As I write this upstairs, my candle low and our room cold, I think I shall never again complain. For many hours we watched the soldiers march single file into our valley. Hundreds and hundreds were barefoot, the icy mud cutting their feet. Some had rags wrapped around their legs because they had no trousers … no trousers, imagine! Mama cried to see their misery. Without thinking, I ran up to a boy—he seemed to be Elisabeth’s age—whose arms were bare. I threw my cloak over his shoulders and the look of relief in his eyes is something I shall never forget.
Sally gave her mittens, and Papa wrapped his scarf around the neck of one poor boy playing a fife. As the soldiers passed I saw other families had done the same — if the Quakers had, I know not — but I recognized Mrs. Potter’s cloak, her blue one with red trim, and someone had draped a shawl over a small drummer boy. So many were coughing and had runny noses. Elisabeth said, “Can we not please bring some of them in to warm by our fire?”
When we saw the horseman riding back and forth among the men we knew him to be the Commander in Chief, George Washington. His cape fell below his saddle and his tricorn was white from snow. I shall remember him always. He called continually to his soldiers, words of encouragement, and he had a most dignified bearing.
Now as I look down from my window, I see their campfires among the trees, hundreds of tiny lights flickering through Valley Forge. The wind is howling and blowing snow. Those poor men, how shall they sleep in such cold with no shelter?
December 20, 1777, Saturday
It snowed last night.
Sally and I ran and slipped back and forth from the house to the barn to make a path. The snow is almost to my knees. In the barn while Papa milked, I plaited Brownie’s tail so it would not swish into Papa’s face. I asked Papa why so many soldiers have no shoes and why their clothes are tattered.
“They’ve been marching for several months, Abigail,” he said. “Until the Redcoats return to England our Army shall have no rest.”
Since I no longer have my cloak, I wrap myself in a blanket to go outside. Papa took us in the wagon to look across the valley. Some tents were up and there were smoky fires where men huddled. Paths between the tents were streaked red.
Bath night for all, even Johnny. Mama dipped him in the warm water and he let out a wail.
December 21, 1777 Sunday
Church. Mama stayed home to keep Johnny warm. It was dark and snowy out. We passed General Washington’s large tent — a marquee, Papa called it. It was pitched under the bare branches of a black gum tree. We were surprised to hear a wonderful chorus of men singing a hymn.
Late afternoon, two officers came to our door and handed Papa a note. It was dated yesterday and signed “G. Washington.” Papa read it, folded the paper carefully, and put it in his vest pocket. “I shall do what I can, Lieutenant.”
When the men climbed into their saddles, Papa closed the door against the cold and turned to us. “The Commander in Chief needs our help,” he said. “He is telling those who live within seventy miles of his Headquarters to thresh one half of our grain by the first day of February and the other half by the first day of March.”
Papa looked into the fire, his hand on the mantel. “If we shant obey, the Army quartermaster will seize what we have and pay us only the value of straw, not grain.”
December 22, 1777, Monday
Johnny is three weeks old. He is still so tiny the leggings I knit him must be pinned to his shirt so they won’t slip off.
Tom Fitzgerald and one of his younger brothers came over. Their mother is in bed with fever. While Mama prepared a basket of ham slices, bread, and cranberries, I gave Tom a hateful stare. His hands were dirty with soot and mud and he wiped his nose with his fingers.
I said to him, “Our cow and five pigs do smell better than thee.” Mama turned to me.
“Abigail Stewart,” was all she said.
She sent me upstairs for the afternoon, no candle. I held my ink jug to the chimney so the ink would melt and finally I am able to write. There is dim light coming through the window, and though there is snow blowing I can see blurred groups of soldiers. They are in the woods, cutting trees. They are chanting something, but their words are lost in the wind.
At the floor where I’m kneeling, I can see through a crack down to the kitchen. Mama is at the kettle with Johnny in her arm, and Papa is hanging his coat. “The soldiers are building huts,” he said. “Their mules are sick so the men themselves are dragging the logs with harnesses.”
