Cannons at Dawn Page 5

  When soldiers are on the march they do their own cooking, but I am pleased to say that while here at West Point we get to cook for Papa and Willie’s brigade. It is a happy circumstance because at long last we are together for breakfast and supper. Our new home has no walls or roof, but is under a wide blue sky. Seagulls serenade us.

  Each soldier has his own tin plate and cup, spoon, knife, and fork. After meals they wipe them clean with their sleeves. We have no brick ovens in which to bake loaves of bread, but Miss Lulu’s kettle with its firm lid holds enough heat for biscuits to cook nicely.

  Mr. Campbell joins us around the fire after his blacksmithing. He makes horseshoes and repairs wagons and harnesses. Yesterday when we gathered for supper, he clamped Willie on the shoulder.

  “Miss you, Son. After the war we can get back to working together.”

  “I look forward to that day, Father.” Willie is taller than most of the men. When he sits in the dirt with his plate, his bare knees stick out of his breeches. He is seventeen years old.

  “Abby,” he said to me, his mouth full of food, “there’s something ’specially good about these beans tonight.”

  “Must be the pot we cooked them in,” I answered.

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  I waited for him to take another big bite then said, “It’s the same one we washed your shirts in today, Willie.” I expected him to gag or spit everything out, but he didn’t. He just kept on eating.

  “Like I said, Abby, they taste ’specially good.”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot and was glad it was dark. But in the firelight I could see Mama and Mrs. Campbell exchange a smile.

  August 1, 1779, Sunday

  A mystery in the woods!

  Early this morning Sally, Mazie, and I were gathering sticks and pinecones for our fire. It’s a regular routine now. We do this at dawn before the sun gets hot.

  While walking under an oak tree, an acorn dropped at our feet, then another.

  “Squirrels!” said Sally. “Let’s catch one for the skillet.”

  When an acorn pelted my arm, I stopped. We peered up into the branches.

  A boy was looking down at us! He had red hair and was wearing a muddy jacket. His breeches were brown with dirt, his feet bare.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Have you some bread?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.

  We shook our heads no, still looking up at him.

  “Where are your shoes?” Sally asked.

  “In the river.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Then what you doin’ sittin’ in a tree all dirty?” asked Mazie. “Be you hurt?”

  The boy laid his head on the wide branch then closed his eyes.

  “You can come with us,” I said.

  When he didn’t answer, Mazie nodded. “Uh-huh. That be one hungry boy.”

  Now we are in camp. We did not tell our mothers or Mrs. Campbell about this. If they noticed that we ate only some of our breakfast, they said naught.

  Our pockets are full. We shall leave in a moment. I hope he is still there.

  Afternoon

  We coaxed the boy out of the tree and hid with him in a thicket. He did not want anyone to see him. Then with two hands he shoved the biscuits into his mouth, eating as fast as he could. When he drank from our canteens, water spilled over his chin and down his neck. He was out of breath when he finished.

  “Mm,” he said. “Now I can go to heaven.”

  “What happened? Did Indians chase you? We saw one in the woods the other day. Where’s your family?” Sally and Mazie peppered him with questions, but I was looking at his jacket of thick wool. The cuffs were torn and most of his buttons were missing. His ankles were covered with scratches and mosquito bites; his feet had purple bruises.

  “Who are you hiding from?” I asked.

  “The enemy,” he replied.

  “Well, you are safe with us,” Sally told him. “You can stay in our camp. Maybe your mother is with all the other ladies.”

  “I have no mother.” He stood up and took a few steps toward the path, but was limping so badly, he sat down again. I noticed scrapes on his shins, as if he had climbed out of the river onto rocks. “Were you with the soldiers at Stony Point?” I asked.

  His green eyes flashed with pride. “Drummer, first class. From the courtyard of King George.”

  We stared at him. It took a moment for us to understand.

  “You’re a Redcoat!” Sally cried.

  He seemed surprised. “You are loyal to the King, yes?”

  “No. Never. We are Patriots!”

  Still Sunday — evening by the fire

  Thomas Augustus Penny is the boy’s name. He fears that General Washington will put him in prison so he refuses to come to our encampment. This morning when we brought him a potato for breakfast he told us he came here from England a few months ago. The ship sailed into New York Harbor and up the Hudson to Stony Point. Some of the British fleet is anchored there now, he said.

  “By order of King George the Third, our troops are to tame you rebels. He could have you hanged, did you know that?”

  Sally straightened her straw hat then crossed her arms. “We’re not afraid of your King. My Papa is a soldier and he’s not afraid, either.”

  “And I’m not afraid of you,” Thomas said. He bit his lip, then blinked fast. “My father is Major General Penny with the Royal Army. He and his men are looking for me. They shall find me and take me back to our ship. They do not like sassy girls, so I warn you.”

  Sally and Mazie gave me a questioning look. I knew I must be the one to tell him.

  “Thomas,” I said as gently as possible, “the Americans captured your father’s soldiers at Stony Point. Most of them are in a prison camp now. The ships have sailed away.”

  Thomas was still blinking. I am only three years older than he, but I wanted to brush the leaves out of his red hair. I wanted to give him a pretty answer.

