DEAR AMERICA
The Diary of
Abigail Jane Stewart
The Winter of
Red Snow
KRISTIANA GREGORY
For
Tim, Catherine,
and Matthew Walker
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania 1777
December 1, 1777, Monday
December 3, 1777, Wednesday
December 6, 1777, Saturday
December 7, 1777, Sunday
December 10, 1777, Wednesday
December 12, 1777, Friday
December 14, 1777, Sunday
December 18, 1777, Thursday
December 19, 1777, Friday
December 20, 1777, Saturday
December 21, 1777 Sunday
December 22, 1777, Monday
December 23, 1777, Tuesday
December 24, 1777, Wednesday
December 25, 1777, Thursday
December 26, 1777, Friday
December 28, 1777, Sunday
December 29, 1777, Monday
December 30, 1777, Tuesday
December 31, 1777, Wednesday
January 1, 1778, Thursday
January 2, 1778, Friday
January 3, 1778, Saturday
January 4, 1778, Sunday
January 5, 1778, Monday
January 6, 1778, Tuesday
January 7, 1778, Wednesday
January 9, 1778, Friday
January 11, 1778, Sunday
January 12, 1778, Monday
January 13, 1778, Tuesday
January 17, 1778, Saturday
January 19, 1778, Monday
January 20, 1778, Tuesday
January 22, 1778, Thursday
January 23, 1778, Friday
January 24, 1778, Saturday
January 25, 1778, Sunday
January 26, 1778, Monday
January 30, 1778, Friday
January 31, 1778, Saturday
February 1, 1778, Sunday
February 2, 1778, Monday
February 3, 1778, Tuesday
February 4, 1778, Wednesday
February 5, 1778, Thursday
February 6, 1778, Friday
February 7, 1778, Saturday
February 8, 1778, Sunday
February 9, 1778, Monday
February 10, 1778, Tuesday
February 11, 1778, Wednesday
February 12, 1778, Thursday
February 13, 1778, Friday
February 14, 1778, Saturday
February 16, 1778, Monday
February 17, 1778, Tuesday
February 18, 1778, Wednesday
February 19, 1778, Thursday
February 20, 1778, Friday
February 21, 1778, Saturday
February 22, 1778, Sunday
February 23, 1778, Monday
February 24, 1778, Tuesday
February 25, 1778, Wednesday
February 26, 1778, Thursday
February 27, 1778, Friday
February 28, 1778, Saturday
March 1, 1778, Sunday
March 2, 1778, Monday
March 3, 1778, Tuesday
March 4, 1778, Wednesday
March 5, 1778, Thursday
March 6, 1778, Friday
March 8, 1778, Sunday
March 14, 1778, Saturday
March 16, 1778, Monday
March 17, 1778, Tuesday
March 18, 1778, Wednesday
March 20, 1778, Friday
March 21, 1778, Saturday
March 23, 1778, Monday
March 24, 1778, Tuesday
March 27, 1778, Friday
March 28, 1778, Saturday
April 1, 1778, Wednesday
April 2, 1778, Thursday
April 3, 1778, Friday
April 4, 1778, Saturday
April 5, 1778, Sunday
April 6, 1778, Monday
April 7, 1778, Tuesday
April 9, 1778, Thursday
April 10, 1778, Friday
April 12, 1778, Sunday
April 13, 1778, Monday
April 14, 1778, Tuesday
April 15, 1778, Wednesday
April 16, 1778, Thursday
April 17, 1778, Friday
April 20, 1778, Monday
April 21, 1778, Tuesday
April 26, 1778, Sunday
April 29, 1778, Wednesday
April 30, 1778, Thursday
May 1, 1778, Friday
May 2, 1778, Saturday
May 3, 1778, Sunday
May 4, 1778, Monday
May 5, 1778, Tuesday
May 6, 1778, Wednesday
May 7, 1778, Thursday
May 8, 1778, Friday
May 9, 1778, Saturday
May 10, 1778, Sunday
May 11, 1778, Sunday
May 12, 1778, Tuesday
May 13, 1778, Wednesday
May 14, 1778, Thursday
May 17, 1778, Sunday
May 18, 1778, Monday
May 19, 1778, Tuesday
May 20, 1778, Wednesday
May 21, 1778, Thursday
May 25, 1778, Monday
May 26, 1778, Tuesday
May 27, 1778, Wednesday
May 28, 1778, Thursday
May 31, 1778, Sunday
June 1, 1778, Monday
June 2, 1778, Tuesday
June 3, 1778, Wednesday