“What is it they’re saying over and over?” asked Mama.
Papa put a log on the fire. He said, “They are crying ‘No meat, no meat.’ Sarah, our soldiers are starving. Tomorrow, I shall take General Washington some of our grain — two sacks.”
December 23, 1777, Tuesday
Mrs. Hewes’ nephew brought her over after breakfast to check Sally’s burn. “It is scabbing nicely,” she said.
I love her visits because she bears such interesting news: General Washington himself came to see her! He wants to rent her house to use as headquarters, because it is close to the main crossroads and is at the junction of Valley Creek and the Schuylkill River. He will pay 100 pounds in Pennsylvania currency. Quite a sum!
So now Mrs. Hewes will move in with the family of her brother-in-law, Colonel William DeWees. “General Washington was extremely polite,” she told Mama. “I said I needed a few extra days to pack, but he said he shant mind waiting a week if that’s what I needed, being a widow and all. My, what a gentleman, and here we are in the middle of a war with England.”
But the General gave her grim news as well: Nearly 3,000 soldiers are unfit for duty because they lack shoes and clothing. Papa explained that means one man in four. They are starving because all they have to eat is firecake, a soggy mess of flour and water; there is not even any salt to cheer them up.
Our poor Army!
December 24, 1777, Wednesday
Christmas Eve. Cold, snowing.
Elisabeth and I made the Egg Nog to set aside for tomorrow’s dinner. Mama said it’s about time someone in our family wrote down the recipe, so here it is:
One quart milk, one quart cream, one dozen eggs, 12 tablespoons sugar, one pint brandy, half-pint rye whiskey, quarter-pint rum, quarter-pint sherry. Mix. Store by cool window or in cellar.
Mama baked pies — three mince, four pumpkin, four apple. I whipped cream and eggs for custard. When Mama wasn’t looking I licked the spoon, and as I swallowed the delicious sweetness I remembered the soldiers. Were we bad to have so much food when they have so little?
Papa took the wagon to help Mrs. Hewes move her trunks to the DeWeeses’ house. Elisabeth and I and the three Potter girls stayed behind to clean the stairs and floors and the brass kettle that hangs from a crane in the fireplace. While we trimmed candles for the lamps, a Negro arrived with a small leather trunk. He took off his tricorn, bowed, then introduced himself as Billy Lee, Mr. George Washington’s personal servant. He said, “Thank yous so much, kind ladies.”
By one o’clock the General and nine more servants had moved in. They shall be warmer now. It is a fine stone house with a view of the river and a large separate kitchen off the entry. Its root cellar is deep and well-stocked.
It’s hard to believe, but already there are huts with smoke drifting out of chimneys. Billy Lee told us the General would not move into a house until his men were sheltered in either tents or cabins.
December 25, 1777, Thursday
Christmas Day.
We could not open the front door because wind had blown snow two feet high. Papa poked a stick out and gradually worked an opening wide enough for him to step out. We measured four new inches along the fence rail.
The Potter family arrived by sleigh, with Mr. and Mrs. Adams and their little boy, who is learning to walk. It was quite a crowd around our table, and loud. Mama roasted four fat geese and two ducks. I found myself with a stomachache from Egg Nog, and feeling sleepy. We opened gifts in front of the fire. W
hen Sally saw the doll I’d made her, she hugged it tight and would not share with the other girls.
(I do not like the scarf Elisabeth knit me — it is brown and itches my neck.)
Johnny was very quiet in his cradle all day.
Reverend Currie was in time for Papa’s fiddle and Mr. Adams’s tin whistle. The children made so much noise with spoons-on-the-bench (I was serving up pie) that Mama laughed about her Christmas Headache. Before prayers Reverend Currie told us a Negro soldier died in his tent this morning. He was from Guilford, Connecticut, and belonged to one of the captains.
December 26, 1777, Friday
More snow.
Elisabeth spent the day sewing her Bounty Coat. I’ve decided to make a hunting shirt for one of the drummer boys, I know not who. It shall be safe to embroider my name because they are too young to marry and too young to care.
