by R. L. Stine
“So, uh, why’d they send me?”
“Only time will tell,” said Mrs. Hunter.
She picked up her seam ripper and carefully cut the looped stitching on the back flap of the hat. Prying open the fabric, she removed a folded square of parchment and handed it to Parker.
He opened the note and read what was written on it:
Keep the occupier occupied.
The fate of our nation depends upon it.
If you fail, the future will be altered.
That, unfortunately, means I might not exist.
If that happens, Benjamin Franklin will never meet me.
The trans–time portal will disappear.
You may never return home.
Good luck.
A Friend from the Far, Far Distant Future
Parker figured it was a good thing Bobby Younger had stolen his one packet of powdered sugar doughnuts on the bus ride to Williamsburg. His stomach was totally empty. There was nothing in it to upchuck.
“Give me a minute,” he said.
“Have you taken ill, good sir?” asked the milliner.
“Little bit,” said Parker.
She handed Parker his hat, which she had already resewn.
Parker stared at it for a second.
If you fail, the future will be altered.
You may never return home.
There was a commotion out on the street.
“Benedict Arnold has come!” someone shouted. “He sacked Richmond; we are to be next!”
Keep the occupier occupied.
He had to do what the hat said or he’d be stuck in 1781 forever.
Parker placed the tricorn hat on his head and tugged it down tight. Then he picked up his backpack.
“What is in that satchel you carry?” asked the milliner.
“Everything I thought I’d need for my trip to Colonial Williamsburg. Boy, was I wrong.”
Parker dashed out the door and followed the mob racing down Duke of Gloucester Street toward the Capitol, where he saw a soldier in a bright red uniform astride a snowy white horse.
“People of Williamsburg,” the soldier declared, “subjects of His Majesty King George the Third, gather round. Pay heed. Peace is at hand. The lawless insurrection in Virginia has, at long last, ended. Now pay your respects to General Benedict Arnold, the liberator of Richmond!”
Some in the crowd dared to boo.
“Traitor!” shouted others. “Turncoat!”
A man with dark and weathered brown skin standing very close to Parker leaned in and whispered, “Benedict Arnold isn’t just a traitor. He’s also the most dangerous general in the whole British army. He could win this war for them, if we allow it.”
“Um, do I know you, sir?” asked Parker.
“My name is James Armistead,” said the man, keeping his voice low. “Once a slave, now a spy.”
“For the good guys?”
“I certainly hope so. I pretend to work for General Arnold so I can keep an eye on him for the Marquis de Lafayette and General Washington.”
“So you’re like a double agent!”
“Indeed.” Armistead furrowed his deeply lined brow. “Your job, good fellow, is to somehow remove General Arnold from Virginia before our good friend Lafayette arrives with his French reinforcements.”
“Okay. How?”
“Use your wits, lad. Break a few rules. That’s what rebellion and revolutions are all about!”
Armistead drifted away, disappearing into the crowd.
General Benedict Arnold, who used to fight for the Continental Army before becoming America’s most notorious traitor, rode a mammoth white horse into the dusty square at the front of the Capitol. Arnold looked like a king in his bright red coat with gold tassels on the shoulders. He wore a red sash around his waist, a ruffled white shirt, white gloves, and white breeches. His hat, however, was as black as his wig and his heart.
“Fellow countrymen,” he said with a sneer as his horse pranced in front of the citizens of Williamsburg. “Countrymen of British Virginia. Peace is at hand. Your Continental Army is a shambles. On the verge of mutiny!”
A whole battalion of redcoats shouldering muskets marched into the square to set up a protective perimeter.
Parker knelt down. Opened his backpack.
“America may be our home,” cried Benedict Arnold. “But our safety and security come from England. If you want peace and comfort, pledge your allegiance, once more, to King George and take down that flag!”
Parker looked up and saw a banner with thirteen red-and-white stripes flapping in the breeze.
Two redcoats quickly lowered it.
