by J. Y. Harris
CHAPTER THREE
Kristen followed Rebecca while Brad took up the rear. The path—more of a narrow track, really—went gradually uphill and when it leveled off, the Everhearts saw a large flat area filled with tents and soldiers. At least, Kristen supposed they were soldiers; only about half wore discernible uniforms.
The men were engaged in various activities. Just like at the other encampment they’d seen, some men were cleaning weapons, some practicing formations, others were involved in various mundane tasks: chopping wood, mending clothes, fixing wagons or other equipment. Off to one side of the encampment Kristen even saw a few men working with what looked like a deer-skin stretched between two poles. She winced and looked away.
Farther off, in a large field behind the tents, were more soldiers. A lot more soldiers, numbering in the hundreds, she guessed, apparently engaged in military exercises and drilling.
“Here comes William,” Rebecca said.
Kris and Brad watched as a young soldier came to meet them, and gave Rebecca a brotherly hug. “What are you doing here?” he asked, and glanced questioningly at two strangers.
“These are the Everhearts, who I met on my way here. May I present my brother, William Darrow.” After the introductions were made, Rebecca said, “I have an urgent message from Mother. Confidential.”
The Darrows stepped away and spoke quietly for a few minutes. She tried not to look, but it became clear to Kristen that there was some matter of disagreement between them. It was like watching a mime performance: Rebecca talked and seemed to insist; William shook his head and gestured negatively, occasionally pointing to the camp over his shoulder. Whatever it was that Rebecca wanted, William wouldn’t—or couldn’t—comply.
“Now there’s a familiar scene,” Brad said. “A brother and sister arguing.”
“Yeah, who knew that wuss-head brothers exist in every timeline.”
“Or stubborn sisters who think the world owes them whatever they want.”
Any retort Kristen would have made was cut off as Rebecca and William came to join them. Neither looked happy.
“We have a problem,” Rebecca said. “I can’t go with you to the mill. My plans have changed and I need to go—er, someplace else.”
“What about your ‘urgent’ mission to buy flour?” Kristen asked. “Those pies aren’t going to bake themselves.”
Brad gave her one of his usual ‘wrinkled brow’ looks. It was standard practice and a common occurrence, signifying irritation, annoyance, or just a ‘get real!’ message.
“Is there anything we can do?” he asked. “We’re not in a rush to get to Flourtown, so if we can help in any way….”
Now Kristen gave Brad her own version of the WB—wrinkled brow. Instead of getting them back home where they belong, her brother seemed more interested in chatting up Colonial Cathy.
They had a problem, she and Brad. They were lost in the woods, not to mention lost in time. They had no idea how they got here, or how they’d get back. If they’d get back. Worse, Kristen was soon going to get the full effect of that double glass of OJ she’d had this morning. She did not care to think about what she’d have to do about that.
Rebecca and William gave each other meaningful looks, his insistent, hers reproachful, and finally she said, “Very well, I accept your offer to accompany me on my errand. But only reluctantly.”
She and her brother said their farewells, and as William returned to his troopmates, Rebecca led the others back to the road.
Brad fell in step beside her. “Don’t worry,” he said, hoping to reassure her, “there’s safety in numbers.”
“I’m not worried for my safety,” she said. “I’m more concerned about yours.”
“Ours? Why should we be in danger?”
“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said anything. We’ll be walking together so we should just enjoy pleasant conversation.”
They were all silent for a moment, each lost in private thought. Well, so much for ‘pleasant conversation.’
“You know,” Brad began, “we don’t know that much about you.”
“That’s not quite true,” Rebecca answered. “You know considerably more about me than I do about you. You know my name, that I live in Philadelphia, I have a brother named William, and my parents are from Ireland. Also, I’m on my way to get flour. Or, I was on my way to get flour.”
“And the pies,” Kristen chimed in. “Don’t forget the pies. Her family likes to bake.”
Rebecca looked at her strangely. A look, by the way, that Kristen was all too familiar with, although mainly she was used to it from her brother.
Seeing that look, Brad gave a small snort of amusement. As if to say I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who thinks Kristen is an annoying nutcase. “Anyway,” he said, “why don’t you tell us where we’re headed? Surely that can’t be much of a secret, and we’re going to find out soon enough.”
Rebecca seemed to consider this for a moment. “I suppose you’re right about that. Very well. We’re going to a place called Tyson’s Tavern.”
Brad and Kristen exchanged looks. “Tyson’s Tavern,” he repeated.
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“No. That is, we’ve never been there, but we’re—er—acquainted with a member of the Tyson family. At least, I assume it’s the same family.”
“From back home,” Kristen clarified. “Not from here.”
“Well, I’m only going there to deliver a message,” Rebecca said. “To one of the officers who are there.”
