The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington

by David Potter

  Plus, he’s nowhere near the front of the boat. He’s in the middle, surrounded, and protected, by his men. Who are even colder, wetter, more miserable, and more stressed and worried and afraid than General Washington, because they’ve got their own lives and his life on their minds.

  So the truth is? It’s just one big ol’ misery party. Which doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to end. But something’s happened, kind of while we weren’t paying attention. The Marbleheaders have gotten us to the midway point, and now all of a sudden they’ve turned us and we’re heading downstream. And we pick up speed.

  We can see the guys on the other side, flickering through the lanterns they’ve brought. Officers are trying to keep the men in orderly groups and have them move away from the landing area.

  We’re fifty yards from shore, and we know we’re going to do this. Then we’re forty yards away, thirty yards, coming up fast.

  We’re still supposed to keep the noise down here, remember. This is a secret mission, and the idea is to launch a surprise attack.

  Brandon, of course, forgets all that. Brandon shouts, loud enough so everyone from here to Trenton can hear: “Yo, everybody! We’re gonna make it!”

  General George Washington half rises from his seat, sees who is making the commotion, and calls out in a clear, sharp voice: “Silence! Silence, or I shall have your head!”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  GENERAL WASHINGTON STARES RIGHT at Brandon, who tries to shrink behind three guys in front of him. If Brandon were smart, he’d toss his red hat overboard, or at least put it in his pocket, because the commander-in-chief has no trouble picking him out in a crowd.

  “If I hear one more word from that one,” General Washington says, “I will be most displeased.” Then he turns his great head forward, to the upcoming riverbank.

  “Sor-reee,” Brandon says in as low a voice as he can manage. “I just got a little excited.”

  “Zip it, Brandon,” Bev says. “Okay?”

  Brandon just nods his head, and then we’re over on the other side. The New Jersey side.

  It’s kind of too cold for anyone to jump up and down with joy about it.

  First off the boat, naturally, are the men in the front. Captain Hamilton first, then General Greene, then General Washington, and then the rest of us. There’s no ceremony. It’s the middle of the night now, and only three-quarters of the army is across the river. And Trenton is still nine miles away. Crossing the river isn’t getting easier, not in this weather. Add it up, and it hardly seems possible that a predawn strike is possible. We’re close enough to General Washington to hear him voicing his concerns, but there’s no turning back now—not for General Washington, not for the Continental Army, and not for us, either.

  “Let’s go, guys,” I say. “Kramm’s ahead of us somewhere.”

  “Where did he go?” Bev asks.

  “I bet over there,” Brandon points. “To those buildings. It’s where I’d go, if I wanted to get away from everyone.”

  General Washington starts conferring with the men who’ve already landed. The last thing on his mind is us, so we slip away and run up a slope where we can get a view. One of the buildings is a stable. We hear yelling, and then we see Mr. Kramm, on horseback, kick some guy in the face and ride off.

  Two minutes later we’re in the stables ourselves. The guy who got kicked has picked himself up and is in no mood to negotiate.

  “We need horses,” I tell him. “That man who kicked you? He’s dangerous. He has to be stopped. And we’re with the Continental Army.”

  “The Continental Army?” the guy says. He’s an older guy, and he’s bigger than us, and angry. “You want anything from me, you’ll have to pay in pound sterling. I’ll not take worthless Continental scrip, I swear. If you want anything at all at this time of night, and on this day—it’s still Christmas, blast it—you’ll have to pay double. To make up for that one.” He points, with his thumb, toward Kramm, who’s now gotten a good head start on us.

  But like I said, we don’t have a lot of time here. Nor do we have anything like pounds sterling upon our person.

  “You’re not going to like it,” I tell the guy. “But we’re taking horses, and we’re taking them now. And the Continental Army thanks you.”

  The guy snarls and cusses and then takes a run at us.

  Brandon sticks his foot out and the dude falls flat on his face, which buys us about thirty seconds.

