Cannons at Dawn Read online

  Our blankets are warming against the chimney.

  In payment for our meal and our night’s stay, Mr. Campbell will carry in firewood tomorrow morning, and we ladies will scrub this floor. I shall be glad to do so. It is muddy and stinks of urine, from past sojourners I suspect. Through the cracks I can see men downstairs eating at a long table by the fire. Their jokes are crude.

  I am most thankful those rough men cannot see us.

  The tavern door has just banged open … soldiers!

  Hiding

  We can scarce breathe. The Campbells, Mama, Sally, and I are lying on the floor on our bellies, each with an eye looking down through a crack. Five Redcoats are singing and tottering. Our lady made them stack their bayonets in a corner, and she is ladling soup into bowls for them. I can see the top of her cap and her aproned hips as she moves about the table. She has not looked up at the ceiling.

  My candle is a puddle of wax, not giving much light. Still I have set it inside our kettle so that no one below sees its flicker.

  Johnny has started to fuss! Quick, Mama is nursing him. Thank heaven the soldiers can hear naught but their own singing. Oh, when will they leave?!

  Morning at the tavern

  Still in the attic. Below us by the hearth, the five Brits sleep. The other men must have left in the wee hours of the night. Sunshine is coming in by the table where the widow is kneading bread. Now she kicks the soldiers’ boots. “Up with ye. Up!” she yells. “Get out and about thy dirty business. Three shillings apiece, now!”

  After scrubbing the attic

  Finally the soldiers are gone. The lady is furious they left without paying and even more furious they stole a cooked ham from her table. They are no better than stray dogs. At least Captain Lost Boy provides friendship.

  This past hour, Mr. Campbell filled one wall of the tavern with firewood, then stacked more outside under the eaves. Mother and I carried out the bucket of wash water to pour into the snow. I have a few moments with my diary while the Campbells ready their horse and wagon.

  The widow has set breakfast on the table for us: porridge and stewed apples, toasted bread with butter. Tea, as well, from her summer garden. Not British tea.

  “Fill thy bellies,” she tells us. “Middlebrook is a long day’s journey. I pray the cowboys leave ye be.”

  The six of us are seated now with the lady. She has asked Mr. Campbell to pray for all of us.

  Following the

  Continental Army

  1779

  Mid-March 1779

  Middlebrook. Much has happened since we left Philadelphia, now several weeks past. I shall try to relate all, while Johnny naps on the ground beside me. We are on a sunny hillside looking down at Army Headquarters — a large house with shutters and a columned porch. Mrs. Washington is staying there with the General; she and I often wave to each other.

  But back to our journey: The road from the tavern was snowy, but had been packed down by farmers and villagers. We kept a sharp eye, fearful of Redcoats or raiders. At last we came to a wide fork. One direction led to the encampment, the other was a narrow lane to Mama’s cousin Deborah’s house. The snow was too deep for Mr. Campbell’s wagon, so he helped us climb out at the junction.

  “’Tis but a short walk anyway,” Mama said. The cottage was as she remembered from years ago. But when we knocked, the lady who opened the door had brown curls below her cap. She was not redheaded as were the five children peering out at us.

  “Deborah?” Mama asked.

  “No, lady. I be Suzanne. Deborah passed two months ago at Christmas; her new babe, too.”

  We stood in silence. Finally Mama explained why we had journeyed so far. “We have no place to call home.”

  “I am dreadful sorry for your loss, Mrs. Stewart. Me and James are married now. He has headaches and does not like visitors. But you folks come in by the fire before you freeze out there, the sun is going down. You can stay one night, ’tis all. I am sorry,” she said again.

  During a supper of biscuits and beans, James stared down at his plate. He said not a word to us or to his squirming children. Mama and I lay awake that long night. By the glow of the hearth I could see her tears. At sunrise we bade farewell to our little cousins then hiked down their lane, our blankets rolled up around our waists. Mama and I took turns carrying Johnny and our heavy iron kettle. Sally trudged behind us in the snow with our basket.

