As we were leaving, a soldier came in from the snow with a rush of icy air. He looked not at us, but snapped his heels and saluted to an officer standing by the fire.
“At ease,” said the officer. “Spread word that small pox inoculations are to begin immediately, by order of our Commander in Chief.”
He explained there soon would be fifty hospitals throughout camp and the countryside. They had started with our little schoolhouse and were going to be taking over some of the barns and meeting houses.
“Abby,” said Elisabeth when we were on the path outside, “what if they taketh our church, what shall we do then?”
I know not. Every day there are more things to puzzle over.
January 7, 1778, Wednesday
I am feeling unwell. Papa came in with a hide that smelled so bad it made our eyes sting. He said General Washington has ordered his men to bury the dead horses instead of leaving them where they drop. (They are dying of starvation.) Papa shook his head. “The ground is frozen,” he said. “How they shall do this, I wonder. It is difficult enough to dig their necessaries.”
January 9, 1778, Friday
The past two days have been above freezing. Snow is melting into mud, making the roads a dreadful mess. Papa’s front wheel broke when he tried to haul hay to Potter’s. (Mr. Potter helped repair it.) When Papa was returning home he came across another deserter being hanged, a man from Virginia.
Colonel DeWees brought over a cloth full of gingerbread, baked by Mrs. Hewes. He sat down on our bench, to drink Mama’s raspberry tea (not English tea) and to complain about the soldiers. He discovered three of them in his barn, stealing hay and lumber. “How shall I feed my horses or mend my roof?” he said, his face in his hands.
January 11, 1778, Sunday
Thankfully our church has not yet been turned into a hospital. It is snowing again.
Johnny is almost six weeks old and has not been out of our warm house. I rock him and kiss his tiny fingers every chance I get. “Please, thou must live, Johnny,” I say.
Before dinner I was leaning into the hearth to pull out the corncakes when I looked over at him in his cradle. An amazing thing happened.
Johnny smiled at me.
January 12, 1778, Monday
Laundry. My hands are raw and peeling at the fingertips.
The last few times we’ve gone to Headquarters, General Washington has been sitting at a table writing letters. I’ve seen only the side of his face. He wears a pigtail with a black satin ribbon tied on the end. I do not think it’s a wig, but his hair is powdered.
January 13, 1778, Tuesday
Today when we returned the laundry, I was astounded to see only General Washington in the parlour, no other officers. I know not where Billy Lee was. The General was sharpening his quill with his penknife. He looked up at us and smiled. His face would have been handsome, I think, if it were not so badly scarred from the Pox.
“Thank you, Abigail. Thank you, Elisabeth,” he said. I curtsied, unable to speak. How did he know our names?
He looked at us with kind eyes — they’re gray-blue — then he returned to his pen and paper. Mrs. Hewes says Mr. Washington writes at least fifteen letters a day, mostly to Congress. He is pleading for food, clothing, and other supplies, she told us.
January 17, 1778, Saturday
It has snowed for seven days with only wind in between, no stars at night, no moon. I abandoned my journal because I’ve been ill. I cough until my ribs ache and have been unable to eat much more than broth. Sally said my neck is as thin as a chicken’s. I have not had a bath in two weeks.
Two of our pigs are missing. Papa said footprints in the snow were from soldiers. He knew this because of the blood.
January 19, 1778, Monday
Washday. I burned my hand on one of the irons. We keep two in the coals to heat, one in use. I was watching Sally sneak a lick from the molasses jug when I ran the iron off General Washington’s collar right over my left hand. It hurts but is only red, not blistered.
January 20, 1778, Tuesday
Sally came screaming that someone ruined her doll. She’d been playing in the barn and left it in the hay overnight, in a safe little house she made. We went to the barn. Someone had slept there and not cleaned up after their necessary. This same person stepped on Sally’s doll and tore the dress in half and one arm off.
I can sew it back on for her.
