The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington (17 page)

Two black, one white.

Standing next to General Washington is the officer who was at the farm, Captain Hamilton, and another officer, who seems to be his superior. Captain Hamilton is short, and young, like, maybe twenty years old. He acts like he thinks he’s hot stuff and knows it all. Then it hits me: the dude isn’t just some guy named Hamilton. He’s
Alexander
Hamilton. If everything works out the way’s it’s supposed to, he’s going to get his face plastered on every ten-dollar bill in America. If I had my iPhone, I’d take his picture.

The other officer is older, maybe thirty-five at the max. I’m getting the impression he wouldn’t mind hanging me then and there. His eyes are black, and burning. And even kind of
accusing
, like I’m to blame for something.
Dude
, I’d like to say.
What’s your problem?

There are no chairs in front of General Washington’s desk. I’m guessing this is the way the dude rolls.
I am the commander; you are not. I sit. You do not
.

“Any and all discussions in this room,” General Washington begins, “are entirely and completely private, and shall never be spoken of outside this room. With me are General Greene and Captain Hamilton. They can vouch for what I say. One violation, and you will be shot. There will be no jury or appeal. Do you understand?”

“I do,” I say. “Sir.”

“The proper form of address,” interjects General Greene, “when speaking to General Washington is ‘Your Excellency.’ ”

“It is?” I say. That seems weird to me, and somehow, dare I say it, un-American.
Your Excellency?

“It most certainly is,” General Greene says.

“Okay,” I say. “If you say so.”

“What is your name?” General Washington continues.

“My name is Mel,” I tell him. “Your Excellency.”

“Mel what?” I tell him my real full name.

“Your age?”

“Twelve.”

“Your place of residence?”

“Fredericksville, New Jersey. That’s where I go to school, anyway.”

“You claimed this morning that Hessians aimed to kill me and alter the progress of the revolution, did you not?”

“I did. Sir. I mean, Your Excellency.”

“And how did you come to have this knowledge?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story. Sir. Your Excellency. I could tell you one hundred percent of the truth, sir, but I have a feeling you might not believe me. But I won’t lie. I would never tell a lie. Your Excellency, sir.”

General Washington—believe it or not—kind of shakes his shoulders and rolls his eyes. “Those very words,” he says, “give me pause. When someone tells me they would never tell a lie, I always make sure to have a firm grip upon my purse. Dispense with the tired homilies, young man. Tell me plainly how you came to know the Germans were soldiers, not farmers. And be quick about it. We haven’t all day.”

So much for the “I would never tell a lie” trick. I never believed that story about Washington, anyway. “All right,” I said. “I know because … well, I guess you could say I saw it for myself.”

“Saw what for yourself?”

“Your death, sir. I mean, Your Excellency.”

“In a vision? A dream?”

“Nope. The real thing. You were dead, shot in the chest. In that horse stable. And that would mean no crossing the Delaware, no victory at Trenton, the revolution
would fail, and there’d be no United States of America. Which would really stink. So I figured the best thing to do would be to go back in time one hour before that and fix it. With Dr. Franklin’s help, that’s sort of what happened.”

General Washington keeps his eyes on mine the entire time I speak without shaking his head, or objecting, or laughing out loud, or pounding the table and telling me to shut up. He listens carefully, and displays no emotion.

“He’s obviously quite mad, Excellency,” says General Greene. “I believe his position is that he is from posterity. Shall I see him out?”

“You shall not, General Greene. If the young gentleman wishes to believe he is from posterity, we shall allow it. But his information is incorrect. There will be no crossing of the Delaware tonight, and therefore no attack upon the Hessians tomorrow in Trenton. The attack has been canceled, upon my orders, mere minutes ago. My forecasters predict snow and sleet, which makes any crossing tonight quite impossible. And if you—a twelve-year-old boy from New Jersey—know of my plans, I fear the entire enterprise is doomed. I therefore have called it off. No crossing. No attack. We shall soon inform the men. Perhaps you, young man, will be kind enough to inform posterity on our behalf, and tell them we poor mortals shall have to make the best of it. Send our regrets. But we act for ourselves first and posterity second. The
weather is inclement; the enemy has no doubt been forewarned. There will be no crossing tonight.”

