Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

“It is done,” Georg said pointing to the field. He looked curiously at the wooden skeleton laid out on the ground. “How does it . . .” he stopped not knowing the words and pointed from the assembled king post and stringer beams to the gap between the stone abutments on either side of the creek.

  “We will have help,” Thomas’s father said. “I have rented ropes for the raising and this Friday our neighbors will come at sunrise. By day’s end, it will be up. But first, we have to set the two beams lengthwise across the brook. The three of us and the ox can do that tomorrow afternoon,” Kierney said. “Now it is time to stop and eat something before we sleep.”

  Georg nodded. He understood more English than he could speak. He drove Zak to the barn and walked the short distance from the forge shed, his regular sleeping quarters, to the house. Several candles lit the interior and he smelled the meat on a spit in the fireplace. He had been eating at the house since recovering from the bloody flux and working a full day.

  It was the woman who had indicated he should take his meals with the family. She gave him a pewter mug, fork and spoon and a wooden plate. The first time, Georg had been reluctant to use the fork, instead, bending low over the bowl and shoveling food into his mouth with the spoon, or spearing pieces of meat with his knife and biting off pieces. The woman immediately put a stop to that, directing him in a stern voice to imitate the family’s manners. They said some kind of prayer before eating food at every meal, bowing their heads and joining hands. He had been sitting between Sarah and James the first time, and the little girl reluctantly had reached out toward him. Her tiny hand quivered like a small, injured songbird in his rough, callused palm and he sensed her fear of him. He smiled at her, saddened that she was afraid in her own home because of his presence. He thought of himself as more pleasant in appearance, having long since shaved his mustache. He could no longer powder his hair, which had grown out and was tied in a tail at the back, like James and his father.

  Georg always removed his wooden clogs at the threshold, leaving them outside and bowing slightly before entering. The first few times he had done so, the man had yelled at him and then imitated his bow and vigorously shook his head no. Georg did not understand why his gesture upset the man. It was a mark of respect to the man and his family for providing him with food and shelter. The wife did not seem to mind and the boy, James, and his sister thought it was funny. He persisted in bowing and the man gave up trying to change his behavior.

  Sundays, he accompanied the family to church, wedged up front on the narrow seat of the sled between James and his father. There was no farm work performed until after sunset. He listened to the sermons, understanding little, while shivering on the cold wooden benches, and enduring the friendly but curious stares of the other families. However, once he had been to church a few times, others saw his need and brought clothing for him- worn shirts, pants, and even a black woolen jacket with odd brown patches, which was too short in the sleeves and came down to his mid-thigh.

  The day after they had assembled the king post on the ground, they hauled the long beams bridging the space between the two stone abutments and fixed the cross pieces into place. While Georg dug a deep hole on either side of the incomplete bridge, close to the edge of the abutments, the man and his son brought thick logs, roughly planed, which they pounded into the freshly dug holes. Georg saw they would be in the middle of the roadway on either side of the bridge. It made no sense to him, but his English was not up to asking for an explanation.

  On Friday, they were up before dawn. James fed and watered the animals in the dark barn. After a quick breakfast, Georg and James loaded the long coils of rented rope on a sled and pulled them down toward the bridge construction site. In the early light, Georg saw five figures standing around a wagon on the far side of the creek.

  “Our neighbors,” James said waving to one of them. “That is my friend Oliver, his two older brothers, their father, Mr. Langley, Mrs. Langley is on the wagon and that is Hope, their daughter with her.” He hesitated. “The other man I do not recognize.”

  Thomas Kierney hailed Robert Langley with a loud halloo and a wave as James dashed across the old bridge to greet Oliver. As the groups came together, Georg held back, as did one of the men with the Langleys. Despite having a white linen patch over one eye, he looked familiar. Suddenly, Georg recognized him and called out in German.

  “Christoph? Is that you? Is it really you?”

  “Georg. Georg Frederich?” The two former comrades embraced each other. Christoph was thinner and hunched over in the early morning cold. Georg noticed he was poorly clothed, his jacket little more than a thin cloth with sleeves.

  “It will not do to have these Hessians jabbering away in their own language,” Robert Langley said to Kierney.

