Tesla's Time Travelers

by Tim Black

  Heath was more concerned with his aches and pains, but he had been listening to Victor. “It’s hard to imagine that people were treated as property,” Heath said. “Remember what Mr. Greene told us about 1619? That was a year before the Pilgrims ever landed on their rock, and the residents of Jamestown, Virginia, set up the House of Burgesses and allowed the first slave ship into the colony. So from the beginning our country had both freedom and slavery. Could the white Virginians have ever imagined that one day the country would elect a black man president?”

  “Half black, half white,” Minerva corrected.

  “Maybe Sally Hemings would be pleased though,” Victor said. “She had mixed race children.”

  As they made their way down Arch Street to the Ross House, Bette Kromer ran out to greet them. Minerva sensed there was something wrong before Bette even began to speak.

  “He’s going to bleed him!” Bette shouted.

  “What?” Minerva said. “What are you talking about, Bette?”

  “Mr. Greene. Dr. Rush is going to bleed him.”

  “Why?” Victor asked.

  “Because he hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “He probably has a concussion,” Minerva suggested.

  “I know that, Minerva,” Bette replied. “But Dr. Rush won’t listen to a woman. Heck, he’s the best doctor in Philadelphia, but he’d be a quack in our time.”

  “We can’t ‘butterfly,’ Bette,” Minerva said. “We can’t show Dr. Rush any 21st century medical techniques.”

  “I know,” Bette fretted. “But he will bleed Mr. Greene to death.”

  “What about Justin?”

  “Dr. Rush looked him over and said he would mend. What do we do about Mr. Greene, Victor?” Bette said, ignoring Minerva again.

  Victor looked at Minerva for help. “What do you think, Minerva?” he asked.

  Minerva had taken a CPR course and a Red Cross course in first aid. The first thing one did in first aid was “stop the bleeding.” And here was the most prominent physician of the 18th century about to start the bleeding. Think, Minerva, she told herself. What could stop Dr. Rush from bleeding Mr. Greene? Maybe hemophilia? They knew of hemophilia in the 18th century, didn’t they? They knew about “bleeders,” didn’t they? Of course they did, she assured herself…

  Without consulting her peers, Minerva marched up the steps to the Ross House, through the door and into the back room where Dr. Benjamin Rush was rubbing his fingers over a lancet as if checking to see if its point was sharp enough to pierce the skin.

  “Wait!” Minerva cried out.

  Rush turned to Minerva and said dismissively, “What do you want, girl?”

  “He is a bleeder, Dr. Rush,” Minerva said, not chancing to use the word “hemophilia” with Dr. Rush. After all, how would a mere female in the 18th century know such a word as “hemophilia?”

  Benjamin Rush stopped abruptly. He looked at Minerva curiously, as if to say, how does a mere girl know such things? “I have read Jewish physician Moses Maimonides on ‘bleeders.’ There is nothing that can be done,” he replied. “Is this man a bleeder?” He looked at Minerva and she nodded it was so. “Alas, there is nothing I can do for this good man then, Mrs. Ross,” he said to Betsy, who sat in a corner of the room. “He is in the hands of Providence.”

  “Providence,” Minerva thought, an 18th century synonym for God. Thank you, Providence.

  “Let us pray, Dr. Rush,” Betsy said, getting down on her knees. Rush joined her in supplication.

  Minerva motioned for her companions to join her on their knees. Minerva and her peers waited for Betsy Ross to begin, but instead there was silence for several minutes, which seemed like hours to Minerva. Betsy Ross was praying silently, as a Quaker did. Minerva had once gone to a Society of Friends’ meeting with a Quaker cousin and there were whole segments of the service when no one said anything, when the congregation was in silent prayer. The Quakers were certainly different. Devout but different. A number of things raced through Minerva’s mind when she should have been praying. Were they going to be able to get back to their own time, if Mr. Greene was unconscious? And if they had to stay in 1776, how soon would it be before one of them—Heath or Justin probably—would unleash a dozen “butterflies,” changing American history in many unexpected ways—if they even lived long enough to do that. Smallpox would probably kill them. Minerva didn’t have a smallpox vaccination like her grandmother had—that odd little mark on her left arm. Maybe she would survive Yellow Fever or typhoid, but smallpox would get her. Maybe she could get a job as a milkmaid, contract cowpox and develop a milkmaid’s resistance to smallpox—wasn’t that what she had learned in Biology A.P? That’s how they figured out a vaccine, wasn’t it? Concentrate on prayers for Mr. Greene, she told herself. You do this in church too, Minerva. Focus, girl. God’s too busy to wait for you to get around to your prayer. Stop with the smallpox already. Don’t be so selfish. Okay. Here goes. Please God, help Mr. Greene get well. We really need him. I hope you are okay with our messing with the universe by going back and forth in time. Maybe we should have asked you first. I promise if you help us out, that I will. And I won’t daydream next Sunday during the sermon in church. Amen.

