by David Potter
And though I’m dizzy and disoriented and still feel like everything is spinning round and round and round, there’s something I just have to know.
Is that stall empty?
Or no?
I know where it is. I don’t have to search around. In less than a second I find it.
No dead bodies anywhere.
So that leaves a two-item agenda. Item number one: make sure no one shoots and kills General George Washington.
Item two: make sure that at exactly eleven o’clock—one hour from now—I’m in this stable, at this same spot.
’Cause I expect two—or maybe three—befuddled prep school kids to crash-land after a whirling ride of 240-odd years. What I’ll do is tell ’em what’s what, who’s who, get everyone to reprogram our iPhones, and get the heck out of here and back to where we belong. General Washington will have to carry on by himself.
I say maybe three, because what if, at eleven o’clock, I see not only Brandon and Bev, but also me?
Is that even possible?
It would be weird. Because that me would not be the me I’d want to be. Get it?
This is the me that knows stuff. That got the iPhone powered up, and figured out the iTime app. Any other me walking around would just get in the way.
So I have an hour to figure everything out. Or even less than that, because I just wasted a good five minutes standing around the stall and looking at nothing but hay.
FORTY
OUTSIDE THE STABLE, IT’S all snow, all white, just like it was last time. Of course I know the layout and terrain. But now my clothes are different. I’m wearing the coat and pants Daniel gave me, and my white Nikes. Which definitely are going to stand out, but that’s probably the very least important thing on my agenda.
I can’t just wait here. I have to think this through. Somehow, their plan is to get Washington into the stable, where they can shoot him. So that means right now they have to be either on their way or very close by.
I exit the stable on the right, same as last time. I go about thirty yards through the snow. No Brandon to plow the way, so it’s tough going. I head off to the right, and tromp through another twenty yards or so of snow, until it flattens out somewhat and I come to what I know is a snow-covered path. The snow here isn’t quite so deep, isn’t quite so tiring to trudge through.
The pathway angles up. Then angles down, to the farmhouse below.
The house is made of stone. Not too big, not too fancy.
Smoke is pouring out of a chimney.
And, patrolling in front, two Hessians. The same two guys as the last time I was here. The same two dumb gold cone hats on their heads.
Unfortunately, they’ve already spotted me.
But they don’t raise their muskets and fire. Oh no. They do something most unexpected, and strange: they smile and wave.
And it hits me: what do they have to be afraid of? I’m just a kid, like any other kid. Maybe they think I’m part of the family.
“Hallo!” one of them hollers. English, but a heavy German accent. “Hallo!”
I can’t think of anything to do except wave back.
Then he makes a gesture, like he’s eating something. “Food!” he shouts. “Food, food!” Then he waves his hand, like he’s inviting me in.
I kind of figure at this point the dude’s English consists of maybe two words.
I’m pretty sure I don’t want to have anything to do with German food, but I can’t think of any way to get out of it. I trudge down the hill; to the farmhouse I go. The two Hessians are still smiling, still waving. But as I get closer to them I’m able to see their eyes, which are not smiling, not waving.
Oh.
These are the eyes of soldiers on duty. Wary. Suspicious. And one other thing I’m pretty sure of: in the know.
They’d have to be.
They’ve been posted at the farmhouse to keep watch on things while the other ones—the faux colonial farmers—are off executing the mission.
So a kid, like me, walking around the farm?
A problem.
A potential hazard.
An eyewitness.
Here, kid. Come and get it. A nice little biscuit.
I’m maybe fifteen yards away from them now.
The one who shouted “Food, food!” has his hands out, a fake smile plastered on his face. They still have the same rotten stubby teeth, and I can smell them from here.
The other one, who hasn’t said a word, has his hands on his musket. At the end of which is a bayonet. Which I know he’s itching to stick right through me, and he can’t wait for me to get close enough so he can.
Payback.
Because if I’m not mistaken, this is the exact same dude I myself stomach butted the last time I was here.
Which was an hour in the future.
So he wants payback for something that hasn’t happened yet?
Doesn’t seem sporting of the guy, if you ask me.
But I can see his fingers. And they’re twitching. Like he just can’t wait.
I’m eight, nine yards away now.
I’m past the point of turning tail and running, because they have muskets, which fire musket balls, which can go faster than I can run.
I can only think of one thing to do.
“Daniel!” I call. “Elizabeth! I could use some help here!”
FORTY-ONE
NOTHING.
Dead silence.
I try again. “Daniel? Elizabeth? You there?”
I’m six yards away from these guys, and I’m not taking another step forward. And I’m thinking: I can’t let them know that I know they’re in the middle of a mission. So I have to do everything I can to convince them that I’m just a kid. Inconsequential. That is, no one to be afraid of, or concerned about.
Just a kid, walking around.
“Food, food,” says the one. He waves me closer.
“Daniel?” I say. “Elizabeth? If you guys can hear me, I could really use some help. Like, right about now.”
Twitchy Fingers takes a step toward me. One more step and he’ll be able to reach out and grab me by my coat.
Then I hear them.
Daniel and Elizabeth. They must have been, like I figured, watching the whole time.
