by Tim Black
Minerva looked at him and gave him a slight smile. Victor realized Minerva was embarrassed, as if to say: “I’m the class valedictorian; I should have known that.”
Greene and his students gave way for Mrs. Ross to pass and Greene tipped his hat as she walked by. The three boys, following Mr. Greene’s example, did the same. Betsy Ross ignored Mr. Greene and Victor and smiled at the Anderson twins.
“I think she winked at me,” Heath Anderson said.
“She winked at me, stupid,” Justin bragged. “You’re too ugly for her.”
Victor was always amused when one of the Anderson twins called the other ugly, as they were identical, down to their neck moles.
“Hussy” Bette Kromer hissed beneath her breath. “She’s a married woman.”
Mr. Greene smiled and began a lecture as they walked, clicking the cane on the cobblestone as he proceeded. “Actually, she is currently a widow, Bette. Oh, the myths of American history and how they are perpetuated. Washington throwing a dollar across the Potomac. We didn’t have dollars then. We had shillings. Never happened. It was actually a stone tossed across the Rappahannock. Not as bad as the “Cherry Tree” whopper made up by Mason Weems, Washington’s first biographer. He was trying to inculcate morality in students who would read about Washington with his “I cannot tell a lie” nonsense. Still, Betsy Ross was a Patriot and her first husband John Ross was in the militia, but he died in January 1776. Her second husband was a naval officer, Joseph Ashburn—no relation to Richie Ashburn, the Phillies Hall of Fame centerfielder… Ashburn was captured by the British and died as a prisoner of war. She had better luck with her third husband, John Claypool, although he suffered a stroke in 1800 after seventeen years of marriage. She lost a number of her family members during the 1793 Yellow Fever epidemic. She did make her living in the upholstery business and she did make a living during the Revolution by making tents for Washington’s army, as well as mending uniforms. Betsy died at eighty-four, totally blind; she died in 1836, sixty years after the Declaration of Independence. She was known as a ‘Fighting Quaker,’ as most Quakers were pacifists during the Revolution, but the widow Ross was a true Patriot.”
Victor watched Minerva Messinger. Mr. Greene’s comments about Betsy Ross seemed to mollify Minerva, as if to say Betsy Ross might not have sewn the first flag, but she was a true, red, white and blue American. Minerva’s face seemed to register relief, as if her heroine was a Patriot after all.
Victor knew Mr. Greene liked to show off now and then for his students, and his students generally indulged him with an “ooh” or an “ah,” although what Mr. Greene found amazing didn’t always coincide with what a teenager with raging hormones knew to be important: the weekend. Then again, teenage boys were always receptive to Mr. Greene’s rehashing of the Pocahontas legend when he revealed the Powhatan princess was fond of doing cartwheels through the muddy streets of Jamestown, dressed only in her birthday suit. Now that was something one didn’t see in the Disney version, Victor told himself. Victor verified Mr. Greene’s claims of the R-rated version of Pocahontas in The People’s Almanac, which confirmed her sullied reputation, but he found it hard to forgive Mr. Greene for his terrible pun on tobacco cultivation in Virginia. Pocahontas and her husband John Rolfe, Mr. Greene said, introduced tobacco into Jamestown and saved the colony “just in the nicotine.”
“Mr. Greene?” Victor said, an idea crystallizing in his head.
“Yes?”
“If Mrs. Ross made a horizontally striped flag of thirteen bars in alternating colors of red and white for the Pennsylvania Navy as you say, might that not be the source of the Stars and Stripes legend, and the family mixed up the two?”
“That’s an interesting idea, Victor. It truly is. According to the legend though, Mrs. Ross made the flag in June 1776. If that is so, why is it not flying above the cupola of the Pennsylvania State House? For this is July 1776, is it not? You know, President Woodrow Wilson was once asked about the Ross legend, and his remark was: ‘Would that it were true!’”
“I didn’t know that,” Victor said, impressed once again at Mr. Greene’s depth of knowledge.
“Victor,” Mr. Greene said suddenly in a confidential tone. “We must keep a sharp eye out for Caesar Rodney.”
“What does he look like, Mr. Greene?”
