Prelude to Glory, Vol. 5

by Ron Carter

  Martha spoke. “Doctor, how many on your staff?”

  “Six remaining. One died of typhus, five days ago.”

  “The others?”

  “We take shifts. Besides Mary, there is one more on duty right now. He’s back there, disposing of . . . the results of surgeries.” He shifted his eyes to Hamilton. “Colonel, I’m certain you’ll understand. Would you please escort Mrs. Washington out of this building?”

  Martha remained silent, somber, while the coach worked its way back west. As they approached the grounds where General Varnum’s division had built their huts, she looked right half a mile, to the place where the bare branches of poplar and oak trees lined the Schuylkill River, and then the coach turned right on Valley Road and the driver stopped in front of the plain, square stone house. Hamilton assisted her to the ground and bowed.

  “It has been an honor. It would be my privilege to escort you whenever you wish.”

  Martha reached to grasp his arm and looked up into his eyes. “Thank you, Colonel Hamilton. Thank you for not sparing me. I shall look forward to seeing you again.” He walked her to the door, opened it, and stepped aside as she entered. One minute later the driver gigged the horses into motion, and the coach moved away.

  The old, carved clock on the fireplace mantel in the parlor had just struck nine o’clock when Martha stopped her gentle rocking and laid her knitting in her lap. General Washington knew the signs. He laid his quill down on the document he had been writing on the small desk in the corner, turned in his chair to look at her, and waited.

  Martha spoke in a quiet, even voice. “Could you arrange to have food delivered here, to this kitchen, tomorrow morning as soon as possible? As much flour and meat as you can gather. And any vegetables you can get. I will spend some time delivering food among the sick.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  She shook her head. “I would appreciate it.”

  The general nodded, turned back to his desk, plucked up his quill, and continued writing.

  * * * * *

  The gray of approaching dawn found Martha in her kitchen, quietly kneading bread dough. Six smoking loaves sat cooling on towels on the kitchen cupboard. Six more were in the hot, black oven. The rich aroma of baking bread filled every corner of the kitchen and wafted out into the hallway.

  At fifteen minutes before seven o’clock she used thick pads to remove the loaves from the oven, drop them from the pans onto the kitchen cupboard, set them in rows on towels to cool, and rub the tops with fresh butter. Quickly she greased and floured the pans, rolled out fresh dough, cut it to exact lengths, and plopped it into the waiting tins to rise.

  At ten minutes past seven she served the general his breakfast of ham, eggs, steaming fresh bread and butter, and hot chocolate. At seven-thirty she stood before him and reached high to fasten his heavy woolen cape, then raised to tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek before he walked out into the crisp air. At eight o’clock she quickly wiped her hands on her flour-spotted apron to answer a rap at the front door.

  A stocky sergeant with bare legs and his feet wrapped in filthy, ragged sailcloth stood on the doorstep. Behind him four men stood beside a great, two-wheeled cart they had dragged three miles over the rough road through camp. The sergeant’s bushy red beard moved as he spoke.

  “Ma’am, I’m sergeant Randolph O’Malley, New York Third Company. I got orders to deliver some supplies here to Lady Washington.”

  Martha nodded. “I’m Mrs. Washington.”

  O’Malley brightened. “There’s flour here, ma’am, and a little meat and a few things we hunted down. Where would you like us to unload?”

  “Around at the side of the house, please. There’s a door into the kitchen and the pantry. I’ll open it for you.”

  “That would be fine, ma’am.”

  O’Malley turned and called, “Bring it around to the side of the house,” while Martha closed the door and hurried through the house, through the kitchen, and unlatched the door. She was standing on the flagstone entryway when O’Malley led his small command around the corner, two men between the shafts pulling, and two men behind the cart pushing. Of the five men, only one had shoes, and four had their feet wrapped in anything they could find. None had winter coats.

  She pointed and stood aside while they carried the goods inside to set them on the pantry shelves or the kitchen table as Martha directed. The men worked silently, their eyes seldom leaving the golden brown tops of the smoking loaves of bread cooling on the kitchen cupboard. Martha studied the men as they moved. Their arms and legs were thin, knees and elbows and wrist joints too large. Their eyes were sunken, cheeks hollow, their skin a sallow, sickly color.

