There was no need for urging as the two leaned their muskets against the wall and sat down on a narrow bench before the kitchen table. Muttering to herself, the woman opened a cabinet, took down two wooden bowls, and stirred the soup simmering over the fire with a wooden ladle. She measured out just one ladleful for Harris and set it before him. She poured one ladleful for Peter, and looked back at Harris.
Muttering under her breath, cursing soldiers, generals, armies, and boys playing at war, she added half a ladle more to Peter’s bowl and set it before him.
He looked up at her, still wide-eyed. He wore the expression of one overcome with awe and gratitude who might shame himself with tears, but he just sat there silent, staring at her.
“Grace,” she announced, but did not bow her head. Instead, she looked up as if about to deliver a lecture to the Almighty.
“God…end this war, send a plague on those who started it, and return these boys home to their mothers. Amen.”
She didn’t offer spoons, and after hesitating for several seconds, Harris simply lifted the steaming bowl. It was a thick potato soup with several slices of pork floating in it. It was near to scalding, but he swallowed it down in several gulps and sat back. Peter sipped at it slowly and actually set it back down with a little still in the bottom. He stared at it. Harris struggled with himself not to ask if the boy was leaving the last few ounces behind. Peter shifted uncomfortably and then looked up at the woman.
“If you will excuse me, ma’am,” he gasped, and without waiting for a reply he bolted for the door and back out into the storm.
“What the devil’s got him?” she asked.
“He’s got the bloody flux, ma’am, begging your pardon. I think the meal hit him with another bout.”
She started toward the window to look out but then turned away.
“Well, I hope he made it to the necessary place,” she announced. “Your army marching past here these last few days, you’d think they’d been taught to at least find some bushes to hide behind when taking care of such things. Merciful God, what a mess, right on either side of the road, it’s disgusting.”
“The flux, ma’am, I’m sorry. Don’t give you much time to decide when it hits you.”
She sighed.
“A boy like him should be home in bed.”
She stiffened and looked back at Harris.
“Now state your business.”
“I am looking for Mr. Potts. I was informed he owns this property.”
“He isn’t here.”
“May I ask where I might find him?”
“Try Philadelphia. He’s a Quaker. He owns the forge, but he decided to stay in the city even after the British came.”
“And am I addressing Mrs. Potts?”
“I should say not!” For the first time she allowed the trace of a smile. “I was married to his brother, that is, until smallpox took him off. Quakers they are, and maybe my temperament wasn’t suited to him and them. Then I married Mr. Hewes.
“I am Deborah Hewes. My husband, Colonel Hewes, is off with the state militia. God knows where, though. Haven’t got a single letter from him in months. Months, I tell you. Darn fools, I’m willing to bet he is sitting safe and snug in some billet out there in Pittsburgh or wherever instead of being here, where he belongs. When the British came in September and burned the forge, he certainly wasn’t here to defend it. The hired hands ran off, so I’m the only one left. Now, does that satisfy your questioning?”
She looked at Harris as if he was to blame for the straits she was in. He quickly nodded in agreement, then shook his head with sympathy.
“And if my husband happens to be lurking with your army, tell him he better come home now. We got cleaned out once when the British raided and made off with my milk cow, and now another army’s at my doorstep. So if you see him, tell him his wife is looking for him, and, by God, I’ll come up to the camp looking for him if need be, and drag him back by the scruff of his neck. And don’t think I won’t do it!”
Harris tried not to smile. He could well imagine the reception Mr. Hewes would receive upon his return. It would not be a pleasant one.
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am, I believe you would, indeed.”
“What does your general want?”
“His Excellency the General humbly requests the privilege of renting your house as his headquarters for the duration of our army’s stay in this place.”
He recited the words slowly, exactly as Major Tilghman had conveyed them.
She stood with arms folded.
“How long and how much?”
“Ma’am, I can’t say as to how long.”
“A week, a month, perhaps till Judgment Day? Which, with the way things are looking, I pray comes sooner rather than later.”
“I would say the winter, ma’am.”
“Four months, then. Now, how much?”
Tilghman had been specific on this delicate point. Owners of the scattering of houses in the region were being approached the same as Mrs. Hewes to house the other generals. Word would spread in a flash as to what the going rate would be once the general had settled on a place to stay, so he had to negotiate carefully.
“The general suggested a hundred a month.”
“A hundred of what?”
“Why, Continentals, of course.”
She threw back her head and laughed.
“For what? I don’t need kindling for the fire. Maybe that poor boy of yours out there could use it for what he’s suffering from.”
Harris tried to smile. It was a common joke with the troops, even though they had only been paid twice in the last six months with the paper currency, at ten dollars a month. Ten dollars could actually buy a man a dozen eggs or a couple of loaves of bread if he was lucky enough to find someone selling such luxuries. A dozen eggs for a month of marching, freezing, sickness, and defeats.
“Sorry, no Continentals, and before you say a word back, Sergeant, I am a patriot, not a Tory, so don’t insult me.”
He fell back to the next step.