  “Minerva?”

  Boy, she thought, her eyes still closed, God was quick.

  “Minerva?” the voice repeated.

  Oh, Minerva realized, disappointed: It was Victor.

  “You can stand up now, Minerva,” Victor said.

  Minerva stood up. Dr. Rush was saying his farewell to Mrs. Ross, who followed him out to the stoop of her home. Minerva watched the two through the first floor window and wondered for a moment if Dr. Rush and the widow Ross were an item, but then she remembered the young man who was manacled to Heath had thought she was Victor’s wife. Assumptions can be dangerous. Her grandmother had told her, “Don’t assume. It makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.”

  Dr. Rush stood at the curb, his medical bag in hand, as if he were expecting a cab, Minerva thought. And sure enough, two bearers carrying a sedan chair arrived and placed the sedan chair on the ground for Dr. Rush. When he entered and parked his posterior properly, they lifted the poles that carried the chair and Dr. Rush ordered: “City tavern.” The bearers carted off the famous doctor who had almost murdered their teacher, Minerva thought.

  “We need a sedan chair,” Victor said to Minerva.

  “My heavens, why?”

  “To carry Mr. Greene. The portable is going to be back at 5 P.M., Minerva, and it will only stay for five minutes. That’s our window to return, and if we don’t make it, we’ll be stuck here.”

  “But, Victor. How can we get back without Mr. Greene?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, then added suddenly, “I’m hungry.”

  “So am I,” said Heath.

  “Me too,” added Justin, who was now on his feet as well.

  Bette exchanged looks with Minerva. Boys ate like horses, Minerva realized. It was as if when they were hungry they couldn’t think without food.

  When Mrs. Ross returned to the back room to check on Mr. Greene and no one from the 18th century was around, Justin checked his iPod map of Philadelphia and said, “We’re only like three blocks from City Tavern.”

  “Put that away, Justin,” Victor said. “They’ll think you’re a witch.”

  “Wizard,” Justin replied.

  “What?” Victor said.

  “I’m a guy. I’d be a wizard. Girls are witches.”

  “Technically, you would be a warlock,” Victor corrected.

  “Who cares, let’s eat,” Heath said. “Who has money?”

  “I still have my coin,” Justin said.

  “Okay, I’ve got a shilling left. Victor gave his away. Minerva?”

  “I have a piece of eight and twenty dollars,” Minerva admitted.

  “Twenty dollars?” Victor wondered.

  “Two ten-dollar bills,” Minerva explained.

  “You can’t use those he
re, Minerva,” Victor said. “You know, I think the Founding Fathers would laugh if they realized Hamilton was on United States currency. He’s a nobody in 1776. Hey Bette, you have any money for lunch?” Victor asked.

  “I brought along a granola bar, Victor. I’m staying here to look after Mr. Greene,” Bette said, and she walked back to check on her teacher.

  “Brownie points from Mr. Greene,” Heath whispered when Bette was out of hearing range. “Better watch out, Minerva, or she’ll catch you for valedictorian with her brownie points.”

  “Hey, Heath,” Justin said. “Mr. Greene has a coin too, doesn’t he? Rifle through his pants.”

  “Good idea,” Heath said and went back to Mr. Greene. He returned with a piece of eight and a gold coin with a profile on it and handed the gold coin to Victor.

  “You know what it is, Victor?”

  “The face is King George III. The year is 1776. It’s gold. It might be a guinea.”

  “What’s a guinea?” Minerva asked.

