by Tim Black
“Mr. Greene, the riding crop!” Victor Bridges shouted.
“Yes,” Mr. Greene said evenly. “I believe Mr. Rodney is using it at present, as he is riding to Philadelphia from Delaware at this very moment. We shall need to retrieve the crop later today to return. He may throw the riding crop into the air like a bride tossing her bouquet, so we will have to catch it. Open the shades please, Victor,” he added as he went to the computer and typed in some commands.
Victor nodded to the Anderson twins to help him and each boy rolled up a window shade.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Greene said with a theatrical bow and a swirl of his tri-corner hat. “I give you Philadelphia on the morning of July 2, 1776.”
Actually, they had landed in a summer wheat field on the outskirts of the town, a half-mile from his intended landing spot, but the appreciative History Channelers applauded Mr. Greene. Even Minerva Messinger joined in clapping, although she was still too startled to appreciate the reality that lay just beyond the walls of the portable classroom and the summer wheat field in which the portable classroom had landed: the city of Philadelphia in 1776.
Chapter 3
“Okay people, let’s go over the ground rules quickly,” Mr. Greene said, waving his cane for emphasis. “The portable will only be here for five minutes. Back at school a holographic image of the portable is in place, but it can only be sustained for five minutes. I have programmed the classroom to return to this spot at precisely 5 P.M. So, even if we get separated, we need to meet here at five minutes to five. Find the location on your Dury map on your iPod and mark it. Also, watch for second floor chamber pots—but most likely they tossed their pots out last night. Still, look up from time to time. And before we go out into the Philadelphia air, let’s all remember the butterfly effect,” Mr. Greene said, turning his gaze to Victor Bridges.
Victor hated “the stare,” the way Mr. Greene seemed to see through you with just a stare, like he could read a student’s mind. Victor tried valiantly not to think unclean thoughts when he was in Mr. Greene’s presence for fear Mr. Greene would learn his fantasies of Minerva Messinger, whom Victor secretly envisioned as a Victoria’s Secret lingerie model. Victor felt himself shrinking under the glare of Greene’s gaze. And what was worse, Mr. Greene was waiting for Victor to respond.
“No butterflies from me, Mr. Greene, I promise,” Victor finally replied, returning the walking cane to Mr. Greene.
Minerva Messinger raised her hand. “What is the butterfly effect, Mr. Greene?”
“Ah yes,” he replied. “I forgot that we have a novitiate with us on this trip. The butterfly effect, Minerva, is based on an old Ray Bradbury science fiction story, The Sound of Thunder. Written in 1952, I believe. Anyway, a group of hunters are sent back into the dinosaur days and inadvertently kill a butterfly—something that wasn’t planned—and when they return to their present time, things have changed because the butterfly died. So, in other words, we are not to do anything that might change history. I mean, don’t, for example, shoot Thomas Jefferson.”
“Or chase John Wilkes Booth across a stage,” Heath Anderson added. He and his twin brother laughed at Victor’s expense.
Victor suddenly wanted to slug Heath Anderson.
“Enough, Heath,” Mr. Greene said, as if he sensed Victor’s discomfort.
“We do have to retrieve Caesar Rodney’s riding crop to get back, however,” Greene added. “He may toss it in the air when he arrives from Delaware at Independence Hall.”
“Pennsylvania State House, Mr. Greene,” Bette Kromer corrected.
“Ah yes, that’s correct,” Mr. Greene conceded. “It is not Independence Hall yet.”
Victor shook his head at Miss Know-It-All. He never had any Victoria’s Secret fantasies about Bette Kromer. It wasn’t that Bette Kromer wasn’t attractive—it was the way she used her “sugar voice” on him. Victor hoped somehow he could arrange a moment alone with Benjamin Franklin for some tips on how to get along with girls—for if anyone knew about women, it was Dr. Franklin. The old goat was a babe magnet, Victor thought. What was his secret? Kites maybe?
Mary and Charles Beard, who were literally “spirit guides,” led Mr. Greene and the students out into the summer air of 18th century Philadelphia. There were clouds in the sky, leftover reminders of the previous night’s rain.
“Place smells like the agriculture students’ barn,” Heath Anderson observed.
