The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (14 page)

“
Up until now a man and boy have carried messages for me, but the man has fallen under suspicion and rejoined Washington. That leaves only the boy, and . . .” He hesitated, then looked at me speculatively. “Geordie, I must ask for your help. I've some
important information—a British orderly book. It details General Howe's plans to attack the American encampment at Whitemarsh. Could you help the boy get it through to Washington? If the camp is taken by surprise, it would be the end for us, outnumbered as we are
.”

For a brief moment, the three gallows in 1777 seemed to loom before my eyes so that I could see the very nooses swaying in the icy December wind. With an effort, I said, “Aye, Will, just tell me what to do
.”

“
Good lad.” He touched my shoulder. “The boy, Sandy, will guide you up to Whitemarsh. He'll be waiting for you at dusk past the British lines. As you don't know each other by sight, you'll have to use the password
.”

“
Which is?
”

Will grinned. “Well, most times we use the saying, ‘Where there's a Will, there's a way.' In fact, Sandy has my signet ring with that Latin inscription. It's been an invaluable way to identify him to other couriers
.”

“
‘Ubi voluntas via ibi est,'” I murmured
.

Will grinned and shrugged his shoulders, looking a little sheepish. “That's all I could think of, but it's worked well so far. Now, since it may be too dark to
see the ring, you'll have to use the other signal. Whistle ‘The Riddle Song.'
”

“
All the way to Whitemarsh?
”

“
Nay, you dolt. Only for a mile or two past the British lines. Sandy will be lurking about somewhere close by and hear you. He's a clever lad and will rise to the occasion, I warrant
.”

“
You warrant my neck, Will,” I said soberly
.

“
They'll not hang
you
for a spy. Only an official agent out of uniform behind enemy lines would meet such an end
.”

Like you,
I thought, my brow pinpricked by cold sweat
.

“
Mind, give it into no other hands than those of Washington himself. The American army is riddled with Tory spies—almost as riddled as the city is with ours,” Will added with a wink
.

We quickly fetched the orderly book from his attic room, then went down to the wagon, where I stood sentry whilst he wedged the book into a crack of the wagon seat. Then, bidding him a tense farewell, I drove off toward the British defenses
.

Luckily the same pickets were on duty, and their fond memories of my perry cleared my way through the lines. Still, once outside the city, I grew more
pudding-hearted with each turn of the wheels. It was with great difficulty that I puckered my dry lips and whistled “The Riddle Song.” I was so beset with nerves that I failed to see the slight figure emerge from the trees next to the road until I was virtually upon him. Fearing I'd run him down, I pulled the team to a halt and jumped down to investigate—only to fall flat on my breeches' bottom. A distinct chuckle greeted the spectacle I presented
.

I leaped to my feet to confront this person who dared to enjoy my fall. Peering back at me was a boy so slight that the top of his head came only to my shoulder. Before I could say anything, he spoke urgently in a low voice
.

“
Where there's a Will, I presume there's a way?” He held out his palm. Will's signet ring lay upon it
.

I stood agape. This infant was to be my partner? Watching him stick the ring into his breeches pocket, I wondered why he didn't wear it, then realized that it was probably much too large for his boy-size hands. Will himself hadn't grown into it until he reached sixteen or so
.

“
There's no time to tarry. Help me up and let's be on our way,” said the lad imperiously, clapping on a tricorne so that it perched crookedly on his sand-colored hair
.

“
H-help you up?” I asked
.

He laughed. “Are you a half-wit as well as a clumsy?
”

I thrust my fist under his nose. “When we have time enough, I'll show you who's a clumsy half-wit,” I hissed
.

The boy merely put his hand on top of my fist, turned neatly and vaulted into the wagon seat. “Hurry up, boy, there are thieves about, pretending to be patriot patrols. They'll take your wagon if they catch us
.”