January 22, 1778, Thursday
My cough is better, though I feel weak. Stayed by the fire all day and made onion soup for supper. Mama has asked me to write down instructions — so here they are:
To the small pot I added four large onions (sliced), two quarts milk, two large scoops of butter, salt, and pepper. When it came to a boil I eased the pot to the side of the coals so it would cook slowly until the onions were soft. In my tea cup I beat one egg, spooned a bit of hot soup into it, beat it some more, then poured it back into the pot. Cooked it ten more minutes or so. This we ate with brown bread and baked apples.
Papa is worried soldiers will steal our hens, but the warmest place is in the barn, so we can do nothing to prevent them. He filled a crate with firewood ashes and carried it to the cellar. This is where we’re to hide the eggs, small end downwards. To keep them fresh we’re to turn them endways once a week.
January 23, 1778, Friday
Sally wanted to bake bread this morning, so I sat in the rocker with Johnny to watch. She tucked her skirt into her leggings to keep the hem from catching fire, then swept a clean spot on the hearth. She took the dough that had risen overnight, set it on the bricks, then covered it with an upside-down kettle, the small one. With the long spoon she scooped hot coals on top and all around.
The aroma for the next hour was wonderful. Sally was so pleased with herself when Mama served it with butter for afternoon tea, that she announced she’s ready to get married. We teased about her size (she’s just six).
Before bed I brushed her hair into two plaits. She sleeps between Beth and me now because her trundle is cold and lonesome. We are like three cats curled together.
January 24, 1778, Saturday
We woke up to a shock. Our entire north fence is gone, all the rails and posts, all of it. Marks in the snow showed where it had been dragged, piece by piece, toward the encampment.
Papa was so cross his jaw turned stiff. “I am trying to help the Army,” he said, “but by God, they are turning my home into firewood.” After breakfast he buttoned his coat and said to Mama, “I shall report this to General Washington.”
Papa let me ride in the wagon with him (there is not enough snow in the road for sleighs). He took the long way to Headquarters, around the stand of pines, past Slab Tavern, then by Joseph Mann’s cabin. Joseph is a freed Negro like Billy Lee. As he lives on Valley Creek near where it meets the Schuylkill River, there were sentries with rifles. They were warming themselves over a small fire.
Two of the soldiers stood in their hats to keep their bare feet off the snow.
At Headquarters we waited outside in the cold. Through one of the windows we could see General Washington and several officers. A prisoner stood in front of them, hands tied behind his back. Soon he was led outside by guards.
“Two hundred fifty lashes for you, mister, ain’t enough,” said one soldier to the man. “Selling beef to the Redcoats should’ve got you shot, not whipped, that’s my opinion.”
Before we could step into the hallway, another prisoner was led out. He was on his way to one hundred lashes for attempted desertion. There were other men inside, handcuffed.
Papa walked to the wagon. “Some other day, Abigail,” he said. “These court-martials will take hours.”
Mrs. Hewes visited with her youngest nephew, who played marbles by the fire while we had tea. She said that soldiers are deserting nearly every day.
She knows this because some of the court-martials (of those who are caught) take place in the drawing room at her temporary home, the DeWeeses’; also at David Stev
ens’s house where General James Varnum is quartered. (I wonder if Mrs. Stevens does General Varnum’s laundry.)
“It’s the foreign-born mostly,” Mrs. Hewes told us. “They have not the same loyalty as those of us born here on American soil.”
January 25, 1778, Sunday
It is warmer, but still we leave Johnny inside. Sally and I stayed home with him so Mama could go to services. I finished mending Sally’s doll’s dress and sewed its arm back on.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith came to supper. We all have family in Philadelphia and are worried for their safety. Papa and Mr. Smith talked about taking a big wagon while the weather’s fair, then returning with as many as will come.
“But Edward,” Mama said. “Thee could be shot, mistaken for spies. Please don’t go.”
