The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington (14 page)

We hear the tramping of horses’ hooves.

Then we see, in the distance, kicking up snow, horsemen coming our way.

“There be your proof,” Daniel says to Elizabeth.

“My Lord,” says Elizabeth, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth.

She is both shocked and awed. There is no mistaking the man coming up the road astride a majestic white horse: General George Washington.

Fully alive, I might add. And, at least for the moment, fully well.

G
ENERAL
W
ASHINGTON INDEED
.

Not only is he on every dollar bill in America, and in every car commercial on President’s Day, but I’ve also seen him myself, not so long ago in the future. He was, at that time, dead as ye olde doornail, of course, but still. The guy’s recognizable.

Big time.

There are four guys on horses, all abreast, coming our way. Four I recognize. General Washington, first off. He’s a giant compared to the other guys. He sits tall in his saddle, almost like he’s standing up. He has on black boots, buff breeches, a great blue coat, and an elaborate gold-trimmed black hat.

His horse, naturally, is the biggest of the bunch—a great, snorting white beast.

To the general’s left is another military man—smaller than Washington, and riding a horse three-quarters the size of Washington’s horse. Him, I’ve never seen, but I’m guessing he’s some kind of aide-de-camp.

But the two guys to Washington’s right?

Them, I’ve seen.

The last time I was here.

One of them is short, with a smashed-in face and a crooked nose. Who calls himself Mr. Kramm. He rides right next to General Washington, and his horse—a black beauty—is nearly as big as Washington’s. He seems determined
—super
determined—to stay as close to the general as he possibly can. The other guy I’ve seen before rides on the outside. I’ve never heard him speak, this one, but I don’t like him anyway.

They come down the road like they’re in a hurry, trampling up snow, and maybe the last thing they expect to see is three
kids
along the side, trying to wave them down. Mr. Kramm doesn’t appear to have any interest whatsoever in stopping to find out what we want. Nor does his comrade.

The aide-de-camp keeps his eyes straight ahead, as if he hasn’t seen us. He’s young, this guy—twenty, twenty-five tops. And definitely on the short side. He’s maybe half as big as General Washington.

The general sees us waving our arms, hears us calling his name. He holds up his gloved right hand and pulls on the reins of his great white horse, and the company stops in the snow.

The horses snort. Steam pours from their muzzles.

“Children,” says General Washington. He is five feet away, upon his steed, looking down. “Why have you hailed us?”

I am too awestruck to speak. First of all, this is
George Washington
, for crying out loud.

And second, he is alive.

So long as he lives, so lives the revolution.

“Children,” he says again, this time impatiently. “What is it?” I see that he glances at my clothes and my Nikes but makes no remark.

I haven’t thought of what to say, and the first thing that comes to my mind—
Hello there, General, I’m from the twenty-first century and I’m here to make sure you do not die today
—just won’t do. I have to think of an alternative, and I have to be quick about it, but the thing is? He’s a giant up there on his great white horse. And he doesn’t seem pleased in the slightest.

Mr. Kramm intercedes. “
Mein
general,” he says in his thick German accent. “Ve have not much time. The stable is not far.” And then Mr. Kramm glares at me like he not only knows me from
before
, but knows exactly what I’m up to
now
.

It’s eerie. Like, weird, even. This Mr. Kramm dude is
totally
staring me down. Then I notice, strapped to his shoulder, a leather satchel. On its side are big black letters:
T.G.W., INC
. Which is the same company that brought me the iTime app.

“Uh,” I say. My first word to our first president—brilliant, no? “Um,” I continue. “Mr. Presi—I mean General Washington?”

“Yes, boy?”

“Do you think we could have a word with you? In private? My friends here are Daniel and Elizabeth. Their father owns this farm. We think we have some information that you need to know. Privately.” My eyes, in case he didn’t get my drift, shift from him to the two German “farmers” to his right.

“Absolutely not!” says Mr. Kramm. “General, time is, as you told us yourself, of the essence. There is no time for—for—frivolous—children!”

The general silences Mr. Kramm with a withering glance. Then, to Daniel and Elizabeth: “ ’Tis true?” he says. “Your parents own this farm?”

