The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (12 page)

Eddie Owens's whining voice broke into my private vision. “Heck, that creek doesn't look like much. Bet I could wade that any day, any place.”

Irritated, I turned around. “Not then you couldn't, Owens. The banks were steep and jammed with trees. You couldn't have gotten through, especially with a pack like those British soldiers had to wear.”

“Bet I could.”

“No way.”

Mrs. Hettrick materialized in the aisle beside us. “I think you boys should stop arguing and concentrate on Brandywine,” she said with a frown.

From across the aisle, Pat grinned. “That's what they're fighting about. Would you believe it?”

“All right, then, one of you answer this question. Why did the Americans take up positions here at Brandywine Creek?”

“To stop the British from reaching Philadelphia, which was the capital where the Congress was and all,” parroted Eddie. Then enthusiasm spurred him on. “And my great-great-great-great
something-grandfather practically turned this battle around. Why, he . . .”

Mrs. Hettrick's eyes seemed to glaze over. “You can tell us all about your illustrious ancestor when we get to the museum, Eddie, but now I want an answer to my question.”

I heard a voice answering, and discovered with some surprise that it was my own. “Because this was the main road east from Kennett Square, where the British were camped after marching up from Chesapeake Bay. The Brandywine was the last natural barrier between the British and Philadelphia except for the Schuylkill River, which was at the very doors of the city.”

The astonishment on Mrs. Hettrick's face, reflected on those of the kids, made me falter into silence.

“Aren't
you
the Norweirdgian bookworm!” whispered Eddie.

Mrs. Hettrick beamed. “Good work, Lars. I can tell you've been doing some reading. Cass would have been proud of you.”

Having so much attention paid to me didn't please Eddie. “Mrs. Hettrick,” he said, wildly waving his hand.

“Yes, Eddie?” she sighed.

“Why didn't they just use the bridge? That's what I want to know. I would have just marched my men over that bridge and . . .”

“Owens, you sapskull, you witling, you great booby! No bridge was built for a score or more years,” I exclaimed, in an unconscious echo of Geordie.

There was a long moment of silence.

Mrs. Hettrick cleared her throat. “Perhaps you don't know our school rules, Lars. But we don't allow students to use bad words—even unfamiliar ones. I'll let it go this time, but . . .”

“They sure have weird cuss words in Minneapolis,” Eddie Owens put in, looking smug at my getting in trouble.

“I didn't learn those words in Minnesota—,” I began, then stopped when I realized just where I had learned them.

“I think you've been watching too much ‘Monty Python,' Lars,” Pat said with a grin. “You're getting a British accent!”

“Yeah. Don't forget the guys who talked like that here at Brandywine were wearing red coats!” Eddie hooted.

“Not necessarily,” said Mrs. Hettrick. “Remember, the Americans were mostly British immigrants and their descendants. It was impossible to identify a man's allegiance by his accent. People talked like that on both sides. That was one reason it was so hard to prevent all the spying—and to keep track of those who kept switching loyalties. Now, can anyone tell me why Washington didn't know about the fords upstream?”

I sat through the following pause, determined not to say anything else to embarrass myself. But the pause lengthened until I couldn't stand it anymore.

“Most of the patriots who lived around here left when they heard Howe was coming, and the people who stuck around were either loyalists—who deliberately lied about the fords to Washington—or neutrals, like Mr. Welsh of the tavern nearby. He didn't help either side; he just filled their tankards.”

The other students looked at me blankly.

Mrs. Hettrick, intent on getting her main point across to the children, pressed on where I left off. “So, you see, poor Washington never knew what hit him.”

I found myself disagreeing aloud with the teacher. “No, Mrs. Hettrick. He
did
have a warning—but it was too late.”

“I think you must be mistaken, Lars. I've never heard of any warning. Where did you read about that?”

I shrugged and replied vaguely, “Somewhere. I don't know.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” squeaked Eddie. “It was my ancestor who . . .”

“Here we are!” cut in Mrs. Hettrick. “Sorry, Eddie, you'll have to tell us later.”

