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“Pipe organs shouldn’t be transported without a permit.” – P.D. (as C.T.)
Once we’d reached the other side of the Delaware, I dried Zippy off with my coat, scooped her up in my arms, and ran pell-mell through the forest in search of a campfire to warm her up. I was pretty toasty myself, but Zippy had a bad case of sniffles, coughing, conjunctivitis—it was a washing list of symptoms. Finally, after a few hours spent searching for a fire, I came across a small group of British soldiers. I had my whole ruse planned out.
I muttered a few things in a feigned British accent to get my linguistic bearings before leaping into the firelight and crying out, “Help, gov! I found this mule, gov. She’s badly sick, gov. Isn’t there anything you could do for her—old chap? Wat. Wat. Wat. Wat. It could wait until after teatime if that so happens to be now, gov.”
One of the men seated by the fire replied, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
“Cheerio! Of course, I don’t speak Spanish, gov. Why are you talking like that?” As my eyes adjusted to the firelight, I noticed that the men weren’t wearing red coats. Their jackets were sort of greenish. They looked pretty British but, in a way I couldn’t articulate at the time, somehow more practical and better at fashioning timepieces. I dropped my accent and Zippy. “None of you speak English?”
Another man grinned and piped up, “Teel your seester I say, ‘Guten Tag.’” He kept repeating the same phrase over and over again. I’d never before heard such filth. The situation was both uncomfortable and unhelpful. The other men looked as confused as I felt.
“Bye-bye!” I smiled and began backing out of the clearing. Zippy scooted along beside me. We continued our retreat until we were well out of sight. My mule daughter and I continued to wander through the countryside as darkness pressed closer and closer against us. Trees pressed against us too, which made for several frightful moments. I struck up a lighthearted—and lightheaded, due to dehydration—conversation as we bumped along. Zippy’s so teeny that she has a habit of running into everything after dark. “I have no idea what those Spaniards are doing in America. Perhaps they’ve come to aid the British cause? What do you think, Zippy?”
My mini mule replied, “Hee-hoof.” It was a rock that time. Zippy unstuck herself, and we pressed on.
Several hours passed before we saw anything of consequence. Everywhere we turned, we found small groups of green-clad Spaniards clustered around campfires. I attempted to make contact with them, but each encounter went the same way. I’d walk into the firelight and introduce myself in my British accent. Someone would pipe up, “Seeng us ein song.” Or, “Wood you leek sum schnitzel?” When the conversation turned uncomfortable like this, Zippy and I skedaddled.
At dawn, I noticed several large plumes of smoke in the distance. “Onward, Zippy!” I cried to my mini mule, pointing in the general direction I wished to surf. She complied, but the rocky terrain in the area delayed us considerably. To speed things along, I picked up a tree branch and used it to push against the rocks and steer my mule daughter to safety. When we reached the source of the smoke trails seen earlier, rather than stumbling upon a British encampment as I’d hoped, Zippy and I hit the Spanish motherload. We watched our quarry from the forest’s edge as they drank, caroused, sang, and spoke in their cryptic tongue. As I concluded estimating their number and musical capabilities, the Spaniards noticed me and began a lengthy synchronized dance number. During the chorus, Zippy and I were drawn from the forest’s edge, made to participate, and led to the quarters of their commanding officer. I’d like to say that I didn’t enjoy the process, but I did—thoroughly. They had incredible panache.
During the finale of the dance number, my mule daughter and I were pushed through the door of the house being used as the commanding officer’s headquarters. He stood before us, and we before him. For the most part, he looked normal. He did have a bit of a bum leg. I mentally prepared my British accent and began, “Top o’ the morning to you, gov! A fine day for a chucker, ain’t it?”
He held up a hand which I slapped sportingly. “What have you been brought here by?” His voice was smothered in a thick accent.
“Well, chap, I fear I’ve been separated from the division. Lots of bad eggs out there—rough stuff, all ‘round. I’d like to get back to the old boys in red. Called ourselves the Dorcestershire Dormice, we did—sir. Please help me if you can. It’d be right good of you.” I was running out of British, sweating through my shirt.
“Never have I heard them.”
“Oh,” my strained exhaled came out more like a whinny, “I suppose that’s because we were deep undercover. Tippity toppity, wibbly wobbly secret mission for His Majesty. With all due respect, sir, are you and your army confused where you are? If you’re looking for France, you’ve missed it considerably.”
“German, not Spanish.” To this day, I’m still not sure why the Germans were speaking a Spanish dialect. The officer straightened his coat buttons and took a bite of a sauerkraut sandwich. “We fight the rebels.” He wiped some stray sandwich crumbs from his face, turning his head so only one of his eyes faced me, accusingly. “Why do you not know this, British man? ‘Colonial... spy.’ There it is, written on your hand!” I never gesticulated—much—again.
