by David Potter
So, once we get to the road, it’s not so hard to stay on the road. You just keep going, in the direction you’re pointing to. And then it’s nothing but cloppity-cloppity-cloppity-clop.
It’s about thirty miles to Philadelphia. In good weather, a one-horse shay like Uncle James’s goes about four or five miles an hour. In bad weather, or in snow, we’re talking about two or three miles an hour. Meaning, it’s going to take ten to fifteen hours to get to Philadelphia.
That’s a long time to be sitting on a plank of wood in the cold, without anything to plug in, watch, or read.
We talk. They want to know everything they possibly can about my world, and I want to know everything about theirs. They both were taught to read by their mother. For a time, they both attended a sort of school—a tutor gave separate lessons to boys and girls—but the tutor moved on as the war took hold, apparently to go west where there was less fighting. Elizabeth didn’t take to school as well as Daniel, who still has hopes that one day the tutor might return. Otherwise, it’ll be farming for him, and marriage for Elizabeth.
We take turns driving. I’ve never driven a one-horse shay before, but it doesn’t take long to get the hang of it. You basically just sit there, hold the reins, and let the horse do the work. Juniper knows the route.
By four o’clock in the afternoon, we’ve all had enough. Especially Juniper, who’s been doing all the work. The problem is, we’re only a little more than halfway there.
We stop at an inn. There’s a stable for Juniper to spend the night in, food for us to eat, and rooms for us to sleep in.
“Father knows the owner,” Elizabeth says. “And his credit is good. We’ll have to explain when the bill comes due, as this is not on the way to Doylestown.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I say. But I don’t say how, because the truth is I don’t think there’s any way I ever could.
The innkeeper is a gruff man of few words, but he does know Daniel and Elizabeth’s father, and he lets us stay. The inn has everything we need: food for us, a warm stable for Juniper, and a single room with two beds—one for me, one for Daniel and Elizabeth. The only problem is the “necessary.”
The bathroom, in other words. It’s behind the inn. Ye olde outhouse.
Put it this way: the fact that it’s freezing cold is not the worst thing about this particular “necessary.” Not by a long shot.
At least Bev isn’t around. She’d go into major snit mode and nobody would get any sleep.
TWENTY-ONE
IT’S AROUND TWO IN the afternoon when we enter Philadelphia. I can tell right away we’re in a city, because the place is, like, super stinky.
Horses. They got to do what they got to do, which unfortunately is all over the street. Which happens to be sort of covered with snow. So what the horses do is all too clear to see, let alone smell.
To call this a city is a stretch. There are houses, small buildings, and more roads than just the one we came in on. There are other carriages besides ours, and there are plenty of people—all bundled up—going in and out of places. We are on Market Street; there are stores and shops all over, so to market everyone goes. It’s two days after Christmas now, remember. People are busy, got to get their stuff, just like in our day. No one pays us any mind, though. We chug halfway up Market before we think to ask anyone where to go.
Daniel calls out to the first passerby we come across. He’s a man, a merchant perhaps, and maybe a Quaker. He’s wearing one of those hats—black, wide-brimmed, upright.
“Good sir,” says Daniel. “We are seeking a certain personage, a resident of Philadelphia. Our business is most important.”
The man stops, regards us closely, approaches our shay. “Perhaps I can help. Who is this personage you speak of?”
“Dr. Franklin,” says Daniel.
“Dr. Franklin?” he says. “Benjamin Franklin?”
“The very one, sir,” says Daniel. “Would you be kind enough to direct us to his place of residence?”
“I certainly could, if he were here—everyone knows the residence of Philadelphia’s most celebrated personage, as you put it. But I believe the esteemed Dr. Franklin has left. He should be back soon enough, young man. Six months to a year, I reckon.”
“Six months to a year?”
“He has accepted an assignment, from what the gazettes say. To be the representative to the king of France.”
“The king of France?”
“Yes, indeed. You see what happens, young man, when you go about and start a rebellion and declare independence? Then you are required to send an emissary to the king of France. Franklin was chosen. I believe he left last month. Good day to you!”
