February 4, 1778, Wednesday
General Washington sent Colonel Meade below Wilmington to meet Mrs. Washington’s coach. He worries she’s been delayed.
Papa drove Elisabeth to the outer camp to deliver her coat. She told me a soldier on guard duty grabbed it and quickly slipped his thin arms into the sleeves. When he thanked her, she saw he was missing his top teeth and spoke with a coarse accent.
After we climbed the stairs for bed she burst into sobs.
“Oh Abby, I’m so ashamed of myself,” she wept, “but I wanted a handsome soldier, truly.”
I held her hand until she fell asleep. I wanted to comfort her but my thought was that two good things had happened: A cold soldier was made warm. And he thanked her.
February 5, 1778, Thursday
Again woke to drums and fifes. I worry not so much now about the British since I’ve seen how plump and lazy their officers are, so we took our time eating our morning potato (hot with fried bacon on top).
How shocked we were to see who was being drummed out of the army: a woman! She sat backwards, her legs (thankfully hidden by wide skirts) draped over the horse’s flanks. “Who?” we asked among the people gathering at the edge of camp. “Why?”
This is what Reverend Currie told us, for he visited with the poor woman yesterday: Mary Johnson is her name — she was caught trying to tempt our soldiers to ride with her into Philadelphia where they’d have warm beds and plenty of food, courtesy of “Sir Billy.” Her sentence: one hundred lashes and drummed out of the Army! I put my hands over my ears because I could bear to hear no more. One hundred lashes on a woman’s back …
At supper I had no appetite. Papa told us that the women who’ve been passing freely through the lines of each army now will be stopped. Only generals themselves will issue permits.
“Who knows what damage hath been done, by woman or man?” Papa said. He glanced at me. “Or by child?” I kept my eyes down. Did he know about Lucy’s hair, or that I curtsied to the British general?
February 6, 1778, Friday
Still sunny. On the warm side of our house is a patch of dry dirt. I spread a quilt and lay Johnny on his back. He squinted at the sunlight and kicked his legs. I was so happy to see him smile again until Mama came out. “Abigail! He shalt catch cold, he’s just a baby …” I ran upstairs crying. I only wanted him to feel fresh air on his cheeks.
February 7, 1778, Saturday
Rain all day, winds are high.
Elisabeth and I brought six pumpkins up from the cellar and spent the day slicing them into strips that we hung on string from the rafters to dry (since there are no shirts today). It makes the house look cheerful and there is a sweet scent. The seeds filled the large iron skillet where we roasted them with salt until crisp.
Papa finished four pairs of shoes and took them to camp. He said a lieutenant delivered them to four soldiers who were married yesterday. It seems that some of the women drivers from Philadelphia have found themselves husbands.
Papa also told us another spy was caught. Her name is Ann McIntire.
February 8, 1778, Sunday
Lucy sat in front of me at church and I could not help but stare at the back of her neck. If I hadn’t seen with my own eyes the wigmaker’s scissors cut off her beautiful hair, I would have known not. Wisps curled from under her bonnet just as before. After the final hymn she turned around, leaned toward me, and whispered so softly I almost didn’t hear, “Mama and Papa know naught.”
Poor Lucy, carrying such a secret night and day, brushing her hair when no one will see, then quickly tying on her nightcap. She looks sad.
Outside I said to her, “Have you not been eating, Lucy? Your face is so thin.”
She glanced at her parents who were over by their wagon then said, “Oh, Abby, the nine shillings are gone.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I hid them in the barn under one of the nests. The other morning two hens were missing and all the eggs. And my shillings.”
“Are you sure? Have you looked everywhere?”
“Yes … yes. Mama’s waiting, I must go. Hast thou told anyone, Abby?”
“Not a soul,” said I.
February 9, 1778, Monday
It snowed last night and all morning. Mama and I were wringing out the bedclothes to hang when a rumble of horses passed on the road. We ran to the window and scratched off the ice in time to see a sleigh round the bend toward Headquarters.
