“Splendid. See if you can scare up some oats for this old girl”—he patted the horse—“and there should be victuals for you behind the kitchen. Keep an eye out for that Billy Lee, the general’s manservant. It would be good for us if you could establish a friendship with him.”
“I shall do my best, sir.”
I waited until he disappeared through the door, then I led the horse to the barn and found a handful of oats and bucket of water for her. A servant offered me a mug of hot toddy. I drank it down, declined his offer of a game of cards, and stared into the dark.
One of Benny Edwards’s favorite stories was about a fellow who stole fire from the old gods and brought it to the people who were cold. I couldn’t remember his name. He was caught, of course. The gods chained him to a rock to punish him. Every day an eagle was sent to peck out the fellow’s liver. Every night the liver grew back, so he did not die. The torture started anew each morning. All because he stole something that should have been his to begin with.
When Benny finished his story, Silvenus said if it had been him, he would have bashed his own head into the rock until he was dead. Aaron Barry said he would have grabbed the eagle and eaten it. The rest of the fellows were quiet, including me, because I did not know what I would have done if somebody shackled me to a mountain and sent an eagle to eat my insides, day after day after day.
Now I knew. I would fight the eagle and the chains and that mountain as long as I had breath.
CHAPTER XLIII
Monday, February 23–Tuesday, March 17, 1778
UPON THE WHOLE MY DEAREST FRIEND AND FATHER, I HOPE MY PLAN FOR SERVING MY COUNTRY AND THE OPPRESSED NEGRO-RACE WILL NOT APPEAR TO YOU THE CHIMERA OF A YOUNG MIND DECEIVED BY A FALSE APPEARANCE OF MORAL BEAUTY, BUT A LAUDABLE SACRIFICE OF PRIVATEINTEREST TO JUSTICE AND THE PUBLIC GOOD.—JOHN LAURENS, LETTER TO HIS FATHER, HENRY, PRESIDENT OF THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS AND SLAVE TRADER
WE WERE AT WAR IN THE WEEKS that followed, Bellingham and me, a stage play of a war. He acted the part of the kindhearted master but was secretly armed with his ability to hurt Isabel. My role was the slow-witted, dutiful servant. Bellingham did not hire me out even for one day, so the inhabitants of Moore Hall became my weapons.
As Bellingham had requested, I lavished extra attention and care upon Mister Morris and Mister Reed, always making sure that the best pieces of meat were set upon their plates and that their glasses stayed full. I fashioned a stool for Mister Morris to rest his sore ankle upon, after he slipped on the ice. I sharpened Mister Reed’s quills, for he never took the time to do it himself.
When Mister Morris asked me to care for his boots, I won a skirmish. When I put all of his clothes to rights, removing stubborn stains and unpleasant odors from his breeches, he expressed his gratitude with a coin and complimented Bellingham on the quality of his servant. That won me a minor battle and earned me the duties of cleaning all of the gentlemen’s clothing.
Bellingham was clever enough not to trust my transformation back into obedience. He was shaved each day by Gideon and rarely allowed me in the same room with him if he was alone.
My ears were my valued allies. When the plates and glasses were all filled, and I was required to stand in the corner of the dining room and wait for the next order, I’d fix my eyes upon a spot on the wall and stare as if I were a bit addled. In truth, I was listening close to the conversating, waiting for information that would help us break free from the mountain.
Much of what I heard had more meaning for the soldiers shivering in their huts than for me. The causes of our starving times were many. The men in charge of supplying the army had not prepared for the winter encampment; the army did not have enough wagons to deliver food to camp nor enough money to pay for it; and the local people had already sold their grain and meat to the British, forcing supplies to come from great distances. And to top it all off, there was no salt to be had, which made preserving meat and fish for the journey to camp near impossible.
There were some eleven thousand soldiers at camp, making Valley Forge the third biggest city in America, according to Mister Folsom. To feed them proper required a million pounds of bread and a million pounds of meat every month. I had no notion of what a million was, but I knew it was a vast sum.
The gentlemen agreed that the fellows who had been running the Offices of the Quartermaster and Commissary should all be shot.
