Forge (Seeds of America)

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  Gideon only spoke to me when he was complaining about my work or giving me a new task to do. Tho’ we ate most meals together, worked side by side, and slept on the floor of the bake-oven shed, he never conversated with me like a normal fellow. In the daytime, he ignored my questions. At night he’d lay himself down and go straight to sleep. Or at least pretend to.

  “A peculiar egg,” Missus Cook called him.

  Gideon’s master, the congressman in York who had loaned him to the committee, was one of the richest men in the South, according to the old woman. He owned four hundred slaves who worked his fields of rice and tobacco. Gideon was as trusted as General Washington’s manservant, Billy Lee, but was said to be twice as clever.

  “He speaks the French and the Italian,” Missus Cook gossiped. “Learned it when he went over the seas with his master.”

  I did not think this was much of an accomplishment and heartily wished that his master would recall him to York. Or send him to Italy. Anything to keep his sneering face away from me and Isabel. Gideon treated me like a useless piece of furniture, but when it came to Isabel, he was all false kindness and flattery. Because she was so young and unfamiliar with the world, she encouraged his attentions.

  These circumstances gave even more urgency to my plans of escape. I pondered how we could run away day and night. When to run. Where to run. How to avoid recapture.

  Spring was the most likely time—after the snow had melted, but before the army marched into battle. We ought wait for a confusion-filled day so we could be miles away before our absence was noted. But waiting brought danger, too. Bellingham and the congressmen could soon return to York, where our chances would be much dimmer. He could decide to sell one or both of us, because he was short of coin. My doubts and convictions fought back and forth.

  Run now.

  Wait for the right moment.

  Run while we still can.

  Wait to gather information and strength.

  But when the gentlemen discussed the birthday ball being thrown for His Excellency General George Washington, the decision was made for me.

  I did not sleep the night I heard the news. Gideon snored like a well-fed hog, and the sound of it made me heartily miss all the fellows in my hut. It also helped keep me awake as I waited for Isabel to come outside to use the privy. I prayed that she did not have a chamber pot.

  The hinges of the kitchen door squeaked just before the sun rose. I peered out the shed door just in time to see her enter the privy. ‘Twas a cold morning; she did not tarry long. I stood at the kitchen door and put a finger to my lips when she returned, then followed her inside.

  Isabel walked to the hearth and poked at the fire. “Say your piece,” she said bluntly.

  “Pardon me?”

  She stuck a twist of paper into the flames. “You’ve been itching to holler at me since you got here. I’ll keep working whilst you bluster on. Missus Cook likes everything to be ready when she comes downstairs.” She lit two candles with the burning twist and tossed it into the fireplace. “Just don’t expect me to apologize.”

  “I’m not going to bluster or holler and I don’t want an apology.”

  “I don’t have time for lies or foolishness,” she said.

  “Would you please be quiet for one moment?” I walked over to her and whispered, “I can get us out of here.”

  CHAPTER XL

  Wednesday, February 18, 1778

  THE YOUNG NEGRO FELLOW WILL SHAG WHO FORMERLY LIVED AT OLD QUARTER AND AS HE WAS ALWAYS RUNAWAY I MOVED HIM DOWN HERE TO SETTLE THIS PLACE. . . BUT HE RUNAWAY SOME TIME IN JUNE WENT TO YORK AND PAST FOR A FREE MAN. . . HE WENT AWAY FOR NO PROVOCATION IN THE WORLD BUT SO LAZY HE WILL NOT WORK AND A GREATER ROGUE IS NOT TO BE FOUND.

  —LETTER TO GEORGE WASHINGTON FROM ONE OF HIS OVERSEERS, JOSEPH VALENTINE

  ESCAPE?” SHE WHISPERED.

  “There’s a big celebration at headquarters Sunday night, General Washington’s birthday. It will be just like New York,” I said. “We’ll wait until they are deep in their cups and merrymaking, then run.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If you think I’m running away with you, then your wits have indeed been scrambled.”

  “What?”

  She tightened her jaw. “I trusted you in Morristown. You lied to me about where we were headed and went behind my back to lay plans for Albany. One of the other cart drivers told me of the plan when he was looking for you.”

