The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington (11 page)

He wants his paper and pen again. “I must write this all down,” he says. “Fascinating. Tell me: is there a fee, for the use of these wall outlets?”

“Dr. Franklin,” I say, “if you can get my phone fully recharged, I promise to tell you everything I know, and you’re free to do whatever you want with it.”

He closes his eyes, and then the great man nods. “I think,” he says, “it may be possible, but I make no guarantee.”

That’s going to have to be good enough. For now, anyway.

O
NE HOUR LATER, WE
’
RE
in a print shop on Market Street that was once owned by Dr. Franklin but at present is managed by Mr. Farrington. We had to haul Dr. Franklin under a cover in our one-horse shay, which did not seem to please our one horse, good old Juniper. There wasn’t enough room on the bench for either Elizabeth or me, so while Daniel hauled Dr. Franklin down Market Street, we walked through the snow.

We’re all crowded around now in a back room of the print shop—Dr. Franklin, Mr. Farrington, Daniel, Elizabeth, and me. All we have to do is come up with a way to recharge my phone, fiddle around a little, then fix a monumental historical error—and the sooner, the better.

No biggie, right?

My iPhone is on the table, and Dr. Franklin and Mr. Farrington each have a big magnifying glass, and they are peering at things. And asking questions. Questions a reasonable person might reasonably expect the owner of the thing to know a little bit about.

Such as: “What’s it made of? Is the material found in nature, or is it manufactured?”

“If manufactured, how so? In a foundry? Through what process? How is the material shaped?”

“How is it bent?”

“How long does it take to cool off?”

“Would it melt if left out in the sun?”

“Would it freeze if left out in the cold?”

“How long does it take to make one?”

“How many are made at a time?”

“It appears that the face of the device is glass. How is the glass fitted to the other material, which, since you don’t know, is of indeterminate origin?”

“What happens if the glass breaks?”

Elizabeth decides to join in the fun. “On the back of it,” she says, “there is an engraving of an apple, with a bite taken out of its right side. Why so? Did someone eat it? If so, why?”

I give Elizabeth a quick glare, to no effect.

Then Daniel chimes in. “There are holes,” he says, “in the bottom. Why?”

I tell them one is for the earbuds, and the other is for the charger. Don’t worry about the earbud plug, I say. I’ll
explain that some other time. It’s the charger slot we have to focus on.

They spend a good deal of time peering at the charger slot. Naturally they have more questions. They want me to describe, in precise detail, each item used in the recharging process, even if I don’t know their official names. I say you put one end of the charger into the end of the phone and the other end you plug into a wall outlet.

What could be simpler?

Finally Dr. Franklin puts down his magnifying glass. “Tell me, lad,” he says. “How does one … open … this device? There does not seem to be any … pathway, as it were … to the interior.”

“I have it,” says Mr. Farrington, peering through his magnifying glass. “On the bottom here. Two tiny screws. Perhaps … if we were … to unscrew them … the back itself could be lifted off? And then gain full access to its innards, perhaps.”

A low murmur, as Dr. Franklin and Mr. Farrington consult. “Capital idea,” Dr. Franklin says. “Capital!”

“The seed, sir, from you. But let me make haste. I shall return most expeditiously.” Then Mr. Farrington puts on his winter cloak, his hat, and a scarf, and is off.

“Where’s he going?” I ask.

“He’s off to get assistance,” Dr. Franklin explains. “From his brother-in-law, a Mr. William Topping. Who, as luck would have it, is a clockmaker. He shall bring
his tools, and we shall pry our way into this … this … 
iPhone
. And we shall see what we shall see.”

“Okay,” I say, though I’m pretty sure gaining full access to the innards is going to void my warranty. But then we all have to make sacrifices in times like these, right?

F
ORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER
M
R
. Farrington returns with his brother-in-law, Mr. William Topping, clockmaker. Mr. Topping is nearly as old as Dr. Franklin. His face is red, from coming over in the cold and snow, and he is decidedly cheerful.

“Very delighted to meet you, young man, very delighted indeed! A rare pleasure, a rare pleasure to be sure! And you are from where?”

“New Jersey,” I say, offering my hand, which he gives a hearty pump. “Basically.”