June 4, 1778, Thursday
June 7, 1778, Sunday
June 8, 1778, Monday
June 9, 1778, Tuesday
June 10, 1778, Wednesday
June 11, 1778, Thursday
June 12, 1778, Friday
June 13, 1778, Saturday
June 15, 1778, Monday
June 18, 1778, Thursday
June 19, 1778, Friday
June 20, 1778, Saturday
June 22, 1778, Monday
June 23, 1778, Tuesday
June 26, 1778, Friday
June 29, 1778, Monday
June 30, 1778, Tuesday
July 3, 1778, Friday
July 4, 1778, Saturday
Epilogue
Life in America in 1777
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other books in the Dear America series
Copyright
Valley Forge,
Pennsylvania
1777
December 1, 1777, Monday
It is almost sunrise and we are still waiting for Papa to return. What is taking him so long? Little Sally keeps running out onto the cold step to see down the road, but there is only fog.
We have been up since half-past four this morning, and mine apron is dirty from trying to keep the fire going. Mama’s cries are what woke us. Elisabeth and I threw back our quilt and hurried down the stairs so quickly I caught a splinter in my foot.
A tall candle lit the room where Mama lay. Her face was damp. I told her that Papa had taken the wagon and should be back soon with Mrs. Hewes.
“Abby,” she said, “this baby shalt not wait for Mrs. Hewes.” She squeezed my hand hard, took a deep breath, then let out another cry. I began to cry, too. Poor Mama! Elisabeth put a wet cloth on her forehead and told me to wait by the window with Sally. I do not like waiting.
Finally! We heard horses and Papa’s wagon. Sally and I ran out the door waving our arms. “Hurry!” we yelled.
Mrs. Hewes smiled at us when she came into the kitchen. We hung her cloak by the hearth, then followed her like worried duckli
ngs. She was just in time. Mama screamed again, then an instant later there came a sharp little cry.
“Ye have a son,” said Mrs. Hewes. Laughing, Papa ran outside and threw his hat to the sky. I could hear his shout echo in the frosty air.
He is happy and wants all of Pennsylvania to know he has a son. But I saw Mama’s eyes — she is as worried as I am.
December 3, 1777, Wednesday
The baby is sick. Elisabeth and I have stayed home from school to help.
When I tucked Sally into her trundle last night she threw her arms around my neck sobbing, “Shall this baby die like the others?”
Elisabeth kneeled to kiss Sally, but she, too, began to weep, then so did I.
Mama has birthed nine children: three girls — that’s us — and now six boys. We have not had a brother live through his first winter.
After Sally had cried herself to sleep, Elisabeth and I lay in bed whispering. Soon she was quiet. I crept across the cold floor to look out the window. The creek looked like a silver ribbon winding its way among the trees toward the Schuylkill River and the house where Mrs. Hewes lives. Her upstairs window glowed with candlelight and I hoped she was awake, praying for our baby. I was.
December 6, 1777, Saturday
Mr. Walker the carpenter rode up with a new cradle he had made for us. When he asked our baby’s name, Papa looked at Mama and she looked at him. Elisabeth and I looked at each other, then at Sally. Our baby was five days old, but we had not named him!
Papa put the cradle by the fire, not too close, but near the stone bench where it is warm. Mama held the baby in her arms for a minute before setting him down in the blankets. She said, “I doth like the name John.”
Papa smiled at her. “Yes. John is a good name. John Edward.”
