James led the Hessian to where his father was working. The old worn nut brown colored jacket his mother had taken out of their cedar clothing chest was too short and Georg walked awkwardly in the wooden clogs that were too small. Thomas Kierney was using a broad bladed pick axe to dig the frozen dirt away from a large flat shaped boulder in the ground. Once the bottom of the stone was exposed, James would position the iron gripping claw his father had made, attach the rope from the claw to Zak’s yoke and while the ox pulled, they would use the tall iron bar to pry the stone out of the frozen soil. He watched as his father handed the pickaxe to Georg.
Georg took several swings, feeling the wooden handle twist in his hands as the blade hit the hard earth. He tried to find a rhythm but he had no power in his shoulders. Sharp pains surged through his stomach and he barely had time to turn away before he vomited. The warm cider that had tasted sweet when he drank it, now was bitter as he bent over and threw up. As he straightened up he felt the surge in his bowels. Quickly, he took a few steps, squatted and a foul smelling stream of liquid shit splattered on the snow.
James covered his nose as his father shook his head in disgust.
“I might have known the prisoners the Army would send as laborers would be suffering from the bloody flux or worse.” He scraped snow over Georg’s shit with a shovel. “Walk him back to the house, James. Tell your mother King George is sick. She will know what to do.”
He took up the pick axe again. “Best to move him into the forge shed for now. Light a fire to keep him warm. Be sure to put down straw first. No need to foul our workplace.” He glanced at the grey sky to the west. “If it snows tomorrow, we will be in the forge making nails.”
James led Georg to the low slanted roofed shack. He left him standing next to the raised stone rectangular fireplace, ran to the barn and brought back several sheaths of clean straw. He spread them next to the large leather bellows attached to the hole in the stones. The Hessian lay down and closed his eyes.
“Do not worry Georg. My mother knows many cures, and she is especially good with stomach maladies.” The Hessian shook his head weakly, to indicate he did not understand.
“I will be back in moment. We need to start a fire. You must stay warm.”
James returned shortly with a tin firebox filled with embers. He put the glowing charcoal in the hearth and began feeding it tinder, then small branches and finally medium sized logs. He worked the leather bellows a few times, leaning on the handles with all his weight and was rewarded with bright flames. He glanced at Georg who had clasped the jacket around his throat and was shivering.
Hannah Kierney came in carrying an old worn blanket and a bowl of hot porridge.
“Make sure he eats it slowly, James. It will help him keep the food down.”
She moved the rake and hoe that were leaning on the wooden bench waiting to be repaired, and put down a mug.
“Have him drink this after he finishes the porridge. I added more worm seeds and a dash more of whiskey than usual. He is a big man and needs a strong dosage.”
After his mother left, James was able by gestures and repeating the word “slowly,” to get the Hessian to eat all of the porridge. Then he offered him the mug. He watched the man sniff at it and then look suspiciously at the contents.
“It is whiskey and garlic, and some rhubarb to make it sweet to cover the taste of wormseeds,” James said. “Mother gives this to us when we have worms or the bloody flux. I know it tastes bitter but you must drink it.” 4
Georg looked at the contents one more time, tipped his head back and drank it all. He handed James the empty bowl and mug, took the thin blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders and leaned against the fire warmed stones of the forge. “Danke,” he said. “Dank you.” He closed his eyes and sighed and fell asleep sitting up, probably made drowsy by the whiskey, James thought.
When returned later in the afternoon with Sarah, Georg was lying on his bed of straw, the blanket drawn up close around his throat, his bare feet sticking out below. His soles were caked with accumulated dirt and blood, with irregular patches of pink skin where the scabs had fallen off.
“He is filthy and smells badly,” Sarah said, still clutching James’ hand.
“Once he is well,” James said authoritatively, “Mother will want us to bring the washing tub to the forge. We can heat water here and he can bathe himself clean.”
“I am afraid of him. Do you think he will kill us?” his sister asked, peering at Georg’s face and closed eyes.
