Forge (Seeds of America)

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  CHAPTER LII

  Friday, May 1, 1778

  SHE WAS INDEED THE OBJECT OF MY FIRST LOVE, A LOVE WHICH CAN ONLY BE EXTINGUISHED WITH MY EXISTENCE; AND NEVER AT ANY PERIOD PREVIOUS WAS THE YOKE OF BONDAGE MORE GOADING, OR DID I FEEL SO SENSIBLY THE WANT OF THAT FREEDOM . . . WHICH WAS NOW THE ONLY BARRIER TO MY MUCH WISHED FOR UNION WITH ONE I SO SINCERELY AND TENDERLY LOVED. –ROBERT VOORHIS, BORN A SLAVE IN NEW JERSEY IN 1769

  I CLOSED MY EYES AND LEANED MY forehead against the door.

  On the back of Gideon’s horse, she’d make it to Whitemarsh by dawn, Bucks County by midday, if they were headed east.

  Bellingham would be angry, but his duties would keep him too busy to mount much of a search. He’d likely advertise in the newspaper, but it would take days to arrange that. Mayhaps he’d beat or sell me. I could rouse neither fear nor anger at the thought.

  They’d likely hide in the daylight, try to sleep. They should head to the Watchung Mountains in Jersey, then go north. I could not think further than that.

  My ribs crushed in around my heart until it burst.

  CHAPTER LIII

  Friday, May 1, 1778

  MAY POLES WERE ERECTED IN EVERY REGT IN THE CAMP AND AT THE REVEILLE I WAS AWOKE BY THREE CHEERS IN HONOR OF KING TAMMANY. THE DAY WAS SPENT IN MIRTH AND JOLLITY THE SOLDIERS PARADING MARCHING WITH FIFE & DRUM AND HUZZAING AS THEY PASSED THE POLES THEIR HATS ADORNED WITH WHITE BLOSSOMS. –JOURNAL OF PRIVATE GEORGE EWING, SECOND NEW JERSEY REGIMENT, VALLEY FORGE

  A WOODPECKER THUDDING THE planks of the shed woke me. The sky was still dark, but the robins were awake and calling to one another. I sat up, befuddled, then lay back down with a groan.

  She’s gone.

  We had been together at Moore Hall for scarce two months and spent most of that time fighting like a dog and a cat confined in a barrel. How was it, then, that I was so melancholy? I ought be happy she’d found a route to liberty. If I could not be joyful about her release, I should at least be content to be free of her scorn and sour face.

  My heart was too sore to beat, my head felt flattened by a hammer, and my limbs so heavy that sitting up required an effort worthy of Hercules.

  The woodpecker stirred again. Tap-tap-tap.

  I slapped the board above my head and came away with a sliver in my palm, which I cursed mightily.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  The poxy creature had flown to the doorway.

  I stood, shouting to scare off the woodpecker: “I’ll see you baked in a pie!”

  I snatched open the door, hoping to frighten it off.

  Isabel stood there, her eyes swollen from crying, holding a candle that she sheltered from the breeze with her hand.

  “I got the water hot in the kitchen for you.”

  “What did you say?” I was not certain if I was awake or dreaming.

  “Come in the kitchen so I can shave your whiskers. They are a disgrace.”

  She turned and walked away, pausing at the kitchen door. “If you leave your mouth open like that, a bird is gonna fly in it.”

  She sat me on a chair in front of the fire. A basin of hot water steamed on the table next to me. She lit three candles to give her light to work by, then sat on the chair in front of me, picked up the lathering cup, and brushed the soap foam onto my face.

  I did not move, afraid that if I did, the dream would end.

  Isabel set the cup on the table and picked up the razor. She dipped it in the hot water, shook the blade once, then gently pushed my chin with her fingertips so my right cheek faced her. She applied the edge of the razor to the soap on my stray whiskers and pulled it down in short, rasping strokes. “Does that hurt?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  She rinsed the blade in the water. “I imagine you want to know what happened.”

  She unfolded her story as she shaved my whiskers with great care. The guards on Sullivan’s Bridge had been playing cards and did not notice her crossing. Gideon had been waiting just beyond the bridge, south of the road, behind the remains of a broken-down barn. He gave her a bundle of boy’s clothes he’d collected for her, and after she said she’d changed her mind, he told her to keep them.

