Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Read online

  DEAR AMERICA

  The Diary of

  Abigail Jane Stewart

  The Winter of

  Red Snow

  KRISTIANA GREGORY

  For

  Tim, Catherine,

  and Matthew Walker

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Valley Forge, Pennsylvania 1777

  December 1, 1777, Monday

  December 3, 1777, Wednesday

  December 6, 1777, Saturday

  December 7, 1777, Sunday

  December 10, 1777, Wednesday

  December 12, 1777, Friday

  December 14, 1777, Sunday

  December 18, 1777, Thursday

  December 19, 1777, Friday

  December 20, 1777, Saturday

  December 21, 1777 Sunday

  December 22, 1777, Monday

  December 23, 1777, Tuesday

  December 24, 1777, Wednesday

  December 25, 1777, Thursday

  December 26, 1777, Friday

  December 28, 1777, Sunday

  December 29, 1777, Monday

  December 30, 1777, Tuesday

  December 31, 1777, Wednesday

  January 1, 1778, Thursday

  January 2, 1778, Friday

  January 3, 1778, Saturday

  January 4, 1778, Sunday

  January 5, 1778, Monday

  January 6, 1778, Tuesday

  January 7, 1778, Wednesday

  January 9, 1778, Friday

  January 11, 1778, Sunday

  January 12, 1778, Monday

  January 13, 1778, Tuesday

  January 17, 1778, Saturday

  January 19, 1778, Monday

  January 20, 1778, Tuesday

  January 22, 1778, Thursday

  January 23, 1778, Friday

  January 24, 1778, Saturday

  January 25, 1778, Sunday

  January 26, 1778, Monday

  January 30, 1778, Friday

  January 31, 1778, Saturday

  February 1, 1778, Sunday

  February 2, 1778, Monday

  February 3, 1778, Tuesday

  February 4, 1778, Wednesday

  February 5, 1778, Thursday

  February 6, 1778, Friday

  February 7, 1778, Saturday

  February 8, 1778, Sunday

  February 9, 1778, Monday

  February 10, 1778, Tuesday

  February 11, 1778, Wednesday

  February 12, 1778, Thursday

  February 13, 1778, Friday

  February 14, 1778, Saturday

  February 16, 1778, Monday

  February 17, 1778, Tuesday

  February 18, 1778, Wednesday

  February 19, 1778, Thursday

  February 20, 1778, Friday

  February 21, 1778, Saturday

  February 22, 1778, Sunday

  February 23, 1778, Monday

  February 24, 1778, Tuesday

  February 25, 1778, Wednesday

  February 26, 1778, Thursday

  February 27, 1778, Friday

  February 28, 1778, Saturday

  March 1, 1778, Sunday

  March 2, 1778, Monday

  March 3, 1778, Tuesday

  March 4, 1778, Wednesday

  March 5, 1778, Thursday

  March 6, 1778, Friday

  March 8, 1778, Sunday

  March 14, 1778, Saturday

  March 16, 1778, Monday

  March 17, 1778, Tuesday

  March 18, 1778, Wednesday

  March 20, 1778, Friday

  March 21, 1778, Saturday

  March 23, 1778, Monday

  March 24, 1778, Tuesday

  March 27, 1778, Friday

  March 28, 1778, Saturday

  April 1, 1778, Wednesday

  April 2, 1778, Thursday

  April 3, 1778, Friday

  April 4, 1778, Saturday

  April 5, 1778, Sunday

  April 6, 1778, Monday

  April 7, 1778, Tuesday

  April 9, 1778, Thursday

  April 10, 1778, Friday

  April 12, 1778, Sunday

  April 13, 1778, Monday

  April 14, 1778, Tuesday

  April 15, 1778, Wednesday

  April 16, 1778, Thursday

  April 17, 1778, Friday

  April 20, 1778, Monday

  April 21, 1778, Tuesday

  April 26, 1778, Sunday

  April 29, 1778, Wednesday

  April 30, 1778, Thursday

  May 1, 1778, Friday

  May 2, 1778, Saturday

  May 3, 1778, Sunday

  May 4, 1778, Monday

  May 5, 1778, Tuesday

  May 6, 1778, Wednesday

  May 7, 1778, Thursday

  May 8, 1778, Friday

