Cannons at Dawn Page 11

More than ever I miss my sister Elisabeth.

  June 6, 1781, Wednesday

  Today’s chores shall keep me busy but I am thinking about this evening. The chaplain will be here at sunset.

  The ladies made a bridal quilt. They sewed two blankets together like a pocket then filled it with soft downy feathers from geese and ducks. “This shall keep you and your husband warm in the woods,” said Mrs. Ewing.

  Husband! That word sounds strange when I say it.

  Next day, sunrise

  Camp is quiet this early hour. Willie helped me start a small fire for coffee; next I shall fry some bacon.

  Last night, lanterns hanging from trees lighted our wedding dance. Supper was another celebration with friends and family toasting to our happiness. When Papa lifted his cup of cider, I noticed a tear on his cheek.

  “I am not sad, Daughter,” he later said, when I asked if he was all right. “You shall always be my little girl, but now Willie will take care of you.”

  I hear the coffee boiling — time to put down my quill and cook my first wifely breakfast. As I watch Willie bring more firewood, I am pondering my father’s words.

  June 8, 1781, Friday morning

  An hour ago a soldier came into camp looking for Mrs. Campbell. I found her at the creek rinsing a pot.

  “A messenger is here for you,” I told her. We returned to the tents where a young orderly was holding a folded piece of paper.

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked him. He gave her the letter and left.

  Mrs. Campbell broke open the wax seal to read the message. She handed it to me, trying not to laugh. “Abby dear, this is for you. There are two Mrs. Campbells now.”

  “Oh!” I felt embarrassed. Willie and I were married two days ago, yet this is the first time I considered my new name. Abby Campbell. I like the sound of it.

  Sally and Mazie were peering over my shoulder to see the letter; Mama and Miss Lulu were also wondering, so I read it aloud:

  “ ‘Dear Abigail, I have heard of your recent nuptials and should like to wish you well. Please join Mrs. Knox and me for tea this afternoon at Headquarters, three o’clock. Fond regards, Martha Washington.’”

  Now it was I who smoothed my apron and looked at my hands. Suddenly I felt nervous. “I must brush my hair! Mother, is my face clean? Sally and Mazie, will you walk with me? If there are sweets, perhaps I can bring you each one.”

  We leave in a few minutes! I shall wear my new clothes as they are for every day now.

  After tea with Lady Washington

  The sunshine was warm so we girls did not need wraps. Sally and Mazie sat on a stone wall in front of Headquarters while I went inside. Mrs. Washington’s parlour was cheerful with tall windows open to the fresh air. She smiled in greeting and motioned to a chair near hers.

  “Sit by me, Abigail. Mrs. Knox, come join us now. You’ve helped me enough today.”

  Mrs. Knox swished over in her wide skirt. She set a tray on the table, with cookies and a teapot. “Hello again, Abby! I’m glad to see you. The last time we met, you had grown taller, and now you are married! How lovely. Congratulations, dear.”

  Words flew out of my mouth before I could think. “Thank you, ma’am. And I remember last time you were holding your new baby —” I stopped myself.

  In the quiet that filled the room, Mrs. Knox poured our tea. The cup rattled in its saucer when she handed it to me. She said, “We lost Julia before her first birthday.”

  My mouth went dry. How could I have forgotten?!

  “I am very sorry, Mrs. Knox. Julia was the prettiest baby.” Ashamed of myself, I lowered my eyes. I’m trying to be a proper married lady, but in truth I am still just a girl. A girl with poor manners.

  Lady Washington rescued me with friendly chat. “’Tis a brave calling to be the wife of a soldier,” she said. “Take courage, Abby. We all help each other.” Then she explained that she’s been ill for two weeks and Mrs. Knox has been keeping her company.

  “When do you return to Mount Vernon?” I asked.

  “End of June, I pray. I miss my son, Jacky, and I have a new grandbaby to meet. Everyone worries the Redcoats might sail up the Potomac again and try to kidnap me. Bah. What would they want with an old woman? I am fifty. As army wives we must be brave, Abigail.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When we had finished our tea she offered he remaining cookies. “Dear, put these in your pocket, for your sister and her friend.”

