by J. Y. Harris
Kristen cleared her throat. “Man, it’s kind of odd to see someone our age working in a bar, serving drinks,” she observed.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure there are no child labor laws to worry about, not to mention there probably isn’t even an official legal drinking age.”
“I suppose when kids get to be about our age, they had no choice but to go to work somewhere. No more schooling, no hanging out with friends. No place to hang out, even if they had time. What do you suppose they do for fun?”
Brad shrugged. “Barn dances? Quilting bees? Gathering together behind a covered bridge somewhere with a jug of something borrowed from their parents’ storeroom?”
“Or gather under a bridge,” Kristen replied with a mischievous grin. “Or, to make a modern reference, under a highway overpass. Or behind an abandoned building. In other words, same stuff that goes on in our time.”
“Yeah, the same stuff: the six-packs, someone with a pack of smokes, the car sound systems blasting away… Yep, just the same old stuff. Except it’s not exactly old at the moment, now, is it? It’s unheard of at this point. Futuristic, even. Waaaay off in the future.”
Both were silent for a moment, thinking about their ‘real’ lives. What was going on in their timeline? Did anyone know they were gone? If they were here, in the past, did anyone in the future even remember them or know they existed? Or had their ‘transition’ to the past totally erased them from their ‘normal’ timeline?
More importantly, how would they ever get back there? If they even could, that is. Kristen decided there was no point in worrying about if; she was going to concentrate on the how and the when.
They would get back, she decided. She would not accept any other outcome; would not even consider it.
A door closed somewhere toward the back of the tavern, and a moment later Major Clark escorted Rebecca back into the taproom. Brad and Kristen looked at each other; Rebecca looked relieved. She smiled at them, the sort of smile that indicated a burden lifted.
“I thank you, Miss Darrow, for stopping by. Our chat has been most useful,” Major Clark said by way of dismissal. “Mr. Tyson will see that you get food and drink as required, and you’re free to go.”
“So you’ll take care of it?” Brad asked. “You’ll take the, er, information to General Washington and see that, um, proper precautions are taken.”
The major glowered at Brad, drawing himself up to full height and eying the seated teenager. “You, young man, are not involved in this conversation. However, since you accompanied Miss Darrow this far, I will assure you that the General will be apprised of the situation immediately, and we will act with all due propriety to ensure we are prepared for any occurrence.” He bowed at the waist slightly. “Your servant, ladies, sir,” and then he left them.
Rebecca smiled again. “May I join you? Now that my task has been completed, I find that I’m ravenous.”
Brad held a chair for her, and Mr. Tyson himself brought them some apples and something else, which looked like either fat pancakes, or flattened biscuits. Kristen looked at the plate suspiciously, and was about to ask what they were when Brad gestured and asked, “Are those… journey cakes?”
Mr. Tyson nodded. “Of course. Don’t you know journey cake when you see it? Or maybe you call it johnnycake?”
“No, we call it, er, journey cake. But I’m just used to it looking a little more…”
“Edible?” Kristen suggested.
“—buttery,” Brad finished, darting one of his WBs at his sister. “A little butter makes them a little more, uh, yellow.”
“Well, I’d add more butter if I had it,” the tavern owner replied, moving on, “but these days I can’t make enough butter to have some for every little thing.”
“And I’m sure these are great just as they are,” Brad said, rather lamely.
Jacob came to refill their mugs, and Rebecca asked if there was any cider. When he said there was, Brad and Kristen quickly indicated they’d like cider, as well. With a shake of his head, Jacob took away their mugs of flip and came back shortly with three mugs of cider before resuming his chores.
Kristen didn’t even think to wonder if they were fresh mugs or if the flip had merely been poured out of their previous mugs and the cider poured in; she was very thirsty, and at least cider was something she was familiar with. Something she could actually drink. Other than the fact that it was room temperature rather than chilled the cider was as refreshing as frozen yogurt on a hot day at the beach.
After a while the three young people rose and thanked Mr. Tyson for his hospitality.
