Cannons at Dawn

by Kristiana Gregory

Before bed. For the briefest of moments tonight, we stood outside in the frozen darkness to watch the sky. Colors were rolling across the heavens in waves of purple, green, and red, reflecting off the snow. Somehow I felt comforted by this magical sight.

  “’Tis the aurora borealis,” explained Mrs. Campbell, who held Johnny warm inside her cloak.

  “I like it!” He pointed. “See? See?”

  Miss Lulu replied, “Yes, lil’ Johnny, we see. Looks like angels be dancing. Beautiful angels.”

  April 17, 1780, Monday

  This morning a soldier in a trim blue coat came to our door. I feared he was coming to take away Miss Lulu, or that he had bad news about Papa.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Stewart,” he said, removing his tricorn.

  “Yes?” Mama answered. “Is everything all right?” Her voice was shaky. We crowded around her.

  He handed her a canvas sack. “Ma’am, this is from Lady Washington, for your daughters. She sends her fond regards, and invites you to tea on the morrow, if there be no storm. Three o’clock.”

  “Sir,” Mama said. “I thank thee.” We stared out the door as the soldier returned to the snowy path. Then she opened the sack.

  “My word.” She pulled out two pairs of ladies’ shoes in soft brown leather. There were worn spots on the soles, but they were in good shape.

  Sally shrieked with surprise. “Mazie, you and I can share this smaller pair. Oh Mother, thank you!”

  “What do you mean, Daughter?”

  “Your note to Mrs. Washington. Did you ask her for shoes for us?”

  “Sally Stewart, I did no such thing.” Mama gave us a serious look. “Did you girls complain about the rags on your feet?”

  “No!” my sister and I cried at once.

  “Mother, we would never do that,” I assured her. “There are children in camp who need clothes. Maybe Lady Washington is helping them as well.”

  “And inviting their mothers to tea?” asked Mrs. Campbell.

  We were quiet.

  Finally I said, “Mama, what did you write to Mrs. Washington?”

  She smoothed her threadbare apron over her skirt, then looked at her hands. They were red and chapped. “I cannot go to tea like this. I have not a proper thing to wear. I need a bath and a brush. Abigail dear, in my letter I reminded Lady Washington that I am praying for her and the General, and praying for all the Army. That is all. I did not ask for shoes.”

  April 18, 1780, Tuesday

  Snow and wind have been battering our hut all day. Mama shall not be going to tea at Headquarters.

  Mazie and Sally have invented a dance to entertain us. First they sing and wave their arms then they twirl in their skirts. The finale is a little kick while pointing their toes. We all clapped at the sight of their new shoes, which are quite stylish with a small heel and buckle.

  I often think about the elegant ball in Philadelphia. All the ladies danced in shoes like these, barely seen from under the swirl of their gowns.

  I was most happy to give my pair to Mazie.

  April 26, 1780, Wednesday

  I am sitting on a stump on the sunny side of our hut. The air is still cold, but the drifts are melting a bit each day, and at long last the creeks have come alive. We are thrilled to drink water without having to first melt snow.

  Finally winter is over. I lost count of the blizzards. Someone said 26. Soldiers who froze to death are few, though some died of pneumonia and infection from frostbite. Once again I thank God for sparing my little brother.

  Johnny is full of mischief. For the past week I have been without a quill because he played with mine. He pretended it was a sword and swished it against the walls until the stem broke.

  But at this moment, I am able to write because of Willie. This morning after breakfast he surprised me with a cedar writing box. Inside were two goose quills, several packets of ink powder, and a sheaf of paper.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked. “The commissary has been empty.”

  “I did not steal, Abby, I swear to you. One of our messmates did. The fellow would not say where he got these things, so I bought it all from him.”

  “Then you and Papa have finally received your wages?”

  “No. I made a trade. Gave him my hat.”

  “But your head will be cold, Willie.”

