The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington

by David Potter

  Daniel and Elizabeth, on the other hand, want to get back to their farmhouse. Their horse stable is burned to the ground, for one thing. And if Kramm’s Hessian friends are still around, they’ll cause nothing but more trouble.

  And me? Something is nagging at me. Something that feels … unfinished. I’m not sure what it is, but I do know that leaving the scene now doesn’t feel right. So I do what I always do when I don’t know what to do: I take out my iPhone and turn it on.

  I have a bunch of texts from Mr. Hart. They’ve been sitting there unanswered since he sent them three hours ago. Or 240-odd years in the future, depending on how you think about it.

  “Hold on,” I say. “I have texts from Mr. Hart.” I read them aloud.

  Where R U? says the first one.

  R U OK? says the second one.

  R U together? says the third one.

  Has anything … unusual happened? says the last one.

  I have to keep in mind that this Mr. Hart is not exactly the same Mr. Hart that I was texting with before. The time before that time. Because I came back an hour earlier, remember? So this “Mr. Hart” texting me now is the same guy, but then again not quite exactly the same guy.

  Get it? Good.

  I type back: We’re OK. Ready to come back.

  We wait. Then the old micro three-chord signifying incoming.

  R U sure nothing unusual has happened?

  That’s when it hits me. Maybe I should have known before now, but to tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought it through.

  But now—now I think I’m starting to figure some things out. Mr. Hart knows a good deal more than he’s letting on. And you know what?

  That doesn’t sit well with me.

  Kind of ticks me off.

  What are we—guinea pigs or something?

  “He knows,” I say. “Mr. Hart.”

  “What a minute,” says Bev. “You’re telling me that you’re getting a text? From Mr. Hart?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “It’s another long story. And to tell you the truth I don’t know exactly how or why. But don’t you think it’s weird? That he keeps asking if anything “unusual” has happened? You’d figure he’d be a tad more worried about us. Seeing as how we’re kids, and he’s supposed to be in charge.”

  “You are totally not making any sense,” Brandon says. “What do you mean he keeps asking if anything unusual has happened? Since when?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “I’ll explain later. Right now I need to text him back.”

  I’ll tell you what’s strange—we have a new app on our phones. Called iTime. Ever hear of it?

  I have. Very recently.

  What’s it doing on our phones?

  It wasn’t meant for you.

  Then how did it get here?

  By accident.

  How so?

  You tell me. You must have gone to the basement of the general store. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  We did.

  Did someone fool around with somebody’s MacBook?

  Maybe.

  There you go.

  “There you go”? What in the heck is that supposed to mean? We’re gathered around my phone now, all of us, and there’s really only one thing we care about at this point. So I type it in. Mr. Hart, do you know where we are? I would say that’s a direct question, wouldn’t you? All I’m asking for is a straight answer. Instead, I get this:

  I have an idea.

  Have you ever heard of something called T.G.W., Inc.

  I have now.

  Now? You mean now now? I am the first to mention it?

  The second.

  So who was the first then?

  It’s difficult to say.

  “This guy is playing games,” Bev says.

  “He thinks it’s some kind of joke,” says Brandon.

  “Who are you communicating with?” says Daniel.

  “And how are you doing it? Why are you … tapping on that box in your hand?” says Elizabeth.

  “It’s another long story,” I say. “And I doubt you’ll believe me.” Then I type my message back to Mr. Hart.

  Whatever. We’re going to reset this and come back. See you soon.

  Don’t yet. You need to wait.

  What for?

  There’s a loose end.

  Loose end?

  Right.

  Mr. Hart, we really need to come back. We can’t do anything about a loose end.

  “I don’t like it,” Bev says.

  “Me neither,” says Brandon.

  “He’s pushing it,” says Bev. “He’s really pushing it. Who does he think he is, anyway? He can’t control us. Can he?”

  We stare at my phone until we get a final message.

