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“Independence in spelling was a crucial reason we fought the Crown.” – P.D.
Late that night, when Yimmy was asleep elsewhere in the jail, Zippy and I began to pry at the various rocks which comprised our cell’s walls. They were solid. Next, I stood on Zippy’s back and tested the ceiling. It wouldn’t budge either. I plopped down onto the cell floor. “It’s no use, Zippy. Who knows what torture awaits me in the morning?”
I looked over at where Zippy’d been pacing in her preferred corner of the cell. I noticed that, in the last day-and-a-half alone, she’d managed to create a sort of trench from her hurried pacing. “That’s it!” I screamed in my head. I used my untrimmed fingernails to dig at the floor. At first, the clay broke away in small flecks, but after a while, clods of dirt began to come loose. My fingers soon began to throb and ache from my excavation efforts.
I had few other options, so I switched to using my teeth. When they failed to get the job done, I decided to go with my backup—Zippy. I glanced over at where she’d been pacing and found she was no longer in the cell. “Zippy! Zippy?” I whispered, fumbling around the cell in search of my mule daughter. I felt something fuzzy brush up against me. I wasn’t certain that it was Zippy until she licked my shin. “Zippy, where’d you go?” Then, she was gone again. I reached out to where she’d been moments before and found a miniature-mule-sized hole in the cell floor. If I hadn’t been attempting to escape from prison, I would’ve requested a refund from Zippy’s dog obedience instructor. The class advertisements had specifically stated that digging habits would be resolved, but given the circumstances, I was pleased to discover that Zippy still felt the desire to dig.
Placing my head into the hole, I called, “Hey, Zippy! Could you widen the hole a bit?” Zippy didn’t return to the cell. I was left alone for quite a while. I’m typically an optimistic individual, but I did wonder if Zippy had forgotten to return and help me escape. Thud! The main door of the jail shuddered. This happened several times before Yimmy awoke and answered it. I heard his voice call out, “Yut arr you doin’ outah ya yell?” Then, there was a, “Yoof!” And Yimmy fell silent.
A tinkling sound grew louder and louder until it reached my cell. Zippy poked her head through the bars. She was holding Yimmy’s keys in her mouth. “Good work, mini mule! I knew you probably weren’t going to leave me.” I reached my arms through the bars and managed to jiggle the first key into the lock. Unfortunately, that key didn’t unlock my cell. I had to go through at least ten keys before I found the correct one. When the tumbler turned, I was a free man once more. As the predawn glow began to paint the horizon, Zippy and I surfed to our cottage, entered through the gaping hole where our door had been, and reclaimed our scant possessions and money. We then fled to the relative safety of the countryside surrounding Philadelphia. In hindsight, Zippy and I could’ve easily stayed and hidden in plain sight in Philly, taking on aliases and disguises. But that would’ve been a lot of work. On our way out of the city, we spied an old enemy asleep at his post. I shoved Rusty’s hat into his mouth, and Zippy and I took turns tickling him until he became unconscious.
Even with this delay to exact our revenge, we made good time and reached the cover of a nearby wood before warning bells began ringing throughout Philadelphia. I’d heard the Continental Army wasn’t far off, so Zippy and I began surfing through the small villages that dotted the landscape, searching for news of their exact location. The torture I’d undergone had made me resolved—at least, as resolved as a somewhat apathetic person like me can be—to rejoin the war effort and see the conflict to its conclusion. There was too much at stake if the British were willing to sink to such low levels to achieve victory and orchestral dominance.
Zippy and I surfed around for weeks, sleeping in trees and vacant animal burrows to save money. By the beginning of December, the weather had turned chilly, and Zippy and I used our scant resources to spend the night in an inn on the coldest nights. One especially snowy day, Zippy was chilling out in her satchel while I trudged through several inches of snow. Up ahead, I spied something strange. Red flecks sprinkled several hundred prints in the snow. “Zippy, this may be our lucky day. It looks like a herd of wounded buffalo passed this way. We’ll be able to sell their pelts and make a fortune!” My other theory was that a large group of people had attempted to march and drink wine at the same time. I hadn’t heard any news about the French joining the colonies’ cause, so I rejected that notion.
