Forge (Seeds of America)

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “Your master will see you now,” he said.

  The request was not long enough for me to reckon where he came from: New England, the South, the middle states, or across the ocean.

  “My name is Curzon,” I said. “You?”

  He moved a wooden box on the shelf to the side.

  “How did you come to be here?” I asked.

  He placed the jar on a high shelf. “I was sent to fetch you, not to stand about jawing.”

  “Who is your master?”

  He folded the rag and set it aside the jar. “You will follow me.”

  He led me to a dining room converted to be a useful place for the men of the Congress. Mirrors were hung opposite the windows to strengthen the last rays of the sun. Dim portraits glared down from the walls lit by guttering candles in wax-covered sconces. The long table was completely covered with books, half-burnt candlesticks, hills of papers, and an enormous map. I could not read the words at the top of the papers, but I recognized numbers, long columns of numbers that were added up to great sums.

  The room was cold, the fire dying.

  Bellingham sat at the far end of the table. “Ah,” he said, looking up from the papers before him. “Resurrected at last. Fetch some wood for the fire, Gideon; the maid has neglected it again.”

  Gideon was this fellow’s name. He nodded and gave a courteous “Sir” before gliding through the door and closing it behind him without a sound.

  Bellingham set down his pen and waved me closer. “Let me see what damage that buffoon did to your pate.”

  I walked the length of the table, bent at the waist so he could peer at my head, then stood again.

  “You’ll heal,” he said. “It’s not deep.”

  I said nothing.

  He sat back in the chair and sighed. “This is for the best. You’ll see that in time.”

  I stared, imagining his wrists in shackles, a noose lowered over his head. Kicking away the stool that he stood upon. The sound the rope would make as it snapped his neck.

  “We’re crowded here, but it’s better than that frozen hovel on the hill. You’ll have decent clothes and food.”

  He waited for a reply, but still, I said nothing. Any words I spoke would surely earn me a fierce beating; I did not yet have control of my mouth or temper.

  The silence of the room was broken by Gideon, who entered carrying a scant armload of firewood. He deposited it by the hearth and knelt to revive the fire, but Bellingham waved him away.

  “Leave that,” Bellingham said. “Remind the cook that the gentlemen will be hungry when they arrive and that she ought heat up some wash water for Curzon. And send the maid in.”

  Gideon stood and inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

  Bellingham waited until Gideon had again disappeared, then he stretched his arms above his head once and yawned.

  “The maid takes care of the mending and washing and whatever else is needed.”

  My mouth remained locked. I would not be goaded into conversating with him, to act as if all was well and natural.

  “Gideon is on loan to the committee from one of the congressmen in York. He has struggled to properly serve the five of us. Your help will be most welcome. He’ll show you the lay of the house and explain our routines. It will be much like our time in New York, only with more coats to brush and boots to clean.”

  He speared a cold potato with his fork and bit it. “Where is that blasted girl? Would you attend the fire, Curzon? If we wait for her to do it, we’ll surely freeze.”

  I crossed to the hearth and picked up the fire poker, a length of iron as thick as two fingers and as long as my arm. I could crack his skull with one hard blow. But I was still barefooted and half starved. Even if I outran the guards, I’d perish of the cold. I had to soldier my temper. For now.

  I knelt and poked at the dying coals.

  “I function as an aide to the committee from Congress,” Bellingham said proudly, as if I’d inquired about his position. “It was a stroke of genius to become as close as I did to Morris those last months in New York. You’ll remember him: young chap, flirts shamelessly? Rich as Midas. Serve him first, always, then Reed, for he has the ear of General Washington. Then me. The other two fellows are good enough, but they cannot help my plans.”

  I arranged the wood above the coals in a crisscross fashion.

  “Morris has hinted I might be appointed to head up the commissary on account of my mercantile experience. At the very least, I ought to become a person of rank within one of the divisions responsible for supplying the army. I need your ears again, Curzon. Listen in on any and all conversations, particularly when Morris and Reed meet with anyone from headquarters.”

