Abolition Read online

  That would be a neat place to visit, Victor mused. But I don’t think I would want to live the rest of my life in the 1940s. Maybe the 1960s. I would like to go to Woodstock… I’m happy Mr. Greene isn’t upset by the changes in paintings.

  “You said the paintings weren’t accurate anyway, Victor. Mr. Greene has no problems with changes in historical paintings since they are mostly subjective. He calls them ‘Hues by Hollywood,’ colorful misrepresentations of history. The movie industry has contributed its share of bull bleep as well. When Mr. Greene learned that the girls had inadvertently changed the Capitol painting of ‘The Baptism of Pocahontas’ by being bridesmaids at the princesses’ wedding, creating the ‘Wedding of Pocahontas’ he was delighted. Remember he said if you kids don’t change Presidents or change the outcome of wars etc., what could life be with a little wrinkle or two in a painting. Just don’t do anything major.”

  Uh huh, I remember that, Mr. Bridenbaugh. So, did Samuel fight in the famous Battle of Trenton?

  “No, Mr. Greene did not allow that. Samuel, I’m afraid, was given volunteer duty rowing soldiers back and forth across the river and Heather was assigned to act as a nurse in case of casualties. Two new kids went along, but they stayed on the Pennsylvania side of the river until the last boat and by the time they arrived the Hessians had surrendered. Wasn’t much of a battle. The Hessians were either drunk or asleep. Washington went on from Trenton to Princeton and won another skirmish, but we slipped off to the classroom after Trenton and Mr. Tesla took us on a year ahead to Valley Forge. That was brutal. Barbara Tuchman told me.”

  Mrs. Tuchman replaced you on the trip?

  “It was her turn. I am a colonial historian. Barbara is better with wars. The woman always seemed to write about wars…”

  Suddenly, students in the lecture hall began to close their laptops at the words from their professor “… and that will do it for today, students,” Dr. Byelicki said, ending his lecture.

  Students rose from their seats and ascended the steps out of the semicircular classroom that reminded Victor of a miniature amphitheater. Victor, still engaged in a “thoughtful” discussion with the dead Professor Bridenbaugh, had been oblivious to the commotion. He remained seated as his classmates emptied the room until only he and Dr. Byelicki were left.

  The professor, a bit befuddled by Victor’s behavior, called to him. “Mr. Bridges, did you wish to speak to me?”

  “Victor,” Carl Bridenbaugh said, “the professor is addressing you. Where are your manners?”

  “Huh?” Victor blushed.” Ah no, Mr. Byelicki,” he replied, then cringed and corrected himself. “I mean Doctor Byelicki. I guess I was daydreaming…”

  The professor smiled, knowingly. “What is her name?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The girl of whom you were daydreaming?”

  “I wasn’t daydreaming about a girl,” Victor said, realizing he could not tell the professor he was telepathically communicating to the ghost of Carl Bridenbaugh. “I was daydreaming about Pocahontas,” he lied.

  Dr. Byelicki smiled anew. “Well she was a girl,” he chuckled. “And quite a girl, but we will get into her story next week…if you can wait that long.”

  “Yes, sir, I can wait.”

  “Good… Now scoot and enjoy the Alabama game tomorrow. Go Gators!” the professor said.

  “Go Gators,” Victor said, but without enthusiasm as he stood up to leave the class. He could care less about football. That was his brother’s thing. He wanted to keep talking with Professor Bridenbaugh for Victor Bridges was homesick. He was dying for news about Bette Kromer and even more so for information on what was occurring in the life of Ms. New Haven, Minerva Messinger, a freshman at Yale. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he pined for Minerva Messinger, like some lovesick fool.

  Unfortunately for Victor, the ghost of Professor Bridenbaugh was not privy to the personal lives of Victor’s two former classmates. The ghost did, however, prove to be a font of information on the summer vacation travels of Mr. Nathan Greene, Advanced Placement History teacher at Cassadaga Area High School. It seemed that Mr. Greene had visited a variegation of venues along the east coast of the United States throughout the 18th and 19th centuries during his erstwhile summer vacation where he engaged in research for an upcoming trip during Christmas break.