  “It appears harmless to me,” James’ father replied. “They are simply happy to see each other.”

  “If you coddle them, they will seize the advantage,” Langley said gruffly, watching Georg and Christoph intensely engaged in conversation.

  “What happened to your eye,” Georg asked.

  “They have me working in the bottom of a saw pit and the dust continually comes down. Something scratched my eye and it has not healed,” he said wearily.

  “My boys and I have come to assist on raising the king posts for your new bridge,” Langley said. He pointed at the thin edge of orange and red peeping through the trees. “We will waste the day away if we do not get to work. Here now,” he yelled at Christoph. “Enough of that infernal gargling. There is work to be done.”

  Thomas tipped his hat to Mrs. Langley and remarked how Hope had grown since he had last seen her. “Hannah and Sarah are up in the house and will be pleased for your company,” he said before leading the men to the bridge site.

  James, Oliver, Georg and Christoph were sent into the cold creek water. The men on the banks lowered pre-cut long square temporary braces which the four of them raised against the recently installed bridge beams, to push the floor beams upward before the king posts were raised. Once the ropes were firmly tied to the posts, they were run around the upright logs James and his father had driven into the holes on either side of the abutments.

  With James’ father and Mr. Langley manning the winch ropes, the rest of them, struggled to push one heavy rectangular king post into position. They waited for Thomas Kierney to give the signal he was satisfied it was vertical to the floor beams. Quickly, James on one side and Oliver on the other, hammered the trunnels into the predrilled holes to hold it in place. They took a break at noon and trooped up to the house for a meal of warm bread, slavered with butter, chunks of cheese and smoked ham, and washed down the freshly baked pies with hard cider. Christoph was directed to eat outside by Mr. Langley who raised an eyebrow and scowled as Georg sat down at the table next to James.

  “I tell you Thomas, you are doing wrong by your Hessian.” He pointed his knife at Georg. “A strong hand is all they know and all they need. Remember, they are not family but foreign mercenaries sent to destroy our farms and visit savagery on our women and children.”

  James looked at Georg to see if he understood. The Hessian sat upright, unblinking, concentrating on cutting a piece of ham and spearing it with his fork. James thought he understood and was showing off his manners to rankle Mr. Langley. He smiled and winked. Georg winked back. Sarah giggled and poked Hope who stared at Georg with wide-eyed curiosity.

  “Each to his own methods,” Thomas Kierney replied. “How is your apple orchard coming,” he said. “Have the grafts taken?” The conversation during the rest of the mid-day meal was consumed with the usual talk of plowing and planting wheat, rye and corn, the weather for the rest of spring, the health of the cows, oxen and horses and the birth of calves and foals, before turning to the war.

  “I believe the British will march out of Brunswick in force this very month and by the end of April occupy Philadelphia,” Mr. Langley said. “I hear our army is starving in Morristown and depleted by desertions. Why, wh
ole regiments leave when their ninety days have run out.”

  “If I signed up to fight,” John Langley stated, “I would stay for the duration.” He was the oldest of the boys.

  “You will not enlist in the Continental Army,” Mr. Langley said angrily. “I need you on the farm. I cannot allow you to throw your life away for a lost and hopeless cause espoused by those disputatious chukkleheads of a Congress.”

  James glanced at Oliver who shook his head slightly to indicate it was best to let his father’s anger pass.

  “Well,” said James’ father. “I cannot make predictions based on rumors about our Army. General Washington defeated the British before and I believe he will do it again. If the place be right and Providence favorable to our Army and cause.” He stood up from the table signaling the meal was finished. “Come, let us complete raising this bridge together and leave the discussion of the war and Congress to another time.”

  In the warming sun of the afternoon, the men sweated to raise the pre-cut brace beams, forming right hand triangles with the king’s post. Once the wood trunnels had been hammered in fast the bridge was complete except for the floor. The women and girls came from the house to watch as James and Oliver clambered up the beams to the top of the king post and tied a small pine tree as a brush to celebrate. The two boys raced each other down, Oliver winning by a hair and shouting in triumph. 6

  In the days that followed, the three of them worked the fields in the mornings and in the afternoons made the planks for the bridge floor. Georg, who showed a proficiency with their large split-axe, halved the seasoned logs, felled the previous fall. Each time he split a log perfectly, the Hessian would stretch his back, grin, examine his axe and exclaim, “Is goot holzaxt.”

