Cannons at Dawn

by Kristiana Gregory

  Mrs. Campbell looked up from her knitting. Her face was kind. I saw the same gentleness in her eyes that I had noticed in Willie’s. She said, “Things happen fast during times such as these.”

  June 5, 1779, Saturday

  A horseman rode into camp with news of the war:

  More British ships have sailed up the Hudson, from New York Harbor — with thousands of soldiers. They seized Stony Point, the narrow part of the river where King’s Ferry crosses. They have blocked the crossing and are building fortifications on the rocky cliffs. They want to draw our Patriots into an open battle.

  Now General Washington has assigned one of his generals to recapture Stony Point. When I heard it shall be Anthony Wayne, my stomach swirled. General Wayne leads the Pennsylvania line — this is Papa’s! And Willie Campbell’s. We worry about them being in battle.

  Another worry is for Mrs. Knox’s baby. Julia is quite ill with fever. She is just a tiny thing, a couple of months old. Our five brothers died of fever at this age.

  I wonder if Elisabeth thinks about this now that she is expecting her own child. I wish she were here so we could talk and whisper and pray.

  June 7, 1779, Monday

  General Washington says it’s time for Lady Washington and the officers’ wives to pack. They are to leave Middlebrook immediately and return to their homes.

  But we who have no homes must tag behind the Army.

  Word spread through camp like a blaze. “Be ready at a moment’s notice, even in the middle of the night. When the soldiers move out, follow on foot. No riding in wagons allowed.”

  How will we do this? I look around our hut. Spoons, cups, and plates are on the hearth, a kettle simmers with tonight’s soup. Mrs. Campbell’s flatbread is not yet cooked. Should we roll up our blankets now?

  “Abby and Sally, please get water from the creek,” Mama directed. We each have a canteen, given to us by the quartermaster. It is round and made of wood with a cork for the opening. We sewed canvas straps from an old tent, and hang them on pegs in the wall. Will we remember to grab them in the middle of the dark night?

  Will it be this night or tomorrow or the next?

  On our way to Stony Point

  We are resting from another day’s walk in the heat. Each of us carries our blanket, canteen, and a pouch with personal things. Mama and I still take turns with our kettle — our dishes rattling under the lid — and Johnny. He is getting heavy and kicks his feet when he wants down. He is eighteen months old. If I let him walk, he runs — fast — up the road or into the trees. It scares me that he can disappear so quickly.

  Mama and I are exhausted picking him up and down. I thank God this brother is so lively, but we must keep a constant eye on him.

  Sally is good at keeping pace, because the baggage train is slow. Dozens of women walk in front of us and dozens behind—many also have babies on a hip, or in slings across their chests. There are small children and some girls my age, but all are busy helping their mothers.

  We are a ragged, noisy crowd. Always, one child or another is wailing from hunger or from being tired. And when a little one wanders away—which is often — there is a frantic search until the child is found. On this account, I am nervous about Sally. She is curious and easily distracted.

  Fortunately we have made friends with Miss Lulu and her daughter, Mazie, who is Sally’s age. They are freed Negroes. Miss Lulu invited us to share her tent. It is just two tarps that she ropes between trees to make a lean-to. When it rained the other night we stayed dry except for my feet poking out in the air. We also share food and cooking. Their skillet is the scoop from a broken shovel.

  Now that Sally has a friend, there are two mothers watching and calling after them.

  One of the cobblers said we have crossed the border into New York. Now General Washington’s Headquarters is in a tavern at New Windsor. It seems that wherever he can gather his officers and spread maps onto a table, that is Headquarters — sometimes for just a day or two.

  Because he is Commander in Chief, express riders bring him reports from different parts of the colonies, about other generals and brigades. Our Continental Army is spread all the way down to the South.

  Mid-June 1779

  For more than a week we have been camped by a stream, while the Army keeps marching north. News comes to us as a murmur from the front line, all the way back. It is like a breeze high up in the trees, at first a quiet rustle, then loud. All of us are talking. Today, it was about one of our own spies, Captain McLane.