  I ignored him and blew on the coals to revive them. A few weeks was all I needed. In that time, I’d learn the habits of the gentlemen; who was tidy, who was forgetful. Who carried coin upon his person and who left it in his chamber. I’d eat everything I could to strengthen myself for the escape. When the right moment presented itself, I’d know who to steal from, how, and in which direction to flee.

  The coals glowed red. There was a quiet knock on the door.

  “Enter,” Bellingham said.

  The door opened. “The maid, sir,” Gideon announced.

  “Perfect,” Bellingham said. “That’s all, Gideon.”

  I blew again as the maid stepped softly across the floor. I would not alert Gideon to my plan. There was something about his manner I did not trust. Sparks finally popped.

  Bellingham continued conversating with himself. “Morris arranged my position assisting the Congress.” He chuckled. “Had two rooms all to myself near the City Tavern—far nicer than this. I bought a sturdy mare for fifteen pounds and this girl for ten.”

  The coals burst into flame.

  “Oh, do stand up, Curzon,” Bellingham said. “I can hardly introduce her to your backside, can I?”

  I stood, brushing the ashes and wood grit from my hands.

  Time stopped. The room was so still, I could hear voices arguing in the kitchen. Heavy footsteps on the floor above. The crackle of fire eating wood. Horses approaching on the camp road.

  “I recognized her right away, of course.” Bellingham reached for the last potato. The tines of his fork screeched wickedly across the plate. “She tried to help us nab Lockton and his foul nest of traitors, remember?”

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .

  Candlelight caught the rage in her eyes. Reflected off the scar on her cheek.

  ’Twas Isabel.

  Part III

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  Saturday, February 14, 1778

  I HAD THOUGHT ONLY SLAVERY DREADFUL, BUT THE STATE OF A FREE NEGRO APPEARED TO ME NOW EQUALLY SO AT LEAST, AND IN SOME RESPECTS EVEN WORSE, FOR THEY LIVE IN CONSTANT ALARM FOR THEIR LIBERTY.

  —OLAUDAH EQUIANO, MARINER AND FORMER SLAVE

  I SABEL STUDIED ME, AND I, HER.

  She’d grown tall and didn’t much look like a girl anymore. She wore a blue-checked short gown over top of a homespun chemise and had a grimy apron atop her black skirt. She wore the shoes on her feet that she’d worn when we escaped New York, much scuffed now. A length of brown fabric was loosely wrapped below her chin, hiding her neck and covering her shoulders. A kerchief of the same color covered her hair.

  Bellingham looked at me, then at Isabel, then back to me.

  “Do you not remember her?”

  How much has she told him?

  If I pretended not to know her, he’d be suspicious. But if I admitted the truth, I might expose any lies that she had been forced to spin.

  I touched the swollen knot on my head. “My mind is still clouded, sir.”

  “She was Lockton’s girl,” Bellingham said. “Lived on Wall Street.” He stood up. “Mayhaps that guard hit you harder than I thought.”

  “Now I recollect,” I said. “She is much grown.”

  “True enough.”

  The din of stomping boots and loud voices in the front
hall drew his attention. “Blast!” Bellingham began gathering up the papers in front of him. “Quick! Curzon, close up all the books with red leather bindings and stack them in the center of the table. Isabel, to the kitchen for wine. The wagon should be ready for you, but prepare the tray first.”

  Isabel paused at the door that led to the kitchen and looked back at me. I could not tell what she made of any of this.

  “Hurry!” ordered Bellingham.

  As she slipped out, two gentlemen entered from the hall, brushing snow from their wigs. They were congressmen, but I did not know their names.

  “You’ve returned early!” Bellingham feigned delight with a false smile.

  The younger fellow shivered once. “A rider came from Albany with news.”

  “News about the scheme to unseat General Washington. Disrupted all of the business of the day. Total rot, of course.” The older man dropped into a chair with a groan and wiped his nose on a handkerchief. “Is this your boy? He looks a bit worse for the wear.”