“That must be Lady Washington,” cried Elisabeth, “all the way from Mount Vernon.”
“May we go, may we go?” Sally asked.
Mama looked at her hands, red and rough from being in hot water all day. “My goodness, no,” she said. “The dear lady shalt need rest from her long journey, not visitors.” Mama looked at the hearth, where a fresh round of rye ’n’ injun bread was almost done. She smiled. “But mayhaps we should extend our hospitality —” We interrupted her by hurrying into bonnets and cloaks, shoes and wool stockings. (Elisabeth pinned my blanket over my shoulders.)
The snow was almost to our knees in the field so instead of taking the shortcut, we stayed on the road — a 45-minute walk.
Mrs. Washington’s sleigh was by the stone stable, not as grand as we thought it might be and there were icicles hanging from its frame. Suddenly I felt most shy.
Billy Lee opened the door and bade us come in. From the kitchen came several female voices and an excited gasp when we were noticed.
“Who are these dear children?” said one of the women coming over to greet us. She was about my height, extremely plump, and had a friendly, smiling face, though I must admit she was not at all pretty. (I did not like her wide nostrils nor the mole on her cheek.)
“Ma’am,” said Billy Lee, “these here are Missus Stewart’s girls, those that keeps your husband’s shirts, ma’am.”
This was Lady Washington!
Sally found her voice first. “Mama says we’re to welcome thee to Valley Forge. She hopes the inns you stayed at didn’t have bedbugs like The King of Prussia Inn down the road here.”
Mrs. Washington laughed. “Sweet child, thank your mother for me. Since you asked, I’ll tell. I saw no bugs, but the beds were lumpy and damp for lack of a warm fire. There was quite a lot of noise downstairs in the taverns, but, child, I had nothing but kindness shown me the entire journey, thirteen nights I believe. Roads were rough, of course. We had to leave my coach with the innkeeper near Brandywine Creek because of snow. It is his sleigh outside.”
She lifted the cloth to peek at our bread. “Oh, my, can you girls stay for tea? I’m deathly weary, but do need a hot cup, not English tea of course.”
We no-thanked her politely and began to back out of the room, but her hand flew up. “Forgive my poor manners. I want to introduce my friends here — their husbands are officers and they’ve been staying with other families here in Valley Forge. Also … Oney, could you come here please?”
Mrs. Washington gestured to a Negro lady unloading food from a large traveling basket. My mouth began to water at the sight of hams and wheels of cheese, dried fruits, jars of preserves, salted fish, walnuts, and almonds.
“How do, Misses?” Oney said, dipping her head slightly.
I noticed General Washington standing in the doorway. (He is so very much taller than his wife, some say six-foot-two.) With hands behind his back he appeared the most relaxed I’d ever seen him. He smiled at us. As Mrs. Washington moved busily around the kitchen, his eyes followed her with tenderness.
February 10, 1778, Tuesday
Laundry done and dried, the bags are too heavy to carry, so Papa put them in the wagon. Elisabeth and I rode on the seat with him to Headquarters. After lifting the sacks down to us, Papa drove off and said for us to walk home within the hour.
Such busy-ness in the front room! General Washington was standing at one of the tables surrounded by an assortment of officers and two of his generals.
Oney was in the kitchen with the cook and two other women. There were eight loaves of
round bread on the table — their fresh-baked aroma was wonderful. I peeked in to see a long narrow table against the wall where a soldier-in-apron was chopping turnips and onions. Hanging from an iron hook in the ceiling was a chunk of beef covered with peppercorns. It seemed a fine meal was being prepared to welcome Lady Washington. Oney pointed upstairs, but I heard not what she said because of so many voices talking at once.
Elisabeth and I together carried one laundry sack up the narrow stairway then returned for the other. At least four times we had to step aside to let officers and servants up or down. What a crowded house!
The door to Mrs. Washington’s sitting room was ajar. The first time we knocked there came no response. Louder the second time. A woman opened it for us to enter. She, too, was my height and so very plump she had to step back and to the side for us to pass her skirts.
