The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington

by David Potter

  “Who are you?” I say.

  “Who are we?” says the girl, incredulous. She has a funny kind of accent. Kind of English, and kind of not. Maybe about halfway between, which makes sense, if you think about it.

  I do think about it, and that’s when I realize: these two are natives. But not German. So there may be an upside here.

  “Who are we?” the girl repeats. “It would be more proper for us to ask you that. This is our property, after all. And you, sir, are trespassing.”

  “My name is Mel,” I say.

  “Mel?”

  “Mel.”

  “Mel what?

  “Just Mel.”

  “And where would you be from, Just Mel?”

  “New Jersey. Basically.”

  “And is this,” she says, looking me up and down, “how they dress in New Jersey these days? Whatever are those things on your feet?”

  “Sister,” the boy says. “Enough. We’ve been taught to welcome strangers, have we not? She’s Elizabeth, I’m Daniel. Our parents own this farm, and that is our farmhouse, where you seem to be headed. We’ve been watching. Are you planning to surrender yourself?”

  “Um, um,” I say. “No, surrendering wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “Then what?” says the girl. “Were you planning a rescue?” She asks this as if it’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard of. “You haven’t a single weapon, do you? These men are Hessians. Trained, professional soldiers. What were you planning to do—scare them by your mere presence?”

  This might be 1776, but this girl—Elizabeth—would fit right in with the Kool Girl Gang in the Dining Hall at the Fredericksville School any old time. She’s got the sneer part down pat.

  I take out my iPhone and take her picture.

  “This,” I say, and turn the iPhone around to show her herself, “is my weapon. And I intend to use it.”

  TWELVE

  BUT SHE’S QUICK. QUICK to dismiss, quicker to sneer. “With this?” she says, glancing at her picture. “A looking glass? I grant you, those Hessians are ugly, for the most part. But unless your looking glass has musket balls, I’m afraid they won’t be so easily scared off.”

  “It’s not,” I say, “a looking glass. It’s an iPhone. It takes pictures, even movies. And plenty of other stuff.”

  “But is it a proper weapon?” asks the boy, Daniel. “Can it fire?”

  “No,” I concede. “It can’t.” But I’m really thinking, here we are, thirty yards from the farmhouse to which my fellow Fredericksville students have been abducted, separated one way or another by a gap of almost 240 years and, let’s not forget, the Father of Our Country shot and killed in a horse stable a little ways away—and we’re debating the specs of my iPhone?

  The capabilities of the thing?

  “So,” says the girl, triumphant. “You have no weapons, then?”

  “No,” I say. “I guess I don’t.”

  “And you weren’t planning on surrendering?

  “No, I was not.”

  “Then what were you planning on?”

  “I was planning on … I was … I was just about to work something out.…”

  “It seemed to us,” she says, “that you were just about to run back the way you came. Which is the very reason we’ve had to intercede. You can’t run, whoever you are. Do you not understand what is happening? The revolution itself is in grave danger. We’ve discovered their plans, which are to capture General Washington and kill him!”

  I’m just about to say something snarky—Oh, you don’t say was ready to roll off my tongue—when I think of something.

  Now, we’re standing in the snow. Like thirty, forty yards from the farmhouse.

  Having a conversation.

  Not making any particular effort to hide ourselves, either. Not that we could, because there’s nothing around but snow. We could find trees or bushes or something else to hide behind, but then we wouldn’t be thirty or forty yards away from the farmhouse. We’d be, like, a hundred yards away, or maybe two hundred.

  Where we are is where you’d want to be if you were about to make a rescue attempt of some kind. It’s not where you’d want to stand around and have any kind of extended conversation, which is exactly what we happen to be doing.

  Because sooner or later, somebody in that farmhouse is going to notice.

  Which is exactly what does happen. Some Hessian dude sticks his head out the door and shouts, “Stoppen Sie sofort!”

