by Tim Black
Minerva laughed. She couldn’t help herself. She had been trying to figure out just what Philadelphia’s smell reminded her of, and Bette Kromer had nailed it: dirty diapers.
Minerva too had done her fair share of baby-sitting over the years and had changed a diaper or two.
“Did you ever baby-sit, Victor?” Minerva asked.
Victor blushed. “Ah no,” he replied.
“Isn’t that typical, Bette. Victor hasn’t babysat.”
“Sure is typical, Minerva.”
“Huh? What? Hey, what is going on here? You two are ganging up on me,” he protested.
“Well, Minerva,” Bette said. “He’s not dumb anyway.”
Both girls laughed. Victor took their teasing fairly well, Minerva thought, certainly better than his older brother would have.
A carriage turned the corner abruptly and Victor tugged Bette away from the curb as a carriage wheel hit a puddle, splashing the area where Bette had been walking.
“Thank you, Victor,” she said sincerely.
Minerva was a tad annoyed. Why hadn’t she been walking on the outside? Suddenly Bette, who had become a friend on this trip, was becoming a rival, as Minerva could feel jealousy flow through her veins. Bette’s obvious interest in Victor brought out Minerva’s competitive instincts, and she decided, suddenly, that Victor was a worthy catch. Maybe she would get lucky with an overhead chamber pot and Victor would save her from that fate. Get a grip, Minerva, she told herself. You are beginning to think like an 18th century woman. Don’t go all Jane Austen, she thought, not remembering that Austen was a 19th century woman.
Masts rising above the wooden wharves that extended into the Delaware River, the tall ships were moored at anchor, sailors unloading cargo from England onto the docks. All part of mercantilism, Minerva realized, as the colonies exported raw materials and the mother country imported finished products to the colonies. And Philadelphia, in the center of the thirteen colonies, was the largest and most important port. In the light breeze flapped an odd flag adorned with a green pine tree in the center of a white field with the motto “An Appeal to Heaven.” That was the flag Mr. Greene had mentioned, and it flew from the topmast of a rather small ship—a cute ship, she thought. Should warships appear “cute,” she wondered? Probably not. The Pennsylvania Navy was certainly no Spanish Armada.
The trio walked down to Front Street, three abreast, the girls arm-in-arm with Victor. Mrs. Beard, seemingly agitated that the three children ignored her, huffed and floated off on her own. By the Custom House, Minerva noticed a fashionable girl, whom she judged to be about sixteen, standing with an older man Minerva guessed to be her father. Unlike Minerva, the girl was wearing a riding habit, consisting of a royal blue tailored jacket similar to a man’s coat, worn with a high neck shirt, a waistcoat, a petticoat and a large, brimmed, matching royal blue hat. Minerva assumed that the girl was either going to ride a horse or had completed a ride and hadn’t bothered to change her outfit. She assumed she was an upper class young woman.
“Victor, do you recognize that young woman?” Minerva asked.
“No,” Victor said.
The young woman returned Minerva’s glance with diffidence as if Minerva were some gutter snipe. As the trio approached the scene, Minerva heard a dockworker speaking to the gentleman.
“Mr. Shippen, the count’s correct, sir,” the dockworker said. The man seemed a bit nervous, Minerva thought.
“I think you are one rum barrel short, Loughton,” Shippen shouted in a booming voice.
“Thrash him, father,” the girl said. “He’s a damn rebel.”
“Hush, Peggy, dear,” the gentleman said sweetly.
“Let’s turn around and get out of here girls,” Victor said.
“Why?” Minerva asked.
“Yes, why, Victor?” Bette added.
“That’s Peggy Shippen.”
“No way,” Bette Kromer said.
“Way,” Victor replied.
“Who’s Peggy Shippen?” Minerva said.
“Benedict Arnold’s wife,” Bette said. “She’s the traitor’s girl.”
“Well, not yet, Bette,” Victor said. “She married him in 1779 and he’s almost twenty years older than she is.”
“Gross,” Minerva said.
“Not in the 18th century,” Bette interjected. “It was actually quite common for men to be a decade or two older than their wives.”