TWENTY-TWO
WE DON’T HAVE LONG to be astounded. The man walks off, but we get ourselves a bit of attention. Two, three, four, five other folks have paused in their comings and goings to listen to our conversation. Most then go about their business; one does not.
She’s an older lady, and she’s lost most of her teeth. She has some kind of frayed bonnet on her head, and she walks with a bit of a stoop. She also keeps shifting her eyes to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, as if she has a secret, or something to hide.
“It’s not what I’ve been hearing,” she says, eyes left, eyes right. “Not what I’ve been hearing at all.”
She’s standing next to the shay. As if she knows something.
“Is that so?” I say.
“That is so,” she says.
“What are you hearing?”
“I’m hearing something quite different,” she says. “Something quite different indeed. But I’ve encountered some difficulties as of late. A small consideration …”
I don’t have my wallet with me, but in my pants’ pocket I have a five and three ones I’d brought to the reenactment in case I wanted to buy something, like a souvenir knickknack or a can of Coke.
I first show the five and the ones to Daniel and Elizabeth.
They’re intrigued. As far as Elizabeth is concerned, a one-dollar bill beats an iPhone.
“My word,” she says. “There he is. General Washington.”
“Yes,” I say, and show one to the old woman. Her eyes go wide.
“See this?” I say. “It’s the new currency. General Washington himself is on this bill. And guarantees its value one hundred percent.”
She reaches for it. She wants it more than she’s wanted anything in her life, but I pull it away. “First, I need to hear what you’ve been hearing. If it’s of value, the bill is yours.”
She steps forward. She’s a bit of a mangled old lady—her hair is white and stringy, she has spots on her face, and she smells almost as bad as the horses. Her eyes shift left, then right, then left again. “I hear,” she says in a whisper, “that Dr. Franklin never made his ship to France. That he was, shall we say, a bit indisposed at the time of departure. And not alone, if you understand my meaning. But so mortified is he about missing the departure that he’s lying low, awaiting the next ship.”
“Lying low? Lying low where?”
She smiles her toothless smile. “For that, I would need special consideration.”
I wave two dollar bills before her. “They’re yours,” I say. “Two. But only for the truth.”
“Near the end of Market,” she says. “One of the buildings he owns. No tenants, so there he stays, till he finds a ship that sails. And prays no one discovers him!”
She grabs the ones and is off. And so are we, to near the very end of Market Street.
TWENTY-THREE
A FEW MINUTES LATER WE come to a small, tidy building. There’s no one in the street, thankfully. It’s gotten colder, by the way, and the wind has picked up. Our poor horse, Juniper, has probably done as much as she is able, and needs to rest. We tie her up, and get out. There’s no number on the door, and no marking. I lift my hand and rap, two sharps and one flat.
Nothing.
I try again, louder, more insistent. Rap, rap. Rap, rap
. Rap.
Something stirs.
Rap rap rap rap rap.
Someone sighs.
Rap rap rap.
“Shush!” someone says. The voice is a man’s voice, a man of a certain age: not so young. Not at all young. He shouts a single shush, nothing more.
We wait.
We wait some more.
The temperature drops, the wind increases, and poor Juniper snorts like she’s saying, What about me?
I rap again. Three hard ones. Rap. Rap. Rap.
No sound, but a slight lifting of a lace curtain covering a side window. And, peering through, a man in spectacles.
Bald up top, long gray hair behind.
An unmistakable man. Dr. Benjamin Franklin himself.
He’s positively glowering at us. I can think of only one thing that might take the steam off—I take out my iPhone and wave it in front of the window. The eyes widen at once, and we hear a shuffling to the door. Then we hear keys, latches, locks. Something is undone, or unlocked, and the door opens a crack.
A hand extends. A single hand, a left one. No rings. But crusty-ish, the hand of an older man, with yellowed nails and spots. The hand makes a gesture, a gesture recognizable today, or in 1776, or probably as long as humans have had hands. The gesture is an impatient double flick of the fingers. It means one thing, in any language: gimme.
