The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington (20 page)

“Wait here,” he says. “Outside. Your orders and detachment duty will be by presently.” Captain Hamilton turns, and goes back to McKonkey’s Ferry Inn to finish his dinner.

“What are we going to do?” Brandon says. “Make like we’ve enlisted?”

“That’s the plan,” I say. “And it’s the only one we’ve got.”

T
HE SNOW AND SLEET
and freezing rain fall heavier still, and the wind starts whipping around. It’s brutal. Standing around waiting makes it worse. We’ll get hypothermia if we don’t do something.

We set about transforming Elizabeth and Bev from girls to boys, but we don’t have any luck. Daniel looks for an extra pair of breeches in somebody’s tent, but every piece of good clothing is already taken. Elizabeth and Bev duck inside the tent anyway, and do what they can to pass themselves off as boys. It’s not much, but it will have to do. And Bev says there’s no way she’s going to lose either her jacket or her earmuffs.

So that leaves Brandon and me. I kind of fit in except for my white Nikes. Brandon? He still has on jeans, sneakers, and his red hat with the lobo on it, which
doesn’t fit in at all. But we have to go with what we’ve got.

A boy not much older than us comes along and tells us to follow him. “Your orders are in,” he says. “I’ve been told to come and fetch you.”

This doesn’t work for me—my plan was to stay as close as possible to wherever General Washington happens to be. “We can’t leave,” I say. “We’re needed right here.”

“Have you taken the oath?”

“Of course we have,” I lie.

“Then you’ll come with me. To the Twenty-Third Continental Regiment. And there’s no sense in arguing. Believe me, I’ve tried. No one cares to listen.”

The boy nods, insisting that we follow him.

“Come,” says the boy. “Or I shall be obliged to report you for dereliction of duty.”

“I think we better go,” says Elizabeth.

I don’t really agree, but I’m kind of shuffled along. The boy leads us to where the troops of the Massachusetts Twenty-Third Continental are gathered, far back in the line of men waiting to cross the river. There are maybe seventy or eighty men in the unit. Every single one of them is cold, miserable, and scrawny. Finally the boy passes us to Colonel Bailey, a lanky guy with a rough beard and torn blue coat.

“Wait here until further notice,” Colonel Bailey tells us. “Maintain silence. And try your best not to do anything stupid.

“And you,” he says to Bev. “What be your name?”

“Stevens,” she says.

“Your Christian name?”

“E-Edward.” Bev kind of squares her shoulders and looks the guy in the eye. We’re lucky it’s pretty dark by now.

“Edward?”

“Edward.”

“You be sure?”

“I be sure.”

“And you?” he says to Elizabeth. “Your name?”

“Michael,” Elizabeth says. “Michael … um … Michael Brown.”

It doesn’t seem like Colonel Bailey is buying it, but probably he has more important things to think about just now. He addresses himself to the whole unit. “Men,” he says, “and others: we will wait until so ordered to board one of the longboats you see below at the dock. It seems to be a rather lengthy process, due to the snow and the ice forming in the river. When our turn comes we will be commanded by Colonel Glover, and by the Marblehead men. We will do as they tell us, and we will make quick work of it. Remember to keep your muskets and powder as dry as you can—your lives, and our cause, depend upon it. Maintain silence. We know not where the enemy hides his ears.”

There are grunts from our comrades. And then Brandon gives me a nudge.

“Mel. I’ve been thinking.”

“Glad to hear that, Brandon.”

“I’m thinking it maybe doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to be standing around here. We’ve kind of deactivated ourselves.”

“That’s what I was worried about in the first place. We should have stayed at McKonkey’s Ferry Inn. As close to Washington as possible.”

“Maybe you were right.”

“Maybe I was. Kramm could be anywhere, waiting for his opportunity.

“There are hundreds of guys standing around, and it’s pretty much dark. We can’t just stand here, Brandon. We’re going to have to do something.”

“Concur,” Brandon says. “And if we find him? Any idea what we should do with him?”

“We turn him in to General Washington. And General Washington’s rope. The one he uses for spies.”

“B
OYS
,”
SAYS
B
EV
. “What are we whispering about?”

“It’s not a good use of our resources,” I say, “for all five of us to be standing around here doing nothing.”