Dinner the next night was rabbit pie and more of Missus Cook’s turnips, which the gentlemen were fast tiring of. The talk centered on a battalion of black and Indian soldiers being assembled in Rhode Island (news that I could not wait to tell Isabel). The state was largely occupied by the British, and the Patriots could not find enough men to fill the ranks of their Continental brigades. The Rhode Island assembly had passed a law to free slaves if they served for the entire war. They offered to pay the owners of the new soldiers 120 pounds for the loss of their property. This seemed to me such a sensible solution to so many problems, I could not figger why it created discord or why the other states did not follow suit.
Mister Morris then told of a recruitment plan he’d heard that day, a notion put forth by John Laurens, an aide-de-camp to General Washington.
“Laurens claims that if the army does not double or triple in size, the war could drag on for years. He, too, wants to enlist and arm slaves who are willing to fight. He points to the general acceptance of the hundreds of free Negroes here in camp as evidence that it would not cause any problems.”
“Ha!” snorted Mister Dana. “What of their masters? How are they to be compensated?”
“Young Mister Laurens has thought this through most carefully,” said Mister Morris. “He says the government should compensate the slave owners a fair price for each man who goes into the army, just as they have done in Rhode Island. He thinks it might be a way to stop slaves from escaping and joining the British. A growing number seem determined to back whichever side grants them liberty.”
“We have quite enough trouble with the British. To raise the issue of freedom for slaves right now would be setting a spark to gunpowder.” Mister Reed lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
I fought to keep my face plain and dull as the rest of the men returned the toast. The more I pondered it, the angrier I became. I stole a glance at Gideon. Slaves who were not friends could still share common sentiment about the injustices they suffered. Gideon stood as straight and stiff as a statue. His eyelids did not flicker as the congressmen scorned the ideas of John Laurens. He did not breathe deeper or faster or clench his fists to contain his anger. The gentlemen could have been discussing the age of the turnips on their plates or the chance of snow on the morrow.
His reaction, or rather, the absence of any reaction, made me more curious than ever about Gideon. I resolved to study his actions as carefully as I studied those of my captors.
CHAPTER XLIV
Wednesday, March 18–Sunday, March 22, 1778
THIS CURIOUS CHARACTER OF A BARBER. . . I HAVE A GREAT INCLINATION TO DRAW FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT. HE IS A LITTLE DAPPER FELLOW . . ., A TONGUE AS FLUENT AND VOLUBLE AS YOU PLEASE, WIT AT WILL, AND A MEMORY OR AN INVENTION WHICH NEVER LEAVES HIM AT A LOSS FOR A STORY TO TELL YOU FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT. . . . HE HAS DRESSED HAIR, AND SHAVED FACES AT BATH AND AT COURT. . . . HE IS A SERJEANT IN ONE OF THE COMPANIES OF SOME BATTALION OR OTHER HERE. . . . I ASSURE YOU I AM GLAD TO CHATT WITH THIS BARBER WHILE HE IS SHAVING AND COMBING ME, TO DIVERT MYSELF FROM LESS AGREABLE THOUGHTS. –JOHN ADAMS, LETTER TO ABIGAIL ADAMS
SEXAMINED EVERYTHING THAT GIDEON owned the next morning when he drove Isabel to her duties at Missus Shippen’s. He possessed three blankets, four fine shirts, two extra pair of breeches with expensive knee buckles, and a blade for shaving his face. I found nothing that gave an indication of his character; no cards or gaming pieces, nothing for praying or for sport or for remembering someone far away.
The only curious thing was a letter folded small and hidden inside his second-best breeches. Missus Cook once aske
d Gideon to read a page of a newspaper to her when Isabel was busy. Gideon had said then that he could not read. I couldn’t either, so I had no idea what the letter contained or who sent it or why he would keep such a thing. I carefully folded it again and hid it back in the breeches.
After that, I kept track of the amount of time Gideon spent on errands to headquarters or the market stalls on Sullivan’s Bridge. More than half the time he tarried, sometimes returning much later than he ought. He was never spoken to about this; the gentlemen and Missus Cook all assumed he was doing the wishes of one of the generals or aides to His Excellency. As his real master was a day’s ride away, there was no true accounting of his comings and goings.