  I frowned. “Isabel, you lied too, and you stole all our money.”

  “You lied first. And yes, I took the money, but halfway to Philadelphia, I felt bad about it. So I went back.”

  “You went back for me?”

  “No, not for you. Just to return your half of the money. Only you weren’t there. Glad to be quit of me, I figgered.”

  “I was not glad to be quit of you. What happened then?”

  She swung the kettle over the fire. “When I didn’t find you, I left again. Found a nice seamstress to work for in Philadelphia. I saved until I could pay for a spot on the coach to Williamsburg. I was waiting for it in front of the State House when I was grabbed.”

  “By Bellingham?”

  She shook her head. “The fellow who sold me to him. He was a violent man.” She stopped sudden. “That’s all I’m going to say about that.”

  I was overcome by an unsettling sensation, as if some giant had picked up the whole of the earth and tilted it. She’d been hurt, scarred on the inside of her spirit, and I did not know how to help her.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “Dreadful, doleful sorry.”

  The weak words were useless. Since we’d parted in Morristown, she’d been alone and in the worst sort of misery. No wonder she’d treated me ill.

  I cleared my throat. “We have to plan for Sunday.”

  The candlelight jumped and played on the walls, making our shadows as tall as the ceiling. Two tears escaped her eyes. One fell to the floor, the other dropped onto the folds of the cloth wrapped around her shoulders and neck.

  “I can’t go,” she said.

  “Of course you can. We’ll stay together every step, I swear. We’ll head for Baltimore or—”

  “Hush.” She wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I already tried to run away. Three times.” She reached for her neck cloth. “Master Bellingham took me to a blacksmith.” She found the loose end of the cloth and began unwrapping it. “And paid the man to forge this.”

  She let the cloth fall to the ground.

  An iron band circled her neck, fastened there by a lock that hung like a hideous jewel. This collar was as good as chains around her ankles; it would alert the world of her circumstance and make escape even harder.

  “Bellingham wears the key on a cord around his neck. There is a slot in the back for the bells,” she explained. “You’ve seen Gideon carrying them. He locks them into the collar whenever I leave the house. The ladies I sew for say they give off musical tones when I walk.” Her voice choked with anger. “They find the sound delightful.”

  The ground under my feet tilted farther, and I felt like I was falling down a dank, endless well, stone walls closing in around me, darkness stealing away my breath. Isabel waited in silence.

  “It changes nothing,” I finally said. “We’ll find a way to remove it once we’re far away.”

  “Any blacksmith you approach would have us arrested and pocket the reward. My only hope is to fool him into thinking that I’ve changed so he’ll take this off someday. That’s when I’ll escape.” She picked up the long cloth from the floor. “You’ll have to run alone. If you do, mind your mouth. It always makes trouble for you.”

  Gideon opened the door before I could respond, his bug eyes wider than usual. “Is the tea ready?”

  How much did he hear?

  “Nearly,” Isabel lied.

  “Your witless friend here can take it up to the gentlemen,” Gideon said smoothly. “I’ll prepare the table.”

  Isabel rewrapped her neck cloth. “Would you fetch
some wood for the fire, Curzon?”

  CHAPTER XLI

  Wednesday, February 18–Sunday, February 22, 1778

  RUN AWAY. . . A NEGROE GIRL, NAMED HAGAR, ABOUT 14 YEARS OF AGE, OF A BROWNISH COMPLEXION, HAS REMARKABLE LONG FINGERS AND TOES, AND A SCAR UNDER ONE OF HER BREASTS, SUPPOSED TO BE GOT BY WHIPPING. HAD ON. . . AN OZENBRIGS SHIFT AND PETTICOAT, VERY MUCH PATCHED. . . [AND] AN IRON COLLAR ABOUT HER NECK.—NEWSPAPER ADVERTISEMENT PLACED IN THE PENNSYLVANIA GAZETTE BY WILLIAM PAYNE

  BY THE TIME I BROUGHT THE WOOD in, Isabel had loaded the tray with a teapot and three cups and saucers. “For Misters Bellingham, Dana, and Folsom,” she said as I picked it up. “Top of the stairs to the right.”

