by David Potter
“Our fathers are soldiers,” says Elizabeth. “We came to bring them what little food we had to spare.”
It’s a good line, and it pretty much works. “Have you done so?” Captain Moulder asks her.
“We have, sir,” Elizabeth says.
“Then move along. Go to your homes. Your business at this camp is ended.”
SIXTY-ONE
CAPTAIN MOULDER AND HIS Philadelphia Battalion of Associators ride off.
“Well, how do you like that?” I say. “So where were we?”
“We were arguing,” says Elizabeth. “Among ourselves.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I say. “And now we need to go warn General Washington. He has to be around here somewhere. Anyone coming with me?”
I start walking.
I know they don’t like it, but a minute later all of them start walking along with me.
We come to a dock on the Delaware, where a group of officers are supervising the loading of the men onto a long black boat—the famous longboats used for taking iron ore up and down the river. Each one can hold as many as thirty men. It’s nearly five in the evening now, and already dark. The snow is really starting to fall down, and all the soldiers are grim, cold, and noticeably unenthusiastic. They must have figured out by now that crossing the Delaware is only the half of it. They are not going to a party, or to anyplace warm or cozy.
Elizabeth takes charge. She walks right up to the most important guy she can find, who turns out to be General Greene. “We demand,” she says, “to be taken to General Washington immediately! We have urgent business!”
“Business?” says General Greene. “At a time such as this? And I thought we were quit of you children. Were you not instructed to return to your parents?”
“We must speak with General Washington,” I say. “All of us. His life may be in danger.”
“You’re mad. All of you. Now go away.”
“We aren’t mad,” says Brandon.
“And we’re not going away,” says Elizabeth.
“General Greene,” I say, “if it wasn’t for me, General Washington might have canceled this crossing. You know it’s true.”
“What danger?” he says.
“Mortal danger. But we will tell it only to him.”
General Greene thinks it over, and then comes to a decision. “Very well,” he says. “If you insist. Let us go to General Washington and you shall have an audience. Of one minute. Do not take a second longer, so help you.”
We are led, in single file, up a snowy path lined with soldiers, to McKonkey’s Ferry Inn, which is a good-sized brick-faced building. McKonkey, we’ve been told, is a guy who runs a ferry service from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, and also houses and feeds travelers. Inside the building, which is warmed by a massive fireplace, is General Washington.
Eating dinner, of all things. And seeming quite comfortable with himself as he does so. I can see on his plate something brown, which I think is meat; something brownish, which might be a vegetable; and something white, which could be a potato. He is dining with three other officers, including Captain Hamilton. If I am not mistaken, all of them are discussing, as we approach, the price of land in the Ohio Valley.
The price of land in the Ohio Valley?
At a time like this?
With the revolution itself hanging by a thread?
Then the conversation turns to things more pertinent. “Your Excellency,” says General Greene. “I have my report. A tenth of the troops have gotten across the river. No men have been lost, and few have complained. Plus, another matter to discuss. These—these young people … desire to speak with you.”
General Washington dabs his lips with a handkerchief. He gives the distinct impression that nothing that General Greene has to say is worth disturbing his meal.
“A tenth?” he says. “That is all?”
“A tenth,” says General Greene. “The currents are treacherous, Excellency. Our Marbleheader men at the helms of the longboats are the best we have, but they’ve no interest in tipping over. Colonel Glover commands the entire operation, and no one dares question him. There are also chunks of ice in the river, some large enough to disturb passage. Sir, Colonel Glover says getting the men across is straightforward enough, if slow. The Marbleheaders are most concerned with bringing across the horses and most especially the cannons. They will wait till last, but the weather and ice are getting worse, far worse. And we must get everything across. We cannot attack without a full army. Or without cannon.”
“But only a tenth, General Greene? At what time—nearly six? We are far behind schedule, are we not?”
“We are, sir. It is a miserable night for a crossing. The Marbleheaders are doing the best they can, under difficult circumstances.”
