Cannons at Dawn Read online

  DEAR AMERICA

  The Second Diary of

  bigail Jane Stewart

  Cannons

  at Dawn

  KRISTIANA GREGORY

  Cannons at Dawn is dedicated to my

  wonderful mother, Jeanne Kern Gregory,

  whose ancestors marched with General

  Washington and were from Kernstown,

  Virginia. Mom’s love for writing, reading,

  and research inspired me as a young child

  and inspires me still.

  Also, this is in loving memory of

  Ann Reit, my longtime editor—

  a formidable and often terrifying one —

  who guided me through

  The Winter of Red Snow. It was great

  fun brainstorming with her and we

  became dear friends. About writer’s

  block, she said, “Forget about it.

  Just tell the story!”

  I miss her deeply.

  Table of contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Valley Forge, Pennsylvania 1779

  January 2, 1779, Saturday morning

  Before bed

  Days later

  To continue …

  Walnut Street, Philadelphia

  Am not sure of the date

  Later

  January 12, 1779, Tuesday

  Evening, still Tuesday

  January 13, 1779, Wednesday

  Evening

  January 15, 1779, Friday, before bed

  After an argument with Mother

  January 17, 1779, Sunday

  January 23, 1779, Saturday

  Next evening

  January 25, 1779, Monday

  Monday after supper, looking at

  maps and an almanac

  Aboard the Little Liberty

  Somewhere along the Delaware

  Hiding

  Morning at the tavern

  After scrubbing the attic

  Following the Continental Army 1779

  Mid-March 1779

  Next day

  March 30, 1779, Tuesday

  Later, still Tuesday

  March 31, 1779, Wednesday

  Another day, after a visit to

  Headquarters

  April 5, 1779, Monday

  Two surprises

  June 3, 1779, Thursday

  June 5, 1779, Saturday

  June 7, 1779, Monday

  On our way to Stony Point

  Mid-June 1779

  Another hot day

  June 16, 1779, Wednesday

  June 30, 1779, Wednesday

  A few days later: good news!

  Same week, more news

  July 4, 1779, Sunday

  July 17, 1779, Saturday

  Afternoon, still waiting for news

  July 18, 1779, Sunday

  A long afternoon

  July 20, 1779, Tuesday

  West Point, New York

  August 1, 1779, Sunday

  Afternoon

  Still Sunday — evening by the fire

  August 2, 1779, Monday

  August 3, 1779, Tuesday

  After visiting the oak tree

  August 4, 1779, Wednesday

  An idea

  August 5, 1779, Thursday

  September 17, 1779, Friday

  September 24, 1779, Friday

  By candle, in our tent

  September 27, 1779, Monday

  September 30, 1779, Thursday

  October 2, 1779, Saturday

  November 9, 1779, Tuesday

  A cold afternoon

  November 17, 1779, Wednesday

  End of November 1779

  December 3, 1779, Friday

  Second week of December 1779

  Mercury, 8 degrees

  December 13, 1779, Monday

  Christmas Eve, 1779, Friday

  Christmas Day, 1779, Saturday

  December 28, 1779, Tuesday

  January 3, 1780, Monday

  Later

  January 8, 1780, Saturday

  By Mrs. Ford’s grate

  Later, still January 8

  January 9, 1780, Sunday

  January 10, 1780, Monday

  January 12, 1780, Wednesday

  January 18, 1780, Tuesday

  Evening, still Tuesday

  February 4, 1780, Friday

  February 14, 1780, Monday

  After supper, still Monday

  March 15, 1780, Wednesday

  April 17, 1780, Monday

  April 18, 1780, Tuesday

  April 26, 1780, Wednesday

  April 28, 1780, Friday

  Another day

  May 10, 1780, Wednesday

  May 19, 1780, Friday

  Next day

  May 1780 — not sure of the date

  June 5, 1780, Monday

  After a three-day march

  July 15, 1780, Saturday

  July 19, 1780, Wednesday

  July 31, 1780, Monday

  August 4, 1780, Friday

  August 13, 1780, Sunday

  September 22, 1780, Friday

  September 23, 1780, Saturday

  September 29, 1780, Friday

  September 30, 1780, Saturday

  Still Saturday — rainstorm

  Still Saturday—late afternoon

  Still Saturday—night

  October 1, 1780, Sunday —dawn

  Still Sunday — noon

  October 2, 1780, Monday

  October 6, 1780, Friday

  October 9, 1780, Monday

  December 25, 1780, Monday

  December 27, 1780, Wednesday

  December 28, 1780, Thursday

  Still Thursday, late at night

  New Year’s Eve, 1780

  New Year’s Day 1781, Monday

  Near Middlebrook, New Jersey

  January 7, 1781, Sunday

  Later, still Sunday, January 7

  Still Sunday, January 7

  January 8, 1781, Monday

  Monday evening, after cleaning

  pots

  January 10, 1781, Wednesday

  January 29, 1781, Monday

  April 24, 1781, Tuesday

  Warmer days

  May 7, 1781, Monday

  A new family

  May 13, 1781, Sunday

  May 31, 1781, Thursday

  June 2, 1781, Saturday

  June 6, 1781, Wednesday

  Next day, sunrise

  June 8, 1781, Friday morning

  After tea with Lady Washington

  June 24, 1781, Sunday

  July 17, 1781 Tuesday

  Early August 1781

  August 8, 1781, Wednesday

  Still August 1781

  September 3, 1781, Monday

  Before bed

  Still September 3 —by Mrs.

