“Bow-zhoor!” Ruth shouted after him.
The sound of Frenchified speech in my sister’s mouth shocked me. The fellow nodded with delight, plopped his hat back on his head, and hurried on.
“What did you just say?” I asked.
“Bow-zhoor,” Ruth repeated. “They say it all the day long.”
“But that fellow, he knew your name.”
“He took the shirts.”
“When you delivered the laundry?”
She nodded, looking rather pleased with herself. “Aberdeen, he talked with everyone. We gonna see him soon?”
I hesitated, then found a way to answer without lying. “I truly hope we will see him soon.”
“’Tis a purpose,” Ruth said. “Seeing Aberdeen.”
“A good purpose,” I said quietly.
* * *
There were women working among the French, but none sought out my eyes to offer silent advice or warning. We could not take a chance on the French, no matter how courtly they might act to my pretty sister. With us not speaking their language, they could openly discuss doing us harm and we would be none the wiser.
British cannons continued to fire as we trekked through the growing tent city. I caught sight of Yorktown when we topped a hill: a collection of houses that lay a scant mile distant, its back to a wide river. The placement of this rebel camp seemed mostly beyond cannon range, but we watched horror-struck as a screaming soldier–one leg ending in a blood-spurting mess at the place where his foot ought be–was rushed by, carried by anxious-looking companions.
Ruth turned to me, her eyes wide.
“’Tis also our purpose to avoid cannonballs,” I assured her.
The encampment was much vaster than I had imagined, mayhaps two or three times winter camp at Valley Forge. Supply wagons were still arriving on the Williamsburg road. We walked on, staying at the edges of the stream of soldiery that created its own currents of movement across the boot-trampled greenery. After passing rows and rows of French soldiers busy raising tents and digging privy trenches, I turned us south again, angling eastward toward the rear of the encampment.
My notion of walking with confidence and purpose faltered as the day grew hotter. We hadn’t eaten a bite in a day and a half. The kindling grew heavier and heavier. Sweat was rolling down my neck by the time we reached a noisome, broad plain where the tents the size of small houses were being raised.
The work there was under the direction of well-dressed, well-fed officers who–to my relief–barked orders in English. Those were likely the tents of the headquarters, where the general and his men would sleep, eat, scheme, and direct the maneuvers of the armies. Drums rattled as fresh-cut, sap-streaked flagpoles were raised paces away from the large tents. Camp tables were covered with papers being studied by Continental officers, who squinted through the glasses perched on the ends of their noses.
Farther on, a round-bellied man shouted at a group of lean soldiers marching with muskets on their shoulders. Donkeys brayed. Axes split logs. Men laughed, cursed, called in overloud voices. A piper played. Cartwheels rolled. Blacksmith hammers sang against their anvils.
“Make way!” shouted a voice. Others took up the call. “Make way! Make way!”
A quick-running group of riflemen dressed in the fringed hunting shirts of the mountains rushed by, their faces set in grim determination, guns in their hands. They ran south and west in the direction of the no-man’s-land between the French encampment and Yorktown.
“Virginians,” someone said. The most accurate riflemen of all.
A tall, strong-built white woman, her sleeves rolled up high, waved us over and pointed to a collection of kindling wood some paces from a cook fire. “You lasses can set that here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I dumped the wood and motioned for Ruth to do the same.
The cook fire was laid in a rectangle-shaped pit dug as deep as a forearm into the ground. Iron rods had been sunk into the dirt at the long ends of the pit, and a long rod rested across them both. Fire burned high at one end, where a steaming kettle bigger than any at the Gray Boar hung. The woman shoveled hot coals from the burning end of the fire to the cool end, where covered pans rested in the dirt. She buried the pans with the coals, then swatted the sparks that had leapt to her skirt.
“Hungry?” she asked.
We gratefully accepted her offer of thick slices of bread before walking away. I dared not stay long enough for questions that I could not answer.
Ruth matched my stride as we walked to where the American troops were setting up camp.
“We’re looking for an ally,” I said. “A friend who can help us find our way in this camp.”
“Aberdeen is our friend.”
“I was thinking of someone else.”
Before I could speak the name aloud, Ruth dug her boots into the dirt. She studied the regimental standard planted in front of a row of Continental tents. She waited as the weak breeze lifted the flag, then dropped it.