“Basically from New Jersey? My word! Did you hear that, Franklin? The young man is
basically
from New Jersey! Har-har-har!”

Dr. Franklin forces a tepid quarter smile. “Topping,”
he says, “we have before us a device whose exact provenance is unknown, and at this moment unimportant. What must be done to open it, Topping? That is our only relevant concern.”

“Opening it,” Mr. Topping says, “is but half the problem, Franklin. Do you seek to have it closed as well?”

“Closed?”

“Closed. After you’ve opened it, you do want it closed back up, yes?”

“Naturally,” Dr. Franklin says. “This is why we brought you, Topping. With the hope that you would not simply lop the thing in two with a meat cleaver. A delicate hand, Mr. Topping. Nothing is to be altered or tampered with. And yes, of course: what you undo must be made whole again, in as perfect a form as you see before you.”

“Very well,” Mr. Topping says. “Then I shall need, firstly, a high chair to sit upon, and a small glass of rum, if you please, to steady my fingers. Secondly, we shall need to discuss my fee. Upon successful completion of the task you’ve given me, Franklin, I shall expect no less than two guineas.”

“I shall give you one, Topping,” Dr. Franklin says. “And you shall be happy with it. If not, away with you, and I will find someone else to do it for half the price.”

Mr. Topping shrugs. A high chair is brought to him, and so is a small glass of rum. He takes some tools out of his leather bag, and thirty seconds later the front cover is off and the iPhone lays exposed.

“Ah,” says Dr. Franklin. “The thing’s entrails. Most interesting.” He picks up his magnifying glass, and the next thing I know Mr. Farrington is taking wires out of a box. And I didn’t even know they had wires in 1776.

“Tell me,” Dr. Franklin says, “what call you the differences? Between charges, that is. When I began my investigations into the nature of electricity, I had the most vexing time referring to things, or indeed discussing my findings with anyone else. Nothing was named, you see. No common terms. Of course I did what I could—I called the one end the positive charge, the other end the negative—poor terms, perhaps, but they were the best I could devise. What call you these things? In … your day?”

“We call them the same,” I say. “Positive and negative.”

“Well,” Dr. Franklin says, and smiles. “I can’t say I am displeased, though I should have thought to patent the terms.” So then he asks: “How is the current from the wall outlet regulated?

“Are the positive and negative charges channeled to corresponding poles in the device that plugs into the bottom of the iPhone?

“Are there positive and negative receptors inside the iPhone which accept the corresponding positive and negative charges from the charging device?”

I’ve never thought about any of these questions—I just plug the thing in—but I try to answer as best I can. Then Dr. Franklin says, under his breath, “This wire here,
Topping, will be the negative conductor. I ask you not to question my judgment, but merely to affix the end of the wire to that … to that … curved portion … there. Can you do it, Topping? Without argument? And when you are quite done, repeat the process, with the other wire, to the similar curved portion on the other side. When you are finished, we shall be able to convey electricity into the device.”

“But how shall you provide it electricity, Dr. Franklin?” asks Daniel. “There is no storm and no lightning. Must we wait?”

“We are able to generate our own, young man,” Dr. Franklin says. “Unfortunately, we cannot bring our electricity to the device. We must bring the device to our electricity. Mr. Farrington, if you please. Let us do so at this very moment.”

My iPhone lies on its back, its front side exposed, with two long, thin wires protruding from it. Mr. Farrington picks it up, and we go to the front of the print shop, where there is a very large wooden box, as big as a mahogany chest. But at the very top of the chest is a shelf, and upon the shelf are about three dozen big glass jars. Five rows of seven, to be exact. And each jar has a funny-looking lid with metal rods crisscrossing the entire contraption.

Dr. Franklin is beaming, as if he himself is lit up. “Behold!” he says. “Our storehouse of electricity! Mr. Farrington, if you please: engage the condensers!”

F
OR A GUY WHO
was there at the creation of American democracy, he sure as heck didn’t give me a vote. Because the next thing I know, my iPhone is being hooked up. By the two wires dangling out of its back to the big chest of glass jars.