  Darling’s fire, unable to sleep

  Head of Elk, near the top of

  Chesapeake Bay

  Aboard the Birmingham

  Annapolis, Maryland

  September 21, 1781, Friday

  Day four of walking, Georgetown

  End of September, 1781

  Next day

  Losing track of days

  Next evening

  October 7, 1781, Sunday

  Next day

  October 9, 1781, Tuesday

  Still Tuesday, noon

  October 14, 1781, Sunday

  Sunday evening

  Two days later

  October 17, 1781, Wednesday

  Sudden silence

  October 19, 1781, Friday

  October 19, 1781, Friday evening

  Epilogue

  Life in America in 1781<
br />
  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other books in the Dear America series

  Copyright

  Valley Forge,

  Pennsylvania

  1779

  January 2, 1779, Saturday

  morning

  “Abby, when will Papa come back home?” Sally asked again. Though she is seven, she understands naught about war and she asks this question every morning. She is poking the coals for breakfast and holding back her long apron, careful that it doesn’t catch fire like last winter.

  “Papa will come home when General Washington says so,” I answered. I sit by the hearth so my little ink jug will keep thawing. It is freezing from last night and snowing again. Gusts of wind rattle our windows.

  Elisabeth just came in from the barn, eggs in her apron. Snow covers her cap and even the strings tied under her chin. Beth is the eldest of us three sisters. She smiles to see me writing in my journal. We both know that any moment our mother will turn from the fire and see that I am not frying the pork as I should be.

  “Abigail, dear,” Mama said, right on schedule. “Time to rest thy quill. The skillet is ready. You are twelve and should know this by the good smell of butter and onions in the pan.”

  “Yes, Mama,” I said. She has picked up Johnny from his cradle and is drying his bottom with the hem of her skirt. Her eye is on me, but she is smiling.

  Before bed

  A full moon has broken through the clouds. It is so bright, this table by the window needs no candle. Elisabeth is opposite me, writing another letter to Ben Valentine. He has asked for the pleasure of her company in the hospital while his wounds heal, but Philadelphia is eighteen miles by snowy road. She fancies this soldier. As her quill moves over the paper I pretend not to look, but I am looking. I squint, hoping to see a love word.

  “Abigail,” she whispered. “You’ll hurt thy neck staring.”

  “Beth, what say you to Mr. Valentine? How far up did the doctors cut off his arm?”

  “Hush, Abby. We’ll wake Mama.” She glanced toward the bed we share with our mother.

  Sally was asleep in her trundle, Johnny in his cradle, though soon he shall be too big for it, as he has passed his first birthday. When Papa joined the Army a few weeks ago, we closed the upper room to save heat and now all of us sleep here by the fire. Even so, by morning our water bucket has ice.

  We worry about him being a soldier. This war has gone on for nearly four years. My father is a cobbler. He is not young.

  “A man needs to stand up for his country,” he told us before walking down the lane with neighbours who were also joining the Continental Army. They each carried a hunting rifle and rolled-up blanket. The morning was cold with a light snowfall. I wished Papa had waved to us before the road turned, but I saw only the tuft of his queue and snow gathering on the back of his shirt.

  Now he is camped with Washington’s main Army in New Jersey and our enemies are wintering in the fine houses of New York, the city. The British will grow fat there, I hope, and be too merry for war. I hate them. I want them to sail back to England and leave us alone. We have declared our independence from King George III, but still they fight us.

  Elisabeth is sprinkling sand on her page to dry the ink, now I shall do the same. We are both yawning this late hour. The night is lovely, the fields aglow from the moon, but the wind is fierce. Sparks are blowing down our chimney onto the rug—

  Days later

  Philadelphia. My throat is sore from crying. Our pretty little house in Valley Forge is gone!

  I am writing this by an attic window in Philadelphia. We arrived by sleigh a few days ago, distraught and unbelieving.

  That terrible night Elisabeth and I tried to stomp out the burning rug — holding high our hems so our skirts wouldn’t catch — but flames jumped to a curtain. We screamed for Mama. She scooped up Johnny and pulled Sally awake. Beth grabbed blankets. I swept all from our table into a basket: a bowl of walnuts and our writing things. When we opened the door to run out, wind fueled the fire with a hot swoosh.

  There was no time for us to draw water from the well. Neighbours came running with buckets, but there was naught they could do.

  We stood barefoot in the snow, shivering, while flames hissed out the windows then brought down the walls. Sparks flew to the barn. It flared like a torch. When we heard the helpless shriek of Buttercup, our faithful old mare, Elisabeth and I ran to pull open the door. Our chickens squawked and there was one long moo from Brownie as they fled out into the cold night.