I suspected he was courting a girl–one of Lady Washington’s maids or a girl who worked for one of the regiments because her father or brother served in the company. I hoped it meant he was courting a girl, for Isabel was becoming too familiar with him. She allowed him to stand disrespectfully close when they talked, and laughed when he tried to be funny, tho’ he never said a single clever thing. I was beginning to loathe all things about Gideon.
Winter returned with a bitter vengeance on the twenty-second day of March, thirty-seven days after Bellingham stole my life from me. Congressmen Dana and Folsom refused to let the thick ice on the road in front of Moore Hall interfere with their plans to leave for York that morning. Gideon and I wrapped rope around our shoes to give us a better grip on the ground as we carried their trunks and boxes to the wagon. Though normally a strong enough fellow, Gideon struggled with his end. He coughed heavily and shook with chills when I was warm enough from our exertions to be sweating.
“Have you had the smallpox?” I asked him.
“I do not have the smallpox.”
“You look sickly to me.”
Gideon ignored me. “Go upstairs and turn the mattress in the Greenes’ bedchamber. Make sure Isabel has dusted and cleaned the windows.” He paused to cough some more. “I’m off with the wagon to collect their belongings. If the room’s not ready when I return, the blame is all yours.”
General Nathanael Greene and his young wife were moving into the empty bedchamber. General Greene was taking over the quartermaster general’s position and would be in charge of purchasing and delivering the food and other requirements for the army. By fetching their belongings, Gideon was wasting no time assuming the role as the general’s manservant.
After I turned the mattress, there was wood to be split, manure to be shoveled in the barn, and all manner of chores requested by Missus Cook. A fat-nosed junior officer delivered a message for Bellingham mid-morning and said he was instructed to wait for a reply. I’d been so busy that I’d lost track of Bellingham. I did not think he was at Moore Hall; he was not in the parlor or dining room.
“They said he was here,” the lad insisted. “I can’t go back without a response. I’ll wait in the kitchen.”
I took the stairs two at a time, determined to prove the fellow wrong. I opened the door of Bellingham’s bedchamber without knocking, so certain was I that the room would be empty.
I was wrong.
Bellingham sat in the chair, a towel tied around his neck and his face well soaped on one side. Isabel stood next to the chair, the lathering brush in her hand.
Bellingham was not pleased. “Since when do you enter my chamber without knocking?”
“Apologies, sir,” I said hastily. “A messenger has come from General Varnum. He requires that you write a reply.”
“He’ll have to wait, then,” Bellingham answered. “I am in need of a shave and Gideon won’t be back for hours.”
“I could have helped you, sir.”
“I did not want your help.” Bellingham motioned to Isabel. “Finish this side, please.”
She dipped the brush in the soapy water, then leaned over to rub it on Bellingham’s face.
“Shall I fetch paper and pen so you can write your reply, sir?” I asked.
“General Varnum is getting rather full of himself.” Bellingham placed his hand on Isabel’s hip. “His messenger can wait until I am finished.”
Take your hand off her, you foul whoreson.
“Of course, sir,” I said.
Isabel set the lather brush in the bowl, her face hard as stone.
“Since you’re here, Curzon, there is mud dried on my good blue coat. Take care of it.” He patted Isabel’s backside. “Be quick, Isabel. The Greenes will arrive soon.”
As Isabel reached for the razor, Bellingham closed his eyes, as was his custom whilst being shaved. He did not see the way she gripped the handle of the blade or the look in her eyes. She was not going to shave his whiskers. She was going to slice open his throat.
Two thoughts collided in my mind like cannonballs: that I would cheer when the job was done, and that I had to stop her, because our punishment would be swift and merciless. The latter thought carried more force and drove me into action.
“Mister Bellingham, sir, if I may.” I quickly crossed the room. “Isabel knows how to pluck chickens and shear sheep, but not how to shave the face of a gentleman. On another occasion it might not matter if your face was nicked or if a patch of whiskers was overlooked, but it will today. Allow me, sir, so that you might look your best.”
I put out my hand for the blade.
“I suppose you’re right.” Bellingham sighed and patted Isabel again. “Give it to him, girl, then ask the cook if she has any of that cobbler left.”