My thimble fell from my hand and rolled into the fireplace. Sally was quick with the long spoon and scooped it out of the ashes for me.
Papa came in with ice in his hair and beard, but smiling. He said the soldiers — there are at least 12,000 — were served a Christmas dinner yesterday of roast fowl, turnips, and cabbage, plus a swig of rum each. Because Papa is a cobbler, he rode to camp to offer his help. There are soldiers from all thirteen colonies, he said, and all of them need clothes and food; many, many have no shoes or socks.
December 28, 1777, Sunday
It was so cold in church I was grateful Papa brought the tin foot-stove to put under our blankets. I do wish it was proper to build fireplaces in a house of worship.
The snow was blowing so thick we could see our way home only from the dark fence posts.
Bread and sausage for dinner.
December 29, 1777, Monday
Papa took us to the edge of the encampment. Rows of huts make it look like a village. No children are allowed, but I saw some playing near the tents.
“There are nearly 300 women,” Papa said. “Some are wives with children, some are sweethearts. But some just like the excitement. Those are women” — Papa could hardly say these words — “of poor reputation.”
December 30, 1777, Tuesday
We cannot see out our windows for the ice. It was too windy to go out, so we stayed busy near the fire all day.
Papa is tanning a hide from a neighbour’s cow, to make shoes, though he was criticized for helping the Army. Quakers call themselves the Religious Society of Friends, but they will not be friends with General Washington. I understand not why their religion won’t let them have anything to do with war.
So far the only families we know who will share their grain with the soldiers are the Walkers, Potters, and Adamses. Mr. Smith will not share any of his wagons — he has eight! — because he does not want the wheels to wear out.
I miss the girls at school (not Miss Molly) and I wish I could talk to Ruth. She has a new baby brother, too, and her older sisters are sewing Bounty Coats, like Elisabeth.
December 31, 1777, Wednesday
The Schuylkill is frozen solid. Several of us slid across with snow up to our knees. We went on purpose to the bend near headquarters hoping to see some soldiers up close. In some places the river is as clear as a window and I looked down to see fish, slow and silent.
Elisabeth and I wandered into the woods to gather pinecones for kindling. As we were filling our aprons we heard a voice. We stopped to listen. Ahead, at the edge of a clearing, was a gray horse with a fine saddle on its back. There beside it was an officer kneeling in the snow, his head bowed, his hands folded in prayer. His breath made frost in the cold air.
Elisabeth whispered, “That doth look like General Washington.”
“Yes,” I said. It was the same man we’d seen on the road the day the soldiers marched into Valley Forge.
Not wanting to disturb him, we crept away. I felt safer knowing the Commander in Chief of our Army was a man of prayer.
We returned to the ice and to the noise of children playing. When the Fitzgerald boys showed up with slingshots, I took Sally and left with our pinecones. I am unable to be polite when I see them, Tom especially. He threw icicles like little spears at us as we ran. He is a wretched boy.
After supper Billy Lee came to the house. He stood by the door holding his hat, just long enough to tell us Mr. Washington needs to hire a laundress. He will pay forty shillings a month.
January 1, 1778, Thursday
Mama asked me to deliver her letter to Mr. Washington first thing this morning. It was a twenty-minute walk and by the time I arrived the tops of my shoes had filled with snow and I was shivering. While I waited inside by the kitchen step I felt grateful to Elisabeth because she let me wear her cloak. I’ve decided I like her scarf. I’m sorry I hated it at first and am relieved I didn’t tell her so.
The parlour looks different with Mrs. Hewes’ cozy things gone. Tables and chairs are arranged in odd places and there are several inkwells with pens (they look to be crow feathers). Green felt tablecloths reach to the bare floor. There is one plaited rug by the hearth where a cat was sleeping. I counted six men in uniform, officers it seemed by their buttons and such, and not one paid me any notice.
Billy Lee came down the stairs and nodded to me.
