The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington (19 page)

Brandon and Daniel and Elizabeth gather around.

“Look,” says Bev. “It has the time, the date, and the coordinates. The date is December 25, 1776. I’m just going to change the year and then hit
Submit
, and that will be the end of that. You boys want to come along?”

“What about the Hessian dude?” Brandon says.

“What about him?”

“Are we just going to leave him?”

“Brandon,” Bev says. “Let me explain it to you. Sometimes the only thing anyone can do is just look out for number one. And right now is one of those times. You coming?”

“So the answer is yes. We’d leave the Hessian dude behind.”

“They’re smart guys, Brandon. They’ll figure something out.”

“You sure?”

“Brandon—I’m not arguing. I’m leaving. Better some of us get out than none of us.” She holds up her phone. “Who’s coming with me? Who wants to go home?”

Home
, she says.

A funny word. Considering none of us are home, that is. We’re at school. Because, for one reason or another, there was no home for any of us this year.

I can’t believe they’d do this. It’s like they’re seceding from the Union.

But both Bev and Brandon reset the iTime app.

“What does this mean?” Elizabeth says.

“It means goodbye,” Bev says. “It was nice knowing you. Mel? You coming?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Not when there’s a loose end.”

“Good luck with that,” Bev says. She counts down, three, two, one, then she and Brandon raise their fingers. All they have to do is hit
Submit
and it will be done.

B
UT THEY DON
’
T
.

Bev and Brandon stand there, iPhones in their left hand, right forefingers in midair, eyes wide as windows.

“I can’t believe we’re staying,” Bev says. “We must be idiots.”

“Maybe we’re patriots,” I say.

Bev rolls her eyes. Then she sighs. Then we start arguing all over again.

Me against Bev.

Bev against Brandon.

Daniel tries to say something, but Elizabeth tells him to shush, so they start arguing too. Why should we have all the fun?

I see what’s happening to us.

We’re becoming
factionalized
.

Our interests, our goals, and our needs are
mismatched
.

The colony of Bev has nothing in common with the colony of Brandon.

The colony of Brandon is remote, in every way, from the colony of Mel.

Which results in friction. And arguing. Loudly.

All the stuff that has been sort of kept under the lid for the last few days starts to come out—pretty much at the very worst possible time.

Brandon calls Bev a stuck-up snoot. And then he says she’s not really smart at all, she just likes to
pretend
she’s smart. Like an
actress
.

He must have hit home, because Bev’s eyes flare. And then she
snorts
, she’s so mad. “Oh yeah?” Bev says. “You’re nothing but a dopey loser, Brandon. You don’t even belong at the Fredericksville School. You’ll never catch up because you’re too dumb and too lazy.”

“Yeah?” says Brandon. “Well, guess what you are, Bev. You’re a big drama queen, just like your mother.”

Which Bev does not take lying down. She walks up to Brandon, raises her hand, and is about to slap him right across the face when an officer comes by on horseback.

An officer of the Continental Army. With three other soldiers on horseback close behind.

Which, if you want to know the truth, we’ve kind of forgotten about. The Continental Army? The crossing
of the Delaware? Hey—we’re arguing here! First things first!

“Silence!” the officer says, trying to shout over us. “Silence! Or you all will be bound and gagged, I promise!”

That stops us.

“Who are you children, and what business have you here?” he says. He glances down at my feet, and then he notices Brandon’s hoodie. He’s about to comment when Bev butts in.

“And who are you?” says Bev.

“He is Captain Joseph Moulder, of the Philadelphia Battalion of Associators,” says one of the men. “And no more impertinent questions from you, young miss.”

“My charge,” says Captain Moulder, “is to patrol this perimeter and to maintain order. You will cease making any further commotion, or I shall have you bound and gagged. Now for the last time: state your business.”

“Our fathers are soldiers,” says Elizabeth. “We came to bring them what little food we had to spare.”

It’s a good line, and it pretty much works. “Have you done so?” Captain Moulder asks her.

“We have, sir,” Elizabeth says.