I needed no further urging. In an instant I was beside the impudent boy, and we were headed north on Germantown Pike. We spoke but little on our way, and I kept the horses to a walk in the gathering darkness, with Sandy barking out which turn to take every time we reached a crossroad
.

My courage was badly frayed by the time we reached the American pickets, but my companion was undaunted by their challenge. Calmly stating that we carried important information from Philadelphia, he requested an escort to General Washington. We were led through the encampment, and I saw that these soldiers were in some ways worse off than those imprisoned in the State House. Most were bedding down on frozen ruts on the ground, and the
food I saw cooking over the campfires was none too plentiful
.

I had little time to ponder their plight, however, for soon we entered the house where General Washington was headquartered. This time the general was wigless and wearing a damask dressing gown. Even seated at a desk he seemed to tower over us, and his eyes were as penetrating as when they had first beheld Squire Cheyney and me at Brandywine
.

“
What is it?” he said in a voice full of weariness
.

Sandy stood at attention. “Here, your Excellency. A British orderly book with battle orders for an attack here at Whitemarsh.” Sandy's self-possession filled me with intense envy
.

Washington straightened up. “We had word that there was a move afoot, and this looks to give us the details.” He quickly gave the book to an aide, directing him to report on its contents with all dispatch. Then, turning back to me, the general said, “But have I not seen you before, boy?
”

“
At Brandywine, sir, with Squire Cheyney,” I mumbled shyly
.

“
And you refused to take up the drum. The offer's still open—to both of you.” His lips parted in a startling smile, revealing darkened teeth that were patently false. For an instant it seemed as if I were reliving the scene with that nauseating Owens. Once again another boy would get the glory of drumming with the Continentals, and I would have to go home to my parents. Jealousy swept over me, but it evaporated when I saw Sandy shake his head in a decided no. What's more, his face was so crimson he looked as if he were about to cry
.

I bowed my head and could feel my own face flushing as I mumbled, “I cannot, your . . . your Excellency. My father is a king's man and already brokenhearted because my brother has joined you
.”

Washington's face furrowed with sadness. “This terrible war that severs families.” He paused, then added, “Then I thank you doubly for your service to Independency. It takes strength to defy both king and father. Would that all my men were as committed. Though battle-hardened, my troops still desert in droves. The officers, too, resign over imagined slights and . . .” Washington glanced at us as if suddenly remembering our presence. “You may go, now,” he said gruffly
.

I nodded dumbly and rushed out of the tent. Sandy didn't catch up with me until I reached the wagon
.

“
Geordie—wait! Tis impossible for me to stay here. I must return to the city. I'm afraid . . . Will you take me back?
”

In the moonlight, his face looked pinched with anxiety. I was thunderstruck that this boy, pluck to the backbone, feared to stay in the American camp. His speck of cowardice cheered me, however, and cemented our friendship more than all his spunk
.

“
Aye, I'll take ye. Pray that my father will be so pleased by the gold coins from the City Tavern that he won't inquire too closely about my late return
.”

We laughed and set off into the moonlit night in perfect charity with one another—firm friends despite our differences
.

 

Geordie sat lost in thought for a moment. I hated to interrupt his musing, but there were so many things I had to find out. Had Will made it through the British occupation of Philadelphia without being caught as a spy? Or had those gallows in 1777 proved fatal for Geordie's brother?

Before I could ask, my mother came into the barn carrying a plate of cookies. Naturally, this drove Geordie away.

Mom anxiously scanned my face. “Don't worry, honey, we'll find that will. Just keep your spirits up.”

“I'll do my best,” I promised solemnly.

11

The subway train pulled up at Independence Square in Philadelphia and I was the first to hop off onto the platform. “Come on—I want to beat the tourists. Hurry up!” I urged.

My parents exchanged looks of amazement.

“Are you feeling all right, Lars?” my mother asked. “First you get up early on a Saturday morning without being crowbarred out of bed. And now you're so eager to get there you want us to sprint! Erik, are you sure this is really our son?”