“Green tree on blue,” Ruth muttered. “Driscoll’s company.”
I stopped. “Beg pardon?”
“Everybody has a flag. So they can find their tents.”
“You know these flags?”
“Is it bad?” she asked, her eyes anxious.
“Not at all,” I said quickly. “These flags identify the different companies and regiments. But how is it that you know them?”
“They needed their breeches, Isabel, after you washed them, ’member? I drove the breeches in the cart. Remembered the flags so I wouldn’t get lost.”
“Aberdeen showed you the learning of this when you made deliveries?”
She pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin in evident pride. “Learned myself. He was busy some days.”
“You found your way to deliver laundry by learning the regimental standards?”
She smiled and nodded, then broke into giggles as an escaped pig dashed down the lane, followed by a pack of shouting soldiers.
“Do you know the First Massachusetts Regiment?”
“First Massachusetts is a lion,” she answered.
The surprises within my sister seemed endless that day. “How do you know what a lion looks like?”
“Yellow panther with a furry head. Wears a big collar of fur, too.”
I laughed and kissed her cheek. “I’ve been struck by a new purpose.”
“A new aim?” Ruth asked.
“My purpose is to find you some gingerbread as soon as possible!”
CHAPTER XXXI
Saturday, September 29, 1781
VERY SOON AFTER OUR WHOLE ARMY ARRIVING, WE PREPARED TO MOVE DOWN AND PAY OUR OLD ACQUAINTANCE, THE BRITISH AT YORKTOWN, A VISIT. I DOUBT NOT BUT THEIR WISH WAS NOT TO HAVE SO MANY OF US COME AT ONCE, AS THEIR ACCOMMODATIONS WERE RATHER SCANTY. THEY THOUGHT, “THE FEWER THE BETTER CHEER.” WE THOUGHT, “THE MORE THE MERRIER.”
–JOURNAL OF SERGEANT JOSEPH PLUMB MARTIN, CORPS OF SAPPERS AND MINERS
YOU DAFT GOLLUMPUSES!” SERGEANT EBENEZER Woodruff roared at the two nervous soldiers in front of him. “You mutton-headed louts! Axes are for the chopping of wood! Pickaxes are for digging in the ground! You cannot use one for the task of the other. I’d flog you myself if there were time.”
The objects of his wrath winced and sank their heads lower.
“Bah!” Ebenezer swatted a horsefly out of the air with his hat. “Take the axes to be sharpened, and tell the fellow at the grindstone to sharpen your wits while he’s at it.”
One of the soldiers looked up, fear in his eyes. “Sir?”
Eben closed his eyes, shook his head, and drew a long, slow breath. “Deliver the axes. Then join the lads in the swamp hauling water.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldiers answered in shaky voices.
“Now!” hollered Eben.
The two fellows leapt as if kicked by a horse, grabbed the dull axes that had caused this furor, and ran. Eben looked at the rest of the men standing around him. “What are you lot gawpi
ng at? Report to the latrine trenches. And dig deep; we’re going to be here a spell.”
I waited for the soldiers to hurry away and tried to find some courage. I’d never seen Eben in a temper. His uniform and boots were coated in dust, his hat looked like it had been trampled in the ox corral, and his face was flushed angry red.
Before I could figger what to say, Ruth stepped forward. “Good day, there!” she called.
Eben spun around, his face a frightful scowl. “What the devil!”
“I’m no devil,” Ruth said.
Eben looked first to Ruth, then to me, then back to Ruth.
“Hullo, Eben.” I tried to flavor my greeting with cheer. “Might we walk a bit? I, uh, we’ve need of your counsel.” My talking to him had gathered the attention of a few lads setting up tents. “Sir,” I quickly added with a short curtsy, which Ruth imitated.
He placed his hat on his head. “Pick up them small kettles and follow me.”
Sergeant Ebenezer Woodruff walked with such long strides that we had to hurry to keep up with him. He led us past rows of half-raised tents, up to a rise where soldiers were unloading barrels with uncommon care.
“Gunpowder,” Eben muttered. “They mean to set up the artillery park here. Keep stride, we’re nearly there.”