From across the room came Mrs. Washington’s voice. She sat by the window to catch the light for her knitting. “Oh, girls, do join us. Let me introduce Lucy Knox” — the smiling one who opened the door—”and these other ladies are friends from Chester County. Come ye in, please.”
I again was struck with shyness, but Elisabeth spoke for both of us. “Thank you, ma’am, but Papa says we’re to deliver your husband’s shirts then return home.”
How I wanted to stay! I longed to hear more of their laughter and conversation. The room seemed tiny now with so many women sitting at needlework. Their skirts touched one another’s, making it look as if one large quilt were spread over their laps.
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Washington, “come again when ye can stay. We could use your help. These poor soldiers are in dreadful need of socks and shirts, so do come back with your needles. Thy Mother is invited as well.”
After supper I began the repairs to my hunting shirt, feeling ugly with myself for being so lazy.
February 11, 1778, Wednesday
Finished the shirt. I embroidered my name, not as prettily as Elisabeth’s, but it’s there: Abigail Jane Stewart.
A thaw has made so much mud we did not take the wagon out. Papa told us to stay in, but Sally disobeyed. She ran out into the road and immediately sunk down several inches.
Elisabeth and I stood on a plank to help her. When she lifted her feet out, her shoes were gone.
They are lost in the mud and now she is just like the soldiers.
Papa looked at her muddy legs and said, “Thou shalt stay inside for the rest of the winter, young lady.”
Sally cried all morning and would not be comforted by any of us.
“Why can Papa not make me shoes right now?” she wailed.
I said, “Sally. You have a warm house and a nice rug under thy feet. The soldiers have none.”
February 12, 1778, Thursday
General Washington passed out handbills to all of us in Valley Forge. Too many farmers have been riding into Philadelphia to sell meat, eggs, dried vegetables, and fruits. The General cannot whip them all, says Papa, so he is setting up markets in his encampment — three sites, each open twice a week. This will help feed the Army, though we shall still be paid in paper not silver, and it may stop helping those big-bellied Englishmen.
Papa drove us to the southern edge of camp and pointed out one of the sutlers. This was a small tent with a cooking fire by its door. A man in a fur coat was warming his hands and looking toward camp.
“He’s looking for customers,” Papa said. “Sutlers follow the Army. They sell liquor, tobacco, and food stuffs to the soldiers, but their prices are high — imagine, two shillings per pound for hard soap. Generals dislike them.”
We took cranberries and dried apples to sell at the Stone Chimney Picket. Tomorrow there shall be a market at the Schuylkill River, on the north side of Sullivan’s Bridge. Saturday, near the adjutant general’s quarters, but I know not where that is.
Coming home, we passed the Fitzgerald house. Six of the brothers were out in the mud playing. There was just a tiny bit of smoke coming from the chimney so we stopped.
Mrs. Fitzgerald sat in her rocker by the hearth, a shawl around her shoulders and two of the biggest cats I’ve ever seen on her lap. There again in the cupboard I heard scratchings of mice. Even her cats help her not!
Papa split wood, carried in five arms-full, and stoked up her fire. We gave her a sack of dried cranberries, a small ham, and the corncake we’d brought along for our lunch. Mrs. Fitzgerald started to cry when we asked about her husband. There’s been no word as to what the Redcoats have done with him.
As I climbed to the wagon seat I looked for Tom to scold him, but he kept a safe distance. We were halfway down their road and he still was making faces at me. If only his papa were here to whip him!
February 13, 1778, Friday
There were many of us down by Sullivan’s Bridge to enjoy Market Day and to look at the soldiers. The Schuylkill is still frozen solid and the snow on top is criss-crossed from all the children who slide and stomp across.
Lucy was there with her mother, looking thin and withdrawn. Suddenly there appeared four of the Fitzgerald boys, yelling and banging sticks just to make noise and scare the old people.
Tom ran up to Lucy, reached under her chin, pulled her bonnet string, then ran off hooting and waving it in the air like a kite. Poor Lucy!