  “Thank you, Lady Washington.” This time when I curtsied good-bye, my skirt was long enough for a graceful sweep of the floor.

  June 24, 1781, Sunday

  I like church in the woods, but the mosquitoes and heat are torture. This morning the chaplain droned on so — God forgive me — I did not hear one word. Instead, I listened to the birds and the creek. With Willie beside me, I kept marveling, Here is my husband.

  Some nights he is on guard duty for his battalion, but other nights we are able to be together. After supper we walk along the edge of camp where the cooking fires guide our way. He carries our quilt.

  “Abby, when this war is over we shall return to Pennsylvania. We’ll have a house of our own. No more sleeping in the forest.”

  July 17, 1781 Tuesday

  Near West Point, New York. General Cornwallis and thousands of his Redcoats have seized Williamsburg, Virginia.

  Our Army has now started its final campaign south. All of us are weary and hope this brings an end to the war. Cannons, artillery, soldiers, and ships are heading to Virginia. Women and baggage leave tomorrow at dawn. We will journey along many rivers.

  We’ve been told there shall be a fierce battle. Where or when, we do not know. But one thing is certain: The British plan to reclaim our colonies for King George.

  Yesterday when Willie lifted his musket to leave, I pretended to be brave. I did not cry. But after he marched away with all the men, I broke down weeping. In Valley Forge when we watched Papa go I was sad, yes, but I was just a girl of twelve. I knew so little.

  Now nearly three years have passed. Willie is my husband. I cannot bear to think of anything happening to him. Why this is not the same as ith Papa, I do not know. Perhaps fifteen is still too young to understand these things.

  Early August 1781

  Now Cornwallis and his troops are occupying Yorktown, Virginia.

  Our soldiers are marching double time, to cover miles quickly, and are far ahead of us. We are noisy as we walk: babies cry, our kettles clang, stray dogs tag along. It is dreadfully hot, yet still, none of us are allowed to ride with the baggage. The wagons are so slow, we are able to jump in the creeks to cool off, then hurry back to the road before being left behind. In this heat I do not mind that my shift stays wet.

  Johnny is a big boy now, three and a half. He walks with Sally and Mazie, I walk with Esther. When she is tired, I carry baby Polly. I keep thinking of Lady Washington, how she said soldiers’ wives help each other.

  Oh, to have her courage on this long journey. I do not want to see a battlefield.

  We have crossed into New Jersey and are heading toward the city of New York, where there are 10,000 Redcoats. The city is its own island, and beyond is Staten Island and Long Island. From a hill we can see British ships patrolling. Their tall, white sails make me think of swan feathers sharpened into pens. It is hard to imagine this harbor was frozen solid two winters ago, that our enemies could walk from shore to shore.

  A horseman told us General Washington is going to attack, so our troops are settling in for a long siege. They are building rows of earthern ovens to bake bread — enough for our Army and the French who arrived under Rochambeau’s command — also some redoubts and other fortifications.

  We women have been ordered to set up tents here in the woods, and to be quiet. Mama and the others laughed at such an idea. Ladies rarely stop talking and children are never quiet.

  August 8, 1781, Wednesday

  When I did not eat any porridge this morning, Esther said, “Not hu
ngry?”

  I made a face. “No. I feel dreadful. All I want is to lie down and sleep. I pray I don’t have typhoid or the Pox.”

  Esther felt my forehead. “No fever. Do your knees ache?”

  “No.”

  “Does it pain you to swallow?”

  “No.”

  She asked more questions, then put her hands on her hips. “Abby Campbell, you are not sick. You’re going to have a baby!”

  “What?”

  “Yes.” She counted on her fingers. “Probably next spring, in March.”

  “What?” I said again.

  With the hem of her apron, Esther handed me a cup of steaming dandelion tea. “Drink this. ’Tis hot, but good for you. In a month or so you shall feel better, Abby. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

  A baby.

