Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 6

  “Quite all right, dear,” she said, then turned back to her desk. At that moment Oney rushed in with apologies to her mistress and a hand on my elbow to usher me out.

  “Shame!” she scolded me. “Lady Wash’ton is not to be disturbed at this hour. She has devotions every morning from eight ’til nine.”

  “I’m sorry, Oney.”

  “Hush, chile, don’t cry. Billy Lee say he gots gingersnaps for you and sister, so come on now.”

  I felt miserable. To be scolded in front of Mrs. Washington was something I’d not intended and though I managed not to bawl, my eyes filled with tears. Elisabeth and I stood in the kitchen to warm up and eat a cookie before the ride home. I heard boots in the hallway and men’s voices, so I tried quickly to wipe my cheeks dry.

  Someone came beside me, offering a laced handkerchief. I looked up into the blue eyes of Pierre. He spoke in French, then when I didn’t respond, he said with a heavy accent, “Are you sad, pretty one?”

  I said naught, only stared at him, wanting to hear more of his speech, so dear was his accent. Behind him stood Elisabeth. When I saw her mad face, I curtsied and immediately helped her carry the last bag to our sleigh.

  We said nothing to each other the way home. I unhitched Buttercup and led her into the barn while Elisabeth dragged the sacks to our door. It was beginning to snow. When she looked at me I realized her chin was quivering.

  “Abby,” she said, struggling not to cry, “Pierre wasn’t wearing my coat.”

  March 4, 1778, Wednesday

  I have been trying hard to be nice to Elisabeth, for she breaks into tears every time I mention Pierre.

  Mama isn’t cross about the cloak, but she was most upset that Beth told so many lies.

  “Elisabeth Ann,” she said, “no matter how good thy deed may be, if thou art dishonest along the way that good deed will always be tainted.”

  Elisabeth was silent when we went to bed. She stared at the ceiling until Sally fell asleep then looked over at me by the window. I have a new candle so there’s no worry of it going out tonight.

  “Pierre is handsome and clever, yes, Abby?”

  Yes, I nod. I’m trying to write.

  “Suppose he stays in America after the war,” she says. “He shalt need a bride, will he not? What dost thou think he’s done with my coat? Answer me, Abigail.”

  “Well,” say I, “mayhaps Pierre gave thy coat to a soldier who did not have one — that’s possible. And about being a bride, thou art nice enough and pretty enough to marry anyone you please, Beth.”

  She is still awake and talking so I shall write this quickly before she asks me another question. Today Mr. Walker came by the barn while Papa was repairing one of the pens. I heard him say that a friend who lives west of Valley Creek was caught sneaking information to the British and he’s going to be hanged tomorrow. Hanged! — one of our own neighbours! His poor family.

  The other thing I learned is that a soldier I visited, the one who had his feet amputated, has died from fever. His wife, Mrs. Kern, would not leave his side and had to be carried away in a faint. She has no family now, no place to go. The Army says if she does not find another soldier to marry within three weeks she must leave the encampment.

  I’m so sad for her. Tomorrow I shall ask if she can stay with us.

  March 5, 1778, Thursday

  It is very cold and windy. Mercury: 12 degrees.

  Sally likes to help Papa with the milking. He carries her from the house to the hay so she shant get her stockings wet. When I saw her plaiting Brownie’s tail, I laughed out loud. It reminded me of Vogel plaiting Baron von Steuben’s pigtail, though I shall admit the Baron is a sight more handsome than Brownie’s rump.

  We spent the afternoon riding the edge of the encampment, asking for Mrs. Kern and asking the Army chaplains if there had been any weddings. Two, but none with Mrs. Kern.

  Finally Papa drove south by Trout Creek. Here the tents were low and shabby. A woman came out to stare. She wore a cape over a ragged dress and her feet were muddy. She pointed down the row.

  Papa drove on, calling for Mrs. Kern. The last tent had a small fire in front where a woman warmed her hands. Papa stepped down and told us to wait. He ducked into the tent and a moment later carried out in his arms a limp Mrs. Kern. We helped her settle into hay in the back of our wagon, Elisabeth and I on either side to warm her.