Fork it over.
I fork it over. I lay the iPhone on the open palm of Dr. Ben Franklin. His hand encircles it, fondles it almost, then immediately slithers back inside the door.
The door shuts.
“Hey!” I shout. “That’s mine! Give it back!”
Silence. Then another peek from behind the curtain.
“Give it back!” I say again.
“I quite like this,” he says, from behind the door. “It does intrigue me. I would like to know its function, but first, may I have it?”
“You may not,” I say, and raise my hand to the window, and give him the same gesture he had given me: fork it back.
He opens the door, and into my outstretched palm he places something round and brown. “Here you are,” he says.
“What’s this?”
“A twopence.”
“A twopence?”
“A twopence!” he shouts, and slams the door and locks it. “Now good day to you, young man! Be off!”
TWENTY-FOUR
HAVE YOU EVER SEEN a twopence? He called it “tuh-pence,” by the way, not “two-pence.” I have no idea what a twopence could get you in Dr. Franklin’s Philadelphia, but I doubt it could be much more than half a loaf of bread. A twopence, for an iPhone? You’ve got to be kidding me.
Rap, rap, rappy rap rap rap. “Hey!” I shout. I rattle the doorknob, and kick the bottom of the door while I’m at it. Dr. Franklin may not be aware of this, but he is certainly about to learn: no one messes with a twelve-year-old and his iPhone. I mean no one, not even a world historical figure. Not even the guy who invented electricity.
“Hey!” I shout. “Open up the door, will ya?”
“Be kind, Mel,” Daniel says. “A stir shan’t be of help to anyone.”
“But he has my phone! He just … he just … he just took the thing! What a jerk!”
Elizabeth takes offense. “You are referring to Dr. Benjamin Franklin. He is our most esteemed scientist and philosopher. Who also signed the Declaration of Independence. Which means he has put his life on the line—he’ll be hanged along with the rest of them if the British should prevail. So I think your choice of words ought to be more respectful, if you please.”
“But he took my phone! Which happens to be the reason we came here in the first place.”
“To have your phone taken?” she asks.
“To have my phone examined,” I say. “Because I think it’s the thing that brought us here. Somehow or other.” I give five more knocks on the door by way of exclamation. And, at the bottom, one solid kick.
We have, by now, attracted some interest from people in the street. And I remember that Dr. Franklin isn’t in this house near the end of Market Street by accident. The old lady had told us that he was … hiding out. I have a hunch that the good doctor does not want to be seen by anyone. So the longer I stay here knocking and kicking on his door, the worse it’ll get for him.
Advantage: Mel.
“I’m not going away,” I say, through the door. I try to modulate my voice so that only he can hear me. “And a certain amount of attention has been generated. People want to know what’s going on. At the house at the end of Market Street. Your best course, sir, is to let us in. Forthwith.”
I think it was the forthwith that got to him. A pretty fancy word, isn’t it? I didn’t even know I knew it. Certainly I had never said it aloud to anyone before. But either that or something else did the trick, because we hear shuffling again, unlatching again, and then the door swings open.
TWENTY-FIVE
DR. BEN FRANKLIN STANDS before us. He’s definitely old, and he’s definitely … stout. “Well?” he says.
“We want to come in,” I say. “And talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes. Five minutes is all we ask.”
He notices my Nikes. “Whatever are those things on your feet?”
“They’re called sneakers,” I say.
“Sneakers?”
“Yes.”
“I have never heard of or seen such things. Are they made in a shoemaker’s? Have they … some useful function?”
I knew these Nikes were going to be a problem. Elizabeth steps in to help. “We have more urgent business, sir,” she says, “than what our friend wears upon his feet.”
Dr. Franklin shakes his head, then steps aside. “Five minutes,” he says. “And hurry before you let the cold in.” He waves us inside, closes the door, and peers through the window, to see, presumably, what kind of commotion we stirred up.
The house is very small, the hallways are very narrow, and the ceiling is very low. We stand in the foyer. Now that we’re in the actual presence of the Great Man, we have all, collectively and simultaneously, lost our tongues.