“Long live the King!” shouted Benedict Arnold.
“Long live the King!” shouted Mordecai Morris.
Parker dug through all the stuff he’d crammed into his L.L. Bean Deluxe Book Pack when he’d thought he’d just be going to Williamsburg for a class field trip. He even had the ping-pong catapult project he was doing for Mr. Goldblatt’s Advanced STEM class, because Parker figured he might have some time to tinker with it during lunch since nobody would want to sit or talk with him anyway.
“BOO!” jeered the crowd.
Parker looked up.
The Union Jack, the flag of England, had just been raised above the Capitol.
The town had officially been occupied!
“Time to keep the occupier occupied,” mumbled Parker, pulling back the launching arm of his wooden catapult. He was about to load it with a ping-pong ball when, nearby, another horse pooped.
Horses seemed to do that a lot in Colonial Williamsburg.
Parker shook his peanut-butter-honey-and-banana sandwich out of its plastic baggie and used the bag as a mitten to pick up the horse poop and mold it into a ball.
He placed his poop projectile into the catapult’s launcher scoop and did some quick trigonometry to determine the best trajectory for his ballistic attack. Mr. Goldblatt once said that to make a projectile cover the most horizontal distance possible, it should be launched from a forty-five-degree angle. Satisfied with his tangents, Parker pulled the trigger.
The wad of horse manure flew through the air.
And smacked Benedict Arnold in the nose.
The crowd roared with laughter.
“Who dares to insult me so?” the furious general hollered as his horse reared up on its hind legs.
The men with muskets started elbowing their way into the crowd.
“Who would dare to insult General Arnold?” the soldiers demanded.
Parker didn’t stick around.
He grabbed his backpack and, crouching low, scurried away as fast as he could.
A firm hand clasped his shoulder hard.
“Don’t run.”
It was the former slave and current double agent, James Armistead.
“You are but a child. No one ever suspects slaves or children unless you act in a way that arouses suspicion. And young patriot?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Keep up the good work!”
“Thank you, sir.”
Whistling nonchalantly, Parker strolled up the street while redcoats searched the crowd for a horse-poop-flinging perpetrator.
As he walked, he noticed a pretty tall brick wall between Benedict Arnold and the Capitol.
He also noticed another pile of horse poop. This one was sort of old, crusty, and filled with chunks of straw.
Since Parker still had his hand in the plastic baggie, he decided to scoop the poop, sneak behind the wall, and launch round two.
His aim was even better the second time.
The poop bomb landed inside Benedict Arnold’s tricorn hat, where it nested between the upturned flaps. Birds swooped down to perch on the black hat’s crown and peck at the strands of undigested hay. While they ate, they pooped, too—streaking the general’s big black hat with slimy strands of white. Some of it dribbled down to give his black wig white highlights.
“Find the insurrectionist respon
sible for these vile attacks upon my person and bring him to me!” shrieked Benedict Arnold. “I will put him in the stocks! I will tar and feather him. I will not leave Williamsburg until whosoever would thusly insult me has been dealt with most severely!”
Parker smashed his catapult under his foot and sprinkled its splintered pieces into a pile of twigs beneath a nearby tree. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his sweaty nose and headed down Duke of Gloucester Street to the wigmaker’s shop. He figured that’s where Benedict Arnold would be heading next.
The shop was deserted. Everyone was on the street, listening to Benedict Arnold declare martial law.
Parker saw a black wig propped on a wooden head. It looked exactly like the one Arnold was wearing. Thinking fast and moving faster, he took the wig off its stand and slipped both slimy sides of his peanut-butter-honey-and-banana sandwich inside the wig—sticky side down.
And then he had a brainstorm.
He saw a tea service sitting on a silver tray.
He lifted the teapot lid and squirted in some of the sunscreen he’d packed for the field trip. For good measure he gave the tea a spritz of bug spray, too.