  Outside the classroom, Victor found an unoccupied bench on which to sit and parked his posterior forthwith. He resumed his conversation with Professor Bridenbaugh, but instead of keeping the conversation strictly in his head, Victor whispered to the apparition, unorthodox behavior which drew curious glances from students as they walked by the bench on which Victor was sitting while on their way between classes. He appeared to his fellow students to be mumbling to himself.

  Bridenbaugh, oblivious to the stares that the mumbling Victor elicited, elaborated on the teacher’s summer travels. “You know, Victor,” he said. “Some teachers go to Europe in the summer or perhaps visit New York City, but Mr. Greene visits the past as sort of way to prepare for the trips he plans to take with his students during the upcoming school year. This past summer Mr. Greene visited several different years beginning with 1738 and moving on from there through the 1850s. With Mr. Tesla’s modifications to his time device, we can move through time more easily, of course. The trip to Trenton and Valley Forge went smoothly, at least that’s what I heard.”

  “Probably because I wasn’t along,” Victor said.

  “Now, now, Victor,” the ghost comforted the boy. “Are you still blaming yourself for that snafu back in 1776 that resulted in Benedict Arnold becoming the second President?”

  “Yes,” Victor admitted.

  “That was fixed, and Arnold is a nefarious traitor again. Everything is fine. Everything is hunky-dory. This Christmas trip sounds like an adventure. Over the summer Mr. Greene got to be good friends with Harriet Tubman. He played the part of a Quaker antebellum abolitionist from Philadelphia, which isn’t hard, because some of his family are Quakers. He accompanied her on a rescue to the eastern shore of Maryland. This was part of his plan to lay the groundwork for the Christmas trip. What better way to celebrate Christmas than by helping free some slaves from bondage? He even told ‘Moses’ as they call her, that he would recruit some young people to help. Anyway, if you are interested in the trip he will text you the itinerary…what do you think? Do you want to visit the past again for old time’s sake?”

  Victor smiled. “Heck, yeah!” he shouted, causing a pair of coeds to stop and stare at the strange young man alone and shouting.

  Professor Bridenbaugh laughed as Victor’s face flushed pink in embarrassment.

  The coeds moved on quickly.

  “Weirdo,” one commented.

  “Whacko, if you ask me,” said the other.

  “Too bad he’s a wackadoodle. He’s kind of cute.”

  “You think so?”

  “Uh huh.”

  *

  Meanwhile, while searching through the archives at Rollins College, Bette Kromer came across an envelope marked:

  Notes written to Thomas A. Edison on Founder’s Day, February 24, 1930, during the program.

  Curious, Bette opened the envelope and examined the handwritten notes, which had been penned by Rollins College President Hamilton Holt, who awarded Edison with an honorary degree that day. She remembered that Mr. Greene had mentioned that Edison had been at Rollins before or after he hid Tesla’s Time Travel Device in the basement of the Cassadaga Hotel. She leafed through the photographs of the eighty-three-year-old inventor in black cap and gown and perused the newspaper clipping of the ceremony, which stated that Edison was nearly deaf and could not hear what was spoken at the ceremony. To help Thomas Edison, President Holt wrote notes to the famed inventor throughout the ceremony.

  Mr. Cartwright, once a Canadian, and now a good American, a veteran of the Boer War and now our campus engineer wants to shake your hand.

  Bette read through the preserved notes, an
odd assortment: one mentioned a pet raccoon, another cited a Florida woman’s gift of $5,000, and there was a cryptic comment from Holt:

  Does the mercury amuse you, Mr. Edison?

  Bette wondered what the reference to mercury concerned. But then, she remembered in the 1930s no one knew the dangers of mercury. Bette read on, surprised by a faded newspaper clipping.

  Apparently, Edison’s visit to Rollins College attracted the attention of the New York Times, which reported that Edison “was acclaimed by several hundred schoolchildren along the street as he marched in the academic procession to the campus.” There was a telegram from Will Rogers and Bette wondered who he was. A voice informed her.

  “Will Rogers? He was a famous humorist of the 1920s and 1930s, Bette, and a cowboy and film star from Oklahoma who died in a plane crash in Alaska on August 15, 1935, near Point Barrow, Alaska,” the voice said. “It was a national tragedy.”

  A stunned Bette Kromer turned her head to see the ghost of Nikola Tesla standing behind her, apparently looking over her shoulder at the information on Thomas Edison. He was scowling and frowning as he read the accolades to the great inventor.

