Now to sleep.
January 3, 1780, Monday
Johnny is still fevered. We do not know what to do but rub warmth into his toes and feed him broth. When he tries to walk, he whimpers. If he wants to move around the hut, he crawls. I die inside worrying that a surgeon might cut off the feet of our little baby.
“Abby, dear,” said Mama, “when the skies clear, will you please go for help? I hear there’s a doctor near Headquarters and Lady Washington should be there by now. Perhaps there is some medicine —”
“I’ll go, Mother.”
While we wait in this storm, I try to teach the younger children. It has been nearly a year since we last attended school! I invited Thomas. He thought a moment then said, “Thank you, Abby, but I like working with the men, also playing my drum when they march. They need me.”
My students are Mazie, Sally, Robert, who also is eight, and his sister, Anna, who is eleven. She brought her own quill and ink jug as she, too, keeps a diary! Robert and Anna are Mrs. Ewing’s children, in the hut next to ours.
We have no books or newspapers, so I tore some empty pages from this journal and printed words for them in big letters. I made up a story for the younger ones to read, and Anna wrote her own. They are fast learners!
Then they took turns with the pens, first writing numbers then writing their names. While Mazie spelled out hers, she squinted in concentration, whispering to herself. Too soon I realized she was writing “P-H-I-L-O-M-E-N-A.” Quickly I ran my finger over the letters to smear the ink and shook my head no at her. She looked up, startled, as fear came into her eyes. It seemed that for a moment she had forgotten to pretend.
“Like this, Mazie,” I said, carefully printing “M-A-Z-I-E.” “Write it three times to help you remember.”
I glanced over at Miss Lulu, who was by the fire warming Johnny’s feet in her hands. She had been watching us. She gave me a slight nod, as if we now shared something.
Later
In this small cabin there is no place to hide my diary so when I am up and about I keep it in my right pocket, my ink and quill in my left pocket. Now that I know Sally can read very well, and so can Mazie, I fear their curiosity. They stare when I am writing, such as now! Am kneeling by the fire for light, my back turned to them.
“What say you, Abby?” my sister asks, trying to peek over my shoulder.
Mazie answers for me, “Uh-huh. A little this and a little that.”
It has been one year since our house in Valley Forge burned to the ground. One year since I’ve seen my friends. Do they wonder about me? At night I think of them as I drift to sleep in prayer: Lucy, Molly, Naomi, Ruth….
January 8, 1780, Saturday
Morristown Headquarters, in Mrs. Ford’s mansion. Odd circumstances have placed me in this crowded house, now for the past two days. The view out these windows is solid white.
The blizzard before this one stopped long enough for me to gather my cloak and wrap rags around my feet. Sally gave me her mitten so I would have one for each hand. Then out of the hut I ran, slipping along the hilly path to Headquarters.
After some minutes, I heard, “Abby! Wait!”
I turned to see Mazie waving.
“Go back!” I yelled.
“Please, Abby, I want to see the General’s lady. You said she be kind and good.”
I looked at the sky growing dark again. If Mazie returned as the storm hit, she could get lost. She would die without shelter.
“Come, then,” I said. “But we must hurry.” Already wind was pulling at my cloak and stinging my cheeks. We ran. By the time I pounded on the door of Headquarters, we were shivering. Oney showed us to a blazing hearth and gave us each a cup of hot cider.
“Abby, chile,” she scolded. “Does your Mama know where you are?”
“Yes, Oney.”
Hand on her wide hip she glared at Mazie. “You, chile?”
Mazie looked down at her wet shoes. “Mammy thinks I be at the necessary.”
Oh dear, I thought. Miss Lulu must fear Mazie has perished and Mama will wonder the same about me. Two mothers are worrying.
By Mrs. Ford’s grate
Everyone who happened to be under this roof when the storm struck is now stranded with Mrs. Ford and her children. General Washington is here with his servants, staff, and aides-de-camp, also officers who had been meeting with him, several soldiers, and guards. The guard huts are just across the way, but the drifts from here to there are so deep — coming up to the men’s shoulders — that they cannot start digging until there is a lull in the wind.
There are so many people here that everyone bumps into one another going from room to room — through the halls, and up and down the narrow staircase. If two meet on the steps, one must turn sideways to let the other pass.
I can hear coughing and sneezing all through this house. Lady Washington is in her room upstairs. After her long trip by sleigh she took a chill and now has a cold.
No doctor is here, nor any medicine for Johnny. And something else has upset me: This morning a captain gave Mazie a hard look.
“Girl, where are you from?”
“A long ways away, sir,” she answered.
“What’s your name? And what is your mother’s name?”
His questions made me nervous. It seemed he knew about the runaway slaves Tilda and Philomena.
Mazie lifted her chin. “Sir, I be Mazie. Miss Lulu be my mammy.”
“I see. And what brigade might your father be in?”
“Dunno, sir.”
“Then what is his name?”
“I call him Pappy.”
The captain opened his mouth for a loud sneeze. He wiped his nose with his hand then dried his hand on his vest. “Well then, little girl, when this wind stops we shall go find your pappy. I’m certain you shall be glad to introduce us.”
