Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Read online

  She embraced Mrs. Kern (a girl near Elisabeth’s age). Just then we saw a shadow of men outside and a stretcher.

  My candle is hissing …

  February 20, 1778, Friday

  Again gray and cold. To finish about yesterday:

  Mrs. Washington and I visited eight huts. Each time, she talked with the soldier, asked about his family, then knelt in prayer for him. If she was tired (or as cold as I was) she uttered not one complaint.

  Near two o’clock in the afternoon we came to a tent at the edge of camp. Outside a woman bent over a kettle of wash. Rags were wrapped around her feet. Mrs. Washington smiled at her.

  “Good day, madam,” she said. “I’d like to introduce Miss Abigail Stewart. She’s made a shirt I think will fit your boy nicely.”

  “He’s yonder, m’lady. Can y’hear the fifes and drums over the next hill? Such a racket all day long. But I will give him thy shirt, Miss,” she said to me, “soon as he returns. God bless ye.”

  As we rode back toward Headquarters I stared at the outer tents, small and shabby most of them. There were laundry kettles, and clotheslines were strung between branches. Mrs. Washington said drummer boys are paid seven and one-third dollars per month, and some are so young their mothers camp nearby to care for them. She pulled her cloak up to her chin and turned stiffly to smile at me.

  “The women offer much help to the brigades,” she said. “But once the Army is on the march again, going toward battle or from it, my husband says camp followers are a nuisance.”

  The wind was cutting through my clothes when we neared the schoolhouse which, of course, was now a hospital. I was beginning to shiver after so many hours outdoors. My stomach felt hollow with hunger, for I’d eaten just two biscuits for breakfast and Mrs. Washington’s food basket was now empty.

  Several dogs were slinking about, trying to get near a trough that was below the window. A soldier jabbed at them with his bayonet, but as he had no shoes he remained standing on his hat and gave no chase. One dog lunged for the trough and ran off with what looked like a piece of wood in its mouth. Another did the same.

  Our wagon driver pulled the reins to stop, but we did not get down. A man’s scream from inside the schoolhouse was so horrible, so full of begging and pain, I looked at Mrs. Washington with tears in my eyes.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  She, too, could not hold back tears. “I’m afraid, my dear, the surgeon is at work.”

  I then realized the trough was overflowing, not with firewood, but with human hands and feet.

  February 21, 1778, Saturday

  I have felt heartsore all day. When I told Mama about the soldiers, I buried my head in her lap and cried. Elisabeth also came to the hearth.

  “They’re dying from the Pox,” she told us, trying to hold back tears, “and the Putrid Fevers. Mama … I watched a surgeon saw off a man’s leg, right before mine eyes.” Elisabeth now could not stop weeping. Mama stroked her hair.

  Finally Elisabeth dried her face with her apron. “The poor soldier had a bullet clenched between his teeth to keep from screaming, but so great was his pain … oh, Mama … when he did open his mouth to cry out, the bullet dropped back into his throat. While he was choking the surgeon kept sawing … and he died right there.”

  “Dear … dear …” said Mama.

  Sally sat next to us, nervously rocking Johnny’s cradle. “Why must his leg be cut off?” she asked.

  Papa’s voice came from the doorway. “Because the soldiers have no shoes, the snow freezes their feet.”

  We waited for him to say more.

  “Is it like the frost that kills Mama’s roses?” asked Sally.

  “Yes,” Papa said. “But a soldier whose hand or foot freezes must have it removed if it turns black, otherwise the black turns to green. Green means infection.”

  Papa took his coat off the peg and looked at us for a moment. His voice was soft.

  “The only way to get rid of such an infection is to cut it off. I’m sorry, daughters, that ye had to see such suffering.”

  It is late now. Mama is downstairs rocking Johnny, and I can hear Papa’s snoring. Just before our noon meal, Oney knocked on our door, asking if we’d help her find some eggs.

  “How many do you need, Oney?” Mama asked.

  “Forty, ma’am.”