  I know it’s not nice, but the thing is? We don’t have time for nice anymore.

  There are only two horses left in the stable, and Brandon starts saddling up one of them—something he learned how to do on his family’s ranch in New Mexico. Bev and I keep watch on the stable owner, who’s taking his time picking himself up from the snow. Maybe he’s starting to realize that there’s no use trying to stop us, not with the whole Continental Army coming his way.

  “Two is better than one, Brandon,” I say. “You ride alone. We’ll take the other.”

  “Can’t all three of us fit on one horse?” says Bev.

  “We could, but it’s not a great idea,” I say. “We might have to separate. This way we double our chances.”

  “You bring these horses back, you hear?” the old man says. “Otherwise it’s plain stealing.”

  “We will,” Brandon tells him. “Soon as we’re done with them. Promise.”

  The old man grunts an acceptance of sorts, then stands by as Brandon helps Bev and me get horse number two saddled up. Which is a good thing, since I don’t have a clue how to do it.

  I put my left foot in the stirrup and hoist myself up. I kind of surprise myself by not immediately falling off. Then Bev gets herself behind me, and we’re ready to ride.

  The wind’s really ripping now. Trees are swaying and creaking like they have a notion to crack and fall over. Now that we’re mounted, I glance back at the river. Under the lanterns, in a kind of spooky dull glow, Marblehead men are standing on the docks, and the longboats are returning to pick up more loads. It would be great to see Daniel and Elizabeth coming along, but I guess they’re still waiting in the boarding line. To the left of the dock, about fifty yards away, the men have built a bonfire to keep everyone warm, and those that have crossed are standing near it, or feeding it with any wood they can find. I think I spot, in the middle of the men, General Washington. He’s a head taller than anyone else.

  “Which way?” Brandon yells over the wind.

  “We can’t tell from here where he went,” I holler. “The Bear Tavern Road is up ahead. It goes for about two miles and then splits off into River Road and Pennington Road. We’ve got to get to Kramm before he gets to the split. All right?”

  “Dude!” shouts Brandon. “How do you know so much?”

  “I was paying attention at the reenactment. They explained the whole thing. Don’t you remember? Or weren’t you paying attention?”

  “Neither,” Brandon says. “Or is it both?”

  “Whatever,” I say. “We have to hunt him down. We can’t let Kramm get in a shooting position.”

  Brandon slaps his horse, I slap ours, and we’re off.

  SIXTY-NINE

  BRANDON’S HORSE CHARGES OUT of the gate like it’s in a wintertime Kentucky Derby.

  Ours?

  Not so much.

  Bev—remember, she’s supposed to be the smart one—takes about a nanosecond to figure out why. She’s right behind me. She’s holding on to my coat. I hear her yell in my ear: “Mel, have you ever ridden a horse before?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Plenty of times.” It’s really, like, never, but how hard can it be?

  “You’re holding the reins wrong,” she says. “The horse doesn’t know what you want it to do.”

  “What makes you such an expert?”

  “Riding lessons. If you don’t know what you’re doing, why did you get in front?”

  “All right!” I say. “Okay!” Though it kills me to have to say it, this is, like, absolutely the worst time
to try to fake my way through. “You want to drive?”

  She does.

  We have to stop and switch places. She’s where she’s supposed to be and I’m in the back. Then she grabs the reins, digs her knees into the horse’s flanks, and says: “Let’s go!”

  She’s talking to the horse, not to me, and somehow the horse understands that Bev means business.

  We take off, like the horse wants to get to Pennington Road more than we do. It’s not easy going—snow, sleet, etc.—and the ground is hard, but our mare is now on a mission, so we cover ground faster than a go-cart.

  But going fast is only part of the problem. The other part is knowing where to go.

  “I think it’s up here!” Bev shouts. I really have to hold on now, and we’re not only going fast, but also riding rough over the road.

  “What’s up here?” I shout back.