“They do, sir,” Daniel says. “They have leased it to Mr. Kramm. Most recently.”

“Recently, you say? How recent?”

“Two weeks ago, sir. And from what we understand, Father was paid quite handsomely for the privilege.”

General Washington glances at his aide-de-camp, silently sending him a communication. “Interesting,” he says. Then: “Very well. You wish to discuss something with me in private. Gentlemen, if you would excuse us. Captain Powell,” he says to his aide-de-camp. “Remain here with our friends.” He then gives a tug on the reins of his white horse and moves twenty yards away.

The general brings his horse to a stop, crossways in the middle of the road. We go to the far side of the horse, which protects us from German “farmers” and any overeager ears. I don’t get the feeling that General Washington is merely indulging some kids for his amusement, or that he makes a practice of being hailed along the side of the road. I sense he is suspicious of something, and not necessarily of us.

“Go on,” he says. His eyes shift, to make sure Kramm and his cohort haven’t come any closer. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

“General Washington,” I say. “If you’ve come for horses, there are none. The men you are with are not farmers, they are Hessian soldiers—worse than that, they are Hessian agents. Their mission is to kill you, which they are planning to do as soon as they get you in the horse stable. With your death, they believe, so will die the revolution.”

“Do you two believe as he?” he asks Daniel and Elizabeth.

“It is a tale most incredulous,” says Daniel. “But at our farmhouse, there are remaining Hessians. They have not a pretense, for farming or anything else. They are dressed in full Hessian uniform. My sister and I conferred, and thought it better to warn you than to not.”

“I have,” the general said, “such a desire for horses.… Captain Powell, who accompanies me, did give a fair warning—but a dozen horses! At fair prices! I’m afraid
I was lured. Have you proof of your charges? Though I already have suspicion enough that what you say is true. Threats upon my person are nothing new, and I have disregarded them all—to the dismay of my aides, no doubt. The one gentleman—Mr. Kramm, he calls himself—has more than a passing interest in things military. Indeed, he said he has been at this farm for nearly a year. Not a mere two weeks, as you attest. Both of you cannot be correct in the facts. And I believe the facts themselves shall be enough to allow us to settle the case.

“And if what you say proves true? Then I should think all of us would find ourselves in a fair bit of danger. Indeed, imminent danger would seem to be a distinct possibility. I shall have to play this careful …”

Unfortunately, there’ll be no more time for care. Behind us, Mr. Kramm calmly takes his Luger from his coat, turns, and shoots the general’s aide-de-camp, Captain Powell.

C
APTAIN
P
OWELL FALLS OFF
his horse, the other horses neigh and jump, and General Washington, in that critical moment, calculates that his army now consists of two boys and one girl.

So he does what any other sane man would do.

He bolts. He whacks his great white horse on its flank, and it takes off.

Kramm and his partner whack their horses and take off after him.

No one—I mean no one—pays the slightest bit of attention to Daniel, to Elizabeth, or to me.

This all happens, by the way, in about five, maybe six seconds. From the shot to the whacks.

“My Lord,” says Elizabeth. We rush over to Captain
Powell, who’s been shot in the shoulder. Blood—a lot of it—is pouring down his chest, but he’s able to sit up.

“Go!” he says. “Leave me! Help the general! There’s a pistol in my pocket!”

“What about you?” I ask Captain Powell.

“I’ll be fine, blast it!” He winces. “Now go! Take my horse and help him!”

Daniel pats around and pulls out of the Captain’s coat a long black pistol. “One shot,” Daniel says. “It’s all we’ll have.”

“Let’s make it count,” I say, and then we catch Captain Powell’s loose horse and all of us climb on. It takes some doing, and I’m by far the most inept, but all three of us manage to get aboard. Daniel has the reins, then Elizabeth, then me, and off we go.

The road inclines upward, and it takes us ninety seconds of hard slogging through snow to reach the apex. From here we can see the farmhouse below, the stable, and three or four other smaller buildings. What we can’t see is General Washington, or any of his pursuers.

