Cannons at Dawn Page 6

  “’Tis the best we can do,” an orderly told us. “The French ships are full of food and new uniforms, but they are nowhere in sight. General Washington is deeply concerned.”

  He told us about another concern: Indians who have been helping the Redcoats. General Washington said that before there would be any peace talks with the tribes, he was going to teach them a lesson. In the spring he ordered two generals, Sullivan and Clinton, to destroy the Iroquois settlements in western New York.

  This morning an express rider brought news to camp. “The Sullivan-Clinton campaign just ended,” he shouted. “’Twas a complete victory. It took months, but the Iroquois Confederacy shall trouble us no longer.”

  From the saddle of his horse, he described the events. Thousands of our soldiers burned all the grain and vegetable crops, the cornfields, and fruit orchards. They set torches to the longhouses. Forty villages went up in flames. Now there will be no fall harvest and nothing for the Indians to plant in the spring. Many warriors died defending their homes, many were captured, then marched to a prison camp.

  My mother yelled a question, same as she had about the British ship that sank. “Sir, what about the women and children? Winter is coming. Where shall the families live?”

  “Madam, I do not know. Nor do I care. They were aiding the enemy.”

  Mama looked at me with sad eyes. “Oh Abby, at least when our house burned it was only because of the wind.”

  October 2, 1779, Saturday

  Miss Lulu baked a honey cake for supper. It wasn’t really a cake and there was no honey.

  “I jess call it that to make it seem better,” she said while passing around slices of unsalted flatbread. “Sometimes thas all y’can do, is pretend.”

  Willie and I exchanged glances in the firelight. We had not spoken of the runaway slaves, but he did tell me if he found any more handbills about Tilda and her daughter, he would rip them down. “There are Negroes in our ranks here,” he said. “Not a lot, but some freed slaves who’ve been promised their own land when the war is over. Far as I know, no one has bothered to ask if they have wives here. Abby, let’s just hope no officer comes around and asks Miss Lulu to point out her husband.”

  At night before I sleep I pray for our new friends Mazie, Miss Lulu, and Thomas. Now I’ve added another prayer: Lord, please watch over Willie Campbell. He is honourable and kind. I like him. Thank You. Amen.

  November 9, 1779, Tuesday

  Still at West Point. For some weeks I have not written for want of ink. At least quills are easier to find. Though I prefer a goose or swan feather, crows often drop one of theirs while squabbling high in a tree. When it floats to the ground, I have a new pen. I need only to use Mama’s knife to shape the nib.

  This morning Willie slipped something into my hand. It crackled like paper. My heart raced, fearing it was another notice about the runaway slaves, Tilda and Philomena. Indeed, it was paper, but folded inside was ink powder. He got it from the quartermaster in charge of supplies. There were no new shirts or stockings or wool cloaks, but there was a small tin of ink.

  Thus, I return to my quiet friend, this diary. I adore Willie for thinking of me, and hope I can do something kind for him.

  Every day is colder. Skies are gray. A comfort is the fire. We turn ourselves like a roasting duck, facing the flames for a few moments, then turning to warm our backs. Often there is the smell of singed leather from those sitting with outstretched legs, trying to warm feet. In our tent, we have laid down boughs of pine so that we are not sleeping on the frozen ground. Oh, they make a prickly mattress!

  Thomas was given a drum and sticks. Then he was issued a ragged blanket, breeches, and a blue jacket taken from a soldier who died of dysentery. His new shoes have holes where his toes poke out, but he stands as proud as if his uniform is new. He has joined the other boys who play music while the men drill.

  “My father would not have wanted me to die alone in the woods,” he told us, about his decision to stay. “I like you rebels. When my mother was alive, she said the American colonies are full of brave people. I think she would be glad to know I’m here.”

  Sally tells everyone, “Tom Penny is my new brother.” And he tells everyone, “Sally Stewart is a pest,” but he then gives a playful tug to the strings of her cap.