Just as he expected, Benedict Arnold came charging up the street on horseback. Remembering James Armistead’s advice, Parker picked up a broom, ducked his head, and started sweeping—becoming the wigmaker’s invisible servant.
“Where is the wigmaker?” Arnold bellowed out on the street.
“Here, sir. Edward Charlton at your disposal.”
“I need a new wig!”
“Black streaked with white, sir?”
“Just black!”
“Of course sir, of course. Won’t you step inside?”
Arnold practically burst through the doors.
“Ah,” said Mr. Charlton, when he saw Parker sweeping up. His glasses were thicker than Parker’s. “That’s a good lad, Benjamin. Kindly fetch the general a cup of tea.”
“Aye, sir.”
Parker poured the tea while Benedict Arnold removed his soiled hat and wig. He had some kind of cheesecloth beanie on his stubbly head.
“The wig, sir!” Arnold demanded. “The wig!”
“Of course.”
While Mr. Charlton raised the wig off it’s wooden stand, Parker placed the teacup in front of Benedict Arnold.
And then a miracle happened.
Arnold sipped his tea at the very instant Mr. Charlton lowered the gloppy wig on his head.
“Pffffft!”
Arnold spat out the tea as smooshed banana mixed with gooey peanut butter dribbled down around his ears.
“Are you tying to poison me?” he screamed, his face nearly as red as his coat. “And what is this wig glue? It smells of peanuts and tropical fruit!”
Parker slipped out the door, undetected and unnoticed.
“Clean me up!” he heard Arnold demand. “And who brewed this vile tea? I will not leave Williamsburg until I have his neck in a noose!”
Parker wasn’t exactly sure what he would do next, until he saw the Raleigh Tavern Bakery across the street.
“Pies,” he said aloud.
He burst into the bakery, which, by the way, smelled delicious.
A baker was pulling a half dozen cherry pies out of an oven on a long wooden paddle.
An even bigger catapult!
“Sir,” said Parker, “I’d like to buy all of those pies.”
The man smiled. “Oh you would, would you? Have you any coin?”
Parker reached into his backpack and found the coin purse he carried just in case he ever had to make an emergency phone call after his iPhone battery died and he had, somehow, actually found a pay phone.
He squeezed it open and plunked out a shiny quarter.
“I have this coin,” he said.
The baker squinted dubiously.
But then he saw the head on the coin.
“George Washington?” he whispered.
“Aye,” said Parker. It was a big risk. For all he knew, the baker could’ve been Mordecai Morris’s father.
“Keep your coin, lad. The pies are free. Do with them what you will.”
Parker grabbed the long wooden handle. “Thank you, sir.”
Carefully balancing the heavy load at the far end of the paddle, Parker made his way to the door, which the baker held open for him.
When he reached the street, he saw the wigmaker and General Arnold coming out of the wigmaker’s shop on the opposite side. The wigmaker was busily brushing the shoulders of General Arnold’s coat.
“I think I have removed most of the mess, General.”
“Leave me be!” snarled Benedict Arnold.
Parker made his boldest move yet. He stepped into the street and hollered, “Hey, Benedict Arnold? You want some cherry pies courtesy of General George Washington, even though he never really chopped down a cherry tree? That’s just a myth.”
“What?” fumed Arnold. “Who is this impudent child who dares address me so?”
The crowd on the street shrugged. None of them had any idea.
“I, sir, am a patriot!”
And with that, Parker flipped the baker’s paddle and sent six cherry pies flying across the street. Two missed, but four smacked Arnold in his face, chest, and belly. His white shirt was dripping with so much red goop it soon matched his coat.
“Seize him!”
Six British soldiers advanced on Parker, their bayonet tips pointing straight at him.
Parker dropped the baker’s paddle and backed up.
He didn’t know what to do next.
He was terrified. He was also out of ideas! He was so nervous all he could think to do was wave and smile at the advancing troops.
“Uh, hi, guys!”
That’s when something meteorologically amazing happened.