“To your brother’s commanding officer, you mean,” Brad said, stopping in the middle of the dirt road. “You’re taking your urgent message to the commander of the 2nd Pennsylvania.”
“Yes,” Rebecca replied cautiously; obviously she thought he was a nutcase himself. “That much has been obvious so far.”
“Yeah,” Kristen agreed. “So?”
“So… in reality, the message is actually intended to go to the commander of all the troops in the area, to General Washington himself. I know who you are now,” Brad continued, a note of excitement creeping into his voice, “and I know why you’re here. Your mother’s name is Lydia, and the British have been using your home in Philadelphia as a sort of meeting house, because General Howe and his officers are using the homes nearby as a headquarters. And now you have information for General Washington. Information that your mother overheard from the British.”
Rebecca looked frightened. “Who are you? Loyalists? How do you know such things?”
Brad put his hands out in a gesture of calm to reassure her. “No, we’re not spies, and we’re certainly not Loyalists. Believe me, we want the Americans to win this war just as much as you do. Or as much as most people, anyway. I know you’re Quakers, so I don’t know what that means in regard to your thoughts about the war.”
Rebecca was obviously still spooked, but she turned and continued walking quickly, as if by doing so she could leave this turn of events behind her.
Kristen was gaping at her brother as if he’d sprouted wings and turned purple. “What the crap are you talking about?” she hissed at him. “Seriously, what gives? Did that fog make you psychic? Or just plain psycho?”
“No, it didn’t make me psychic. Although, how cool would that be? All right, listen: you obviously know all about our local connection to the Revolution—the one we’re supposed to be re-enacting today. Well, you might not know all the details about how this Battle of White Marsh came about.”
Kristen shook her head, and Brad continued.
“When the British army occupied Philadelphia late in seventeen-seventy-seven, General Howe took over some houses for himself and his top officers. Mostly they were houses of Loyalists who were glad to have them, but there were—are—obviously a number of Quakers in town who were pretty neutral on the whole Revolution thing. Anyway, Howe took over one house for their official meetings. It was the house of a Quaker woman,
Lydia Darragh.
“One night she eavesdropped on a meeting being held in her kitchen, and heard the British talk about a surprise attack on the Americans—er, the Continental army—in two days’ time. When the meeting was over, Lydia hurried quietly back upstairs to her bedroom, and pretended to be asleep when one of the British officers checked on her. The next day, she supposedly used a trip to the flour mill to get the information about the attack to Washington’s army, so that’s why the Americans were prepared for the attack and the battle went our way.”
“So you’re saying that our friend pie-girl here is at this very moment taking that information to General Washington?”
“Maybe not to him personally, but to someone who can get it to him, yeah.”
“She’s carrying out the history that leads to the battle we’ve heard about our whole lives, and which took place practically in our backyard.”
“Yes. Do you care to repeat it a few more times?”
“Yeah, funny. I just find this amazing. I mean, how do you know this? Why have I never heard about it?”
“Well, I know about it from research I did for a paper on the Philadelphia Campaign of the Revolution last year. And you’ve never heard about it because you really don’t care about this stuff, and you’ve never bothered to learn about it.”
“I know, right? I mean, its history. It’s in the past. It’s done and can’t be changed. I know about the Battle of White Marsh: that it occurred, how many died on each side, and all that, but I didn’t know about all this cloak-and-dagger spy drama that led up to it.”
“There’s a lot of that ‘cloak-and-dagger’ stuff all around, if you know where to look for it. Now you’re actually living it, whether you like it or not. An insider’s look, so to speak.”
“Wait a minute,” Kristen said. “If you knew this story already, why didn’t you recognize it right away, when we first met our friend, here?”
“Because in the accounts I read, the woman’s name was Darragh—with a ‘-agh.’ I assumed it rhymed with Farrah, or Sahara. Rebecca said her name was Darrow. At least, that’s how she pronounces it: like ‘sparrow.’ For all I know it could be spelled ‘-agh’ but pronounced like ‘-ow.’
“And besides, nothing I read mentioned anything about a teenaged girl. All accounts indicate that Lydia herself took the message to the Continental army.”
“So why do you think the history books say something different? I mean, the name is different, no mention of Rebecca….”
Brad shrugged. “Who knows? The whole Lydia Darragh story isn’t that well-known; I really didn’t find much info about it—just one or two small paragraphs in a couple of sources—and what I did find said the story could never be confirmed. In any case, it was probably just a matter of a confusion of facts, things getting distorted in the re-telling. Sort of like that game Telephone, when kids whisper a sentence from one person to another; what the last person hears is rarely what the first person actually said.”
“Yeah, I remember. We used to play it at family campouts, with all the cousins? That was fun.”
“Well, this is not a game. This is the real deal.”
“True. But at least we know how it’ll turn out.”