“You’ll get used to it,” Mr. Greene said. “Philadelphia was probably the cleanest town in the colonies, but by our standards, it’s the stinky cesspool city of brotherly love. The major reason for that is a stream called ‘Dock Creek’ that nearly bisected the city. It had a horrible stench because the stables and tanneries that flanked the stream used it as an open sewer. This probably led to the various Yellow Fever outbreaks that Philadelphia saw, the worst being the one in 1793, when Philadelphia was the nation’s capital. And then of course if you were a visitor and you took a room at an inn, you would share the bed with fleas, bedbugs and roaches, especially on a summer day like today. As they say,” Mr. Greene smiled, “Philadelphia was a nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there. But as I said: Philadelphia was the cleanest town in the colonies, and the most important port until the completion of the Erie Canal made New York the top town by the 1820s. Let’s move on.”
Victor, following behind his teacher, asked. “Mr. Greene, why did Charles Beard only whisper to you and not speak to us like Shelby Foote did?”
“Well,” Mr. Greene lowered his voice so Charles Beard wouldn’t hear, “Professor Beard is somewhat of a snob, and anyone who has obtained anything less than a master’s degree does not warrant a whisper of his wisdom. Mr. Foote, on the other hand, was a common man’s historian and a true Southern gentleman. He tried to reach the masses with his Civil War narrative.”
“Oh,” Victor replied. He didn’t like snobs or elitists or hotshot jocks, the athletic equivalent of elitists. Students like his brother Junior. What in the world did Minerva Messinger see in his simian sibling? She wasn’t just another pretty face, Victor thought. Minerva had the highest G.P.A. in their class. True, he had a higher PSAT than she did, but he would never have an astronomical G.P.A., for he was allergic to homework and, as a consequence, the first letter in the alphabet was not a symbol that occurred with any consistency on his report cards.
“Of course,” Mr. Greene went on as the Beards led the group from the portable classroom through a field of summer wheat toward the city limits. “Mr.Foote wanted to take us back to July 2, 1863, at Little Round Top at Gettysburg to meet Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain and his troops from Maine who saved the day, the army and the union, but I wasn’t about to risk a student just for a good seat at the Battle of Gettysburg. I mean, Victor, I have tenure, but having a student killed by a mini-ball? Well, I don’t think even tenure would save my job if that happened.” Mr. Greene laughed.
Wow, Victor thought. That would have been something: the Battle of Gettysburg! He turned around as he walked, pretending to look back as the classroom vanished but catching a glimpse of Minerva Messinger as well. Bette Kromer had Minerva’s attention, chattering away about what Victor suspected were female things. He always felt that girls would be easier to understand if he had had a sister, and he would have preferred a sister to his brother. As he was thinking this, looking backward, he tripped, but Mr. Greene’s hand caught him before Victor’s face met the ground.
“Thanks, Mr. Greene,” he said.
“Why don’t you walk with her, Victor?” Mr. Greene asked.
Victor blushed. “Who?”
“Minerva.”
“What do you mean? I was just looking back at the portable to see if it was there,” he fibbed.
Mr. Greene smiled. “Why? You knew it was gone.”
That was true, Victor admitted to himself. Five minutes had passed and the classroom had returned to its location at Cassadaga Area High School. Busted, he thought, Mr. Greene busted me.
He can read my mind.
“I was just making sure,” Victor lied again.
“Uh huh,” Mr. Greene smiled wisely.
As the ghosts of Mary and Charles Beard floated on ahead, Victor retreated into his own thoughts, erasing for the moment his musings of Minerva Messinger. Ahead were trees: chestnuts and walnuts, elms and oaks, all of which lined the streets of the town and made the name Pennsylvania or “Penn’s woodland” ring with reality. Chestnut Street, Walnut Street. In the distance he could see the cupola of Independence Hall that competed with church spires for prominence in the colonial town.
“We are headed toward High Street—Market Street today—and 7th Street,” Mr. Greene said. “Watch out for the animals in the street, the pigs and geese and so forth. The pigs take care of the garbage and the geese are just a pain in the posterior. First thing we are going to do is walk down to the Graff House and check on Thomas Jefferson and see how his rewrite of the Declaration of Independence is coming along. He may be a bit testy. He really doesn’t think he needs editing, but Dr. Franklin and John Adams have made him drop the anti-slavery clause and he’s a bit peeved.”