The bus doors opened and the students spilled out. Half the class milled around the parking lot, others started to climb the hill toward the picnic area, and the rest began to move in the general direction of the park museum.

“I feel like General Washington,” laughed Mrs. Hettrick. “We both had the same problems here at Brandywine getting our undisciplined troops moving in the right direction at the right time. Just imagine how much more complicated it must have been to get thousands of men where they had to be.” She raised her voice and told the stragglers that the class was first to go to the museum and could wander about later.

Once inside, we were able to poke around on our own, looking at the exhibits. Some exhibits explained the finer points of the battle, while others held relics of the soldiers themselves: flesh forks, kettle hooks, shaving gear, and other personal stuff found on the battlefield. Though more excited by each display, I tried to cover up my enthusiasm. I didn't want to be teased about my sudden knowledge, especially when I couldn't give a reasonable explanation for it. I'd already blabbed far too much to feel comfortable.

With a mask of indifference, I followed the group around the museum. Suddenly, Eddie Owens gave a triumphant shout and pointed at one of the display cases. “See, I was right!” he crowed. “My great-great-great-whatever-grandfather
did
warn Washington . . .”

I joined the flock of students that clustered around Eddie, who oozed smugness.

There under the glass was a photocopy of a letter written by Washington himself. The spidery handwriting was hard to read, but a typewritten version lay next to it. With a pounding heart, I read through the flowery salutation and scanned the rest until I came to a section that seemed to jump off the page at me.

 

Despite the men's lack of training, the troops acquitted themselves remarkably well on the field of battle at Brandywine. It was cursed ill luck that we failed to learn of the upper fords until so late. If Cheyney and the boy hadn't come to warn us of the British flanking action, however, what was a retreat might have been total destruction. Bless them
. . . .

 

I looked up from the letter into Eddie Owens's beaming, chubby face.

“That boy who warned Washington was my ancestor,” said Eddie. “My dad is convinced of it. Just think: George Washington actually knew
my
ancestor . . . and talked to him right here at Brandywine.”

And fed him right here at Brandywine
, I thought. Geordie's description of the boy filching food from the sideboard at Washington's headquarters flashed so vividly in my head that for a moment I could almost see the juices running down Eddie's face.

Eddie's ancestor had told General Washington about the fords on the Brandywine, all right—and he had told him all wrong. The boy with Squire Cheyney, I remembered with a quiet glow of pride, had been Geordie. My friend. My shade. But there was nothing I could say to set the story straight.

Mrs. Hettrick bustled up, curious at the crowd around Eddie.

“Lars, I spoke with the museum guide, and he says you were right: Washington did hear about the flanking, from a Squire Cheyney and a boy who . . .”

“A boy named Owens, Mrs. Hettrick!” erupted Eddie.

Mrs. Hettrick paused. “No one knows that for sure, Eddie. It might have been some other boy.”

“But look at this letter . . .”

Mrs. Hettrick cut him off firmly. “It doesn't give his name.” She turned to me with a pleased expression on her face. “I must say, Lars, you've caught up with us with extraordinary speed. I'll have to send a note to your parents.”

Eddie was determined to have his say, however. “But my dad's got all these other letters and stuff proving what my ancestor did. We're going to put them in the new museum at . . .”

“Oh, shut up, Eddie,” said Pat.

I wasn't crazy about being defended by a girl, but I suppose it was better than nothing. At least it worked. Eddie must have remembered Pat's slap.

I moved on to look at the next display of a tall fur hat labeled
British Grenadier's Bearskin Cap
. Then suddenly my eyes focused on a small figure nearly hidden behind a British cartridge box.

It was a leaden toy soldier with a hat molded into a grenadier's cap like the real one beside it and a musket held up in firing position. Most of the figure was a dull metallic gray, but in the creases of the tunic remained a few traces of red paint.

My eyes flew to read the label:
This toy soldier, stamped
London,
was found on the battlefield near Sandy Hollow. It is likely a souvenir of home and family, lost from the pack of a British soldier during the battle
.