  A few moments ago I went to the creek where Mama was washing petticoats. “Mother, I’m expecting a child,” I told her.

  “I know, dear.”

  “You do? How?”

  She leaned back on her heels to smile at me. “Abigail, some things a mother knows.”

  When alone in the woods where no one can see me, I rest my hand on my belly. A baby? I keep thinking, I, a mother? And I, not even a wife for two months? A quiet thrill leaves me in awe: I am carrying Willie’s child.

  Still August 1781

  Near Trenton, New Jersey. No sooner had we set up our tents than we were told to strike them. Once again, we are on the move!

  “Be quiet and be quick,” an orderly instructed as we gathered our kettles and bags. He would not answer questions.

  There has been no siege. There was no battle. There is no bread baking in those ovens. General Washington suddenly ordered our soldiers on rapid march to the Delaware. At sunset they boarded ships and sailed downriver. Our troops are now in Philadelphia!

  Their journey was overnight, but it shall take us three days of walking to meet up with them. We have suffered from much rain and are wet most of the time, even in our tents at night.

  I write this by the campfire as we try to warm our blankets. My legs are tired. Johnny just collapsed in tears of exhaustion, poor little boy. Sally and Mazie have unraveled their braids to dry their hair. They twirl around and wave their arms to entertain us.

  “Philadelphia!” Sally keeps saying.

  September 3, 1781, Monday

  Philadelphia. This is our last day here, in the home of Mrs. Darling. Captain greeted us with a wagging tail, jumping on Johnny and knocking him down. My sister Elisabeth cried with surprise. Her letters and ours must have been lost for she has been as worried about us as we were for her. She nd Ben Valentine are well; their baby, Rose, is already walking.

  Oh, to spend more time together, but we must join the rest of the women tomorrow morning at sunrise. Miss Lulu and Esther will hold up a flag of red ribbons so we can find them. Already, our troops are on their way south, and the French are marching through Philadelphia. Their long, white waistcoats are adorned with lapels in pink or green, yellow or sky blue. Sergeants have white plumes in their hats, chasseurs green, grenadiers red. A full band stepped with them, to cheering crowds, as they paraded past the Continental Congress. We are thrilled the French are here — thousands of them in a riot of colors — and there are many more aboard ships in the West Indies.

  After six years of war, most of our soldiers are still without stockings. Though their coats are shabby, they are proud and cheerful. When the Pennsylvania Brigade marched by and I saw Papa, I yelled and waved to him, as did Sally and Mama.

  But when Willie came around the corner I could not help myself. I ran to kiss his cheek. Many of the women did the same to their loved ones. Drums and fifes echoed through the stone streets, stirring me to tears. Young Thomas raised his sticks and twirled them in the air when he saw us jumping. He is taller than most of the boys now, his red hair in a long queue below his tricorn.

  General Washington rode by on horseback, one hand holding the reins, the other rested near the hilt of his sword. His coat was buff and blue. He dipped his head to acknowledge the crowds, but did not smile.

  “Godspeed!” we yelled. We ran alongside Willie’s brigade to the harbor. They boarded a schooner loaded with gunpowder, to sail farther down the Delaware. Other vessels were at the docks to transport troops, including the French Commander Rochambeau. The greater part of the armies shall go by land. We will follow.

  Before bed

  Mrs. Darling’s windows are open this warm evening. A full moon fills her parlour with light. Ben has been explaining what he heard from an officer yesterday: that General Washington has succeeded in tricking the enemy.

  “All those ovens were a ruse,” Ben told us during supper. “Their purpose was to make it look like the Americans and French would be settling in. It fooled ol’ Clinton, the Redcoats’ Commander in Chief there.”

  Ben Valentine leaned the stump of his arm on the table to hold down a sheet of paper. Then with his good hand, he sketched a map. “See, ladies, British ships are in New York Harbor ready to battle. But look.” His pen dotted lines down the Delaware River to Philadelphia. “Our soldiers have safely sneaked away from the New York islands. General Washington has saved their strength and their powder for the South.”