  My jumbled cogitations of horror and despair left me speechless. All I could do was nod. I carried the tray to the gentlemen’s bedchamber and knocked before entering.

  The dim light of a single candle left most of the small room in shadows, but I could see that the bed was intended for two bodies and contained three. Valley Forge was so crowded, even congressmen had to bunk together. Mister Dana stood up and made his way to the washstand as I crossed the threshold. Mister Bellingham gave a groan and turned over.

  “Careful, lad.” Mister Folsom sat up, pulled off his nightcap, and scratched at his short hair that stood up like porcupine quills. “Not much room for stepping.”

  “Not much, sir.” I picked my way through the confusion of boots, trunks, chairs, and discarded clothing on the floor. “May I stack these books?”

  “Just leave the tea and begone,” Bellingham grumbled into his pillow.

  I balanced the tray in one hand and made space on the small table by piling the books scattered there. After I set the tray down, I lit a second and a third candle.

  Mister Dana tapped with his knuckles to break the thin layer of ice atop the water of the washing-up basin. “Don’t suppose we could get warm water for the washing?”

  “Get on with it, you coward,” Mister Folsom said. “Ice water builds character, didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

  Mister Dana splashed the water on his face and grunted.

  “Shall I pour the tea, gentlemen?” I asked.

  “No.” Bellingham finally sat up. “Go down and make sure that fire is roaring.”

  I bowed, not trusting myself to speak to him.

  “Wait!” Mr. Dana wiped his hands on a rag, crouched at the side of the bed, and drew out the chamber pot. It had been used in the night. “Take care of this, will you?”

  I took the chamber pot from him. I wanted to turn it upside down on Bellingham’s head, to drag him out of the bed, down the stairs, and into the snow, where I would horsewhip him until he understood what Isabel had suffered.

  “Are you ill?” Bellingham asked. “Is your head still muddled?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” I said. “My head is clear.”

  I determined then to begin a mutiny. When the gentlemen were breakfasting, I made up their bed, taking care to sprinkle mouse droppings on the mattress first. I emptied the chamber pot, but did not rinse it clean before I replaced it under the bed. I stepped my muddy shoe on a shirt fallen to the floor and kicked it to the corner.

  When the gentlemen left for headquarters, I spilled half a cup of tea across their papers, then covered the mess with several ledgers. I closed the fireplace flue to make the dining room smoky, then complained about it to Gideon, who opened the flue and all the windows to air out the room. When the gentlemen returned for their dinner, they had to eat it with their coats and gloves on, for it was as cold inside as out. Gideon received the scolding for this, which was an unexpected bonus for me.

  I continued my insurrection for several days, all the while plotting my escape. The iron collar around Isabel’s neck meant that I would have to escape first, then find a foolproof way to cast off the collar and take her with me. I ate all of the food I could hold at every meal to strengthen myself for the running. Breakfast was two bowls of porridge and bread topped with molasses and butter. Dinners and suppers always had some sort of roasted or stewed meat and plenty of turnips. Missus Cook took pleasure in my appetite and baked two apple pies for me. I tasted guilt whenever I thought of Ebenezer and the others, but I ate until my belly ached.

  I prepared Bellingham’s clothes for the general’s birthday celebration with great care. I brushed most of the dirt from his jacket, but snipped a few threads from the buttons in the hopes that one or two might pop off in the course of the evening. I polished his shoes, picked off the lint from his black breeches, and inserted a pinch of wood shavings into the toes of his stockings so that his feet would itch all night.

  Once I finished dressing him, Bellingham said that he wanted me to lead his horse to headquarters. Mr. Folsom frowned as he heard this, surprised, perhaps, that Bellingham was vain enough to parade his wealth before the general.

  I was dismayed. I had not thought he would require me. My plan was to wait a few hours, tell Gideon I had a belly complaint and would be spending the night in the privy, and run as fast and far as I could until dawn.

  When the gentlemen were all mounted, Bellingham waved the others ahead. Once they were out of sight, he said, “All right then, Curzon. Walk on.”