“Come now,” he says, and leads us down a hall to a sitting room. The floors are very creaky. Dr. Franklin uses a cane, and his right foot drags somewhat, as if he can’t put weight on it. He motions at some stiff wooden chairs for us to sit on. Then, with a great deal of show and effort, he plops himself down on a very small cushioned armchair, which sinks with the weight of him. He lays his cane down, adjusts his spectacles, and then opens his palm. My iPhone.
“So then,” he says. “Who have we here? And why have you come?”
Daniel, being properly of the time and place, takes the lead. “We—my sister and I—come from upriver. Thirty miles north, where my parents have a farm. A pair of strange German men, dressed as ordinary farmers, have bargained with my father for the use of his farm for a short while. ’Twas there we met our new friend here,” Daniel says, and nods at me. “He’s not from these parts. Not exactly, that is.”
“And, sir,” says Elizabeth, “worst of all? General Washington has been murdered. We saw his body. By the very same Germans my brother spoke of.”
“Oh my dear Lord,” Dr. Franklin says. “Oh my good dear Lord.” Then he lurches forward involuntarily, as if someone has just socked him in the gut.
Which someone has.
We give him a moment and watch, helpless, as the old man winces, and rocks, and then heaves. “Oh my good dear Lord,” he says again. “What will ever happen to us now? We shall have no army. Only Washington could gather them. Only Washington could lead them. And only Washington could get them to fight. We are sunk without him. My God. I never thought it would happen. Never for a second did I harbor any doubt whatsoever. I was sure, sure in my bones, that we were favored by the Almighty. That independence was our destiny.”
“It was,” I say. “And it is. That’s what we’ve come to talk to you about.”
Dr. Franklin blinks. Then he waves his hand. “A
bout our destiny? About independence? But now all is for naught. If Washington is dead, I am quite certain our revolution is defeated.”
“Dr. Franklin,” I say, “let me give this to you straight. I am of a different time. The twenty-first century, to be exact. And there has been some mistake: General Washington was not supposed to die. In fact, he cannot die. The future of the whole world depends upon it. We’ve come to you to help us figure out a way to undo what’s been done. And I’m pretty sure the key to it is sitting right there in your hand. It’s called an iPhone.”
Dr. Franklin looks down, sees the thing in his hand, and drops it on the floor, like it’s the hottest potato in history.
TWENTY-SIX
“HEY, MAN!” I SAY. “Easy!” Then I reach down and pick up my phone, which feels good back in my hands: my precious, my precious!
And I don’t mean to be rude or anything, especially not to one of America’s Founding Fathers, but the floor is made of wood, you know? He could have broken it, and then where would we be? I do a quick inspection; luckily everything still works and the glass didn’t break.
“Dr. Franklin,” I say. “We’ve come to you for help. This device?” I hold up the phone. “It requires electricity, which you invented. We’re hoping that there’s some way you can provide it for us.”
Dr. Franklin glances at Daniel and Elizabeth. “Is this so?” he asks them.
“It is,” says Daniel. “Our only hope rests with you.”
“Please listen to him, Dr. Franklin,” says Elizabeth. “We have no other choice.”
“Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t say I invented electricity, exactly. It’s been around since the dawn of earth, naturally, in the form of lightning, and many a court jester has been able to generate a charge of static electricity by the use of a long glass pipe, rubbed back and forth just so. But, to give myself what I hope is not undue credit, I would say that I was among the first to try to discern some of the physical properties of electricity. To properly understand what exactly its essence consists of, as it were. And I’m no theorist, mind you. A Sir Isaac Newton, with his formulas and equations, and his extraordinary explanations, in Latin, no less—well, suffice it to say, a Newton I am not. I am a practical man, an exceedingly practical man, if I say so myself, and therefore my interest in electricity is, and was, primarily to find a practical purpose for it. What could electricity be made to do? And, most important, could we find some feasible way … to channel its power … so its use could be for the betterment of mankind?”