“We’re not doing nothing,” says Daniel. “We’re in line. To board a longboat, which will take us across the river.”

“But the point is not to get across the river,” I say. “The point is to make sure that nothing happens to General Washington
before
he crosses the river.”

“What exactly,” says Elizabeth, “do you propose?”

“I propose that you and Bev stay right here. Hold our spots. Daniel, Brandon, and I are going to search around for Kramm, and we’ll report back in ten minutes.”

“No way,” says Bev. “The boys get to go, and the girls get to stay? Since when were you put in charge, Mel?”

“Do you want to stand around and argue again, Bev? Or do you want to do something?”

“I’ll stay,” Daniel says. “Will that solve it? Elizabeth and I. You three go. We’ll keep your spots.”

Elizabeth glares at her brother, but the deal is struck. Brandon slips off to the right and Bev to the left. I take the center path. It’s not hard. It’s dark, and snowing, and there are already lots of people milling about and walking around.

Way too many people, as a matter of fact.

I don’t even know who’s a soldier, who’s an officer, and who’s just a faker, like me.

It’s getting darker and still darker. And the snow is falling harder and harder. Everybody keeps their heads down to protect themselves from the wind and snow. And, to make it even harder, I don’t have a flashlight, a candle, a match, or a torch. I have nothing to see by, and I don’t dare use my iPhone’s flashlight app—every soldier around would immediately jump out of their boots if they saw such a thing. Assuming they had boots, that is.

So I’m not able to identify anyone unless I grab him by the shoulder and get nose to nose. Which is what I start doing. I find a bunch of New Hampshire men and try to check them one by one. It takes a few minutes, and no one’s particularly cooperative with a kid like me, but I get through them well enough. No Kramm among them.

Next group I come to is feisty and loud. I ask who they are, and a soldier says they’re the First Regiment,
MacDougall’s New York Continentals. They’ve ignored the word to keep the noise down. They think it’s more amusing to make loud and vulgar comments about the ongoing scene. What’s gotten their attention is the spectacle of a bunch of landlubbing Vermonters venturing onto one of the longboats.

“That soldier, he’s like a cat on a kettle,” says one. “I’d bet a pretty penny he falls into the drink before the night is done.”

“I’d bet a pretty penny you don’t have a pretty penny to your name,” says another. “And if you did, I’d pry it from you. You still owe me from last month, if memory serves.”

“I’ll throw you both headfirst into the drink if you don’t pipe it down,” says a third. “Haven’t you got it through your thick skulls? We’ve been told to be silent. On account of spies lurking here, there, and everywhere.”

I walk among the New Yorkers, checking every face I can. No Kramm. Just as I’m about to leave them and examine the men from Maryland, one of the New Yorkers grabs me by the arm.

“And what ’ave we ’ere?” he says. “What you be up to, lad?” The guy, who is maybe a half-inch taller than me, is also smelly, stinky, and foul, in that order.

On his feet are rags, wrapped twice around. His bare toes stick out. His toes are black, which I hope is only filth.

“Are you thievin’?” he says. “You can’t wait, until we die a decent death?”

“I’m not a thief,” I say.

“Then what are you, poking about like this? A spy?”

We’ve now gathered some attention among the New York men. They have nothing to do besides stand around and wait to board one of the longboats, which doesn’t appear likely to happen anytime soon, so pestering some strange interloper—that would be me—must seem like a pleasant diversion.

“A spy?” says another. He’s taller than the first, but just as smelly. He has on his feet something resembling shoes, but not by a whole lot. “Show me a spy and I’ll rip his heart out, along with his liver. It’d make a tasty meal, and more than I’ve had in days. Where be your spy, mate?”

“Right ’ere ’e is,” says Shorty. “Spyin’ about, looking us all up, one by one. Spyin’ or thieving, one or the other. How’s about we share his heart, mate? I’ll rip out the left side and you can have the right.” Then Shorty pokes me in the chest—right where my heart is—and draws a line up and down. “Or would you prefer, my Lord, tops to bottoms?”

“Why, Your Majesty,” says the tall one. “I shall take the top of the heart, leave you the bottom. Has anyone salt for the tasting? The last heart I et was a wee bit on the chewy side, don’t you know.”