  “Many were wounded,” I went on. “Many were killed. We are sorry your father doesn’t know where you are.”

  “Liars!” he cried. He made fists but kept them at his side. “My father is coming for me. I’m waiting for him. Leave me alone!”

  We watched him run into the woods.

  Now it is time to help with supper. I feel heartsore for Thomas. If we tell Papa, soldiers might go looking, not to hurt or scare him, but to keep him from starving. He is just a boy.

  August 2, 1779, Monday

  After breakfast Mazie, Sister, and I filled our tin cups with walnuts we had shelled and some cherries. We could not find Thomas. We looked through the forest where we had seen him last, but found only his footprints by the creek.

  “Thomas!” we called. “Don’t be afraid. Please come to camp.” When he didn’t appear, we left the food below the oak tree. Sally left her cup for him.

  “He needs something that is his very own,” she explained.

  August 3, 1779, Tuesday

  Still at West Point. Every morning at dawn a soldier plays reveille on a cornet. It sounds like a quick, happy march. This wakes the men and lets them know we women are preparing breakfast. A pot of water on the coals takes nearly an hour to boil for coffee but we start before sunrise. After their meal, the soldiers clean weapons and artillery, and drill on the parade grounds. Also, they are building redoubts on two of the hills. These are small, enclosed fortresses that will stand up to enemy cannon fire. Our Continental Army must be ready for battle at any moment.

  I ladled coffee into Papa’s cup. He said General Washington watches the river for British ships. The Redcoats are amassing troops in the city of New York, which is less than 50 miles away. And many more are in the southern colonies.

  He stirred his biscuit through his plate of gravy, then ate hungrily. After a swallow of coffee he said, “Washington grows more nervous by the hour. Any day now, the French fleet should land in America, with more soldiers and supplies to help us. Lord
willing, their ships have not sunk in the Atlantic.”

  This is the sad truth: If the French don’t come soon, we will not be able to stand up to the enemy. We shall lose our independence and suffer under the tyranny of King George.

  After visiting the oak tree

  The food we left yesterday for Thomas was gone.

  Mazie bent low to look for crumbs. “Raccoons or deer could’ve ate it,” she said.

  Then Sally cried, “But raccoons and deer don’t drink out of cups!” She pointed to the creek. Upside down on a rock, neatly placed, was her tin cup. In the sand beside it someone had scrawled the initials “T. A. P.”

  “Thomas Augustus Penny,” I said aloud, glad to see that he’d been there.

  We called and searched, but left without finding him.

  August 4, 1779, Wednesday

  Baths. This morning Mama insisted we bathe in the creek in our shifts, while we rinse our gowns, aprons, and caps. They are drying in the sun as I write this, and as I keep an eye on Johnny. He is napping beside me in the shady grass. Sally and Mazie are playing tag among the tents with some little boys. Our mothers are mending uniforms under a spreading maple tree.

  Oh, the heat is brutal. Even though the necessaries are downwind of camp, a breeze brings the stink and flies. This long, narrow pit is where we — and all the soldiers — sit to ease ourselves. It is not private like a privy with a door, or chamber pot in a house. We girls loathe going there, but we stay together and are quick. Once a week, men fill it up with dirt then dig a new one.

  General Washington has ordered cleanliness. If any soldier does not use the necessary but instead eases himself by a tree or in a stream, he shall be fined one dollar. This dollar will be paid to the person who catches him. If women or children are caught, we shall be forced out of camp.

  I can hear fifes and drums from the parade ground. These musicians are mostly boys the age of Thomas. I worry about him being in the forest with no food or family.

  An idea

  During supper last night I spooned out hasty pudding onto the men’s plates. They were seated on tree stumps, rocks, and in the dirt. When I came to Willie, I whispered, “Could you please help us tomorrow morning?”

  He smiled. “Anything you ask.”

  August 5, 1779, Thursday

  At sunrise Willie walked with us girls to the oak tree. Mrs. Campbell has mended his uniform several times but patches at his knees are unraveling. His legs are bare for want of stockings, and his shoes have come apart at the toes. His tricorn is also battered, but still he looks like a proud Continental soldier.

  And tucked into his waist this morning was a slingshot he made last night after supper. It is a branch in the shape of the letter Y with a tight strip of canvas in between.

  “See, they’re everywhere,” Sally reported, picking up acorns and piling them by a rock. We waited in the shade, not speaking.

  Soon enough, a squirrel darted by. It picked up an acorn with its tiny front paws, sat on its haunches, and began a noisy gnawing. Before it could finish, Willie launched a stone from his slingshot, knocking the squirrel dead. Soon he had killed two more.

  While he skewered the little animals on a stick to carry back to camp, we heard rustling in the brush. As I had hoped, Thomas appeared. He crawled out from the hollow of a fallen tree, covered with pine needles. He looked thin and more tired than before, but his eyes were bright. He said, “Might I have a try at that, sir?”

  “Indeed,” Willie answered. “But, I am no ‘sir.’ Willie Campbell is my name. I am still very much a lad like yourself.”

