As Elisabeth and I carried the sacks down the hallway, we saw Mrs. Greene move gracefully into the parlour, also to shake Pierre’s hand, then Lafayette’s. She spoke perfect French! By the time we were going out the door, which stood open for the breeze, she was in a cheerful conversation with the two Frenchmen, Alexander Hamilton, and another aide named John Laurens.
How I wish I could speak that pretty language, too.
May 5, 1778, Tuesday
Ten straight days of sunshine!
Helen is so large with child she has trouble lying down at nights. Papa brought her cot down by the fire and raised the back so she can sleep sitting up. She complains not, but I know she is glad she doesn’t have to climb the stairs.
Lucy’s parents are sick with worry. They have come over twice this week. What am I to do? If I tell, Lucy shall feel betrayed, but if I keep her secret …
Is it proper to let her family suffer so?
May 6, 1778, Wednesday
What a grand day! It is late now, and I will try to put it all down before my candle goes.
At dawn we woke to the call of a fife and a single drummer. Such a beautiful morning, cool with sunshine, birds have returned to the trees, making nests and song. Finally there are flowers! The slopes of Mount Joy and Mount Misery are purple and red with azaleas; even the shade is bright with yellow from blooming laurel.
From 9:00 until 10:30 a hush fell over the valley. Everywhere soldiers with their officers knelt together in their brigades. Papa rode the outskirts of camp and said the chaplains were leading the men in prayer and thanksgiving; everyone is so humbly grateful for the French Alliance. We could hear voices rise with the singing of hymns, like an echo rolling across the valley. It was a most joyful sound and though I could hear no words, it filled me with peace.
When the singing stopped we climbed the hill to look down toward Varnum’s quarters. There in perfectly straight rows the soldiers stood at attention. General Washington was on his gray horse, most dignified, flanked by his generals, all in sharp uniform. Papa explained this was “inspection.”
We watched Baron von Steuben give orders. Each brigade responded in perfect form: turning, marching, and kneeling to load their muskets. (Azor, wearing his coat and sash, appeared nervous from the horses and guns; he ran off into the brush.)
Neighbours gathered to watch and there were excited cries of children when 13 cannons — six pounders — were rolled up to the rear of Conway’s Brigade. General Washington gave a signal with a smooth wave of his hat and from the hill cannons began firing, one after another, a “13-gun salute.”
It was so loud Johnny screwed up his face and would not stop crying. Sally held her hands over her ears. Papa raised his arm and cheered. I found myself with tears. I know not why, but there was beauty about the soldiers lined up so proud and clean, the cannons firing for joy, not war.
When the last echo from the last boom faded away, there began what Papa called a feu de joie. Now, one by one, muskets began to fire along the front rank from right to left, then down the second rank from left to right. The shots rippled back and forth, raising smoke like dozens of chimneys. The whole effect filled every one of us with excitement and hope — this was our army! No longer weak or frightened or cold. This feu de joie truly was a “fire of joy.”
When the soldiers and officers — hundreds and hundreds of them — burst into cheer shouting “Huzzah! Long live the King of France!” Mama covered her face with her apron and wept with happiness.
My candle! Too short …
May 7, 1778, Thursday
To finish about yesterday:
When the ranks of muskets had quieted, there began another 13-gun salute from the hill, followed by another feu de joie, then the men again cheered. This time they shouted, “Long live the friendly European powers!”
Then once more the 13 cannons blasted, one after another, and once more the musket shots rippled through the ranks. Such smoke rose and filled the valley. By now every neighbour, child, and soldier was cheering and we heard the words, “Long live the American states!”
Johnny finally stopped crying, but he had hiccups and an unhappy face. Helen carried him into the house so he could settle down.
Papa stood behind Mama with his arms around her as we watched the soldiers file out. General Washington rode toward Headquarters on his beautiful horse, his arm waving his tricorn. We could not see his face, but we did hear him shout “Huzzah!” again and again.