  You’d be surprised by how fast kids can run in the snow, if properly motivated. Even if one of them is wearing sneakers.

  I lead the way. It’s their property, but I know where to go. We run full tilt all the way back to the horse stable.

  No Hessian follows. For what, a bunch of kids? With Brandon and Bev they probably already have more than they want.

  We get inside the stable, all panting and huffing, and it takes a minute to gather ourselves.

  “Listen,” I say. “I want to show you something. Don’t get freaked or anything, all right?”

  “Freaked?” says Daniel.

  “Yeah. Don’t get scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Let me show you.” And I lead them to the stall, where General Washington lies dead.

  He’s whiter now than his hair.

  The blood in the bullet hole in his chest has hardened. Congealed, I believe is the word.

  “My Lord,” says Elizabeth. Daniel takes off his hat.

  Both of them fall to their knees and start to pray. Elizabeth, who as I said must be around my age, which is twelve and three months, starts to cry.

  It takes them a few minutes. Which gives me plenty of time to realize that what I just did is kind of crummy.

  To us, this whole thing has been like a weird dream, a funhouse adventure. But to Daniel and Elizabeth, this is real.

  Daniel puts his arm around Elizabeth. She’s rocking back and forth, holding her stomach as if she’s racked with pain.

  As if she’s been stabbed in the gut.

  “It’s over,” she says. “All of it. They’ll hang the rest of them now, have their revenge. Father and Mother must be …”

  Daniel puts his fingers to his lips, cutting her off. Then they both look up at me.

  Tears in their eyes. Plus something new: fear.

  We realize—all of us, at the exact same instant—that we don’t trust each other.

  THIRTEEN

  MY BRAIN—ACTING TOTALLY ON its own accord, believe me—sends an urgent message.

  Get a weapon, it says. Now!

  I’m pretty sure Daniel’s brain and Elizabeth’s brain send them the same message. Because we all see the same thing.

  A pickax hanging on a wall. Opposite the stall where General Washington lies dead.

  The thing is, I have the advantage—I’m standing. They’re kneeling down. I’m clear-eyed, calm. They’re distraught and have tears in their eyes.

  We all move for it at the same time.

  With my right arm I do the most natural thing in the world and give the nearest person a mighty stiff-arm. I try for a face but get a chest instead.

  Elizabeth’s chest.

  Which is not exactly, in this century or any other century, a gentlemanly thing to do.

  She topples backward into Daniel, and they both tumble into the hay. Meanwhile, I grab the pickax with my left hand, swing it around, and turn.

  The pickax is above my head, ready to come down, chop something up, or off.

  Daniel and Elizabeth are on their backs, pure hatred flaring in their eyes.

  “You fiend,” Elizabeth hisses. “You absolute, horrible fiend. You shall burn in hell!”

  She’s not done. “You did this,” she nearly yells. “You killed General Washington and then you brought us here to show off your handiwork. Murderer! Devil! You shall surely burn in hell!”

  This is the second time today someone has called me a devil. First it was kind of fun. Now, not so much.

  I put t
he pickax down. “Look,” I say, “I didn’t kill General Washington, and I’m not going to do anything to you. I need your help. These Germans have obviously done this and somehow commandeered your farmhouse. Right now they have my friends. None of us belong here. And I don’t mean just here here. I mean we have to get out of this century and back to where we belong. But I don’t think we can just yet. Because if George Washington dies now, before he crosses the Delaware, there may not be anything to return to. Nothing recognizable, anyway. So you see what I mean? We’ve got a big problem here. And like I said, I’m going to need your help.”

  I feel like I have just given a speech, but instead of applause, I get nothing but puzzled faces. Both Daniel and Elizabeth try, ever so slowly, to inch themselves backward in the stall.

  “I think he may be a bit touched,” whispers Daniel.

  “By the devil, he is,” answers Elizabeth.

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m not touched, and I’m not crazy. But I need your help. First thing we have to do is help my friends.”