“Oh, don’t thank me. I’m glad to do what I can for the cause, and I thank you, young lady, for your efforts. Now, I’ve been instructed to have you leave by a certain route, and my son Jacob will accompany you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—” Brad began.
“Shhh,” Kristen said. “Let the man speak.”
“Yes, well,” Mr. Tyson continued, “Jacob will show you the best route back to Philadelphia. To avoid the British patrols, don’t ya know?”
“Oh, but I have a pass,” Rebecca said. “In fact, I’m supposed to be going to Flourtown.” She drew out the empty flour sacks she’d put in her satchel.
“Don’t worry. The way back will take you past Frankford and some other mills, and you can get your flour there. Them redcoats will never know the difference. And if they ask what took you so long, tell ’em there was flooding on the Frankford Road. Which is true enough this time o’ year, eh? Especially after last week’s rain.”
He gave them some more journey cakes to take with them—this century’s version of Go-Gurt or a power bar, Kristen thought. However, before the group set out for the next leg of their whacked-out day, Kristen knew one thing could not be avoided any longer: she had to use the outhouse.
She had Brad make a discreet inquiry of Mr. Tyson, and was soon heading out the back door of the tavern, scowling at her brother, who was obviously enjoying her dread. However, there was nothing to be done except deal with the situation, so she acted as if this was nothing new to her, and went out to do her business.
She had known it would be smelly (or “malodorous,” as her mother would have said), but she was pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t much worse. She didn’t know why it wasn’t as bad as she had feared, and she really didn’t care. The physical discomfort and the darkness in the ‘house’ were bad enough, and even if it had smelled like a Yankee Candle store, it would still have been an unpleasant experience.
She was glad to rejoin the others, and gladder still about the small bottle of hand sanitizer she had tucked in her backpack before the sleepover last weekend.
The four teens exited the front of the tavern. The ringing anvil of the next-door blacksmith provided accompaniment to their footfalls, but did not totally cover the sound of voices from the vicinity of the stables. Glancing over, Kristen saw Major Clark in conversation with two fellow officers who had apparently just arrived and dismounted… one of whom seemed awfully familiar.
Brad had obviously seen them too.
“Is that….,” he began. “Could that really be…?”
“Who?” Jacob asked, turning to see what had captured Brad’s attention.
“Washington. It’s George Washington. He’s a general, and commander of the Continental Army, not to mention being the very first presi-- er, I mean, well— It’s General Washington!”
“Yes, we can see that,” Kristen replied, tugging on her brother’s sleeve. “Now come on, let’s not make a scene.”
“Not make a scene? I have no intention of making a scene. But dude! I’m a stone’s throw away from George Washington. Father of our country! I’d give my right arm to meet and talk to him.”
“Well, I’ll ‘give your right arm,’ too—give it a yank right out of the socket if you don’t calm down and get moving.” She took a mock-serious tone. “Brad, step away from the president.”
Reluctantly, Brad turned away,
shaking his head at the missed opportunity. Meeting the first President of the United States? Yeah, that’s an opportunity that would never happen again.
The young people retraced their steps down the road the way they had come for a short distance, and then Jacob indicated a path leading into the forest.
“This should bypass most of the long route you took earlier,” he said, “and will get us to where the mills are.”
“I thank you,” Rebecca answered. “I know this area a little, but certainly not as well as you do.”
“My pleasure, Miss Darrow. Any time we can pull the wool over the eyes of the lobsterbacks, I’m all for it, and glad to help in any way I can.”
“Are they around here much? The lobsterbacks?” Brad asked.
Jacob, who had been in the lead on the narrow path, turned to answer. “For the past six months or so, they’ve been everywhere. First, General Howe’s troops were swarming all about this area, but they were called to action for the battle of Brandywine. Then came the skirmish at Germantown, and they were everywhere again, and they’ve never left since. Now, with the British occupying Philadelphia, we see a lot of their officers travelling through the area, riding to and from the city to meet with Howe, or what-have-you. Most of which you probably already know, of course.”
