Cannons at Dawn Page 2

  “Sally, you cannot chase Mr. Washington,” I said.

  “But what if Papa came with him? Maybe Mama’s letter reached him and he is searching for us.”

  Beth and I looked at each other. Our mother has not sent a letter. Each time she sits at the table to write, she dips the quill into the ink and pens two words: “Dearest husband,” but that is all. Then she crumples the letter into the fire.

  I did not tell Sally this.

  Sisters and I stepped along the sunny side of the street where snow had melted and the cobblestones were not as icy. We could see the General and his two officers dismount in front of an elegant brick home and go inside. A Negro footman led the horses to a stable.

  Sally hurried to the door, but just as she reached for the brass knocker, I grabbed her arm. “We must not intrude,” I said.

  “But General Washington knows us. We can ask about Papa.”

  “Not now,” said Elisabeth with a glance my way. She and I have agreed that at times our little sister is too curious so it is best to keep her busy. “Sally, let us do a good deed and visit the hospital.”

  And so, to keep from slipping, the three of us took hands, then rounded the corner.

  Evening, still Tuesday

  As soon as Sisters and I rushed in through Mrs. Darling’s door, we chattered about seeing the General. Mrs. Darling was at the hearth plucking a goose. She blew a feather away from her face then said, “He and his wife are old friends of mine. They are staying at the home of Henry Laurens, who used to be President of Congress.”

  “Lady Washington is here, too?” I cried.

  “Yes, dear. This winter has been so mild, Congress invited the Commander in Chief to make Philadelphia his Headquarters. He and Martha have been here since before Christmas, many officers and their wives as well. Lord Stirling has been left in charge of the encampment.”

  We smiled upon hearing Lady Washington’s name. She was generous and kind to us last winter. The laced handkerchiefs she gave us were saved from our fire only because we each had the habit of carrying one tucked in a sleeve.

  I pondered a way to see her, to say hello again. A lady such as herself could tell us truly about the soldiers, if they were better fed and warmer than last year.

  Also, I pondered our visit to the hospital. The Battle of Monmouth was six months ago yet Ben Valentine was still fevered. One arm was a stump of bloody bandages. When Elisabeth spoke his name, he opened his eyes but was too weak to lift his head.

  “I write his letters for him,” said a lady sitting by another cot. Her dress was brown, her apron snow-white. The black feather pinned over her heart told us two things: that she was a widow and that she was a Patriot. Black cloth comes from England, thus women in mourning refuse to sew gowns of this color.

  Elisabeth wants to return to the hospital, but I do not. It stank of wet wool and vinegar. The rats running underneath the beds were big as puppies.

  January 13, 1779, Wednesday

  You would not guess our country is at war by the gaiety in Philadelphia. I am writing at Mrs. Darling’s desk, by a tall front window. Three fine carriages have just rolled by, splashing through the wet snow. A dance is to be held at Mrs. Powell’s within the hour.

  Mrs. Darling was invited to the party, but she burned her hand yesterday when the kettle spilled. She has asked me to deliver a cake in her stead. Oh, the aroma of baked apples and cinnamon! Would it be wretched if I pinched off a crispy corner to taste?

  Elisabeth is at the hospital, reading Gulliver’s Travels to Ben. He has been cheered by seeing her. This morning after she and I cleaned breakfast dishes, she went to the frosted windows and wrote with her finger: first, “Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Valentine,” then “Elisabeth Ann Valentine.” I think she has made up her mind about a husband.

  Evening

  Sally walked with me to Mrs. Powell’s, three streets toward the river. A servant girl my age showed us upstairs to a ballroom, where ladies and gentlemen were dancing a cotillion. Such beautiful gowns swishing about the floor! The men wore buff and blue coats, and their breeches were tied at the knee with a bow. I believe their white stockings were silk, and the buckles on their shoes, silver.

  When a fiddler began playing a march, I realized Sally was no longer at my side. I held my breath. Where had she gone? Soon enough I spied her with a group of ladies — all familiar to me from last winter — and Mrs. Washington! Such was my haste to reach them I near dropped my basket with the cake.