“We shall be all right,” Papa told her. “Many do it already. You’ve seen the wives bringing food back and forth, yes? They’ve not been shot.”
They were still talking when we girls took our candle upstairs to bed. I tried to listen, but was too sleepy.
January 26, 1778, Monday
Beefsteak pie for breakfast.
Papa and Mr. Smith have decided to leave in an hour. I am hurriedly writing this because they are choosing two of us to go with them, so that our little cousins will be at ease. I have just heard my name called, and Lucy’s, Mr. Smith’s daughter. She’s fifteen. My dear sister said I may wear her cloak, her beautiful blue cloak…. I’m truly going!
January 30, 1778, Friday
Valley Forge. It is late and everyone sleeps. I’m still too stirred up from the past few days and must put it all down before I can rest. I do hope this candle will last — it’s as short as my thumb, so I will hurry.
The road to Philadelphia was eighteen miles of mud and ruts that made us turn and bump where we wanted not to. Lucy and I shared a blanket and foot warmer because of the wind. Papa was right. There were many travelers to and from Valley Forge. At the outpost pickets the guards we saw were busy questioning and searching.
It is a crime to sell provisions to the enemy, but people do it anyway because the Redcoats pay in silver coin and gold. The Continental Army pays in paper. Mr. Smith said it is worthless paper, that’s why so many civilians are willing to take the risk.
Philadelphia’s streets are paved in the middle for carriages, with a footpath of hard brick on each side. Cobblestones are bumpy but much easier on our poor wagon. Everything seemed new and wondrous as I’d not been here since I was small, about Sally’s age — Lucy and I stared with delight at houses with lace curtains and painted shutters, outdoor lamps to light the way, and tall carriages drawn by matching horses. There were ladies in fine dresses with velvet cloaks and bonnets.
An assortment of boys, tall and small, hurried along the streets and lanes, carrying boxes. Papa said they were wigmakers’ apprentices delivering freshly curled and powdered wigs. “To the arrogant rich,” he said, “Philadelphians who’d rather spend money on themselves, than to help our starving soldiers. There should be a law against such vanities in the time of war.”
Lucy and I looked at each other. It hardly seemed we were in the middle of a war with enemies everywhere, such was the feeling of gaiety. Shops were open, bells on the doors tinkled when we entered. We purchased nothing, but only wanted to find our uncles (who are also cobblers, one is a silversmith). Auntie Hannie lives with her husband above their little bakery. How happy she was to see us, and she’s expecting another baby—I could tell from her full apron.
But when Papa learned she sells bread to the British commander, he was silent. How could she! General William Howe is our enemy. He and his aides are quartered just across the street, down four houses and — Hannie asked us this — would we like to meet him, he’s very nice. I thought Papa would collapse with anger.
Candle is going …
January 31, 1778, Saturday
It’s late again. Busy all day helping Mama with extra laundry from a general whose name I forgot. There are so many shirts hanging — many of Irish linen — we must duck between the rafters.
More to say about Philadelphia: Papa allowed us to stay with Auntie Hannie. The next day, Tuesday I think, he went with Mr. Smith to call on their brothers, while Lucy and I stayed to help Hannie cook and tend her five little ones. But we each did a terrible thing. First, Lucy:
During the babies’ naps we went into the tiny shop next door — it is just four feet wide and there is a wood sign above the door that says Wigmaker. While I was admiring ribbons in his front window, I heard the sound of scissors. Before I could say a word, Lucy had allowed this stranger to cut off her beautiful brown hair! For nine shillings! I could speak not. An English officer might be the next customer!
Lucy is so willful and headstrong she just tied on her bonnet and curtsied. In the street she said to me, “It shall be days before Papa finds out and by then he shall be so pleased to have silver coin it will matter not. Dost thou know that a countrywoman’s hair is considered far superior than that of one from the city, Abigail?”
