by Tim Black
“Rustic?” Minerva said as she removed the two tens from her reticule and slipped them into the pockets inside her blue dress. She put the reticule into her backpack.
“Well, duh, Messinger, we are headed to Philadelphia in 1776, you know.”
“The mock continental congress, yes I know.”
“There’s nothing ‘mock’ about it, Messinger. We’re really going there to the real Continental Congress, although it is the Second Continental Congress, but that is the important one now, isn’t it?”
“Bette, I know you think I’m naïve,” Minerva began, thinking Bette Kromer was pulling her leg, but Bette wasn’t looking at her, she was staring, dewy-eyed, at the tall young Patriot who had just entered the room: Victor Bridges.
“Hello, Victor,” she purred.
“Hello, Bette,” he said matter-of-factly. “Is Mr. Greene here yet?”
“No, Victor,” Bette smiled, her voice up an octave. “He hasn’t come in yet.”
Hello, what am I, chopped liver? Minerva thought. She was unaccustomed to being ignored and a bit peeved that Bette Kromer had shifted her attention elsewhere. Minerva looked at the boy whom Bette Kromer was fawning over—Junior Bridges little brother? Minerva hadn’t paid attention to Victor Bridges. She thought he stuttered and was a bit slow; but then, so was his big brother. But standing there, ramrod straight in colonial dress, Victor seemed suddenly more mature, manlier than he had been only the day before when he’d sat slouched across the aisle from Minerva. What did Mark Twain say: “Clothes make the man?” Then Minerva blushed when she remembered the rest of the Twain epigram: “Naked people have little or no influence in society.” Minerva knew she was blushing and turned her face away from her peers. Why are there seat belts on the desks? she wondered. Why were the desks bolted to the floor? What was that about?
She didn’t have time to ask, for Mr. Nathan Greene entered the room carrying a hickory cane. Their portly middle-aged teacher filled his breeches to the bursting point. Minerva could detect the smell of baby powder, which she assumed Mr. Greene had used to powder his wig, which rested a bit askew underneath his tri-corner hat. The buckles on his shoes glistened with a silver shimmer and the frames of his glasses were reminiscent of colonial spectacles, save for the faint but telltale bifocal line that creased across each lens and the plastic tips at the ends of the armatures.
“Everyone take a seat please,” Mr. Greene instructed. “Seat belts please.”
“Mr. Greene?”
“Yes, Victor?” Greene replied.
“We have a new initiate to History Channelers.”
“Yes, Victor. I’m sorry. It slipped my mind. Minerva Messinger, come forward. Victor, our sacred book please. Bette, a candle, if you would.”
Victor Bridges brought forth a hard copy of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States as Bette Kromer stood beside Victor, a lit candle in her hand. Minerva looked at her teacher and her two peers as if they were daft.
“Minerva Messinger,” Mr. Greene intoned. “Place your hand on the sacred volume of Zinn and repeat after me, the oath of The History Channelers.”
What in the world? Minerva wondered. Was this some kind of cult thing? Were they putting her on? Am I that gullible? she wondered.
Greene continued. “What I see today and what I hear today does not leave this room today or any day in the future.”
Minerva repeated the sentence.
Greene continued. “I swear by the ghosts of Charles and Mary Beard that I will not divulge to anyone the secrets of The History Channelers.”
What secrets? Minerva wondered, but she kept telling herself: Princeton. Think of Princeton, she told herself, and repeated the rest of the oath.
Mr. Greene smiled when Minerva finished the oath and said, “Welcome to The History Channelers. Everyone, please welcome Minerva Messinger. Where’s Jacob, he’s the only one missing.”
“His father’s in the hospital, Mr. Greene,” the Anderson twins replied in stereo.
“Sorry to hear that,” Mr. Greene said. “Victor, hand everyone a piece of eight please. This is more for Minerva’s benefit. The silver pieces of eight that Victor is passing out are, of course, ones I bought at Mel Fisher’s museum in Key West. In the colonial period they were legal tender along with British coins. So, in case our group gets separated, you have some “mad money” for food or what have you. Anderson twins, stay close to me. You never know—you might get commandeered by a militia officer looking for AWOLs. And of course, look out for chamber pots into the streets and horse droppings when crossing a street. The smell is going to get to you. It’s July in Philadelphia and people don’t bathe regularly. The first thing you’re going to think is: ‘What the smell is going on?’” Mr. Greene half-smile was a signal to his students that he had just punned. They groaned appropriately.