“That was just a joke. Haha! Had to get past the enemy lines and whatnot. It was funny—I had them eating out of my hat! I’ll be taking my leave now. If you see the Dormice, let them know I’m searching for them.”
“Nein, you stay. I must verify these things.” He cracked a toothy smile. My stomach sank within me and not simply because his teeth were flecked with remnants of sauerkraut.
“That’s mighty kind of you, gov, but I shouldn’t waste more of your time. This little mule I found wandering the countryside—who is of no relation to me should you wish to use that against me in a torture scenario—and I will be leaving.”
“You stay, or we hunt—” He choked on some stray bits of sauerkraut, fitfully gasping for air. Then, back to the goofy grin. Zippy was already attempting to kick a hole in the door by the time I’d backed over to it. I pushed her outside. The soldiers were gathered in a tight semicircle around us, hemming us in, and no matter where my mule daughter and I surfed about the camp, they followed us in formation.
When we got bored of randomly switching direction and watching the Germans attempt to regroup, we sat. They did the same. We stood. So did they. That got boring too. One short man brought me a stein of beer. After giving my daughter a sip, I downed the mixture to the cheers and applause of my captor audience. Before long, I’d forced myself into the semicircle and boisterously led drinking songs.
Alcohol got the best of me that night, I’ll admit, and I did something that weighed heavily on my heart for many years. After we’d finished singing, “My Vagon Is Een Die Ditsche,” I shouted out, “Man, you guys are a hoot! I’m going to feel terrible when the colonists catch you unawares in a few days.”
“Wah?” The man next to me replied.
“Ha! I can’t wait to see the look on your faces when I’m back here with the full force of the Continental Army. It’ll be a little Christmas present, if you catch my drift. I hate surprises. We’re coming on Christmas day to capture Trenton. We’ll laugh about it someday.” No one was laughing at the time.
“You are ein schpy!”
“Good, good. You’re keeping up!” It was a genuine compliment.
The Germans leapt to their feet and lurched toward me in their inebriated yet surprisingly agile state. My ability to move was similarly compromised, but I managed to focus long enough to stand up and trip over Zippy. A few moments later, my mule daughter and I were tied to a tree. At that moment, I didn’t know what was going to happen to us. We’d been through some tough situations before, but nothing like this. I’d heard terrible things about the torture methods of both the Spanish and German peoples. The thought of being forced to endure a torture process combining the most effective tools and processes of both countries made me shudder. I was also cold.
I tried to explain the situation away, “This is a mistake. You have the wrong man. I was kidding before. Do I look like a spy? I’ve been framed! Trenton’s premier florist—he’s the real spy. I’m just a simple man....” I paused to squint at my notes before continuing, “Carl Turner. That’s my name. I forgot it, but I remembered. Please let us go!” Right when I had the Germans where I wanted them, Zippy kicked a handful of the soldiers in the shins, and our hopes of being released were dashed. The German troops maintained a safe distance from us after that.
We were left tied to the tree for several hours as the semi-circle of men continued to drink and carouse about the camp. My beloved mini mule feebly tugged at her restraints. I soon hatched and rehearsed a plan which I believed could save us from those mother-tongue-confused Germans. I’d known these men short enough to determine how to properly get their attention. I took a deep breath and began to harmonize. Zippy joined me and, soon enough, the men heard our lilting acapella melody and joined in. It would’ve been a fun moment if Zippy and I hadn’t been attempting to escape hanging as traitors.
I abruptly ended the vocal medley, pointed at my mini mule, and called out, “Zeepy need go and....” Here I made a few illustrative gestures to ensure the Germans understood that she needed to relieve herself. During my illustration, Zippy was playing with a newt she’d found somewhere. The men turned and deliberated amongst themselves for several moments before returning to the tree and untying us.
A handful of soldiers attempted to follow Zippy and I into the woods, but I held up my hands and cried, “No, mule is lady. Only papa go.” The men looked at each other and shrugged. We proceeded into the woods alone. Several things worked in our favor from there. Zippy and I were in the woods on the side of the camp nearest the river. It was night. And the troops were still very drunk. In hindsight, Zippy could’ve just used her sharp teeth to cut us free during the night—oh well.
When we’d strolled deep into the forest, I scooped Zippy into my arms and ran toward the sound of water. Unfortunately, the sound was emanating from a sort of mill, but we finally found the mighty Delaware. Behind us, we could hear various manhunt ditties being sung by the Germans. The catchiest one by far was, “Ve Vill Find Du.” It had a drum solo that I honestly didn’t see coming. As in our previous crossing, I threw Zippy into the frigid water, hopped aboard, and was propelled to the opposite bank by the force of her chattering teeth. As we retraced our steps back to Washington’s headquarters, that badger sculpture nearly tripped us up again, but while the moon was still high in the sky, we arrived at the camp of the Continental Army. It was December 25, 1776.
