Tesla's Time Travelers

by Tim Black

  “Where’s Heath?”

  “The sailors took him, I think.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “I was unconscious.”

  “Where’s Mr. Greene?”

  “He’s unconscious in a bed in the next room. He arrived at the beginning of the fight and tried to stop it, and one of the sailors hit him atop his noggin with a pewter tankard of ale. He kind of smells of booze, which is really bad because he’s in A.A. and all. He’s going to suspend me when we get back, I know it. Mrs. Ross got some men to carry Mr. Greene and me here to her place.”

  “But what about Heath?” Victor asked again.

  “I figured they impressed him,” Justin said.

  “What do you mean?” Minerva asked.

  “Shanghaied him, Minerva,” Victor explained. “Impress means to take a man against his will and force him to serve on a ship. They kidnapped him.”

  “Oh,” Minerva replied, finally understanding.

  Bette asked, “Where’s Mrs. Ross, Justin?”

  Cornelia Bridges answered, “She went off to find Dr. Rush at the state house to tend to your mates here.”

  “This is worse than Ford’s Theater,” Victor said aloud. He was thinking, Will Mr. Greene wake up? You’re in charge, Victor, are you up for it? Remember, no big deal: rescue Heath and then get back to Independence Hall in time to snag Rodney’s riding crop, somehow get the unconscious Mr. Greene back to the landing zone for the portable and somehow get them back to the future. At least Michael J. Fox had a De Lorean; I have an old portable classroom. Get everyone back to Cassadaga Area High School or else they’ll all be in the Class of ’76. 1776.

  “What’s Ford’s Theater?” Cornelia asked.

  “Never mind that,” Bette said, coming to the rescue. The front door to the shop portion of the house opened and a bell above the door announced a customer. “You have a shopper, Mrs. Bridges. Let me look after the lad.”

  “Thank you, miss,” Cornelia smiled.

  Bette turned to Victor. “Go find Heath, Victor. I’ll stay with Justin and Mr. Greene.” Suddenly, literally out of thin air, Mary and Charles Beard appeared.

  Charles said nothing, but Mary, in a sympathetic voice, said, “We’ll help if we can dear.”

  “I’m sorry we ignored you, Mrs. Beard,” Bette apologized.

  Mary Beard smiled. “I’m sorry I was so huffy, dear. Charles and I have been so neglected by historians over the years that I’m afraid I’ve grown much too sensitive. Charles and I can offer advice to you perhaps.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Beard.”

  “What about Minerva?” Victor asked.

  Bette shrugged indifferently. Victor looked at Minerva. “You want to stay or come with me?” He was hoping she would wish to join him.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “Wait,” said Justin. He reached under the bed. He pulled out a brown Malacca wood cane and a flintlock pistol. The wood of the cane reminded Victor of rattan furniture. “Take these,” Justin advised.

  “Is that loaded?” Minerva asked, pointing at the pistol.

  “No, but the bad guys won’t know that,” Justin said. “Victor, pull the ball handle on the hilt of the cane.”

  Victor took the cane with his left hand and with his right pulled on the silver ball handle. “What the heck,” he said as he pulled forth a blade, and then slid it back into place.

  “Sword, cane… Belongs to some gentleman who didn’t pay his tailoring bill to Mrs. Ross. The pistol too, I think.”

  “What am I going to do with these?” Victor asked.

  “You might need them,” Justin said. He held out the pistol by the barrel, offering Minerva its handle.

  “Me?” Minerva protested. “Why me?”

  “Your dad’s in the N.R.A, isn’t he? I saw their bumper sticker on his car.” Victor said.

  “Well, yes,” Minerva admitted. “But I…”

  “Don’t be all girlish, geesh, Minerva,” Bette admonished. “You want to stay here and nurse Justin?”

  “No, but…”

  “Woman up then, Minerva,” Bette Kromer chided. “Woman up!”

  “Woman up,” Minerva repeated over and over like a mantra. She hugged Bette Kromer and followed Victor out onto Arch Street.

  Victor was confused: Didn’t Bette and Minerva hate each other? Now they were hugging? What was it with girls? He looked at Minerva, who was twirling the flintlock pistol by its trigger housing as if it were a Colt Peacemaker from the Old West.