“Isn’t it likely that they have even more scouts out now, since they’re planning to, er, take action?” For some reason, Kristen was hesitant to use the word ‘attack.’ Saying it sounded brutal, and, crazily, might make it come true. Which, of course, she already knew to be true. It would happen, and soon. At least, it had better, if history were to play out the way it was supposed to.
Boy, this is weird, she thought. How often do people—civilians, not soldiers or despots or war-mongers—how often do people want to have a battle? A battle in which there will be injuries and deaths. People will die, real people, maybe people I’ve seen so far today, maybe even William Darrow or Major Clark, and yet, this battle has to happen. And it has to happen just as Brad and I have always heard about it since we were in pre-school.
Well, we’ve done our part. If Brad and I are here for a reason, I guess we accomplished it. We escorted Little Miss Revolution to deliver her spy message, so everything should be on track to take place just the way the history books tell me it did.
I hope.
Kristen was darn tired of walking. Again, couldn’t the Tysons have had a wagon? Would it kill these people to own a horse or two? She had no idea how far they’d walked, or what time it might be; from the position of the sun, she guessed it had to be after noon. Dang, listen to me; now I sound like Columbus, or Daniel Boone, or Saca-freakin’-jawea.
But, if it was after twelve, she had a big problem.
Kristen had almost forgotten that she’d asked a question—about the likelihood of the British having a lot of scouts in the area—until Jacob answered it.
“Yes, I reckon they do have a lot of scouts out now, else how would they know where the troops are in order to plan an attack? But one thing we don’t want, is for them to get too good a bead on that. Knowing where we are is one thing, and that’s water under the bridge now, but knowing how many troops we have—well, that’s another kettle of fish, and what we need to avoid if we can.”
“Why?” she asked. “They’re already going to make a ‘surprise’ attack, so what difference can it make if they knew many men we have?”
“Well, now, think about it. If you’re going to attack me and you know I have five hundred men, how many would you use to attack?”
Brad shrugged. “I don’t know, seven hundred and fifty?”
“But if you think I have a thousand men, how many would you bring?”
“If I know you have a thousand, I guess I’d have to bring—” Brad’s eyes widened. “—more,” he said. “The smaller number the Brits think we have, the fewer men they’ll use to attack. But if we actually have more….”
“We have a better chance of matching them man-for-man,” Rebecca finished. She gave Jacob a smile. “Very good thinking.”
“Don’t credit me with it,” he said hastily, blushing slightly. “It’s the officers who done all the thinkin’. Besides, from what I could gather, General Washington had more or less figured that Howe would attack—you know, trying to ‘surprise’ us. His scouts and other local patriots have been seeing signs of it for weeks past, so he was pretty sure the attack would come; one last battle before winter sets in, as we’ve heard that General Howe is desperate for a decisive victory before the snow flies. Now, thanks to Miss Darrow here, General Washington has got some solid information as to when and where it will be.”
Now it was Rebecca’s turn to blush, causing Kristen to roll her eyes. “It was my mother who learned the details,” the colonial girl said, “and at great risk to herself, I might add. I’m just the messenger.”
“Okay,” Kris said, since it looked like Jacob was about to say something nauseatingly polite and complimentary. “Now that little Susie Spy-Girl has done her James Bond thing, and delivered the secret message, can we just concentrate on where we’re going, please? Brad and I have places to be.”
Everyone stopped and looked at her.
“We do?” Brad asked.
“Susie Spy-Girl?” Rebecca repeated.
“What is ‘okay’?” Jacob inquired.
Kristen rolled her eyes and gave a frustrated sigh. “Ugh! Never mind,” she said, starting briskly forward. “Let’s just go.”
