129: MIDNIGHT RIDE OF THE PHANTOM OF FREEDOM

For the first time in a while, my companions got an extra hour of sleep as Tom had the alarm set for 7:00am on Thursday July 16, 2020. As soon as my photographer got himself ready, however, he decided to try some cosmetic surgery on my scarred right arm. Three days earlier, when we visited Grant’s Cottage in Upstate New York, my right arm had mysteriously broken off. That same evening, when we arrived at our hotel room, Tom performed “Gorilla Glue surgery” to re-attach my arm. But when the glue dried overnight, it had oozed out from the gauze tape and left an orange ring where my forearm was attached to my upper arm. The cosmetic surgery on Thursday morning was simple; since Tom didn’t have black paint in his surgical kit which would’ve been the perfect solution, he colored the dried glue black with a Sharpie. The procedure wasn’t as good as a coat of paint, but it was good enough to camouflage the unsightly scar.

With our Ford Edge packed, we left the Fairfield Inn and made the four-mile journey into historic New Castle, Delaware where we arrived at the Immanuel Episcopal Church at roughly 9:20am. While the church was not a Presidential site, the churchyard did contain the grave of George Read; a Signer of the Declaration of Independence. As the three of us walked into the burial ground located alongside the historic church, Tom mentioned to Vicki that she had parked the Edge in the same place on the cobblestone street where Mongo had parked “Ol’ Rusty” during their 1991 Declaration of Independence Tour. My photographer carried me directly to the four-foot-tall white marble tombstone that marked the final resting place of Read – who had died in New Castle at the age of 65 on September 21, 1798. While I was proud to stand on the tomb of a Signer of the historic Declaration, George Read was not one of my favorite patriots. As a matter of fact, Read had opposed his neighbor and fellow Delawarean delegate Thomas McKean and voted against independence on July 1, 1776. Only the midnight ride of Caesar Rodney, who arrived at Independence Hall in time to cast the deciding “yes” vote for Delaware, kept the dream alive for a unanimous separation from England. The more I thought about, however, the more I forgave Read for voting “no”. After all, George Read did find the courage to sign the Declaration; and on September 17, 1787 he was one of 39 delegates at the Constitution Convention to sign the United States Constitution.

We returned to the Edge after our 15-minute visit at the churchyard gravesite of George Read. It was time to head to The Strand; and although that historic street was only a block from the church, Tom wanted to take the vehicle instead of walking there. Vicki got lucky and found a parking spot near the front of the George Read II House. That two-and-a-half story brick building was constructed in 1793 for the Signer’s son and was located next to his own house. Unfortunately, the Great Fire of 1824 destroyed the Signer’s house, along with many other historic homes along The Strand. Luckily, the house of George Read II survived and still stands on The Strand over 225 years later.

Tom photographed me as I posed near the exterior of the Read House, as well as at the site of where the Signer’s house once stood. The three of us proceeded along The Strand until we stopped at New Castle Battery Park where we had a great view of the Delaware River. It was ten o’clock in the morning; the quiet and historic town was exactly as my photographer had remembered from 1991. The three of us spent about 45 minutes as we absorbed the ambiance of New Castle before we boarded the Edge and headed towards Dover.

A short time into our 40-mile drive to Dover, where Tom had his sights set on seeing the grave of Caesar Rodney and the Capitol Building, Vicki asked if there was a chance that we could pay a visit to the NASCAR track that was also in that city. Even though my photographer is the Commissioner of the Road Hog NASCAR Fantasy League, he hadn’t considered Dover International Speedway as a potential destination until his wife mentioned it. From my comfortable spot inside the camera case, I heard him say to Vicki: “That’s a great idea. It’s likely closed because of the virus, but there might be a chance that we can see the huge ‘Miles the Monster’ statue that’s outside of the track.”