“Now, there is the rub, Victor. There are no portraits of Rodney. I think he was sensitive because of his skin cancer. Lesions and so forth. He didn’t sit for a portrait. But we need his riding crop to return. It has something to do with the space-time continuum. The Beards gave me the riding crop, but Rodney used it until the afternoon of July 2, 1776—which is, of course, today. After he arrived at the Pennsylvania State House he lost track of the riding crop, and the Beards bought it from an antiquities dealer sometime in the early 20th century. I once used it for a visit on July 4th and that time the riding crop did not disappear. So, it seems Rodney lost the stick on the afternoon of the 2nd when he tossed it into the air. So it is your job, Victor, to catch the riding crop when Rodney throws it.”
“My job?”
“Yes. You are the president of The History Channelers, are you not?”
“Yes, but…”
“Mind your step, Victor,” Mr. Greene cautioned, using a British expression.
Victor nimbly avoided some horse droppings. The Beards seemed amused by Victor’s expedient display of hopscotch, smiling at him. I’m glad I make you laugh, Victor thought, wondering if ghosts had telepathic powers. It was one thing to be a ghost, but to be a snobbish ghost? Shelby Foote had been so cordial the spring before.
Victor gave his iPod a surreptitious glance. It was 10:00 A.M. They crossed Market Street over to Chestnut Street.
“Look,” Mr. Greene pointed. “The delegates are congregating outside the Pennsylvania State House. Remember, kids, what Bette reminded us about: It’s not Independence Hall yet, so please don’t use that name around the folks. Rodney should be arriving after lunch. About 1:30, as I recall. C’mon, let’s go meet the Founding Fathers.”
“No Founding Mothers, of course,” Bette Kromer groused.
“Most unfair, Bette,” Mr. Greene agreed. “I mean, John Adams’ wife, Abigail, wrote to her husband to ‘please remember the ladies,’ but the men of the 18th century could not think of women as their political equals.”
“Or social equals,” Bette added. Victor found her frown to be quite unpleasant and a bit unnerving, as if Bette Kromer was actually an angry Amazon ready to impale the delegates on a lamppost.
“Please, Bette,” Mr. Greene said. “Don’t kill the messenger, no pun intended. It’s not my fault. Let’s walk quietly by them and see if we can pick up some conversation.”
Victor noticed the street was busy and crowded on this workday morning, and delegates milling outside the state house gave no special attention to his group. Like a tour guide, Mr. Greene held up his hand, and the students stopped. “There’s Dr. Witherspoon from New Jersey,” he said. “The actress Reese Witherspoon is his direct descendant.”
“Really?” Minerva asked.
“Really,” Mr. Greene assured her.
“Boy could the gals here use Elle Woods from Legally Blonde,” Bette Kromer said.
Victor looked at Bette. She seemed to have calmed down a bit, as if she had put away her Amazonian shield.
“Ah yes, Bette,” Mr. Greene replied, but he put his finger to his mouth in a “shhhh” sign. “Let’s listen,” he said as he led the group to within eavesdropping range.
Victor was mesmerized. Frizzy haired Benjamin Franklin in the flesh—the hundred-dollar bill came to life before his eyes.
“If you’d not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten,” Dr. Franklin was saying. “Either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing. I believe Mr. Jefferson is working on the former while we should concentrate on the latter.”
“Independence would be worth the writing, Dr. Franklin,” the rotund John Adams replied. “What s
ay you, Paine, on the subject?”
Victor saw the crooked beak of the author of Common Sense and wondered if he could pick up an original copy in a local bookstore. And why not? The book had sold 120,000 copies and inspired many across the colonies to demand independence from Great Britain. Who was the man standing with Thomas Paine? He whispered that question to Mr. Greene. “Doctor Benjamin Rush,” Mr. Greene replied in a low voice. “He inspired Thomas Paine to write Common Sense, and even gave him the title. He was the most influential physician of his generation, although he swore by bloodletting. Bloodletting killed George Washington, remember?”
Victor nodded and listened for Paine’s retort.
Thomas Paine looked down his long nose and replied to Adams with the hint of a sneer: “Mr. Adams, I am not a delegate to the convention and I am tired of being a subject.”
“He has too much ‘common sense’ for that,” Benjamin Franklin quipped, laughing at the “paineful” pun.