  She gestured, and O’Malley spoke to a young soldier, thin, nearly smooth-cheeked, who held a small sack of potatoes with sprouts in every eye.

  “She wants it there on the table, Dunson.”

  Caleb set the sack down and backed toward the door, waiting.

  O’Malley faced Martha. “That’s the last of it, ma’am. I surely do hope you and the general enjoy it.”

  “I thank you all for delivering it, but it isn’t for myself or the general.”

  O’Malley’s bushy red brows raised. “Not for you? Then who?”

  O’Malley saw the pain come into her face. “I visited the hospitals yesterday. I hope to have some of this ready to deliver to those men by one o’clock.”

  O’Malley hooked a thumb toward the pantry and the table. “You’re going to cook all this for the sick?”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  O’Malley stood in dead, incredulous silence for a moment, then raised a hand to scratch his beard. “Ma’am, if ever you need more such, you say so. We’ll get it here, one way or another.”

  “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

  O’Malley turned to his men. “We’re finished. We’ve got a ways to go to get back to camp.”

  They had the door open when Martha suddenly said, “Wait a moment.”

  O’Malley turned, puzzled.

  Martha pointed. “Load these loaves of bread in one of those clean sacks on the cupboard and take it back to your company. Don’t tell a soul where you got it.”

  Caleb’s mouth dropped open in shock. In his life he had seen a thousand loaves of fresh-baked bread in his mother’s Boston kitchen, but he could not remember bread that looked and smelled so good.

  O’Malley stammered, “You . . . this bread is for us?”

  “Take it. Share it with your company. You’ve earned it.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t hardly believe you’d offer, but that doesn’t seem fair to the rest of the army.”

  “It’s a start. Now you take it.” She grasped a clean flour sack from those on the cupboard and handed it to Caleb. “Would you help him?”

  With a sense of reverence they loaded the twelve heavy loaves of golden brown bread, six loaves warm, six still smoking hot, into the clean sack, then all five men stopped to stare at Martha. In their eyes and their faces was a look akin to worship.

  O’Malley cleared his throat. “Ma’am, there just isn’t a word I can think of that will let you know how grateful we are. I’ll see these loaves get back to Third Company, and we’ll divide ’em out fair. We’ll tell the men an angel give ’em to us, and I don’t think that’s far from the truth. You don’t know what you’ve done for my men.”

  “It was nothing. Now go on, while they’re still hot.”

  The men filed out, and Martha stood in the doorway until they disappeared around the corner: four men pushing and pulling the cart, and Sergeant O’Malley carrying the sacked bread over his shoulder.

  The winter sun had passed its zenith and was beginning its arc toward the western rim when Martha once again climbed into her coach. Seated opposite her was Alexander Hamilton. On the floor of the coach, beside the foot warmer, were three large, heavy kettles of meat and potato stew, lids fastened down. On the seats beside herself and Hamilton were twenty-four loaves of bread i
n clean flour sacks, packed in wooden crates.

  At twenty minutes past one o’clock the coach rocked to a stop before the huge, two-storied stone building that had been converted from a stable into a hospital. Twenty-five minutes later the food was inside the makeshift hospital, and Mary Flint and Martha were portioning out the steaming stew as rapidly as they could spoon it into wooden bowls, while Dr. Folsom and his two assistants cut bread as fast as they could.

  Men ate their stew with spoons if they had them. If they did not, they raised the wooden bowls to their lips and sipped at it, and dipped their bread into it, and then wiped their bowls clean with the last crust. For half an hour the only sounds were those of famished, starving men filling shrunken stomachs with a meal they would never forget. They finished, and as Martha passed among them, touching one on the forehead, another on the hand, they reached to touch her. Some tried to speak but could not.

  By half past three the wooden bowls had been gathered and water was boiling on the stove to wash them. Dr. Folsom beckoned Martha and Mary back to his cot.

  “I don’t know what to say. That’s the first food these men have had in weeks, that had any strength to it. But more than that, I saw hope come back into their eyes. It’s a terrible thing when men lose hope. I’ll never forget this. I thank you.”