  A cold afternoon

  Food rations are less each day. Dry wood for the campfires is harder to find. And ammunition is so scarce that the soldiers have stopped firing the morning and evening guns.

  General Washington is worried about his young friend the Marquis de Lafayette. “The French should have come by now,” he tells his officers who tell their men, like Papa and Willie. “A hurricane may have sunk the ships.”

  I remember Lafayette from Valley Forge. He dined with some of the American officers when he visited Headquarters. Sally and I had giggled to see him holding his teacup with his little finger in the air. He is a polite Frenchman, twenty-two years of age. He sailed back to France to get help for the Americans, but it’s been nearly a year. That is why the general is so worried.

  News from the South is grim. The British are in complete control of Georgia.

  November 17, 1779, Wednesday

  Last night we awoke to a woman screaming. When Sally, Mazie, and I realized our mothers were not in our tent we were frightened. But soon someone came with a lantern and peeked in on us. It was Mrs. Campbell.

  “All is well,” she replied to our questions. “Emma Smith has delivered a fine little girl. Her name is Liberty.”

  We could hear what sounded like a kitten mewing in the distance, but it was the newborn baby.

  Drifting back to sleep I thought of Elisabeth. I miss her. She would love our new friend, Thomas. She would share my worry that Miss Lulu and Mazie might be runaways and be caught. We would whisper about Willie Campbell and her Ben Valentine. But I’m happy that when her child is born she will be in a house, not in a cold tent with little food to eat.

  End of November 1779

  Last day at West Point. Snow is falling.

  We leave tomorrow at dawn for the winter encampment in Morristown, New Jersey. I am uneasy about the march before us—heading south three or four days through the frozen woods. Everyone will go. First the soldiers and officers, horses pulling cannons on two-wheeled carriages, then blacksmiths, cobblers, and supply wagons carrying all the tents, including ours.

  Women and children shall bring up the rear.

  General Sullivan and other generals, who have been at different posts in these colonies, will also march their units to Morristown.

  Mrs. Campbell is very kind to us. She had enough woolen yarn to knit six mittens, so we three girls each have one and our mothers each have one. It is better than none at all. I can keep one hand warm in a pocket while the mittened one is out. They are gray and itchy but bring much comfort.

  I like being near her. Because she is Willie’s mother, somehow I feel closer to him.

  Johnny has grown in the four months that we have been at West Point. He is big enough to walk on his own now. We have told him he must hold on to Mama’s skirt or mine, so that we know he is still with us. Because of the small children and wagons, our train will be slow—at least two days behind the soldiers.

  December 3, 1779, Friday

  Morristown, New Jersey. It is afternoon. I write this from our tent as wind shakes the sides and ruffles the pages of this diary. Sally and Johnny, all of us are still cold from our three-day journey.

  We arrived yesterday in a blizzard, trudging through snow up to my knees. The encampment is in a hollow—Jockey Hollow—surrounded by a dense forest, frosted white. The Wick family owns this land and is sharing their farmhouse with General St. Clair.

  Finally the men have their tents. Until our supply wagons rolled in, they were forced to sleep in the open with only the trees for protection. I cannot imagine how they must have suffered in this bitter cold, my poor Papa and Willie, too. Though snow is now swirling in a vicious wind, we c
an hear the ring of hatchets in the woods. Soldiers are building log huts, hundreds and hundreds of them, for much of the entire Continental Army shall be gathered here in the coming days.

  I’m ashamed of myself for complaining, but it was misery setting up our tent in the storm, trying to hammer stakes into the ground as the wind kept sweeping the canvas out of our hands. Finally the eight of us were able to take shelter: Mama, Sally, Johnny, and I; Miss Lulu and Mazie; and Mrs. Campbell and Tom Penny, whom she has taken under her wing.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” Mother has assured us. I think she means that at least we are no longer following wagons on a frozen road.

  Headquarters is a few miles from Jockey Hollow, in a mansion owned by a war widow, Mrs. Theodosia Ford. She has several children, including her son Jacob, already a soldier but still in his teens.