  I took the horse’s reins and gently pulled so that she walked alongside me. The falling rain was on the edge of turning into ice. I raised the lantern so I could better see the road.

  “How do you find Isabel?” Bellingham asked after a mile of walking.

  His voice startled both the horse and me. I slowed until she calmed some, then resumed my pace. “Isabel seems fine enough.”

  “Gideon tells me that she showed you her collar,” he said a half mile later. “Did she?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s quite good with a needle,” he said. “Much too valuable to let slip away.”

  “You are a wise man of business, sir.”

  “Do not mock me,” he snapped. “Stop the horse.”

  I tugged on the reins. The horse halted and snorted, her breath turning to frosty smoke. We were close enough to the bridge to hear the faint sound of the hammers pounding in the artisans’ workshops.

  “My patience is at an end, Curzon. Did you think I wouldn’t know who ruined the reports on the table, turned the dining room into a smokehouse, and muddied my best shirt? What’s next, serving me curdled milk? Poison?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I thought not,” he said, “because you’re running away. Tonight, correct?”

  Gideon.

  “Allow me to explain a few things. I purchased Isabel for my wife’s use, but then Lorna died. When I realized how much I could earn from the girl’s sewing skills, I decided to keep her. Tho’ she has that troublesome inclination to run away, she’s valuable. As are you, except for the rebellious notions that have infected your mind.”

  I will kill you slowly, I thought.

  He dug his heels into the mare’s flanks. “Walk on, Curzon. I do not want to greet the general looking like I just climbed out of the river.”

  I took the horse’s reins again and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

  “Everything is trade, you know, even between a master and a servant,” Bellingham said. “When you offer me honest labor and dutiful behavior, you earn my kindness. For your recent treatment of me, I should pay you back with a beating. But I suspect pain holds little fear for you after what the army has put you through. I’ve been pondering this predicament for days and have finally hit upon the perfect solution.”

  The horse hesitated as we stepped onto the bridge that spanned Valley Creek. Bellingham kicked her again. “Are you listening carefully?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Your punishments shall be given to Isabel.”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “Every time you behave improperly, she will suffer. If you deserve a slap, I shall slap her. If you earn a night in the stocks, she will serve out the term. And if you are stupid enough to run away, her
pain, Curzon, will never end.”

  CHAPTER XLII

  Sunday, February 22, 1778

  CASH PAID THE 22D INST. TO PROCTOR BAND BY THE G.O. . . . 15S.—DAILY EXPENSE ACCOUNT OF GEORGE WASHINGTON SHOWING PAYMENT MADE TO THE FIFE AND DRUM PLAYERS WHO PLAYED FOR HIM ON HIS BIRTHDAY AT VALLEY FORGE

  DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

  Bile had risen in my throat. I swallowed it. “I understand, sir.”

  “Excellent. We will speak no more of it.”

  Headquarters lay just ahead, ablaze with candle and lantern light. Bellingham dismounted at the bottom of the path that led to the front door of the small stone house. He smoothed his breeches, then removed his gloves and handed them to me.

  “Do I look suitable for a dinner with His Excellency and Lady Washington?”

  Heavy shadows lay under his eyes. His face was not as whisker-free as it ought be for such an occasion. A stain on his neck cloth was apparent even in the half darkness and his wig was in dire need of pomading.

  “If I may, sir,” I said, “I should like to adjust . . . there is a stain visible . . .” I pointed.

  “Of course.”

  I tugged at the fabric to loosen the silk cloth that wrapped around his neck. The sounds of the soldiers and officers around us, the noise of the bustling kitchen in the building behind headquarters, the high-pitched laugh of some officer’s wife, they all faded, overpowered by the screaming in my head.

  My fingers. My hands so close to the cord around his neck that held the key to the iron collar. The cord that deserved to be tightened like a noose. . . .

  “Aren’t you done?” he asked impatiently.

  The voices flooded back, as did the light from the campfires of the general’s Life Guard.

  “Almost, sir.” I refolded the neck cloth to cover the stain and stepped back.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Much better, sir. I’ll have Isabel clean that tomorrow.”