Papa said, “Darling, if ever our Army was ready to stand up to the British, I believe it is now.” We have just finished supper. The days are getting longer so I am writing by the last bits of sunlight.
I can see Headquarters. Our door downstairs is open for the cool night air, and we can hear laughter and singing. All afternoon officers and their ladies rode up to attend Washington’s celebration. I wonder if Mrs. Washington baked enough pies!
Papa said that being allied with the French might help us shoo the Redcoats out of America for good.
May 8, 1778, Friday
Helen has been uncomfortable all day and unable to eat. Mama said this means her baby is ready to be born.
Now it is late, nearly half-past ten o’clock. Papa and Sally are sleeping, but Mama is downstairs with Helen. Every few minutes she cries out, then apologizes for crying.
“It’s all right, Helen, dear,” Mama tells her. “Thou mayest cry as loud as y’want.”
May 9, 1778, Saturday
Before breakfast Papa left with the wagon to get Mrs. Hewes. Poor Helen. She is exhausted.
2 p.m. — Johnny and Sally are both having naps on the rug. There is sunshine on them from the side window. How they sleep through all our voices is a mystery.
Mrs. Hewes soothes Helen with a wet cloth. Now she and Mama are making Helen get up and walk around. She is so tired she cries without tears. “Thou must not die,” I whisper to myself.
5 p.m. — Papa took Sally and Johnny to the Potters’ where they shall stay the night.
May 10, 1778, Sunday
Am nearly too tired to write this, but Mama says there must be a record. It is four o’clock in the morning. The sun is not yet up.
A baby girl was born 15 minutes ago.
May 11, 1778, Sunday
We have all had some rest and so it is easier for me to write.
Helen is sleeping in Mama’s bed, her tiny daughter at her side. She has named her Olivia and she is a beautiful pink with a crown of red hair. Now I remember her father, the poor soldier in the hut whose feet were cut off. He had red hair, too, and the most gentle blue eyes. I sorrow that he is not alive to see his family.
Mrs. Potter came by with a pot of stew and corn-cakes. Mrs. Adams brought three apple pies. I knew not what to say when we opened the door and saw Mrs. Fitzgerald standing there with a basket on her arm.
“For the new baby,” she said. She turned and walked quickly down the road. We lifted the cloth. There inside was a small quilt, booties, and a rag doll with a pretty blue dress.
May 12, 1778, Tuesday
We are a day late doing the General’s laundry, but Mama said sometimes that is the way of things. We have strung two lines outside between the trees and fence, to let the sun do its quick work. It is much more pleasant to iron and fold when shirts and such dry in the fresh air instead of a sooty house.
Mama is teaching Helen how to nurse her baby and keep her clean and warm. I held Olivia and rocked her. Oh, she’s beautiful.
May 13, 1778, Wednesday
We heard today that a girl with shorn hair was seen at one of the hospitals, working as a nurse. Mr. Smith and Papa left immediately to find her, and everyone is praying that it is Lucy.
All day I worried if I should tell where Lucy really is and worried myself so much that I got a terrible stomachache.
Reverend Currie came for supper, but I stayed in my bed listening through the floor cracks. He said a drummer boy was given 50 lashes for trading shirts with a British soldier. How this
was discovered, he didn’t say. Also, a soldier was given 200 lashes after he was caught running away from his commanding officer.
Reverend Currie asked our prayers for the great number of soldiers who are sick. Many are dying of the Pox and other infections. They are being buried naked so that their clothes can be passed on to others in need.
May 14, 1778, Thursday
The girl with shorn hair was not Lucy, which I knew it wouldn’t be. At breakfast we prayed for her and for the soldiers. I silently asked God to show me what to do.
There are Indians in camp! Oneidas and Tuscaroras. I saw them walk along the road toward Headquarters, dressed in a curious assortment of deerskin leggings and soldier coats, feather ornaments and tricorns. They have volunteered to help General Washington.
“I want to see the Indians,” Sally demanded. “Up close, please!”