  Next day

  Johnny is awake now. I have given him some twigs and a pinecone to play with. To continue:

  Mama led us onto the road where we had last seen the Campbells and their wagon. A forest was to our left, snowfields to our right. The air was frosty, but soon we were warmed by our brisk pace and the sun.

  “Come, Daughters,” Mama called. “More miles await us. We do not want to be caught out here at dark.”

  Sally is brave for seven years old, even holding her hem lest she trip on her skirt. But after three hours she began to lag farther and farther. We kept stopping so she could catch up. At a bend in the road I turned around to encourage her, but she had disappeared!

  “Sally!” I screamed, dropping the kettle and running, slipping on ice. “Sally!” Finally I saw her by the edge of the woods. She was swinging her basket at a man reaching for her. He wore a fringed hunting shirt and a tricorn, which had fallen over his eyes in the struggle. He was laughing.

  I could hear Mama running, breathing hard, Johnny on her hip, calling to us.

  Just as the man grabbed Sally’s skirt, two soldiers in blue rushed out from the trees. My heart pounded in terror. One of the soldiers jumped on the man, knocking him down with a punch to the jaw. The other soldier — taller and younger — pulled out a knife and held it to the fellow’s neck.

  “You hurt, Sally?” called the older one. How did he know my sister’s name? His voice was familiar.

  “Papa?” Sally and I cried at once, now recognizing his rugged face. But he waved us away.

  “Go to thy mother,” he ordered. Sally ran, but I disobeyed. I could not take my eyes off my father. How did he get here at this moment? He and the younger soldier removed the man’s boots and slit open his shirt so it dropped to the snow. Then they made him hand over his wool stockings and breeches.

  “Swine,” Papa said. “My bunk mates shall make good use of your clothing, but only after we wash out the vermin. If you ever touch my family again, I shall cut your throat.”

  I saw only the backside of that naked man running away through the snow, holding his hat onto his head.

  Sally and I flew into Papa’s arms. He hugged us for the longest time. Then he embraced our mother and hefted Johnny onto his shoulders. At first none of us spoke, but then came our questions. He introduced us to Willie, Mr. Campbell’s son.

  “Your letter came a few days ago,” Papa told us. “I had learned that James was ill after losing Deborah and the baby. I knew he could not care for another family. My captain gave us permission to come find you. A shorter path took us through the woods where we happened to see Sally just now.”

  “Papa, if James is heartsore for his wife, why did he marry Suzanne?” Sally asked.

  Once again, Mother and I did not have time for a pretty answer.

  “James needs someone to care for his children,” Papa replied. “And Suzanne needs a roof.”

  March 30, 1779, Tuesday

  Every day I want to write in this diary, but it is trying without a quiet place to call my own. Sally or Mama or someone looks over my shoulder and says, “What say you, Abby girl?”

  I answer by covering the page with my sleeve. I want to have secrets that no one will read!

  A moment ago I stirred fresh ink powder and water into my jug, then sharpened a new quill with Mama’s pen knife — alas, now Sally is asking for my help. She’s trying to wash Johnny’s face, but he toddled this way and is calling my name. “Babby, Babby,” he cries, holding out his arms for me. That little boy makes me happy! Being the eldest is not so bad after all, though
I miss Elisabeth dreadfully — the secrets we whispered, and our prayers.

  Later, still Tuesday

  I like Middlebrook. It’s in a pretty valley with farms and meadows like Pennsylvania. There are surrounding mountains and I counted three churches with steeples. Sally plays more with Johnny, now that he can walk while holding her hand.

  When Papa and Willie Campbell led us to the encampment, we were surprised to see many ladies along the edges. They were washing clothes in big kettles that hung over fires. Children seemed to be everywhere. The soldiers had built log huts for them, so they would not have to live in tents. Some women also cook and many nurse the men who are sick or who have been wounded.