“Hello, hello!” Daniel hollers, from up the hill. “We’re over here! Come and play!”
That’s plenty good enough for me. I nod to Hessian One and Hessian Two, wave my hand, turn around, and take off.
But merrily, if you can believe it.
I’m just a kid, and I’m just here to play. Not even Hessians would shoot down a kid romping around in the snow, would they?
Ahead, at the crest of the hill, are Daniel and Elizabeth, arms tightly folded across their chests, frowns upon their faces.
“Who in the world,” she says, “are you? And what are you doing on our property? And how do you know who we are? And why did you call our names as if wanting us to rescue you from … from them?”
Daniel says nothing at first, though he does look down at my feet and sees my white Nikes.
I’m not so sure I can keep a smile off my face. I’m very happy to see them, after all. We had ourselves a wonderful adventure in Dr. Franklin’s Philadelphia. Too bad they don’t know a thing about it.
“I feel like we’re old friends,” I say.
“How dare you!” Elizabeth says. “We’ve never seen the likes of you in our lives! The—the—audacity! Using our names—as if we know you—without our permission—on our property.… There are laws! These kinds of actions are not permissible! They are not acceptable! State your name at once, or we shall—or we shall … I don’t know what we shall do, but we shall do something!”
“My name,” I say, and hold out my hand, “is Mel. And I am very, very pleased to meet you. Honored, I would even say. I feel like I’ve known you both a very long time.”
Elizabeth wants nothing to do with shaking my hand, but Daniel relents and does. “Good morning to you, Mel,�
�� he says. “May I ask what brings you to—to—”
“Whatever are those—those things on your feet?” interrupts Elizabeth.
“They’re called sneakers,” I say. “Everyone wears them these days.”
“I’ve never seen such things before in my life.”
“Well, maybe they’re not that common around here. But give it time.”
“You are on our farm,” Elizabeth says. “Without our permission. And I am quite certain we have never met.” She takes a step closer, inspecting me like a piece of suspect meat. “What is your family name? And your business on our farm?”
“I’m Mel,” I say. “Just Mel. I basically come from New Jersey. And my business on this farm is simple: we are going to have to save General George Washington. If we do not, he will be dead within the hour, and the revolution will die with him.”
FORTY-TWO
MOUTHS, AS THEY SAY, fly open. First Daniel’s, then Elizabeth’s.
“You say what?” Elizabeth says. “You say what about General Washington?”
“Look,” I say. “One thing we don’t have is a lot of time. Your father rented this farm to what he thought were innocent German farmers, but they’re not. They are on a secret mission—to kill General Washington and thereby end this revolution. They’re led by a guy that’s short, ugly, and has a crooked nose. And he carries a very strange pistol. Their plan is to get General Washington back to this farm somehow and then they are going to lure him into the horse stable, shoot him, and leave him there stone-cold dead. This is happening as we speak. And we three are the only ones in this world who will be able to do something about it. Now—do I need to explain anything else? Or are you two ready to help?”
Though Elizabeth maintains her glare and her anger, Daniel does not. The expression on his face changes at once, and he very nearly slaps his forehead. “Of course!” he says. “It makes perfect sense! The horses!”
“The horses?” Elizabeth and I say, in perfect unison.
“Yes! The horses! The one—the short ugly one with the crooked nose—the one who gave Father gold—was asking me about our horses. I told him they were all gone—sold to the Continental Army—and that the price should have been dear but was not, for want of currency. He asked me if the horses had been stolen, and I said they had not been, nor had they been paid for properly either. A note, is what the officer told Father. A promissory note, backed by the full faith and credit of the Continental Congress, which has neither faith nor credit. But the horses were taken—seven of them. They promised to return them intact if they could. But what the German gentleman was asking was what if we possessed a dozen or more magnificent horses—would we be able to sell them to the army? And I said if that were so, General Washington himself would make the transaction personally—everyone knows the general’s love for horses. They could have enticed him here easily. To see horses that do not exist.”
“And this German guy,” I ask. “Does he have a name?”
“He calls himself Mr. Kramm. He gave Father gold, to lease our property. Father knew it was tainted, but gold it was. How, may I ask, are you acquainted with Mr. Kramm?”
“We met,” I say. “Kind of a while back.”
We’re interrupted by a woman’s voice that sounds very much like someone’s mom.
“Elizabeth! Daniel! Come now, children! There be chores to do!”
“It’s Mother!” Daniel says, alarmed. “We best be going … Mel. Mother has forbidden us to come here while the property’s leased. It wouldn’t do, she says, to poke our noses in others’ affairs.”
Elizabeth puts her hand on Daniel’s arm. “Stay, brother,” she says. “Stay for one minute more. Did you hear what he said? General Washington may be in danger. Is it not our duty to do what we can?”
“Mother will not be pleased,” Daniel says. “Not in the slightest.”
“But is she ever?” Elizabeth says.
“She is not,” says Daniel. “But we must obey. Or else we incur her wrath.”
“Listen,” I say. “The last thing your mother would want—or your father—is for anything to happen to General Washington on your property. Think about that. And the fact your father took gold from—from Germans? That’s not going to look good.”