I was fearful, but Papa said not to be. “There are Mohegan and Stockbridge Indians already serving the brigades from Massachusetts and Connecticut, Abby. And they are as loyal as any of the other men.”
Still, I stayed home. Two hours later Sally burst in the front door.
“Abby, I saw one. He had tattoos on his arms and face and guess what he did!”
“What.”
“He walked into Mrs. Washington’s kitchen. There was a hot roast beef on the table and he grabbed a chunk of it with his finger and thumb and he twisted it out and he walked to the front door right past me — right past me — and he began to eat and dripped grease all over the floor. Abby, I saw an Indian and I feared not.”
Sally is now in Mama’s room telling her adventure to Helen and Elisabeth.
When I see how tenderly Helen holds her new little daughter, I wonder if I must now go to Mrs. Smith. How she must ache for Lucy.
May 17, 1778, Sunday
Baby Olivia is now seven days old and it is so warm and pleasant out Helen brought her to church.
Mrs. Hewes told us afterward that there was another theatrical production at the Bakehouse last Monday and the audience was most lively. The play was Cato. I wish I could go see the next one, but no children are allowed.
May 18, 1778, Monday
Washday.
We put Olivia in the cradle and Johnny in the pen, which makes him mad. He hollers and bangs his spoon against the wood.
I carried him outside so he could crawl in the grass while we hung the wash. I turned my back on him for just a moment and when I looked there he was in the middle of the road and horses were coming.
“Johnny, thou art too little to play here,” I scolded as I lifted him to my hip. His mouth turned down and he let out such a wail Papa came over. Papa clapped his hands and set Johnny on his shoulders for a “Bumpity Ride.” Soon he started laughing and I was able to finish with the clothesline.
At sunset I hurried down the lane to the Smith cottage. I had made up my mind. In a quick breath I told them Lucy is safe, that she shall return when her hair has grown to her shoulders.
Mrs. Smith wept with relief and her husband wiped his own cheek.
“Thank you, Abigail,” he said.
After supper I wrote a letter to Lucy, saying I could no longer bear to see her parents’ sorrow.
“But they know not where you stay,” I wrote, “and for now I shant tell a soul.”
May 19, 1778, Tuesday
General Lafayette and some of our troops are marching toward Germantown. They crossed the Schuylkill at Swede’s Ford last night about midnight. Papa said 100 Indians came, too, and they are all camped at Barren Hill, twelve miles from Philadelphia. He said there may or may not be a battle.
General Washington says from now on the soldiers are free on Fridays, they don’t have to drill. This is because the streams are warm enough to wash clothes and to bathe — but they may stay in the water no longer than ten minutes so they do not get a chill.
Oney came to say Mrs. Washington would enjoy the company of one of us to visit some hospitals at the southern edge of camp. Elisabeth refuses to go anymore, Helen has a baby to care for, and the three Potter girls have not been vaccinated for the Pox (we were last year).
Now that I’m ready to go to bed and am remembering the last time I visited sick soldiers with Mrs. Washington, I’m sorry I said yes.
May 20, 1778, Wednesday
A lieutenant drove us in the wagon, south along Gulph Road to the Quaker meeting house. There were cots from one end of the room to the other.
The stench was worse than a latrine and there was a sharp odor I could not recognize. To keep from gagging I covered my mouth and nose with my shawl. Why the windows and doors were not open to let in fresh air I know not. I followed Mrs. Washington as she worked her way down the crowded rows, talking to the soldiers who were awake and praying with them. She drew not away from smells or the sight of amputated feet.
In a corner of the room a doctor was giving inoculations for the Pox. One soldier whose cheeks were covered with sores tossed on his bed in a fever, moaning and crying out. He was shivering even with a blanket over him. The doctor took a feather and with the sharp end of the quill, scooped it into one of the man’s oozing pox. Then he turned to a waiting soldier who had his sleeve rolled up and a fresh cut on his arm from the doctor’s pen knife (I was sickened, watching).