  “There was a misunderstanding after the trial,” Bellingham said.

  The younger gentleman pointed to the papers in Bellingham’s hands. “Did you complete your study of the reports?”

  Bellingham set the papers down and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. I’d seen him do it countless times, always when he was about to shade the truth in his favor.

  “I want to go over the numbers again. The situation could be much worse than anyone imagined.” He plucked a paper from the center of the table. “These are the reports from Chester County.”

  The gentleman with the damp nose held up his hands. “Not yet, James, please. Some food first.”

  “Agreed.” The younger congressman sat next to him. “Your boy won’t serve table dressed like that, will he?”

  “I should say not!” Bellingham said. “He has an appointment with soap and clean clothes right now. You can go, Curzon,” he said to me.

  I took three steps away from the table before he stopped me.

  “One moment,” he called. “Have you forgotten how to take proper leave of your master?”

  That word—“master”—was a musketball ripping through my guts. I almost bolted for the fireplace and grabbed that poker so I could brain him. They’d catch me, beat me, mebbe kill me, but it would have been worth it.

  Except for Isabel.

  All three men stared at me, waiting.

  I stiffened my back, held my arms tight to my sides, and bowed low, silently cursing every man in the room.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said as I again stood straight. “Will that be all?”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  Saturday, February 14, 1778

  TO MAKE A CALF ‘S FOOT PIE: FIRST SET FOUR CALVES FEET IN A SAUCE-PANIN THREE QUARTS OF WATER, WITH THREE OR FOUR BLADES OF MACE; LET THEM BOIL SOFTLY TILL THERE IS ABOUT A PINT AND A HALF, THEN TAKE OUT YOUR FEET. . . PICK OFF THE FLESH FROM THE BONES, LAY HALF IN THE DISH, STREW HALF A POUND OF CURRANTS CLEAN WASHED AND PICKED OVER AND HALF A POUND OF RAISINS SOFTENED. . . BAKE IT AN HOUR AND A HALF.—HANNAH GLASSE, THE ART OF COOKERY, PUBLISHED IN 1774

  I PASSED GIDEON IN THE HALL. HE WAS carrying a tray of wineglasses and a bottle to the newly arrived gentlemen.

  “Pardon me,” I started. “Do you know—”

  He walked past me without a word.

  The kitchen was crowded with so many tables, chairs, crates, and kegs that there was hardly room to turn around. The walls were filled with shelf after shelf of fat ceramic jars, green glass bottles, boxes for cutlery and spices, crockery plates, and wooden bowls. Extra chairs hung from hooks on the beams where wall met ceiling. Four pots bubbled over the flames in the hearth, and the lid covering a massive pan peeked out from the heap of glowing coals.

  Most curious of all was the bird sitting in a cage on the table closest to the fire. It was the size of a small crow, but wore brilliantly colored yellow, green, and blue feathers and was possessed of a ferocious beak it was using to open a walnut.

  An old white woman came out of the pantry carrying a smoked ham.

  I bowed hastily. “Good day, ma’am. Can you tell me where I can find Isabel? Mister Bellingham’s maid?”

  “That one?” She heaved the ham onto a board and limped to the other side of the room. “What do you want her for?”

  “Uh,” I stammered. “To become better acquainted with my duties. Here.”

  The woman grunted, pulled a stool over to the shelves, and climbed up onto it, her limbs shaking.

  I rushed over before she fell. “May I please help, ma’am?” She studied me, her blue eyes clouded with age. “I need that knife box up there.”

  “Of course.”

  She put out a hand so I could help her safely find the ground and watched as I took down the box and set it by the ham.

  “That Isabel”—she took a large knife from the box—“the wagon just took her back to headquarters. They needed a maid to help with something.” She sliced off a bit of the ham and tossed it in the cage. The bird snatched the meat in its beak, then gave a low whistle. “Cheeky devil,” she said to the creature.

  “Mister Bellingham hired her out?”