  “Bear Tavern Road!” Bev shouts, and yanks the rein on the right. Our mare makes a hard right turn. I mean hard right. So hard, I nearly fall off. I have to grab Bev’s coat to hold on, and practically take her down with me.

  We manage to hold on, and our mare makes the right. We can kind of see the outlines of a road of sorts—there’s nothing straight ahead of us, but there’s trees and bushes on either side—so by the process of deduction we can assume that we’re on Bear Tavern Road so long as there is nothing immediately in front of us. I think, It sure would be good to have a powerful flashlight with us. We’d be able to make out tracks if Kramm had come down this way.

  I twist to turn around. I see the tracks we’re making, but it’s too dark to see anyone else’s.

  “Let’s go, girl!” Bev shouts. “Give us all you’ve got!”

  She does, and we gain still more speed. And for at least five minutes we fly down Bear Tavern Road. At this speed we’ll either overtake Kramm or ride right into Trenton ourselves.

  But there’s the split to worry about, where the road branches off to Pennington Road and River Road. What if we come to the split and haven’t found Kramm? Do we go to the left or the right?

  “Where’s Brandon?” I yell to Bev. “He’s supposed to be in front of us!”

  “No clue,” Bev yells back. “He must have gotten lost.” Then she sees something. “Light!” she shouts. “A house! Fifty yards ahead!”

  Wind and freezing rain temporarily obscure our view as a strong hurricane-force gale nearly blows us into the next county. Our mare slips in the snow but regains her footing and we press on. Then we come to a small wood-frame house. The place is lit up by a lantern. In front of the house is a man dressed in nightclothes, and he’s wielding a four-foot-long fire iron.

  “Who be you?” the man shouts. “State your side so I know where you stand, and be prepared for what will come your way! Are you for the king or are you for the revolution? Answer me, you blasted kids!”

  “The revolution,” I say, and if the guy throws the fire iron at us I’m going to be really, really teed off.

  But he doesn’t.

  “I shall let you live, then!” the man shouts. “A man just came by—a German—he woke me from a sound slumber. He said to alert my neighbors and to stand fast—the traitors were on the march! ‘Traitors,’ says I, ‘what traitors be these?’ ‘Washington and his men,’ the German says. ‘Prepare yourself! Act now and we can stop them!’ That’s when I got my fire iron and chased him away! The man has his facts wrong! King George can burn for eternity! His soldiers have pillaged our farms and possessions! I told this German man, ‘Sir, I am an American now! A newborn patriot! Your information is incorrect! Whoever told you I am a Loyalist is quite mistaken, and I shall be glad to shove this iron in your eye to prove it! If the Continental Army be coming down this way, by God I shall join them myself!’ ”

  “Where did the German guy go?” I say. “Is he here?”

  “He continued on his road!” the man shouts. “I know what he’s about—he’s some blasted Hessian for hire! I should have gutted him when I had the chance!” Then he thrusts the fire iron forward, to show us exactly what he would have done.

  SEVENTY

  IT IS NOW PITCH-BLACK, and the weather is getting truly awful. Kramm, according to this man, got back on his horse and continued on down Bear Tavern Road. Which appears very dark and bleak to me. And dangerous. This man’s house, on the other hand, lit by a single lantern, seems like the most luxurious place in the world.

  His name, he tells us, is Thompson. He is a farmer, and at one time he had a wife and six children, but his wife died, four of his children died, and his two remaining daughters live with their husbands in nearby Pennington. He is sixty-three, he tells us, and has lived in this house on Bear Tavern Road for thirty-seven years. And if he had any coffee or tea, he would surely offer it to us.

  He says, “If the German be the man you’re after, then head straight down. You should find him soon enough. Bring him to me. I’ll fix him once and for all, the blasted Hessian.”

  “I guess we should go,” I say to Bev. I have to shout, as the wind has picked up yet again.

  “Go where?”

  I point. “Down Bear Tavern Road.”

  “We’ll never find him,” Bev says. “He could be anywhere.”

  “Can’t we follow his tracks?”

