Tesla's Time Travelers

by Tim Black

It’s for independence we all now agree;

  Let us gird on our swords and prepare to defend

  Our liberty, property, ourselves and our friends.

  “In a cause that’s so righteous, come let us agree,

  And from hostile invaders set America free,

  The cause is so glorious we need not to fear

  From merciless tyrants we’ll set ourselves clear…

  The Anderson twins returned in the middle of the third song and Minerva was relieved that they were back. Mrs. Beard excused herself and floated off up the stairs to eavesdrop on the conversation among the Founding Fathers.

  “They have a two-holer,” Heath said, above the singing.

  “Excuse me?” Minerva said.

  “Two seats in the outhouse,” Justin said.

  “Lots of flies though,” Heath added. “And they could use some flowery spray.”

  Minerva cringed at the images. I will hold it until we are back home, she thought. She had had one experience with an outhouse years before at summer camp, and the rank odor and the swirling flies had caused her to vomit. She was not about to repeat that experience. No, that was why she didn’t drink the Philadelphia water and merely sipped the cider. The cider, she detected, had alcohol in it. She didn’t wish to risk suspension from school by having the smell of an intoxicant on her lips. It was not behavior becoming of a future valedictorian. She was concerned about the Anderson twins, for they had switched from cider to ale and were beginning to raise their voices, which drew curious looks from men at other tables. Unfortunately, as the singing ended the Anderson twins’ voices were still at full volume, clearly audible over the normal conversation in the tavern.

  “You know, Minerva, City Tavern is like the hotbed of the Patriots. This is their ‘hood,’” Heath yelled.

  “Where they ‘hang’” Justin added loudly.

  A sudden silence enveloped the tavern. Eyes were turned to Justin. The word “hang” had drawn the patrons’ attention. Minerva watched a man in uniform whisper to another man in uniform.

  “I think we’d better get Victor and go,” Minerva said.

  “Heck no,” Heath said. “Let’s have another round. Barmaid!”

  The waitress appeared, but she was no longer smiling. “You want to settle your bill, sir?” she asked.

  Heath handed her a silver coin and the gold sovereign with the visage of King George III. “That’s for the four meals, and here’s another piece of eight for two more ales.”

  “Very good sir,” she said in a cold manner.

  Minerva watched the girl as she walked away. Before she reached the bar to refill the twins’ drinks, she stopped and whispered something to the two men in uniform. Then she handed them something. It appeared to be a gold coin, for the men held it up to the light from a window. They looked at the coin and then they gave it back to the waitress. Then they looked at Minerva and the Anderson twins. Minerva sensed there was going to be trouble. The Anderson twins seemed oblivious to their surroundings and a little bit tipsy.

  “I’m getting Victor,” Minerva said.

  “Victor! Oh Victor!” Heath said, laughing.

  “You’re drunk,” Minerva said, disgusted.

  “Not yet,” Heath said. “Not yet. Getting there. Where’s the barmaid?”

  Minerva didn’t say another word. She left the table and headed up the stairs to the second floor. Mrs. Beard was floating down the stairs.

  “What is it, dear? You look upset?” Mary Beard asked Minerva. “I heard the boys shouting from the second floor.”

  “I think we’re in trouble. Mrs. Beard, will you keep an eye on the Anderson twins for me? They’re a little intoxicated.”

  “Oh my!” the ghost shouted, but only Minerva could hear and see her. “Demon rum strikes again. The scourge of many a young man. I was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and we warned people about alcohol. Oh dear!”

  “Please help me, Mrs. Beard.”

  Mary Beard smiled. Minerva wondered if all ghosts were as pleasant as Mrs. Beard. Minerva’s mother had told her the ghosts she met were sometimes unpleasant, but maybe the dead got cranky on occasion from being called back from resting in peace. Mrs. Beard and her husband Charles seemed different, for they had been forgotten and neglected for so long that Mary was thrilled to be among the living and visiting the 18th century, a time period of which they had so often written.

  Minerva nervously entered the large second floor room and gaped at the assemblage of the men at table.

  “Barmaid,” Samuel Adams called to Minerva. “We need more ale, lass.”