“I would dine easier, General Greene, if they moved faster. Our attack is planned for before dawn, not after.”
“I’m aware, Excellency. Acutely aware. We are moving the men at the fastest pace we can.”
“Very well, General. And what else have you brought me? Not these infernal children again. I thought I had seen the last of them. What tall tales do they wish to inflict upon me this time?”
“They wish to warn you, sir.”
“They what?”
“They wish to warn you.”
“About what?” General Washington says, and turns his big head to me.
“Your Excellency, your life is in danger!” I say.
General Washington responds with a hearty laugh, and as soon as he does the other men at his table join in. The merriment is positively contagious.
“Of course it is,” he says. “As are the lives of us all. But I make it a firm policy not to let the threat of my demise come between me and my plum pudding.” This provokes another round of hilarity, and someone nearly falls off his chair. The general seems quite pleased with himself. “Now run along. Consider your warning delivered, and thank you very much.”
I persist. “But General Washington, I mean specifically, your life is in danger. From the man at the farm. Who burned down the horse stable. He’s followed us here.”
The general stops eating and glares at me. “I believe I said, and said most clearly, that this matter shall never be talked of again. Did I not?”
I can see I’m not getting anywhere, and I’d rather not be taken out to the firing squad like he promised. So I try one last time to warn him. “It could come from a bullet or a knife. Or even poison in the food you’re eating.”
The general takes a bite from his plum pudding, and frowns. “My word,” he says. “If this be poison, I shall have the whole thing. Most delectable indeed!”
Yet one more round of laugher, merriment, hilarity. One officer nearly chokes on his sherry.
It stinks, sometimes, being a kid. No one takes you seriously.
SIXTY-TWO
THEN, WITHOUT ANY FURTHER ceremony, General Washington returns to dinner. General Greene whispers something in the ear of Captain Hamilton, and the next thing we know, Captain Hamilton himself is escorting us out of McKonkey’s inn.
“Whatever you say with respect to his personal safety, he will hear none of it,” says Captain Hamilton. “We have tried in the past. He is utterly impervious to our entreaties. He does not think himself invincible, merely destined. And no bullet or blade yet made could ever mar his destiny. Or so he believes. He will not heed any warning you bring, or any that we bring.”
“I’m not making this up, Captain Hamilton,” I say. “You saw him for yourself—the man at the horse stable. A Hessian by the name of Kramm. He’s followed us. He’s in this camp right now. And he’s going to try to kill General Washington whether the general believes it or not. Can you assign him bodyguards?”
“We did have personal guards for him, but those men have been deployed elsewhere. There did not seem to be any danger on this side of the Delaware.”
“Then we shall do it,” says Elizabeth. “We shall stay close to his person, and protect him. We hav
e not been assigned elsewhere, so therefore he cannot object.”
“But only soldiers are allowed close to him,” says Captain Hamilton.
“Then we shall enlist.”
“You cannot. At this hour? And you, if I may point out, are not—you are not …”
“A gentleman?”
Captain Hamilton blushes. “Of age,” he says.
“A pair of breeches takes care of the first part,” Elizabeth says. “As for the second, I have seen lads our age in your army. As for the last part, simply assign us to a battalion, Captain Hamilton. You need not do more. No one will ask to see our papers, or question our authenticity. And we shall take care of the rest.”
“You remind me of myself,” Captain Hamilton says. “How old are you?”
“Twelve,” I say.
“All of you?”
“Yes.”
“When I was twelve I was working in a counting house. On an island in the Caribbean Sea of which I suspect you have never heard. My mother had died and my father was long gone. And I remember I told myself: all I need is the one chance. If providence shall but provide me the one chance, I swear upon all that is holy that I shall do the rest. My chance, it did come, and I do say I have made the most of it. So I shall give you your chance. I believe the Massachusetts Twenty-Third Continental Regiment could use extra men. I will pass word to its commander, Colonel Bailey. From there it will be up to you to convince him that you are indeed men—not boys and girls.