  It’s late now. We have made a cot by our bed upstairs for our new guest. She told us her name is Helen and that she is sixteen years of age. She fell instantly asleep and when Beth and I covered her with our quilt we noticed that Helen is soon to have a baby.

  March 6, 1778, Friday

  Sally and I had such a quarrel this morning that Mama put us in separate corners. I was most miserable and mad and embarrassed that our guest heard me crying.

  When Ruth and Naomi came to call and invited me to slide on the river, I was bitterly angry to have to stay inside. It was a pretty day, no clouds.

  But just before noon, when Mama was setting bread on the table, Reverend Currie and two men knocked hard on our door, calling for Papa.

  “Hurry!” they cried, and Papa was off. Upon hearing their news Mama slumped at the table and lay her head in her arms.

  “What, what?” we asked. Finally, the terrible words: “Some children have fallen through the ice.”

  I ran outside without my shawl. I ran to Headquarters and past. There in the ice, like a broken window, was a large hole. A crowd waited on the banks in the cold shade. Two soldiers stood wet and shivering, others shouted to one another. When I saw Naomi and Ruth huddled together I ran to them. They were dripping.

  “Abby,” they cried, “the boys are gone.”

  “What boys?”

  “The Fitzgeralds, five of them, gone. They were chasing us and we heard a shot. We knew not until too late that it was ice cracking. It was shallow where we fell through, but, oh …” They embraced each other, weeping loudly.

  It is half-past nine o’clock and my candle is short. Mama went with Mrs. Potter, Mrs. Adams, and the other ladies to comfort Mrs. Fitzgerald. I shall never see Tom again. I am sorry I hated him so.

  March 8, 1778, Sunday

  It rained all day. The air is warmer.

  Some soldiers from the Vermont brigade were patrolling the lower end of the river. They found the bodies of Tom, Nate, Phillip, Howard, and Sammy near a beaver dam. I am so very sad for their mother and their three littlest brothers.

  Helen Kern has brought much help to our chores of laundry and ironing. She made friends with Sally by sewing a tiny lace shawl for her doll. Helen is cheerful, but at night when the house is quiet I hear her crying under her pillow.

  March 14, 1778, Saturday

  The dark woods look green! There are buds in the orchard, on our apple trees.

  Sisters, Helen, and I ran into the road without shoes. We ran across the fields. Our feet were cold, but it felt wonderful to have soft dirt in our toes. We ran to the crest of the hill and looked down into the valley below Mr. Stevens’s house, where General Varnum is quartered.

  There in rows and rows were soldiers drilling, marching, saluting, and loading muskets. Many were barefoot like us, but there were many in new uniforms, snappy blue jackets with buttons, white pants, tricorns. It was a sight!

  We hurried as close as we could without being seen, and hid under some dogwood bushes still bare. Baron von Steuben paced in front of the men, shouting orders in several different languages — not one of them did we understand. There were three men with him interpreting. One listened to the Baron’s commands, turned to Pierre, translated them into German, then Pierre turned to Alexander Hamilton with French words, which Mr. Hamilton then shouted into English. Only then did the soldiers respond to the “Left drill!” “Right drill!” or whichever it was.

  Several times we heard Mr. Hamilton shout curse words, then shrug with embarrassment because that was what had been translated to him.

  Thursday, Friday, and today w
e hid in the dogwoods to watch the soldiers. Elisabeth’s eye was on Pierre, though he has not yet shown up wearing the coat she made him. Baron von Steuben, for all his arm-waving and swearing, is proving to be a good instructor and he’s now learned enough English to curse directly at the men. His black coat comes to the top of his boots and flares out like a dress with his long strides.

  Azor comes to the field, too, but often disappears after rabbits. I so want him to find us and play.

  March 16, 1778, Monday

  It has been a sunny week, no clouds, and the hills are greener each day. We can hear frogs at the creek and I am certain I saw a robin.