  “It’s not a baton, Minerva,” Victor said. “You won’t scare anyone if you act like a majorette.”

  “Sorry,” she blushed. “Force of habit.”

  Two blocks from the dock, Victor said, “Look, Minerva, the way I figure it is whoever is holding Heath will be surprised that a woman is brandishing a pistol.” Did I just refer to Minerva as a “woman?” Victor wondered.

  “I like the word ‘brandishing,’” Minerva admitted. “What about lady pirates, Victor?”

  “What about them?”

  “They fought with the men. There were more than most people think.”

  “Where’s your parrot and eye patch, Minerva?” Victor teased.

  She smiled. Victor, who was chatting with her and not paying attention to his feet, tripped on an uneven portion of the sidewalk and dropped the cane, but broke his fall with his arms.

  Minerva chuckled. “You should look where you’re going,” she said. “Must have been your eye patch, I guess.”

  Victor was blushing, but somehow he didn’t feel humiliated with her. He sensed sympathy in those beautiful blue eyes. Why was she blushing? What was that about? He would never understand girls.

  “Victor,” she said, her voice going up an octave. But for some reason when Minerva did it, it didn’t bother Victor as it did when Bette Kromer’s voice went up the scale. “If we get back okay and everything, would you…”

  “Would I what?”

  “Take me to the Homecoming Dance tonight?”

  “What? What about Junior?” said Victor, feeling a tug of loyalty to his brother.

  “What about him?” Minerva replied.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be his date?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “Minerva,” Victor said finally. “Junior may be a jerk and a Neanderthal, but he is still my brother. I can’t betray him. I’m no Benedict Arnold.”

  He was surprised to see disappointment in her face. You are such a fool, Victor Bridges, he told himself. The girl of your dreams asks you out and you remain loyal to Helmet Head.

  They walked side by side in silence until they reached the docks. There were several wharves to walk, several ships to check.

  “How is your Spanish, Minerva?”

  “Decent I guess.”

  “Okay, you are Senorita de la Vega.”

  “Isn’t de la Vega the family name of Zorro?” Minerva asked. “You think I look like Catherine Zeta-Jones, Victor?” she asked with a mischievous smile. “I have blue eyes, silly.”

  “I don’t know,” Victor said, flustered. “Be whoever you want to be.”

  “Okay, then I’ll be the Dread Pirate Roberta.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Princess Bride. My favorite movie. The hero is the Dread Pirate Roberts. He loves Princess Buttercup. So I’ll be Roberta. The Dread Pirate Roberta. Do you want to be Prince Buttercup?” she smiled.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Victor said, fawning offense. “I have an idea. It might sound stupid, but not any stupider than Prince Buttercup. Let’s sing the dumb Phantom Fight Song as we walk about. If Heath is here on one of these ships, maybe he’ll sing it back to us.”

  “That’s brilliant, Victor. The Spanish sailors won’t have a clue what we are doing,” Minerva said, agreeing.

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Of course, I was a freshman cheerleader, Victor.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I don’t brag abou
t it,” Minerva said and began to sing the Cassadaga Area High School Fighting Phantoms “Phight Song.” “Fight, fighting Phantoms, Scare up a win,” she motioned for Victor to join in. “Fight, fighting Phantoms, vic—tory—begin.”

  “It really is an awful fight song, isn’t it?” Victor said.

  “Yeah, I guess” Minerva said. “But most fight songs are stupid anyway.”

  They had no luck with their fight song duet at the first wharf. But at the second wharf, by the third ship, as Minerva sang and Victor mouthed the words of the fight song, a male voice, definitely off-key, echoed back in a very tinny voice: “Fight, fighting Phantoms, Scare up a win…”

  “Heath!” Victor shouted as he spotted the bruised Anderson twin waving a mop at him like a signal corps flag. Minerva and Victor ran up the gangplank. Heath was wearing a leg shackle and swabbing the deck. He was barefoot and stocking-less, chained to another man who was shirtless in the warm summer sun. Another impressed sailor. Only one guard, whose back was turned, was watching the manacled men. Victor assumed the rest of the sailors had shore leave. They were in luck.

  “We’ve got to scare the guard, “Victor said. “Point your pistol, Minerva.”