At that moment Rebecca made a hissing noise and motioned for them to be quiet. She stopped near a large nearby tree. Brad and Kristen caught up to her and stopped, listening.
In the brush they could hear rustling, then the low murmur of voices.
“Who do you think it is?” Brad whispered. “Friendlies?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I’m not sure. William said they had seen British scouts in the area. I’m afraid they may be trying to get an exact location of Continental forces, or find the best route to—“
When she cut herself off, Brad said, “It’s okay. We know they’re planning a surprise attack on Washington’s army.”
Rebecca looked suspicious again. “How do you know that?”
“Nobody told me, I swear. I just—er, figured it out.”
“Then you must know something that General Washington doesn’t.”
“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—for 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 fri
end 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 Prussian 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.
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 t
here 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 where 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 sa
id 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.”
“And when she can’t reach you on your phone….”
“She’ll freak. And probably send dad over to the park to find me. And when he can’t find me—or you, either, because nobody’s seen us….”
“He’ll freak.”
“Bingo.” Kristen watched Brad drop his phone back into one of the pockets of his backpack. “So what do we do?”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. What can we do? It’s not like we did this on purpose, or even know how it happened. And you’re right, it’s after twelve already.”
“Great. So now we’re screwed in two centuries. Not only is mom freaking two hundred and thirty years in the future, probably within a few miles of where we stand, but on top of all that, we’re now walking straight into enemy territory. Yup, te-damn-riffic: screwed in two centuries.”
She and Brad continued to trudge along behind the two colonials, Rebecca and Jacob. In fact, Kristen felt like she’d been ‘trudging’ all day. It had been about eight o’clock when she and her brother had arrived at the park for the re-enactment and encountered the mystery fog. And they’d pretty much been walking ever since. In fact, other than the brief respite at the tavern, she hadn’t sat down since she’d gotten out of the Corolla that morning.
Man, this should count as a gym credit, as well as community service, she thought. I’ve been walking for about four freakin’ hours. And the day ain’t over yet.
But, Brad was right, and not, she admitted to herself, for the first time today. She couldn’t worry about what was going on, or supposed to be going on, in the twenty-first century. It was pointless, since there was nothing they could do about it. All she and Brad could do was to deal with the here and now. Ha! she thought. The now is supposed to be then, as in ‘back then.’ Ancient history. But it’s not then, it’s now. And the here… all she had was a general idea of where ‘here’ was. Man, this is one whacked-out deal. I still wouldn’t be surprised to turn a corner and run straight into real time, with motorcycles and really good pedicures and fast-food restaurants that serve chicken wings. It’s just that crazy.
Suddenly, she saw Jacob stop and raise a hand for silence. The Everhearts stepped softly to catch up to where he stood.
“What do you hear?” Brad asked quietly.
“I thought I heard voices. That way,” he pointed off into the trees to the left.
“Is there a road there, or a trail?”
Jacob shook his head, his wavy hair dancing slightly. “Whoever it is, is on foot. You three stay here; let me look.”
Kristen put her hand out. “No, don’t,” she said, also whispering. “You have no idea who’s out there.”
Jacob gave her a quizzical look. “I know. That’s why I’m going to reconnoiter—to see who’s out there.”
She knew her objection had been silly and that she should feel embarrassed—especially since it caused Jacob to look at her like she was nuts—but suddenly all she really felt was tension. “All I meant was that it could be dangerous,” she mumbled.
He smiled, and touched her shoulder lightly. “Don’t worry. I know these woods like they were my own house, and I’ve been hunting since I was five years of age. I know how to move quietly through the trees.”
He looked at them all then. “You three stay here. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
With that, Jacob stepped away.
Kristen remembered reading in a book once that a character had ‘melted into the shadows.’ She’d liked that imagery, and thought it evoked an accurate portrayal of someone being swallowed by darkened shapes.
Now, as she watched Jacob, the most accurate description she could have given would be to say that he melted into the woodland around them, even in daylight. One minute he was there, visible amid the trees, and the next he had disappeared, almost as if by magic.
Brad directed the two girls next to a large tree trunk and set his pack down. “Sit if you’d like,” he said quietly.
Kristen sat, if only to get off her feet for a few minutes. Rebecca, apparently made of sterner stuff, continued to stand, glancing occasionally in the direction Jacob had taken.
“I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back home,” Brad said, as a way to keep her thoughts occupied, in addition to simply helping to pass the time.
“Yes, I suppose,” the girl replied, grateful for the distraction. “I must confess I’d rather be doing household chores and helping my mother in the kitchen than skulking around in the forest.”
“How long have the British been using your home for meetings?”