“Then move along. Go to your homes. Your business at this camp is ended.”

C
APTAIN
M
OULDER AND HIS
Philadelphia Battalion of Associators ride off.

“Well, how do you like that?” I say. “So where were we?”

“We were arguing,” says Elizabeth. “Among ourselves.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I say. “And now we need to go warn General Washington. He has to be around here somewhere. Anyone coming with me?”

I start walking.

I know they don’t like it, but a minute later all of them start walking along with me.

We come to a dock on the Delaware, where a group of officers are supervising the loading of the men onto a long black boat—the famous longboats used for taking
iron ore up and down the river. Each one can hold as many as thirty men. It’s nearly five in the evening now, and already dark. The snow is really starting to fall down, and all the soldiers are grim, cold, and noticeably unenthusiastic. They must have figured out by now that crossing the Delaware is only the half of it. They are not going to a party, or to anyplace warm or cozy.

Elizabeth takes charge. She walks right up to the most important guy she can find, who turns out to be General Greene. “We demand,” she says, “to be taken to General Washington immediately! We have urgent business!”

“Business?” says General Greene. “At a time such as this? And I thought we were quit of you children. Were you not instructed to return to your parents?”

“We must speak with General Washington,” I say. “All of us. His life may be in danger.”

“You’re mad. All of you. Now go away.”

“We aren’t mad,” says Brandon.

“And we’re not going away,” says Elizabeth.

“General Greene,” I say, “if it wasn’t for me, General Washington might have canceled this crossing. You know it’s true.”

“What danger?” he says.

“Mortal danger. But we will tell it only to him.”

General Greene thinks it over, and then comes to a decision. “Very well,” he says. “If you insist. Let us go to General Washington and you shall have an audience. Of one minute. Do not take a second longer, so help you.”

We are led, in single file, up a snowy path lined with
soldiers, to McKonkey’s Ferry Inn, which is a good-sized brick-faced building. McKonkey, we’ve been told, is a guy who runs a ferry service from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, and also houses and feeds travelers. Inside the building, which is warmed by a massive fireplace, is General Washington.

Eating dinner, of all things. And seeming quite comfortable with himself as he does so. I can see on his plate something brown, which I think is meat; something brownish, which might be a vegetable; and something white, which could be a potato. He is dining with three other officers, including Captain Hamilton. If I am not mistaken, all of them are discussing, as we approach, the price of land in the Ohio Valley.

The price of land in the Ohio Valley?

At a time like this?

With the revolution itself hanging by a thread?

Then the conversation turns to things more pertinent. “Your Excellency,” says General Greene. “I have my report. A tenth of the troops have gotten across the river. No men have been lost, and few have complained. Plus, another matter to discuss. These—these young people … desire to speak with you.”

General Washington dabs his lips with a handkerchief. He gives the distinct impression that nothing that General Greene has to say is worth disturbing his meal.

“A tenth?” he says. “That is all?”

“A tenth,” says General Greene. “The currents are treacherous, Excellency. Our Marbleheader men at the
helms of the longboats are the best we have, but they’ve no interest in tipping over. Colonel Glover commands the entire operation, and no one dares question him. There are also chunks of ice in the river, some large enough to disturb passage. Sir, Colonel Glover says getting the men across is straightforward enough, if slow. The Marbleheaders are most concerned with bringing across the horses and most especially the cannons. They will wait till last, but the weather and ice are getting worse, far worse. And we must get everything across. We cannot attack without a full army. Or without cannon.”

“But only a tenth, General Greene? At what time—nearly six? We are far behind schedule, are we not?”

“We are, sir. It is a miserable night for a crossing. The Marbleheaders are doing the best they can, under difficult circumstances.”

“I would dine easier, General Greene, if they moved faster. Our attack is planned for before dawn, not after.”

“I’m aware, Excellency. Acutely aware. We are moving the men at the fastest pace we can.”

“Very well, General. And what else have you brought me? Not these infernal children again. I thought I had seen the last of them. What tall tales do they wish to inflict upon me this time?”

“They wish to warn you, sir.”