  General Washington has ordered him to dress as a farmwife and pretend to visit her sons at Stony Point. We giggled upon hearing this, but truly, we hope he remembers two things: to shave his face and to speak in a higher voice!

  All of us ladies are praying for Captain McLane.

  Another hot day

  Still in camp. We busy ourselves with laundry — mostly officers’ uniforms — drying them over bushes and on lines strung between trees. After all is neatly folded, an orderly comes with his wagon.

  “Toss thy sudsy water into the woods,” the man reminded us before driving away. “Never into the river or streams. It shall be the guardhouse for any woman who soils our drinking water. By order of General Washington.”

  Our tent with Miss Lulu is in a thicket of pines, near a creek. To stay cool, Sally and Mazie wade in the shallows with Johnny. I watch carefully that they stay close to shore. This afternoon I was so prickly hot, I stripped down to my shift and jumped in. It was deep and cold, but I could touch the sandy bottom. It felt good to wash the dust out of my hair.

  Then I helped my little sister and Mazie do the same. I held their arms while they floated in the current.

  “I like this cold bath!” Mazie cried, shaking water from her pigtails.

  Also to stay cool, we have made straw hats. The brims shade our faces and my eyes don’t hurt so much from the sun.

  June 16, 1779, Wednesday

  I write this with shaking hand. Sally and I were in the woods searching for walnuts when we heard rustling. Thinking it was a deer, we stood still. I could feel something watching us. But it wasn’t an animal. A figure with long, dark hair darted through the brush.

  “Was that an Indian?” Sally whispered, taking my hand.

  My mouth had gone dry with fear. “I think so.”

  When we told Mama, others began talking about the Cherry Valley Massacre last November. “Iroquois and Mohawks,” a woman from New York told us.

  “What happened?” Sally asked. “Did they hurt any children?”

  “Hurt?” The woman laughed. Her voice was cold. “Scalped and killed. Soldiers, mothers, and their little ones. Dozens were captured, among them my own sister and her two baby daughters. We never saw them again.”

  We listened. The woman shook her head. “And now that Indians have joined the Redcoats, there’s no safe place, not even here with the Army.”

  June 30, 1779, Wednesday

  Steamy hot. I should like to spend an afternoon resting in the shade, but Mama needs my help. Her fingers are swollen with rheumatism so it takes two of us together to wring out each shirt, blanket, and pair of breeches. Also, I am more busy than ever with Johnny, and more anxious. He wanders away to look at sticks and bugs and squirrels. Every time I run after him, my eyes search the woods. If Indians are near, they could snatch him without a sound. I am glad that Sally has Mazie for a friend, but even those two forget to be careful. When they are playing house with sticks and stones, they often go to the edge of camp without telling us.

  A few days later: good news!

  Captain McLane has returned safely to Headquarters. His farm dress fooled the Redcoats. “They have not finished building their works,” he reported. “Our enemy is vulnerable.”

  Now General Washington is planning a secret attack! These past evenings have been bright from a full moon. With his spyglass, he has been watching the British from Buckberg Mountain, and organizing his men. In the middle of the night Papa and Willie’s
battalion shall march with General Wayne and hundreds more. They’ll carry bayonets, but only some are allowed muskets, lest an accidental blast alert our enemy.

  The terrain is rough with narrow mountain trails. No wagons with horses, no women with children will follow. We would make too much noise with our babies and clanking kettles.

  We wait.

  I am a selfish, worrying daughter. Papa is fighting for our freedom — for that I am deeply proud. But I want him to return unharmed. I want him to build another home for us, so we can all be together—Elisabeth, Ben, and their baby, too.

  I want to have a house with doors we can lock.

  Same week, more news

  Our soldiers cannot build cooking fires, lest the enemy see their smoke.

  “Then what does Papa eat for supper?” Sally asked.