  Martha Washington is traveling here from Mount Vernon, to spend the winter. She will be here for Christmas. Am I selfish to want to visit her again in a warm kitchen? The memory of her spicy gingerbread makes my stomach tighten with hunger.

  Just an hour ago Papa and Willie found us here in our tent. I was happy to see my father, but more so Willie. They stepped inside to make sure we had arrived safely and that Johnny hadn’t gotten lost or frozen his little toes. Wind howled and battered our canvas walls as we encouraged one another.

  “Thirteen thousand men shall soon be here,” Papa said, “coming from all over. Rations are low and so far this is a cruel winter, but our families will do fine, I am certain of it.” He nodded to Miss Lulu and Mrs. Campbell, by way of including them.

  He hugged Mother and us girls, then he hugged Mazie, who smiled up at him. As they left, Willie’s hand brushed mine. His touch made me feel hopeful. For what, I am not sure.

  Second week of December 1779

  Still snowing. We woke this morning to silence. The wind had stopped. I peeked out to see that we are buried in drifts of snow. All around us, mounds of white are jiggling as women push their way out of their tents to start their cooking fires.

  We save our coals in an iron pot and keep them with us through the long night. For kindling we unravel what’s left of our sun hats, feeding in bits of straw, and blowing until they catch aflame. Then we carry the pot outside. Even using a mitten, my hands and arms are numb by the time we clear away the fresh snow for our fire.

  I do not know what day it is. Sometimes my ink doesn’t thaw until evening but by then my eyes are heavy and the cold draws us into our blankets. All eight of us huddle together like a family of squirrels in a nest.

  Mercury, 8 degrees

  At noon today, Thomas and I carried a kettle of soup to the Pennsylvania Brigade, along a path stomped down by the soldiers. It was as if we were passing through a tunnel, for the snow on either side was up to our shoulders.

  Truth is, the only reason I was cheerful on this errand was my hope to see Willie. When I ladled soup into his bowl I gave him an extra spoonful from my portion. He held the bowl with his red, chapped hands. “Thank you, Abby. It does me good to see you today.”

  Dozens of huts are almost finished. Most have walls of logs five feet high and are getting taller as the men keep cutting trees and dragging them from the woods. Soon the forest will be bare. Mr. Campbell works with a group who notch the ends of the logs so they will fit together at the corners. Then they fill spaces with clay down the length of the logs, to keep the wind from blowing inside.

  Twelve soldiers will sleep in each tiny hut, most of them sitting up for want of beds.

  “By Christmas, we hope to have everyone under a roof,” Papa told us. “That means women and children, too.” His breath was a frozen cloud between us. My father is chilled in his thin jacket and wet shoes, I can tell. All the men are cold. They shiver violently if they stop for a moment to rest, so they keep working.

  We eat once a day. We, and especially the men working so hard, cannot begin to warm our insides without drinking a cup of hot water.

  There is no more coffee or tea or flour. No vegetables or fruit. Beef is half rations.

  Yesterday a villager drove through camp in his sleigh, throwing a chunk of meat to each campfire. It was fresh, and left blood in the snow. Shouts of “Bless you, sir!” filled the cold air.

  Miss Lulu sniffed it before dropping it into our pot. “Poor ole horse,” she said. “I jess wish we had some onions and yams to make the men a nice stew. They gonna blow away in the wind if they don’t eat more.”

  December 13, 1779, Monday

  Snowing again, Jockey Hollow. When we’re outside by our fire, we hear news from soldiers walking among the tents and nearly finished huts. These soldiers get their news from Headquarters where General Washington hears it from the dispatch riders. But this week, because roads are buried to the fence tops, the messengers came on snowshoes. They hiked for miles and miles, staying overnight with farmers along the way.

  It is dangerous to travel. Lady Washington left Virginia a month ago, heading north in a coach, but blizzards have stranded her in Philadelphia. She will not be here by Christmas after all.