He led us to the rear of the encampment, close to where we’d enjoyed our bread earlier. There were enough women and children of the army that we did not spark unusual interest here. I breathed easier.
Eben relaxed as well. “Now then,” he said. “We can speak openly here. What has happened? Is he ill? Injured?”
It took a moment before I could read his meaning.
“Curzon? No, he is fine.” I shook my head. “That is to say, I don’t know.” I hid my hands in the folds of my skirt and crossed my fingers for luck. “Our companionship . . . well, that is to say, our friendship has run its course. The last time I saw him was the night I saw you, when your regiment arrived to town.”
“How dare he abandon you thus!” Ebenezer said. “In the middle of a war! Surrounded by danger! I shall punch his nose when next I see him. With your permission, of course.”
“You may not, for you have grabbed the matter at the wrong end,” I said. “’Twas not him, ’twas me, but then he agreed . . . we agreed that our companionship had reached its natural conclusion. He is determined to live his own life. As am I.”
I did not enjoy the sensation that arose in me when I had to discuss Curzon. I gave my head a shake, then shared our tale with Eben–everything about the tavern, the laundry, the woods. I neglected to mention that we’d been in the woods on our way to the British lines. As I spoke, Ruth picked a handful of wildflowers and braided them into a chain.
“Can you help us?” I finally asked.
He looked at me in sorrow. “It pains me to say this, but I’ve no money, Isabel. The army paid us for the first time in years a while back. Had to buy boots, for my feet were almost naked. Took all my pay. I’m sorry to say I’ve nothing to give you.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “I seek only work, nothing more. Even a few days would be welcome. Honest work in exchange for food.”
Ruth set the braided chain of flowers upon her neck, as proud as if they were the jewels of a queen.
“He should never have left you in such a perilous position,” Eben fumed. “Even if the bonds of friendship had frayed. He told me that his enlistment did not sit well with you.”
“That is a gentle way to describe my strong disagreement. But that’s no longer my concern.”
“You’ve not seen him here in camp, then?”
“He made it very clear to me that our friendship was over. I agreed with him.” I pulled my courage up to the surface and grabbed at it. “Could we work for your company or elsewhere in the regiment? You know we’re accustomed to hardship.”
“I figger you can do ’bout anything.” He ran his hand over his face. “But the army has rules about how many women a regiment can take on. And my captain, he’s a right dragon when it comes to the rules. That’s why I had to holler so at my men back there. They’re good lads, of course, but the captain insists on things being just so. He won’t allow me to hire you on. That’s the hard truth of the matter.”
The surprise of his refusal left me speechless. I’d made the mistake of having only one plan. I should have known better.
“Of course,” I murmured.
“Blast it all.” Eben thrashed his leg with his hat, which did much to explain its ragged appearance. He seemed to hold a confab with his own self. “You cannot amble around the countryside, that’s clear. It’s just that . . . times being what they are . . . in ordinary circumstances . . . blast his eyes, there is no other remedy for this!”
He again beat his hat on his leg and then plopped it on his head.
“Follow me!” he commanded.
Eben strode back down the lane of tents at twice the pace he’d moved before. Ruth and I were forced to pick up our skirts and run to stay with him. He led us deep into the Continental forces; surrounded by so many soldiers, I dared not ask a single question of him. That unnerved me. Had I made a mistake putting our trust in him?
He finally stopped in front of an officer’s tent that had a regimental standard with an anchor upon it. A large cook fire had been set in a properly dug pit, with a goodly amount of wood split down to the proper size to make burning easy. A hunk of salted beef sat upon a rough-hewn board set across two barrels, but there was no meal under preparation. Packs and haversacks were heaped on the ground, and a dozen muskets stood around an upturned log, properly grounded, so that the bit made for the shoulder rested in the dirt, and the muzzles pointed skyward.
Ebenezer looked at the soldiers going about the work of building the encampment. Tents stretched down a long slope, bringing to mind rows of whitecaps breaking on the shore.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“What company is this?” I whispered to Ruth as he vanished around the tent.
Ruth studied the flag and shrugged. “Don’t know that one.”
A black man dressed in knee breeches the color of dried tobacco and a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up came around the side of the tent with a load of wood for the fire. He smiled at us, stacked the wood neatly, then brushed off his hands and bowed to us.