  “Perhaps pecans or walnuts from the woods,” Mama replied. “There are streams everywhere. At least they have water to drink.”

  We learned that when our troops encounter civilians along the way, they arrest them so they will not report to the British. There are many Loyalists throughout the countryside, those loyal to King George, who would be glad to make trouble for us.

  Word also is that our soldiers kill any dog they see, to keep it from barking. This so upset Sally and Mazie, they put their hands over their faces.

  Sally sobbed until she had hiccups. “I wish we had one of those dogs for a friend, like Captain. I miss Papa! I miss ’Lisbeth!”

  July 4, 1779, Sunday

  Still we wait for news.

  We have no church, but we can pray anywhere. One of the blacksmiths led all of us in the singing of Psalm 23. “The Lord is our shepherd, we shall not want….” Then he gave a good sermon — short!

  Today is the third anniversary of declaring our independence from King George, but we are not celebrating with cannons like last year. We move as quietly as possible through camp and keep our cooking fires low. We are miles from our soldiers, perhaps twenty, but still we do not want to draw attention to ourselves. British spies might be near. We have no weapons.

  “They could capture us if they wanted,” said Mrs. Campbell. She was mixing flour with drops of water in the palm of her hand. Rolling the dough into a ball, she looked over at Mama. “If they don’t kill us, they will force us to wash and cook for them. Imagine how that would upset our husbands.”

  Mama nodded. She was at the fire, positioning a flat rock onto the coals. This is where we pat down the dough, to bake ash-cake when our kettle is full of laundry. I wondered if she was remembering how Papa charged out of the woods to save Sally.

  “I worry,” Mama said. “Such an act of violence against wives and children could weaken the American Army.”

  Sally leaned into Mama’s skirt. “What if Indians kidnap us?”

  I could hear Mama sigh. “Some Indians are our friends,” she said. “They are good people. They have families like ours.”

  “But what about that massacre?”

  Mama’s gaze went up to the sky. “There is much we do not understand, Daughter.”

  The summer heat is moist and heavy, even at night. Mosquitoes swarm and bite us through the cloth of our shifts. It is misery trying to sleep with them buzzing in our ears. They are nasty things.

  During the day between chores, children wade in the creeks and splash one another. Sally and I love to take Johnny by his hands and swing him over the water, so his feet skim the cool surface. Back and forth, up and down.

  “Fly, birdie, fly!” we sing.

  His laugh makes all of us laugh.

  When Johnny is tired, Mazie likes to carry him around against her shoulder, patting him until he falls asleep. Against her black skin, he looks like a porcelain doll. “There, there, lil’ babe,” she says to him.

  During moments like this I forget we are at war.

  July 17, 1779, Saturday

  Word spread into camp from a horseman riding fast.

  Yesterday just after midnight, the Patriots moved on Stony Point. Some chopped through the woods with axes, others waded waist deep through marshes. Providence was with the Americans! Clouds hid the moon. High winds forced the British ships to pull up their anchors and sail downriver, taking with them their rockets and cannons. Thus our enemies on shore were even more vulnerable.

  In the brief battle — it lasted perhaps an hour — General Wayne was wounded in the head with a musket ball. He managed to stay in command, though, and encouraged his men to keep fighting.

  Some 80 Patriots were wounded. When we heard that fifteen were killed, all of us in camp fell silent. We looked around at one another. My chest felt tight with panic. Who among us might hear terrible news? It seems there are 100 women or so, many with children and babies.

  Mother, Mrs. Campbell, and Miss Lulu kneeled in the dirt by our tent. They bowed their heads, praying aloud. Several others joined them.

  “Please protect our country, Lord. Protect our men.”

  “Have mercy on us all.”

  “Thy will be done, Lord.”

  Mazie and Sally clung to my skirt as we stood listening.

  Afternoon, still waiting for news

  Word continues to dribble our way.

  Before our soldiers crept onto Stony Point, they were given a ration of rum to fortify themselves and a piece of white paper to pin to their hats. This was to help them in the darkness, to tell themselves apart from the enemy.