“Don’t be so alarmed, young man,” Dr. Franklin says. “ ’Tis perfectly safe. The jars you see are called Leyden jars, and they were originally devised in Holland. It was my conceit to bunch them together. Do you know one year, using this device, we electrified a turkey? It was most uncommon tasty, if a cook be allowed to praise his own cookery. So moist, so tender: a memorable meal. So my electrical battery is able to generate electricity, of that there is no doubt. And we know electricity is able to flow
through wires, such wires as we have affixed to your device. But we must be able to determine if our experiment be successful, do we not? But we do not have a turkey at hand, whose results we are able to see as well as to eat. Have you any suggestions, young man? How we may know if we are, at this moment … injecting … your device with all the electricity it needs?”

“It’ll turn on by itself, and start recharging,” I say. “We won’t have to do a thing.”

Which is exactly what all of us do.

I can hardly believe my eyes.

It’s charging. The power bar moves!

I’d like to see the
MythBusters
people try this one.

It’s at five percent power, and gaining by the second.

“I knew Dr. Franklin could do it,” Elizabeth says. “I had no doubt of it.”

“How long shall it take?” Daniel asks.

“An hour,” I say. “Two hours? Something like that.”

“A more precise calculation would be helpful,” Dr. Franklin says. “Our Leyden jars will not last forever.”

“It has to get to at least fifty percent,” I say. “Mr. Hart said so.”

“Mr. Hart?”

“He’s my teacher. Somehow … we’re able to text each other. But not call.”

“Text?”

“Yeah. Send short messages.”

“Using this device?”

“Yes.”

“If you tell me,” Dr. Franklin says, “that you are capable of communicating … with someone … not of here … but of … your time … if you tell me this, young man, I believe I shall expire on the spot.”

“All right,” I say. “I won’t tell you then.”

He waits. But I know well enough by now that he won’t wait for long. He’s too curious to wait for anything.

“All right, confound it,” he says. “Go ahead and communicate with this Mr. Hart of yours. Tell him Dr. Benjamin Franklin sends his compliments.”

I pick up my phone and text Mr. Hart.
Dr. Franklin is helping. Now at 20 percent power
.

We wait, but there is no answer. And while we’re waiting, I get an awful feeling: maybe there’ll
never
be an answer. If George Washington is dead, wouldn’t the whole history of the world be permanently altered? And if so, how long would it take to … to … 
manifest
itself?

The minutes go by. Every once in a while I pick up the phone, to see if a text has arrived, though I know full well that a familiar electronic beep would let me know. And I check the power status: thirty percent. Forty. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five.

And that might be all we are going to get. Because we are now beginning to notice something. People, in the street, just outside the shop.

Not ordinary people, either.

Agitated
people.

A
ND WE ALL KNOW
why: the news of General Washington’s demise is being carried along, person to person, family to family, neighbor to neighbor, by the fastest way possible: word of mouth. Everyone wants to be the first to tell the news; no one wants to be the last to hear.

And I’m now at just about sixty percent power. “Do you think you have a sufficient supply?” Dr. Franklin asks.

“I think,” I say, “that what I have is going to have to be good enough.”

“I am beginning to sense,” Dr. Franklin says, and his eyes scan the street, which is filling rapidly with passersby, “that our experiment has come to its conclusion. I fear my cabinet of Leyden jars—my electrical battery—has never been put to such a test. I also suspect
we will not be permitted the leisure of standing here for so long a time without distraction. Indeed, I keenly feel a fresh distraction approaches us at this very moment.”

He isn’t wrong. Into the shop come a group of men, four of them, and they make no effort to hide the alarm on their faces.

Daniel nudges me. “Patriots,” he says. “By which I mean fellow revolutionaries of Dr. Franklin’s.”

“Dr. Franklin!” cries the first. “Have you heard the awful news? General Washington is killed!”

“I have already heard this unbearably awful news, Samuel,” Dr. Franklin says. “Time and time again. I suspect every man, woman, and child in Philadelphia has heard by now.”

“The people are saying the revolution is finished, that we must sue the king for peace. What are we to do now, Dr. Franklin?” Samuel says. He is a younger man, perhaps the same age as Mr. Farrington—thirty, I would guess.