  Yesterday we hung General Washington’s shirts and such along our eastern fence to dry. I minded not so much the ironing and folding because the scent of fresh air has now filled our house.

  Helen has taken up all Mama’s mending and this morning baked a chocolate cake. She let Sally stir and lick.

  Mrs. Washington sent Oney to ask our help. Tomorrow is a celebration for Saint Patrick’s Day and she has many pies to bake. I’m glad she needs no eggs.

  March 17, 1778, Tuesday

  Sunny, breezy cool. We stood on the hill to watch the soldiers, our shawls wrapped tight. All afternoon there were blasts from muskets and cannons, mixed with rising puffs of smoke. The trill of fifes and steady rat-a-tat of drums made for a most festive mood. I hoped to see a drummer boy wearing the shirt I made.

  After drills, the soldiers began a game called “Long Bullet,” where they piled cannon balls in a heap, then stood back. With another ball they took turns seeing who could roll the longest and hardest and knock down the most.

  We went in to help Mama with chores, then just before sundown returned to our hiding spot. There was the Commander in Chief George Washington playing catch with his officers! This turned into a game of wickets, using bent twigs poked into the ground for tiny gates. The ball they batted about was probably like the one we made Johnny out of deer hide.

  I wondered if we were still at war, such was the sound of men’s laughter and music. (This is Saint Patrick’s Day, but who is Saint Patrick?)

  March 18, 1778, Wednesday

  When we woke again to drums and fifes I thought the soldiers were still celebrating. But on coming downstairs and hurrying through our breakfast, we realized the drumbeat was slower. I wanted not to go outside. If another woman was being drummed out of the army I would feel worse than if it were a man — I know not why, but I would.

  Later Papa reported it had been an officer! — for perjury and other offenses.

  March 20, 1778, Friday

  Sunshine all yesterday and today. More buds on the trees, but not quite blossoms. We hiked to the creek — Elisabeth, Helen, Sally, and I — and found our secret pool. It is shallow with a sandy bottom, and as it’s in the sun most of the day, it was not as icy as the running river.

  Shrieking with cold we stripped down to our bare skin, jumped in heads under, then in an instant jumped out to dry ourselves with our skirts. We sat on the bank to let the sun dry our hair. Helen is smiling more. She knows not when her baby will be born, but the size of her belly seems to say “soon.”

  March 21, 1778, Saturday

  Such a dark storm moved in this morning, so swiftly. Sally and I heard thunder while milking and quickly finished. We ran from the barn to the house in a blowing downpour, spilling much from our bucket. It rained hard all day. What we can see of the road from our window is a river of mud. In the distance was the sound of drums and fifes.

  “Why are the men drilling even in the rain?” I asked Papa.

  He said, “Von Steuben promised General Washington that he would turn our soldiers into an army and that is precisely what he is doing, Abby.”

  March 23, 1778, Monday

  Still dark and rainy. We had to go to Headquarters as Monday is always Washday, rain or not. Such mud for our poor wagon. Helen came with me as Elisabeth is feverish and coughing.

  Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Knox were in the kitchen — Mrs. Knox is so round I think she, too, is expecting a baby. They insisted we dry off before returning outside (to become soaked yet again!). I was sitting on a little stool by the kettle, my face and hands to the fire, when I felt something wet poke my side. I turned to see Azor, his nose now on my lap, and wagging his tail.

  “Hullo, boy.” I petted behind his ears and hugged his neck. When my hand felt the cloth on his back I could not believe mine eyes. Azor was wearing Elisabeth’s coat!

  The sleeves had been pulled up over his front paws and as it was a short waistcoat, it buttoned under his belly. Elisabeth’s coat fit Azor!

  It is late, the laundry is hanging through the house, still damp, and we girls are upstairs in our nightgowns. Elisabeth is shivering with fever — I have not the heart to tell her about Azor’s new clothes.

  March 24, 1778, Tuesday

  As it is still raining, we are late returning the General’s laundry. All morning we used hot irons with the hopes of drying things faster. It was almost suppertime before we drove to Headquarters. Papa covered the top of the wagon with planks of wood from the barn to keep the clothes dry underneath.