  May 9, 1778, Saturday

  May 10, 1778, Sunday

  May 11, 1778, Sunday

  May 12, 1778, Tuesday

  May 13, 1778, Wednesday

  May 14, 1778, Thursday

  May 17, 1778, Sunday

  May 18, 1778, Monday

  May 19, 1778, Tuesday

  May 20, 1778, Wednesday

  May 21, 1778, Thursday

  May 25, 1778, Monday

  May 26, 1778, Tuesday

  May 27, 1778, Wednesday

  May 28, 1778, Thursday

  May 31, 1778, Sunday

  June 1, 1778, Monday

  June 2, 1778, Tuesday

  June 3, 1778, Wednesday

  June 4, 1778, Thursday

  June 7, 1778, Sunday

  June 8, 1778, Monday

  June 9, 1778, Tuesday

  June 10, 1778, Wednesday

  June 11, 1778, Thursday

  June 12, 1778, Friday

  June 13, 1778, Saturday

  June 15, 1778, Monday

  June 18, 1778, Thursday

  June 19, 1778, Friday

  June 20, 1778, Saturday

  June 22, 1778, Monday

  June 23, 1778, Tuesday

  June 26, 1778, Friday

  June 29, 1778, Monday

  June 30, 1778, Tuesday

  July 3, 1778, Friday

  July 4, 1778, Saturday

  Epilogue

  Life in America in 1777

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other books in the Dear America series

  Copyright

  Valley Forge,

  Pennsylvania

  1777

  December 1, 1777, Monday

  It is almost sunrise and we are still waiting for Papa to return. What is taking him so long? Little Sally keeps running out onto the cold step to see down the road, but there is only fog.

  We have been up since half-past four this morning, and mine apron is dirty from trying to keep the fire going. Mama’s cries are what woke us. Elisabeth and I threw back our quilt and hurried down the stairs so quickly I caught a splinter in my foot.

  A tall candle lit the room where Mama lay. Her face was damp. I told her that Papa had taken the wagon and should be back soon with Mrs. Hewes.

  “Abby,” she said, “this baby shalt not wait for Mrs. Hewes.” She squeezed my hand hard, took a deep breath, then let out another cry. I began to cry, too. Poor Mama! Elisabeth put a wet cloth on her forehead and told me to wait by the window with Sally. I do not like waiting.

  Finally! We heard horses and Papa’s wagon. Sally and I ran out the door waving our arms. “Hurry!” we yelled.

  Mrs. Hewes smiled at us when she came into the kitchen. We hung her cloak by the hearth, then followed her like worried duckli
ngs. She was just in time. Mama screamed again, then an instant later there came a sharp little cry.

  “Ye have a son,” said Mrs. Hewes. Laughing, Papa ran outside and threw his hat to the sky. I could hear his shout echo in the frosty air.

  He is happy and wants all of Pennsylvania to know he has a son. But I saw Mama’s eyes — she is as worried as I am.

  December 3, 1777, Wednesday

  The baby is sick. Elisabeth and I have stayed home from school to help.

  When I tucked Sally into her trundle last night she threw her arms around my neck sobbing, “Shall this baby die like the others?”

  Elisabeth kneeled to kiss Sally, but she, too, began to weep, then so did I.

  Mama has birthed nine children: three girls — that’s us — and now six boys. We have not had a brother live through his first winter.

  After Sally had cried herself to sleep, Elisabeth and I lay in bed whispering. Soon she was quiet. I crept across the cold floor to look out the window. The creek looked like a silver ribbon winding its way among the trees toward the Schuylkill River and the house where Mrs. Hewes lives. Her upstairs window glowed with candlelight and I hoped she was awake, praying for our baby. I was.