  “Why,” Daniel says, “do you have to get out of this century? What is the meaning of this? And where exactly do you belong?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say. “And I don’t think you’d ever believe me. I don’t think I even believe it myself.”

  “And you ask us to help you?” Elizabeth says. “Why ever should we? You trespass upon our property, you show us a magical box, and then you bring us to see the body of General Washington. Then you say your desire is to leave this century. And ask our help in so doing! So that you and your friends shall be gone with your box of magic, and we remain here? With a murdered General Washington in our horse stable? Who, think you, shall be blamed?”

  “Our father,” Daniel says. “Firstly. Which means we shall always have the mark upon us. As the family that betrayed the revolution, and brought General Washington to his end.”

  I slump down to the floor of the stable so I’m at eye level with both of them. Elizabeth has tears in her eyes, and Daniel isn’t far off from having tears himself.

  Neither am I.

  “We don’t belong here,” I say. “My friends and me. We’re just kids. Like you. One minute we’re doing one thing, and the next—boom, we’re right here in this stable. And it’s all a gigantic mistake. That’s the one thing I’m sure of. None of this is supposed to be happening. Not one part of it. General Washington can’t be killed here, he just can’t be. Do you see what I’m saying? If we let it happen, everything will go wrong—everything!”

  “You speak,” Daniel says, “as if we still have some say in the matter. As if a death is not final.”

  I take my iPhone out of my pocket. “This,” I say, “is the key. Whatever happened, it has something to do with this.”

  “Your magical box?” says Elizabeth. “That you pretended was a weapon?”

  “You’re right, it’s not a weapon,” I say. “It’s a phone. An iPhone, to be exact. Where I come from everybody has one, or something similar. And you want to know how come I’m so sure it’s the key to all this? Why I’m one hundred percent certain?”

  They stare at me, then at the phone. “Tell us then,” says Daniel.

  “Because it’s the year 1776, right?”

  “It is,” says Elizabeth. “It can be no other.”

  “Okay, so tell me how somebody can send a text, then. In 1776. Because our teacher, Mr. Hart, has sent me, like, five texts. Explain that to me.”

  “A text?” says Daniel. “Do you mean, as in a book? Like the Bible?”

  I stand up now because I’m starting to figure this out. “He texted me,” I say. “He texted me. Do you understand what that means? It means all this …” I spread my arm, taking in the stable, the body of General Washington, the farmhouse. “All this isn’t really real.”

  “It isn’t?” says Daniel.

  Elizabeth yanks on Daniel’s coat and flits her eyebrows up and down. “He is touched,” she says. “He speaks gibberish.”

  “I don’t,” I say. “What it means is that this isn’t real. It could be real, if we don’t do anything about it. Or it could be changed. I’m sure of it. Because if we could be here, that means we could be anywhere. Don’t you see?”

  “I’m afraid I do not,” says Daniel. “I’m afraid I do not see a thing.”

  “You said you were worried about your father being blamed? About the mark your family would have on it for all time? Well, what I’m telling you is that we can do something about it. First off, let’s go get my friends. Then, we’ll change a little history. I think there’s a way to make all of this right.”

  Elizabeth shakes her head and grabs hold of Daniel’s coat.

  “I’m going back,” I say. “To the farmhouse.” I lift up my pickax. “And I’m taking this. I hope you’ll help.”

  “You shall go alone,” Elizabeth says.

  “Daniel? Are you sure?”

  “Of you, I am not. Of my father being blamed, I am.”

  “Then you have a choice. You can either sit here and do nothing, like a potted plant, or you can come with me and do something.”

  I turn to go. If the “potted plant” crack works, I’ll have to thank my dad.

  FOURTEEN

  A FEW MINUTES LATER I’M in front of the farmhouse, and I see everyone sitting down at a big table. Like they’re waiting for dinner.