  There in the parlour with Mr. Washington was von Steuben and Pierre and Alexander Hamilton, all speaking in a cheerful mixture of English and French. And there by the fire was Azor, having himself a nap, snug in his handsome blue coat.

  What am I to tell Elisabeth?

  March 27, 1778, Friday

  Finally the storm broke. It has been sunny with just a few clouds in the afternoons bringing light rain, thus the roads are still muddy.

  I was in the barn loft, playing dolls with Sally, when Papa came in the small door with a neighbour. When they began speaking in low voices I put my finger to Sally’s lips, then mine, for they knew not we were directly above them.

  “Why did you kill him?” Papa asked.

  Sally and I looked at each other, wide-eyed, not daring to breathe.

  “General Wayne told me to.”

  “A general told you to kill one of his men? Come now, this makes no sense.”

  “’Tis true. Every morning this same soldier has been coming into my barn and stealing a chicken. Every morning for a week, Edward. I reported it to General Wayne. He was sitting at a table writing a letter and would not look up at me. Finally I asked the General, I said, ‘What shall I do?’ General Wayne dipped his pen in the inkwell, kept writing, and without looking at me he said, ‘Oh, just shoot him.’”

  I could see through the crack in the floor that Papa’s shoulders sagged and he was shaking his head. In a soft voice he said, “So thou shot the poor fellow?”

  There were several moments of silence. “Yes,” said the man. “He’s buried by my south fence. No one knows but thee.”

  The rest of the day Papa was quiet. Sally and I spoke not about what we had heard.

  March 28, 1778, Saturday

  Baths after supper. (Papa always goes into the barn to brush Buttercup, so we shall have privacy.) We set the tub by the fire, but Helen is too broad to fit. She bent over to dip her head therein so I could wash her hair. She is very dear to us and this afternoon mentioned her dead husband for the first time.

  “Today is my anniversary—we would have been married one year,” was all she said.

  Mama hung the lantern outside the door so Papa would know we were dressed and he could come dump out the bathwater. Before bed we popped corn and ate spice cake, sitting on the rug in front of the hearth. Color has returned to Elisabeth’s cheeks, but she is still coughing. She sat in the rocker with Johnny, Mama’s quilt tucked around them both.

  “Abby,” she said. “Hast thou seen Pierre? Is he wearing my coat, hast he mentioned my name?”

  Helen glanced at me, because I had told her the story. How I wished I could spare Elisabeth shame and heartbreak, but too soon she would be well enough to visit Headquarters and one of these days Azor would be there, too. Maybe I should tell the truth.

  I looked her in the ey
e and said, “I have seen Pierre, but he was not wearing thy coat.”

  April 1, 1778, Wednesday

  Rain.

  April 2, 1778, Thursday

  Windy and cold.

  April 3, 1778, Friday

  Lucy came to visit! During tea she untied her bonnet, took it off, and handed it to me.

  “Mama says I’m to return it, Abby.”

  We all were quiet. I was shocked by her appearance. Whoever had shaved her head had hacked away so that her hair was growing in uneven patches. She kept her eyes down. I tried to imagine what punishment her parents had threatened her with, that would have forced Lucy — willful, headstrong Lucy—to go out among people with a shaved head, no bonnet. I wanted to cry, she looked so drawn.

  Mama gave one of her laced scarves to Lucy and showed her how to wrap it over her head. “Thou art pretty, dear,” Mama told her.

  Lucy said softly, “Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”

  We crowded at the door to watch her walk away, up the road, and around the bend to her home.

  April 4, 1778, Saturday

  Mrs. Hewes brought news that a dancing master from New York is lodging at the DeWees house, down the hall from her room.

  “He is small and limber,” she told us, “yet old enough to be a grandfather. He plans to teach the officers and their wives how to dance.”

  When she said his name is Mr. John Trotter, I laughed so loud Mama and Papa stared at me. I know it was not polite, but his name makes me think of a dancing horse.