“No. No, he will not. Father would never have brought him here if he thought that.”
“Do you think he is dead now?” Sarah asked. “He is not moving.”
James watched for signs of breathing. “He is alive. See, his chest. He is weak and sick. Mother will make him well again. She has the skill.” He immediately regretted saying that. Sarah had been six when their little brother died. It had been Sarah’s duty to take care of Phillip once he was old enough to crawl. She kept him clean, watched over him as he learned to walk and played games with him, while their Mother did her household chores. Phillip followed Sarah so closely he was like her shadow Two winters ago, Phillip developed a hacking cough. It got worse, despite Mother’s medicines, and one morning he was blue and dead. They had buried him in the little clearing next to the barn, a few months shy of his third birthday.
“Do not cry Sarah.” He put his arm around his sister’s shoulders as the tears came to her eyes. “The Pastor says Phillip is in a better place.”
“I wish he was back here with us,” she sniffled. “I am afraid we will come here and find the Hessian cold and dead, like Phillip was that morning.”
In the bitter darkness before dawn, James returned to the forge shed before doing his chores in the barn. He opened the door cautiously, anxious that Sarah’s fears might be true. He smiled to see Georg leaning against the warm stones, holding his hands before the low flames and putting them to his face and cheeks. The Hessian waved in greeting and tried to rise, at the same time gesturing he needed to relieve himself. James helped him outside where Georg squatted modestly behind the shed and dropped a stain of liquid shit tinged with blood. James got him settled back on his bed of straw, shivering again under his blanket and built up the fire.
“I will be back Georg. I have chores to do.”
James fed and watered Zak, Daniel and Abigail, scratching the cow on her broad bony forehead before milking her and carried the wooden bucket to the house.
“Georg still has the bloody flux,” he said to his mother.
“No work for him today, Thomas,” she said to her husband. “He is too weak.” His father grunted, finishing his breakfast of bread, cheese and egg. “James. Eat your food quickly. We will move stones before it snows and then keep King George company in the forge.”
James looked longingly at the iron griddle in the fireplace where he usually toasted his bread, sopping up the lard. Instead, he cut himself a piece off the loaf and wolfed it down cold with a hunk of cheese.
“Sarah,” he heard his mother say as he wrapped his scarf around his throat. “Take this bowl of porridge to Georg. I will make another wormseed drink and bring it to him shortly.”
James saw the fear in his sister’s eyes. He waited outside until she emerged with the wooden bowl, walked with her to the forge shed to show her Georg was alive and then ran exuberantly through the snowy fields, leaping over the stones and brush to be with his father.
That afternoon, as the snow swirled around the forge shed, James operated the bellows while his father heated the nail rods and hammered them to a point. He inserted the glowing rod in the wooden nail header, and snapped it off where he had dented it for the nail’s length. The room resounded with the clang of the hammer hitting the still hot metal.
“We are making crimped head nails,” James said to Georg, “to use in the flooring for our cabin. We will have a real wood floor soon. We made some planks ourselves this fall and got the rest from our n
eighbors, the Langleys.” He grunted as he lifted the bellows handle and the fire blew hotter for the next rod. “Father can make three hundred nails in an hour’s time,” he boasted, looking over his shoulder at Georg. The Hessian was sitting up, his face flushed, watching them with interest. It was dark outside when his father stopped and said it was time for dinner.
“See all the nails we have made, Georg.” James handed one to the Hessian who took it in his long begrimed fingers, turned it around and held it up to the firelight. James studied his face.
“Nagel,” he said to James. “Nagel.”
“Nail,” James responded. “It is a nail we made. Father and I.” He pointed to his father and then to himself. “We made many of them today.”
“With all your chatter, James, King George will learn English soon enough.”
The Sabbath fell on the third day after Georg had arrived. Before they left for church, James accompanied Sarah when she brought Georg his breakfast.
“My mother makes this special breakfast for us on Sundays,” James said. “She said you are well enough to have some.” He nudged Sarah who held out the basket and pulled the cloth back to reveal warm baked oval shaped cakes. “Tell Georg how it is made, Sarah.”