  Thomas Kierney made planks from the half logs, hitting the hard wood wedges with the heavy ironwood beetle. James sawed the planks to length and laid them loosely across the bridge beams. They would be fixed in place later with trunnels, a layer of roadway planks on top, going in the opposite way.

  As the days lengthened and became warmer, they worked longer hours, constructing a stone foundation and frame for the mill house and the wooden sluiceway from the pond to where the large wooden mill wheel would be installed. James was atop a ladder, pounding a wooden nail into a roof rafter when he spied the millwright coming up the road. The two oxen team pulled the one-ton heavy wooden wheel on a wagon. James scampered down the ladder and called for Georg to follow him down to the creek. In the warmth of the late spring day, the cool water was pleasing as they splashed through it to watch the wagon cross the bridge.

  “We did it,” James yelled enthusiastically at Georg. “See, there was no sag at all.” He held his hands level in front of his chest with the fingers touching but unbent. Georg caught James’ enthusiasm and smiled broadly. “Goot job,” he said as he followed the boy up the steep embankment. Together with the millwright and his assistant, Georg and Thomas levered the wheel, made entirely from white oak, into position until its axle rested on the two stone platforms they had finished only the week before. The millwright stayed for dinner and slept on the floor of the main room. The following day he installed the maple wooden gears that would turn the millstones. James released the sluice gates of the mill race and the massive wheel groaned and began to slowly rotate from the weight of the water falling on to it.

  In the following weeks, in addition to the usual farm chores, the three of them finished framing the mill house, squared twelve by sixteen oak beams with a broad axe for the interior ceiling for the shafts, made cedar shingles for its roof and boards for its floor and cut trees from the stand of forest behind the barn for a supply of seasoned wood. Georg was more tired than he had been for a long time. He knew the man respected him for his work, his ability with an axe and his strength and stamina. Sometimes, he thought of Christoph and how Mr. Langley treated him and thanked God he had been selected by this kindly family as a farm hand.

  One day in late May the mill stones arrived, pulled by two teams of oxen, the bed stone on one wagon and the runner stone on the other. Georg, had been transporting logs on a sled pulled by Zak from the cool of the forest to the mounded hill adjacent to the house. The air beyond the trees was heavy and damp. Sweat stained his linen shirt and swarms of mosquitos attacked his bare neck, face and hands. The boy had explained they would build a cellar to store fruit and vegetables for the winter. He thought with a shudder of the cellars he had plundered as a soldier, searching for wine, rum and cider, taking what he wanted and wantonly destroying what he could not carry.

  It took three of them, together with the miller and his apprentice, exerting all of their strength on the ropes attached to a sturdy oak hoist, to lift the massive one ton bed stone into position. Georg assumed the stranger was the maker of the stones. It was he who directed them to situate the other stone and adjusted the distance between the two. Mrs. Kierney and the girls came from the house and joined the men. James was given the honor of raising the slatted wooden dam to the mill race. The water wheel turned, the wooden gears groaned as the teeth meshed and top running stone began to revolve, faster and faster. Mr. Kierney grinned, the girls screamed with delight and Mrs. Tierney affectionately squeezed her husband’s hand. James whooped loudly and waved his hand in a circular motion for Georg to join in. He smiled broadly, nodding his head up and down and repeating, “Ja, is goot,” over and over. He felt part of them, sharing in their joy and pride in their success.

  The mill was now basically complete. The boy told him this Sunday was a special day at their church. Georg assumed it was to celebrate the new mill. He struggled to understand the sermon but the words all seemed beyond him. The boy was bubbling over with excitement as the family returned home. In the June twilight, the entire family walked along the stonewalls and cedar fences which marked their fields, stopping at the corners and boundary stones, bowing their heads and praying.