  Though our animals are safe with neighbours, I am still teary writing this.

  To continue …

  We are not with relatives as we had hoped. How weary we are from having walked in the cold — three long days — looking for my uncles, who live here in Philadelphia. At night we took shelter in a stable, warmed by burrowing in hay. Our only clue to our uncles’ where-abouts came from a shopkeeper sweeping snow off his step, who knew them. He said that when the British occupied this city last winter, they ransacked and burned many houses. My uncles and their families moved away, but where, he did not know. It seems the enemy destroyed their letters to us.

  “Those swine Englishmen,” said the shopkeeper. He spit in the icy gutter. “Now they have taken New York City. How many Patriots there have been forced from their homes, God only knows.”

  On our fourth day of wandering and being so very hungry, a lady kind in heart and deed saw us in the street. Actually, she heard Johnny yowling from Mama’s cloak, and invited us into her tiny cottage. Her name is Mrs. Darling.

  The five of us have made a cozy bed in her attic, with the blankets Elisabeth rescued. I am awake as an owl; Mother, too. I can see firelight through cracks in the floorboards and feel some warmth from the stone chimney. Still it is cold. My breath makes frost.

  “Can you not sleep, Abby?” Mama just whispered.

  “Not yet, Mother.”

  “Then mind thy candle, dear.”

  “Yes, Mama.” I am careful with fire. I always lick my thumb and finger to pinch the flame so a draft will not relight it.

  Where was I? Oh yes. The night of the fire, our neighbours, the Doogans, took us in. Then the next morning friends came to console us. They brought shoes, a cloak for each of us, a kettle, some spoons, also a basket with figs, apples, and beef pies. All offered us shelter, but Mama thought it best to be with Papa’s brothers in Philadelphia.

  Our farewells were tearful.

  Without a house and without Papa to build one, would we ever return?

  Mr. Doogan helped us into his sleigh, set warm bricks at our feet, and covered us with quilts. He whistled to the horses then drove out of Valley Forge. The countryside was white save for the smoldering black ruins of our home.

  Mama was silent.

  Walnut Street, Philadelphia

  Am in the attic this afternoon, hunched into a blanket. I scratched ice off the window to look out at the street below. A boy has just stepped from the wigmaker’s shop carrying a tall box. Though it is sunny, I can see frost from his breath. He wears the short apron of an apprentice and appears to be on an errand. Does he live in a warm house, I wonder? Is his Papa at war, too?

  I miss my friends Lucy, Molly, Naomi, and Ruth. But when I think of them, I remember the fire. It haunts me how swiftly the curtains burned, how the roof caved in with a dreadful, hissing crash.

  I cannot stop thinking about that night.

  Am not sure of the date

  When Mrs. Darling invited us in, we were astonished to see our dear friends Helen Kern and baby Olivia! They arrived two weeks ago, after bidding us farewell in Valley Forge. When we told her about the fire, Helen’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Your lovely home is gone?” she asked.

  At this Sally burst out, “I miss Buttercup.” She sobbed. “And Pinny-Pin, my chicken.”

  “Oh dear … dear.”

  I felt heartsore to hear Sally
cry so.

  “Papa will build us a new house, Sally,” said I. “A new house with a new barn. We’ll get our animals back—”

  “But first the war must end,” she wailed. “How long will that be?”

  Helen’s face went pale. Her husband died last winter at Valley Forge. She is only sixteen. We looked over at Mrs. Darling pouring tea into cups but neither did she answer Sally. Her husband is camped with the Army, same as Papa.

  Mama went to a bench by the hearth then pulled my sister into her lap. Big as Sally is, my mother rocked her and rocked her.

  Beth and I squeezed hands. We kept our tears quiet.

  Later

  The lamplighter has just come up the street with his ladder and jug of whale oil. These tall lamps are lit every night. I miss the darkness of Valley Forge and being able to see stars. I miss being there with Papa. He was always the last one to bed and knew how to stoke the coals so they would keep us warm through the cold night.

  Papa made us feel safe.

  Alas, Helen Kern also has suffered disappointment. Her cousins sent a letter inviting her for Christmas — which was why she left our home — but when she arrived in Philadelphia her cousins’ house was boarded up. She could not get in. Neighbours knew naught of the family’s where-abouts. After hours of wandering, Helen met Mrs. Darling coming out of a bakery.

  Now, once again we are all living under the same roof.

  January 12, 1779, Tuesday

  This morning, Sisters and I went out for fresh air. While crossing the street on the raised stepping-stones, three soldiers on horseback rode by. One sat taller than the others. His great cloak draped down over his saddle to the top of his boots.

  General George Washington!

  We had seen him many times last winter in Valley Forge when our family brought his clean laundry to Headquarters. The two men with him today wore blue coats with the shoulder patches of officers.

  Elisabeth was so surprised, she pointed. “What is the Commander in Chief doing here?” she asked. “Is not his Army camped in New Jersey?”

  Sally tried to run after the horsemen as they rounded the corner, but she slipped and fell, soaking her skirt in an icy puddle. Beth and I helped her up.