It was about 11:20am when we arrived at Dover International Speedway; or was it the Dover Downs Hotel and Casino? I could see the top of the track’s grandstands off in the distance, but there was no way we could get close to the actual racetrack because of the casino. Giving up was not an option for my companions – Vicki drove along a small side road around the south side of the track and before I knew it, we arrived at the plaza where Miles the Monster stood directly in front of us. Once parked, Tom carried me through the plaza until we stood beneath the 46-foot-tall Monster Monument known as “Miles”. We immediately noticed that Miles’ right hand was empty; it was void of the previous season’s winning NASCAR Cup race car that’s usually in the monster’s clutch. It didn’t take long for my photographer to realize why the car was missing. The 2019 Drydene 400 winner, which was held on October 6th, was Kyle Larson. His number 42 “Clover” Chevy should’ve been the car on display in the monster’s hand, but there was one problem: on April 13, 2020, Larson was suspended indefinitely for using a racial slur on a live broadcast of an iRacing virtual race.

Once our photo-op had finished with “Miles the Monster”, my photographer and his wife noticed one of the gates appeared to be slightly open. That’s when I heard Tom say that it might be our chance to get a glimpse of the track. The three of us walked through the gate, up a set of aluminum steps, and before I could say “trespassing” we were standing in the bleachers near Turn 4. There it was – “The Monster Mile” of Dover was in front of us and it looked spectacular. But then the unbelievable happened; and I nearly dropped a resin turd in my breeches. I heard Vicki say aloud: “I want to get closer. I think I see an opening where we might be able to get out onto the track.” In my mind I had wondered what happened to the conservative “by the rules” woman who usually travels with us. With me in hand, my photographer did his best to keep up with his wife, but it was as though she was shot out of a cannon. I had never seen her move with that much speed and agility. At historic sites, she’s usually twenty paces behind us and it seems as though she’s dragging a grand piano. But not then; not at that racetrack. Before I knew it, we were standing on the Start/Finish line at Dover International Speedway – and there was no one else there; the three of us had the track to ourselves. While the track looked good from the stands, the view I had as I stood on the black and yellow finish line was mind boggling; I couldn’t believe where I was.

Altogether our visit at Dover International Speedway lasted only about 40 minutes, but we packed a lot into that short period of time. When we returned to our vehicle, I nearly laughed out loud when I heard my photographer say to his wife: “It was good to see you walk out onto that track because I never want you to scold me again for going past barriers or taking liberties to get the photos I need at historic sites.” Vicki quickly replied: “This was different. If they didn’t want anyone on that track, they shouldn’t have left the gate open. It must’ve been okay to be there or someone would’ve asked us to leave – and that didn’t happen.” That was the end of that debate.

Our next stop, which was in the heart of Dover, was about three miles away from the race track and it took less than ten minutes to get to Christ Episcopal Church. After Vicki parked our vehicle along East Water Street and near the short brick wall that surrounded the churchyard, Tom carried me into the cemetery and placed me onto a large granite monument that was inscribed with the name Caesar Rodney. While some believe the marker in the churchyard is the grave of the Signer of the Declaration of Independence, other historians are certain that Rodney was buried in an unmarked grave at his farm “Poplar Grove” located a few miles southeast of Dover. Either way, we were there to pay tribute to one of Tom’s favorite Signers.

During the debate for independence by the Second Continental Congress in early July 1776, two of Delaware’s three delegates (Thomas McKean and George Read) were at an impasse. McKean had voted for independence and Read wanted to stay British. McKean sent word to Caesar Rodney, who was back in Dover attending other political business, that his services were immediately needed in Philadelphia. Rodney mounted a horse and rode through the storm-filled night for 80 miles; lightning and thunder wasn’t about to stop the brave patriot. When he arrived at Independence Hall, the wet and weary Rodney said: “As I believe the voice of my constituents and all sensible and honest men are in favor of independence, my own judgement concurs with them. I vote for independence.” More amazing was the fact that Caesar Rodney was severely ill. He suffered from cancer of the jaw and wore a green silk veil to hide part of his disfigured face. It was so bad, in fact, that John Adams said of his Congressional colleague: “Rodney has sense and fire, wit and humor. But he is the oddest-looking man in the world.” Nearly eight years after he proudly penned his signature onto the Declaration of Independence, Caesar Rodney died at the age of 55 on June 29, 1784.