  We share a cabin with Mrs. Campbell, and three women from New York who lost their homes to the British. The only reason we are allowed to stay here is because we are related to a soldier. We must earn our keep. We cannot sit around and gaze at the clouds, we must launder uniforms and blankets. There is much mending of torn breeches and lost buttons. In exchange, the Army gives us rations of meat and flour.

  Our hut has bunks built into the walls. A stone hearth is opposite the door and window, which has no glass. At night we cover it with an apron, so men cannot see in. After breakfast and after supper I help wipe dishes, then Sally and I take turns sweeping the dirt floor with a pine bough. For now it is home.

  We have not bathed since Christmas, only washed our hands and faces. My scalp feels itchy under my cap; Sally says hers does, too.

  “How long will we live here?” she asked Papa when he brought soiled shirts from his brigade for washing.

  “As long as the Army is here,” he answered. “When General Washington orders us to march, so will you.”

  “We march with the soldiers?”

  “Behind, daughter. Far behind so none of you gets hurt in battle. You shall follow the supply wagons and cannons.”

  March 31, 1779, Wednesday

  Today Mama told me I am thirteen years old and have been since the sixth of this month! Sally turned eight last week. We have been too busy to watch the calendar!

  I looked down at my bare feet sticking out from my skirt but they do not look bigger, nor do my hands. I am older, but am I growing? I wish Elisabeth were here to tell me. There is no mirror to see if my face looks the same.

  My birthday last year passed unnoticed as well. I read back in this diary to see why. We were busy in another way and my heart hurts remembering. The Fitzgerald boys fell through the ice of the Schuylkill and drowned.

  I had loathed the bully, Tom, but I had not wished him dead, nor his four little brothers.

  Another day, after a visit to

  Headquarters

  I did not expect Lady Washington to invite me in when I knocked on the open door of Headquarters. Truly, it was just to deliver a message from Mama, that we would be glad to care for the General’s shirts again if need be.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, Abby, dear,” she said. “We’ve hired a laundress from the village. But come to the kitchen with me, my old friend. I have a little something for you and Sally.” She handed me a warm cloth. Inside were two scones with a spicy pumpkin aroma.

  When she wiped her fingers on her apron, a letter that had been tucked into her waistband fell to the floor. Before she noticed, a draft blew it under a chair. I rushed over to pick it up.

  “My goodness,” she said. “I don’t want to lose this. My son, Jacky, has written such cheerful news about my grandchildren. Thank you, Abby.”

  Just then a large woman in full skirts appeared, cradling an infant in her arms. She smiled and said, “Abigail, hello! I remember you from Valley Forge. You are taller this year.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Knox.” I stretched on my toes to see her baby’s tiny pink face.

  Seeing my curiosity, she said, “This is our sweet little Julia, our second daughter. ’Tis a fine spring day to be out visiting, yes? And, here comes Caty.”

  I curtsied to General Greene’s wife, Catharine. She, too, was holding an infant. When she saw me peering at the little lace cap she said, “And this is Cornelia. She and Julia shall grow up together and be great friends.”

  Soon I was forgotten among the officers of many ranks coming through the central hall, boots clomping mud. Their voices were solemn. I strained to hear.

  Lady Washington’s Negro maid, Oney, touched my elbow. She and I had become friendly at Headquarters last winter. She said, “Abigail hon’ chile, you best leave now. Mistress Wash’ton’s friends are arriving for coffee. See?”

  Oney nodded toward three gowned ladies coming down the hall on their way upstairs, one behind the other. Their full skirts brushed against the walls so I stepped inside a room to get out of their way. This room was crowded with officers. General Washington stood by the fire, his arm on the mantel. His hair was powdered, tied behind his neck in a queue. I saw only his profile, but noticed that his brow was furrowed.