Daniel holds up his hand. “Let me talk with my sister,” he says. “It will only be a moment.” They walk a few yards away to discuss it. And they keep their voices low, so I can’t overhear.
A minute goes by. Then another. Finally they walk back over. “It’s settled,” Daniel says. “We shall suffer Mother’s wrath, yet again. Mel, you must prove to us that what you say is true. Or else we shall inform the Germans that you trespass upon their lease.”
FORTY-THREE
THE THING I’M THINKING IS, Man, I really need to know what time it is. And if I take out my iPhone, turn it on, and check, it will spook Daniel and Elizabeth like no one’s business. Nor do I see either of them wearing wristwatches, which I don’t think have even been invented yet. So I’m going to have to guesstimate it: Ten-twenty? Ten-thirty?
It’s going to matter. At exactly eleven I have to be in the stable in order to greet Brandon and Bev personally. I want to be the first person they see, so I can explain things to them.
“All right,” I say. “Let me prove to you that what I’m saying is true. In what direction are Washington’s troops headquartered?”
They both point to their right.
“Is that north?”
“It is,” says Daniel.
“And where is the road to go north? Outside the farm?”
“The main road is about two miles beyond the farm,” says Daniel. “From that, there’s a smaller road that leads here.”
“And how far is it to that smaller road?”
“It’s just over there,” says Elizabeth. “Past the trees on the left.”
“And if someone comes down the road—when would you know about it?”
“Depending on the wind, we would know it when we hear it.”
“Well, here’s what’s going to happen,” I say. “Any minute now General Washington and this Mr. Kramm of yours are going to be coming down that road. General Washington thinks he’s going to be inspecting a dozen prime horses. Mr. Kramm has other ideas. Our job is going to be to … to stop Mr. Kramm from … implementing any of his ideas. And protect General Washington. So your proof, Elizabeth, will be appearing any minute on the road.”
It’s my theory, and I’m sticking with it. I move past Daniel and Elizabeth and start heading out to the road, the one just past the trees on the left.
I figure if Daniel and Elizabeth are going to come, they’ll come. If they’re going to heed their mother’s call and go do chores—which is what must have happened the other time I was around—it would explain why they didn’t notice Mr. Kramm and General Washington coming by and witness what was about to happen. Or what will happen. Or what was going to happen.
Whatever. It all somehow makes sense to me. I’ve trudged thirty yards, and haven’t looked back. If I have to do it myself, I guess I can.
Then I hear Elizabeth call out. “Mel,” she says. “You’re going the wrong way. The road is over here. Have you no sense of direction? What do they teach you over there in New Jersey, if I may ask?”
Okay, so I was a little off. I turn around and see Daniel and Elizabeth, walking at a different angle toward the road. I run to catch up.
“Daniel! Elizabeth!” we hear their mother shout. “Come right now, children!”
“I did not hear a thing,” says Elizabeth.
“Nor I,” says Daniel.
“Me neither,” I say. Two minutes later, we come to the road, and all of us stop and listen.
We hear the tramping of horses’ hooves.
Then we see, in the distance, kicking up snow, horsemen coming our way.
“There be your proof,” Daniel says to Elizabeth.
“My Lord,” says Elizabeth, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth.
> She is both shocked and awed. There is no mistaking the man coming up the road astride a majestic white horse: General George Washington.
Fully alive, I might add. And, at least for the moment, fully well.
FORTY-FOUR
GENERAL WASHINGTON INDEED.
Not only is he on every dollar bill in America, and in every car commercial on President’s Day, but I’ve also seen him myself, not so long ago in the future. He was, at that time, dead as ye olde doornail, of course, but still. The guy’s recognizable.
Big time.
There are four guys on horses, all abreast, coming our way. Four I recognize. General Washington, first off. He’s a giant compared to the other guys. He sits tall in his saddle, almost like he’s standing up. He has on black boots, buff breeches, a great blue coat, and an elaborate gold-trimmed black hat.
His horse, naturally, is the biggest of the bunch—a great, snorting white beast.
To the general’s left is another military man—smaller than Washington, and riding a horse three-quarters the size of Washington’s horse. Him, I’ve never seen, but I’m guessing he’s some kind of aide-de-camp.
But the two guys to Washington’s right?
Them, I’ve seen.
The last time I was here.
One of them is short, with a smashed-in face and a crooked nose. Who calls himself Mr. Kramm. He rides right next to General Washington, and his horse—a black beauty—is nearly as big as Washington’s. He seems determined—super determined—to stay as close to the general as he possibly can. The other guy I’ve seen before rides on the outside. I’ve never heard him speak, this one, but I don’t like him anyway.
They come down the road like they’re in a hurry, trampling up snow, and maybe the last thing they expect to see is three kids along the side, trying to wave them down. Mr. Kramm doesn’t appear to have any interest whatsoever in stopping to find out what we want. Nor does his comrade.
The aide-de-camp keeps his eyes straight ahead, as if he hasn’t seen us. He’s young, this guy—twenty, twenty-five tops. And definitely on the short side. He’s maybe half as big as General Washington.