Isabel handed me the razor; the horn handle was sweaty and warm. Bellingham studied her backside as she rinsed her hands and dried them on her apron.
I held up the blade so that it flashed in the light from the window. “May I, sir?”
“Of course,” he said, closing his eyes again and tilting back his head. “What else is being done to prepare for the Greenes’ arrival?”
“I asked the cook to bake up a nutmeg cake,” Isabel said. “It is said to be Missus Greene’s favorite.”
“Excellent notion, Isabel,” Bellingham said. “Find out what General Greene prefers on his plate too. Our interests lie with him now, instead of the congressmen. We must do whatever we can to ensure his comfort and keep his wife content.”
“I shall learn all that I can, sir,” Isabel said.
“Good girl.” He pointed at his face. “Make haste, Curzon. The soap is drying and it itches.”
CHAPTER XLV
Monday, March 23 –Saturday, April 4, 1778
WE ARE TAUGHT FIRST TO MARCH WITHOUT MUSICK BUT THE TIME OF MARCH IS GIVENUS. SLOW TIME IS A MEDIUM BETWEEN WHAT WAS IN OUR SERVICE SLOW AND QUICKE TIME . . . ABOUT AS QUICKE AS A COMMON COUNTRY DANCE.” –CONNECTICUT COLONEL ISAAC SHERMAN, NOTES ON THE INSTRUCTIONS OF BARON VON STEUBEN
MARCH MELTED INTO APRIL, AND Valley Forge reeked of the foul stench of rotting horseflesh and the thawed privy trenches that had been filled by ten thousand soldiers. The noxious miasma caused birds to fly around the encampment instead of over it.
The filth in the air brought a wave of illness that stretched from camp to Moore Hall and beyond. The soldiers who stood at the front door were recalled back to camp because it was clear the British were not going to invade Moore Hall, and so many Life Guards were ill, the fellows were needed at headquarters. The congressmen had complaints of the belly and bowel. Missus Cook’s limp grew so severe, she could walk only with the aid of a stick. Isabel burned her hand on a hot poker and it wept yellow.
My fingerbones ached where the cold had bit into them in February.
Gideon’s cough worsened until he collapsed whilst powdering Mister Morris’s wig. His master sent a cart from York to fetch him. Isabel had several whispered conversations with him as he lay coughing on his pallet. She was almost tearful when he departed.
I did not pray for his recovery.
Gideon’s absence made more work for me, to be sure, but I welcomed it. My day started an hour before sunup and continued long past dark, for General Greene received a constant stream of officer
s, messengers, reports, and letters. Along with the serving of meals, the ordering of clothes, and the care of the horses, their saddles, and other riding equipment, I took over shaving for Bellingham and the two remaining congressmen, Mister Morris and Mister Reed. General Greene was shaved by his wife each morning, though he occasionally asked me to repair the spots of whiskers that she missed.
Bellingham’s eager bootlicking paid off quickly. General Greene appointed him to the post of assistant quartermaster general, with the chance to make profit on goods purchased for the army. Bellingham had hoped that he would be given a commission in the army as well and had already ordered a uniform coat from his tailor and purchased a Maryland colonel’s pistol.
When he told me of his favorable change in circumstances, he gave no clue about what it meant for me and Isabel other than to say, “Saddle the general’s horse and mine. We’re meeting with the brigade commanders on the Outer Line. You will accompany us.”
We’d had three days of sun and cold winds, so the road into camp was not too terrible muddy. In truth, I would not have cared if the mud had been up to my waist, for I had not been ten paces away from Moore Hall since the night of General Washington’s birthday ball.
The camp was as busy as a city, with soldiers all hurry-scurrying about their business, some wearing coats ill-stitched from blankets, but a few dressed in the recently delivered brown lottery coats. The gentlemen of our company held a brief palaver with General Knox at the artillery camp. From there we continued along the Gulph Road toward the Outer Line in search of a brigade parade ground. General Greene wanted to watch the new drilling techniques of Baron von Steuben, the Prussian gentleman in charge of instruction. I examined the face of every man and boy who passed, hoping he might be a friend, tho’ I knew not what I would do or say if he were.
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