  He smiled at me then nodded to our row of huts where icicles are melting. “Spring is almost here, Abby. I shall get another hat.”

  I am touched by Willie’s gift. Now I shall try to find him a new tricorn. Sometimes we see them in the road or woods, where soldiers have dropped them.

  April 28, 1780, Friday

  Birthdays. Sally and Mazie turned nine last month, and I am now fourteen.

  Yesterday, a girl in camp named Esther married one of the soldiers. It was a quick wedding with no cake or cider, but they both looked happy. Then she returned to her chores of laundry, which I was doing as well. As she and I hung blankets to dry, I asked her age.

  “Fourteen,” she replied. Esther then told me that until the war is over she shall live with her mother, and her husband shall stay with his brigade.

  This makes me think of my newlywed sister. We have received no letter from Elisabeth, so we do not know if she has safely delivered her baby.

  On the subject of babies, Liberty — who was born before we left West Point—is now five months old. We saw her Mama carrying her through camp in a sling across her chest. Then last night, a lady in a hut near ours had twin boys. I would not be surprised if more babies arrive this summer. By this I mean, several women who are thin like everyone else have big, round bellies.

  It is odd, but I am more patient these days, even around crying children. I have not yelled at Sally in a while, nor have I stomped my foot when frustrated (though I should like to do so many times over!). Esther is a good influence on me. I like being friends with a married girl my age.

  An express rider came through camp this afternoon. His poor horse was covered with clay as the roads are a river of sticky mud. General Washington nearly wept with delight and relief upon hearing the news: His friend Lafayette has arrived safely in Boston! He came aboard a fast frigate by the King’s favor, and the French fleet is near our shores.

  This journey to France and back took Lafayette one full year and three months.

  Another day

  From the new paper Willie gave me, I made four little books. With a nail and a rock, I hammered holes along one side, wove a thin leather strap through the holes, then tied a knot. This fastened the pages together. Now my young students — Sally, Mazie, Anna, and Robert — each have a journal for their lessons. And we have two quills between us, so when one child is writing words, the other is reading.

  I’m not a good teacher. I do not know how to make Robert behave. When I ask him to please stop poking his sister, he does, but only for a moment. Soon he is wiggling again and making rude noises with his mouth. Anna and Mazie pay attention to their lessons, but Sally keeps sighing as if she is exhausted. She wants to run outside and play. I myself want to run outside.

  But Mrs. Campbell and Mama say that being at war is no excuse for not learning. Thus, I keep trying to teach what little I know. The children are writing stories.

  Mazie read hers aloud. It went like this: “Mammy and Victor sit by the fire and talk. They are friends.”

  Anna’s story was about her baby sister: “Betsy knows how to walk now. She likes the creek. I catch her before she falls in.”

  Robert wrote: “The drums are loud. The guns are louder. The cannons are loudest.”

  This was Sally’s story: “I like dogs. I want to play with one.”

  May 10, 1780, Wednesday

  The rolling hills around Jockey Hollow are green with patches of wildflowers. Yesterday after our lessons, the girls and I put away our journals then dashed out of the hut. Robert came, too. We ran through fields, over a creek, and up a slope. We just felt like running! When we reached Headquarters, we heard a commoti
on coming along the road. Horsemen and soldiers were cheering.

  “Lafayette!” came the shouts. “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  We each jumped upon a tree stump, hoping to see him. But we glimpsed only the back of his light blue coat as he went into Headquarters.

  This evening around the fire, we learned Lafayette has a terrible cold. Lady Washington has confined him upstairs, to a guest room across the hall from hers. She is fussing and caring for him. He is near the age of her son, Jacky.

  May 19, 1780, Friday

  An eerie darkness has fallen upon Jockey Hollow. It is almost noon and I am sitting outside on a rock, a candle by my side so I can see these words. People are walking among the huts with lanterns as if it is midnight, but we have not even had our noon meal.

  There are no clouds in the sky. No stars or moon. No sun. Just an inky blackness. We cannot do chores except to cook over our fire. I must go help Mama.

