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“Icy river water is no friend of Pritchard Daviess’.” – P.D.
By the time of my arrival in Pennsylvania, I’d nearly perfected the backstory for my spy alias, Carl Turner. Carl was a rich landowner who, one day, fell into a ditch. Normally, falling into a ditch wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it was a deep ditch, and a pipe organ fell on top of him while he was down there. To make sure we’re all in the same cage, so to speak—I was never injured in this fashion, but Carl was. Like I was saying, my alias was saved from this culvert by a passing donkey named Goat. They were an odd pair but became fast friends—however, they were not related.
In the early days of my clandestine activities, I constantly feared I’d bungle my backstory, so I wrote out basic facts about myself and my Carl persona on each of my hands—Pritchard on the left, Carl on the right. Whenever I needed to consult my notes, I took advantage of a pause in conversation to glance nonchalantly at one or both of my hands. I’d preface the glance with an explanation like, “Excuse me while I examine the irregularity of this mole I just noticed.” Or, “I still have my guitar callouses! I’ve been meaning to pick up the instrument again.” I’ll admit this wasn’t a perfect system. During long conversations, I sometimes had to reiterate the same two or three explanations several times. People probably thought I was a musical hypochondriac.
Zippy tried to come up with her own backstory—bless her. We talked about it and decided it’d be best if she kept her portrayal of Goat the donkey sort of guarded and mysterious. No one ever questioned her excessively, so that approach must’ve worked.
We surfed up to the farmhouse that served as Gen. Washington’s headquarters one day in late December. Snow had fallen, dusting the meadow where thousands of troops lay sprawled in and out of pup tents. I’m sure the property value of the farmhouse skyrocketed after the war. Everyone had “revolution fever.” Admittedly, I had it too. I would’ve shaved John Hancock’s head and kept the hair as a souvenir if he’d let me.
When I approached the farmhouse’s front door, I was ordered to stop by a guard’s bayonet. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m here to share my intelligence with the general.” I winked. He didn’t respond in kind.
“How do I know you’ve really got news—or are intelligent at all, depending on your meaning? You could have enough powder in your dog to blow the whole house to Quebec.”
“If I explained, I’m afraid I’d have to kill you.”
“So, you are an assassin!” The man grabbed me and pulled me from Zippy’s back, casting me to the ground.
Through the frozen sod which had been forced into my mouth during my descent, I cried, “Unhand me, ruffian!” I glanced at my palms. “I’m Carl Turner, and I need to speak with Gen. Washington.” The man got off my back and pulled me to my feet.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. The general’s been expecting you. I’ll have your animal untied in just a moment.” They’d hogtied Zippy and placed a cabbage in her mouth, so she wouldn’t bite them—a wise precaution on their part. The guard cut the cords that bound Zippy and attempted to pull the cabbage from my mule daughter’s jaws. Either she wanted to eat it, or it was lodged too tightly to be removed. I just checked, and it’s not still there, so something must’ve happened to it in the last forty years.
I hopped onto Zippy’s back and continued up the steps to the front door. The guards opened it, and I surfed into the presence of Gen. Washington. Even when standing on Zippy’s back, I was at least a head shorter than the colonies’ stoic general. He didn’t look up when we entered. I coughed—nothing. I beckoned Zippy forward until I was close enough to stand on my tiptoes and tap Gen. Washington on the shoulder.
Washington turned and stared down at me. He must’ve been nearsighted because Washington’s face was very close to mine. His mouth was closed, but I could still smell the varnish on his teeth. “How did you and that animal get in here?”
“The window.” I’ll admit in hindsight that choosing this moment to practice my sarcasm was a poor decision. In an all-too-clique-way, Washington yelled for the guards.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m Carl Turner.”
“You’re not Carl. You’re a lunatic.” Again, Washington bellowed a clique request for help that went unheard by the guards standing just outside the room. You can’t make these things up.
“I’ve undergone a few procedures recently that have altered my appearance to that which you see before you.”
“You’re not Turner, so you can stop lying through your teeth.” I’ve always had a terrible habit of gritting my teeth when I fib. “Wait a second. You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
“Pritchard Daviess, former delegate to the congress at Philadelphia—at your service.” I held out my hand for a handshake, but I had to go fishing for Washington’s to complete the shake.
“That’s right. It’s coming back to me now. Why are you pretending to be Carl Turner?” Washington looked down at Zippy who’d busied herself shining his shoes with her fuzzy body.
“This letter was delivered to my home, so I came to do my part.” I held out the letter. Washington tugged it out of my grip and examined it.
“Do you have any experience in scouting or spying?”
“I’ve dabbled.”
“Since I’m left with no other option, I suppose I can use you. Turner is weeks away, and our advance can’t be delayed. You must go behind enemy lines and scout out the encampment at Trenton. Bring back details about the number of their men, locations of munitions, and so on.” A grin spread across the full length of my face. “Be gone with you! You’re wasting precious time. Report back by Christmas day.”
Zippy and I bowed low, but Washington didn’t notice. He was already slumped back over stacks of maps and notes that lay spread out over several tables. We reached the front doors just as the guards burst through them to determine the cause of Washington’s shouting. After exiting the farmhouse, I surfed up to the first soldier I spied and asked, “Good soldier, would you happen to know the way to Trenton?” He gestured over his shoulder. “Could you be a bit more specific?”
“Thirty paces to the east, right at the first poplar tree—not the elm.” He paused to shudder. “Never the elm. Slight left at the stump sculpture of a raccoon.”
Frantically, I searched my person for a pencil and scrap of parchment to take notes. “Zippy, are you getting this?”
“Keep on for a mile or so until you reach a river. Cross it and walk toward any campfires you see. You’ll know you’ve reached the enemy camp when men with guns run to greet you.”
“Thanks for the tip. Here’s a little something for your trouble.” I dropped a bottle of Rinky-Dink Liniment into the man’s lap and surfed to the forest’s edge. The instructions, while specific, were sadly insufficient to get me to Trenton. Zippy and I spent that first night shuffling through underbrush, unknowingly doubling back on ourselves at least eleven times. In my defense, by the light of a waning crescent moon, a badger sculpture is easily mistaken for a raccoon carving.
When morning arrived, I realized my slipup, and we hustled to the bank of the Delaware River. Since my mini mule and I had no boat with which to cross the mighty stream, I devised a novel means of traversing the river. My inspiration came when I threw my mule daughter into the water in preparation for both of us to swim across. The water was frigid, causing Zippy’s yellowed teeth to chatter so violently, she was propelled back to shore. Not wishing to waste any more time, I turned my mule daughter around, hopped on her back, and proceeded to cross the Delaware in record time. Was my decision to choose this method of transportation a gamble that could have ended horribly? Yes. Do I wish Zippy had been wearing something warmer? Sure. Was taking such a risk necessary to win the war? Undoubtedly. Is this a good time to end this chapter? I think so.