  “Pardon us, Lady Washington,” I said. “Please forgive our intrusion.”

  “Dear girls, ’tis lovely to see you again. How fares your mother?”

  Then in a tumble of words, Sally told about the fire and how Papa joined the army. “Have you seen him, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Washington was my height and plump as a pretty hen. There was color in her cheeks and her eyes were kind. She took Sally’s hand. “I am sorry about your house, dear child, and that you miss your father. Try not to worry.”

  Then turning to me she said, “Abby, perhaps you know that families such as yours are encamped with the soldiers? Many are those who fled the city of New York because they lost their homes to the British. ’Tis a rough life, I assure you. And my husband says that women and children are troublesome for the Army.”

  She leaned close to whisper. “However, dear, I do think they bring comfort to the men.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Washington.” I dipped a quick curtsy then tugged Sally’s apron.

  Downstairs at the door, I remembered to hand my basket to the young servant. She lifted the cloth then gave me a sly smile. “Aye, girl,” she said in a heavy Scottish brogue, “the very same happens to my cakes. One corner always disappears.”

  January 15, 1779, Friday, before bed

  Mama and Helen Kern are nursing their babies by the fire while my Sisters play dominoes at the table. Mrs. Darling has been reading aloud to us from the Evening Post. Her rocker creaks like the slow ticking of a clock.

  I shall never forget last evening. The ballroom was in the most elegant home I have ever seen. Chandeliers sparkled with so many candles and there was a wall of mirrors. The music and the swishing of dresses and the clip-step-clip of shoes on the polished wood floor will stay with me always. As Sally and I were leaving, we noticed General Washington speaking with officers. He stands a head taller than most — six-feet-two inches, some say. I recognized one of the generals from last winter: Benedict Arnold. He was hoisting a glass of punch and seemed quite jolly. He still limps badly from his wound at Saratoga.

  I should not have stared, but I did—just for a moment — from under the lace of my cap. I am certain that one of Benedict Arnold’s legs is shorter than the other. His boot heels were uneven.

  Lady Washington’s words have stayed with me. If families bring comfort to soldiers, might we do the same for Papa?

  After an argument with Mother

  This time in the attic, I am most unhappy. And cold. My fingers are stiff holding this quill.

  When I asked Mama if we might join the Army, she said, “The Army is no place for a baby learning to walk. ’Tis too dangerous. I fear something would happen to our Johnny.”

  My parents still grieve over the five tiny gravestones in Valley Forge. Johnny is the only one of my six brothers to have lived through his first winter. Now this is his second winter. I reminded Mama of this, and how he is a fine, healthy baby, but she pointed me up the ladder. I should not have stomped my foot at her or raised my voice.

  But I did, thus here I am until supper.

  January 17, 1779, Sunday

  Sometimes it seems that all goes wrong.

  I have enjoyed helping Mrs. Darling prepare our evening meals, but a few days ago I broke the crane in her fireplace. The iron arm snapped in two when I hooked a pot of beans onto it. The pot fell into the coals, scattering ashes and spilling all that we had soaked overnight. Thus, instead of pork and beans for three nights’ supper, we ate bread and butter with pickles.


  Then yesterday when everyone was out visiting a neighbour, I decided to make tea for when they returned. I opened our door to scoop fresh snow into a bucket. Behind me on the table was a ham. I had just brushed it with honey and poked it with cloves, readying it for the spit. But while I was outside, a shaggy, muddy dog trotted up to me. He was wagging his tail and had a certain confidence about him. He licked my hand, then went straight into the house. At the table, he stood on his hind legs, snatched the ham, and quick as a flea, he was gone.

  I was too surprised to yell at him.

  Mrs. Darling did not fault me for these dreadful losses. The crane had rusted, she said, thus was weak. Blacksmith Campbell repaired it, then set it safely into the hearth. As for the dog who stole our ham, it seems that he, too, is an old friend of Mrs. Darling’s.

  “I call him Captain Lost Boy,” she told us. “He comes by now and then for a good meal. I enjoy his company. Sometimes he stays all evening by the fire.”