“May I be of service, miss?” he asked.
More soldiers came near, their arms heavy with logs to be split. Most of them were black men, all of them were sweat soaked but in high spirits.
“I’m awaiting the sergeant,” I said to the first fellow. “Sergeant Woodruff.”
The fellow tilted his head to the side and squinted at me. He stepped closer, staring at my face, at the mark on my cheek.
“Might you be the good wife of our Private Smith?”
I was so confounded by his question that I could not answer.
“Curzon’s wife is here?” asked another fellow, grinning.
Wife?
“Is Curzon here?” Ruth asked cheerfully.
The fellow pointed at me. “If you are Missus Smith, then this”–he pointed to my flower-bedecked sister–“this must be Miss Ruth. Our angels have arrived!” he exclaimed. “They’ve come to save us!”
The delighted reaction of the new arrivals confuddled me even more. The soldiers hurried over, bowing, shouting huzzahs, babbling about my illness and Ruth’s poor health, and how pleased the sergeant would be, and “of course, your husband.”
Husband?
CHAPTER XXXII
Saturday, September 29, 1781
IT IS VOTED AND RESOLVED, THAT EVERY ABLE-BODIED NEGRO, MULATTO OR INDIAN MAN SLAVE IN THIS STATE, MAY ENLIST INTO EITHER OF THE SAID TWO BATTALIONS TO SERVE DURING . . . THE PRESENT WAR WITH GREAT BRITAIN; THAT EVERY SLAVE SO ENLISTING SHALL BE ENTITLED TO AND RECEIVE ALL THE BOUNTIES, WAGES, AND ENCOURAGEMENTS ALLOWED BY THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS TO ANY SOLDIER ENLISTING IN THEIR SERVICE. . . .
EVERY SLAVE SO ENLISTING SHA
LL . . . BE IMMEDIATELY DISCHARGED FROM THE SERVICE OF HIS MASTER OR MISTRESS, AND BE ABSOLUTELY FREE, AS THOUGH HE HAD NEVER BEEN INCUMBERED WITH ANY KIND OF SERVITUDE OR SLAVERY.
–ACT OF THE RHODE ISLAND LEGISLATURE, FEBRUARY 1778
I OPENED MY MOUTH TO explain that a mistake had been made, but before I could say anything, the first fellow ran off, waving his hat and shouting, “Sir! They’re here! Missus Smith and her sister!”
Mayhaps I didn’t hear him proper. I was certain that I would know it if I were a wife . . . or if I had a husband, which was largely the same thing. Mayhaps I was coming down with a fever that had stopped my ears from working. I felt my brow. Warm, it was, but not fevered.
Then Curzon arrived.
He wore the same dusty Continental breeches as the other lads and his old shirt with the ragged, too-short sleeves. Sweat trickled down his face and along the thin scar on the left side of his chin. His gaze traveled to Ruth, to his companions, up to the heavens, and down to the dirt. He looked at every blessed thing, every person, but me.
Ruth bounced on her toes, as happy as I’d seen her since we left Riverbend. “We come to help you fight the redcoats, Curzon!”
The other fellows laughed heartily.
“Have ye been struck dumb and blind by the beauty of yer missus?” called one of the fellows.
“Give her a kiss!” called another.
He finally looked in my eyes. His haunted gaze was filled with misery and made me feel the worst sort of wretch, though I could not figger why. We seemed to be players in a game, but no one had explained the rules to me, and the stakes seemed dangerously high. What would a wife, a proper wife, do in a situation such as this?
“Good day,” I said formally, bending my knees in a brief curtsy, keeping my back straight and tall.
“Good day,” he answered. “Dear wife.”
“We have much to discuss,” I said.
“In more private circumstances,” he said.
“Go on, you lout!” a soldier called. “Show her that you missed her!”
Curzon grimaced, as if the words had been a punch in his belly. He lifted his hat and performed a dramatic bow, like a highborn gentleman or a fop on a stage. It recalled to me the first time I saw him, at the end of a wharf in New York. He stood again and replaced his hat with an air of weariness. I knew now what made him seem so strange. He was not smiling. He looked as if he’d forgotten how.
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