“Remember this: once on the other side, should you get detached from your unit, and should you happen upon a person whom you know not to be friend or foe, we have developed a code. The call is ‘Victory.’ The response is ‘Or death.’ Should you call ‘Victory’ and not hear ‘Or death’ in response, you shall know you have an enemy upon you. If you have a weapon, charge forward. If you have no weapon, fall back. But prudently. Let it not be said of any soldier in the Continental Army that he lost his wits and fled in panic. The worst is not death. The worst is eternal ignominy.
“Wait here,” he says. “Outside. Your orders and detachment duty will be by presently.” Captain Hamilton turns, and goes back to McKonkey’s Ferry Inn to finish his dinner.
“What are we going to do?” Brandon says. “Make like we’ve enlisted?”
“That’s the plan,” I say. “And it’s the only one we’ve got.”
SIXTY-THREE
THE SNOW AND SLEET and freezing rain fall heavier still, and the wind starts whipping around. It’s brutal. Standing around waiting makes it worse. We’ll get hypothermia if we don’t do something.
We set about transforming Elizabeth and Bev from girls to boys, but we don’t have any luck. Daniel looks for an extra pair of breeches in somebody’s tent, but every piece of good clothing is already taken. Elizabeth and Bev duck inside the tent anyway, and do what they can to pass themselves off as boys. It’s not much, but it will have to do. And Bev says there’s no way she’s going to lose either her jacket or her earmuffs.
So that leaves Brandon and me. I kind of fit in except for my white Nikes. Brandon? He still has on jeans, sneakers, and his red hat with the lobo on it, which doesn’t fit in at all. But we have to go with what we’ve got.
A boy not much older than us comes along and tells us to follow him. “Your orders are in,” he says. “I’ve been told to come and fetch you.”
This doesn’t work for me—my plan was to stay as close as possible to wherever General Washington happens to be. “We can’t leave,” I say. “We’re needed right here.”
“Have you taken the oath?”
“Of course we have,” I lie.
“Then you’ll come with me. To the Twenty-Third Continental Regiment. And there’s no sense in arguing. Believe me, I’ve tried. No one cares to listen.”
The boy nods, insisting that we follow him.
“Come,” says the boy. “Or I shall be obliged to report you for dereliction of duty.”
“I think we better go,” says Elizabeth.
I don’t really agree, but I’m kind of shuffled along. The boy leads us to where the troops of the Massachusetts Twenty-Third Continental are gathered, far back in the line of men waiting to cross the river. There are maybe seventy or eighty men in the unit. Every single one of them is cold, miserable, and scrawny. Finally the boy passes us to Colonel Bailey, a lanky guy with a rough beard and torn blue coat.
“Wait here until further notice,” Colonel Bailey tells us. “Maintain silence. And try your best not to do anything stupid.
“And you,” he says to Bev. “What be your name?”
“Stevens,” she says.
“Your Christian name?”
“E-Edward.” Bev kind of squares her shoulders and looks the guy in the eye. We’re lucky it’s pretty dark by now.
“Edward?”
“Edward.”
“You be sure?”
“I be sure.”
“And you?” he says to Elizabeth. “Your name?”
“Michael,” Elizabeth says. “Michael … um … Michael Brown.”
It doesn’t seem like Colonel Bailey is buying it, but probably he has more important things to think about just now. He addresses himself to the whole unit. “Men,” he says, “and others: we will wait until so ordered to board one of the longboats you see below at the dock. It seems to be a rather lengthy process, due to the snow and the ice forming in the river. When our turn comes we will be commanded by Colonel Glover, and by the Marblehead men. We will do as they tell us, and we will make quick work of it. Remember to keep your muskets and powder as dry as you can—your lives, and our cause, depend upon it. Maintain silence. We know not where the enemy hides his ears.”