  By everyone, I mean Bev and Brandon. They’re sitting down. The Hessians, both uniformed and not, are standing up.

  And dinner is not being served. iPhones are being served.

  Both of them—one white, one black—are lying on the table. Then I notice something: I can’t see any hands. Not a single one. Not Bev’s, not Brandon’s. No hands on the table, no hands scratching an ear or a nose, no hands nowhere.

  They must have tied them behind their backs.

  I’m outside the farmhouse, my feet in the snow, holding the pickax.

  I now pretty much know the score. I know what kind of weapons they have, what kind of weapon I have.

  I can do a lot of calculations, a lot of figuring, but I don’t have a plan, exactly, just yet.

  I’m thinking, I’m thinking.

  Smash a window, throw in a fireball, burn the place down?

  Make scary noises to cause half of them to run outside?

  Wait until they all go to sleep?

  I count off the Hessians: there’s Mr. Butt-Ugly, the dude who speaks English; the other guy dressed in farmer clothes; and a soldier.

  Three of them altogether.

  Wait a second: weren’t there four of them?

  Where’s Soldier Number Two?

  A whole bunch of things happen all of a sudden.

  I turn, I see him coming up behind me, and I swing my pickax with all I got.

  I miss.

  I miss him, that is. The farmhouse window? That I don’t miss. I smash through, and while I’m at it I lose hold of the pickax. It flies through the window, glass shards spilling all over the place, and hits the very table where Bev and Brandon are sitting.

  Everyone inside is, shall we say, startled a little. They jump out of their boots, is what they do. But I only get to watch their reaction for maybe like a nanosecond, because Soldier Number Two, who I tried to whack with the pickax, doesn’t seem startled at all. In fact, he seems kind of angry, if I had to put a word to it. Plus, he has a musket, with a big, sharp bayonet at its end. And he rears back, like he has every intention of ramming the thing straight through me.

  Inside the farmhouse, I hear Brandon say something, and I hear Bev shout something too. I’d love to know more about what’s going on, but there’s this thrusting bayonet, you see, coming at me.

  I duck.

  I hit the deck.

  He misses.

  Then he recoils, tries again.

  The deck, by the way, the so-called deck, is nothing but snow. His second swipe lands a micrometer from my neck. I twist, he strikes snow.

  Then his legs are pulled out fr
om under him. He falls, falls, falls and his musket goes up, up, up.

  More shouts, screams from inside. Something crashing, something banging. English words, German words.

  Daniel and Elizabeth run across my field of vision, Daniel holding on to a long length of thick rope.

  Now the musket is coming down, down, down. I get to my feet, reach for it, reach for it, get it.

  I swing around.

  I point it through the smashed window.

  I see Mr. Butt-Ugly standing over Brandon, arm raised, a pistol in his hand.

  For a second I think I hallucinate.

  I think I see something very odd. The pistol in Butt-Ugly’s hand? Is it a German Luger, circa World War II? Which is not possible, as the thing surely hasn’t been invented yet.

  But whatever. The advantage is mine. I point the musket through the window. It’s a heavy thing, this musket, and really long—like, about three-quarters as tall as me, practically. I can tell right away I won’t be able to hold the thing straight out for very long—I’m not strong enough. I’m also wondering if it’s loaded, if you just have to pull the trigger, or do you have to cock it first, or what? I ought to be able to do it because I saw a musket-firing demo at the reenactment.

  I squeeze the trigger and nothing happens.

  Then I cock it. Which means I pull this thingamajig back until it clicks into place.

  Then I squeeze it again.

  FIFTEEN

  HAD THE THING BEEN loaded, it would have fired. Had my aim been true, ol’ Butt-Ugly would have gotten plugged in the head, which might have ended the whole thing there and then.

  Might have.

  Doesn’t.

  Butt-Ugly is really ticked off. He’s holding this pistol, remember, which really does appear to be a Luger. He yanks the pickax from the table and flings it back at me.