“You must!” I say, but I have been dismissed. Captain Hamilton takes me by the arm and leads me away.

Or tries to. They won’t get rid of me without a fight.

 

“G
ENERAL
W
ASHINGTON
,” I
SAY
, and I stand up as tall as I can. “You are not only wrong, you are dead wrong. You either cross the Delaware tonight and attack Trenton in the morning, or this revolution is over right here and now. Your men are itching to fight. They have a week left to their enlistment. You’ve been pushed out of New York and across New Jersey and you have nothing to show for it. You either fight now, or you lose now. There’s no other choice.”

“The—the—the impertinence!” sputters General Greene. “The—the audacity! A mere child—talking in such a manner to the commander in chief of the Continental Army!”

“And you, General Greene,” I say, “always agree with every word General Washington says. Don’t you?”

He stops midtirade, and a sheepish acknowledgement crosses his face. “We are a unified command,” he says stiffly. “General Washington has made his decision and it is our responsibility to fulfill it to the very best of our abilities.”

“It’s the wrong decision,” I say. “And you know it. It’s tonight or never. The Hessians are in Trenton. The last thing they’ll expect is an attack. Even if they have spies and have been told, they won’t believe it. Today is Christmas Day. Who would ever think anyone would be crazy enough to cross the Delaware on Christmas Day? It’s a brilliant plan, General Washington. It will be remembered throughout history. You’ve got to go through with it. You can’t falter.”

“History?” General Washington says. “What will they remember? That an obscure Virginian, a gentleman farmer, not a professional British soldier, led twenty-four hundred men to their doom? I know what the British think of me. I petitioned them, when I was a young man. I begged to be accepted into the officer corps of His Majesty’s Army, and they refused me. I was a
colonialist
, not a proper Englishman. They scorned me then, and they scorn me now. They say I am an
amateur
. A rank amateur with desperate schemes. The weather is turning, young man. There is ice forming in the river. A storm is very nearly upon us. How shall we cross with twenty-four hundred men? And march them nine miles south? The idea is preposterous, utterly preposterous. It shames me to think I ever entertained it.”

“Wow,” I say. “I didn’t think you’d give in so easily. It’s not what the history books say about you. They say you are the ‘indispensable man.’ That without your determination and forbearance, and your ability to overcome any and all obstacles, there never would have been such a thing as the United States of America. You become our first president, sir. Our capital was established in your name. It’s called Washington, D.C. It is a shining city upon a hill. And the monument to you is the tallest building in the entire city.”

“By God,” General Washington says, and a faraway gleam comes across his eyes. “I like it! Washington, D.C.” Then his eyes flash. “Those, sir, are not my initials! I am ‘Washington,
G
.’
G.
, and only
G
. Who is this Washington,
D.C.
, you speak of? I have no relations with such initials. What abomination is this? After all I have suffered? All I have risked? To be—to be insulted! In such a manner! ’Tis an outrage!”

“Your Excellency—if I may,” General Greene says gently, soothingly. “He’s a mere boy. He harbors delusions, I fear. He’s not from posterity, sir—he’s from
New Jersey
. What should one expect? I say we send him back with the others and think no more of any of them or what he said. It’s complete tosh.”

“General, if I may explain?” I say. “The
D.C
. is not anyone’s initials. They stand for District of Columbia, as our nation is often called Columbia. The city of Washington, in the District of Columbia, lies along the Potomac River, a few miles from your home at Mount Vernon. Millions
of Americans go there every year to pay homage to the Father of Our Country. That’s how you are known. Or will be known. Once you get your men across the river and defeat the Hessians tomorrow at Trenton.”