  “You were wrong, you know,” she said as she paused to sharpen the razor. “He wasn’t sneaking off to visit girls. He was delivering messages to the British.”

  “What?” I almost leapt out of my chair. “Gideon was spying?”

  “He said they paid him well.”

  My mind raced. It explained much: Gideon’s absences, his odd behavior, his desire to be of service when the gentlemen were discussing matters of the army and the war. But it raised new questions.

  “Do you know how much he told them?” I asked.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t want the British to win.”

  “Don’t see what difference it makes,” she said. “Gideon said all kinds of folks take news about the camp to the British. The rebels have plenty of spies in Philadelphia as well. Let them have their war, I say. We have our own battle to fight. Turn your head.”

  Isabel’s fingers were gentle on my face. Scrape, scrape, scrape, the blade sang. I tried to put Gideon out of my mind and prayed that the sun would rise late. But by the time she was finished, the night sky had paled and the robins sang in full chorus, with a steady beat of woodpeckers in the distance.

  Isabel wiped my face and stood up. “Almost as easy as shearing a sheep,” she said.

  “Thank you.” I felt my cheek–cold and smooth–as she poured the water into the washing-up tub. I had to ask her–right now, or lose the chance. “Why did you come back? Was it because he was a spy?”

  “Not at all!” She laughed. “I don’t care about the rebellion or the King, you know that.” She strode to the larder. “I have to start the tea.”

  “But why, then?”

  She stopped and came back to stand directly in front of me. “If I tell you, you have to swear not to tease me about it.”

  “I promise.”

  “The ghosts didn’t come with me.”

  To laugh then would have meant certain death. “What ghosts?”

  “I never told you this before. Never told a soul.” She took a deep breath. “That night we left New York, when you lay insensible and I rowed, ghosts helped us cross the river. They stayed with us the whole time in New Jersey and then they disappeared.”

  “You can see ghosts?”

  “It’s not a seeing, it’s a knowing, sensing they’re near. When you and me were talking to Gideon yesterday, the ghosts returned. It was a sign that I should go with him, I thought. But they went away again when I left last night. They want me to stay with you. If I’m ever to find Ruth, somehow, you’re going to be a part of it.”

  She picked up the towel on the table. “You must think my brainpan’s cracked.” She handed the towel to me, pointing to a spot below my ear. “You’re bleeding a little.”

  “There is nothing wrong with your brainpan or your ghosts.” The new sun brightened the kitchen, and I saw my way clear to do something I’d been wanting to do for a long time. “I have a ghost, too,” I confessed.

  Her eyes widened. “Really? Do you know who it is?”

  “My father.” I tossed the towel on the table. “His ghost is this instant demanding that I tell you a story. May I?”

  She nodded, puzzled. We sat down facing each other, so close that her skirt brushed against my knees.

  “Once upon a time,” I started, “a girl named Marguerite was born a slave in Brazil. When she was ten years old, she was taken on a ship to Boston and bought by a preacher whose wife needed help caring for her many children.”

  Isabel frowned and pointed again at my ear. “That blood will stain your shirt.”

  I sighed, picked up the towel, and held it against the cut.

  “Who was this Marguerite?” she asked.

  “Let me tell the story.”

  She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “It was a harmless
question.”

  “Shhh.” I folded the towel. “Marguerite hated Boston because it was cold and she didn’t understand English, on account of she grew up speaking Portugee. One day she met a handsome fellow named Cesar and they fell in love and they got married, even though it caused all kinds of trouble. Marguerite gave birth to a son and then she died.”

  “Why would your father’s ghost want you to tell such a sad story?”

  “Can you please let me finish it?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m not stopping you.”

  “Thank you.” I swallowed hard. “Cesar was so filled with sorrow, he might have destroyed himself except for the baby. He decided to choose a name for his boy that would keep Marguerite alive.”