  “Forty?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Lady Washington is baking a cake for her husband as tomorrow is his birthday, his forty-sixth birthday. Her recipe calls for forty eggs.”

  Elisabeth and I spent the afternoon calling on neighbours while Papa waited in the wagon with our crate of wood ashes. We had thirteen eggs ourselves, though small ones from our pullets. Mrs. Smith gave seven, and as we left I glanced up at the window by their chimney. There was Lucy, looking out, but she moved away from the glass so quickly I had trouble believing what I’d seen: her head was shaved.

  By three o’clock we delivered 42 eggs to Mrs. Washington’s kitchen. She herself did not receive us, because she, the General, and several officers and their wives had just begun their evening meal. Oney said this way they’ll finish eating before they need to use candlelight.

  February 22, 1778, Sunday

  Windy and dark all day. Worship seemed longer than usual. I saw Lucy’s two sisters and their parents in the front pew, but no Lucy. They’ve punished her by shaving her head and, to shame her, will not let her wear a bonnet. How I grieve for her, poor Lucy.

  Though the ride home was bitter cold, I was cheered by the distant sound of singing among the brigades. Papa said General Washington encourages his troops to attend divine services every Sunday and to pray daily. He also said this:

  “To the distinguished character of soldier and patriot, it should be our highest glory to add the more distinguished character of Christian.”

  It was most comforting to hear choruses of hymns on such a bleak day.

  After sundown, the festive music from a band brought us, with shawls quickly wrapped over shoulders, from our hearth out onto our step. The air was icy and the road dark, but we could see torches of neighbours coming on foot to Headquarters. Papa let us girls hurry along the road with him — I was out of breath and my cheeks were numb when we arrived.

  An artillery band was serenading General Washington!

  Mrs. Washington stepped outside, clapping her hands with pleasure. “Thank you, thank you!” she called to the cold men. “How I love the sound of fifes and drums, such a fine way to honour his birthday. The General and I thank ye.” She took fifteen shillings out of a tiny silk purse tied to her waist and paid the bandleader.

  When she invited the musicians in, those of us watching turned for home. How they all fit in that snug house, I know not, because soon there was dancing. Through the window I saw the General with his hands on his hips and his pigtail bouncing — he was doing a jig!

  February 23, 1778, Monday

  When Elisabeth and I picked up the laundry at Headquarters, Mrs. Washington invited us into the warm kitchen. There on a pewter plate were two slivers of cake.

  “I saved these for you, girls, some of the Old Man’s birthday cake. Here ye go.”

  It had been many weeks since either of us had eaten anything so delicious. I tried to be polite, but forgot my mouth was full when I asked for her recipe, and crumbs spit out over my apron. Elisabeth scolded me with her eyes, but if Mrs. Washington noticed my bad manners she said naught.

  From her husband’s desk she took up a fresh piece of paper, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote down the recipe (which I shall keep between pages of this journal instead of copying it all down). I remember the ingredients, but not how it’s put together:

  40 eggs

  4 pounds butter

  4pounds sugar powdered

  5pounds flour

  5 pounds fruit

  mace & nutmeg

  wine & some fresh brandy

  Mama hugged us and laughed. “It’s good ye were able to taste such a fine cake,” s
he said, “because the day we have forty eggs and four pounds of sugar to spare will be the day I grow wings.”

  The wind beat against the house all day so that we felt it blow in through cracks and under the door. Only the fire and hot kettle of wash kept us warm.

  A great noise of horses and wagons passed by on the way to Headquarters, but we were unable to see out the steamy windows. Sally demanded I let her wear my shoes outside so she could watch the visitors, but when I refused she smacked our long spoon against the stones until it splintered in half. She stuck her jaw out and was not at all sorry for her temper. I was sore pleased when Mama put her in the corner with a swat.

  Johnny is looking a bit more rosy in the cheeks. We lay him on the plaited rug, on his stomach, and after several minutes of wiggling he rolled over onto his back with a thump. He was so surprised he let out a howl and would not stop until I picked him up.