“Oh,” says General Washington. A smile crosses his face but is very quickly withdrawn. He coughs, and marches a piece of paper from the left side of his desk to the right. The silence is painfully uncomfortable. Captain Hamilton, standing behind the general, puts his hands out: it’s all right, he seems to be saying. Give the guy a second.

We do. “Well then,” General Washington finally says. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. I withdraw my remarks, and beg your indulgence.”

“The boy is touched, Your Excellency, I swear an oath,” says General Greene. “He speaks gibberish, and nothing but. I shall send him away at once.”

General Washington holds up a hand. “Wait,” he says. “This
District of Columbia
, you speak of. On the Potomac, you say? Within distance of Mount Vernon? I daresay it is a suitable place for a capital city—perhaps a bit far for John Adams and the Massachusetts men, but still, altogether suitable. And, young man, you refer to a ‘president.’ What position is this, precisely? President of what? How does it come to be established?” General Washington steeples his fingers, and his eyes regain their faraway gleam.

“It’s what we call the leader of our country,” I say.
“Which is to come. There will be a Constitutional Convention, in 1787, and all of this will be figured out when the Constitution is written. It establishes the United States of America.”

“That,” says Captain Hamilton, “is an estimable idea. What we have now is no country. We have thirteen squabbling colonies. They can’t so much as raise a farthing to pay our men, though their lives depend upon it.”

“General,” says General Greene. “I beg you to dismiss this young man. He is obviously quite ill. You said yourself, not ten minutes ago, that attempting to cross the river this night is hopeless, utterly hopeless. You will not put the men to it.”

“And did you not, General Greene, dispute my thoughts? Did you not make much the same argument this young man just made? If he be so ill, General Greene, what then about you?”

“I am a military officer, Your Excellency,” General Greene says, not a little stiffly. “I gave you my professional judgment. This boy is ill and possessed by the devil, I fear. I beg you again not to give a second’s pause to a word he says.”

“You, General Greene, were, less than a year ago, a Quaker and a farmer with no land. Let us not puff up each other’s military credentials, my good sir. We save that for the enemy, who disdain us, and for the men, who only partly disdain us. Thus far, that is. Ill this young man may be, but of the men he speaks the truth: if we shall
not fight, we shall lose them all. Would not these horrid conditions in fact be our greatest asset? The bold stroke, General Greene—how I have advocated the bold stroke! What else have we? I am chagrined, sir. That I have been led around by the forecasters of weather and gloom. Perhaps I need to rethink the possibilities. Think of posterity, General Greene. Think of a shining city upon a hill. Posterity has sent us, by our great good fortune, this emissary who stands before us now.”

“Sir, I beg you. The boy is a liar and a fool. Not posterity’s emissary.”

“Are you for a crossing, General Greene? You were. Are you not still?”

“I am indeed, sir. But for our own good reasons. Not predicated on the ravings of a lunatic. The boy is a fool, sir, I say again. No emissary is he.”

“Are you quite sure of that, General Greene?”

“Of course I am, sir. It’s … preposterous to think otherwise.”

“Then what, pray tell, be these?” General Washington says, and holds up one of the iPhones laid on his desk. “A most curious device, would you not say? And not of our own world, an unprejudiced mind could easily conclude. Not of our own world at all. Why not, General Greene, from another time? Another place?

“Time does not favor us. Nor does weather. If you notice, providence has chosen to make this day most inclement, but, upon reflection, I have decided it is a signal
to proceed, rather than to falter. The higher the obstacle, the more gratifying the triumph.

“Let them go,” General Washington says. “Let these children go. This one, and the others. They may have their devices back, I care not for them. General Greene—we have a river to cross, and we must begin preparations at once. Everyone to McKonkey’s Ferry on the double-quick. We must inform the officers and then the men—time is wasting. We are about to give the enemy a capital strike, and he shan’t ever forget that on this day, Christmas Day, free men of courage crossed a river of ice in the name of independence from tyranny. To the longboats, gentlemen. Our destiny awaits.”