  “English gold coin also called a ‘sovereign,’ I guess because of the king’s face on the coin. You know, the sovereign ruler. It’s worth more than a pound.”

  “What’s it worth?” Heather wondered.

  “A pound is around two dollars I think.”

  “Great,” Heath said sourly. “Can’t even get a McDonald’s Happy Meal for that.”

  “No, no,” Victor said, correcting Heath. “Don’t think in today’s inflated money. In 1776, this coin would feed all of us at a tavern, I believe.”

  “Darn nice of George, I’d say,” Justin said, his voice carrying. “Let’s eat. The meal’s on King George.”

  Hearing the name King George, Betsy Ross came out to the front room.

  “Are you Tories?” she asked. “If so, you may leave my house this instant.”

  Minerva didn’t like the look in Betsy Ross’s eyes, and they had returned their weapons to her care. Minerva sensed that Betsy Ross might have been as adept with a sword cane as she was with a needle.

  “We are Patriots, Mrs. Ross,” Minerva said.

  “King George is a tyrant,” Victor added.

  “These are the times that try men’s souls,” Heath began, quoting Thomas Paine. “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service to his country, but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”

  Minerva watched Betsy Ross’s mouth open, but she was speechless. Heath had saved the day. That was an impressive quote. Minerva knew that it was Thomas Paine’s famous quotation, but she had an odd feeling about it. Bette Kromer came out from the back room and took Heath aside, whispering in his ear. Minerva could hear Bette’s admonition.

  “That’s from The Crisis Papers, dummy, not Common Sense. Paine hasn’t written those words yet.”

  “Oops,” Heath blushed. “My bad.”

  Maybe it was a good thing Bette Kromer was a know-it-all, Minerva thought. She sensed it was a good time to make an exit, so she said, “You boys want to eat? Let’s go.”

  “Good idea,” Victor said.

  Minerva noticed that Betsy Ross had retreated to a writing desk and had quill in hand. She was squiggling something on a piece of parchment. Was she writing down what Heath had said? Oh no, no. Wait a minute. Wasn’t Mrs. Ross friends with Thomas Paine too? Or was she writing it down to impress Dr. Rush? Minerva doubted that. Eighteenth century men wouldn’t be intimidated by a woman. Minerva walked over to Bette Kromer and whispered to her. “Tell Mrs. Ross that Mr. Paine would probably like that comment for one of his pamphlets. Paine has to write it, not someone else.”

  “Good idea, Minerva,” Bette smiled. “I’ll do that. I can’t believe Heath mixed up Common Sense and The Crisis Papers. No wonder he has a C in the class.”

  “Boys,” Minerva said with a shrug.

  “They’re sad, aren’t they?” Bette said, nodding her head in agreement.

  “Are you coming, Minerva?” Victor said as he stood by the front door.

  “Yes, keep your tri-corn on,” Minerva said. She smiled.

  Victor blushed.

  Bette laughed.

  Victor led the way to City Tavern and Minerva chose not to walk beside him, an action that seemed to confuse him, she noticed. Minerva figured she didn’t have time for feelings right now, that they were in their own type of crisis, even without the papers, and she needed to keep a cool head, not let her emotions get in the way of her judgment. She sensed the Anderson twins were oblivious to everything. She knew she could count on Bette Kromer, but Bette had made it her duty to look after Mr. Greene. She couldn’t imagine a boy doing that. No, their hope of return rested with her and with Victor, and she couldn’t afford to let emotion cloud judgment for either of them.

  Chapter 7

  City Tavern was dark even though when they arrived it was nearly noon. Like the twilight just before dawn, Victor thought. His eyes took a moment to adjust from the sunlight to the darkened environment, but after a few seconds the interior of distressed wooden tables and wooden benches that had obviously hosted many a meal was visible. Some of the benches were connected to and jutted from the wooden wall of the tavern. The walnut wooden chairs with oval patterned backs and the wooden rods running perpendicular from chair seat to the top of the chair’s arc were more of what Victor had expected, as were the tables the chairs addressed. Weren’t those Queen Anne chairs? he said to himself. The tavern was only about half filled, and Victor estimated the 21st century visitors had arrived just before the midday rush. He complimented himself on fortunate timing. He found an open table and the four of them took seats. A brunette waitress, seemingly their own age, approached with a water pitcher and a smile. The Anderson twins were not looking at the girl’s face, but rather her corseted cleavage. Minerva, Victor noticed, rolled her eyes at the Anderson twins’ reaction. How did girls manage to roll their eyes, anyway? he wondered.