  December 6, 1777, Saturday

  Mr. Walker the carpenter rode up with a new cradle he had made for us. When he asked our baby’s name, Papa looked at Mama and she looked at him. Elisabeth and I looked at each other, then at Sally. Our baby was five days old, but we had not named him!

  Papa put the cradle by the fire, not too close, but near the stone bench where it is warm. Mama held the baby in her arms for a minute before setting him down in the blankets. She said, “I doth like the name John.”

  Papa smiled at her. “Yes. John is a good name. John Edward.”

  So now Elisabeth and Sally and I have a brother. John Edward Stewart. He is so still and so small that when I glanced at the cradle after supper I thought for a moment it was Sally’s doll inside.

  It is cold at night, especially upstairs with the door closed. We have moved our bed and trundle next to the chimney for warmth. The string from my nightcap itches my chin, but at least by morning the cap is still on my head and has kept the chill away.

  Deer have been coming down from Mount Joy and Mount Misery. Our orchards are full of their droppings, for they come to eat apples left on the ground.

  December 7, 1777, Sunday

  On our way to church a cold rain began. I was sore pleased Mama stayed home with baby John because of the wind. It blew wet leaves into the wagon and across the muddy road. All trees at Valley Forge are bare except for the evergreens, and there is a crust of ice along the creekbed. Papa said he’s happy we are prepared for winter. The barn is stacked high with hay and our animals have cozy beds. The cellar is full of potatoes, onions, carrots and turnips, salted beef, and barrels of cider. We have enough dried cranberries to sell at market.

  After prayer meeting we stopped at the Fitzgeralds’ to see if Mrs. Fitzgerald needed anything. Her latch string is always out so we shall feel welcome, but I know not why she wants visitors. Her kitchen is untidy. It smells bad and there are mice in her cupboard. I saw them.

  Mr. Fitzgerald was taken prisoner at the Battle of Saratoga two months ago and no one knows what the Redcoats have done with him. I puzzle why her boys help her not. They are lazy and quarrelsome, all eight of them. They were throwing mud at each other as we were getting ready to leave, and that bully Tom threw some at my shoes. It splattered my hem. I was so annoyed I walked around the back of the wagon to kick him, but he ran off with his thumbs in his ears and his tongue sticking out. I hate him. He is 11 as I am, but he is just a child.

  Reverend Currie and Mr. Walker arrived at our house in time for supper, soaking wet from the rain. Elisabeth draped their coats by the fire (such a stink!) while Sally and I dished out stewed pumpkin. Mama’s face went white when they told us the bad news:

  The British tried to capture Whitemarsh, but have retreated to Philadelphia, our capital city, and they plan to winter there. We are worried sick. Auntie Hannie lives there and so do Papa’s three brothers and our little cousins. I said we must go right away to rescue them, but Papa said 18 miles is too much mud for our small wagon.

  December 10, 1777, Wednesday

  Elisabeth stayed home with Mama, so Sally and I walked to school without her. The sky was gray and there was a cold mist. I was pleased to be back and see Molly and Ruth and Naomi again. Before lessons, we were close to the fire drying off when through the window we saw a horseman. The boys ran outside and shouted for news.

  “The Redcoats started another skirmish!” came the voice. We all started talking at once and the younger children began to cry with worry. Miss Molly tapped her ruler on the table. She told us to take up our slates and be quiet.

  “Quaker families concerneth themselves not with matters of war,” she said. Sally was in the front row with the other first graders. She turned around to look at me so I smiled. We are Baptists. Papa will let us be concerned.

  December 12, 1777, Friday

  Sally’s hem caught fire this morning. She was mad because it was my turn to hold Johnny, but she said it was her turn. She pulled on his sleeve and nearly pulled me out of the rocker with him, so I put my foot up against her (not hard) and she fell back. While she was yelling that I kicked her (I did not), her skirt spread out on the hearth and all of a sudden there were flames. I jumped up with Johnny in my arms and stomped fast on her hem. Our screams brought Papa. Now Sally’s left leg and ankle are blistered and she’s been crying all afternoon it hurts so. I am heartsore and worried. Elisabeth and I made her a cozy bed by Johnny’s so she shant have to climb upstairs.