“What’ll he do?” Daniel asks. “Has he a weapon?”

“I’m betting he doesn’t,” I say. “He’s the general of an army, on a little side trip to purchase some horses. I don’t think he would have bothered arming himself. I didn’t see that he even had a sword.”

“Then what?” says Elizabeth. “He can’t just ride around through the snow. They’ll hunt him down, like they would a fox.”

“Could he try to get help?” I ask.

“From where?”

“How about your uncle?”

“Our uncle? How do you know about our uncle?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I must have heard.”

“Unless General Washington brought gold, he’ll find no help from our uncle, I can assure you. It’s going to be up to us, I’m afraid.”

A few minutes later we see that the tracks diverge.

“They separated,” Daniel says. “Like any hunter would in going after their prey. They’ll try to find him and flush him out.”

“And the general?” I say. “What would be his best strategy?”

“He needs to double back upon his own trail, if he can. Go in one direction, come back, go another. Try to confuse them, if he can. If he can’t, they will just follow the track and come at him from different directions. Two against one. If they have experience, it should be simplicity itself.”

“Should he get off his horse? Proceed on foot?”

“To what end? His feet still leave tracks. His only chance is to stay upon his horse, and hope for divine intervention.”

“Or us,” says Elizabeth. “We need to improve his odds.”

“There’s two of them, sister,” says Daniel. “Likely armed.”

“There are three of us,” she says. “We have arms as
well, plus wits, plus knowledge. Surely we can do something.”

Then we see to our right, riding at full gallop across naked farmland, Mr. Kramm.

“Swat him!” yells Daniel. “Upon his back flank—hard as you can!”

It takes me a beat to realize what he means. Then I do, and with my right hand I slap our horse, and yell, “Giddyup!”

Giddyup we do, though not nearly as fast as Mr. Kramm. But fast enough to throw the least experienced of us—that would be me—off the horse.

I fall with a thud. If it weren’t for the snow, I might have broken something, like my tailbone.

Daniel and Elizabeth press on.

A minute passes.

Then another.

I can’t hear or see. I don’t know where anyone is or what is happening.

Until I hear something in the not-so-far distance: the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. It goes like this:
crack
. And the sound splits the sky.

Followed, nearly instantaneously, by a cry of pain. A gut-wrenching, hair-raising, blood-curdling scream, if you want a more precise description.

A man’s scream, I’m certain, not a kid’s. Which means not Daniel, and not Elizabeth.

Either one of the two Germans. Or the commander-in-chief of the Continental Army.

I
RUN ABOUT A HUNDRED
yards through the snow, catch my bearings, and then run another hundred and turn left, where land ends and trees begin. General Washington, I’m thinking, unless he was just hit, would have headed for the woods. He probably figured his chances would be better there than in the open.

But he hasn’t been hit. Down by the trees, I see Kramm’s partner in the snow, holding his shoulder, and his horse bolting away.

And next to the man, in the white snow, a red pool of blood.

So he must have been shot in the same place Captain Powell was shot, which is only fair.

I keep running. Forward. Into harm’s way.

“Mel!” I hear Daniel shout. “Get down!”

I get down. A shot, from my left, whizzes over my head.

I land in the snow, face first. I turn and see Kramm, on his big black horse, charging toward me. I am one dead duck.

He’s coming at me with speed. I can almost feel the iron horseshoes—all four of them—trampling me.

Then, from the woods, I see a white flash.

General Washington’s magnificent steed comes flying my way. Either he’s going to intercept Kramm’s horse, or he’s going to run me over himself.

Both horses are maybe three feet away. Something so bad is about to happen to me I can’t watch. I close my eyes and count: three.

Two.

One.

T
HREE, TWO, ONE
,
BAM
.

So this is it
, I think.
This is what it’s like. The pearly gates
.

I feel myself lifted up. White all around me. A special kind of white. Snow white.

Snow white? Lifted up?

The white I see
is
snow, and the lifting up is by the powerful left hand of General George Washington, who has plucked me off the ground a fraction of a second before I was going to be trampled to death by Kramm’s angry black stallion.