  Next day

  At dawn this morning, shouts echoed through Jockey Hollow. The sun was rising! It had not disappeared forever as many of us had worried.

  May 1780 — not sure of the date

  There has been some bad news:

  Some weeks ago, the British seized Charleston, South Carolina. The Americans were forced to surrender to Generals Clinton and Cornwallis. All our equipment, cannons, and ships anchored there were lost to the enemy.

  “’Tis one of our worst defeats of this war,” Papa told us. “We are losing the South.”

  At the time, the French were still sailing across the Atlantic. They were too far away to help.

  We have also learned that the darkness on May 19 happened throughout New England. During that long day, villagers worked by candlelight while their hens roosted and the whip-poor-wills sang their night serenades. No one can explain this strange event.

  June 5, 1780, Monday

  British and Hessian soldiers, many thousands of them, are marching through the American colonies like droves of ants. They are taking over!

  In New Jersey they are burning homes and have ruined the village of Springfield. They shot cows, leaving them to rot, and then they murdered a minister’s wife. A young Patriot named Jacob Ford was wounded there. He is the eldest son of Mrs. Ford, whose mansion sheltered Mazie and me during that blizzard. The other day when I was near Headquarters, a wagon carrying Jacob arrived. Mrs. Ford rushed out, calling his name. His uniform was bloody. As the men carried him inside I could see that he was just a boy, barely old enough to fire his own musket.

  General Washington has ordered the Army to be ready to march at any moment. We know not where. Lady Washington and the officers’ wives are packing, and so are we. We have been in Jockey Hollow for six months.

  After Papa and Willie readied their gear, they came to say good-bye, with Thomas and Victor. It’s so sudden! We shall be following them with the baggage, but they might end up wounded. I am nervous! I worry also for Thomas and the other boys who play music for the marching soldiers.

  When Victor and Miss Lulu walked to the creek for a private moment, Willie came over to me. He still has no hat to shade his face. “We’ll be cooking on our own while on the march, but I shall look for you, Abby. I’ll miss your soup that tastes like a shirt.”

  “And I shall miss your compliments, Willie.”

  Johnny wears his own tricorn that Mrs. Campbell sewed for him. When he saluted Papa and the others, he was such a brave little fellow I swallowed hard not to cry.

  After a three-day march

  I hate the Army. I hate this war.

  After starting our cooking fire, I went for a walk with my friend Esther. She wanted to find her husband and I hoped to see Willie. When we came around a bend in the road there was a small hill with a tree. A dead soldier was hanging from a high limb. His hat and one of his shoes had fallen to the dirt.

  When we recognized the purple face, we clung to each other. It was a horrible sight. We had seen him among the Pennsylvania troops.

  “What did he do?” Esther cried.

  I remembered Valley Forge. “Mutiny?” I wondered aloud. “Or perhaps he stole from an officer?”

  Just then two dragoons rode by on horseback, tall in their saddles. Their sabers shone in the sunlight.

  “He was a spy,” one of the men volunteered. “Our Army is infested with them. They pretend to be Patriots, but then they report to the British. Careful who you talk to, girls.”

  I glanced at the fallen tricorn and decided not to pick it up. It was not worthy of Willie Campbell.

  July 15, 1780, Saturday

  Yesterday a woman next to us collapsed while scrubbing clothes at the riverbank. Her face and neck were so sunburned, we carried her into the shade. She came to when we cooled her off with wet rags, but an hour later she stopped breathing. There was naught we could do to save her.

  It wrenched my heart to hear the wailing of her three young daughters. Their Papa came from his brigade to comfort them. He has asked another family to please care for them until he can be discharged.

  Now we are more careful in this heat. Most of us have woven straw hats to shade our faces, and we drink water whenever we can to keep from fainting. I worry about Willie and the other soldiers being out in the sun all day.