  I wiped my sweaty hands on my breeches. If my father had been wrong about this, I didn’t know what I was going to do. “Cesar loved it when Marguerite would whisper to him, ‘Você é meu coração.’ He took out the most important word, coração.” I stretched the sound of it. “Core-a-sao. Cesar turned it into a word that sounded more like a name, the name of his son: Curzon.”

  “Those are your parents!” A smile broke across Isabel’s face. “That is a good story. But what does it mean, what your mother said?”

  “It means, ‘You are my heart.’” I leaned forward, took her hands in mine, and whispered into her ear. “You have always been my heart, Country.”

  Before I could kiss her, Isabel kissed me.

  CHAPTER LIV

  Friday, May 1, 1778

  THIS EVENING WE HAD THE AGREEABLE NEWS THAT THE COURTS OF FRANCE AND SPAIN HAD DECLARED THESE UNITED STATES FREE AND INDEPENDENT. –JOURNAL OF PRIVATE GEORGE EWING, SECOND NEW JERSEY REGIMENT, VALLEY FORGE

  THE KISS ENDED MUCH TOO SOON because a heavy fist pounded the front door with such violence that my first thought was that the British were attacking. I hurried down the hall and threw open the door just as General Greene and Bellingham appeared at the top of the stairs, both wearing their nightshirts, the general carrying his sword.

  Mister John Laurens swept by me. “France!” he shouted. “Vive la France!”

  “What is this?” asked General Greene.

  “A rider just arrived from York with the official news from the Congress. Louis the Sixteenth of France has formally recognized our United States as an independent nation. The French have joined in alliance. They will fight the British alongside us!”

  Laurens broke off from his story and danced a jig in the middle of the hall. Congressman Reed joined the commotion and all three men ran down the stairs, cheering and thumping one another on the back.

  “This changes everything!” exclaimed Reed.

  “The King must have pissed his drawers when he heard,” said Bellingham.

  General Greene laughed and tried to dance his own clumsy jig.

  “There’s more,” Laurens said. “Our spies have brought the news that the King’s replacement for Howe has landed.”

  “Who is it?” asked General Greene.

  “Henry Clinton. There’s no telling what orders he brings. His Excellency would like all of you to join him at headquarters as soon as possible. He has summoned a Council of War; a few more congressmen are riding to join us today.”

  Bellingham seized the moment. “Curzon, ready the horses. Isabel, help the cook prepare something we can eat in the saddle.”

  War was heading for us at a gallop. This was almost as important as the fact that Isabel came back. And she kissed me.

  CHAPTER LV

  Friday, May 1–Wednesday, May 6, 1778

  THE WELFARE OF AMERICA IS INTIMATELY BOUND UP WITH THE HAPPINESS OF HUMANITY. SHE IS GOING TO BECOME A CHERISHED AND SAFE REFUGE OF VIRTUE, OF GOOD CHARACTER, OF TOLERANCE, OF EQUALITY, AND OF A PEACEFUL LIBERTY. –MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE, LETTER TO HIS WIFE, ADRIENNE

  THE HOURS AND DAYS FLEW AFTER we learned that France had joined our side in the war. Even more men crowded into Moore Hall to conduct the business of the Quartermaster’s Office and the Commissary Department. Before General Washington could lead the army against the British, General Greene had to make sure all the soldiers had shoes. General Biddle took over the parlor for his sleeping quarters and duties as forage master. Two more assistants to General Greene moved in, and the Moore family was displaced so their chamber could be turned into an accessory office.

  The daily presence of so many junior commissary officers and ink-stained clerks kept Missus Cook and Isabel busy to distraction. The overwork led to a lowering of standards. One night Mister Bellingham instructed me to complain to Missus Cook about his less-than-clean plate and soggy bread.

  When I reported this to the kitchen, the old woman grew very red in the face and told Isabel to fetch her a clean apron. Once the apron was properly pinned, she smoothed her hair and walked into the dining room without knocking.

  “The girl and the boy and me are doing the work of ten folk and cannot do the work of eleven. Any gentleman not satisfied with the condition of the crockery or the taste of his grub is welcome to pitch in and help. Are there any complaints about the pudding?”

  The gentlemen all spooned up their marrow pudding, tasted it, and pronounced it wonderful.

  “That’s as it should be,” Missus Cook said.