  “We can’t see anything,” Bev says. “Fifty yards from here and it will be pitch-black. And in this weather, it would be dangerous. If we fall, it could be the end of us.”

  “We can’t just do nothing,” I say. “We have to do something, don’t we?” And I think to myself, Even if it’s stupid, completely and utterly stupid, it’s better to do something rather than nothing, right?

  “We might need help,” Bev says.

  “We don’t have any,” I say.

  “I think we might,” she says. “I hear someone coming.”

  Sure enough, I hear a horse’s hooves pounding down the road. Then familiar voices. First Daniel’s. Then Elizabeth’s.

  Then: “Dudes! That you?”

  It’s Brandon, of course, and he brought company: Daniel and Elizabeth, who somehow bumped their way to the front of the boat-boarding line. All three of them are atop a very small horse, who doesn’t seem pleased with the load. “Dudes,” Brandon says. “Where were you?”

  “We were here,” I say. “Did you get lost?”

  “I must have. So I went back, and there was Daniel and Elizabeth. But the big news is, everyone’s over now, even the horses and the cannons! They’re right behind us!”

  Bev turns our horse so we can see. Then Daniel calls out: “They’re coming! Down the road! The Continental Army! What a sight to behold!”

  It is a sight indeed.

  In the dead of night, in the depth of winter, in the blackest hour, in the bleakest moment, in the most hopeless circumstances, here they come: the Continental Army of the United States of America.

  They are marching, all 2,400 of them, in a column five men across. The storm is in full blow, letting loose a wintry mixture of wind, snow, and sleet, and most of the troops are thoroughly soaked, but it—the storm—doesn’t really matter anymore. They’ve gotten across the Delaware, and are on the march to Trenton: nothing on this man’s earth can stop them now.

  The soldiers in the first row see the five of us on the front porch, and one man calls out, “Victory!”

  “Or death!” we call back in unison.

  “Be you soldiers,” says the man, “then fall in. And watch as we put the fear of a free people into King George’s hired Hessians!”

  The other men cheer: “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  We turn our horses—Bev and me on our mare, Brandon, Daniel, and Elizabeth on their chestnut shorty—and join the march. About two hundred yards in we come to General Washington, General Greene, and Captain Hamilton, all on horseback, all exhorting the men to keep pressing, boys, keep pressing. General Washington, as usual, is concerned, and of course he knows the whole attack is massively behind schedule, but it’s such an impressive sight—a mile-long
parade of men, horses, artillery—that maybe even the general feels a tad hopeful. There’s too much going on at the moment for him to acknowledge us, but Captain Hamilton pulls up beside me.

  “Have you … accomplished … what needed to be done?”

  “We have not, Captain Hamilton.”

  “You have not?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Then what is the danger?”

  “General Washington’s person. He must be protected at all times. We are going to scout ahead and make certain the path is safe, even if only fifty yards at a time.”

  “How … how would anyone else know the path we take?”

  “That’s a very good question. My guess is that our friend has been somehow informed. Don’t ask me how.”

  “Informed? Of what?”

  “Of the path we’re taking.”

  “How could he know that?” Captain Hamilton asks. “We hardly know it ourselves.”

  “Like I said, don’t ask me how. And I don’t think we’ll go wrong if we assume the worst.”

  He nods, and presses forward with his men. But then we are halted.

  At the head of the line our leaders consult, orders are given, the word gets passed down, unit to unit, militia to militia. Half of us are going to the right, along River Road, under the command of General John Sullivan.

  And half of us will go to the left, along Pennington Road, under the command of General Greene. Accompanying General Greene will be General Washington, General Henry Knox, who commands the cannons, Captain Alexander Hamilton, and all five of us.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  IT’S GOING TO TAKE us about four and a half hours to walk Pennington Road to Trenton.

  It takes us maybe four and a half minutes to start arguing among ourselves again.

  The horses are to blame. The mare and the chestnut shorty. Since there are only two of them and five of us, who rides when and with whom is the issue.