every second, a cannon was shot or a rocket was fired. I wondered how long Fort McHenry could hold out. The British Navy was the strongest in the world, and these were like modern-day battleships.
Francis Scott Key must have been thinking the same thing because he turned around and took a deep breath. His hand was shaking as he pulled out a letter and a pen. On the back of a piece of paper he began scribbling. It was too dark to see what was on the page.
I said, “Mr. Key, could I ask what you are writing?”
He paused for a moment and replied, “I sometimes write poetry.” His smile was calm, but his shoulders were wet and slumped. A cool night breeze pushed across the deck. “My children seem to enjoy the little rhymes. I would rather be in Fort McHenry fighting, but I am stuck here. So I will write a few lines to remember this night, in case our freedom is lost forever.”
We stood quietly and watched the sky light up again. In a trembling hand, Francis Scott Key held a piece of paper as raindrops fell onto a small roof above us. In the light, I could now read the words,
Can you see by the light of dawn, the pride in twilight’s gleam?
Tommy looked at me confused, and said, “Mr. Key, I thought you were going to write about the battle. Why did you write about the dawn and the light?”
Mr. Key smiled through tired eyes. “You remind me of my children, Tommy. They are always asking wonderful questions like yours. At twilight, or when the sun goes down until dawn, is the worst part of the battle for the Americans. If they hold out throughout the night, they still have a chance. I am asking, in this poem, if the American flag that flew at twilight will still be there in the morning.”
At that, Francis Scott Key appeared to hit on an idea and wrote—
Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
I was mesmerized. Francis Scott Key had just written the words of our national anthem, and goose bumps covered my arms.
Tommy pointed to a section on the page of Francis Scott Key’s notes and asked, “What is a perilous fight?”
“Perilous means extremely dangerous, and that is exactly what General Armistead is facing inside Fort McHenry. We do not know how many soldiers have been lost, and right now, the British Army is approaching by land. Everything now depends on a tiny group fighting a perilous fight. The question is, how long can they hold on?”
Tommy said, “I understand. It is like a football game, where you’re tired. You’re ahead by a point, but the other team keeps marching down the field. You’re just holding on until the final whistle.”
Before Key could respond, the light flashed again. I glimpsed the next section of the page that read,
The bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there.
Tommy pointed to the words. “What does it mean about the bombs giving proof?”
Mr. Key responded, “It means that when the British guns fall silent we will know if the troops at Fort McHenry survived the night. If everything goes quiet, one of two things has happened—either the British have won, and our cause is lost, or our flag is still flying, and we have kept our freedom.”
“But how will we know which one it is?” Tommy asked, earnestly.
“We will wait until the British guns stop firing. At that moment, we will look through the spyglass. If the American flag is still waving over Fort McHenry we have won the battle.”
At that, Key quickly scribbled on his paper the immortal words—
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
I asked to borrow Francis Scott Key’s spyglass and looked through the circular view toward Fort McHenry. As I did I took a deep breath. The waves pushed my view up and down so I steadied myself against the railing. Through the glass, I first saw the ramparts, or walls of Fort McHenry, and then, in the center, a small American flag.
Key said, “Our flag is still there, for now. Let us meet here immediately after the guns fall silent. We will hope for the best. Right now, I need to speak with Dr. Beanes. Try to get some sleep my friends. Good evening.” He turned and vanished into the darkness.
“Wow,” said Tommy. “I hope the morning gets here soon, because I am way too excited to sleep.”
“I’m way too excited to sleep, too,” announced Liberty as he appeared right next to us.
“Hi, Liberty,” said Tommy, cheerfully. “You just missed Francis Scott Key, the author of our national anthem. He was awesome!”
“All is well in the storage room, I presume?” I asked.
Liberty gave a half-smile and said, “That is highly gasified information. But, yes, I’m feeling much better. Oh, and I had to come up with a reason why it smelled so bad below deck, so I smashed a barrel of pickles. I made it look like the barrel just exploded on its own. Anyway, there’s like ten British soldiers cleaning up the mess. I doubt we’ll be bothered for a while.”
Rush Revere and the Star-Spangled Banner Page 13