“But didn’t Jefferson own slaves, Mr. Greene?” Minerva asked.
“He did, Minerva,” Greene replied, avoiding a pile of horse droppings as he crossed a street. “Jefferson was ambivalent about slavery, and of course after his wife died he took up with Sally Hemings, a slave who was actually an octoroon, as she was only one-eighth black. Of course, Sally was actually his dead wife’s half-sister and was said to have looked a great deal like Mrs. Jefferson.”
“Gross,” Minerva said.
“Not really,” Mr. Greene said. “Please don’t mention any of this to Thomas Jefferson, students, as it hasn’t happened yet. He takes up with Sally Hemings in Paris after he’s made ambassador to France, following Benjamin Franklin in the post. His wife is still alive in 1776, so let’s not be rude. Remember we are visitors. We are here merely to observe. We don’t want to cause a butterfly effect. Now, another thing: General Nathanael Greene was my ancestor, so I will introduce myself as his cousin…which is true, although it is many times removed, like the Roosevelts, Theodore and Franklin. They were distant cousins.”
“Did Jefferson have Monticello in 1776?” Victor asked Mr. Greene.
“Yes, Victor,” Mr. Greene replied. “He began work on it in 1773 as I recall.”
The Beards floated on ahead in search of the Graff House, where they knew Jefferson would be working on a draft of the Declaration.
“Can people see the Beards?” Minerva asked Mr. Greene.
“No, Minerva, only we can. The Beards are dead, of course, but they weren’t alive in 1776, so as I understand it—and this is only a guess because the afterlife has its own secrets—ghosts can’t be seen by people in the past if those ghosts haven’t been born yet. That sort of thing is puzzling, I know. I mean, the people here can see us. Ah, here we are,” Greene said as the Beards pointed to a four story red brick structure. Like a tour guide, Greene gave his students a background on the Graff House. “Today, this building is known as the Declaration House. It was built in 1775 and restored in 1975. Tourists can view first-floor exhibits and a film regarding Jefferson’s residence, where he rented two second-floor rooms and wrote and rewrote the Declaration of Independence over a course of about three weeks. Let’s see if the Sage of Monticello is in, shall we?” Mr. Greene said.
Greene proceeded up a few steps and knocked on the front door to the boarding house. A servant answered.
“Mr. Jefferson, please,” Greene said, doffing his tri-corner hat.
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Um, Nathanael Greene’s cousin Charles.”
After a moment a tall red-haired young man in his early thirties appeared at the open front door, still in his robe and slippers.
Victor remembered reading that when he was in the White House, Jefferson would often answer the door in his slippers. Perhaps this was where he picked up the habit, Victor thought.
Thomas Jefferson stared at Mr. Greene quizzically. “I don’t believe that we have met, sir. Do you have a letter of introduction from your cousin?” Jefferson moved onto the front stoop.
“Alas, I do not, Mr. Jefferson. I am merely a teacher and am on holiday with my students.” Mr. Greene turned around to indicate his pupils and noticed that Minerva Messinger was gape-jawed in seeing the visage on the nickel come to life.
Jefferson surveyed the students for a moment, stopping to stare curiously at the open-mouthed Minerva Messinger. He suddenly laughed. “Perhaps this young lady with her open mouth will catch those damnable horseflies from the stable across the street. They bother me when I write. I’m forever swatting the cursed flies away.”
Victor watched Minerva’s face turn pink with embarrassment. A mortified Minerva Messinger: Victor thought he would never see that. It was almost as amazing as seeing Thomas Jefferson in the flesh. Almost, but not quite. A large horsefly was making a path towards Minerva’s cheek and Victor chivalrously snatched the fly from the air, crushing it in his palm.
“Amazing, young man,” an impressed Thomas Jefferson said. “You are indeed fast with your hands, sir.”
Now Victor was blushing. “Thank you, Mr. Jefferson,” he replied.
Mr. Greene intervened to steer the conversation away from horseflies. “Mr. Jefferson,” he said. “How do you think the vote for independence will go today?”
Jefferson rubbed his chin in a thoughtful gesture and after a moment’s musing replied, “I can’t understand Delaware being deadlocked. If only Rodney were here,” he said, shaking his head in regret.