  The waitress poured water into four pewter challises and, looking at Victor, asked, “What’ll it be?”

  “It’s our first time here, miss,” Victor explained. “Perhaps you could tell us what is good.”

  She smiled, and Victor noticed the small mole on the side of her chin. It was oddly becoming, he thought.

  “Yes, sir. The braised rabbit leg with mushrooms is good. The roasted duckling has a clover honey glaze n’ our beef sausage is a Germantown treat with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes. The pork schnitzel is one of my favorites, but you might like medallions of venison. Or the paillard of salmon with pan-seared mashed potatoes.

  “Or bratwurst?”

  “Bratwurst would be perfect for you, Heath,” Justin joked.

  “Why? You’re the worst brat I know, Justin,” Heath replied.

  “Bratwurst for you both?” the waitress asked.

  “Sure,” the twins said in unison. Heath winked at the waitress and she returned his wink with a smile.

  “What sounds good to you, Minerva?” Victor asked.

  “I don’t eat meat,” Minerva said.

  “How about fish?” Victor asked.

  Minerva nodded, seemingly relieved, Victor thought, and ordered the salmon.

  “Make that two, miss,” Victor said. “And cider for everyone.”

  “How about a shandy at least, Victor?” Heath said.

  “I think you had enough earlier,” Victor said. “Let’s stay away from the water too, unless you want to spend the rest of the day in the outhouse.” Victor noticed Minerva winced at the talk of the outhouse and quickly changed the subject. “This is where the Founding Fathers hung out together,” Victor said. “I read about this tavern online. Upstairs is where Jefferson and Franklin and the others ate dinner and discussed politics. The tavern was the place where news was exchanged. Taverns and churches were the most important buildings in the Revolution.”

  The waitress returned with tankards of cider and a question for Victor.

  “Where ya from, sir?”

  “Florida, n
ear St. Augustine,” Minerva answered.

  The waitress seemed surprised that Minerva answered.

  “Your wife answers for you, sir?” the waitress wondered.

  “I’m not his wife,” Minerva said. “He is my cousin.”

  The waitress smiled. “Is he now?” She walked back to the kitchen.

  “The nerve of that girl,” Minerva said.

  Heath and Justin laughed. Victor was embarrassed once more. But he got over that quickly when he noticed Thomas Paine walk through the tavern and ascend the back stairs. Suddenly a number of men were heading up the stairs: John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin and the Adams cousins, Sam and John. Victor heard John Adams lament, “Where is Rodney? We need Caesar’s vote or there will be no independence.”

  A tall red-haired man walked alone into the tavern and took a moment to adjust his eyes to the light just as Victor noticed: Thomas Jefferson. On impulse, Victor waved in his direction, gaining Jefferson’s attention. Thomas Jefferson smiled and walked over to their table.

  “Ah, my young fly catcher friend,” Jefferson said, offering a hand, which Victor stood up and shook.

  Who would ever believe I shook Thomas Jefferson’s hand, he thought, starstruck at Jefferson’s acknowledgement of him.

  “It is good to see you again, Mr. Jefferson. You remember my friends?”

  “Yes, yes, students, but aren’t we all students? And where pray is your teacher?”

  “Indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “Tant pis,” said Jefferson in French. But noticing the confusion on Victor’s face, he translated the French phrase into English. “Too bad.”

  “Yes. Yes it is,” Victor replied.

  “You must join me upstairs, my fly catcher friend, and show my colleagues how you catch a fly. You don’t mind if I borrow your friend, do you?” Jefferson said to Minerva and the Anderson twins.

  The three of them nodded no, but the ever-practical Minerva asked, “What about his dinner?”

  “Have the maid bring it upstairs,” Jefferson said and turned abruptly. “Come, lad,” he said, and Victor handed Heath his money to cover the meal and was off, following Thomas Jefferson up the stairs to catch a fly for the Founding Fathers.