I knew not what to say. I promised not to tell, but I worry that Lucy’s pride will get her in trouble some day.
Now, to confess my deed (I see no harm, truly): I delivered rum cakes and strudel to the British general. It was just for fun and to see an Englishman up close, but still I dare not tell Papa.
February 1, 1778, Sunday
Elisabeth finished her coat this morning and very prettily embroidered her name inside the left lapel. My hunting shirt needs repair because I sewed part of the front sleeve to the back sleeve so that no arm can get through.
To continue about last week:
Auntie Hannie gave me a clean starched apron and a basket to hang on my arm. Into it she put two plates of strudel with pecan icing and thirteen rum cakes each the size of my hand — this is her Baker’s Dozen, she explained. Auntie Hannie pointed me to the tall brick house down the lane.
I hurried, and rapped the brass knocker three times. A Negro opened the door and showed me to a parlour where a stout man stood in front of the fire, lighting his pipe. He wore a scarlet waistcoat with a white vest, black knickers, white silk stockings, and pumps with silver buckles. (His knickers were tied at the knee with double bows.) I curtsied, then held out the basket.
He said, “Mrs. Loring, wilt thou see what we have here?”
She was most beautiful with blond hair twisted grandly on her head. Her dress was of peach-colored satin. “It’s for tea I’m sure, Billy, come sit.” She smiled, then dismissed me with a nod. I backed out of the room as a man entered through another door. He was quite round also, with thick lips, and was addressed as Lord Something-or-Other. His eyes were so pop-eyed he looked as if he had just swallowed a snake.
There were two other men in red waistcoats. They sat in parlour chairs and crossed their legs. All attention was on the tea cart and basket of sweets; no one noticed I was lingering. One of the men — he was plumpest of all — picked up a cake and spread butter on it with his thumb.
Auntie later explained that “Billy” is General Sir William Howe, England’s commander. She blushed to tell me that Mrs. Loring is his mistress. She has disgraced the patriots because she’s married to another man, an American officer.
Twice more I delivered cakes and bread to the brick house. The third day Sir Billy wasn’t there. He was playing cards at the Indian Queen Cafe, where he often enjoys late suppers.
Now that I’m home again I’ve decided not to be so angry at our soldiers when they take things from us. Our enemies (20,000, Papa says) are sleeping in warm featherbeds, eating sweets, and playing cards, while General Washington holds his men together with threads.
I’ve also decided that when the English return to their fat king across the Atlantic I shall confess to Mama and Papa that I served the British commander, but not before. At the moment they are too upset. None of our relatives would leave Philadelphia and none felt ashamed about accepting gold coin from the enemy.
“Busin
ess is business,” mine uncle said to Papa.
February 2, 1778, Monday
When Beth and I picked up Mr. Washington’s laundry, Billy Lee drew us aside.
“Lady Wash’ton is coming from Mount Vernon,” he said. “She should be here soon. And Mr. Wash’ton wonders if yous and your kind mother could help upstairs, to make the sitting room — what he says — more suitable. It do need a lady’s touch, misses.”
When we told this to Mama she sat down, wiping her red hands on her apron. “Whatever do we have to offer the General’s Lady?” she said. “She hath culture, and is one of the most wealthiest women in the colonies. Daughters, I need to think…. Can ye serve us a nice hot pot of tea?”
February 3, 1778, Tuesday
It is sunny and warm! The path to Headquarters is mud, not snow, and I need not wear my blanket. There is clutter on the second floor, so we arranged the boxes and smaller trunks at one end of the hallway. In what is to be Lady Washington’s sitting room (it has a cheerful view of the creek), we brought in a dressing table with a looking glass and Billy Lee showed us where to position the bed. Its four posters at one time had curtains to draw across for warmth, but they’re gone now. Mama wants to sew some herself, but our last cloth went for Elisabeth’s Bounty Coat and my hunting shirt, which I still have not repaired (and have no desire to).
Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 3