“Would you consider a Pennsylvania promissory note? Your husband is a colonel with the militia, so surely it will be honored.”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
“Ten dollars a month, Pennsylvania promissory?”
“Don’t insult me.”
He extended his hands in a gesture of futility. Only as an extreme last resort was he to reveal that if need be, hard currency, Dutch dollars would be offered, dipping into the last few dollars, guineas, and silver crowns left in the general’s reserve.
She turned and looked back at the fire, using her ladle to stir the soup. The door opened and Peter slipped back in, pale-faced, shivering from the cold and the attack he had just suffered through.
She looked over at him.
“You all right, boy?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“You get to the necessary?”
His features reddened and he shook his head.
“No shame, boy, when you got the flux, you got the flux. Now sit down.” She fussed around in one of the kitchen cabinets, pulled out a jar and another wooden bowl. Spooning some of the contents of the jar into the bowl, she then put another half ladle of soup into the bowl, stirred it, and set it down in front of Peter.
“Now drink that down slow, it will bind you up.”
Harris looked over at Peter and saw that the boy had tears in his eyes as he looked up at her. He felt a lump in his own throat. Six months ago, before the British came up the Chesapeake and the campaign in defense of Philadelphia started, they were all hailed as heroes. But after the unrelenting defeats, Congress fleeing helter-skelter, and the bitter retreat out of the city, doors were now bolted shut, fall harvests hidden, and the countryside sullen, silent, and uncaring. Rage had grown in the army, particularly among regiments not from Pennsylvania. The soldiers wondered why they were even bothering to defend this state, which seemed poised to shift fully to the Tory side. Yet
they were restrained by the strictest orders of the general to not forage, loot, or even speak crossly to the locals.
She looked down at Peter as he slowly drank down the concoction. Then back at Harris.
“One-hundred-dollar promissory note from the state. Not a penny less.”
“For how long?”
She shook her head.
“Chances are the bloody British will sweep you out of here in a fortnight. So let’s just say this. One hundred for however long you stay, be it for a week or until the last trumpet sounds, and that is my final offer.”
Harris smiled and stood up.
“It is agreed. One of the general’s staff will be down with a written agreement and payment within the day. And I thank you.”
Harris looked over at Peter.
“Come on, son.”
“No,” and she glared at Harris. “The boy can stay here.”
“Well, ma’am…,” and he hesitated.
Peter, finishing the last of the soup, shook his head and stood up. “I’m going back,” he said.
“Maybe you should stay and keep guard on her house,” Harris offered, as Mrs. Hewes’s gaze bore into him. He returned the gaze, hopeful that his ploy was working. The lad was at death’s door, if they didn’t get him out of the weather and some food in his belly. It was why he had brought him along, having heard the word that the old woman here had a sharp tongue, to be certain, but that perhaps she could be “worked on.”
“I think the general would want that, now that this is his headquarters, at least until he moves in,” Harris added. “Stand guard and make sure the place is kept safe. Consider that an order, which I am certain Major Tilghman will confirm.”
Peter looked from him to Mrs. Hewes.
“Stay, Peter,” Mrs. Hewes whispered, voice husky.
“No shame in it. Besides I’d feel better with someone garrisoned here to keep off marauders and such.”
Peter reluctantly sat back down.
“Only until the general moves in.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Harris whispered, turning back at the doorway. “He’s a good lad.”
“Tell your general, tell all the generals, to take a damn good look at what they are doing to the boys that follow them.”
“I can assure you, ma’am, General Washington knows and is in as great an anguish over it as you are.”
She stood silent for a moment.
“Damn all war,” she sighed.
“Yes, ma’am, damn all war,” Harris replied.
Closing the door, she returned to the kitchen. Peter looking up at her, anxious and embarrassed. She stepped closer and patted him on the shoulder.
“I had three boys with my first husband. Don’t know if they’re in this war or not, or on which side, for that matter. Haven’t seen nor heard from them in years.”
She didn’t say more, and then she pulled her hand back.
“Merciful God, you are crawling with lice!” She vigorously brushed her hand, knocking the offending creature to the floor and crushing it with her heel.
She stood back, hands resting on hips, glaring at him.
“Young man, you are getting a bath and don’t even try to say no. I’ll drag out the bathing tin and start some water boiling.”
Peter reddened with embarrassment.
“Ma’am, I cannot.”
“And why not? And don’t tell me you hold with the foolishness that bathing in winter will be the death of a person. You are filthy, you are lousy, and you are not staying in this house until you’ve bathed.”
“I can’t accept, ma’am. I’ll quarter myself in the barn.”
“And freeze to death. Not while I’m here.”
He struggled to hold back the tears that were clouding his eyes. She softened and stepped closer.
“I know, boy. You’re ashamed, aren’t you?”
He lowered his head and nodded.
She stormed out of the room and returned a minute later with a blanket.
“I’ve had three sons, so nothing will surprise me, young man. You strip down and I’ll keep my back turned. Now go on.”