“They what?”

“They wish to warn you.”

“About what?” General Washington says, and turns his big head to me.

“Your Excellency, your life is in danger!” I say.

General Washington responds with a hearty laugh, and as soon as he does the other men at his table join in. The merriment is positively contagious.

“Of course it is,” he says. “As are the lives of us all. But I make it a firm policy not to let the threat of my demise come between me and my plum pudding.” This provokes another round of hilarity, and someone nearly falls off his chair. The general seems quite pleased with himself. “Now run along. Consider your warning delivered, and thank you very much.”

I persist. “But General Washington, I mean specifically, your life is in danger. From the man at the farm. Who burned down the horse stable. He’s followed us here.”

The general stops eating and glares at me. “I believe I said, and said most clearly, that this matter shall never be talked of again. Did I not?”

I can see I’m not getting anywhere, and I’d rather not be taken out to the firing squad like he promised. So I try one last time to warn him. “It could come from a bullet or a knife. Or even poison in the food you’re eating.”

The general takes a bite from his plum pudding, and frowns. “My word,” he says. “If this be poison, I shall have the whole thing. Most delectable indeed!”

Yet one more round of laugher, merriment, hilarity. One officer nearly chokes on his sherry.

It stinks, sometimes, being a kid. No one takes you seriously.

T
HEN, WITHOUT ANY FURTHER
ceremony, General Washington returns to dinner. General Greene whispers something in the ear of Captain Hamilton, and the next thing we know, Captain Hamilton himself is escorting us out of McKonkey’s inn.

“Whatever you say with respect to his personal safety, he will hear none of it,” says Captain Hamilton. “We have tried in the past. He is utterly impervious to our entreaties. He does not think himself invincible, merely destined. And no bullet or blade yet made could ever mar his destiny. Or so he believes. He will not heed any warning you bring, or any that we bring.”

“I’m not making this up, Captain Hamilton,” I say. “You saw him for yourself—the man at the horse stable.
A Hessian by the name of Kramm. He’s followed us. He’s in this camp right now. And he’s going to try to kill General Washington whether the general believes it or not. Can you assign him bodyguards?”

“We did have personal guards for him, but those men have been deployed elsewhere. There did not seem to be any danger on this side of the Delaware.”

“Then we shall do it,” says Elizabeth. “We shall stay close to his person, and protect him. We have not been assigned elsewhere, so therefore he cannot object.”

“But only soldiers are allowed close to him,” says Captain Hamilton.

“Then we shall enlist.”

“You cannot. At this hour? And you, if I may point out, are not—you are not …”

“A gentleman?”

Captain Hamilton blushes. “Of age,” he says.

“A pair of breeches takes care of the first part,” Elizabeth says. “As for the second, I have seen lads our age in your army. As for the last part, simply assign us to a battalion, Captain Hamilton. You need not do more. No one will ask to see our papers, or question our authenticity. And we shall take care of the rest.”

“You remind me of myself,” Captain Hamilton says. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” I say.

“All of you?”

“Yes.”

“When I was twelve I was working in a counting house. On an island in the Caribbean Sea of which I suspect you have never heard. My mother had died and my father was long gone. And I remember I told myself: all I need is the one chance. If providence shall but provide me the one chance, I swear upon all that is holy that I shall do the rest. My chance, it did come, and I do say I have made the most of it. So I shall give you your chance. I believe the Massachusetts Twenty-Third Continental Regiment could use extra men. I will pass word to its commander, Colonel Bailey. From there it will be up to you to convince him that you are indeed men—not boys and girls.

“Remember this: once on the other side, should you get detached from your unit, and should you happen upon a person whom you know not to be friend or foe, we have developed a code. The call is ‘Victory.’ The response is ‘Or death.’ Should you call ‘Victory’ and not hear ‘Or death’ in response, you shall know you have an enemy upon you. If you have a weapon, charge forward. If you have no weapon, fall back. But prudently. Let it not be said of any soldier in the Continental Army that he lost his wits and fled in panic. The worst is not death. The worst is eternal ignominy.