  Martha shrugged it off. “I need to get back. The general will be coming home soon for supper, and I have a kitchen to clean up. I’ll be back when I can. May the Almighty bless you and your staff for what you’re doing.”

  She had turned and started away when Mary reached to take her arm. “Mrs. Washington, I’ve held back a little—”

  Martha cut her off. “Please, call me Martha.”

  Mary started again. “I’ve held back a little stew and bread. Nearby there’s a sergeant with a young wife. He’s dying. We sent him home yesterday because there’s nothing we can do for him, and he wanted to be with her. Would you come with me to their little hut? It won’t take much time.”

  Martha looked up into Mary’s dark eyes. “Of course.” She turned to Colonel Hamilton, standing behind her, waiting.

  “Colonel, I hope you won’t mind waiting for just a short time.”

  Hamilton shook his head. “Of course not.”

  Bundled in their heavy cloaks, parkas over their heads, the two women walked out the front door, Mary carrying a jar of stew, Martha a loaf of bread. They marched west through the snow, with the sun in their eyes and the shadows of trees lengthening eastward. Mary pointed, and they approached a small hut with smoke rising straight into the blue sky. Mary knocked on the door, and it was opened by a girl not yet seventeen. Her face was pretty, eyes red and tired, her hair awry, her ankle-length, gray dress wrinkled.

  “Yes?” In the moment she spoke she recognized Mary. “Oh! Do come in.”

  She opened the door and stepped back while Mary led Martha inside the cabin. There was a fireplace at one end, a table in the center of the room on a cold dirt floor. Straw was piled two-feet deep against one wall, and a young man lay on it, beneath blankets. He was sweating and shaking, and his teeth were chattering as he opened his eyes and tried to focus in the dim light of the single lantern that burned on the table.

  “Polly? Did someone come?”

  “Yes. It’s Mary Flint. From the hospital. She has a friend.”

  “Mary? Bless Mary.”

  Mary pulled a stool beside his bed and sat down. “Enoch, I have someone who wants to meet you. Someone special. Do you know General Washington?”

  “Yes. He’s my commander.”

  “His wife has come to visit you. Martha Washington.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “His wife? Lady Washington?”

  “Yes. Lady Washington.”

  Martha drew a chair up beside him and placed a cool hand on his forehead. She felt the sweat running.

  “Sergeant, Mary said you’re special. I wanted to meet you.”

  By force of will the man stopped his shaking and brought his eyes to meet hers. “I am honored. I am deeply honored.”

  “Have you been with the general long?”

  “From the beginning, ma’am. The battle of Long Island. I’ve marched through it all with him.”

  Martha took his hand and felt the weakness as he clutched at hers. “I’ll tell him. He’ll be proud. Is this your wife?”

  A light sprang into his eyes. “It is. Polly. Polly Linderman. Been married a little over a year. So proud of her.”

  “You should be.” Martha brought the wrapped loaf of bread from the folds of her cloak. “I brought you something, and so did Mary.” She laid the bread on the table, and Mary set the jar of stew beside it. “Some fresh bread and beef stew. I thought it might be fitting.”

  “For us? Bread and stew? Can’t remember the last time we had food like that. I want to thank you. For me and for Polly.”

  Martha turned to Polly, who stood in disbelief at the sight and smell of the bread and stew. “Do you have a bowl? Could he eat a little of it now?”

  For fifteen minutes Martha patiently dipped small amounts of stew from a wooden bowl and held it to the man’s lips while he chewed and swallowed. She broke bread into small chunks to go with it, and he ate ravenously.

  Martha set the bowl on the table. “That’s enough for now. We’ll leave the rest for later. Polly can help you. I have to go, but I’ll return when I can. I’ll tell the general about you, Sergeant.”

  He reached to seize her arm. “If I . . . if things go . . . wrong, take care of Polly for me. Will you do that?”

  “I promise.”

  He relaxed, and a look of peace stole across his face. “Thank you.”