“He will be,” Greene said, and suddenly grimaced as he realized he might have flapped a “butterfly’s” wing with his remark.
“How do you know that, sir? The man has a cancer on his face, Mr. Greene.”
“Ah…I have a feeling, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Are you some seer or soothsayer as well as a mentor, Mr. Greene?” Jefferson asked.
“No, sir, just a Deist, like you.”
“Indeed, sir,” Jefferson smiled. “Indeed.”
“Mr. Jefferson, sir, we have taken up enough of your time and you are a very important man.”
“Hah,” Jefferson laughed. “You flatter me, sir. I’m only a junior member of the Virginia delegation.”
“But you have a way with words, Mr. Jefferson,” Victor said.
“Really, my flycatcher friend?” Jefferson said. “And what of my writings have your perused with your pupils, young pupil?”
Oh no, Victor thought. It wasn’t that he hadn’t read Jefferson—the problem was that he read writings of Thomas Jefferson that were post-1776. Think of something before 1776, he told himself—Mr. Jefferson is waiting. Victor took a deep breath and gambled a reply: “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”(sic)
Jefferson laughed. “Well, my fly catcher friend, that is very flattering, but it is also very Franklin, as in Dr. Franklin in his reply to Governor Morris of Pennsylvania in ’55, I believe, during the late unpleasantness with the French and their Indian allies. He is forever saying that phrase these days.”
Darn, Victor thought. The pink hue of embarrassment returned to his face.
“We have taken up enough of your time, Mr. Jefferson,” Mr. Greene said. “Good luck with your writing.”
Jefferson shrugged. “I have to wait a few minutes to proceed, Mr. Greene. I’m so tired of moving my chair and my writing table to catch the light as it changes throughout the day.”
“Yes, I understand,” Greene replied. “Well, I need to swivel about with my students and be off,” Greene said. “Come students. Say goodbye to Mr. Jefferson.
“Swivel?” Jefferson mumbled to himself. “What about a chair that swiveled about with the light? Perhaps that was it.”
As Victor, Minerva and Bette Kromer followed the Beards and Mr. Greene down Market S
treet, Bette Kromer said suddenly:
“Mr. Greene, did you just ‘butterfly’ Thomas Jefferson?”
Greene smiled. “What do you mean, Bette?”
“Jefferson invented the swivel chair. Did you just give him the idea?”
Mr. Greene frowned. “Of course not,” he replied. “He always had the idea in his mind. He invented the swivel chair for Monticello. Really his invention was merely an adaptation of a Windsor chair he saw in Europe. He modified that swiveling chair to fit his needs at Monticello, and he started work on Monticello in 1773, as I told Victor. Oh my gosh! Look who is coming down the street,” Greene said as a young woman in a plain brown dress and brown bonnet walked toward them. “Betsy Ross,” Greene said.
“Oh my,” Minerva said. “The seamstress who sewed the first flag for George Washington.”
“Not really,” Mr. Greene said. “She wouldn’t have a clue what you were talking about. Her grandson William J. Canby first brought the claim to the public in a paper he delivered before the Historical Society of Pennsylvania in 1870, but there is no record of it before that, and that is ninety-four years after the fact. Betsy did know George Washington—her husband’s family had a pew next to his in Christ Church—and she did earn fifteen pounds by designing a flag for the Pennsylvania Navy, which was a series of thirteen horizontal red and white alternating stripes, but as far as the Stars and Stripes, there is no definite proof that Mrs. Ross made the first flag. The flag she designed for the Pennsylvania Navy replaced the pine tree flag with the motto ‘An Appeal to Heaven.’ And she was married three times. In 1776, this was her first marriage, to John Ross. Canby claimed the stars and stripes were in common use soon after the Declaration of Independence, but that was nearly a year before the resolution of Congress proclaiming the flag. There is no record of the flag being discussed or a committee being formed in either the Journals of the Congress or in Washington’s diary.”
Victor watched Minerva’s reaction. It was as if she had just learned the Santa Claus was a fraud. She was absolutely stunned. He was amazed that Minerva didn’t know the Betsy Ross legend was bogus. She probably bought G.W. and the cherry tree, he thought. Still, he felt compassion for her and whispered: “It’s okay, Minerva, sometimes the truth hurts.”