Parker wasn’t sure if the transportation coordinator was also a weather consultant or if she had arranged for the clouds to part at that precise moment, but a brilliant beam of sunshine suddenly hit his braces like a spotlight. Dazzling light bounced off his silvery smile and blinded the six redcoats.
Bayonets drooped. Soldiers’ knees trembled. Mouths flew open in horror.
“Lo!” cried one. “Behold the demon mouth! See how it does sparkle with silvery fire!”
“He is a witch!” shouted another. “A witch!”
The soldiers turned tail and ran away.
Parker started breathing again.
Until someone knocked the wind out of him with a blindside tackle.
Mordecai Morris!
Parker fell to the ground.
“I’ve got him, General Arnold!” said Mordecai. “I’ve got the rebel!”
“Leave him to me, boy!” Benedict Arnold whipped off his hat, which was, apparently, stuck to his wig because it was whipped off too.
Arnold didn’t care. He stomped across the street in his skullcap.
“Try to make a fool of me, will you, boy?”
The general kicked at Parker.
Parker rolled right and, somehow, found his backpack. He reached into the pocket where he’d stored his iPhone and, before Benedict Arnold could kick him again, Parker pushed the play button.
“Happy” by Pharrell Williams started playing because “Happy” was Parker’s favorite tune of all time.
The sound of someone singing inside a sack stunned Benedict Arnold.
It terrified everyone in the street.
It also gave Parker time to unpack his disposable plastic poncho (Mrs. Lipinski’s list suggested rain gear, just in case) and heaved it over General Arnold like a see-through net.
“Why you . . .”
Arnold was thrashing and flailing under the plastic sheet when another British soldier in an even grander uniform came prancing up the street on his white steed.
Parker dropped to his knees in the mud so he could switch off the music before Pharrell Williams told everybody how happy he was again. Parker also dabbed his finger in a mucky puddle and swiped it across his teet
h.
“General Arnold!” shouted the new British commander. “Pray, sir, what is the meaning of this nonsense?”
Arnold was so furious all he could do was sputter. “This—this—this . . . hooligan attacked me most egregiously!”
The man on the horse studied Parker.
“Indeed? A lowly shop boy bested one of the king’s commanders?”
“No, Lord Cornwallis,” insisted Arnold, throwing off the plastic poncho. “He did not best me. He is a witch boy with teeth like sparkling fireworks.”
“Is that so? Show me your teeth, lad.”
Parker smiled. His teeth were brown.
“The only thing I can see from this lad’s teeth is that he eats too many sweets,” said Lord Cornwallis.
“He is a witch, sir!” insisted Arnold.
“Poppycock.”
“He made that rucksack sing!”
“Enough, Benedict. I have always feared that you, not being a proper English gentleman, were unfit for command in the king’s army.”
“But you need me and my sharp military mind. You should take your troops to Richmond. If you encamp at Yorktown, your back will be to the sea, and should the French—”
Lord Cornwallis shook his head and laughed. “Do you really think I will take strategic advice from an untrustworthy commoner who wrestles in the gutter with defenseless children?”
Cornwallis reached into his saddlebag and produced a sealed envelope.
“Here are your new orders, General Arnold. You are to report to New York. We have no further need of your services here in Virginia.”
“But, Lord Cornwallis—”
“Good day, sir.”
“I am your best—”
“I said ‘good day, sir’!”
After the disgraced Benedict Arnold and his troops left Williamsburg, the baker invited Parker to enjoy a steaming bowl of crayfish-and-shrimp stew at the Raleigh Tavern. He’d, of course, brushed his teeth because (a) he had packed his toothpaste and toothbrush, even though they weren’t on Mrs. Lipinski’s list, and (b) mud might rust his braces.
He was about to start on his second bowl of stew when the tour bus driver—the transportation coordinator—walked into the dining room. She was wearing a long dress and bonnet, but Parker definitely recognized her.