  “We are giving thanks for our land, the trees and crops we grow,” James said to Georg. “Tis Rog Sunday. 7 We will meet the Langleys at the far corner of the cornfield. Their land is on the other side.” At the sound of the family name, Georg thought he might see Christoph. He would offer his friend a word of encouragement and urge him to persevere. He understood they were walking the land owned by the man and his wife. So it was true. Here they owned the land they worked. Now it made sense, all the effort and labor from dawn to dusk, cheerfully and willingly done. Why construct a mill and bridge if it could be taken away by the Landgraf or some noble? The bridge and mill were the Kierneys.

  It was getting darker and a flicker of candle light from a lantern appeared bobbing toward them. The man greeted his neighbor, Robert Langley who gruffly responded. Georg noticed with disappointment that Christoph was not with them. James ran forward to play with Oliver but his friend stood rigid, looking down at the ground.

  “Still treating your Hessian mercenary as family, I see.”

  “He has worked hard and well and is entitled and welcome to celebrate and give thanks with us,” Thomas Kierney replied.

  “The Bible commands us to help those in need,” Hannah added softly.

  “The Bible will not protect you when he steals into your home at night and hacks your heads off with an axe,” Langley said with a snarl.

  “I am sorry you are so troubled tonight on this Sunday of all days.”

  “This Sunday marks two weeks since my eldest son, John, chose to abandon his family, his filial duty and our farm. He has run off to enlist with that rabble which calls itself an army. Now I am short handed, with a sullen Hessian waiting to stab me in the back and a wife who can only mope and mourn her missing son. There is nothing to celebrate or give thanks for.”

  Thomas Kierney remained silent as Hannah spoke quietly to Mrs. Langley. The women embraced one more time as the two families quietly resumed their boundary walk. When they returned to the house, as planned they had tea, cider and cakes to celebrate what had begun as a joyous occasion. Mrs. Kierney began to sing
a song and soon the children joined in, their laughter and young voices dispelling the gloom disbursed in generous portion by the Langleys.

  Georg left them dancing around the table and went to the forge. He returned with a cloth tied with a twined bunch of daisies, bowed upon re-entering the house, stood before Sarah and bowed again, presenting her with the package.

  “I make this to dank you all for making me well and giffing work. Dank you,” he said again, bowing first to Hannah and the man, and then extending his hand to James. The boy shook it and smiled back at him.

  Sarah undid the woven daisy tie and opened the cloth. Inside were eight, highly polished pewter buttons, from Georg’s old uniform. In the light from the fireplace, they sparkled like rounded stars. The little girl’s eyes lit up with delight. She rushed forward and hugged Georg around his knees, clinging to him for a long time.

  Part Three The Campaign Resumed

  Chapter 8 - Return to the Jersey Shore

  The letter from Elisabeth was cheery, intimate and troubling at the same time. Will did not know how to respond. It had come together with dispatches from Philadelphia, including copies of the latest issues of the Pennsylvania Gazette and the Evening Post, detailing the business of Congress. Will put these aside and reread the letter, written in her neat, cursive script, each word perfectly formed, the lines as straight as if drawn with a ruler.

  She, Mrs. Knox and baby Lucy, Elisabeth wrote, were staying in the well furnished, comfortable home of relatives of Mary White. Mary, who was married to Robert Morris, a wealthy banker, merchant and member of the Continental Congress, with an elegant mansion in the best part of town, had been most gracious in making her relatives’ home available. At one dinner, at the Morris’ own home, to which she Elisabeth had been invited, General Knox had speculated that General Howe would leave his mistress in New York and join the Army in New Brunswick to begin the campaign to capture Philadelphia. Will wondered how much talk had there been about the British commander’s mistress and was such a subject fit for his Elisabeth’s ears. She went on to write about an exquisite tea she had attended with Mrs. Knox at the Society Hill townhouse of Edward Shippen, a prominent Philadelphia attorney whose three daughters had been exceptionally kind to her. They had invited her to a play and then to poetry readings, held in the magnificently furnished homes of leading citizens, and best of all, a dance, at the exclusive City Tavern, attended by a few members of Congress, including John Hancock and Robert Morris, among others. Elisabeth had been flattered by the attentions of several young officers of the Continental Army, who provided charming company with their conversation about music, painting and belle lettres, but she missed Will and longed to be in his company instead of these strangers dancing with her until the wee hours of the morn.