  For a moment Martha stood beside him, and then suddenly she knelt beside him, and she bowed her head and clasped her hands before her chest. Instinctively Polly and Mary bowed their heads and waited as Martha spoke.

  “Almighty Father, Creator of all, humbly we thank Thee for Thy blessings. Forgive us our trespasses. We beseech Thee to look down upon this, Thy son, Enoch Linderman, with compassion. He has offered all he possesses in Thy holy cause of freedom. May Thy blessed Spirit be with him, and with Polly, now and always, to give them peace in the sure knowledge their offering has been accepted of Thee. In the name of Thy Beloved Son, Jesus, Amen.”

  Martha raised her head, and Enoch reached to tenderly touch her cheek.

  “I thank you, Lady Washington.”

  “God bless you, Enoch.”

  From behind, Martha heard a quiet sob catch in Polly’s throat, and she rose and turned. She reached for the girl and drew her close and held her while Polly buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed. When the shaking stopped, Martha turned to Mary, who wiped at her eyes.

  “We must go.”

  Mary nodded. “I know.”

  Martha turned back to Enoch. “I’ll remember my promise. Polly will be all right.”

  Polly held the door while the two women walked out into the snow and turned their backs to the westering sun. They walked together back toward the hospital, each aware of a quiet sense of peace that came stealing over them in the bitter cold.

  Martha spoke without turning her head. “Tell me when he leaves us. I must take care of Polly.”

  Mary answered, “I will.”

  They walked on in silence.

  Notes

  The entire American camp at Valley Forge was about ten miles in length, on the south side of the Schuylkill River. The route traveled by Martha Washington as described here is accurate, including the location of some of the divisions of soldiers. For an excellent diagram, see the fold-out map preceding the preface page in Wilde, Valley Forge.

  Martha Washington is accurately described, both physically and by character and personality. Because of their love and respect for her, the American soldiers called her “Lady Washington.” On her arrival at Valley Forge the soldiers gave her a loud welcome. Once in the residence with General Washington, she commented on the smallness of the rooms and the fact that
a log building had been erected behind the home for dining and entertaining. Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 142; Busch, Winter Quarters, pp. 94–95; Reed, Valley Forge: Crucible of Victory, p. 34; Freeman, Washington, p. 375; Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, p. 171.

  Martha Washington’s observations of the terrible condition of the soldiers as her coach passed through the Valley Forge camp is accurate. Many carcasses of dead horses littered the campsite. Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 436; Busch, Winter Quarters, p. 71.

  The horrendous odor and sounds and general condition of the hospitals are accurate as described. Wagons, called “meat wagons” by the soldiers, were sent through camp daily to pick up the bodies of dead soldiers. Jackson, Valley Forge: Pinnacle of Courage, p. 154; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 436–38.

  For an excellent view of a “surgical suite” in a Valley Forge hospital as described here, see the photo in Wilde, Valley Forge, p. 179.

  For an authoritative presentation of the true, deplorable conditions in the American medical staff and the hospitals, see Fisk, “The Organization and Operation of the Medical Services of the Continental Army, 1775–1783,” pp. 94–142.

  The incident of Martha Washington visiting a dying sergeant and his wife in their small hut is accurately described here, including the fact that she knelt by his bedside and prayed for him; however, the names Polly and Enoch Linderman are fictional names. A young girl accompanied Martha and told of the experience many years later. For purposes of our story, we have substituted Mary Flint in place of the young girl. Busch, Winter Quarters, pp. 94–95.

  Valley Forge

  Late February 1778

  CHAPTER XXVI

  * * *

  Sergeant Randolph O’Malley breathed shallow under the moonless, black-vaulted heavens and hunched his shoulders against the bitter cold as he covered the last ten yards to the small hut he shared with eleven others from Third Company. His beard and eyebrows were white with frost from his two hours of picket duty in a night thirty-one degrees below freezing. His feet and fingers and nose were numb as he leaned his shoulder against the rough plank door and forced it inward into the single room. Sixteen feet opposite the door, the coals of the fire glowed dully where they had been banked earlier. The thick stench of unwashed bodies that had worn the same clothing night and day for five weeks and the thin hint of smoke from green wood made him squint.