  Thomas held the slingshot with trembling hands. He took aim but he lacked strength to launch the stone. It landed at his feet.

  “May I try again, sir?”

  “Here you go, friend. Then afterward, we are going to get some hot food in your belly.”

  Willie put his strong hands over Thomas’s, then together they pulled back the sling. It was a perfect hit. Thrice more and we had seven plump squirrels. They each held one end of the stick as we walked to camp, Thomas limping on his sore feet. His face lit up when he saw our tents and cooking fire, and all the children playing.

  His ragged appearance must have touched our mothers’ hearts, because without a word they set to caring for him. Miss Lulu plopped him down so she could wash the scrapes on his face and legs. Mrs. Campbell removed his muddy jacket and replaced it with a clean shirt from her mending bag. I helped Mama skin those squirrels. Then she fried them in sizzling pork fat with mushrooms and onions she had gathered in the forest.

  It was the most delicious breakfast since our long journey began. Papa is with us. Thomas is no longer alone in the woods. And every time Willie Campbell is near, I feel happy.

  September 17, 1779, Friday

  Fall is here. The air is cooler. Leaves on the trees are turning scarlet, gold, and purple, earlier than I remember from last year. Papa said we are farther north than Valley Forge, but even so it could mean that we’re in for a hard winter.

  “Muskrats and beavers are building their huts with more layers of mud than usual,” he told us. “Somehow animals know to prepare.”

  Before bed last night, Mama was unsnarling Sally’s hair with Mrs. Campbell’s brush.

  “Mama, when will the war end? I want Papa to take us back home.”

  In the candlelight I could see Mama sigh. There was no use in reminding Sally that we have no home to return to. She hugged my sister but gave no answer.

  September 24, 1779, Friday

  Still at West Point. Thomas has asked us to call him Tom, which I shall try to do. He sleeps inside our tent by the doorway. He has no blanket, so I gave him mine. My cloak is warm enough when I wrap it around me and tuck my knees to my chest.

  This morning he helped Sally and me carry water from the stream up to the laundry kettle. He is talkative now that he’s not so hungry. He told us what happened at Stony Point.

  “I was asleep,” he said. “It was the middle of the night. I could not find my father in the noise and smoke so I ran to the river where our ships were anchored. Men were starting to row a boat away from shore. I tried to climb aboard but it was so dark, an oar knocked me on the head. I fell in the water. It was cold and the wind made waves.”

  “And you lost your shoes,” Sally said.

  “Yes.” Thomas lifted the pot he was carrying and poured it into the large kettle.

  “I lost my shoes, too,” said my sister in her way of showing sympathy. “Last winter in the mud. My feet were dreadful cold. Maybe our Army will give you a pair.”

  Just then a captain approached us. “Thomas A. Penny?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may stay with the Continental Army, but you must work. Since we need a drummer, what say you to that?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tom replied. “But King George could have my head for being a traitor. And my father would be angry with me if I play music for the American soldiers. Tomorrow I am leaving to search for him.”

  “Laddie.” The captain removed his tricorn and held it at his side. “We have no British officer by the name you gave us, Augustus Thomas Penny, among the wounded or captured. Your father is missing. Either he ran away from his command and is hiding somewhere, or he drowned in the Hudson. Many did, you know, but we shall never learn their names. Their bodies have drifted out to sea by now. I’m sorry to give it to you like this, lad.”

  “My father would never run or hide! He is honourable.” Thomas’s chin quivered.

  I held back my tears. It seems there were no pretty words for Thomas today.

  By candle, in our tent

  Willie touched my elbow tonight after supper. When I turned to look up at him, he slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand then closed his around mine.

  “Read this,” he instructed. “Then burn it.”

  “What is it?”

  “I found it nailed to the wall in the supply room. I searched all over, in every building and Headquarter
s, but thank goodness it’s the only copy.” Then he left, walking in the darkness to his tent.

  I have just dropped the paper into the fire. Not until it flamed and burned to ash did I come into this tent for my diary.

  Willie had given me an advertisement about a runaway slave named Tilda and her eight-year-old daughter, Philomena. Tilda is passing herself as a free woman and pretends that she has a husband in the Continental Army. Their master wants them back. Reward for their return is 50 dollars.

  The description matched Miss Lulu and Mazie.

  September 27, 1779, Monday

  Still at West Point. We are waiting with the soldiers for orders to march. I pray we get to the winter camp before it snows. Last night I could not sleep. The ground was cold beneath me and I kept thinking about our friends. If they are runaway slaves, I do not blame them, nor does Willie.

  Must I keep this news to myself?

  September 30, 1779, Thursday

  West Point. Rations are low. Daily, each soldier gets one pound of beef or pork and one pound of flour. The Army gives women half, sometimes three-quarters, and their children a quarter. Today I smelled rot in our pork and saw tiny white dots. Maggots. To cover the bad taste we add as much pepper as our tongues will bear.

  The men are cheered when we can give them hot coffee with each meal. We grind the beans between two stones then add shredded hickory bark to make it taste stronger. Often dirt ends up in the bottom of their cups.