Jacob turned to Brad as they followed behind. “Who is this James Bond?” he asked. “Does he lead one of General Washington’s regiments? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
To Kristen, it seemed as if they’d already walked as much that afternoon as they had that morning. Of course, at this point, she was just grumpy in general. Now she was doubly glad she’d worn her sturdy Pumas; this wooded trail was even less hospitable than the dirt tracks they called roads in this backwoods century. Her borrowed dress, too, was showing signs of wear and tear, getting caught on low branches or thorns along the path. The drama teacher was not going to be happy about that.
Not to mention, Kristen had only taken a few bites of that journey cake back at the tavern. It hadn’t been too bad—tasted sort of like a pancake—but to her it was inedible without butter or syrup. Plus, it had been served cold… well, actually, at room temperature, not straight off the griddle like she was used to. Between the heavy, bulky clothing, the clunky shoes, the so-so food, the necessity of walking everywhere… it was almost as if these colonials went out of their way to make their lives as uncomfortable as possible.
Kristen knew that Rebecca had some journey cakes in her bag, wrapped up for her by Mr. Tyson at the tavern. Oh well, Kristen thought, I guess that’s why they’re called journey cakes; you take them “to go” for your journey. I’ve heard of johnnycakes---seen ’em sold at the county fair a few years ago—I bet they‘re the same thing. I remember thinking of that nursery rhyme: johnnycake, johnnycake, baker’s man…. Wait, that’s not right; it’s “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake.” Oh man, I really need to get back to the real world and quit thinking about nursery rhymes and second-rate cardboard breakfast food.
“Hey, Brad,” she asked, “you got one of those apples Mr. Tyson gave us? I could use a bite.”
Her brother fished one out of his backpack. “I figure we’re going to have to do something soon,” he said. “I don’t think we can go all the way to Philly with Rebecca.”
“Why not? We’ve already been all over Hell’s Half-Acre with her. I feel like we’ve walked over the whole blasted county.”
“Yeah, but remember whose headquarters are in Philly. And who doesn’t have one of those precious official passes.”
Kristen nodded, “Good point,” and took a bite of the Cortland apple. “But what are we supposed to do? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I can’t find my way back to the park—or where the park’s going to be in the way-too-distant future—to the re-enactment scene wh
ere we started.”
“I know, me either,” he said glumly. “With no recognizable landmarks, we’d have a tough time finding the battle site, or where the fog was.” He gave a short laugh. “How’s that for irony: if we wait a day or two, we’ll find out first-hand exactly where the battle site is. In fact, we’d have front-row seats. But, as it is, until that time, we have no clue. We’ll never find it on our own. I’m just hoping something will come to me.”
“Yeah, and the crazy thing is—another crazy thing, I should say, to add to all the others we’ve had the joy of experiencing so far today—is that we don’t even know how important it is. Or if it’s important at all. Just because we were at that park when we jumped time zones, doesn’t mean we have to be there in order to get back. We’re just sort of assuming that.”
Brad gave a snort. “Because we have nothing else to go on. It’s our one remote, flimsy thread of hope.”
“Well, we have another problem, too. You got any idea what time it is? And so help me, if you look up at the position of the sun and try to tell time like Daniel Boone, I’ll smack you.”
That caused Brad to smile. “No, I didn’t wear my watch since it’s not authentic to the period, but—hey, wait a minute. Duh!” He reached back into his backpack. “We do have a way of telling the exact time.” He pulled out his cell phone, checking to be sure that Jacob and Rebecca weren’t looking their way.
“Wait, I thought you said we couldn’t use our phones.”
“We can’t. Not as phones or GPS tools; no satellites or cell towers, remember? But the phone function doesn’t need any type of wireless connection, so that should work even in these, er, primitive surroundings.”
“Right, we should be good as long as the batteries have a charge. Good thinking, techno-geek.” She watched him thumb his phone. “And now I’m afraid to ask what time it is.”
“Why?”
“’Cuz the O’Neills asked me to babysit tonight, and I told mom I’d let her know by noon whether I was going to do it.”
“And you can’t call mom.”
Kristen didn’t even take the opportunity to make a smart remark to Captain Obvious. “When she doesn’t hear from me, she’ll eventually try to call me.”