  Minerva shouted “hands up” in Spanish and pointed her pistol as the guard turned around, ordering him to release Heath. Victor was amazed at the fear that registered on the guard’s face. Perhaps he’d had a run-in with a lady pirate before, Victor thought, for the guard’s hands visibly shook as he handed over a jingling set of keys. From what Victor understood of Spanish he realized that Minerva, putting on a great act, referred to herself as the “Dread Pirate Roberta” and, with a nod from Minerva, he drew his sword cane to encourage the guard’s cooperation. Victor kept the sword cane pointed at the guard as Minerva grabbed the keys and tried one key after another. On the seventh key, she unlocked Heath and the other man, who like Heath was young, badly bruised and beaten, although otherwise quite muscular. When they were free, Minerva motioned for Heath to shackle the guard, and Heath did so with vengeful relish.

  “Thank you, miss,” the shirtless man said to Minerva, assuming she was the leader. “I’ve learned my lesson of the grog, I have,” he said. “No more for me. I shall join up with Gen’rl Washington.”

  Victor offered the young man his hand. “I am Victor Bridges from Florida, sir.”

  The man replied with a smile that indicated he still had all of his teeth, which Victor found strangely reassuring.

  “I’m Tom Kilroy,” the young man said, shaking Victor’s hand. “You and your wife saved me,” Tom added.

  Victor blushed.

  “I’m not his wife,” Minerva protested quickly and loudly. She pivoted and left the ship, thumping her way angrily down the gangplank.

  Victor was glad Minerva had corrected that mistake, but did there have to be so much contempt in her voice?

  “Can you make it, Heath?” Victor asked.

  “Yeah, I’m okay I guess. I’m in big trouble, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” Victor said. He turned to Tom Kilroy and handed him his Spanish coin.

  “Here,” he said. “Buy yourself some presentable clothes before you meet General Washington, Tom.”

  Tom Kilroy took the coin and bit it for authenticity. Victor saw a grateful young man who appeared choked up when he said, “Thank you, sir. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” He bounded down the gangplank, oblivious to his bumps and bruises, and dashed off.

  Victor wondered if Tom was headed to a tailor or a tavern. Kilroy? Wasn’t that the name G.I.’s posted on walls and whatnot in World War II? “Kilroy was here?” Victor offered Heath an arm of support and walked him gingerly down the gangplank, where Minerva was waiting, the scowl on her face replaced with a smile. She walked up to Victor, put an arm around the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to bend down, and then she kissed him on the lips.

  “That was a nice thing you did, Victor Bridges,” Minerva said, pulling quickly away from him.

  Victor wondered how badly he was blushing; he assumed it was pretty bad by the reaction of Heath Anderson’s chuckle. Heath was in big trouble, but he could still find a moment to laugh at me, Victor thought. I must be pink.

  Chapter 6

  A second after she kissed Victor Bridges, Minerva Messinger regretted her impulsiveness. She didn’t regret the kiss because Victor was a bad kisser—he wasn’t that bad, but then she really hadn’t kissed all that many boys to make a valid comparison. And it really hadn’t lasted very long, only a second. No, she regretted her impulsive decision because she feared Victor might have gotten the wrong idea. But then what was the idea, Minerva? she asked herself. Why had Victor Bridges made her tingle? She hadn’t held her lips that long on his lips…had she?

  Thankfully, a few seconds after the kiss, Victor, who appeared a bit befuddled by Minerva’s gesture, suggested they head to a shoemaker for new shoes and stockings for Heath. They found a shoemaker on 2nd Street and Heath produced his Spanish piece of eight for a pair of buckled shoes and new silk stockings, and received an English shilling in change. A grandfather clock in the shoemaker’s shop indicated it was nearly 11:30.

  “We have two hours before Rodney arrives at Independence Hall,” Victor said. “What shall we do?”

  “Let’s go have a shandy,” Heath suggested.

  “No,” Minerva protested. “Heath, I think when we get back that you should go to an A.A. meeting with Mr. Greene.”

  Heath shook his head. “I was only playing, Minerva. Gee whiz.”

  “Well, poor Mr. Greene smells like a brewery,” Minerva went on. “You and Justin should be ashamed! You know he doesn’t drink.”