Oh no, Victor thought. Was the punning Franklin Mr. Greene’s ancestor?
“Port again for breakfast, Dr. Franklin?” Paine smiled.
Benjamin Franklin’s cheeks were exceedingly rosy, Victor noticed, but Franklin laughed at Paine’s remark and said to John Adams, “Mr. Adams, shall we walk down to Graff House and see how young Mr. Jefferson is coming with his draft?”
“In a moment, Dr. Franklin. I am waiting for Mr. Rodney to arrive. I received word that he is riding in from Delaware to break that colony’s vote on independence. We need independence declared or we will be seen as traitors.”
“Yes,” Franklin smiled. “There is much to what you say, and we could be drawn and quartered, Mr. Adams. Is that not right, Doctor Rush?”
Victor listened attentively. He knew nothing of Benjamin Rush except the overview that Mr. Greene had provided.
“I should think King George would give us a tug on the hemp, Doctor Franklin, as you indicated by your earlier remark,” Rush replied.
“Well that is two votes for hanging then?” Franklin replied. “Will you gentlemen make it unanimous?” Franklin’s eyes seemed to twinkle with merriment, Victor thought. His mother would have called him an odd old duck. “Say this about King George: The greatest monarch on the proudest throne is obliged to sit upon his arse.”
The delegates erupted in laughter.
Suddenly a courier interrupted the men, handing Dr. Rush a note.
“Gentlemen, forgive me,” Rush said, pocketing the note. “A patient needs my services.”
Franklin waited for Rush to be out of hearing range, then quipped, “He’s the best physician that knows the worthlessness of the most medicines. That is why Dr. Rush is held in such high esteem.”
The other men laughed at Dr. Rush’s expense.
“Rush is a good man though,” Franklin added. “He knows the ‘cause’ if not a cure.”
Cause, Victor thought, and realized Franklin was speaking of liberty with his play on words, and yet he was dismissing Rush, the physician, with his inability to “cure.” Of course, Victor remembered that Franklin had once written: “God heals and the doctor takes the fee.” But then, physicians were not held in high esteem in the 18th century as they were in the 21st. What had Mr. Greene told them? The 1911 Carnegie Commission study on doctors was the turning point in perception of physicians, as the study showed doctors in a favorable light for the first time. Look how far physicians have come, Victor thought. Still, it was interesting a physician would be so active in politics. Like Dr. Warren in Boston, who was a member of the Sons of Liberty and was killed at the Battle of Bunker Hill. Victor wanted to learn more about Benjamin Rush, but the men directed their conversation back to Caesar Rodney.
“What of Rodney?” Adams persisted.
“We shant see him until the afternoon, with the roads being what they are, I would guess,” Franklin said. “Past dinnertime I would think.”
One-thirty, Victor thought. That’s what Mr. Greene said. Mr. Greene was here before. Victor looked around. Minerva and Bette Kromer seemed to be getting along. He never understood girls. One moment they were mortal enemies, the next instant they were chatting away. What was that all about? And where were the Anderson twins?
Chapter 4
Mr. Greene, who had been listening to the banter among the Founding Fathers, suddenly asked in a plaintive voice, “Where are the Anderson twins?”
Minerva knew where they were, but she wasn’t about to tattle. The Andersons had drifted away from the group to pursue Betsy Ross after the seamstress winked at them.
“Victor, where are the Anderson twins?” Mr. Greene asked.
Minerva wondered if Victor was a tattletale, but then he had been so busy polishing Mr. Greene’s apple, she thought, that he hadn’t paid any attention to anyone else. Victor was such a teacher’s pet, she decided. She was jealous.
“I don’t know where they went, Mr. Greene,” Victor said.
“Minerva?” Mr. Greene asked.
Oh no, Minerva thought. I’m on the spot. Help me, Lord, she prayed quietly.
Bette Kromer came to Minerva’s rescue. “They followed that trollop Betsy Ross,” Bette said.
“Trollop?” Victor wondered aloud.
“This is the 18th century, Victor,” Bette said. “Trollop was a perfectly acceptable word in this time. Would you prefer ‘strumpet?’”