  The other mishap was this morning at Christ Church. After three hours of sitting terribly still and trying to listen to Reverend Fogg, I yawned. I could not help myself. It was loud as a belch, and many turned to look at me. A boy even stuck out his tongue and pointed. Wanting to disappear, I sunk low into my cloak. In the pew across from us were Lady Washington and the General. He was facing forward and gave no indication he had heard me. But dear Mrs. Washington glanced over at me with the tiniest of smiles. I am most fond of her.

  I feel somewhat better having written all this tonight.

  January 23, 1779, Saturday

  Days have passed since I opened my diary. We have all been ailing with heavy colds and still my throat is sore, but not Johnny. He is most vigorous.

  “See how he stands up by himself?” I showed Mama as he held on to my finger. In his frock and chin-cap, his pink baby feet took one step then another along the braided rug.

  “He is a big boy now,” Mama agreed, setting down a letter from Papa. A neighbour from Valley Forge delivered it this morning after searching for us. Papa wrote that he is in Middlebrook, New Jersey, with the 2nd Pennsylvania Brigade.

  Mama watched Johnny take another step with me. Her brow furrowed. “Hmm,” she said. “Middlebrook. My cousin Deborah lives in the village there, with her husband, James, and five — or is it now six? — children. We last exchanged letters before Christmas. She has invited us often.”

  “Oh Mother, let us go visit,” I said.

  She did not answer, but I noticed a slight sparkle in her eye.

  Next evening

  Captain Lost Boy came for supper tonight. Sally tied a leather strap around his neck for a collar. This time he ate from a bowl, then he curled up by the hearth to sleep. He was such a tired dog, he was not roused when Johnny lay at his side and stroked his furry ear.

  January 25, 1779, Monday

  At long last Mama has written a letter to Papa. Sisters and I leaned over the table as she read it aloud. “… and do not worry about us, Edward. Though we have lost our home, we are together. And soon we shall be near you, staying with cousins. You remember Deborah’s bright red hair—”

  Upon hearing that we would indeed winter near Papa, Sally and I hugged Mama, then hugged her again. But Elisabeth stood back. She is dark-eyed and as pretty as our mother.

  “Mother?” she said. Her voice trembled. “May I have your blessing to remain in Philadelphia? Helen and I want to help in the hospital. Our soldiers need care — Ben Valentine especially — and Mrs. Darling has invited us to live with her.”

  Mama’s eyes grew moist. She touched my sister’s cheek then nodded.

  Last night in bed I could not help my tears. Elisabeth leaned on her elbow and gave me a tender look. “Abby,” she whispered. “You will be the eldest now. Please stop arguing with Mama. It grieves her so, and she needs your help to look after Sally and Johnny. Papa shall be very proud of you.”

  I burrowed under our quilt. Beth is my best friend. I get stomachaches worrying about Johnny. And I never know what Sally might do or say. If anything happens to them, I would come undone.

  Monday after supper, looking at

  maps and an almanac

  Middlebrook is several days north, up the Delaware River. Ice is along the banks. We shall sail as far as possible, then walk the rest of the way. If more snow falls, I do not know what we will do for shelter. We have no money for an inn or tavern.

  Mrs. Darling tried to cheer us. She explained that next Saturday is a full moon, the second one this month.

  “’Tis a good omen for travel, Mrs. Stewart,” she said to encourage Mama. “Two moons in January are rare.”

  Mr. Campbell’s family will go with us. He says the Army needs another blacksmith, and by coincidence his son is in the same brigade as Papa. Mr. Campbell also said the soldiers have built huts in which to stay warm, but he does not know about the others — the blacksmiths such as himself, cobblers, wheelwrights, and the wagon drivers who haul the cannons.

  “Perhaps we will live in tents,” he told us with a questioning glance toward his wife.

  It is selfish of me, but I am thankful Papa has a hut, and the rest of our family shall be cozy in a cousin’s home. If Mrs. Campbell is unhappy about tenting in the snow, she is bearing up well. She patted Mama’s hand as if to say, Not to worry, all shall be fine.