“He does not speak English. There is no purpose to it,” she said petulantly.
“Do it, or I will not accompany you to the forge anymore,” James threatened.
“All right.” Sarah smoothed her Sunday dress as if she were going to read from the Bible. “It has milk, eggs, sugar, cornmeal and flour. Our mother bakes it on the griddle and it is delicious with blackberry jam. Here, see we brought you some.”
“Dank you,” Georg said after tasting one of the cakes. He dipped it in the small plate of the dark sweet and nodded in appreciation. “Das ist gutt.”
“For the first time you are eating well,” James observed. “Perhaps you will be better soon. We must go to church and will be back at dark. There is enough firewood here to keep you warm.” He motioned to the stack of small logs in the corner.
Georg heard the two of them laughing as they ran back to the house. It had been a long time since he had heard that pleasant sound. He opened the shed door and stood in the frame, the thin blanket wrapped around his bony shoulders, watching the family leave in a large sled, the man and boy up front, the boy holding the reins for the horse, the mother and the two girls, covered in blankets in the rear.
He knew with certainty, that if he did not get well and make himself useful, the man would send him back. Georg shivered as he closed the door, more from fear than the cold. He would not survive in prison. He lay on his bed of straw, close to the warm stones and thought about this family. He wondered where they were going and then recalled the boy had said it was Sunday. And church. Many of these English words sounded like his native language. If he guessed at their meaning, he could understand more. Church like kirche, Sunday like Sonntag, father like vater. He drowsed off, sleepy from the effects of the whiskey in the medicine the woman made for him.
When he awoke the sun was high in the clear blue sky. Georg squeezed his feet into the clogs, wrapped the blanket around the threadbare jacket and slowly shuffled the short distance on the snowcovered path to the family’s cabin. It took much of his strength and he leaned against the door before opening it. He was surprised to see a floral design scratched on the packed dirt surface. Spirals bordered the large rectangular room. In the center, around the stout wooden legs of the two planked tables and benches, delicate patterns of branches and wide oval leaves circled and wove their way across the floor. 5 The fire was low in the large fireplace. Several tongs, pokers and a small shovel for ashes hung from the mantel. One of those long Rebeller rifles, like the one that had killed his friend Andreas, rested on iron hooks embedded in a ceiling beam above the fireplace. George gazed at it for a while. He could flee with the rifle, some powder and ball and perhaps make it through the wilderness to a British outpost in New Jersey. If there were any remaining, he thought. First he would have to cross that river.
And then what? Even if he successfully escaped, all that awaited him was more battles, constant marching, short rations, sentry duty, patrols and ambushes by the Rebellers. The British had left the Hessians in forward positions while they went into comfortable winter quarters in fine brick homes in Brunswick, the large port city of New York and on the Eden-like island where they had first disembarked.
No, Georg said out loud. I have no more desire to fight for these British. He was surprised by the vehemence in his voice. I do not want to hurt people like this family who are taking care of me. He thought remorsefully of the looting he had done in Brunswick, the wanton destruction and slaughter of animals, leaving people with little or no provisions for the winter. No more he said to himself again and felt relieved by his decision and comforted by the domesticity of this simple room, with its evidence of a peaceful farm life. It reminded him of his own home, a humble one room stone farmhouse with a thatched roof, an attached wooden barn, the smell of smoke and his mother’s cooking mingling with the earthy odors of their plow horse and cow. What had Andreas said? These Rebellers owned their land. The farm on which his father had built their home and where they worked so hard to plant and grow their wheat and hay barely supported them and could be taken away by their Landgraf. He would ask the man about land ownership, when his English was better.
Georg knew what he must do. He had to make himself useful so the man would keep him as a farm hand. He surveyed the room. A box to the left of the fireplace was half filled. He would bring the split wood he had seen stacked alongside the barn and refill this box. He would do it slowly, bringing only as much as he could easily carry and he would be careful not to disturb the floral design on the floor. Then he would go back and rest in the forge. Afterwards, if he felt strong enough and before the family returned, he would clean the empty stall of the horse and those of the ox and cow as well. And maybe next Sunday, they would take him to Church. Even if it was all in English, he wanted very much to worship in a house of God.