“Some historians think Peggy Shippen was the reason Arnold became a traitor,” Victor said. “She introduced him to a spy, a Brit named Major Andre, and Arnold agreed to give up West Point to the British, which was like the most important fort in the colonies. See, Arnold was a great hero until he betrayed Washington. Broke George’s heart. The Shippens were Loyalists. Peggy was later kicked out of Philadelphia, and she and Arnold died in exile in England.”
“She was an evil witch,” Bette said with conviction.
“Arnold was a hero?” Minerva asked.
“Yes, he rallied the troops at the Battle of Saratoga, and our victory there was the turning point in the Revolution,” Victor said. “It led to France joining our side. And let’s face it—we wouldn’t have won our independence without the help of the frogs.”
“Frogs?” Minerva asked.
“Nickname for the French,” Bette interjected
Minerva had never realized that about Benedict Arnold. Arnold was a hero and a good friend of George Washington’s. That was why Arnold’s treachery was so heartbreaking to Washington. Arnold was the Judas Iscariot of American History, for Judas was Christ’s disciple until his betrayal. She glanced over her shoulder for another glimpse of Peggy Shippen. Benedict Arnold’s future wife was following them!
“Peggy Shippen is following us, Victor,” Minerva said.
“Huh,” Victor said, his head swiveling. Bette turned her head as well.
“Keep calm,” Victor advised. “Here’s our cover story. We are from Florida. Saint Augustine. Florida was a British possession from 1763 to 1783. You girls are my cousins…we are on our way to, ah, London,” Victor said. “Let me do the talking. I’m the man.”
Bette and Minerva looked at each other and exchanged raised eyebrows.
“She’ll expect me to start the talking, really,” Victor said.
Minerva evaluated Peggy Shippen as the future Mrs. Benedict Arnold approached. Her riding habit fit her snuggly, Minerva thought, and she realized Miss Shippen was wearing a corset beneath the coat. How repressive! Her tailor did her justice though, and the low neckline had a hint of cleavage that Minerva judged to be adequate. Her crème colored skin was a bit of a surprise; she certainly didn’t have the tan of the two Florida girls, and perhaps Peggy had thought them lower class because their skin wasn’t pale when she had returned Minerva’s glance with a glare. That would make sense. Minerva cattily wondered if Miss Shippen had lice crawling through her scalp, for that was a common problem for both men and women in the 18th century. Her perfume seemed to be masking a faint malodorous smell and Minerva realized that her morning shower and deodorant would certainly make her smell much nicer than Peggy Shippen. But the buckles on her shoes, in the shape of an S, were large and apparently made of real silver.
Peggy Shippen handed Victor her calling card.
“Margaret Shippen,” she said, smiling slightly, but eyeing them, Minerva thought, as if they were hicks from Hicksville. “But my family and friends call me Peggy.”
Oh no, Minerva thought. Victor had no card, did he?
Victor took her card and scanned it with a wince. So, Mr. Historian hadn’t thought of everything after all, Minerva mused and handed Peggy Shippen her own calling card.
Minerva Messinger
Cassadaga
“I’m afraid I don’t know ‘Cassadaga,’ Miss Messinger,” Peggy Shippen said.
“Florida, Miss Shippen,” Minerva replied. “My sister, my cousin and I are just visiting your fair city.”
“Cassadaga?” Peggy Shippen asked.
>
“The name of our father’s plantation,” Bette interjected.
Peggy Shippen nodded understanding. “Are you part Spanish, Miss Messinger?”
Minerva realized Peggy Shippen took their darker tanned skin color as Mediterranean in origin. And after all, the Spanish had developed Florida before the British took it over after the Seven Years’ War. She needed a fib.
“Ponce de Leon was our ancestor,” Minerva lied.
Peggy Shippen gave Minerva a look that Minerva took for doubt. “You’ve come a long way, Miss Messinger. So who is your handsome cousin?”
Why, the little flirt, Minerva thought, but smiled. “Allow me to introduce my sister Elizabeth and my cousin Victor Bridges.
“Mr. Bridges,” Peggy smiled, ignoring Bette. “I take it that you are not related to that Cornelia Bridges, that silly woman who makes flags for the foolish rebel traitors. That silly flag of the Pennsylvania Navy with that preposterous motto ‘Appeal to Heaven.’”