  Our belongings are few: a kettle, small sacks of flour and dried beef, a blanket each, and of course Mama’s long, wooden spoon. My diary, pen, and packets of ink powder fit into the pocket tied under my skirt — a cork will keep my little jug from spilling.

  How I wish Elisabeth had not been crying when we said our farewells. She pulled her apron up over her face. My throat gets tight not knowing how long we’ll be apart.

  Aboard the Little Liberty

  Late afternoon. We are sitting on deck, huddled together for warmth near the mainmast. Tarps cover bundles of supplies for various villages and there are barrels of salted fish roped together. Mr. Campbell’s mule and wagon are in the stern. We have just eaten our supper: some small apples and beef pies that Mrs. Darling packed for us this morning.

  The sky is white with falling snow (thus the splotches on this page). Mama has spread her cloak like wings over Johnny and Sally to keep them dry. Her face is pale. If I could see my face, I would say it is fretting, and that my whole self is shivery. The wind is cold. Chunks of ice are in the water as we glide past the frozen banks. I do believe winter is the most dreadful time to travel.

  We have come to a narrow stretch of river where there are soldiers on shore. When I saw their bayonets, I thought they were our Continentals. But now I realize their coats are crimson, and they are cursing at us!

  “Rebels … traitors!” they keep yelling. “Drop your anchor! By order of His Majesty, King George of England, halt!” Then shots rang out. We could hear the thump-thump-thump of musket balls hitting the hull. Splinters flew in the air.

  A murmur passed among those of us crouched on deck trying to hide. Sally stood up to look over the side, but I pulled her down. This scared her and she flung herself on Mama.

  “What will happen if the ship stops?” Sally cried.

  Mr. Campbell did not give Mama or me a chance to make up a pretty answer. He said, “Those Redcoats will hang us. Or they will shoot us.”

  Mother gave him a worried look. “I thought the Delaware was safe,” she said.

  “Nothing is safe, Mrs. Stewart. The Redcoats are everywhere. Their generals are moving troops through our colonies as if playing on a giant chessboard.”

  Mr. Campbell pointed over the bow, toward the trees. “British patrols from New York have been watching this ship, of that I am certain. And they shall track us all the way to Middlebrook, just to harass us.”

  Sally buried her head in Mama’s cloak.

  I must put away this pen, my hand trembles so.

  Somewhere along the Delaware

  I am sick with dread, having seen our enemies and knowing they are still in the woods.
Darkness has fallen. We are in a tavern, warming up. It is about ten o’clock.

  Back to our voyage: By a miracle, a stiff wind filled our sails and our captain steered us fast away. The Redcoats still fired at us. Even in the falling snow I could see smoke from their guns and smell their powder. An older man among us was wounded in the arm. The soldiers chased along the shore until an island came between us, then they dropped from sight. Still we could hear their shouts in the forest.

  When the river ice became too thick for Little Liberty, her crew unloaded the equipment and passengers — there were about twenty of us headed to different villages — then turned back for Philadelphia. By this time it had stopped snowing and the clouds opened like a curtain to show us the moon, filling the sky with light. We did not argue with Mr. Campbell when he said we must hurry to put distance between those soldiers and us.

  After some miles, chilled and hungry, we spied a tavern and stopped. It was crowded and noisy despite the late hour. Mr. Campbell peeked in a window to make sure there were no British.

  “My husband was killed in the Battle of Brandywine,” the owner told us, pulling open her barn door for us. “Fresh hay for thy horse. Hide thy wagon here. A blacksmith on the road to General Washington’s camp — that, sir, is an easy target. If the Brits don’t molest ye, the cowboys shall — those are the raiders attached to no army. Dirty, filthy pirates is what I call ‘em.”

  After serving us bread and hot onion soup, the lady showed us to a ladder nailed against the back wall. She pointed to the ceiling. We climbed up through a small opening, under the low rafters of her attic, and shut the trapdoor. It is here that I am writing by the candle she gave us. There are no windows or furniture, merely a bare floor with squash and pumpkins stored where the roof slopes down. We must stoop to move about, else bump our heads on the beams.