Digging Up History Page 4

  “I want to check something. Maybe there’s more written there than we think.”

  “I’ll set it up,” Dylan said quickly, and moved to another work surface, this one against the wall. Above it was a blank area about three feet square. He pulled out some sort of enlarger, then set it up and inserted the flash drive and turned the whole thing on. Marty moved over to stand by him.

  I had the feeling she saw what she had expected to see. “What is it, Marty?”

  “This is probably from around 1770. You can see that most of the first generation of houses is still standing. And there are numbers next to many of the houses—hard to see without enlarging it. We should try to find a city directory for the era and see which was which.”

  I made a wild guess. “Marty, did one of your ancestors live in one of those early houses?”

  “He did. James Terwilliger. Inherited money, oversaw the family shipping business, and was a general in the Revolution. Though there were lots of generals, he was one of the good ones. I knew that house.”

  “Marty, you’re not two hundred years old!” I protested.

  “I said most of the houses were long gone. Some were kind of forgotten, squeezed between later buildings or remodeled so you couldn’t tell how old they were. Could be there are still remnants there, unless developers have gone crazy putting in expensive condos with river views. When I was a kid, maybe eight or ten, me and my cousins used to snoop around there. Without telling our parents, of course. There were old foundations, and cellars, and even some tunnels connecting the houses, out of sight. And maybe even tunnels linking them to the waterfront. Look, I was young and I had no idea what I was looking at, but it was a great place to play and make up stories. I do remember there were a lot of things down there that I couldn’t identify. I mean, I know what a barrel looks like, and I think there were bottles there, but it was dark and damp and hard to see. And we only played down there for two or three years—after that our parents made us pretend we were civilized, so I guess we never went back. I don’t know how much survived.” Marty looked wistful.

  But there was one important question I wanted answered. “Marty, why would anyone draw a map of that block? At that particular time? This letter of ours doesn’t look like a kid’s drawing.”

  Marty finally tore her eyes away from the image on the wall, and she looked at me. “I don’t know, but I’d love to find out.”

  Chapter Five

  Dylan was staring at Marty as though she was some sort of magician. I had forgotten that he’d only met her once or twice, and there was a lot about her that he didn’t know. And a lot that he could learn from her as well. Marty knew pretty much everything there was to know about Philadelphia, both past and present. She also knew who was related to whom, going back a dozen generations. She was never obnoxious or pretentious about it—she simply had a good memory and a lot of curiosity.

  So now she was curious about why anybody would make a rudimentary sketch of riverside property in Philadelphia circa (did I dare say it?) the Revolutionary War. I knew what most moderately educated people who’d attended an American school (public or private) knew about that era, combined with what I’d picked up working in the heart of the city at an institution that specialized in history. The more I had learned, the more I had come to realize that our modern textbooks and curriculum focused mainly on the “cute” stories, probably because they were easier to remember, but which didn’t really give a full sense to the time. Was that good or bad? Most likely most people in the country had heard of the Liberty Bell, only a few blocks from where I now sat. But did they know why it mattered? Did they care, after they’d learned what and where and how old it was and passed the standardized test?

  I had to shake my head to clear it. We were talking about a raggedy piece of paper that had been stuck in a book for two centuries, not some significant piece of history. Marty said it showed some early streets in the city. Okay, fine—they had been real once, and many were still there. So what?

  “Earth to Nell?” Marty said nearly in my ear, and I jumped.

  “Sorry, Marty. I was trying to figure out why this piece of paper exists, and if it means anything. I’m inclined to say no, save that people can find interesting things where they least expect them. Do you have a different idea?”

  “Maybe. Give me some time to think about it.”

  “While you’re thinking, let me ask you this: are you interested in it because of fond childhood memories of playing in those streets—or cellars or tunnels or whatever—all those years ago?”

  “Does that make it more or less important?” she shot back.

  “It could certainly be important to you, but to other people?” I countered.

  Marty got a faraway look in her eyes. “I know how we can find out,” she said.

  I was almost afraid to ask how, but I could make some educated guesses. “Marty, do you have reason to believe that some or all of what was shown on that map is still there? Not buried under a parking lot or a hotel?”

  “Yes, but not for much longer.”

  “Why do you say that? Global warming will make the river flood an entire block of that end of the city?”

  “It might, but that’s not what I was thinking.”

  “So?” I noticed Dylan was silently watching the two of us as though we were playing singles tennis.

  “You’re right about waterfront development. For a while nobody would touch the properties there, not because of historic significance or even the highway, but because the underlying ground was just too wet, since it’s right next to the river. But technology has improved, and there are some eager developers who think there’s a way to drain the land and keep it dry. And they’re starting to poke around in the dirt there, make some test holes and such—right about there.” Marty pointed to one intersection in the middle of the projected map.

  “Marty, why on earth do you know this?” I asked. “You live at the other end of town.”

  “Yes, but I know the developer. I went to school with his sister.”

  “And this connection means what?”

  “That if we want to see what’s there, we can. And now is the perfect time.”