Dad chuckled. “I remember how underwhelmed you were about visiting historical sights, Lars, and now you're begging to go places I've never even heard of.”

“Whitemarsh—it's Fort Washington State Park,” I said eagerly. “Can we go up there sometime?”

“I guess so—after I recover from the shock! It wasn't too long ago that nothing would have gotten you to sightsee in Center City. I never saw such a rapid change of spirits in my life!” Dad teased.

Spirits had had more to do with my new attitude than they would ever know, but I could hardly say
that
.

“Look, there's the Liberty Bell! Let's get in line to see it, Erik!” my mother said, giving Dad's arm a gentle pull.

“Aw, it wasn't even here during the British occupation,” I protested. “They hauled it up to Allentown so the British wouldn't melt it down for bullets. Let's go to the State House.”

“I don't remember any State House here,” Mom said, with a puzzled look. “I thought the big attraction was Independence Hall.”

“Yeah, I forgot, that was the
old
name,” I said, rushing to add a plea that we eat lunch at the City Tavern.

Dad warded off my request. “One thing at a time, Lars!”

“But that's a great idea, Erik,” Mom put in. “They've rebuilt the City Tavern exactly as it was during the Revolution—authentic eighteenth-century food and costumed waiters, the whole bit.”

Dad relented. “All right, we'll eat there. But only after we check out Independence Hall
and
the Liberty Bell.”

“When I visited here as a little girl, the Liberty Bell was still inside Independence Hall,” Mom recalled with a faraway look. “You should have seen how Aunt Cass and George carried on; you'd think it was all a family shrine.”

Intrigued by her words, I joined the line and filed past the massive bell. Then I herded my folks across the street to Independence Hall. My eyes flew to the second-story windows, half expecting to see the gaunt faces of American prisoners looking down from the Long Gallery.

With other tourists, we were parceled into groups by park guides to tour the historic rooms. I drank in the guide's every word as eagerly as the prisoners had probably drunk Geordie's perry on that long-ago day.

When we came out of Independence Hall into the bright sunshine, Mom announced it was lunchtime and took out her map to look for the City Tavern.

“Let's stop at the Portrait Gallery,” Dad suggested. “It's right on the way. Maybe some Hargreaves ancestors are pictured there. Surely some of 'em must have been around at the time of the Revolution.”

Mom grinned. “From what Aunt Cass told me, I don't think my ancestors exactly covered themselves with patriotic glory. Apparently at least one of them was a staunch Tory.”

Dad put his hand to his forehead. “Shocking!” he squeaked.

I didn't know Geordie's last name, so there was no way I could find his picture. I asked if we could skip the gallery.

“I guess so. We'll go another day. After all, we'll be living here a good long time,” Dad replied.

Mom's face fell. “At least I hope so,” she murmured. Then she brightened, her attention caught by a horse-drawn carriage clattering past. “Oh, look! That's something new!” She chuckled. “Or old, actually, but new since my last visit.”

Dad said, “Shall we take a carriage ride?”

“I'd love to, but I'd hate to breathe in all the smelly exhaust from the traffic,” Mom said, wrinkling up her nose.

I laughed. “At least it doesn't smell as bad as it did during the British occupation when there were dead horses and . . .”

Dad broke in. “Your teacher has certainly filled you in on all the gory details,” he said dryly.

Luckily, right then we arrived at the City Tavern. I looked up at the brick building and wondered which attic window had been Will's. Mom and Dad herded me inside into a long hallway. I could see waitresses in mobcaps and long dresses and waiters in clothes like Geordie's. One costumed waiter came out into the hallway. He carried a wooden keg on his shoulder, a cane in his hand.

Stunned, I shouted out, “Will!”

The young man turned, peered at us, and put down the keg. “Sir, Madam. May I serve you in some way?”

I thought fast. “Will—will—you tell us where to sit?”

“The serving wench will escort you directly. Just go into the Coffee Room yonder.” Then, with a bow to my mother, he picked up his burden and limped down the stairs.