  Mrs. Hewes came with her bag of herbs. She also brought corncakes wrapped in cloth, still warm. After she tended Sally’s burn, she sat with us to supper. Being a widow lady (she’s lost two husbands), her nephew always checks on her and brings news, the latest even more disturbing: General George Washington and his troops are camped just a few miles away at Gulph Mills. Within the week they will march here, to Valley Forge, to make winter quarters. This is to keep the British from capturing more of Pennsylvania.

  When Mrs. Hewes explained that meant thousands of soldiers in our front yard for the whole winter, Mama excused herself from the table and went over to the window. She stared out at the bare fields.

  “What shall the Army do for food?” she asked. “Where shall they sleep?”

  Sally called from her bed, “They may stay with us, Mama!”

  After supper when we were changing into our nightgowns, Beth whispered a secret and made me promise not to tell. She plans to sew a coat and, on the inside collar, embroider her name, Elisabeth Ann Stewart, so that the soldier who wears it will remember her and come see her. Many girls have become brides this way, she said.

  But I want her not to think about marriage. Even though she’s fifteen and pretty, I would miss her too greatly.

  I am upstairs writing this at my bench under our window. The candle flickers from cold air coming in, for we lost the shutter in the last storm. Elisabeth is asleep. I can hear Mama’s and Papa’s voices downstairs. They are worried about the soldiers coming, and about Sally’s burned leg. And they worry our tiny John Edward shant live through the winter.

  December 14, 1777, Sunday

  Johnny fussed all day. He cried so hard he had hiccups. None of us dared to fret aloud, but I saw Papa’s face, and Mama’s. She nursed him every two hours and this time Sally and I took turns rocking him without a quarrel. When Beth rocked him, she sang in her beautiful voice.

  When he’s not in someone’s arms he is in his warm cradle, and I kneel over him to whisper, “Johnny, thou must live, please.”

  December 18, 1777, Thursday

  I was up early to help Mama with the big kettle, for she is still weak from birthing and it weighs some forty pounds. We put in a salted beef from the cellar and eight onions, then bread on the hearth to bake. Elisabeth and I hurried to th
e well, but returned slowly so our buckets wouldn’t spill. The air was cold and dark and smelled like snow coming.

  And by ten in the morning it did come, wet snow that froze on the fence, but made mud in the road. Our guests arrived by noon: Mrs. Hewes, Mr. and Mrs. Walker and their three little ones, and a neighbour who had lost his wife last month. At the table Papa welcomed everyone while Elisabeth and I helped Mama set the bowls on, then he folded his hands for prayer.

  “This day is for Thanksgiving and Praise,” he began, all heads bowed. I stood by his chair, one eye open to make sure Sally didn’t pick at the pies. He prayed that our Army would be able to keep the British away and he prayed for our health — I knew he was thinking about Johnny but wanted not to say it out loud. “Amen!” came the voices, and quickly the plates were passed around. Congress has set this day — December 18 — as a new tradition for all patriots (that’s us) to give thanks to God for the many blessings He hast given America.

  December 19, 1777, Friday

  I woke to sleet hitting the window and another sound I’d not heard before.

  A drumbeat.

  Papa came in from milking and said, “The soldiers are coming.”

  Elisabeth, Sally, and I hurriedly ate our porridge, then wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and scarves. Mama watched from the window as we ran into the road. There on the wind from the south came the drumbeat, several drums now and the high trilling of fifes.

  “I want to go see the soldiers,” Sally said. But Papa said we must stay by our fence.

  “It’s too cold,” he said, as big flakes of snow began to fall. The fields were turning white and the road looked like frosting with chocolate showing through.

  Twice we went inside to warm ourselves, for the wind cut through our clothes. Finally through the gray we saw them. Three officers on horseback led. We ran outside to cheer, but the men were quiet and thin. The sight of them took my breath away.

  “They have no shoes,” Elisabeth whispered.

  We watched for several minutes as they passed by. We were unable to speak.

  Their footprints left blood in the snow.