  I wasn’t sure what I felt. Marty thought we should go poking around in eighteenth-century mud looking for . . . what? “Isn’t there some city historical organization that keeps an eye on things like that? I can never remember which group is responsible for what.”

  “Of course there is. You’ve met some of the members, and they come to Society events. And if you don’t know them, you should. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us looking at the site, as long as we signed the right waivers or something. And don’t walk off with any artifacts we find.”

  I wondered briefly if the Society’s insurance covered senior staff falling into a large hole in the ground, historic or not. I sighed. “So what are you suggesting we do? I assume you do mean ‘we’?”

  “Of course. It should be interesting, and you’ll learn something. And so will you, Dylan. Bet you didn’t know that studying book repair and cataloguing involved wading through muck.” She grinned at him.

  He returned her smile—it looked like he was getting into the idea. “Not exactly, but it sounds like fun.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “When are you thinking of making this expedition?”

  “First I need to contact my friend and clear it with him. Relax, you two—the project has barely begun, so it won’t be too messy yet. Nell, I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything about it.”

  “Why would I? I don’t even know what ‘it’ is.”

  “Okay, here’s the short version. Barnaby Construction Group wants to build an apartment building on Second Street, and they’ve got the city permits lined up but they haven’t broken ground. Like I just told you, that’s where General James Terwilliger built himself a nice house after the Revolution. But he didn’t stay long because the city was moving west fast. I told you some of my cousins and I used to poke around
what was left of the old places down there, but even that hasn’t been possible for a long time. Makes me feel old, I guess, since I remember so many changes in the city. Anyway, various other structures were built in those blocks, but the most recent was an asphalt parking lot. Not the best use of a historic site, but I didn’t have any standing to stop it, and the city wasn’t quite sure which agency could intervene for historical purposes. Anyway, the Barnaby Group saw an opportunity to purchase the land, then get rid of the parking lot and build something better. I’ve seen some sketches and I think he’s got a good plan. I mean, it’s not going to be a glass and steel tower. I hear he’s got some solid investors lined up, and they want to get the shell assembled during the summer.”

  “Marty, what’s all this got to do with the Society, and us?”

  “Because that’s exactly the spot that the letter or map or whatever it is shows, back when there wasn’t much of anything there except docks and shipbuilders. Maybe we can find something that would make a nice article for the Inquirer or a magazine, and everybody would benefit.”

  I had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea, especially since Marty had the connections to make it happen. “Okay, I see your point. And I should know more about the city—the parts under the streets and parking lots. But I’ve still got the pesky board reports to finish.”

  Marty waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry, they’ll wait for you. And the meeting isn’t until next week, right?”

  “Correct. If I’m late with them, will you write me an excuse?”

  “Sure. And if we’re lucky we’ll have something to show them.”

  “Then I guess I’m for it. When were you thinking?”

  “Today. The weather’s good, and I know Barney—he’s the head of the company—will be poking around there. He’s like a kid with a new toy. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that he’s going to buy one of the apartments himself—preferably one with a river view.”

  “But do we have to get muddy today? I’m not exactly dressed for it.”

  “Call it reconnoitering. We’re scoping out the site. And I want to know what the timeline will be and what he’s planning. Let me give him a call.” Marty bounced out of her chair and walked into the hallway, punching buttons on her cell phone.

  Dylan and I looked at each other. “Marty Terwilliger is a force of nature, and she knows everything there is to know about Philadelphia,” I told him.

  “I’ve heard people talking about her—only good things, of course—but I haven’t seen much of her myself. But I like the idea of this project. If there ever is a publication, would I get my name on it?”

  “Sure, why not? As long as you mention the Society. You found the letter, so you get first claim. And who knows what else we’ll find? Did you ever read John Cotter’s book The Buried Past? He and a bunch of other historians explored what people in that general area left behind in the privies of the city and other unexpected places. It’s worth reading, if you have the time, and it tells you a lot about life here during an earlier era. Anyway, this project might be a bit cleaner. But definitely historic.”

  Marty returned quickly. “He’s there now, and he says come on over. Nell, you up for that?”

  “I guess. Beats getting any real work done. And there’s history involved in there somewhere.”

  I realized Marty was looking at my feet. “What?”

  “You got any better shoes for walking? Because this could be muddy.”

  “Sure, I’ve got a pair of running shoes I wear when I try to catch the train.”

  “Put ’em on,” she ordered. I complied.

  It was a short walk to Second Street. It didn’t seem long to me since I’d last strolled in that area, but it seemed a lot of things had changed: there were new projects scattered all over, in various states of construction, from piles of dirt to final touches. “You know, Marty, I really don’t get out enough. There’s just so much history here.”

  “And a lot of it is covered up with all sorts of things. Like parking lots.”

  “At least we can hope that whatever’s under them has survived.”

  “Maybe. I’ve been told that they even left a lot of early stuff under I-95 when they were building that—cheaper and easier than digging it all out. But do people care? I mean, they can Google pretty historic maps and they’ll see a lot more than messy holes in the ground.”