  His Excellency General Washington decreed that the camp should celebrate the French alliance in high style, with a banquet for the officers and a demonstration of marching and day of leisure for the soldiers. Isabel thought we should plan to flee during the celebration, but I knew we’d have to serve at the banquet.

  “But when, Curzon?” she asked.

  When, indeed. When should we run? Would Ebenezer still help? How to get word to him? Which direction should we take? And every time I looked at Isabel: How would we remove that horror from her neck? She had already tried every key she could find and a broken fork to no avail. If I had access to a forge and a short bit of iron rod, I could try to hammer out the proper key shape, but only after days of work and a generous helping of good luck.

  The only comfort I took that week was that Bellingham was as fatigued and overworked as we were. The dark circles under his eyes made him look as if he’d been thrashed in a tavern fight. It seemed no matter how many papers he read and letters he wrote and columns of figures he added, there was more work to be done.

  It was a delight to behold.

  The night before the grand festivity, Bellingham worked late into the night, and I with him. He’d given me leave to polish General Greene’s sword and the uniform buttons in the dining room so he would not have to shout and wake the household to get coffee or more cake.

  He opened another letter from the pile on the table and leaned closer to the candle to read it. “When was the last time you saw Gideon?”

  I did not look up. “The day he left, when he was so sick.” I could feel his eyes on me, but I kept to my task. “Did he die?”

  “He’s run away from York. The congressman is rather stunned that Gideon would betray his trust and is seeking news of his whereabouts. Did you know of this?”

  I rubbed the sword’s blade clean. To tell of Gideon’s spying would put Isabel and me in danger. “No, sir,” I said. “Gideon didn’t much like me. We never talked.”

  The grandfather clock struck two of the morning before Bellingham could answer. The lateness of the hour caught him unawares.

  “Is that time correct?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He rubbed his eyes and then stretched his neck to both sides.

  “I was going to wash up before bed. Wanted to look my best form tomorrow–rather, today. Will you tell Isabel to start heating water for me as soon as she wakes?”

  “If I may, sir,” said I, ever the perfect manservant, “I have bathing water ready now. The kitchen is quiet and private at this hour. If you can bear a few more minutes of wakefulness, you’ll be fresh and clean on the morrow.”

  “That is a brilliant notion, Curzon.”

  “Thank you, sir.”
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br />   I’ll spare you the details of Bellingham’s disrobing. Assisting with a bath has long been serving folk’s least favorite duty, after chamber-pot cleaning. Once he’d removed every stitch of clothing and the cord around his neck that held the key to Isabel’s collar, and folded himself into the soaking tub in front of the fire, I handed him a block of soap and a cloth for scrubbing, and I laid his clothing neatly on the back of a chair.

  “Shall I set up the screen, sir, in case anyone wanders through to use the privy?”

  “Thank you, Curzon. I’m so tired, I would not have thought of it until too late.”

  I murmured a polite noise while I set up the wooden screen. Bellingham rubbed the soap on his hands, rubbed his hands together, then squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed his face.

  A cool breeze came through the open window, causing the candles to sputter. I shut the window before he could tell me to do so. The candles on the kitchen table had burned down to guttering islands of soft wax lakes and did not have much more light to give. “If I may, sir, I need to fetch new candles from the pantry. These stubs won’t last long.”

  Bellingham soaped his neck. “Do what you must.”

  I stepped to the other side of the privacy screen and picked up one of the candles. A thin stream of wax spilled over the base and puddled on the table. When I was little I used to amuse myself by sticking buttons and forks into soft wax and then showing the impressions they made to my father.

  A chill shook me, as if I’d not closed that window. I was standing an arm’s length away from key to Isabel’s collar.

  I glanced cautiously around the screen. Bellingham had lifted a foot out of the water to wash it. I quietly stole the key from the top of his folded clothes and pressed it into the wax, then said a prayer and lifted it carefully and checked to make sure that no wax was stuck to the metal. As Bellingham splashed water on his face to rinse away the soap, I returned the key to where he’d last seen it. By the time he called for a towel, the plate that contained the wax impression had been hidden in the larder and I was putting out new candles so that he did not trip in the darkness.