by J. Y. Harris
“You could say that.”
“What does ‘okay’ mean?”
“What?” Brad and Kristen looked at each other. “Er, it means ‘fine,’ or ‘all right,’” he said.
“Yeah, it’s a common word from our native land. Germany.”
“Prussia.”
“Whatever.”
Rebecca looked a bit confused and glanced at Kristen. “You say that word a lot, too: ‘whatever.’”
Brad smirked. “You have no idea.”
“People, people,” Kristen said. “Can we focus, please? Are we forgetting our friends in the woods here? The ones who can probably see us plain as day, even as we stand here yapping?”
“Oh, right,” her brother replied. “I assume we’re in no danger from them, since we’re not soldiers, and they’re only scouts.”
“You’re likely correct,” Rebecca agreed. “And I do have a pass issued by General Howe’s aide, so that should be protection enough to be on the road.”
Brad sighed. He and Kristen had no such pass. Although it was possible the two of them might be able to ‘piggyback’ on Rebecca’s, that was certainly not definite. If the pass specified the number of people for which it was valid, it wouldn’t help them at all. They would just have to hope they weren’t challenged by any redcoats.
“Soooo…” he said, “shall we get on our way to the tavern?”
“Yes,” Rebecca agreed. “It’s only another few miles. And we can go the rest of the way by the road.”
Yippee, another few miles, Kristen thought. What’s another two or three after the ten we’ve already walked today? Hi, I’m Miss Revolutionary War of Seventeen Seventy-Seven, and I’m walking to Flourtown. No wait, I’m actually going to see my brother at his army camp. Ha ha, and now we’re walking to some backwoods ale-house. Walk, walk, walk. Anybody ever herd of a bicycle? How about a carriage? Why couldn’t we have been transported through time to Boston, and run into Paul Revere? At least he had a friggin’ horse.
While Kristen was grumbling, Brad was once again making time with Colonial Cathy up ahead. Unbe-friggin’-lievable. He didn’t seem to show this much interest in any girls in the twenty-first century, at least not that she’d ever seen or heard, but didn’t it just figure that geekboy is gonna crush on the first girl he meets when they’re time-travelling. How very Captain Kirk of him.
Not me, Kristen thought. Nuh-uh. Pie-girl’s brother William had not been my type. At. All. So that cheesy-movie scenario in which a brother-sister combo hooks up with another brother-sister combo?
No way. Not gonna happen. Hooking up with someone in this timeline is not on my agenda. I’m flying solo in this century. ‘Solo is heaven in ‘seventy-seven’—that’s my motto. And yeah, that’s seventeen-seventy-seven. Nineteen-seventy-seven would be weird enough, but nooo, that’s not where we are. We’re a couple centuries off. Lucky us!
After what seemed like another year of walking, the trio could see a couple of buildings up ahead, a place that looked like it had chairs, and a cozy fire, maybe even something to eat. It wasn’t exactly a Friendly’s, or even a Starbucks, but it had to be better than trudging along this road.
The smoke drifting out of the chimney seemed to be a beacon of welcome to travelers, and as they neared, the Everhearts saw that there were actually a couple of buildings: the tavern, and what appeared to be (or rather, what sounded like) a blacksmith shop, as well as the usual small out-buildings. Kristen and Brad had been to Colonial Williamsburg and other historical locations often enough to recognize that sound of ringing steel on the forge when they heard it.
“Rebecca,” Brad said, “how do you want to play this?” At her questioning look, he continued, “I’m assuming you don’t know William’s commanding officer by sight. That is, you wouldn’t recognize him without someone pointing him out, and he might not even agree to speak with you.”
She shook her head. “All I know is, his name is Captain Howell. He’s only been in charge of the regiment for a few months, since the previous officer was captured at the battle of Germantown. Therefore, I’ll just go in to the tavern and ask to speak with Captain Howell.”
“And you know he’s here… how?” Kristen asked.
“William said all the officers in the regiments were called to a meeting here at Tyson’s Tavern.”
