By Pamela Love
I’ve always been a people person. But back on July 4, 1976, I became a “We the people” person. The entire country, but especially Philadelphia, had been filled with Bicentennial fever for months, and it reached its peak that day. Patriotic music and firecrackers were the only things loud enough to drown out the sound of 1776 and 1976 flags flapping from buildings and sidewalk vendors hawking both kinds.
That’s why my Uncle Sam costume was the perfect camouflage for my museum heist. It was all anyone would remember when they gave my description to the police. They’d probably even guess I was taller than I am, because who thought of Uncle Sam as short?
Dressed like that, I’d spent hours in a certain museum’s bunting-hung Bicentennial Gallery that day. I’d waved to museum goers, scrawled my “autograph” on a program, checked out the exhibits, and double-checked that everything was in place for my caper. I was so convincing that even the staff members assumed I’d been hired to work in the gallery. Nobody told me to leave when the doors were shut to the public and most of the real staff headed out to celebrate. Except for security, of course, and not even all of them—I’d overheard one guy saying he wasn’t missing the biggest party in two centuries. My fake beard and mustache hid the genuine smile that flashed on my face. Looks like luck’s going to be on my side tonight.
“Yankee Doodle stick ‘em up!” I said to the remaining guard on duty in the gallery.
He raised his hands. I’d like to think those first two words helped convince him I wouldn’t fire if he cooperated. Not that my gun was real, but he didn’t know that. Either way, he didn’t put up a fight.
Moments later, I had him cuffed, gagged, and locked in a storeroom I’d scouted out days earlier. I slid its deadbolt shut. With the police focused on crowds at the fireworks shows, I should be safe if I’m careful.
My fence’s wanted list, which I’d memorized, was unsurprisingly focused on Revolutionary War memorabilia. A goose feather used by Thomas Jefferson—in his pillow, not to write the Declaration of Independence. Ben Franklin’s glasses—not the ones he saw with, a pair he drank from. A star-spangled you-know-what carried at the Battle of Minisink—no, I never heard of it either. The biggest prize was a letter signed by Button Gwinnett. Yes, Button—I’m not making that up. His super-rare, super-valuable autograph also appeared on the Declaration of Independence—not that they had one of those. If they did, security would’ve been much tighter—maybe more than I could handle.
I pulled out the lockpicks and bags I’d hidden between my top hat and curly white wig. My hands moved on autopilot, twisting and jiggling locks open with precision. One after another, I slipped items into the bags. This was my biggest haul ever. Usually I’m more of a glorified shoplifter. My fence’s usual burglary guy was busy picking pockets tonight, so I got this gig.
I was reaching for the Button Gwinnett letter when something squeaked.
My legs tensed like they used to before the starter pistol went off when I was a star sprinter in high school. Holding my breath, I scanned the well-lit surroundings. Whatever was squeaking kept right on doing it, which was a good sign. Somebody sneaking up on me would’ve yelled “Freeze!” by now.
Squeak, squeak, squeak… Museums, like any buildings, made sounds, what Ma used to call “the house settling.” It still made me edgy.
Finally, I pinpointed the source of the noise, then sagged against a display case with relief. It was a cannon. According to its description, it was made of bronze and it saw action in multiple battles in New England. Bit by bit, that thing was circling to face me.
I shrugged. Probably just off balance. I remembered its plaque even said the wooden wheels weren’t original.
Straightening, I finished rolling the Button Gwinnett document and tucked it into my bag. Done. I checked my watch. Under ten minutes. Time to go. I swaggered toward the exit.
Behind me, the creak turned into a rumbling rattle. I shot a glance over my shoulder. The cannon was following me, and impressively quick for warped wheels.
Must be some minuteman’s ghost.
That’s when I remembered one last detail from its description. Wagging my finger, I said, “Can’t scare me, buddy. That cannon’s barrel has been plugged. It can’t fire.”
In a cartoon, that’s when it would have gone, “Boom!” Or a flag would have popped out saying that. Neither happened.
But the cannon did accelerate—not much, but enough to make me hurry up too, my bags of stolen swag rustling against my back, my pace matching my faster pulse.
I swung open the glass door, then shut it carefully behind me. I trotted down the steps and tried to act natural.
That’s when the cannon smashed through the doors. Splinters of glass flew everywhere. Who needed a cannonball when you had momentum? I flinched, pulling my hat down to shield my face.
“Sir? Sir! Stop there. We want to ask some questions.” Two cops started towards me. One was staring at my bag of loot. Panicking, I tried to outrun them, but my luck ran out. I tripped on my costume’s legs, which were much longer than the shorts I’d worn for track years before. The next thing I knew, I was being cuffed and shoved into a police car. By my feet there was a dollar bill. And George Washington winked at me. Believe it or not, that’s what happened.
Washington’s ghost had a cannon. I never had a chance.
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