  We are hungry all the time, and cold. Sally and I take turns sharing our soup with Johnny, then Mazie shares with him. He is listless and pale. This morning when we unwrapped the rags from his feet to put on dry ones, we noticed black spots on his toes.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Mama in a hush.

  Last winter when the Army was in Valley Forge, I saw soldiers with feet blackened from frostbite. The surgeons amputated. That is how Helen Kern’s husband died and why she came to live with us.

  We are in a quiet panic to keep my brother warm.

  Christmas Eve, 1779, Friday

  I am writing without a candle tonight. The walls of our tent are aglow from a full moon. There are just seven of us now, for Thomas has insisted on helping Papa and Willie work on the log huts and stay with them. He is ragged in his uniform and torn shoes, but already Tom is a proud American soldier.

  It seems as if we have a smoky fire in here, but it is just the frost from our breathing. We are trying to get warm by holding our cups of hot water to our chests, and sipping bit by bit.

  Johnny has a fever.

  Christmas Day, 1779, Saturday

  Snowing again.

  Explosions awoke us this morning. I was too cold to be afraid. What I mean is that if the British were firing cannons at us, it would be death if we fled in the snow. There is nowhere to hide without freezing.

  A soldier told us the men are merely blowing up tree stumps with gunpowder. The ground is too frozen to dig them out and they need to chop them for firewood.

  Many of the huts are finished. Jockey Hollow looks like a city of log cabins, all in neat rows. I heard someone calling my name. Willie was waving me over to one of the huts with most of its roof on.

  “This small one here is for you ladies, behind ours. Inside, I hammered pegs near both sides of the hearth, so you can hang your cloaks to dry. We shall be neighbours, Abby. There are more being built for the other women, see?” He pointed down a row.

  I stepped through the opening where a door was to be hung. A fireplace was at the opposite wall. I touched a log beam overhead, looking up though a gap, snowflakes landing on my face. Willie must have seen my smile.

  “Like a Queen’s castle, yes?”

  “Oh yes, Willie, a castle. We shall finally get warm here.”

  Papa and Mr. Campbell appeared, carrying planks of wood to layer over the roof. “Not too soon, either,” Papa said. “The rivers are freezing so the sawmills can no longer run. The waterwheels get stuck in the ice. Daughter, let your mother and the others know. This shall be a merry Christmas after all!”

  “Yes, Papa!”

  I did not tell him Johnny is sick.

  December 28, 1779, Tuesday

  Soldiers have spread hay over the snow, among the cabins — it is drier walking around — but it has brought a reprimand from General Washington. Just as I was returning to our tent, the General rode through camp
. He looks gallant in the saddle, his heavy wool cape draped over his horse’s flank, his tricorn firm on his head.

  “What in heaven’s name!” he yelled to one of his officers. “Our animals will starve if you trample their fodder like this. And the same goes for gunpowder. How will we stand up to the enemy with such waste? No more of this, understand?”

  The officer saluted. “Sir! Yes sir, Your Excellency!”

  We are in our new home. Oh joy, four walls, a roof, and a warm fire. The floor is dirt, but we have laid down pine boughs from the cut trees. After serving soup to the men, we gathered in our hut with Papa, Willie, and Tom Penny.

  “Merry Christmas!” we said to one another. Our drink of cheer was hot water. Sally and Mazie led us in a clapping song they’ve been practicing. But when Papa noticed that Johnny wasn’t laughing and that his cheeks were scarlet with fever, he took him from Mama. He held him tight against his shoulder.

  “Johnny, brave boy,” he said. “We shall need your strong arms when the war is over, to build our house.” I heard a catch in my father’s voice. “Rally now, my son. It’s Christmas.”

  Tom came over and patted Johnny’s head. “There’s a good laddie. When you feel better, you may bang on my drum all you want.”

  Then it was time to say good night.

  “Merry Christmas, Abigail!” Willie called, turning to wave. He walked with Papa and Thomas through the snow, the sky bright with the rising moon.

  Moments later, wind announced another storm. An icy draft comes under our door. We have stuffed the gap with canvas, but still the coals in our fire flare with a breeze.