“Yeah, and what about William?” Kristen wondered. “Why didn’t he take the message to his captain?”
“He’s scheduled to go on duty shortly. His sergeant would not have allowed him to leave camp.”
“Even with a message for their captain?”
“Especially with a message for the captain. William said the sergeant would have demanded to know the information, and would have insisted on carrying it himself.”
“And that’s bad because…?”
“Yeah,” Brad said, “doesn’t William trust the sergeant to deliver it?”
“Oh, I’m sure the sergeant would deliver the message. The problem is, not only would he take credit for it—which is hardly important in the long run—but for all we know, he would embellish it. To try to make himself seem more important, and further his career. He might even distort the details.”
Brad and Kristen looked at each other. “There’s that game of Telephone again,” Brad muttered. To Rebecca he said, “And I supposed writing it out wouldn’t change that. Or be safe, for that matter. Yeah, we know the type of guy this sergeant is.
“So, you’re going to go into the Tavern and ask for Captain Howell. Are you okay with doing that? I mean, he’s an Army officer you’ve never met before, and you’re a—er, um, well—you’re a young lady.”
Rebecca smiled, and put her hand on Brad’s arm. Kristen was amused to see her brother turn six shades of red. “Don’t worry, Mr. Everheart,” Rebecca said. “I will be perfectly safe.”
As the young people neared the tavern, they could see more activity. A number of horses were tied to the hitching post out front, and a young boy was currying one of them. Next door at the smithy an old man sat outside on a short barrel, whittling; just like a picture from a history book, Kris thought. From inside the smithy came the sound of voices raised to be heard over the din of the smith’s hammer.
Rebecca ignored all this—it was all old hat to her; definitely not out of the ordinary—and led them inside Tyson’s Tavern. Brad half-expected someone to approach to ask them for ID and proof of age, since that was what he knew what would happen if he tried to get into such an establishment in his own time.
However, nobody challenged the three young people, and they entered the tavern, blinking as their eyes transitioned from the bright autumn sun to the cool dimness of the indoors. Rebecca walked directly to the bar along the far wall.
“We’ll be with you in one moment,” came a voice from behind.
The three turned, and Rebecca was puzzled to see her companions’ reaction. Both Everhearts seemed to freeze in their tracks. Brad’s eyes widened, and Kristen’s mouth fell open.
“Er, I’m here to see Captain Howell,” Rebecca said, distracted as she was by her companions’ odd reaction. “I have an urgent message for him.”
“Do you, now?” came the reply. The speaker was a young man, probably their own age. He had a towel over his shoulder and two empty mugs in each hand; obviously he was in the middle of cleaning up.
The tavern-owner’s son?
Rebecca cleared her throat—loudly—in an effort to break her companions’ trance.
“Yes, I do,” she continued. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Jacob Tyson. You say you need to speak with Captain Howell? What makes you think he’s here?”
“I see horses outside—officers’ horses. Yet the taproom is practically empty. He’s got to be here somewhere.”
“I never said there weren’t people here. What makes you think one of them is this Captain Howell?”
Rebecca gave a sigh of exasperation. “See here, I’ve been walking—we’ve been walking—fo
r miles, and we’re tired. I’ve come from Philadelphia, and I need to—”
“From Philadelphia!”
The exclamation startled all four young people, and they turned toward the new voice, from the doorway that led to the rooms beyond the taproom. A military man stood there, wearing a blue coat with buff facings, a matching buff-colored waistcoat, and brass buttons which had surely been recently polished, as they reflected brightly in the lantern glow augmenting the sunlight penetrating the two thick windows. Shiny black boots—also freshly-polished—fit over the tan breeches.
“You say you are come from Philadelphia,” he continued. “For what purpose? What business have you here?”
Rebecca seemed uncertain in the presence of the no-nonsense officer. “Well, er, I’m here to speak with Captain Howell, of the 2nd Pennsylvania. Are you he?”
“No, miss, I am not. I’m Major John Clark, of General Washington’s staff. Again, what is your business with Captain Howell?”