  Sally sulked all day!

  February 24, 1778, Tuesday

  Elisabeth and I saw the new person standing by General Washington’s fireplace. His name is Baron von Steuben and he is as stout and ugly as a nose.

  At his side was a dog, a greyhound, with a thin blue collar. His name is Azor and a more well-mannered dog I’ve never seen, because when General Washington offered him a cracker he politely lifted his paw, put it on the General’s knee, then daintily took a bite. Azor holds his head high, as if posing for a portrait. I should like to play fetch with him.

  As we carried the laundry downstairs Billy Lee told us that when Benjamin Franklin was in Paris he met von Steuben and asked him to sail to America to help train our soldiers. He is an Army officer from Prussia and speaks no English, but brought an interpreter with him, a young Frenchman.

  “There … see that boy by the window?” pointed Billy Lee. “His name is Pierre —”

  We heard no more because I, and especially Elisabeth, could not take our eyes off the boy. He was perhaps seventeen years of age, and was striking in his looks, dark hair swept back into a queue with a ribbon that matched his red waistcoat. His white pants were tucked into tall black riding boots, and he was trim.

  He was speaking in French to one of the aides, Mr. Alexander Hamilton. They both laughed, then continued a lively exchange.

  “Misses?” Billy Lee said to us, gently trying to usher us to the door. I did not want to leave, nor did Elisabeth, but leave we did.

  A wagon outside was being prepared to take the Baron and his charming interpreter to their quarters, Slab Tavern. With them would go their private chef and valet. And, of course, Azor.

  This is what Elisabeth said on our way home: “I think I shall begin sewing right away.”

  “What shall you sew?” I asked.

  “Pierre needs a good American coat,” she answered.

  I knew Elisabeth. She did not get what she wanted with her first Bounty Coat so she was going to try again. But she must have forgotten one thing: We have no cloth.

  February 25, 1778, Wednesday

  Elisabeth had not forgotten we have no cloth.

  Without asking Mama or saying anything to me, she went upstairs and took apart her cloak seam-by-seam (this I found out later). Now neither of us has anything warm to wear over our dresses — I hate her! She cares not for anyone but herself.

  Worst of all is she did this secretly, pretending the reason she wanted not to go outside was because she didn’t feel well. When I asked if I could wear her cloak, she said no, that she had snagged it on the fence and was mending the sleeve. She lied. And I believed her.

  So when we went to Slab Tavern with only shawls to warm us, I thought nothing of it. We had a basket of corncakes Mama baked for the Baron, and for some reason I did not question Elisabeth about the package in her arms wrapped with string.

  Slab Tavern is called such because of the large stone slab below the door. A wood sign above shows a horseman at full gallop. From here it is a short walk to Headquarters, but first you must cross the creek and pass Joseph Mann’s cabin.

  Inside were smoke and loud voices. Azor lay by the hearth lapping up a bowl of toddy. Von Steuben sat nearby with his pipe. His valet stood behind him, plaiting his pigtail. They looked not at us until we stood inches in front of them.

  We curtsied and held out the corncakes. The Baron said something we understood not, then turned to his assistant. “Vogel,” he called. Then Vogel said to us, “Little ladies, Lieutenant General Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Ludoff Gerhard Augustin von Steuben says thank ye. Now good-bye.”

  Elisabeth curtsied again and quickly held out her package.

  “This is a gift for Pierre,” she said, “from an American admirer. My name is inside on the collar, sir, please tell him.” She backed away, tugging at my arm for I stood speechless, finally understanding what she’d done with her beautiful blue cloak.

  February 26, 1778, Thursday

  I have not spoken to Elisabeth since yesterday morning. I am too cross even to tell Mama what she has done.

  Sleet and wind all day. We stayed in. For dessert after supper we roasted hickory nuts in Mama’s long pan.

  February 27, 1778, Friday

  A great miracle has happened in Valley Forge.

