Attack of the Turtle by Drew Carlson

Author:Drew Carlson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eerdmans Books for Young Readers
Published: 2008-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

The following morning I was walking the streets of New York, marveling at the many fortifications. The city bristled with barricades and batteries of cannon. Every street corner seemed to have a guard.

“Do you know where the Seventh Connecticut Volunteers are?” I asked soldier after soldier. No one knew. Hours later, as I was rounding a corner I heard a sweet sound: soldiers with Connecticut accents.

“You from Connecticut?” I asked them.

“Milford,” a young-looking man said. “You?”

“New London.”

We looked at each other awkwardly for a few moments. Finally the Milford man asked, “What is a New London boy doing here? Why aren’t you home fishing?”

I decided to show off. “I’m here with the water machine.”

“The water machine? I heard about that. They say it’s got a cannon mounted on the top.”

“Well, not exactly, but it is dangerous.”

“Hope so. We’ve got our hands full with about the whole British fleet here.”

“You know where the Seventh Connecticut Volunteers are?”

“I do,” said one of the other soldiers. “I’ve got a cousin with ’em. They’re over on the Brooklyn Heights across the river, working on one of the forts.”

“Do you know how can I get over there?” I asked.

“You can’t,” said the soldier. “Not unless you’re on army business.”

“Why don’t you take your water machine across?” asked the young man from Milford.

I shook my head. “It’s already on army business.” An older, grizzled soldier shrugged. “Heck, why don’t you join up with us? We’re supposed to go over to Long Island soon. We’re the Third Company of the Fifth Connecticut.

When I didn’t respond, he grinned. “It ain’t like everyone here is of legal age,” he said, jostling the Milford man with his elbow.

“You be quiet,” the young man retorted.

“Oh, don’t fret, Joe. No one is going to kick you out of the army now, with a fight coming on.”

The younger man laughed and extended his hand toward me. “I’m Joe Martin and I’m — ” he looked exaggeratedly from side to side, “fifteen. But let’s keep that between the three of us.”

I shook his hand, delighted with his confession. “I’m Nathan Wade and I’m almost fifteen.” My birthday was three months away.

“So why do you want to go over to the island?” Joe asked.

“I’m looking for my father,” I said. “He’s with the Seventh.”

Joe nodded solemnly. “You’re not going over unless you’re a soldier or a strong swimmer.”

I winced.

“C’mon, Nathan, I’ll show you around,” he said. “It’d be nice to have someone my age to talk to for a while.”

We walked down the street to a huge brick house. “We’re staying here,” Joe said. “Used to be some fancy Tory’s house, so we requisitioned it. There’s a lot of Tories in New York. At least until we showed up.”

It was the biggest house I’d ever seen. I’d swear all of Saybrook could fit inside, with the Bushnell farm thrown in to boot.

“There’s a nice view of Long Island from the roof,” Joe said. “Wanna have a look?”

A few minutes later we stepped outside an upstairs window onto the roof.

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