  “I am not a barmaid, sir,” Minerva replied indignantly.

  “Minerva?” Victor called. “What are you doing here?”

  Minerva bristled at Victor’s question, her feminism aroused. “Why do you say that, Victor Bridges, because I am a woman?” Minerva snapped.

  “Ha!” Benjamin Franklin said with a devilish smile and a wink. “Come lass and sit by a man who appreciates women.”

  Why you old flirt, Minerva thought, but she found the twinkle in the old man’s eyes inviting, even charming, and a little attention from the elderly Dr. Franklin might get the youthful Victor Bridges a bit jealous. Minerva, in her vanity, forgot momentarily the downstairs dilemma with the Anderson twins and sat down beside the original Kite Runner. She saw that Victor Bridges’ face was red. Minerva smiled at him. He frowned at her in return.

  “My dear,” said Benjamin Franklin. “Let me quote from Bickerstaff’s The Sultan that was published just last year: ‘Let men say whatever they will, Woman a woman rules them still.’”

  The other men laughed. Minerva felt uncomfortable. These are 18th century chauvinistic men, she reminded herself. Suddenly, she noticed the conversation seemed to have turned frivolous, as if Minerva’s presence had triggered some reaction.

  “Miss Minerva,” John Adams addressed her. “I would like your opinion on a symbol for our new nation. What say you to a bald eagle?”

  “Well, sir…” Minerva began, but Benjamin Franklin cut her off. It bugged Minerva when boys interrupted the conversation of girls without so much as an apology, and here was Benjamin Franklin doing the same thing as one of her teenage peers.

  “The bald eagle, Mr. Adams?” Franklin said. “He is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly; you may have seen him perched on some dead tree where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labors of the fishing-hawk. The turkey is, in comparison, a much more respectable bird, and a true original native of America. He is—though a little vain and silly, it is true—a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards. Gentlemen,” Franklin said, standing up and raising his glass. “To the turkey!”

  Everyone but John Adams, Minerva and Victor rose to their feet and echoed: “To the turkey!”

  John Adams sulked. Samuel Adams chortled at his cousin’s expense.

  Minerva couldn’t tell if Benjamin Franklin was serious or whether he was just trying to get John Adams’s goat, as her grandmother used to say. Mr. Greene had told her class of Adams’ prickly personality. Adams, while brilliant, was self-righteous and consequently obnoxious, and Benjamin Franklin often found John Adams annoying, yet was able to work with him in both Philadelphia and later in Paris as envoys for the new nation. Mr. Greene said David McCullough and a popular HBO series had made people find a sensitive spot for John Adams. But he was still a prig, Mr. Greene said.

  Minerva sat and listened, staying in the moment, forgetting the Anderson twins. After all, hadn’t she sent the nanny-like Mrs. Beard to keep an eye on them? Besides, was it her job to keep track of the miscreants? Miscreants was an S.A.T. vocabulary word, and if she could use it in a sentence four times, it would be in her vocabulary as well, she reminded herself. Minerva, you are sitting next to Benjamin Franklin and you are thinking about the College Board Exam? What is wrong with you, girl?

  “I hate war,” she mumbled to n
o one, but in the general direction of Dr. Franklin.

  “My dear,” said Franklin in a fatherly voice. “All wars are follies, very expensive and very mischievous ones. When will mankind be convinced of this, and agree to settle their differences by arbitration? Were they to do it even by the cast of a die, it would be better than by fighting and destroying each other.”

  “Gentlemen!” John Hancock, president of the Continental Congress, addressed the group. “We should be heading back to work, I’m afraid. Drink up.”

  “My dear,” Benjamin Franklin said to Minerva as he took her hand and gallantly grazed his lips upon it. “It has been an honor and a pleasure to share this little time together. Pray tell, will you be available for supper tonight?”

  Minerva was shocked. Benjamin Franklin had asked her for a date. Wasn’t he married? Didn’t his wife live in Philadelphia?

  “I ah…” Minerva stammered.

  “She has a previous engagement, Dr. Franklin,” said Victor, rescuing his classmate.