For the first time since entering the tavern, Brad spoke. “General Washington’s staff? Is he here? Can we meet him?”
Kristen too had been snapped out of her reverie at the entrance of this officious soldier. Even in the face of all the other surprises of the day, she was amused to see Brad practically falling over himself at the mention of Washington. You’d think he was asking to meet Eli Manning or The Decemberists.
“No, you may not meet him,” Major Clark replied. “And I will only ask you once more, young madame, what is your business with Captain Howell?”
“I have a message for him. A confidential message,” Rebecca replied. She was trying to retain her dignity and confidence in front of the imposing major.
“From whom?”
From none of your business, Kristen wanted to blurt. Why do some people always think they have a right to know everything? Her homeroom teacher was the same way. If a kid got called to the office, or was given a note from another teacher, she thought it was her business to know all about it.
Rebecca stood firm, although she was clearly nervous. “It’s not a message ‘from’ anyone, but it is information that General Washington needs to know. About General Howe.”
“And you were going to give this information to Captain Howell?”
“Yes. He’s my brother’s commanding officer, and I’m sure he can get it to the right person.”
“As it happens,” the Major stated, “I am the right person. I collect, er, information for General Washington.”
“You’re a spymaster!” Brad said, and Kris could almost see the lightbulb that appeared over his head. “You operate a spy ring to gather intel for the Continentals.”
If ever anyone could be said to ‘look thunderous,’ it was Major Clark, at this moment. His brows descended into an ominous ‘V’ formation, and his otherwise handsome features hardened. “You had best watch your tongue, young sir,” he said in a low, tight voice. (Just like Jack Bauer, Kristen thought.) “Accusations such as that could cost lives.” He turned his stern gaze back to Rebecca. “Now, young lady—“
“My mother is Lydia Darrow,” she blurted out, much to everyone’s surprise—including, apparently, her own.
Major Clark came as close to looking surprised as he likely allowed himself, but covered quickly. “Lydia Darrow! Well, why didn’t you say so? Please, come with me.” The Major looked at the tavern-keeper’s son. “Tyson, get these young people some refreshment. That is, if they insist on waiting.”
Kristen, Brad, and Jacob watched Major Clark usher Rebecca out of the taproom.
“Will she be safe?” Brad asked… somewhat belatedly, Kris thought.
“Certainly,” Jacob replied. “Major Clark is a gentleman, and his only concern is for General Washington’s army. Your friend is well protected. Please, have a seat, and I’ll bring you something to drink.”
Jacob Tyson pulled out a chair at one of the tables, and gestured for Kristen to sit. Brad sat next to her. Then young Tyson hurriedly wiped off another table as he made his way behind the bar. After stowing the dirty mugs and towel, he disappeared into the back room.
He returned a moment later with two cups of something he called ‘flip.’ At his sister’s questioning—and skeptical—look, Brad informed her that it was something like eggnog… although the way he said it, Kristen knew there was more to it than that, and that she probably didn’t want to know details. She sipped hers gingerly and tried not to make a face. Eggnog was not something she enjoyed to begin with; anything that was ‘something like’ it was practically doomed to fail.
“Won’t you join us?” she asked, eying the mostly-empty taproom. “I think you can probably spare a minute.”
Jacob shrugged. “Yes, I suppose I can at that.” He sat down and looked from one to the other of the Everhearts. “Are you from around here? I don’t believe I know you.”
“We’re from Prussia,” Kristen stated.
“Falls Village,” Brad corrected her.
“Dang, almost had it that time,” Kristen said. “But our family is originally from Prussia,” she explained to Jacob.
He nodded, and Kristen noticed again the resemblance to his modern-day relative. Jacob had blue eyes and dark blond hair that was just thick enough to make a girl’s fingers itch to run through it, and just wavy enough to make him look boyish. She thought he sort of looked like Heath Ledger in that old movie A Knight’s Tale. (Yum!) His grin also made him look boyish, but there was something in his eyes which made her certain that Jacob Tyson didn’t miss much. Behind the friendly, casual appearance, Kristen was sure he was sharp as a tack, a “triple-A” personality, as her dad would say: alert, aware, and assessing.