Author and poet Thomas Irons once wrote of Caesar Rodney: “Ride on! Brave soul through night forlorn. Ride on! ‘though weary, weak and worn. Ride on! ‘tis Freedom’s glorious morn. Ride on! Today a Nation’s born”. As my photographer carried me out of the Christ Episcopal Churchyard, I couldn’t help but think of Caesar Rodney as he rode through the darkness on that stormy night in 1776; his green veil flapped in the wind as the patriot’s horse galloped along the muddy roadways. The pale rider may have resembled an 18th century ‘Phantom of the Opera’ due to his partially-hidden disfigured face, but I thought of him as “The Phantom of Freedom” instead. When “The Phantom” arrived at Independence Hall and cast his vote for independence, it was a glorious day for America; and a glorious day for Caesar Rodney – a farmer who lived and died for our nation’s freedom.

Once we left the churchyard, the three of us set out on foot to the Delaware Legislative Hall, or State Capitol, that was about three blocks away. Although Dover is the capital of Delaware and we were in the center of that city, there didn’t seem to be many other people milling about; which, quite frankly, didn’t bother us one bit. Some of that may have been caused by the pandemic because Delaware had just opened up from quarantine about two weeks earlier. When we arrived at the Capitol, we walked to the east side of the building where we found a really cool statue known as the Delaware Revolutionary War Monument. While the brick building with white trim looked historically old, it had been built in the early 1930s; its wings were added after 1965. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, however, the interior of the building was off-limits to visitors; which was okay with us because we still wanted to visit Annapolis before day’s end.

After I had posed near the statue with the Capitol in the background, we walked westward along the Legislative Green Park until we arrived at the Old State House. At first sight, there was no doubt in my mind that the building in front of me was historic. And sure enough, the original Delaware State House was built between 1787 and 1792 and was the sole seat of State government until the new capitol opened in 1932. Like it was at Legislative Hall, the Old State House was not open to visitors due to the coronavirus. But from our position across the street on The Green, we had a great view of the historic and original Delaware State House. As I stood there admiring the architecture, it made me sad to know that Caesar Rodney never lived to set foot in that building because he had died three years before its construction. Cancer had robbed Rodney of witnessing total freedom from Great Britain; it also prevented him from seeing his beloved Delaware admitted as the first state in the United States. While I complain at times about losing my head; or the problems I’ve had with my legs; or the fact that my right arm fell off; but my ailments can’t compare to the suffering that Caesar Rodney experienced. That patriot dedicated his life, up to the very end, to make what we have today a reality. I only hope the citizens of Delaware, and quite frankly the people throughout the United States, never take for granted what Caesar Rodney did for our nation. He should be honored alongside our other forefathers who helped frame the greatest country on the face of the Earth.

It was nearly 1:30pm and time to leave Dover and Caesar Rodney behind. While I wanted to visit Rodney’s ‘Poplar Grove’ farm before we departed Dover, that didn’t happen. It wasn’t because Tom didn’t want to see the site; it was due to the fact that my photographer didn’t know where it was. As hard as he and Mongo tried to find the exact location in 1991 during their “D of I Tour”, they struck out as well. Hopefully someday in the future I will be able to visit Poplar Grove and see the site where Caesar Rodney was likely buried.

While the Delaware Legislative Hall and Old State House in Dover were impressive, they paled in historical comparison to the next site on our agenda – the Maryland State House in Annapolis. While the two capitals were only 65 miles apart, it took us nearly 90 minutes to make the trip; largely because we hit some traffic near the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Once Vicki had the Edge parked about a block from the State House, Tom carried me to the east front of the historic building where I tried to absorb it’s place in American history from the outside. Unfortunately we were prohibited from entering the building due to the virus; when we got the news about the restrictions, it was painful for me to not go inside.