  I do love summer, though. When it doesn’t rain we sleep outside to watch the stars. During the day we can bathe ourselves in the creeks and our laundry dries fast in the hot sun. Mosquitoes are torture, but I will gladly suffer them any day over a blizzard.

  July 19, 1780, Wednesday

  This morning, messengers brought good news:

  The French have finally arrived in Rhode Island! Their many ships are crowding the bay of Newport. The soldiers — someone said there are 5,000 — are well-fed and wearing clean white uniforms with snappy hats. They set up tents on one of the islands that the enemy had just evacuated. Now General Washington is relaying messages to their commander, Count de Rochambeau. They have translators.

  All pray they will help rid our country of the Redcoats.

  On one of our walks, Esther and I discovered an orchard with apples and walnuts. The farmhouse had burned down, only the chimney stood. With charcoal, someone had written on the stones, “Death to Tories! All Loyalists go back to England!”

  We found the remains of a porcelain doll in the ashes. I thought of Sally. In my mind I could see a little girl who lost her home then had to sail across the ocean without her doll.

  July 31, 1780, Monday

  New York, near West Point. We are camped with women from the Pennsylvania Brigade. Many are nurses for the men who are ill or wounded. All of us help with washing, mending, and cooking.

  We abandoned our heavy iron kettles in Jockey Hollow and now use ones made of tin, issued to us by the quartermaster. They are much lighter to carry. Our washtubs also are tin. Now with one pot for cooking and one for laundry, I hope our soup tastes better!

  This month four babies were born. None have died yet. I think hot weather is easier for the little ones to bear than the winter cold. Still no letter from Elisabeth. Mama is beginning to worry.

  Rations are so scarce the regiments have been going out in small detachments, to hunt and to find food in the countryside. Some farmers are glad to share, but most are tired of this war — now six long years — and they demand payment. Our soldiers have no money. If no one is at home, they walk into barns and pantries, taking what they can to keep from starving. They grab shirts hanging from hooks and shoes placed under beds, to replace their ragged uniforms.

  Yesterday Papa told us he and Victor found a rooster on a fence. They trapped it, wrung its neck, and plucked its feathers. Then they walked into the nearest farmhouse without knocking on the door, praying that it was not the home of Tories.

  “Please may we use your fire?” Victor asked the lady. When she nodded, they put the rooster on a spit and sat by the flames until it had cooked. They were so starved they ate it right then, the sizzling hot fat burning their tongues and lips.

&n
bsp; “Forgive us, madam,” Papa said. “We have nothing to pay for your kindness.” To their surprise, she gave them two live hens in a sack.

  “Hurry away from here,” she told them, “before my husband returns from the village.”

  Last night Miss Lulu made a delicious soup from those chickens, with walnuts and dandelions.

  When the men come into camp, they tell stories similar to Papa’s. Everyone is hungry all the time. The Army is desperate for supplies. General Washington has ordered the Army to stop raiding the countryside, but he is not punishing anyone who does.

  Mama has lines in her face I had not noticed before. I wonder if I look weary as well. Knowing that Papa and Willie are stealing to survive pains us greatly.

  “Why stay you in this wretched Army?” we asked.

  “Freedom is coming,” Papa answered.

  Willie agreed. “Abby, we want a future without tyranny.”

  August 4, 1780, Friday

  Rain. Our tent leaks. I did not sleep last night for the mud oozing under my back. This morning when Willie saw that I was shivering, he brought his blanket to warm me.

  I felt a little shy with his arm around me, but did not squirm away. “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, Abby. The days don’t seem so long when you’re beside me.”

  August 13, 1780, Sunday

  Church under the trees this morning. In the middle of a hymn, I realized Johnny was missing and so was his playmate, Betsy Ewing. She is the little sister of Anna and Robert. For half the day we searched in a panic. Finally we found them under a pine tree, sound asleep. They were hidden by the low branches. Such was their slumber in this heavy heat, they had not heard us screaming their names.