It’s a good thing my mule daughter received sufficient training in Philadelphia in the art of tracking. I plopped the satchel on the ground and pulled her out, dropping Zippy into the snow. She disappeared into the white powder—except for the tips of her ears. Zippy pushed through the snow toward the prints and took off in one direction. I followed close behind, picking her up occasionally to give her a chance to warm up in the satchel.
After spending most of the day following the trail, I spotted the actual cause of the prints. It hadn’t been wounded buffalo or tipsy Frenchmen at all. I picked Zippy up out of the snow, so she could witness that sad moment in colonial period history. Before us, thousands of colonial soldiers were limping to an unknown location in the distance. I stowed Zippy in the satchel and gave her a carrot. “Good work, mini mule,” I said. “You made papa proud.”
The soldiers soon made camp for the night. As darkness fell, I walked up to a group of men and a few women in clever disguises. They were joined by women dressed as such who brought up the end of the marching column. “Hello, brave men. How’re y’all doin’ tonight?” My question was met with some angry statements which don’t jive with the tone of my memoir. “Where are you headed?”
“Some forsaken place called Valley Forge.”
“Who’s leading this march?”
“Washington’s up there somewhere, billeting in a comfy bed I’m sure.”
“Thank you for the information, good soldiers. I’d stay and help you wrap your feet, but the look of them has already made me sick.” I’d explain the appearance of their unshod feet, but I think you can form a sufficient mental picture on your own.
I continued to stroll up the line of soldiers until I reached a few large tents where several sentries stood guard. “Excuse me, sirs, is Gen. Washington about? I wish to speak to him. Tell him it’s Pritchard Daviess a.k.a. Carl Turner—and Zippy.” I pulled my mini mule out of her satchel and placed her on the snowy ground beside me.
From inside the tent, I heard raucous laughter as two men chatted. I overheard a bit of their conversation, “And then his little donkey took Adams’ billfold and wouldn’t give it back!” Their laughter ceased when a guard entered to inform Washington of my presence. “Tell him I’m in conference with my subordinates.”
The guard returned, “I’m sorry, but General Washington’s just stepped out. Something about having something to strategize. I’d suggest checking back tomorrow.”
If Rinky-Dink’s town crier taught me anything, it’s that you can’t let people brush you off. It’s a pity that crier didn’t last long before he was run out of town. “Please inform the general that I have important news regarding the health of his wife and children, should he have any. Their health has either taken a turn for the better or worse, depending on their prior medical condition of which I have little knowledge.”
The guard stared at me blankly before replying, “I think that sort of news can wait until morning.” Since the conversation had reached an impasse, and it appeared that I wouldn’t be allowed to see Washington that night, I took matters into my own, chapped hands.
“Zippy, distraction!” My mini mule began kicking at shins and dropping the guards to the ground until I had a clear path to the tent’s entrance flap. I lifted the tent flap and allowed Zippy to enter first. I ducked in behind her and found her letting an unknown man pet her. The man sat next to Washington, but I couldn’t make out much of his features in the dim candlelight.
“Hello, General, I’m so glad you had time in your schedule to meet with me. It’s Pritchard. I’m sure you remember my work at Trenton this time last year.” I turned to the other man. “I architected the victory from start to finish. Sure, I didn’t plan the boat crossing or anything technical, but the vision casting was all my doing. The whole thing rested on my bony shoulders. My name is Pritchard Daviess. Who do I have the pleasure of introducing myself to?”
In a heavy French accent, the man said, “Marquis de Lafayette. I have come to... how you say? Aid your war with England.”
“Marky!” That was my pet name for Lafayette forever after. “Glad to meet you. I’m sure we’re going to be best friends before this horrific winter weather is over.” I turned back to Washington whose head was cradled in his hands. “How about it, sir? Can I have my old post or a better one? I know I took a year off from fighting, but I still think I should get a promotion. After all, I have a daughter to look after, and tuition for miniature animal finishing schools isn’t cheap.” For full effect, I picked up Zippy and snuggled her face against mine. Negotiations like this are too easy, sometimes.
“I have enough spies. Report to the women at the back of the marching column. They’ll put you to work as a cook.” I bowed and left the tent with Zippy close at my heels. It was my lucky day. Being a cook in the relative safety of the camp with no combat responsibilities? Where’d that job been all my combat duty life?