  “And what do you want people to do with all this evidence of the past?”

  “Save as much of it as they can. Oh, you and I both know the city can’t go around building museums on every corner. But if you know what you’re looking for, you can read Philadelphia’s history like a book, from the bottom up. Somebody should care.”

  Dylan had remained silent so far, so I turned to him. “What do you think, Dylan? You’re the next generation, and you’re already working on antique items. Is all this worth saving? If it all morphs into apartments and stores and maybe some places to eat lunch, will anybody notice?”

  “Maybe if they know it’s there, or was. Hey, I started digging up small-town dumps when I was about ten. I loved finding old stuff, even when I didn’t know what it was or how long it had been there. That’s what got me interested.”

  “Good for you!” Marty proclaimed. “Like the way my cousin Nate and I used to poke around in old cellars. You find the oddest things.” She slowed, then stopped, looking around. “We’re here. And there’s Barney.” She waved vigorously, but instead of coming over to join us on the sidewalk, he gestured toward us to join him in the middle of a plot the size of a city block, scraped down to dirt. Marty didn’t think twice about it, and I followed more slowly.

  “Hey, Barney,” Marty said. “Thanks for letting us see what you’re doing here. Do you know Nell?”

  Barney, a sturdy middle-aged man wearing a grubby baseball cap, said, “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’ve heard your name from a number of people. Did Marty insist you come along with her?”

  “Not exactly, Barney. We found something at the Society, and I told Marty about it, and she said we needed to look at this lot. One of her ancestors lived near here, right?”

  “Sure did, but it was a long time ago. His house is long gone, and I don’t have any idea who thought putting in a parking lot was a good idea. So we’ve stripped that off and started digging so we can figure out what we need to do about foundations, but then we kind of stumbled over something that may hold us up a bit. Want to see?”

  “Sure. Was there something under the parking lot?”

  “I’d guess somethings, plural. Come take a look—and try not to fall in a hole.”

  Marty and I followed Barney toward the center of the lot, with Dylan tagging along behind. The ground looked kind of churned up—at least it was dry, but it was kind of uneven, like people had been attacking it with shovels. But not big earthmovers, I noticed.

  “Look over there,” Barney said, waving broadly. “What do you see?”

  I edged closer to the place he had pointed to and peered into the dip there. And peered again, because I was having trouble believing what I was seeing. “Are those . . . bones?”

  “Yup,” Barney said, beaming.

  “Human?”

  “Sure are. Lots of them. Looks like we’ve stumbled on an old cemetery. Every time we stick a shovel in the ground, we find more. And coffins too, or at least pieces of some.”

  “Didn’t anybody know this was here? Your construction guys, or even the city?”

  “Nope. I checked all the city records when I was planning this project, and there was no mention of a cemetery here. At least, not that we’ve found. Hey, you’re the lady at the history place—you’ve got a better chance of finding out what’s going on here than most of us.”

  “I guess so. Marty? You know anything?”

  Marty seemed distracted, but finally she focused on me. “Not really. Not yet. I might remember something from when I was a kid, but I’m going to have to think about it. Maybe I thought it was a big sec
ret, so I never mentioned it to the rest of the family. It’s been a long time. Barney, what’re you going to do?”

  “I have to hold up work until we can figure out what’s going on here. I’m pretty sure you’d skin me alive if I just went back to excavating without getting somebody’s approval, now that you know about it. Maybe you could tell me what agency I should be talking to.”

  “I’ll make some phone calls,” Marty said quickly. “Nell, you have any ideas?”

  “I don’t usually deal with properties, but I can certainly check our files. Dylan, you want to help? Knowing who’s who in the local historical community could be useful to you.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I want to know what happened here.”

  “What’s your timeline, Barney?” Marty asked.

  “Oh, we’re already behind schedule. But if I can score some points for preserving the city’s important history, it can’t hurt.”

  She turned to me. “Nell, you in?”

  “Why not? Tomorrow’s Saturday, right? I can check the obvious references, and then maybe we’ll know how to go forward. And who we should talk to.”

  “Great. Barney, let’s meet here in the morning and pool our information. If you’ve got the deeds to this place, bring ’em along. Somebody must know something.”

  “I sure hope so,” Barney said. “See you tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Nell.”

  Chapter Six

  We didn’t talk much on the way back to the Society. I checked my watch and was surprised to find that it was only midafternoon, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I really didn’t want to go back to crunching numbers, but I didn’t feel I had enough time to start looking through the collections of city maps and the like to try and find out more about that piece of ground we’d just seen.

  Barney seemed like an okay guy, or at least not one who would ignore whatever building regulations existed and plow ahead with his building, skeletons be damned. He might not want to make public the fact that they were there, because no doubt there were potential buyers who would prefer not to live on top of a cemetery, even one that had not been used for a long time. Would I? I liked cemeteries, mainly because of the genealogy information they held, but I wasn’t sure that living on one would feel right.