What is he rambling about? Minerva thought, a furrow creasing her brow.
Mr. Greene noticed it and responded. “Minerva, I notice your confusion…”
“Skepticism, Mr. Greene,” Minerva said.
Mr. Greene smiled and the other students chuckled. “Well, students, this is Minerva’s first field trip. Remember yours?” Bette Kromer’s hand was already in the air. “Bette?” Greene said, calling on her.
“Yes. I was just like Minerva last spring on the trip to Ford’s Theater.”
“When Victor tried to be a hero and almost tackled Booth,” Heath Anderson said.
Minerva looked at Victor quizzically. He blushed. Do I make him blush? Minerva wondered in a moment of feminine ego.
“Yes,” Bette said, frowning at Heath for interrupting her. “I didn’t believe any of it was possible, that the boys and Mr. Greene were teasing me, until I arrived there.”
“Where?” Minerva asked.
“Ford’s Theater, the night Lincoln was assassinated,” Bette replied in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Now, really, Bette, you expect me to believe that?”
Bette shrugged and said, “Not really, but by the end of the day you will.”
Minerva Messinger rolled her eyes.
Bette Kromer shrugged and went on. “Tell her about the pre-Columbian Native American midden and the ghost historians.”
“Ghost historians, right,” Minerva said sarcastically.
Mr. Greene smiled and intervened. “I understand your skepticism, Minerva,” he said. “Not much else I can say at this point. But I will try. Let me explain. You are a native Central Florida gal, aren’t you, Minerva?”
“Yes, Mr. Greene.”
“So you know we have our share of sinkholes?”
“Of course.”
“Well, this portable classroom rests atop a sinkhole. A dormant one. Actually, this whole area was a Native American midden, so long before all the psychics came to Cassadaga to conjure up spirits there were ghosts already here. One night I was working late in the portable and it was dark and I heard voices, Minerva. So I went out to investigate, and among the trees were ghosts—not your Casper the Friendly variety, but dead historians. Will and Ariel Durant. Henry Adams. Bruce Catton. Mary and Charles Beard. Shelby Foote. Frederick Jackson Turner. The Frontier Thesis, Minerva?”
“Yes, Mr. Greene. His response to the 1890 census. The closing of the frontier.”
“Yes, Minerva. I’m glad you know it. But the dead historians spoke to me about this place, and that the classroom sat atop a sinkhole, but the sinkhole itself led to the ‘timeline,’ and they told me about Nikola Tesla’s time machine, which was sitting unused in the basement of the Cassadaga Hotel, and an upcoming rummage sale, and one could navigate the timeline with Tesla’s time machine…”
“The ‘timeline?’” Minerva interrupted. “Time machine?”
Mr. Greene smiled. “You know I’m a fanatic about timelines, Minerva. I hand those out the first day of class. And it was amazing to discover that my classroom sat directly on top of the timeline, the real timeline!”
Minerva looked to her classmates t
o see if this was all some practical joke. Was this a historical “punking?” She looked around for a hidden camera in the classroom.
“Is this a ‘punk?’” she asked. “You know, like…‘you’ve been history punked?’”
“No, Messinger,” Bette Kromer replied. “This is real. We activate the sinkhole with Tesla’s device and go back in time. We did it last spring. TV has The History Channel. We channel history,” Bette gushed enthusiastically. “I like to call us Gang Greene!” She laughed at her own play on words. No one else laughed.
Minerva Messinger didn’t know what to think. Were her classmates wacko? Was Mr. Greene wacko?
“It’s real, Minerva,” Bette Kromer said.
Bette’s use of Minerva’s given name and not her surname “Messinger” surprised her as much as anything that had already occurred. Confusion registered on her face.