The men laugh, kick me in the butt, and send me on my way. New Yorkers—what jokers, whatever the century.

I search around with no success until I hear Brandon loudly
—very
loudly—whispering.

“Mel! Over here! Down by the water!”

I scramble through the crowd of Marylanders and a crowd of Massachusetts men. Brandon is down by the river, next to the loading dock. Only two longboats can be loaded at a time, one on either side of the dock. The Vermonters are still being brought aboard, and the Marblehead men, who both command the loading operation and pilot the longboats, are hissing in an enraged whisper at nearly everyone to shut up and sit down.

“I’ve seen him, I think,” Brandon says. “The Hessian dude. He’s in the middle of that boat right there.”

Brandon points. A longboat, black, big, bulky, and slow, is making its way across the river. Fore and aft in the boats are Marblehead men, one the oarsman and the other the pilot. Everyone else is sitting down.

“Are you sure you saw him?” I ask Brandon. “It’s dark.”

“I’m sure. He was the guy at the farmhouse with the torch, right? Short and ugly? But I’m pretty sure he saw me. What I don’t understand is why he would go across the river. Washington’s on this side. How’s he going to get to Washington from over there?”

I think it through. And it makes perfect sense. On this side of the Delaware there are hundreds of men clumped together, and wherever Washington goes he is surrounded. But once Washington crosses over and begins the march to Trenton, his protection will break
down. We’ll be marching along a road that is unfamiliar. At some point the general could be completely exposed. And totally vulnerable.

“He’s going to take up a position, Brandon,” I say. “Somewhere along the route he’ll find the perfect place. For the kill shot.”

“M
EL
?”
SAYS
B
RANDON
.

“Yeah?”

“What do we do now?

“I’m not sure. I think we’ve got to think of something. Like, pretty quick.”

“Boys?” says a voice behind us. “Are we whispering again?”

It’s Bev, who seems very pleased with herself. “So it turns out,” she says, “that it’s pretty easy to pass as a boy. All you have to do is walk around like you know where you’re going. And spit once in a while.”

I point to the longboat crossing the river. “The dude we’re after is on that one, Bev. Brandon spotted him. Any ideas?”

“So he’s going to the other side of the river?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I guess he figures his chances are better there, so he can have a shot at Washington without so many people around.”

Bev takes this in. A new group of men begin boarding an empty longboat that just came into the dock. “Why don’t we just get in line with these guys,” she says, “and take this one over?”

It’s as good a plan as any. We mix in with the men, and a few minutes later everyone in front of us has boarded and it’s our turn.

Or it should be our turn.

Blocking our way is one of the Marbleheaders, the tough fishermen from Marblehead, Massachusetts, who’ve been given command of the longboats. Their job is to board the men on the longboats one by one and situate them according to some seaman’s algorithm, the purpose being, I take it, not to have too many men cram up in the front, or in the back, or on one side or the other, and tip the thing over right there in front of everyone. So he has power, this guy. He has red cheeks and black eyes. “Just where,” he says, “do you think you’re going?”

“We’re with them,” I say.

“With who?”

“Them,” I say, pointing to the men on the longboat.

The Marbleheader rolls his eyes. “Not likely. Now run
along. This boat be full and ready to shove off.” Then the guy puts his hand to my chest and shoves
me
off.

I stumble backward. Unfortunately for me, I lose my footing, stumble off the dock, and fall on my butt. Right in the middle of the muddy pathway the men have been using to come to the dock itself.

And even more unfortunately, I have an audience.

Quite a large audience, if you want to know the truth.

The men from Pennsylvania, New York, and Maine, to be exact.

Who see me sitting on my butt and laugh in unison.

Laughing, unlike mere smiling, is generally a noise-producing event. Har-har, ho-ho, hee-hee—you get the idea.

A hundred men of the soldiering kind laughing in unison—that’s definitely a noise-producing event.

So much so that the Marbleheader who shoved me hisses at the men to quiet down.

So much so that the noise draws the attention of some officers, who immediately come down to the dock and also hiss at the men to quiet down. Some rather rude and vulgar language is exchanged by both sides. The officers are adamant that the men comport themselves in a certain manner, and the men, who have been standing around in the snow and driving sleet for hours now and are about to board boats to take them into battle, are not in the mood to be told what to do and what not to do.