My throat felt funny, but I couldn't tell if the cause was laughter or sadness—or both. How could anyone have guessed it had been deliberately thrown away by an American boy?

Mrs. Hettrick clapped her hands. “Okay, group, now we're going to walk over to Lafayette's headquarters. You can stand under the actual sycamore tree where Lafayette lay after being wounded in the leg at Sandy Hollow. But please don't race over there.
We
don't want any wounded this trip!”

Lafayette wasn't the only one with a leg wound from this battle
, I thought. Even as I followed the others toward the farmhouse used by Lafayette, my thoughts turned to Will. What had happened after Geordie got his injured brother back to Penncroft Farm?

My eagerness to find out the rest of the story made the day drag by. When I finally got off the bus at Seek-No-Further Pike, I ran all the way to Penncroft Farm.

My mother was in the kitchen, which looked as if it had been hit by a good old Minnesota tornado. Every cupboard door and drawer was open, with everything pulled out and scattered on the kitchen floor.

“What a mess!” I said, looking around.

Mom rolled her eyes. “I'm glad you're developing standards, Lars,” she said dryly. “Now you know a mess when you see it, maybe you'll learn to keep your bedroom from becoming one.”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, this is a combination fall housecleaning and treasure hunt. We've
got
to find that will—and fast.”

“But we've already searched the whole house.”

“I know.” Her forehead wrinkled with worry. “There's something else funny, Lars. I can't find that cup and ball I returned to Aunt Cass when we moved here. She must have hidden it in that dratted hidey-hole along with her valuable papers.”

“Valuable papers!” I suddenly remembered something Geordie had said. “Spices and gunpowder and valuable papers! That's it!” I exclaimed. Hurrying over to the fireplace, I ran my fingers over the woodwork above the mantel. “Got to be here somewhere,” I said, tapping the carving hopefully. “There's a secret door. Come on, Mom, help me find the spring to open it!”

My mother walked over with discouraging calmness. “If you mean the spice closet, I've already checked,” she said matter-of-factly.

“H-how did you know about that?” I said.

“I found out a few of Penncroft's secrets—even without George's help,” she answered with a grin. It soon faded. “Look, honey, why don't you search the barn? It's an unlikely hiding place, but who knows—maybe that's where the will is.”

I quickly downed my after-school snack and rushed out to the barn. Maybe I'd be lucky enough to find Geordie hanging out there again. But when I went inside the great doors and pulled the light cord, there was nothing but the array of folded boxes and a musty smell. Crestfallen, I leaned against the weathered wood of the barn wall and ran my finger lightly over the peg where the riddle had hung.

“That Geordie—he's a riddle, too,” I said under my breath. “Why didn't he tell me some magic word I could use to call him when I want him, like ‘Open sesame' or ‘Bibbedy, bobbedy, boo' or something?”

“‘Bibbedy, bobbedy, boo'!?” protested an incredulous voice in my ear. “You must be jesting, Lars. No self-respecting shade would respond to such tomfoolery.”

I sprang away from the wall. “Geordie! You're back! Now you can tell me what . . .”

With a chuckle, Geordie reached up and swept the tricorne off his head, swooping it in front as he gave a deep bow. “At your service, sir. What would it please you to know?”

“Everything. But mostly, did Will recover from his wound?”

10

If Father suspected anything, he showed no sign of it as September gave way to October. Although one day he did notice that there were candles missing from the tin box by the fireplace and asked what had happened to them
.

Mother and I exchanged startled looks. She was a stickler about truth telling, and I could read her thoughts as if she had spoken them. The candles had gone to light up Grampa's Folly. How could we protect Will without lying to Father? We didn't have to
.

“
Must've been the mice again, eh, slugabed?” Father said
.

“
Ah,” I yawned, not quite agreeing, though he thought I did. My drowsiness when he'd try to rouse me each morning hadn't escaped Father's notice. He never knew that I'd spent most of each night with
Will. Mother would slip out to the barn when Father and I went off to the orchard lugging the apple barrow
.