“It will all be clear to you soon, Minerva,” Greene said. He walked over to the middle of the classroom to a laptop computer and projected a 1776 map of Philadelphia onto the old roll-up movie screen that Victor Bridges had pulled down after a nod from Mr. Greene. “Today,” Mr. Greene began formally, “we will visit Philadelphia on July 2, 1776. That’s the day that John Adams, in a letter to his wife Abigail, said would be the birthday of the new nation, as that was the day the resolution for independence was passed. Each of you has brought your IPod. I hope you have programmed the historic walking tour of Philadelphia CDs that Victor downloaded for you. And let’s synchronize on Standard Time, as Dr. Franklin’s concept of Daylight Saving Time hasn’t caught on yet. In fact, it won’t even be used until World War I.”
Oh no, Minerva thought. In her zeal to have the perfect colonial costume, she had overlooked the CD download. She was not about to admit that. She hoped she wasn’t blushing too much.
“It is important that you have the classic Andrew Dury map of colonial Philadelphia if we become separated,” Mr. Greene continued. “However, keep your IPods in your pockets and out of sight unless, as I said, we become separated. Okay, who can tell me the estimated population of Philadelphia according to David Mc McCullough in 1776?”
Bette’s hand went up.
“Yes, Bette?”
“Thirty thousand people,” she replied.
Minerva Messinger rolled her eyes. Bette was right, of course. She was always right. Minerva added a frown.
“Yes, thirty thousand is correct, Bette.”
Bette beamed.
“Okay, students, please take a seat and buckle up. Remember, it can be a bumpy ride.”
“It sure was a good thing the Washington Monument wasn’t completed in 1865,” Victor said. “Or our portable might have been stuck at the point.”
Minerva was perplexed.
Mr. Greene explained. “I’m afraid we brushed the side of the Washington Monument when we landed last spring, Minerva. It was my fault, really—the twilight threw my landing off a bit.” He used his podium as a steering wheel, he explained to Minerva.
“I think it was Shelby Foote’s fault, Mr. Greene,” Bette said. “He was our tour guide.”
Minerva was confused. Shelby Foote? She knew the name—a dead Civil War historian. Well, they were on the outskirts of Cassadaga, the “psychic capital of the world,” and Minerva’s mother, a true believer in the paranormal, went for a monthly reading at the Cassadaga Hotel to “channel” Minerva’s dead grandmother, but Minerva had never heard of dead historians being conjured up. This was right out of fruitcakeville, she thought. Mother would love it.
“Now,” Mr. Greene said. “I take full responsibility.” As the students watched, Greene placed a thumb drive into a USB port on his computer and typed in coordinates for the present day National Historic Park at 39 degrees, 56 minutes and 12 seconds North Latitude and 75 degrees, 8 degrees, 2 seconds West Longitude. “I’m calculating for the open space across the street from what we now call Independence Hall,” Greene said, as the students knew that before the Declaration the building was known as the Pennsylvania State House. “I don’t want to drop the trailer on the Liberty Bell. According to Thomas Jefferson’s weather journal, the temperature in Philadelphia will be 78 degrees Fahrenheit. It rained the previous night, and we may have intermittent showers today as well…”
Has Mr. Greene lost his marbles? Minerva wondered.
“That’s all great, Mr. Greene,” Victor said. “What are you using as our talisman for this trip?”
Greene smiled. “Yes, remember everyone, we used the theater poster from Our American Cousin to effect the transport last spring. Well…Charles and Mary, are you here?”
The ghosts of deceased early American historians Charles and Mary Beard appeared in a transparent glow in the classroom. Charles handed Mr. Greene a riding crop. Mr. Greene handed Victor his cane for Victor to hold.
Minerva’s eyes widened in fright. What was going on?
“Students, say hello to Mary Ritter Beard and Charles Austin Beard. We will be reading their work later on in the semester,” Mr. Greene said. The Beards, who resembled extras from the movie The Great Gatsby in their 1920s fashions, smiled but did not speak. Charles Beard did, however, float over to Mr. Greene and appear to whisper something in the teacher’s ear.
“Hello,” the students said politely.
Mr. Greene continued with his introduction of the Beards. “Mr. Beard’s seminal work was, of course, An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution published in 1913. Mrs. Beard collaborated with her husband on their 1927 book The Rise of the American Civilization.”
Charles Beard bowed politely, revealing the part in the center of his hair, and Mary managed a curtsey in her “flapper” dress without floating out of place. Mr. Greene directed his students’ eyes to the riding crop that he swirled in a mesmerizing swoosh like a fencer twirling his epee.