  In the end, twenty Redcoats were shot or bayoneted, others drowned in the Hudson trying to escape. Hundreds more were captured and are being marched to a prison camp in Pennsylvania. Even though General Wayne was bleeding from his head wound, he was able to send word to General Washington. The horseman repeated it to us like this:

  “Sir, the fort and garrison are ours. Our men behaved like men determined to be free.”

  The messenger then galloped away without answering our shouted questions.

  When will we know names? It is agony waiting.

  July 18, 1779, Sunday

  At last, news has reached camp. An express rider stayed in his saddle and read from a scrap of paper, the names of our soldiers killed at Stony Point. We strained to listen, silent with dread. By the time he read the ninth name without saying Papa’s, I was dizzy from breathing hard. At the tenth, Mama grabbed my hand. Upon hearing the eleventh, Mrs. Campbell whispered, “Please Lord, not my son. Willie is my only child.”

  At the twelfth name, a woman farther up the line collapsed. Her loud sobs brought others to her side.

  The soldier then read the thirteenth name, the fourteenth, and finally the fifteenth. Mama choked back tears of relief.

  Papa was not on the list, nor was Willie.

  We know not if they were among the wounded. But at least they are alive.

  A long afternoon

  Mama and I hiked through the woods with Mrs. Campbell to visit the wounded. We took our canteens. Miss Lulu insisted on staying behind with Johnny and the girls. She does not seem worried about her husband.

  We searched the pallets of bandaged and groaning men. Many appeared to be sleeping; some still wore bloody uniforms. Women were tending to the wounds. We kneeled in the dirt, offering sips of water until our canteens were empty. A Negro soldier told us his name is Victor. When we asked if he would like for us to talk to his wife, he said he has no family.

  It was a selfish joy that we did not find Papa or Willie there.

  At night the moon hangs over us like a lantern. It is so bright I lie awake. The river appears to wiggle with light and I can see clouds of mosquitoes over its surface. I think and wonder and worry, now troubled by news from Pluckemin, New Jersey:

  Baby Julia Knox died of fever three weeks ago.

  July 20, 1779, Tuesday

  Another very hot morning. We are moving out so I shall be quick with my pen.

  “On to West Point!” came the horseman’s cry at sunrise. “Ready yourselves. It’s ten miles north.”

  He shouted today’s date, thus I
learned it is the twentieth of July. We had been eating plums and pecans gathered yesterday from a farmer’s orchard. Right then, Sally and I knew to fill our pockets and get ready. We can finish breakfast while walking, but already there are purple stains on our skirts!

  Mama hurried with Johnny to the tiny creek, to wash his bottom — not the large, fast creek where we’ve been getting our drinking water, but the smaller one. She called over her shoulder to us, smiling: “Perhaps we shall see Papa in a few days.”

  We are getting faster with packing. In just minutes Sally, Mazie, and I can roll up blankets with our cloaks and shawls, fill our canteens, then gather up spoons and such to carry in our linen bags. We made a sling from ropes so Miss Lulu’s tarp will fit over a shoulder. Mrs. Campbell empties our kettle onto the fire to put out the flames. We all take turns at everything.

  On the road when Johnny gets too heavy for me, Miss Lulu hefts him into her strong arms. “Come here, lil’ one,” she says in her husky voice. “Let’s give your sister a rest. ‘Sides, I ain’t had a fine boy like you to hold in a long time.”

  When Miss Lulu says this, I watch her dark face and her brown eyes, wondering what she means. Has she lost a son like Mama has? Also I wonder why she does not speak of her husband.

  West Point, New York

  We are camped on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River. A breeze off the water makes it cooler up here. Headquarters is in a Mr. Moore’s house, and nearby are rows of tents for soldiers. The Army has issued tents for us ladies as well, and assigned us to a mess. That means we cook for about 30 men, also do laundry and mending.