The Maryland State House is rich in history – dating back to 1772, it’s the oldest United States state capitol in continuous legislative use. As a matter of fact, in 1783 and 84, that building served as the Capitol of the U.S. Congress of the Confederation and was in the running to be the new nation’s permanent capital before Washington D.C. was built. The building also boasts the largest wooden dome in the country that was constructed without nails. To top it off, that wooden dome was constructed and grounded with a lightning rod that was made to the direct specifications of its inventor Benjamin Franklin.

But it was inside that building, in the Old Senate Chamber, where I had wanted to visit because of its significant Presidential connection. On December 23, 1783, in that historic chamber, General George Washington hung up his sword and called it quits. That’s right – Washington resigned his commission as commander-in-chief of the Continental Army in that very room and I had my hopes set on standing on that very spot. But now, thanks to the bug, I’ll have to make a return trip to Annapolis once the virus goes away – if it ever goes away.

While Vicki sat on a shaded bench on the east side of the building, Tom carried me around State Circle that encompassed the capitol. On the south side of the building, I posed for a photo near the statue of Baron DeKalb. Not only did the statue provide for a postcard-like image of the State House, it also gave me some insight on DeKalb’s historical significance. It turned out that Baron DeKalb was a German soldier who fought for the colonies during the American Revolution and was killed at the Battle of Camden in South Carolina in 1780.

Moments after my photographer captured our images near the statue, Tom noticed a few police officers standing guard at the junction of State Circle and School Street. My inquisitive camera guy figured the governor might be arriving via motorcade to the capitol and he wanted to witness it; Tom also called Vicki on his phone and asked her to come to the area to witness the event. When my photographer asked the officers why they were there, it turned out that Governor Larry Hogan was delivering a live television interview about the COVID pandemic from the front yard of his home – known officially as Government House. Surprisingly, once Tom asked, the cops allowed us to peek through the gate as long as we didn’t cause a disturbance. During our time outside the iron fence, I had hoped Governor Hogan would notice me and ask to hold me for a photograph; but that didn’t happen – even though I was wearing my mask.

It was 4:00pm when we made it back to our vehicle and my companions seemed to be winding down. At that moment, for reasons only known to him, Tom suggested that we try to find a hotel in Alexandria, Virginia, which seemed like a crazy idea to get into the Washington D.C. rush hour traffic. But we did it anyway; Vicki navigated the Edge like Kyle Busch maneuvers through lap traffic at Bristol Motor Speedway and we arrived at Hotel Indigo in Old Town Alexandria at 5:00pm. But when we got there, my photographer and his wife didn’t feel comfortable. They didn’t see any parking near the hotel and there were a lot of people walking around the area without face coverings. I heard Tom say to his wife: “There’s way too many people here without face masks, I don’t want to take a chance with that. I know you’re tired, but let’s try to make it to the Fredericksburg area. There’s a lot of hotel options there and it will be less crowded.” Little did Vicki know, Fredericksburg was over 50 miles to the south. When we finally arrived at the Hampton Inn at roughly 6:15pm, however, she knew that we had made the right decision for our own safety. There weren’t many people walking around and there were plenty of places to find food to take back to the hotel.

Tom placed me alongside the TV set in our room while he and his wife drove to the nearby LongHorn Steakhouse for takeout food. When they returned, I was entertained by watching my photographer devour his baby back ribs like a school of piranha take apart a wayward cow. As soon as my companions finished dinner, the lights went out in the room, and I was left alone with my thoughts. Even though our hotel was very close to George Washington’s boyhood home known as Ferry Farm, all I could think about was Caesar Rodney and his midnight ride to Philadelphia. Perhaps someday he will get his rightful place in history. Oh, his likeness made it onto the back of the 1999 Delaware State quarter, but there should be more. Maybe a movie about his life’s story would be a fitting tribute. Better yet, how about a Broadway show? There was the play called “Hamilton”, but ol’ Alexander couldn’t hold an oil lantern to Caesar Rodney’s accomplishments. Perhaps someday, Andrew Lloyd Weber will pen a musical about the heroic Signer of the Declaration of Independence. In my mind’s eye, I could see the words on the bright Broadway marquee: “Midnight Ride of the Phantom of Freedom”. Now that’s what I call a tribute!