“This is Caesar Rodney’s riding crop,” Greene explained. “Mr. Rodney was a delegate from Delaware who suffered from a debilitating facial cancer, but made the ride from Delaware to Philadelphia to cast a deciding vote for independence. The Delaware delegation was split with one vote for independence and one against it. British Admiral Howe had already landed his seven hundred ships at Staten Island in New York and troops were planning to march the one hundred miles to Philadelphia to hang the rebels. Only if our Founding Fathers could establish that the colonies were an independent nation could the delegates to the Continental Congress shelter themselves in the rules of war. Benjamin Franklin, the wisest man in America, knew that the king of France, hungry for revenge for the loss of his American lands in the French and Indian War, wasn’t going to help the colonies unless they broke with England. Rodney, who was ill, hadn’t expected Delaware delegate George Read to vote against independence. So he wound up riding eighty miles overnight in the rain and mud of the lousy colonial roads from Dover to Philadelphia. Heck, he even survived his cancer, living until 1784. He was a tough old bird, and his riding crop is going to help us get to Philadelphia.” Greene pointed the riding crop to the overhead projection of the colonial Philadelphia map, a bit north of Chestnut Street between 5th and 6th streets on the Dury map. He went to his students and handed them each a 1999 quarter-dollar. “This is Delaware’s commemorative quarter. Victor, what is on the back of the coin?”
“A rider in a tri-corner hat on a horse.”
“Yes,” Mr. Greene said. “What else?”
“Delaware 1787, the first state and good old E Pluribus Unum.”
“Yes, ‘out of many one’ in Latin, anything else?”
“Caesar Rodney?”
“Yes, Caesar Rodney. Delaware revered Caesar’s ride even more than Massachusetts revered Paul’s, ha ha.” No one laughed at the pun on “Revere” and Greene went on with a hint of disappointment on his face. “So Rodney’s ride to cast Delaware’s vote for independence was put on its commemorative coin. Ever since 1999, Rodney’s riding crop has had magical powers for some reason. I like to think it has historical powers gained on the ride for independence
. Or perhaps it is the power of a United States commemorative coin.”
“Wow!” said Victor Bridges. He had never thought that a commemorative coin might have some magical power.
Mr. Greene is wacko, Minerva thought.
“Buckle up, students,” he warned before touching the riding crop to the map. He held onto a lectern that was bolted to the floor.
The classroom began to shake. Mary and Charles Beard floated merrily about the classroom, dashing in and out of the students, whose desks remained shakily bolted to the floor of the trailer. The ghosts stared a moment at Minerva Messinger, then nodded to each other. They floated up to either side of Minerva’s face and planted ghostly kisses on both of Minerva’s cheeks.
“Helppppp!” Minerva yelled.
Bette Kromer was rattling back and forth in her desk. “Buck up, Messinger,” she called. “It’s not the kiss of death because they’re already dead!”
The other students laughed. Minerva quickly recovered, and the laughter ceased. The Beards began to whirl about and spin counterclockwise, like ghostly spinning tops, until their images disappeared, only to reappear a moment later dressed in colonial period costumes, Mrs. Beard’s transparent image sporting a hairdo that resembled a beehive atop her head. So that was what it was supposed to look like, Minerva Messinger realized as she evaluated the ghost. Mom, she said to herself, you should be here. This isn’t just nuts, this is cashews! This is right up your alley.
The shaking in the portable classroom slowed and then stopped. Minerva scanned the bulletin board. Where was the Dunlap broadside of the Declaration of Independence? It had disappeared.
As if he were reading Minerva’s mind, Greene spoke up as the trailer came to a halt. “Look, students,” he said, pointing to the bulletin board. “The broadside is gone. What happened to it?”
Bette Kromer’s hand went up.
“Yes, Bette?
“It hasn’t happened yet. It’s not the 4th; it is the 2nd.”
“Yes!” Greene replied. He moved to the classroom door and cracked it open, holding up Caesar Rodney’s riding crop. As a breeze from 1776 entered the classroom, Minerva Messinger watched in disbelief as the riding crop disappeared.