“Mr. Wash’ton accepts your mother’s kind offer. Can you come by this afternoon before one o’clock?”
“Yes,” I said.
Now it is past bedtime and I have never felt so tired. Elisabeth is asleep, so is Sally. At noon Papa took us in the little sleigh to pick up two canvas sacks of laundry. We hauled water until my knees bled from the bucket banging them. The big kettle boiled for hours. (We used potato juice for starch.) Mama, Elisabeth, Sally, and I dipped with poles, scrubbed, dipped, then wrung everything out. My hands are raw from lye.
Papa strung rope from pegs across the kitchen and main room, even along the stairway where the heat stays. There are so many shirts, stockings, trousers, and (I try to stare not) private underthings hanging overhead, it feels as if we are in a forest.
Fried beef, ham, and cold apple pie for supper. Tomorrow we shall be able to cook in our kettle again.
Monday is wash day, so we’ll do everything over plus Johnny’s nappies and our own family’s laundry.
Am too tired and too cold to tell more.
January 2, 1778, Friday
At sunrise the mercury said six degrees above zero.
We walked the cold mile to school, but were turned away because it is now a hospital! I tried to peer in.
“Small pox, Miss,” the soldier told me. “Now go home, all of ye.”
The boys made a carnival out of snowballs and rocks, but the girls and I hurried with Sally to the road. Ruth is cross the army can take over our little schoolhouse whether we like it or not. (I like it, but did not say.) She stomped all the way home.
About yesterday, New Year’s Day:
Ten teams of oxen arrived in camp to much noise and surprise. They had come from Philadelphia and were driven by women. The wagons were filled with supplies and 2,000 shirts that had been sewn by patriot ladies. Elisabeth said they were Bounty Shirts, but I know not.
The oxen were slaughtered and cooked — their stomach parts were boiled with pepper to make Pepperpot Soup. (Mama calls this tripe, but I call it nasty.) We saw soldiers standing over the fires, using their bayonets as roasting spits. The carcasses are at the edge of camp, and some of the wagons are being broken apart for firewood.
Sally asked Papa, “How shall the women drivers get back to Philadelphia without oxen and without wagons?”
Papa glanced at Mama, then he said, “I know not.”
January 3, 1778, Saturday
At six o’clock this morning we were awakened by the sound of drums and fifes. Papa and I hurried out in the blowing snow to see if there was a battle. Other families met us in the road. We expected to see guns ready, but instead saw rows of soldiers, all at attention, at the edge of a snowfield. In front were officers on horseback with the drummer boys an
d fifers.
In the center one horse was being led out of camp. A man without a saddle was sitting backwards so that he faced the soldiers and General Washington. His coat was turned inside out, his hands were tied behind his back, and he hung his head in shame.
I leaned into Papa’s arms for warmth. He told me, “That soldier is being drummed out of the Army.”
At supper Mr. Walker stopped in and told us the man stole two hundred dollars from an officer and now his crime and punishment will be published in all the newspapers.
Baths. This week it was my turn to go first.
January 4, 1778, Sunday
A terrible day. On our way home from church we saw a bare oak tree where soldiers were gathered. A hanging had just taken place and the body of the poor man was swinging in the wind. The talk we heard along the road was that he had deserted and been caught running across the iced river. I hate the Army. I wish they’d go home. Sally cried and cried at the sight.
It snowed all day.
January 5, 1778, Monday
Snowed another six inches.
Papa was using the sleigh to haul a dead horse out of camp. (The hide will make some shoes.) This is why Elisabeth and I walked to Headquarters and carried back the laundry. It was so cold, not until we’d been by Mama’s fire and kettle for nearly an hour did we finally warm up.
I still have not met General Washington, although I saw the heel of his boot as he rounded up the stairway.
January 6, 1778, Tuesday
Elisabeth and I returned the General’s laundry this morning, pressed and folded. There was much busyness. Billy Lee noticed us finally and smiled, taking the bags into his arms and turning for the stairs.
Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 2