  “I see my friend can capture more than flies,” Jefferson said. “He captures hearts as well.”

  Victor was blushing. Good, Minerva thought, and then she wondered: Am I blushing too?

  She didn’t have time to worry, for Mrs. Beard was floating up the stairs, passing the descending delegates.

  “Trouble, children,” Mrs. Beard said.

  “What is it, Mrs. Beard?”

  “The Anderson boys. They’ve been arrested.”

  “Arrested!” Victor said.

  “Yes, and taken to Fort Mifflin.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On the Delaware River,” Mrs. Beard said.

  “Great!” Victor said.

  “That’s not all,” Mrs. Beard said.

  “What else, Mrs. Beard?” Minerva asked.

  “Rodney is nearly here.”

  “Rodney. The riding crop!” Victor said. “I must retrieve it or we will be stuck in Philadelphia.”

  “‘On the whole I’d rather be in Philadelphia,’ to quote W.C. Fields,” Mrs. Beard said.

  “Who is W.C. Fields?” Minerva asked.

  “Never mind, dear. It’s before your time.”

  Everything, Minerva thought, was before my time.

  Chapter 9

  “Minerva,” Victor said, as they exited City Tavern with Mrs. Beard. “It’s my job to retrieve Rodney’s riding crop. You are going to have to save the twins.”

  “Victor, I can’t do it alone,” Minerva protested.

  “Go to Mrs. Ross’s house and get Bette. Maybe Mr. Greene is awake by now and he can help. I mean, if we have to, perhaps we can leave the twins behind, but we must have the riding crop to return.”

  “Victor, we can’t leave the twins here. Look what they have done already. They’ve ruined the field trip.”

  “I guess.”

  “This wasn’t Mr. Greene’s lesson plan, Victor.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Victor said. But he thought: No, Minerva, this was life’s lesson plan. This wasn’t book learning, this was the real thing, and life got a little messy. It wasn’t an original philosophy Victor was espousing in his mind; in fact, the philosophy was something he had probably picked up from some movie somewhere, but Minerva Messinger could revert to being prissy at the drop of a bonnet.

  “Victor,” Minerva was talking, but Victor hadn’t been paying attention. When a girl started to sound too girlish, he tuned out. “Do you realize leaving the Anderson twins in 1776 will release a swarm of butterflies?”

  Did butterflies form in swarms? Victor wondered. No matter, he understood what Minerva meant. “Well then, you and Bette Kromer better get those boys back. I’ve got a date with a riding crop.”

  Victor ran off, leaving Minerva behind. After about fifty yards, he stopped and turned to wave at Minerva, but she too was gone—off, he realized, to enlist Bette Kromer to retrieve the Anderson twins.

  About two blocks from the state house, Benjamin Franklin was sitting alone on a bench. In the background Victor could hear the singing of what he assumed to be the Founding Fathers nearing the Pennsylvania State House.

  “Freemen! If you pant for glory,

  If you sigh to live in story,

  If you burn with patriot zeal;

  Seize this bright auspicious hour,

  Chase those venal tools of power

  Who subvert the public weal.

  “Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!

  See Freedom her banner display…”

  “Dr. Franklin,” Victor said, stopping. “Are you alright?”

  “Ah, the fly catcher. Yes, yes, lad. My gout, I’m afraid. Dr. Rush sent for his sedan chair and it shall be here presently. You know, lad, this is for you.”

  “What is, sir?”

  “Independence. Providence knows I’ve lived my life. No, this nation is for the future. For the likes of you. In five hundred years it will stretch beyond the Appalachian Mountains and stretch from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. Ah, here comes my ride,” he smiled, standing up.

  Victor smiled too. He thought: You have no idea, Dr. Franklin, how right you are. What you are doing here today is for me, more than you can ever know. But it won’t take five hundred years to go from coast to coast; it won’t even take one hundred.

  “Lad,” Benjamin Franklin said as he closed the sedan chair door behind him and took his seat, “if you should like to hear the debate today, give the guard at the door my card.” He handed Victor a very simply printed card that read: Benjamin Franklin, printer. Philadelphia.