  Await further instructions. You MUST NOT come back now under any circumstances. This is nonnegotiable. THERE MAY BE NOTHING TO COME BACK TO!

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  WE OBVIOUSLY NEED TO think things through a little. Have a freewheeling discussion. In, you know—a democratic fashion.

  Even take a vote on what we ought to do next.

  But before we can do anything, soldiers come by and herd us out. We’re to be taken to McKonkey’s Ferry with everyone else, they tell us, and from there we’re on our own.

  At least it will make Daniel and Elizabeth happy—they’ll be that much closer to their farm. What they’re going to do about their uncle James and the Hessians in the farmhouse is up to them.

  They shuffle us outside and put us back up on horses, though there are no blindfolds this time. None of us get our own horse, of course. We ride behind soldiers. I’m with the same guy as last time—he didn’t introduce himself then, and doesn’t trouble himself to do so now. About twenty yards away is His Excellency, General George Washington, majestic upon his white steed, but he takes no special notice of us.

  It is cold, dark for this time of the afternoon, and a few flakes of snow are falling, but everyone knows, in their bones, that this isn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. You don’t even need the Weather Channel app to know that something big and bad and nasty is just about to blow. The sky’s got that dark, ominous, foreboding thing going on, like it’s getting ready to punch you in the mouth.

  General Washington says something to General Greene, who relays the message to a burly fellow, who quickly bellows: “Forward ho!” Then our procession, led by His Excellency General Washington, moves out at a fairly quick pace, and we follow, two by two. Five minutes later, we are on little more than a path in the woods. The snow is falling a little more heavily upon us, and beginning to cover our heads and hats and shoulders. Little white patches collect on our horses’ long muzzles, and they snort every once in a while to shake it off.

  I try to twist around, to see if I can see any of my fellow travelers, but it’s tricky, as I don’t want to fall off the horse. But I see Brandon in the row behind me. I see Daniel and Elizabeth. Then, just as I’m about to turn around on my horse, I see something else.

  I see ol’ Butt-Ugly himself, Mr. Kramm, dressed now in Continental regalia, riding Bev’s horse. And sitting behind him, Bev.

  He sees me seeing him, and the first thing he does is put a finger to his lips.

  The second thing he does is jerk his thumb backward, toward Bev.

  And the third thing he does is slice his thumb across his own neck. Meaning Bev’s neck.

  I have a funny feeling that I just found the loose end Mr. Hart was talking about.

  I turn around, facing front. Or, rather, the back of my rider.

  Did I just see what I thought I saw?

  I do the math. Daniel and Elizabeth’s farmhouse. The stable. Two Hessians, one wounded.

  And one missing.

  So Kramm must have gotten away and followed us.

  I twist around, get a second look.

  Kramm pretends not to see me now. He keeps his eyes ahead, his head straight. Behind him, Bev doesn’t have
clue one about her rider, Mr. Kramm, or the thumb across his throat.

  Meanwhile, we’ve made progress. What was a mere country path, wide enough for two horses, has become something pretty much like a recognizable road. And there are more stone farmhouses scattered along the way now, not so very far from each other, as they were before. And there’s also, dotted here and there, red barns, stone millhouses, woodsheds, and broken-down fences. As we pass one homestead we see children, maybe five or six years old, doing chores. Their father wears a wide-brimmed hat—and seems displeased to see our caravan passing by. The children, though, wish us a good Christmas, at least until they are shushed by their dad.

  “We won’t be long now,” says my rider. “We’ll be coming into camp. The men are none too happy, if you want to know, laddie. They are hungry and cold and tired and plain wore down. Best not to say a word with any. They might tear your head off.”

  A few minutes later we come to the edge of the camp. There are a few tents, a few fires for cooking, and huddled everywhere are the men. Some have their muskets with them, but most do not. They’re sullen. Dirty. Their clothes are in some cases little more than rags, and a few have nothing at all on their feet. Plus, they smell.

  No one stands at attention or in any way officially acknowledges our procession.