  “Hires her out every chance he gets. This camp has too many gentlefolk and not enough servants. Pull down a plate for me, will you? And a bowl.”

  She piled ham slices on the plate I handed her, then gave it back to me. “Eat.” A toothless smile softened her direct manner of speech.

  She did not have to say it twice. I sat, grabbed a fork, speared a piece of the meat, and stuffed it into my mouth. The taste was indescribable, but better than that was the satisfying sensation of swallowing, and then the luxury of another and another and another piece waiting on my plate.

  “I imagine you’ll be hired out too,” she said. “After you’ve had a bath. Are you useful at all? Do you have a trade? The artisans are desperate, I hear. ‘Specially the gunsmiths.” She filled the bowl with soup from a pot hanging over the fire and set it next to my plate.

  Could the key to our escape be so easy; wait until we were hired out to the same house and then run?

  “When will Isabel return?” I asked.

  She continued slicing and chuckled. “Lads find love in the strangest places.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, my face suddenly hot. “It’s just—”

  “Don’t you worry none.” She reached across the table and patted the back of my hand. “I raised eight sons and a score of grandsons. Know a few things about lads, I do. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  My mouth opened, but for the life of me, I could not think of a lie. The colorful bird gave a tremendous squawk as if laughing at my discomfort.

  “Shush, now.” Missus Cook tossed more ham in the cage.

  “Keep up that noise and I’ll bake you in a pie, I swear.”

  I seized upon the interruption to direct the old lady’s attention away from Isabel. “If I may, ma’am, what manner of bird is that?”

  “My son William claims it is a parrot. Won it in a card game, he did. Says I ought call it King George, so he can order it about when the war is over.” She gave the soup over the fire a stir. “William is a fine cardplayer, Lord forgive him. Have you heard of him? William Farnsworth Cook of the Fifth Pennsylvania Regiment? Blasted fool is too old to be in the army, but he won’t listen to his mother. Or his wife.”

  I wiped my mouth. “Are there many parrots in Pennsylvania?”

  She laughed at that. “Goodness, no. The sailor who lost the card game came across it in some heathenish place.” She limped back to the table and picked up her knife again. “Ought to be grateful. Imagine if my William had won himself an oliphant. Where would I fit a creature like that in my kitchen?”

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Sunday, February 15–Wednesday, February 18, 1778

  SHE TOOK DOWN HER HORSE WHIP, AND WHILE SHE WAS GLUTTING HER FURY WITH IT, IREACHED OUT MY GREAT BLACK HAND, RAISED IT UP AND RECEIVED THE BLOWS OF THE WHIP ON IT WHICH WERE DESIGNED
FOR MY HEAD. I IMMEDIATELY COMMITTED THE WHIP TO THE DEVOURING FIRE.—VENTURE SMITH’S (BROTEER FURRO) DESCRIPTION OF STOPPING A BEATING BY HIS LONG ISLAND OWNER

  I SABEL WAS A PUZZLEMENT IN THE days that followed. When our paths crossed, she would not look at me. I’d say, “Hello, Country.” Or, “Good day, Isabel,” but she acted deaf. At first I thought she was being sensible, that there were dangers for us both if we talked freely in front of others. The kitchen always overflowed with people: Missus Cook; Gideon; the Moore family, who owned this house and were reduced to living in one bedchamber; plus any number of messengers and junior officers coming from or headed to the camp. I told myself she was just waiting for the right moment.

  By the third day, however, I began to worry that she’d suffered a brain fever. We passed each other in the hall, without another person in earshot, and still she ignored my greeting. I followed her back into the kitchen that time, intent on forcing a conversation, but Gideon was waiting for her, holding the tall rack of bells that he pulled out when readying the wagon to take Isabel for another day of hired-out work.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” I said with care, for Gideon stared openly at us. “Do you suffer from an affliction of the ears?”

  Isabel tied on a bonnet, pulled on a red cloak and knitted mittens, then walked out the door without answering me. Gideon smirked and gave a little laugh that made me want to punch his face.