  “Thank you, Dr. Franklin.” Victor couldn’t believe his good fortune. The riding crop, stupid, he reminded himself. He ran ahead of Dr. Franklin in the sedan chair and made it to the Pennsylvania State House to hear, “Rodney approaches!”

  “Where’s a groom?” someone called.

  The horse needs a groom, Victor thought. Perfect! “Here,” he shouted. “I’m a groom.” For a moment his mind wondered why a husband-to-be was called a groom. Did the first guy to ever get married work in a stable or something? He shook off the thought and watched an approaching horse and rider.

  A foamy, dusty horse, with an equally dirty rider, came to a stop in front of the Pennsylvania State House. Victor took the reins of the horse and Caesar Rodney, his face marred by what Victor took to be skin cancer, tossed Victor his riding crop as well. Victor led the horse away to the other side of the state house, found a hitching post and tied the steed to a rail. Then, carrying Rodney’s riding crop, he approached the door to the state house where a militiaman held up a hand as a signal to stop. Not saying a word, Victor showed the militiaman Benjamin Franklin’s card and the soldier nodded him entrance. Victor assumed the soldier thought him to be one of Franklin’s printer apprentices.

  Independence Hall, Victor thought. I’m here. Inside. This was a dream come true for a history nerd, the Yankee Stadium of Liberty, he thought. The proceedings had stopped for the entrance of Rodney, who was being congratulated by a sea of delegates.

  Rodney noticed Victor and came over to him.

  “I’m afraid I have no money on me, lad,” Rodney said. Victor realized Rodney thought he was there for his tip as groomsmen. “Keep my riding crop as a souvenir of this day, lad,” he smiled, and returned to the well-wishers. Another delegate pressed a shilling into Victor’s hand to cover Rodney’s tip. Victor found a place to stand out of the way and watched and listened.

  The men returned to their green-baize covered tables in the Assembly Room of the State House and Victor could hear the voices from the Pennsylvania Assembly from the second floor, where they had moved to make room for the Continental Congress. John Hancock called the room to order, and a few delegates who had been writing stopped their quills in respect for the president of the Continental Congress.

  Victor listened as a number of letters were read aloud to the assembled delegates. There was a letter from General Washington, enclosing an extract of a letter from a General Ward, of whom Victor had no knowl
edge. Another letter was from the council of Massachusetts Bay: a missive from the pay master with a return of his weekly account, and the chair ordered that the letter be delivered to the Board of the Treasury. After an hour or so of such tedious, mundane matters, the Congress resumed the consideration of the resolution agreed to and reported from “the committee of the whole.” The clerk, under instructions from the chair, read:

  “Resolved that these United Colonies are, and, of right, ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British crown and that all political connection between them, and the state of Great Britain, is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”

  “The chair recognizes Delegate Thomas McKean of Delaware.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I would like to welcome Delegate Rodney from Dover to this august body. Mr. Rodney?”

  As Rodney stood up a bit of dust loosened from his coat in a small puff and floated to the floor. “As I believe the voice of my constituents,” Rodney began. “And all of the fair, sensible and honest men are in favor of independence, and as my own judgment concurs with them, I vote for independence.”

  “Mr. President,” McKean said. “Delaware casts ‘aye’ for independence.”

  “Huzza!” some delegates shouted.

  “That is twelve votes for independence,” Hancock noted. “And one abstention. What say New York?”

  A delegate from New York stood up. “New York still abstains, Mr. President.”

  “Let the record show that the resolution for independence passes with twelve ayes, no votes against and New York abstaining. This Congress will, tomorrow, again resolve itself into a committee of the whole, to take into their further consideration the declaration on independence.”

  Victor heard a moan from the Virginia delegation and noticed the sad look on Thomas Jefferson’s face. His complaint of “another rewrite?” was barely audible, and Hancock didn’t seem to hear Thomas Jefferson whine. Nor did he overhear another unrecorded complaint in which Jefferson mumbled, “Moses is lucky the committee of the whole wasn’t around on Mount Sinai, they would have rewritten the Ten Commandments.”