  No one salutes General Washington, or anyone else.

  These are the guys His Excellency is counting on?

  On this sorry, ragged group rides the revolution?

  Our procession clomps through and then stops. “It’s the end of the line for you and your mates,” says my rider. “We’ve brought you as far as we’re bringing you. If I was you, I’d run back to me mum and dad. It’s Christmas Day still, laddie. You ought to be home, not out here with the likes of us.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say. “I’ll just get our group together and then off we go. I thank you for the ride.”

  He tips his hat, and then he’s gone.

  I turn around: everyone’s dismounted. I see Brandon and Daniel and Elizabeth.

  And Bev is merely peeved, per usual. But she has not been harmed, or taken.

  No Kramm. He got to where he wanted to go, which is the camp. He would have no further use of Bev, who would only slow him down at this point.

  While I’m wondering how much of the blame is on me—probably all of it—I turn on my phone to see if there are any texts from Mr. Hart. I’m not surprised that there are none.

  “Mel,” says Bev. “We’re not needed anymore. They can do this without us. Let’s go home.” She takes out her own phone, turns it on. “I’m running low on power,” she says. “So we better hurry. What do we have to do to reprogram this iTime app? And get back to where we belong?”

  “I’m with Bev,” says Brandon. “It’s getting too cold to be cool. Besides, I already know how it turns out. We win. They lose.” Brandon takes out his iPhone, and awaits instruction.

  “Mel,” says Bev, “say goodbye to your friends. Tell them they will live long and prosper.” She waves goodbye to Daniel and Elizabeth.

  “Right now, we’re going to have to stay put,” I say. “Remember that loose end Mr. Hart mentioned? I think I know what it is.”

  “Mel,” says Bev, “don’t be so dramatic. Seriously. You want to hang out, go right ahead. Not me. I don’t even like to read about history, never mind live in it.”

  “Dudes,” says Brandon, “this is starting to get to be not so cool. Mel, what’s the deal? Can we go? I’ve had enough.”

  “We can’t go,” I say. “I told you, there’s a loose end.”

  “The loose end is in Mel’s head, Brandon,” Bev says.

  “Mel?” says Brandon.

  “There’s a Hessian dude. Mr. Kramm, he calls himself. He’s here somewhere, in camp. He rode Bev in. And I’m pretty sure that until he kills General Washington, his mission isn’t finished.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  “WHO’S THIS GUY?” says Brandon.

  “A Hessian guy. He goes by the name of Kramm. He’s wearing a leather satchel that has the letters T.G.W., INC. on it. And did you notice the message when we opened up the iTime app? Something about the aim is to play, to mess about. Brought to you by T.G.W., Inc. Remember?”

  “No,” says Brandon. “I don’t. And what does it mean, anyway? T.G.W, Inc.?”

  “I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter. Because how could this guy be carrying a bag with the same initials that are appearing on our phone? I’ll tell you how. They’re connected. And another thing: the guy has a German Luger. How can you explain that?”

  Brandon rolls his eyes. “Okay, dude,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m telling you,” I persist. “He’s dressed as a Continental soldier now. He was riding the horse Bev was on. So in case you’re wondering, no, we can’t go back, because yes, we’re the ones who are going to have to make sure it doesn’t happen. If not us, then who?”

  “So what are we?” say Brandon. “Like the Secret Service?”

  “Pretty much. Call us what you want. But we have to make sure nothing happens to General Washington. Either before the crossing or after.”

  “All right, I’ve had it,” says Bev. “I’m tired, I’m sore from riding on the back of a horse, and I kind of think I should maybe take a shower—have you noticed that everyone kind of stinks around here?” She glances at Daniel and Elizabeth. “Sorry, no offense, but … well, this whole thing is getting kind of hard to take. I don’t care about somebody named Kramm. I really don’t. I just want to get out of here.” Bev checks her phone. “What was that app you were talking about, Mel? iTime? Here it is, on my home screen.” She taps it, and the app opens up.