“I am no relation to her, Miss Shippen,” Victor said.
“Your card, sir?” Peggy inquired.
Victor was in a tight spot. Minerva thought fast. “The silly boy left them in his trunk I’m afraid,” Minerva said, knowing that her prevarications would cause her to need to go to confession on Saturday before she attended mass on Sunday. She was racking up the Hail Mary’s, she realized.
Victor blushed and Peggy Shippen seemed to accept the excuse as honest due to the embarrassment on his face.
“What business is your father in, Miss Messinger?”
Oops, Minerva thought. Now I need help!
As if reading Minerva’s thought, Bette chimed in: “Father has a plantation with a hundred slaves,” Bette said.
Peggy Shippen appeared impressed, Minerva thought. Bette’s whopper seemed to work.
Minerva looked at Peggy Shippen’s hat and coat and suddenly thought of the answer. “Father grows indigo, Miss Shippen. We grow dye to die for,” Minerva added, realizing as soon as she said it that she was over the top, for Peggy Shippen seemed puzzled by the expression “dye to die for.”
“God save the king,” Victor said. “Damn these rebels to hell,” he added theatrically.
Victor, what are you doing? Minerva wondered, but the words brought a broad smile to Peggy Shippen’s face. “God save the king and damn these rebels to hell, Mr. Bridges. I quite agree,” she said. “You and your charming cousins must come to Shippen Mansion this evening for supper. Shall we say six, then?”
“Six it is, Miss Shippen,” Victor replied, taking her hand and gallantly kissing her glove.
“And where should I send my carriage to pick you up, Mr. Bridges?”
Yes, where? thought Minerva.
“Graff House near Seventh Street,” Victor replied.
Victor Bridges continued to surprise Minerva Messinger.
Chapter 5
“You did very well, Minerva,” Victor said as Peggy Shippen returned to her father, who was standing outside the Custom House. “That was brilliant improvisation. You too, Bette.”
“Victor, you are sending Peggy Shippen to the house where Thomas Jefferson is staying,” Minerva said. “She’s a Loyalist!”
“That’s the only place that I could think of, Minerva. What should I have said? Send your carriage to Independence Hall, Miss Shippen?”
“Relax, both of you,” Bette interjected. “We won’t be here at six anyway, unless Mr. Greene doesn’t get the portable to return. Besides, maybe if Peggy Shippen meets the author of the Declaration of Independence he can make her see the light.”
“Bette, that is butterflying,” Victor said.
“Victor,” she replied. “Do you think anyone or anything could turn the Wicked Witch of the West into Glenda the Good? Besides, what hostess in the 18th century would actually arrive in the carriage to pick up her guests?”
“I don’t know, Bette,” Minerva said. “I don’t think Peggy Shippen is too conventional. She looks like just the type of girl who would flaunt convention and show up in the carriage by herself. And from what I’ve read Thomas Jefferson was pretty persuasive. He changed the world.”
“Because the world had a heart,” Bette replied. “Miss Shippen has no heart. Besides, Minerva, you are missing the point. We won’t be here, so what butterflying can possibly happen? I repeat: Shippen has no heart, just like the Tin Man.”
“I’m confused,” Victor said. “In your Wizard of Oz metaphor, Bette, is Peggy Shippen the Wicked Witch or the Tin Man?”
“Never mind, Victor,” Bette said. “Let’s forget Peggy Shippen for now.”
“Good idea,” Minerva agreed.
Victor shrugged. Fine with him. He didn’t feel comfortable interpreting metaphors anyway. Literature was not his best subject. “It’s eleven,” he said. “We have an hour before we have to meet Mr. Greene at City Tavern. Let’s walk over to Arch Street and see if he’s at Betsy Ross’s house. That’s where Mr. Greene was heading. Maybe we’ll run into Mrs. Beard. I think we ticked her off by ignoring her.”
The girls nodded agreement, and Minerva said that she was surprised ghosts were so touchy with their feelings. Bette agreed that Mrs. Beard was acting childish, and the trio proceeded up Front Street North, turning west on Chestnut, then down a block before going north on 2nd Street. On the corner of 2nd Street and High Street (Market Street today) was Dunlap’s print shop.