She handed him the blanket and turned away. Bustling out to the storage shed, she pulled out the tin tub, dragged it back into the kitchen, clattering and rattling, set it down directly in front of the blazing kitchen fire, then went out to the well, returning half a dozen times with buckets of water that went into the large kettle over the fire.
Peter stood silent, blanket wrapped tight, shivering. She ordered him to pull a stool up by the fire and stay out of her way. The water was soon at least tepid and she started to ladle it into the tub. Going back to her larder, she returned with a small brick of soap and motioned for him to get into the tub.
“Ma’am, I must ask you to please leave.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Boys and their modesty. Guess you all forget how many times your mothers wiped you clean.”
He looked at her, absolutely mortified. She set the soap down by the tub and turned to leave, picking up a fire poker. Using the poker, she prodded at the pile of clothes Peter had stripped off, which were nothing more than foot wrappings, the uniform jacket, a tattered shirt, threadbare and literally dark gray from sweat and dirt, and trousers. The tails of his uniform jacket had covered his backside, but now the trousers were revealed.
She choked back a sob. They were stained with filth and blood.
“Merciful God, when will this end?” she whispered. The jacket at least she could boil, the rest she would burn.
She spared a glance back at the boy. He was sitting in the tub—squatting, actually—shaking, his white, naked flesh marred by the red welts of bites from lice and fleas. He settled into the tub and a sigh escaped him. Using the poker, she dragged the shirt and trousers out the back door of the kitchen and threw them into the yard and then returned.
In those few minutes it looked like the boy had actually drifted off to sleep sitting in the tub in front of the fire.
The hell with his modesty, she thought. Going to the large kettle over the fire, swinging it back out, she scooped out what was now warm water. She poured it over his head and he awoke with a start as she picked up the soap and began to scrub him.
“Please no!”
“You’re nothing but a boy,” she said softly, “Now let me take care of you…”
She acted like she didn’t hear his shuddering sobs of humiliation as he stopped being a soldier and retreated to simply being a boy who was scared, sick, hungry, and in need of some gentle mothering.
York, Pennsylvania
December 22, 1777
A cold rain beat against the windowpane. A gust of wind worked against the window sash, prying the window open a couple of inches, flooding the already chilled room with an icy blast.
Dr. Benjamin Rush, a former member of the Continental Congress, signer of the Declaration of Independence and now surgeon general of the army for the middle states, watched impassively as the keeper of the inn where he and most of Congress were lodged went over to the window, cursing, and slammed it back down. From experience Rush knew it would slip open with the next heavy gust, and he wondered if the thick-headed man had ever come to the conclusion that having it fixed, or repairing the broken lock to keep it in place, might be the better solution.
“Rush, are you listening to me?”
He turned and looked back at the general sitting across from him in their small booth off to one corner of the room.
“I was listening,” he replied absently, and even as he spoke his attention again drifted down to the letter.
It was from his wife and had been smuggled through the lines from Philadelphia. She reported that she was well and that the occupying British had not despoiled their home, even though he was a signer, because of the influence of her father, yet another signer. Her father had turned coat, going over to the Tory side, persuading Howe that if the house and the offices of his son-in-law’s medical practice were not b
urned, he might be persuaded to return to the royal side.
He wondered, scanning the letter, if between the lines she was indeed begging him to abandon the cause and sign the allegiance to the king.
After the carnage of Brandywine, and with Washington abandoning the capital, he had managed, as the most widely known physician in America, to gain a pass from Howe to move between the lines to help tend to the wounded on both sides, under the pledge that he would not use anything he saw to the advantage of the rebels. Although he was a signer and, as such, on the royal list of men who would be condemned to hang, Howe had accepted his parole and his word of honor not to use what he saw to advantage, and in return to use his famed skills for the benefit of injured British and Hessian soldiers.
The experience had shaken him to the core, and he realized that Howe had, without doubt, played a subtler game with him, letting him see the power England was bringing to bear and, in so doing, breaking down his resolve.
The British and Hessians typically had a well-organized medical corps. Immediately after Brandywine they had shown mercy to the hundreds of American wounded, abandoned by the retreating army, and allowed him to tend to their needs, in more than one case a British surgeon aiding him in a particularly difficult amputation. At least among physicians there was still civility in this war, and he had shared meals and traded experiences and knowledge with more than a few of them.
As surgeon general for the army in the middle states, he had felt shaken in his belief in the general who commanded that army.
Few medical supplies had been set aside for the eventuality of a major campaign, in spite of his months of pleading. No proper field hospital had been constructed outside of Philadelphia in the event that the city was lost. He was forced to rely on the charity of the British for bandages, splints, tonics, and broth, a supply that had dried up as the fighting continued around Paoli and Germantown.
The impact on the large number of wounded and prisoners had been dreadful. At this very moment, hundreds were locked up in the prison house, which stood but a few blocks from where, a year and a half ago, he had put his name to the copy of the Declaration of Independence. What a staggering collapse of fortunes in just one year. The bravado of the colonists was gradually being overwhelmed by the wealthiest and most powerful empire on earth.
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 9