There are grunts from our comrades. And then Brandon gives me a nudge.
“Mel. I’ve been thinking.”
“Glad to hear that, Brandon.”
“I’m thinking it maybe doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to be standing around here. We’ve kind of deactivated ourselves.”
“That’s what I was worried about in the first place. We should have stayed at McKonkey’s Ferry Inn. As close to Washington as possible.”
“Maybe you were right.”
“Maybe I was. Kramm could be anywhere, waiting for his opportunity.
“There are hundreds of guys standing around, and it’s pretty much dark. We can’t just stand here, Brandon. We’re going to have to do something.”
“Concur,” Brandon says. “And if we find him? Any idea what we should do with him?”
“We turn him in to General Washington. And General Washington’s rope. The one he uses for spies.”
SIXTY-FOUR
“BOYS,” SAYS BEV. “What are we whispering about?”
“It’s not a good use of our resources,” I say, “for all five of us to be standing around here doing nothing.”
“We’re not doing nothing,” says Daniel. “We’re in line. To board a longboat, which will take us across the river.”
“But the point is not to get across the river,” I say. “The point is to make sure that nothing happens to General Washington before he crosses the river.”
“What exactly,” says Elizabeth, “do you propose?”
“I propose that you and Bev stay right here. Hold our spots. Daniel, Brandon, and I are going to search around for Kramm, and we’ll report back in ten minutes.”
“No way,” says Bev. “The boys get to go, and the girls get to stay? Since when were you put in charge, Mel?”
“Do you want to stand around and argue again, Bev? Or do you want to do something?”
“I’ll stay,” Daniel says. “Will that solve it? Elizabeth and I. You three go. We’ll keep your spots.”
Elizabeth glares at her brother, but the deal is struck. Brandon slips off to the right and Bev to the left. I take the center path. It’s not hard. It’s dark, and snowing, and there are already lots of people milling about and walking around.
Way too many people, as a matter of fac
t.
I don’t even know who’s a soldier, who’s an officer, and who’s just a faker, like me.
It’s getting darker and still darker. And the snow is falling harder and harder. Everybody keeps their heads down to protect themselves from the wind and snow. And, to make it even harder, I don’t have a flashlight, a candle, a match, or a torch. I have nothing to see by, and I don’t dare use my iPhone’s flashlight app—every soldier around would immediately jump out of their boots if they saw such a thing. Assuming they had boots, that is.
So I’m not able to identify anyone unless I grab him by the shoulder and get nose to nose. Which is what I start doing. I find a bunch of New Hampshire men and try to check them one by one. It takes a few minutes, and no one’s particularly cooperative with a kid like me, but I get through them well enough. No Kramm among them.
Next group I come to is feisty and loud. I ask who they are, and a soldier says they’re the First Regiment, MacDougall’s New York Continentals. They’ve ignored the word to keep the noise down. They think it’s more amusing to make loud and vulgar comments about the ongoing scene. What’s gotten their attention is the spectacle of a bunch of landlubbing Vermonters venturing onto one of the longboats.
“That soldier, he’s like a cat on a kettle,” says one. “I’d bet a pretty penny he falls into the drink before the night is done.”
“I’d bet a pretty penny you don’t have a pretty penny to your name,” says another. “And if you did, I’d pry it from you. You still owe me from last month, if memory serves.”
“I’ll throw you both headfirst into the drink if you don’t pipe it down,” says a third. “Haven’t you got it through your thick skulls? We’ve been told to be silent. On account of spies lurking here, there, and everywhere.”
I walk among the New Yorkers, checking every face I can. No Kramm. Just as I’m about to leave them and examine the men from Maryland, one of the New Yorkers grabs me by the arm.
“And what ’ave we ’ere?” he says. “What you be up to, lad?” The guy, who is maybe a half-inch taller than me, is also smelly, stinky, and foul, in that order.