Oh, for this storm to end! I’m worried about Johnny, and I’m desperate to warn Miss Lulu. For pretending to have a soldier husband, she and Mazie could be cast out of the Army in this cruel winter. Or be put in prison until their master comes for them.
Later, still January 8
It is shameful for me to eavesdrop, but I like to hear news.
While in a crowded hallway, I heard soldiers complain about Benedict Arnold. He was court-martialed just before Christmas, in a trial at Norris’s Tavern. That is just up the road from here. Several officers accused him of being dishonest and greedy while he was in charge of Philadelphia. He used government wagons for his personal pleasure, so was sentenced to a reprimand. This means a public scolding by General Washington.
I also heard officers fretting about the Marquis de Lafayette and the French Navy. There has been a terrible shipwreck on one of our shores.
January 9, 1780, Sunday
Still at the Ford Mansion. Sun is shining and the wind has stopped! The mercury reads 20 degrees. In a few minutes we shall finally be able to leave Headquarters.
Hundreds of men from the surrounding farms and villages have come with sleds, horses, and wagons. They are working in teams, and with our soldiers, to clear the roads so that supplies can reach Jockey Hollow.
Such good news, but all I can think is that Mazie and I must hurry, hurry home!
January 10, 1780, Monday
Home again, in our hut. Miss Lulu near collapsed with relief when Mazie and I came through the door. As Mama hugged me, my eyes searched the small room. I did not see my brother.
“Johnny?” My voice was hoarse. I have a cold now as well.
Mama pointed to a mound of blankets in the corner. My heart stopped for a moment, truly it did.
Before I could cry out, the blanket moved. My brother’s face smiled up at me. He had been playing hide-and-seek with Sally.
“Johnny boy!” I cried, swooping him up into my arms.
“Last night his fever left,” Mama said. “Keeping his little feet warm was the best thing we did, Abby.”
I told Miss Lulu what happened at Headquarters.
> Her brown eyes looked sad. “I ‘spect you folks know me and Mazie got no man here. My husband drowned in a river when we was on the run, been some months now.”
“Where did you come from?” Sally blurted before we could offer our condolences.
“From a place we ain’t never going back to.”
January 12, 1780, Wednesday
Now that some of the roads have been cleared, farmers are driving sleds of hay and provisions into Jockey Hollow, as well as cattle for slaughter. These kind neighbours are trusting the Army to pay them, but there is no money, not even for soldiers’ wages. Many are deserting.
“Our Continental dollar is a worthless piece of paper,” Papa told us this morning when we brought a pail of hot coffee. The men held out their cups, thanking us as we went around with our ladle.
Papa explained, “Almost daily, a starving fellow walks out of this camp, headed for home where he shall have the comfort of bed and bread. That is, if he doesn’t freeze to death on the way.”
An odd sight this afternoon: As the cattle were coming into pens at the edge of camp, horses were going out. General Washington is sending the draft animals to different farms about the countryside, where feed is available.
It is a gamble. If they stay here, they will starve and die, but if the British attack, we are doomed. General Knox would need his artillery horses to pull the cannons, to form a line of defense. Cows would be no help at all. They are slow and do not obey orders.
January 18, 1780, Tuesday
My cold is somewhat better. At noon I stepped outside to ease myself. The captain who had questioned Mazie was walking among the women’s huts. My heart dropped. I hurried inside.
“Miss Lulu,” I cried. “He’s coming, that man we told you about. What if he makes you leave camp?”
She was holding Johnny on her hip. She put him down by the fire with Sally, then patted my shoulder. “Things gonna be jess fine, Abigail.”
A light snow was falling when the captain came to our door. While he questioned Miss Lulu, I scarce could breathe. Mama and Mrs. Campbell were quiet.
“Madam,” he said to her. “The name of your husband.”
“I call him Han’some. He don’t like his real name.”
“And what would that be?”
“You got to ask him yourself.”
The officer narrowed his eyes. “Then come with me.”
Miss Lulu buttoned her cloak and took Mazie’s hand. I followed them to the Pennsylvania Brigade where the men were now building officers’ quarters. I saw Willie and Thomas hauling a tree from the woods; Papa and Mr. Campbell were chopping branches off another. The forest that had been so dense is becoming a field of stumps.
The captain went up to a Negro hefting a log onto a roof.
“Morning, sir,” the man said, saluting the officer when his hands were free.
I recognized him from the wounded at Stony Point. We had given him water. He told us his name was Victor and that he was without a family. Now here he was, meeting Miss Lulu for the first time.
I was afraid for my friends.
Falling snow was clinging to our clothes and covering our trail of footprints. Wind had begun stirring in the few trees that remained. The captain fumed. “I do not have all day, people. Another storm is coming. I ask you, what is your relation?”
At this, Victor’s dark face broke into a slow smile. He did not answer the officer, but said, “Mazie, honey, I hoped you was bringin’ some of Mammy’s good biscuits but your hands are empty, I see.”
“We got no flour yet, Pappy.”
Miss Lulu walked over to Victor. She was only as tall as his shoulder. She looked up at him with curiosity. Then she touched the sleeve of his coat where his elbow showed through. “I sew’d this last week, Han’some. Now I gots to do it all over again.”