  Brandon and Daniel and Elizabeth gather around.

  “Look,” says Bev. “It has the time, the date, and the coordinates. The date is December 25, 1776. I’m just going to change the year and then hit Submit, and that will be the end of that. You boys want to come along?”

  “What about the Hessian dude?” Brandon says.

  “What about him?”

  “Are we just going to leave him?”

  “Brandon,” Bev says. “Let me explain it to you. Sometimes the only thing anyone can do is just look out for number one. And right now is one of those times. You coming?”

  “So the answer is yes. We’d leave the Hessian dude behind.”

  “They’re smart guys, Brandon. They’ll figure something out.”

  “You sure?”

  “Brandon—I’m not arguing. I’m leaving. Better some of us get out than none of us.” She holds up her phone. “Who’s coming with me? Who wants to go home?”

  Home, she says.

  A funny word. Considering none of us are home, that is. We’re at school. Because, for one reason or another, there was no home for any of us this year.

  I can’t believe they’d do this. It’s like they’re seceding from the Union.

  But both Bev and Brandon reset the iTime app.

  “What does this mean?” Elizabeth says.

  “It means goodbye,” Bev says. “It was nice knowing you. Mel? You coming?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “Not when there’s a loose end.”

  “Good luck with that,” Bev says. She counts down, three, two, one, then she and Brandon raise their fingers. All they have to do is hit Submit and it will be done.

  SIXTY

  BUT THEY DON’T.

  Bev and Brandon stand there, iPhones in their left hand, right forefingers in midair, eyes wide as windows.

  “I can’t believe we’re staying,” Bev says. “We must be idiots.”

  “Maybe we’re patriots,” I say.

  Bev rolls her eyes. Then she sighs. Then we start arguing all over again.

  Me against Bev.

  Bev against Brandon.

  Daniel tries to say something, but Elizabeth tells him to shush, so they start arguing too. Why should we have all the fun?

  I see what’s happening to us.

 
We’re becoming factionalized.

  Our interests, our goals, and our needs are mismatched.

  The colony of Bev has nothing in common with the colony of Brandon.

  The colony of Brandon is remote, in every way, from the colony of Mel.

  Which results in friction. And arguing. Loudly.

  All the stuff that has been sort of kept under the lid for the last few days starts to come out—pretty much at the very worst possible time.

  Brandon calls Bev a stuck-up snoot. And then he says she’s not really smart at all, she just likes to pretend she’s smart. Like an actress.

  He must have hit home, because Bev’s eyes flare. And then she snorts, she’s so mad. “Oh yeah?” Bev says. “You’re nothing but a dopey loser, Brandon. You don’t even belong at the Fredericksville School. You’ll never catch up because you’re too dumb and too lazy.”

  “Yeah?” says Brandon. “Well, guess what you are, Bev. You’re a big drama queen, just like your mother.”

  Which Bev does not take lying down. She walks up to Brandon, raises her hand, and is about to slap him right across the face when an officer comes by on horseback.

  An officer of the Continental Army. With three other soldiers on horseback close behind.

  Which, if you want to know the truth, we’ve kind of forgotten about. The Continental Army? The crossing of the Delaware? Hey—we’re arguing here! First things first!

  “Silence!” the officer says, trying to shout over us. “Silence! Or you all will be bound and gagged, I promise!”

  That stops us.

  “Who are you children, and what business have you here?” he says. He glances down at my feet, and then he notices Brandon’s hoodie. He’s about to comment when Bev butts in.

  “And who are you?” says Bev.

  “He is Captain Joseph Moulder, of the Philadelphia Battalion of Associators,” says one of the men. “And no more impertinent questions from you, young miss.”

  “My charge,” says Captain Moulder, “is to patrol this perimeter and to maintain order. You will cease making any further commotion, or I shall have you bound and gagged. Now for the last time: state your business.”