  We stared at Ben’s map. I felt a sudden hope for Willie and Papa, for the entire Continental Army.

  Still September 3 —by Mrs.

  Darling’s fire, unable to sleep

  Moonlight is keeping me awake, also my stomach is knotted with worry — sunrise will be here in just a few hours! Some good news, though:

  Admiral François de Grasse with his French fleet is sailing from the Caribbean toward the Chesapeake Capes — more than twenty ships with cannons and armed soldiers! We do not know when or how or where they will meet up with our Army. Lafayette is also leading troops in the South.

  This house is quiet. I rocked Rosie to sleep in Mrs. Darling’s chair, which still creaks and clicks like a clock. It is a marvel to me, to hold the child of my sister. I watched the little pink face in wonderment, realizing that in some months I shall be holding my own babe.

  Other news for which I am grateful: Johnny and Sally will stay here. Elisabeth begged Mama and me not to go.

  Mrs. Darling agreed. “You have a home here with us.”

  “Dear ladies,” said Ben, “’tis a long journey to Yorktown. You could be killed or captured. Believe me, the Brits are brutal. If they win this battle, they would be pleased to drag you aboard one of their prison ships. Those tubs are leaky and full of rats. Too many of my comrades were put in chains there and have not been seen since.”

  “Mother, won’t you please stay?” Elisabeth asked again.

  Mama looked down at her swollen hands. The fatigue in her face gave her answer.

  Alas, I am the foolhardy one of this family. If anything happens to Willie, I want to be there. “Mother, please do not worry about me. I shall look after Papa, too.”

  Now, to close this diary and set aside my pen. I am comforted seeing Sally and Johnny asleep by the fire, their thin arms draped over Captain’s furry neck. At long last, they shall have their own dog to play with.

  And Mama shall finally be able to rest. Her dear friend Mrs. Campbell—Willie’s mother — has also decided to stay. Her brick house with the blacksmith stable is just around the corner.

  Head of Elk, near the top of

  Chesapeake Bay

  Esther and I are in a tent, rain and wind beating at the flapping sides. Baby Polly is warm between us. We have walked for three days and are now waiting out this nor’easter. There are fewer women than before, about 40 of us. Our group is small enough that a kindly quartermaster said we may board a ship tomorrow morning with some soldiers. Miss Lulu and Mazie are with us.

  We have not seen our husbands. At night we pray for them and for General Washington. May God give him wisdom! May God save our country!

  Aboard the Birmingham

  This schooner is also carrying offic
ers and artillerists, those who man the guns and cannons. All day they have been climbing down into the hold to visit the commissary, which has vittles and a hogshead of rum. I think ’tis the rum they enjoy more than food, because their voices are louder with each passing hour. Their cursing and crude laughter make me nervous. It is odd to think this, but these American boys are no different from those Redcoats so many months ago, when we hid upstairs in a tavern.

  We ladies are on deck, sitting in the bow where the wind passes over us. We are grateful to be resting our legs, but are uneasy about these men. If they try to bother us, there is nowhere to run. I am fifteen and married, but I miss my mother!

  A lookout up in the mast has just shouted. He can see the sails of a warship, around a bend in the river.

  “British cruiser!”

  Annapolis, Maryland

  An officer has plugged up the hogshead. No more rum. He is calling out orders. Now men are topdeck, balancing on the spars, rolling up sails. I can hear the rumble of chains as our anchors drop overboard.

  Our journey by schooner is about to end.

  The warship was not our enemy after all, but part of the French fleet. More have come upriver, sails full, their large, white flags snapping in the wind. Such a stirring sight! These ships cast shadows like towering trees. Some are 50 gun, that is, 50 cannons each. Others are 64 gun. We can see these stout, black cannons aimed out over the water.

  American vessels are arriving as well. The combined navies will now transport the hundreds of French and Continentals who marched here by land. They shall sail down the Chesapeake Bay, to confront the Redcoats.