“A few months. At first General Howe’s man insisted we leave our house altogether, but my mother was able to make a bargain with him. My parents could stay in the house, but the general would use it as a meeting place, or to house extra officers. Either way, my mother has to cook for them.” She smiled without humor. “British military officers certainly like their comforts. They hunt and bring in the freshest meats, and enjoy soirees and social events with the Loyalists—just as if they were in London, I’m sure. On top of that, they also raid the pantries and storerooms and wine cellars of some of the fine houses in Philadelphia owned by patriots, which their owners had to abandon when the redcoats took over the city.”
Brad gave a hrmph. “While their lower-ranking soldiers eat whatever scraps they can forage, no doubt. And your friends who’ve been driven out of their homes—do they criticize your mother for serving the British?”
“I don’t think so. My family has made sacrifices too. Alice and Liam, my younger sister and brother, were sent to live with relatives in Trenton when the British took Philadelphia. And you’ve met William; he decided to join the American army. So I think everyone understands the sacrifices my parents have made.”
“Do you live in the house too, with your parents?”
“No, I’m staying with friends nearby, although I spend most days helping my mother with her duties. But she doesn’t want me anywhere near the British officers once evening comes.”
I bet, Brad thought. Many officers in the British army were noblemen: Major Lord This, or Captain Lord That. And many thought that others—those ‘below’ them—were fair game for whatever whim they wanted to indulge. After all, he’d seen The Tudors. Was he generalizing? Maybe. But Brad’s mother wouldn’t want Kristen walking around Willow Grove Naval Air Base after dark, either, so he could understand Mrs. Darrow’s thinking in regard to Rebecca.
Speaking of Kristen, Brad looked over to see her rooting through her backpack. Luckily, Rebecca had her back to his sister, as Kris began to systematically take things out of said pack: paperback book, cellphone, flashlight, something he supposed was some sort of makeup, and the PSP game system.
Finally she must have found what she was looking for, as she then tossed everything else back in the bag. That’s right: tossed. Leave it to his sister to take no heed of organization or care of her belongings.
“Hey,” Kris said, getting to her feet. “Even though that journey cake was, er, just yummy, anybody want a bite of granola bar?”
“Granola bar? What’s that?”
Kristen had actually had t
he presence of mind to unwrap the bar before offering it to Rebecca and him. And, Brad noticed with admiration (and not a little surprise), she’d apparently read the wrapper before stuffing it in her backpack. Thus, she was able to say, “It’s like a snack cake. Made out of grain and nuts—among other things. It’s good for you. Sort of.”
“Right,” Brad said, “although it’s not as good for you as an apple. Too much sugar.”
Rebecca shrugged. “I can have an apple anytime. Right now I want to try some Prussian food. A granola bar.”
She took the piece that Kristen had broken off for her, and sniffed at it curiously. Then she took a bite.
“Mmmm,” she said, looking a bit surprised, “that’s quite tasty. And sweeter than I thought it would be.”
Brad and Kristen looked at each other, and both said “Too much sugar,” he with an ‘I-told-you-so’ tone, and she with a ‘yeah-yeah-whatever’ tone.
At that moment there was a slight rustling of dry leaves nearby, and suddenly Jacob was standing next to them.
“Wow, how’d you do that?” Kristen asked. “We didn’t hear a blasted thing, and suddenly—boom, you’re here. Man, you’re good!”
“I told you, I’ve been hunting and tracking for years. And besides,” he continued, looking at them censoriously, “you’ve been too busy talking about granola and sugar to notice my approach.”
“Oh, you heard that?” Brad asked, as bit sheepishly.
“Only from a mile away.”
“I thought we were whispering,” Kristen replied… in a whisper.
“You were whispering loudly,” came the reply… in a similar tone.
Rebecca cleared her throat, effectively putting an end to this silly conversation. “What did you see out there?” she asked Jacob.
“Just what I expected to see: redcoat scouts. Two of ’em, and pretty clumsy, I might add. Or maybe just overconfident. They were making as much noise tramping through the trees as a wounded deer.”
Kristen didn’t want to think about Bambi, hurt in the woods. “Could you hear them talking?”
Jacob nodded, his dirty blond locks bobbing deliciously. “I think they know that General Washington is nearby, but they don’t seem to be aware of how many men he has in the area, or the fact that there are more on the way.”
“Well, that’s good news for us,” Brad said. “Er, for you.”
“No, ‘us’ is right,” Kristen corrected. “We’re definitely with them”—tilting her head to indicate Jacob and Rebecca—“so if we’re with them, that means that we are a part of ‘us.’”
Everyone looked at her blankly. “What?” she asked defensively. “It makes perfect sense.”
“If you say so,” Jacob replied. He shook his head. “Anyway, we should be on our way. With luck I should be able to get you to the Frankford mill and back to Philadelphia by sunset.”
“Sunset,” Kristen repeated. “Yippee.”