  “Look, Minerva, I’m going to catch enough heat when I get back, can’t you just leave it be for now?”

  “Minerva’s right, Heath,” Victor said. “There is a problem in punishment though. How can Mr. Greene punish you? To punish you would end our trips. The school board would fire Mr. Greene for recklessness. The sad part is that Mr. Greene can’t really do anything. But I can.”

  “Now, Victor,” Heath said. “Don’t be rash. Remember what you nearly did last spring with John Wilkes Booth?”

  Minerva watched the self-righteousness fade from Victor’s face.

  “Yeah,” Victor admitted, nodding agreement. “I was a jerk last spring. Okay, Heath, but no more shandy and no more fights, even if some guy insults any of us, including Dread Pirate Roberta here,” he said, nodding to Minerva.

  Both boys laughed. “Dread Pirate Roberta!” Heath laughed again.

  Boys, Minerva thought. They could suddenly gang up and turn on a girl. A minute ago she thought Heath and Victor might decide to fight, as she’d noticed an edge to their voices, but here they were now laughing at one another, and the crisis had passed and they were teasing her. But what Victor said made sense. To punish the Anderson twins with school rules would jeopardize The History Channelers and probably lead to Mr. Greene’s dismissal, and Mr. Greene was the best history teacher Minerva had ever had, even if he was a recovering alcoholic. A number of teens who had been court ordered to A.A. had seen Mr. Greene at the meetings. To Minerva a recovering alcoholic was certainly better than Mrs. Swenson, who Minerva had for sophomore English first period, and who appeared many mornings as if she were hung-over and used too much cologne to hide the scent of gin from her students—very unsuccessfully.

  They walked north on 2nd Street and stopped to read the postings in the window of Dunlap’s Print Shop—examples of the printer’s work. There was a broadside from the Society for the Relief of Free Negroes Unlawfully Held in Bondage signed by John Woolman and Anthony Benezet, calling for Philadelphia slaveholders to emancipate their slaves.

  “Quaker activists,” Victor explained. “They started their society in 1775. Philadelphia was the site of the first abolitionist society, but it didn’t take off until after the Revolution.”

  “How did you know that, Victor?” Minerva asked.

  “I wr
ote an article for Concord Review, the high school history magazine, but they didn’t take it. I’ve read a lot about slavery, Minerva. It always interested me. I mean, many of the men who signed the Declaration of Independence owned slaves, and yet what does it say—‘all men are created equal.’ Jefferson had slaves, but so did Benjamin Franklin, although he freed them in 1775. The Quakers gave everyone a guilt trip. By the late 1780s the Pennsylvania Abolition Society was up and running, and it inspired groups to start in other cities. Benjamin Franklin would join and eventually become its president.”

  “It’s amazing to think that there was slavery in the North,” Minerva said.

  “During the 1790s, Philadelphia was the nation’s capital,” Victor continued. “Washington brought his slaves to town when he was president. They did some excavation work by where the Liberty Bell is now, in its little park. And you know what they found?”

  “What?” Minerva asked.

  “The remnants of the slave quarters of George Washington’s slaves. There on the present site of the Liberty Bell, slaves were kept. How’s that for irony—and I don’t even like English,” Victor said.

  “But Washington freed his slaves, didn’t he?” Minerva asked.

  “After his widow Martha died, they were set free, yes. Jefferson never freed his, and of course Mr. Greene mentioned Sally Hemings.”

  “His slave mistress?” Minerva said.

  “Yes, but do students know that Sally was his dead wife’s half-sister and that she looked just like her?”

  “No.” Minerva was startled by that fact. It was one thing for Thomas Jefferson to have a slave mistress, but a slave mistress that was your dead wife’s half-sister—now that Minerva found a bit too creepy, like Thomas Jefferson belonged on the Jerry Springer Show.

  “Yes. His wife was Martha Wayles Skelton, a wealthy widow, just like Washington’s Martha. Martha’s daddy had a slave mistress, Elizabeth Hemings, who gave birth to Sally. In fact, daddy gave Sally to Martha as a wedding present when she married Jefferson.”

  “That’s sort of sick,” Minerva said.

  “By our standards yes, but not by the standards for white folks in Virginia in the 18th century,” Victor said.