Minerva looked at Bette Kromer as if she were her new best friend. She was thankful Bette had intervened. She looked at Mr. Greene. He appeared agitated. They moved out of earshot of the delegates to Congress.
“Victor,” Mr. Greene said finally, “I’m putting you in charge. Not because you are a male,” he said, looking directly at Bette Kromer as he said this, “but because you are the president. I’ve got to find the Anderson twins and bring them back. City Tavern on Second Street. It is close to the Ross house on Arch Street. Let’s meet there at noon in case I’m not back by then.”
“But, Mr. Greene…” Victor said.
“You can handle it. Bette can help you,” Mr. Greene said. “Can’t you, Bette?”
“Sure I can,” Bette beamed.
So what was she? Miss Stupid-Head? Minerva thought, peeved at being considered third in the pecking order among the three remaining students by Mr. Greene. Then she thought again. She was a “stupid-head,” she admitted to herself. She didn’t believe any of this was possible, she thought all of them were wacko and here she was in Philadelphia in 1776. She did not know history like Victor and Bette. This was totally surreal, but the idea of surreal wasn’t possible, Minerva thought, her academic mind taking over. Surrealism as a literary and artistic movement to express the workings of the subconscious didn’t begin until the 20th century, she told herself. This was no dream, not with those smells from Dock Creek, she thought. A surrealist painter like Salvador Dali might paint a dripping clock, but how would he paint the odor of Dock Creek? Minerva’s dreams never smelled, she thought—only reality did.
“Good, Bette, I’m off to the Ross house at 239 Arch Street.” Mr. Greene took off on foot after the Anderson twins, leaving Bette, Victor and Minerva to fend for themselves in the 18th century. Charles Beard floated ahead of Mr. Greene. Mary Beard stayed behind to assist the three students.
“Thank you for staying, Mrs. Beard,” Bette Kromer said.
“I think it’s terrible that the men went off and left you girls with only a boy for protection,” Mrs. Beard said.
Minerva was nervous. Bette’s conversation with a non-existent person was getting the attention of a number of the delegates to the Continental Congress.
“Bette,” Minerva warned. “People are watching you. Don’t look at Mrs. Beard directly. Let’s huddle up. Pretend that you are talking to me. Nothing personal, Mrs. Beard,” Minerva said.
“No offense taken, dear,” Mrs. Beard smiled.
“I suggest we take a walk around the town,” Victor ventured. “The delegates are returning inside anyway,” he added. Victor offered an arm to each of his clas
smates. The girls looked at each other and smiled.
“Victor, that is very gallant of you,” Minerva said.
“Yes, Victor,” Bette agreed, not raising her voice to sugar and spice level.
Minerva had noticed that Victor cringed when Bette Kromer used her high voice, and she had whispered such to Bette as friendly advice when they walked behind Victor and Mr. Greene. Minerva didn’t really know what Bette saw in Victor, although Victor was a bright boy, unlike his older brother.
“Let’s see the Delaware River,” Victor suggested. “The tall ships. The wharves where trade occurred.”
“Where Washington crossed the Delaware?” Minerva asked.
“That’s north of the city in New Hope, and it hasn’t happened yet. That’s December 1776, Minerva.”
“Oh,” Minerva said. Victor was such a history geek, she thought. She wanted to say, “Lighten up, Victor,” but that would have sounded funny coming from her mouth, as she was the most uptight girl at Cassadaga Area High School. She admitted to herself that she was totally surprised by the day—that she hadn’t ever thought such a thing was possible—but here she was with two classmates on the sidewalk of Philadelphia in the 18th century, practicing Surrealism before it was even a movement.
“That was interesting stuff about the Pennsylvania Navy,” Bette said to Victor as she took a firm hold on his right arm with her left. “Minerva, I hope you weren’t too upset by Betsy Ross. It really floored me when I first heard the truth,” Bette said.
Minerva wasn’t concentrating. She was surprised by the size of Victor’s left bicep. He was muscular. She hadn’t realized that he was so strong.
“You know,” Bette Kromer began as they trundled eastward to the Delaware River docks, Victor in the middle of the trio, Bette on his right and Minerva on his left, “they never capture the smell in movies. I’ve done my share of baby-sitting, and there’s an odor of diaper doo-doo in the air.”