  Remembering that she was in a library, she whispered, “Mr. Tesla, what are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Greene sent me…so that’s when Edison stole my device…1930. And hid it in the Cassadaga Hotel basement. Makes sense. Cassadaga is not too far away from here. Look at the old coot soaking up his glory. He was nothing more than a skilled machinist,” Tesla groused. “Always interested in a buck. Never interested in pure science unless there was money to be made. What do you kids say… ‘it is all about the Benjamins.’ That was Edison. The make a buck machinist. Harrumph!”

  Remembering to use thought-text with Nikola Tesla, Bette mused, Did Edison make a lot of money?

  “Yes,” Tesla said. “Ever heard of General Electric? He started that company and over fifty other companies. He was a businessman inventor while I was a pure scientist…like Albert.”

  “Einstein?”

  “Of course.”

  Bette realized she needed to change the subject or else Mr. Tesla might recite his tedious list of grievances against the famed Wizard of Menlo Park, as Thomas Edison was nicknamed while he was alive.

  Mr. Tesla, you said Mr. Greene sent you. Why?

  “Oh yes, the reason for my visit, thank you for reminding me Miss Kromer… Mr. Greene wants to know if you would like to join him for a trip to meet Harriet Tubman during Christmas vacation. He and I spent the summer in antebellum Philadelphia and Mr. Greene even accompanied Mrs. Tubman on a rescue into Maryland. I played the part of his four-year-old son as I reanimated in 1860, having been born in 1856. Anyway, our trip will end in December 1851 when Tubman rescues eleven souls from bondage. That way I can avoid reanimation, since it is before I was born.”

  Neato mosquito, Bette thought.

  “I am not familiar with that colloquialism, Bette. Does that mean yes?”

  Uh huh. I would love to go. I like college, Mr. Tesla, but it is kind of boring. A good adventure would be fun. Certainly, a trip to the past would be more exciting than a stuffy classroom. I am bored to tears, Mr. Tesla. Bored to tears. I heard the History Channelers crossed the Delaware with Washington.

  “Yes, and Samuel and Heather are now depicted in that famous painting, but of course the boat is all wrong.”

  Yes, it was not a Durham…we seem to leave our mark on changed paintings like changing the Baptism of Pocahontas to the Wedding of Pocahontas in the Capitol Rotunda. That iscool that Samuel and Heather are in the painting, though. I guess we left the group in good hands then.

  “Yes, I would say so, and Mr. Greene does not see any injury to the timeline in a few changed paintings.”

  It is kind of akin to Homer having an illustrator for The Illiad, I think, Bette thought. Please tell Mr. Greene that I am game. I look forward to a trip down memory lane as they say.

  “Well then, Miss Kromer. We will see you then during your Christmas vacation. I believe on this trip Mr. Greene wants you all to dress like Quakers. He suggests all the students watch Gary Cooper and Dorothy McGuire in Friendly Persuasion to see suitable attire for the venture.

  The movie about the Quakers during the Civil War? I saw that once on Turner Classic Movies.

  “Mr. Greene suggest you kids get together and watch the movie. That way the new kids can get to know you. Jennifer Paige and Michael Stevens are the juniors. I believe Heather will make arrangements.”

  Great, Mr. Tesla, Bette thought. I look forward to it.

  *

  Meanwhile, at Yale University, Minerva Messinger was studying at a table by herself in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library when the ghost of historian Mary Beard floated over to surprise the diligent freshman. Minerva had sensed the spirit’s proximity by a cold draft of air that preceded the ghost’s arrival. “Hello Mrs. Beard,” she whispered casually, not lifting her head up from what she was reading. “I came across Women’s Work in Municipalities the other day,” she added, nonchalantly.

  The ghost clapped her hands in excitement. “Really? How delightful! That was my first work published without Charles, Minerva. I can’t believe they have a copy of that old thing. I thought my tome was in the tomb, if you will excuse my pun.”

  Minerva gave Mrs. Beard’s pun the benefit of a whispered groan. “Well this is the rare book, library, Mrs. Beard,” Minerva murmured. “I didn’t know your maiden name was Ritter.”