  We heard shouts early this morning and saw many neighbours running and driving their wagons toward the Schuylkill. Two miles above Headquarters at Pawling’s Ford we saw nearly 100 cavalrymen riding into the icy water.

  “The shad are running!” came the cry.

  “Shad?” Papa said in amazement. “This time of year?”

  We stood near Perkiomen Creek, where it flowed toward the Schuylkill, and watched. The soldiers formed a line across the river, wading their horses upstream while beating the surface with branches.

  How cold their fingers must be! thought I.

  Those standing in the shallows threw nets and pulled in shad by the thousands. These men were shaking with cold and their hands and lips were blue, but they kept working.

  Finally an officer started a victory chant and soon all were out of the river and drying off with blankets brought by some of us. Along the banks many soldiers dropped to their knees in exhaustion, I thought, but soon I realized they were praying.

  “Why?” I asked Papa.

  He looked down at me and drew me into his warm arms. “Why? The famine is over, Abigail. Their prayers and mine have been answered. A river overflowing with fish in the middle of winter? It has not happened in thy lifetime, nor mine. Only Almighty God could arrange such a miracle, my daughter, and these good men are thanking Him.”

  A horseman caught up with us on the road back from the river and tossed a wet sack of fish into the back of our wagon.

  “For thy family, Mr. Stewart,” he called, and was off.

  Papa waved his mittened hand and took up the reins. His beard was covered with frost, but still I saw his smile.

  Mama baked the shad in vinegar then rolled up each piece. Sisters and I helped her tuck them into jars. Into each we poured vinegar and onions to pickle, then held dripping candles over them to seal. Our house stinks, but the pantry is full again.

  February 28, 1778, Saturday

  Sally lost her two top teeth, one early this morning when she bit into a biscuit, the other after she wiggled it for several hours. She kept sticking out her tongue through the space and making baby sounds, so I gave her my shoes to wear. Now she is in the barn playing with her doll and not bothering me any more.

  Any time of day or night we hear drummers and fifers practicing. Papa calls it a “confusing noise” that disrupts the peace of our valley. Myself, it is the shots of muskets and cannons I most dislike.

  March 1, 1778, Sunday

  Johnny is three months old today. He is chubby! We made pretzels as big as Papa’s hand by rolling dough into strips, then bending each one as if they were arms crossed onto shoulders. We pressed salt on top then baked them on the bricks. When they were done, Johnny held one in his little hand and chewed on it with his gums, for he has no teeth.

 
; It snowed heavy all day. We could not see out the windows, so made do with firelight until bed. No church.

  March 2, 1778, Monday

  Still snowing.

  I made up with Elisabeth. It is very near impossible to stay mad at someone you must look at hour after hour. Besides we had to make our way together through the storm to Headquarters. We took the little sleigh by ourselves, our old mare Buttercup pulling.

  General Washington was sitting by the fire in a ladder-back chair. Nearby, trying to use light from the snowy window, sat an artist at his easel. He was sketching with charcoal a portrait of the General.

  Mrs. Washington slipped us each a small square of gingerbread when we passed the kitchen. “That’s Charles Willson Peale,” she told us. “He painted the General a few years ago after the French and Indian War, and he plans to do the other generals here. He’s a captain with the Pennsylvania brigade.”

  I knew he was a soldier because his toes were sticking out of his shoes.

  March 3, 1778, Tuesday

  Snowed all night. At seven this morning the wind stopped. We looked out to see a pink sunrise, but in the north were black clouds moving swiftly our way. Papa said to hurry, return the laundry to Headquarters before the storm arrived.

  Billy Lee waved at us from the kitchen where he was pouring boiling water into teapots. Several officers in the front room talked in low voices as I hurried upstairs to knock on Mrs. Washington’s door.

  Thinking I heard an answer, I turned the knob and stepped in. A small fire blazed in the grate. She looked up from her desk under the window. A pair of spectacles was on her nose, and opened in front of her was a Bible.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry,” said I, realizing she wished to be left alone.