She decided to test this theory.
“How often is General Washington here?” she asked.
“The General just arrived in the area yesterday,” he replied with a shrug. “And how long have you known Miss Darrow?”
Aha! Defend and attack. He obviously was not willing to talk about Washington.
“Not long,” Brad replied in answer to the question. “We met her on the road, and were more than happy to walk with her and accompany her here.”
“And why is that?” Jacob asked. “If you just met her, that is. I understand her family are Quakers. Are you Quakers as well, and neutral about the war?”
“Oh, we are so not Quakers,” Kristen said. “I personally love music and dancing, thank you very much.”
“That’s the Amish, genius,” Brad retorted under his breath. To Jacob he said, “No, we’re not Quakers, and we’re not exactly neutral about the war. We’re definitely on the side of the Americans. You might say our future depends on it.”
“Ha, clever,” Kris muttered as she held up her mug, reluctantly, for another sip of flip.
Jacob merely nodded, although it looked to Kristen like he wasn’t completely convinced. Ah, well, time to change the subject.
“Soooo. Jacob Tyson. Tyson’s Tavern. Conveniently located here, just outside of Philadelphia. How long has your family owned this place?”
“My grandfather opened it, before the war with the Indians. This road was a common route out of Trenton, so the tavern was a convenient stopping point and changing station for horses. How about you, what does your father do in Falls Village? Farmer? Shopkeeper?”
Kristen laughed aloud at the notion of her father being a farmer. Mowing the yard, yeah, dad certainly did that—unless he got Brad to do it instead. But dad didn’t even want to get involved in the small kitchen garden their mom started in the back yard; other than maybe setting the sprinkler on it upon request, that is. Basically, if it wasn’t for the great beef stew and veggie pizza his wife made from time to time—sometimes with veggies from that very garden—Kevin Everheart wouldn’t know an onion from a rutabaga.
“Our dad works with… er, machines,” Brad said.
“Dad?” Jacob repeated, as if he were unfamiliar with the word.
“Father,” Kristen said. “He means father. ‘Dad’ is a Pruss
ian word for father.” What the heck, she thought; like he’ll ever find out otherwise.
“Oh, I see. And what type of machine does he work with?”
“What type of machine?”
“Yes. Plow, printing press, the spinning jenny or steam engine….”
“Well, I guess you could say he works with a printing press. It definitely prints. But it’s a new kind; too complicated for me to explain.”
Jacob seemed to accept that answer. Which was good, because if they had to explain ‘dad’ to him, how would they ever hope to explain what a software engineer did?
Kristen was glad Jacob didn’t ask more questions about it, because she really liked looking at him when his brow was clear and his features untroubled. Eric Tyson was a doll in the twenty-first century, and even though there was a definite difference between the two—other than age and century born—she found Jacob Tyson just as good looking as his descendent.
Let Brad spend his time here in 1777 chatting up the spy-lady’s daughter. Kristen was content to feast her eyes on the bar-keeper’s son.
After a few minutes more of general conversation, Jacob excused himself to continue his chores, straightening chairs, wiping off tables, and, as more patrons began to straggle in, he even stepped behind the bar, pulling drafts of ale into clean mugs. Another man came into the tap from another back room and took charge behind the bar. It was difficult to determine his age, but Kristen would have pegged it as somewhere in his forties. Hard to tell though, with the unkempt grey hair and lined face. People didn’t seem to age well, back in the day.
Her eye wandered back to Jacob, who was talking animatedly with two men who sat at a table across the room. So cute. So capable and personable. So… colonial.
Arrgghh. It was more than she could conceive that she was here making sheep’s eyes at some boy whose great-great-great-great-many-times-great grandson went to school with her brother. The fact that Jacob Tyson, who stood not ten feet away from her, was in actuality long dead and buried was both creepy and mind-blowing.
The clatter of Brad’s cup on the table brought her out of her reverie.