Into this fresh cut the doctor dabbed a bit of the goo and said, “There you go, friend. Thou shalt soon have a fever, but worry not. More die from the disease than vaccinations.”
This was repeated with nine soldiers who’d been waiting outside in the sunshine.
When we climbed up to the wagon seat we saw a graveyard across the lane. Two men were finishing digging a grave. Beside them lay the thin shape of a body rolled into a blanket. Without a word the men lifted, then dropped the body—naked — into the grave, each holding an edge of the blanket. While one shoveled dirt, the other carried the blanket to the hospital and handed it through the door.
Our wagon dipped down into a gully and as it rose again over a hill I turned around. I could see through a window that the blanket was being spread over one of the sick men. I glanced back at the cemetery.
“Why are there no names on the graves?” I asked Mrs. Washington.
She smiled. Sunlight was on her face and she closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth. “My dear, it is one of those puzzles. Quakers, God bless them, are against war. They do not honour soldiers, so that is why their graves are marked not.”
May 21, 1778, Thursday
Elisabeth and I were with Papa at the north end of our orchards, trimming branches that had broken in the winds last month. A coach passed us, its horses at a high trot with a coachman riding above the rear wheel. Sally was already running from the house (barefoot still, as Papa has had no time to make her shoes).
Papa laughed and said, “Go on, girls,” and we, too, ran with Sally.
When we saw the very plump lady stepping down from the coach with a tiny infant in her arms, we cried “Hello, Mrs. Knox!” She waved and called us over to look at her new baby.
A handsome soldier inside the coach helped her down then stepped out with a cane. He wore high-heeled boots and was limping quite a bit. He took Mrs. Knox’s elbow to guide her into Headquarters.
“Girls,” she said to us, “this is Mr. Benedict Arnold, my official escort. Would you like to take turns holding the baby when we get inside?”
Sally went first, sitting on the stool by the kitchen hearth. Mrs. Washington cooed and fussed over the tiny thing, and not until we were home did I realize no one said if it was a boy or a girl or what its name was.
While Elisabeth held the baby, we could hear Benedict Arnold in the parlour talking to General Washington. He was describing his horrible wound from the Saratoga Campaign seven months ago and how he is only now able to hobble about with great pain.
While I held the baby — only for a quick moment — Mrs. Washington told us there will be no more plays at the Bakehouse.
“Can ye imagine?” she said. “Of all the th
ings Congress has to worry about and they pass a silly resolution. This is what it says.” She pulled a piece of parchment from her apron pocket, unfolded it, and held it at arm’s length to read: “‘Any person holding an office under the United States, who shall attend a theatrical performance shall be dismissed from service.’” Mrs. Washington handed the page to Mrs. Knox so she could read for herself then said, “Sometimes government has the most ridiculous notions.”
May 25, 1778, Monday
When Elisabeth and I arrived at Headquarters to pick up the laundry, there were several ladies dressed in their best, saying farewell to one another.
Billy Lee told us, “There’s soon to be a battle, so the wives are going home.”
“Battle?”
“Oh, not here, Miss. General Wash’ton will take his soldiers somewheres else to fight the Redcoats, don’t you worry none. Not here, nosir.”
May 26, 1778, Tuesday
Elisabeth and I were putting clean linen on our beds when Sally stomped upstairs, excited and out of breath.
“A soldier is here asking for thee, Beth. Hurry.”
I looked at my older sister and could see her eyes brighten. “Is it Pierre?” she whispered.
“He said naught.” Sally was already hurrying downstairs, making a lot of noise for someone with bare feet.
Elisabeth smoothed her skirt. She smiled tenderly at me before turning for the stairs.
The soldier standing by the hearth looked proud in his uniform, white stirrups over new shoes, a tricorn under his arm, a handsome coat. When he smiled at her and I saw his top teeth were missing, I knew the handsome coat was the one made by Elisabeth.
Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 8