“This is where the broadside of the Declaration of Independence in our classroom was printed,” Bette said. “There’s the Friends Meeting House across the street.”
“It’s so plain,” Minerva said.
“No fuss, no bother, that’s the Quakers,” Victor said.
They turned left again on High Street, and then turned north again on 3rd Street, passing Christ Church, their eyes looking up at its white steeple. It was the church where Washington and many of the other Founding Fathers worshipped when they were in Philadelphia. The tuneful bells were ringing out a melody as the three students approached.
“What’s the song?” Minerva asked.
“The Doxology,” Victor said. “I read somewhere that it had a full octave of chimes.”
“The chimes sound beautiful,” Bette said, and began singing: “Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise Him all creatures hear below…”
“Minerva, what made you think of indigo?” Victor asked as Bette finished the song.
“Fourth grade Florida history,” she replied. “I did a report for the history fair on an early St. Augustine area plantation and they grew indigo, and when I saw the royal blue of Peggy Shippen’s coat I just thought of it.”
“Oh,” Victor thought. He never understood how girls could see so many colors. Royal blue? How was that different from plain old blue? And what the heck was chartreuse anyway? And puce? Why couldn’t they just see red, white and blue? It was another mystery about girls. Still, he admitted to himself, he wasn’t shy around Minerva Messinger any longer. She wasn’t nearly as stuck up as he had thought she was.
“Peggy Shippen didn’t get your joke, ‘to die for,’ Minerva,” Bette said.
“No, she didn’t,” Minerva shrugged, but added a smile. “No sense of humor I guess.”
Victor was momentarily lost in Minerva’s smile. He wondered what Minerva would be like to kiss. Stop thinking about it, he scolded himself. Stay at the task at hand. Worry about Minerva’s lips when you get home, stupid.
“Victor, are you okay?” Minerva asked. “You seem far away.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I was thinking about Christ Church.” That sounded good, he thought. Now change the subject. “Look, Arch Street. Half a block left is the Ross house.”
The house of Mrs. John Ross, aka Betsy, was a brick bandbox style house consisting of two floors, a cellar, an attic and a winding staircase that led from the cellar to the upper levels. The building’s front façade was home to a large window on the first floor, behind which items of merchandise were on display—the Ross house was both a
n upholstery business and a residence. Its proximity to the Delaware River docks made the house an ideal commercial location.
Victor grabbed the brass knocker and clapped on the door.
A young woman answered the door and stared at Victor curiously.
Her reaction caused Victor to check his nose for an errant booger. “Is Mrs. Ross in?” he asked.
“No, sir. May I help you?”
“Yes, we are looking for Mr. Greene.”
From a back room came a shout. “Victor!”
It was one of the Anderson twins, Victor realized, but he didn’t know which one.
“Justin or Heath?” he called as the young woman let him inside.
“Justin,” the voice replied.
Victor, Bette and Minerva walked back into the back room, where a bruised and black-eyed Justin lay on a bed.
“We got into a fight,” Justin explained. “Me and Heath. At the Indian Queen Tavern on 4th Street, I think.”
“Defending the honor of Mrs. Ross,” the young woman said.
“Victor, this nice lady is Cornelia Bridges; she makes flags for the Pennsylvania Navy. Maybe you are related?”
Victor remembered Peggy Shippen’s criticism of Mrs. Bridges and the motto “Appeal to Heaven” on the navy banner. Victor shook his head. No one in his family that he knew of had ever been a flag maker in Philadelphia.
“Guess not,” Justin said. “We followed Betsy and offered to buy her a shandy, Victor, honest. You know: the lemonade and beer mixture. I know we should have drunk cider, but the cider was stronger than the shandy. I mean, Victor, you can’t drink the water. A guy might wind up with the runs.”
Victor knew many Philadelphians drank alcoholic beverages in lieu of the local water due to the potential of dysentery. “So you got into a fight?”
“Yeah: two Spanish sailors. One of them called Mrs. Ross a bad name and, well, Heath has A.P. Spanish and caught the insult, and he insulted them back in Spanish, and then one of the Spanish sailors hit Heath and I hit his buddy and pretty soon we were out in the street. Those guys were pretty strong too.”