  “Our soldiers have not been paid for months!” he thundered. “Their families at home suffer and even here we have not enough food. Congress must do more to help.”

  Hearing this, I hid the cakes in my skirt, ashamed to have sweets and knowing other children in camp had none. The ladies now were making their rustly way up the staircase to Mrs. Washington’s parlour. As I reached the front door, a running soldier bumped into me.

  “Sir,” he shouted. “The Redcoats have taken Savannah. Next they shall have Charleston. They are moving through the colonies like locusts, sir.”

  General Washington’s voice came from the room. “Where in God’s name is the French fleet? We need them now!”

  I stepped outside and shut the door behind me, recalling last spring in Valley Forge. Elisabeth and I had been at Headquarters fetching laundry when we overheard some officers cheering. There was great excitement because the French had just become our allies. Their army was to begin sailing across the Atlantic to help us fight the British.

  Now I, too, wondered where they were. What was taking so long?

  April 5, 1779, Monday

  More news about the enemy. A horseman rode into camp an hour ago, yelling about a shipwreck. While transporting British troops and some of their families from Halifax to New York, the ship hit rocks and broke apart.

  “One hundred forty-five Redcoats drowned,” he said to cheers and hats being thrown in the air.

  Mama surprised me with her boldness. She hollered, “But what happened to their wives and the little children? Did they make it to shore?”

  “No, madam, they all drowned. Only some of the men survived.”

  I looked over at Johnny playing with stones in the dirt, and Sally tending him. I hope and pray we never sail on another ship. We do not know how to swim, and surely our heavy skirts would sink us.

  Two surprises

  The days are getting warmer. We see Papa now and then, but he is busy. The men drill with artillery and cannons, resulting in the same furious explosions we heard in Valley Forge. They are not in battles, but it sounds so.

  More noise comes from the blacksmiths. They work over campfires by their wagons, hammering horseshoes, repairing iron chains and other metal. Cobblers, too, are hard at work, though there is not enough leather or time to keep every man in good shoes or boots. The French sent our Army handsome blue and white uniforms, but the French shoes fall apart in the mud like a lady’s slipper.

  Mama fears that our soldiers will be barefoot again, as they were last winter, the winter of red snow.

  “Their bloody footprints made us cry,” Sally reminded us.

  We ladies also are busy. Behind our huts, ropes are strung between poles, for drying the many shirts and breeches and blankets on sunny days. When it rains, all is hung inside. Late this afternoon, Sally and I each carried a folded stack of laundry to Papa’s camp, a mile from here along a creek.

  A soldier sitting on a log was polishing his bayonet. He jumped up when he saw us. “Let me help you, ladies.”

  It was Willie Campbe
ll. For the first time, I noticed his eyes are blue and gentle. He stands much taller than I remember. His knees were showing through a tear in his breeches. We gave him the laundry, then as we hurried away, I looked over my shoulder.

  I was surprised to see him smiling at me. He touched the brim of his tricorn in salute.

  The second surprise is that I am most eager to see him again.

  June 3, 1779, Thursday

  Still in Middlebrook. Parcels of mail arrived at Headquarters today. There was a letter for us from Elisabeth. While our laundry dried in the sun, we sat in the grass on the shady side of our hut. Mama began reading aloud.

  “‘… Captain Lost Boy had three puppies. He is a she. We now just call her Captain. She was so furry, we had not noticed the obvious! Every evening all of us are together in front of Mrs. Darling’s fire. Captain is a good dog and makes us feel safe….’”

  Then Mama pressed her fingers over her mouth. “Oh,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away.

  “Mother, what is it?” I asked.

  Mama glanced at Mrs. Campbell. “Well,” she said, “Elisabeth and Ben Valentine have married and are expecting a baby.”

  Sally jumped up and clapped. “A baby! May we go to their wedding?”

  “No wedding, Sally. Reverend Fogg has already pronounced them man and wife, and so they are. I must tell your father.”