Part Two Winter Quarters
Chapter 5 - The Happiest Man in Camp
Will hurried from the log hut along the snow packed path to Morristown, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the fireplace and the company of the artillery men. Eight of them lived in a cramped fourteen by fifteen foot space with one door and no windows. It was built of notched logs, chinked with clay, stones and moss to keep out the frigid winter air. The first month or so, after reaching Morristown in early January, had been spent in the thick forests, chopping down trees, trimming the branches and hauling logs to the fields allocated to the army outside of the town. Those skilled in the use axes, like Will, shaped the trunks into beams and rough hewn doors. Others carried stones to make the fireplace and chimney.
With the eaves only six feet and some inches high, the low roofs were put in place quickly and once up, kept the heat inside, as well as the smoke from cooking fires. The soldiers, used to sleeping in the barns and sheds with the animals, or outside in the bitter cold, either in the few dozen tents captured from the British, or under the overhangs of churches, mills and barns, had worked eagerly and moved into the huts before they were completed. Their shelters were randomly spaced in pastures bordering what had been the woods. All that remained of the stands of trees were stumps, some three feet high, like gravestones in a cemetery, marking the death of the forest.
Will had been one of the few to move from better to worse quarters. Newly promoted Captain Lieutenant Hadley had arranged for Will to be with him at the Ford house where they had once stayed when they brought the wounded to Morristown during the long retreat through New Jersey. The Captain, when he was not occupied with staff and other military matters, devoted much of his attention to Ms. Mercy Buskirk Ford who reciprocated his interest. Rarely had Will seen one without the other, which left him ample time alone in the room he shared with Hadley to compose letters in his mind to Elisabeth and await the day when he would have pape
r, quill and ink.
Once he was in his more humble hut, Will actually relished the close, noisy company of the gun crews to the quiet isolation of the second floor garret in the Ford house. He went from sharing a soft bed with Captain Hadley to a hard wooden bunk made of rough planks, one of four stacked in two frames on either side of the hut. With eight men sharing the small space, Will became accustomed to the smells of stockings steaming before the fire, unwashed bodies and clothing, the rot of leather boots and the constant sneezing, coughing and hacking of men suffering from winter colds.
He was pining for Elisabeth and feeling sorry for himself, as well as having a sense of being adrift with no purpose. He wished the Marblehead Mariners were still part of the Army. He missed Nat and Adam, long limbed Solomon, “snaggle tooth”Jeremiah and even morose and taciturn one-eyed Titus. If he had to be in winter quarters for another two months, on scarce rations, it would be better to be with the companionship of others, than to be preoccupied with his own dark thoughts of never seeing Elisabeth again.
Walking on the road, Will recognized Sergeant Merriam hobbling on a makeshift crutch, cautiously proceeding on the wellworn, snowy path from the cluster of huts toward Morristown, a quarter of a mile away. The Sergeant’s uniform was cleanly brushed and he sported a sprig of pine in his tri-corn, a symbol of the Army’s January victories. The gaiter on his left foot was unbuttoned at the bottom to accommodate his swollen ankle. Will easily caught up with him and linking his arm on Merriam’s free side, protected him from the soldiers swirling around the Sergeant as they hurried to the drill field on the town’s green.
“Bless you Will, for accommodating an old man,” Merriam said in a raspy voice. “I am on my way to see General Knox on a matter of extreme personal importance.” He stopped, digging his fingers into Will’s supporting arm. He opened his mouth wide and made deep wheezing noises as he sucked in cold air. Folds of his skin hung loosely below his chin like a turkey’s wattles, red from the cold and speckled with bloody nicks from his morning shave. “And where are you off to?” the Sergeant asked, catching his breath before painfully resuming his lopsided pace.
Blood Upon The Snow Page 8