“You’re a good woman, Miz Lulu.”
“I know that.” Her cheeks creased with a smile.
I was without words! How had Victor learned their names? And how did he know this captain was going to question him?
Evening, still Tuesday
We are close to the fire, trying to stay warm. We do not have a clock. It feels late because it has been dark for hours. As I write these words, the younger ones are asleep and I am eavesdropping on the lady talk!
It seems that some days ago Mama and Mrs. Campbell searched for Victor. They knew he did not have a wife. They were cautious when telling him about Tilda and her daughter, Philomena. But when they saw his gentleness and that he became concerned for our friends, Mama asked for his help. The good man agreed. All was arranged.
Now the fire is low, the lady talk has become whispers. In the dim light, I can see their tired faces. All evening they have been knitting scarves for the soldiers, from strips of rags. Mama is slow because of her swollen fingers, but she keeps at it. Suddenly she smiled.
“Lulu,” she said, “now that you have met Victor, what think you?”
Miss Lulu took her time answering. She watched a log crumble into the coals then poked it with her knitting needle to rouse a flame. “Well,” she said, “what I think is this: Soon as this storm lets up, I’m gonna start taking that han’some man his coffee.”
February 4, 1780, Friday
I am only thirteen, but this is the cruelest weather of my whole life. There is one storm after another. The huts are nearly buried in snow. The cold makes me want to stay in all day. But this morning when a messenger came with news, we went outside to listen.
He stood on a tree stump so he could be heard, his breath making a cloud of frost. “’Tis the worst winter in a century,” he said. “New York Harbor is frozen solid. The Redcoats can walk from island to island on ice eight feet thick. Last week the moon was bright enough for them to march across the Hudson over to New Jersey. They captured two of our fine towns, Newark and Elizabeth.”
The messenger then talked about the Indians from last summer. There was no emotion in his voice. “Those Iroquois shall bother us no longer. Many who fled to Fort Niagara have starved and frozen to death.”
I thought of the children. Did they have blackened feet like Johnny, but were unable to get warm? When I imagine their suffering, my heart hurts.
Shelves in the commissary are now empty. All the supplies that the villagers brought were used up within days. The few cows left shall not begin to feed thousands of soldiers. Papa is nervous.
“The men are talking mutiny,” he told us. “No food. No warm clothes. No wages for us to purchase any of these things from the village. How does Congress expect our Army to be strong?”
My mother pleaded with him. “Do not let them, Edward, please. Mutineers are hanged or shot, you know that.”
Papa went on. “Dear woman, there are two enemies that will destroy our Army: winter and starvation. We must do something.”
February 14, 1780, Monday
Blue sky! This morning Sally and I hiked to Headquarters while the sun was shining. The cold was fierce. To keep warm, we swung our arms and walked as fast as we could without slipping. Our purpose was to deliver a note from Mama to Lady Washington.
Mama let Sally dribble wax from our candle onto the letter, to seal it.
Oney led us upstairs to a parlour. It was much the same as Headquarters in Valley Forge, crowded with officers’ wives chatting and knitting socks for soldiers. The elegance and the colors of their dresses were beautiful to see. Suddenly I was aware of my unkempt appearance and Sally’s. Our sleeves and aprons are no longer white, but are gray and stained. Rags hold our shoes together. We have not bathed in months.
How I hated the war right then and wanted a pretty gown! Embarrassed, I stayed in the hallway but Lady Washington had already noticed us.
“Abby, Sally, how nice to see you girls. Come, please.” When she waved us into the room I noticed her dress was different than the other ladies’. It was plain and brown, no lace or layers of petticoats. Her mobcap framed her face without any frills. In an odd way, her simple a
ttire made me feel a bit better about my own.
We gave her Mama’s letter. She broke the seal then leaned toward the light of the window to read. I do not know what Mama wrote.
“Lady Washington, are you staying here all winter?” Sally asked. “The cold is most dreadful. You could lose your feet, ma’am!”
Mrs. Washington laughed. “Yes dear, ’tis cold indeed. Even my son, Jacky, urges me to return to Mount Vernon, where ’tis somewhat warmer and my grandchildren miss me. But ’tis the fifth year of this war and the Old Man needs me at his side more than ever. Now girls, please hurry back to your mother lest another storm catch you. I apologize, but we have no sweets for you today.”
When Sally and I curtsied good-bye, I noticed that our ragged hems no longer touch the floor. We have grown taller over these long months!
After supper, still Monday
I am thinking about this morning at Headquarters. Sally and I took our time going down the stairs for there were angry voices. We wanted to listen. Villagers were lined up in the hallways, waiting to see General Washington.
“Your men stole the honey from my beehive. I want payment now!”
“Our fence is missing. Find your own firewood.”
“We saw soldiers running from the barn with our shovels and axes.”
“Our chickens and hogs are gone.”
Sally and I hurried out the front door, holding hands as we ran home. Without speaking, we knew what was happening. Same as in Valley Forge. The Army is looting the countryside.
March 15, 1780, Wednesday
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