The shock on her face — on her mother’s face — I cannot put in words. There she stood with her shorn hair for all to see. I hurried to her side untying my own cap, then put it on her head. Tears ran down her cheeks and wet my hand as I tied the string.
“It shall be all right, Lucy,” I said.
February 14, 1778, Saturday
Baths. Tonight I washed my hair. As Mama poured cups of warm water over my head, I cried. I’m heartsore for Lucy and know not what her parents will do to her.
February 16, 1778, Monday
As weeks pass, the laundry is looking grayish from our ash soap. Mrs. Washington asked if we could please use bleach.
Mama brought out an old bucket that has been patched many times. She instructed Elisabeth and me to carefully (she would not let Sally do this) bring downstairs our chamber pot, then also the one under hers and Papa’s bed.
We poured urine into the bucket, then began soaking some of the dingiest items, which we later rinsed in fresh water. It is an unpleasant chore, but must be done.
All day it was cold out and overcast. I let Sally wear my shoes for ten minutes so she could step outside. There is a stray cat she wants to pet.
February 17, 1778, Tuesday
Mama came with me and Elisabeth to return the laundry and visit Mrs. Washington. Every day except Sunday officers’ wives and ladies from Valley Forge are there in her sitting room or in the kitchen. There’s much knitting of socks and mending of shirts and such.
I was so jealous and cross when Mrs. Washington asked Elisabeth to accompany her into camp, to deliver food and comfort to sick soldiers. Why did she not ask me? I wanted to go and think I deserve to go as much as anyone else.
Miss Molly was coming up the path when Mama and I were leaving. She spoke kindly to me, asked about my studies and so forth, but I could not take my eyes off the road — there went Mrs. Washington’s wagon with my sister sitting next to her, chatting like old friends! Why am I not as pretty as Elisabeth? I’m greatly upset today.
February 18, 1778, Wednesday
When Elisabeth returned from her day with Mrs. Washington she took straight to bed. Her face was pale and she said she could not think of eating. She rolled onto her side.
“What ails you, Beth?” I asked.
For the longest time she spoke naught. Finally she began to cry. Through sobs all I could understand were the words “those poor soldiers.”
February 19, 1778, Thursday
I brought my hunting shirt to Mrs. Washington. “It’s quite nice, Abby,” she said. “And I know just the boy. Will you come with me tomorrow?”
Will I! I wore Elisabeth’s cloak, two pairs of woolen socks, leggings, and my wool skirt. Sall
y’s cap is too small for my head, so Mama gave me hers.
It was windy and gray. A lieutenant drove us past Mount Joy toward the main encampment, past rows of huts, the largest ones belonging to some of the officers. We stopped at the 2nd Pennsylvania Brigade, commanded by General Wayne, and stepped down into mud. There was a stench coming from between huts and I knew why the instant I saw yellow snow and human waste. (Such a filthy habit!)
If Mrs. Washington noticed, she said naught. I followed her into the hut. We both bent over to avoid hitting our heads. It was dark therein, and so smoky my eyes immediately began to sting. The fireplace had a small iron kettle sitting on stones, but the wood was either wet or green so it gave off no warmth. In a corner lay a pile of beef bones from an earlier meal.
Each side of the small cabin had narrow bunks, stacked three high. On a lower one lay a soldier with no blanket, just bits of hay sprinkled over him for warmth. His bare feet stuck out at the end of his bed. His toes were black, the soles of his feet dark green, and there was a smell of rotten meat coming from them. I pressed my hand to my mouth.
A young girl sat next to him on her little travel bag, weeping.
“Mrs. Kern?” said Mrs. Washington. “May I offer you prayer? The surgeon will take thine husband shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am, please.” The girl could not control her weeping and I found myself crying, too. Following Mrs. Washington’s example I knelt in the cold dirt. The poor soldier was shivering as she took his hand in hers.
“Dear Lord,” she began, “please comfort this good man and his wife, be with them …”
Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 4