  “Yes, we Ritters were Quakers, and other Friends were a bit horrified when my father joined the Union Army during the Civil War, according to Mama. I mean, Quakers were pacifists…except my father. He liked a good scrap. He married my mom Narcissa in the middle of the war and then returned to battle to fight the slave owners. Eli Foster Ritter, that was my daddy. He ruined his eyes in the war though and Mama had to read to him. Still he managed a successful career as an attorney…”

  Minerva realized that if she didn’t ask why Mary Beard was floating around Yale, the dead colonial historian would go off on a digression for an hour or more. She decided to cut to the proverbial chase. “Why are you here, Mrs. Beard?” Minerva asked curtailing Mary Beard’s soliloquy of reminiscence of her family.

  “Why am I here?” Mary Beard repeated. “Well, Mr. Greene sent me, Minerva.”

  “Why, Mrs. Beard?”

  “Because he wanted to invite you…to what was it... let me think,” said the spirit as she reformed into a gossamer version of Rodin’s The Thinker.

  Minerva Messinger rolled her eyes and waited for Mrs. Beard’s cognition to kick in.

  “Oh! I remember now,” the ghost finally said. “He wanted me to ask you if you would like to take a trip during Christmas vacation. Do you?”

  “To where?”

  “I believe he wishes to visit a number of places on a trip about abolition and the Underground Railroad. Starting in the 18th century, as I recall.”

  “With the high school students?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am in college now.”

  “Alright, but Bette and Victor are going. And they are in college now,” Mrs. Beard replied, with her fingers crossed behind her back. She knew Victor and Bette had been contacted but she wasn’t certain they had agreed to the trip. But if she said otherwise Mary Beard was certain Minerva would say no to the endeavor. Her job was to convince Minerva to join the expedition.

  Hearing Victor’s name again unsettled Minerva. She squirmed in her seat. Get ahold of yourself, Messinger, she told herself. He’s the past, he is in the rearview mirror…isn’t he? Then why was she so interested in knowing what Victor Bridges was up to and who he was seeing? Probably some cute sorority girl at the University of Florida, she reasoned, some little blond ninny. But then she was ashamed of herself. Victor was attracted to brainy girls, not airheads. She was ashamed of herself for even thinking so basely of Victor Bridges.

  “How is Vic…ah Bette, Mrs. Beard?”

  “Fine I su
ppose,” Mary Beard smiled as she realized Minerva was really wondering about Victor Bridges. “Don’t you want to know about Victor, Minerva?”

  “I suppose,” Minerva said, blushing.

  “I know you still have feelings for him, Minerva.”

  “How?”

  “The expression on your face. It is wistful.”

  “Okay, okay, how is he, does he have a new girlfriend?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mrs. Beard said. Which was true, because Mary Beard had no idea how Victor Bridges was fairing at the University of Florida. “What about the trip, Minerva? Do you want to join the group for one last adventure?”

  Minerva thought for a moment. “Yes, Mrs. Beard. Count me in. It would be something to do over Christmas break.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Beard said. “I must be off then. Mr. Greene wants to know as soon as possible.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Beard,” Minerva said.

  As the ghost left, a female librarian tentatively approached the table where Minerva Messinger was sitting alone.

  “Are you alright, Miss?” asked the librarian.

  Startled at the librarian’s appearance, Minerva flinched then said. “Yes, why?”

  “Well, two of the students told me you were talking to yourself. Were you hearing voices, Miss? Do you take medications?”

  Minerva was perplexed. It was her own fault; she should have thought-texted with Mrs. Beard instead of speaking to her. Even a whisper carried in a quiet library.

  “No, I do not take medication, ma’am,” Minerva replied. “I was just thinking aloud and practicing myah speech for speech class,” she fibbed. She had no desire to be walked to the infirmary for observation.

  “Public speaking 101. I remember that course,” said the librarian in a sympathetic voice. “I always had stage fright. Do you?”

  An escape hatch, Minerva thought. Use it. “Oh, my yes.”

  “Well, in the future, please try to practice your speech in a venue other than the library,” she smiled.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Minerva replied. She felt guilty for fibbing to the librarian, but was she supposed to tell the librarian that she had been talking with the ghost of Mary Beard? Doing that would have made a lie out of the expression “the truth shall set you free.” Telling the truth would have led not to freedom but a straitjacket, Minerva mused. Then she wondered if they still used straitjackets.