So now Elisabeth and Sally and I have a brother. John Edward Stewart. He is so still and so small that when I glanced at the cradle after supper I thought for a moment it was Sally’s doll inside.
It is cold at night, especially upstairs with the door closed. We have moved our bed and trundle next to the chimney for warmth. The string from my nightcap itches my chin, but at least by morning the cap is still on my head and has kept the chill away.
Deer have been coming down from Mount Joy and Mount Misery. Our orchards are full of their droppings, for they come to eat apples left on the ground.
December 7, 1777, Sunday
On our way to church a cold rain began. I was sore pleased Mama stayed home with baby John because of the wind. It blew wet leaves into the wagon and across the muddy road. All trees at Valley Forge are bare except for the evergreens, and there is a crust of ice along the creekbed. Papa said he’s happy we are prepared for winter. The barn is stacked high with hay and our animals have cozy beds. The cellar is full of potatoes, onions, carrots and turnips, salted beef, and barrels of cider. We have enough dried cranberries to sell at market.
After prayer meeting we stopped at the Fitzgeralds’ to see if Mrs. Fitzgerald needed anything. Her latch string is always out so we shall feel welcome, but I know not why she wants visitors. Her kitchen is untidy. It smells bad and there are mice in her cupboard. I saw them.
Mr. Fitzgerald was taken prisoner at the Battle of Saratoga two months ago and no one knows what the Redcoats have done with him. I puzzle why her boys help her not. They are lazy and quarrelsome, all eight of them. They were throwing mud at each other as we were getting ready to leave, and that bully Tom threw some at my shoes. It splattered my hem. I was so annoyed I walked around the back of the wagon to kick him, but he ran off with his thumbs in his ears and his tongue sticking out. I hate him. He is 11 as I am, but he is just a child.
Reverend Currie and Mr. Walker arrived at our house in time for supper, soaking wet from the rain. Elisabeth draped their coats by the fire (such a stink!) while Sally and I dished out stewed pumpkin. Mama’s face went white when they told us the bad news:
The British tried to capture Whitemarsh, but have retreated to Philadelphia, our capital city, and they plan to winter there. We are worried sick. Auntie Hannie lives there and so do Papa’s three brothers and our little cousins. I said we must go right away to rescue them, but Papa said 18 miles is too much mud for our small wagon.
December 10, 1777, Wednesday
Elisabeth stayed home with Mama, so Sally and I walked to school without her. The sky was gray and there was a cold mist. I was pleased to be back and see Molly and Ruth and Naomi again. Before lessons, we were close to the fire drying off when through the window we saw a horseman. The boys ran outside and shouted for news.
“The Redcoats started another skirmish!” came the voice. We all started talking at once and the younger children began to cry with worry. Miss Molly tapped her ruler on the table. She told us to take up our slates and be quiet.
“Quaker families concerneth themselves not with matters of war,” she said. Sally was in the front row with the other first graders. She turned around to look at me so I smiled. We are Baptists. Papa will let us be concerned.
December 12, 1777, Friday
Sally’s hem caught fire this morning. She was mad because it was my turn to hold Johnny, but she said it was her turn. She pulled on his sleeve and nearly pulled me out of the rocker with him, so I put my foot up against her (not hard) and she fell back. While she was yelling that I kicked her (I did not), her skirt spread out on the hearth and all of a sudden there were flames. I jumped up with Johnny in my arms and stomped fast on her hem. Our screams brought Papa. Now Sally’s left leg and ankle are blistered and she’s been crying all afternoon it hurts so. I am heartsore and worried. Elisabeth and I made her a cozy bed by Johnny’s so she shant have to climb upstairs.
Mrs. Hewes came with her bag of herbs. She also brought corncakes wrapped in cloth, still warm. After she tended Sally’s burn, she sat with us to supper. Being a widow lady (she’s lost two husbands), her nephew always checks on her and brings news, the latest even more disturbing: General George Washington and his troops are camped just a few miles away at Gulph Mills. Within the week they will march here, to Valley Forge, to make winter quarters. This is to keep the British from capturing more of Pennsylvania.
When Mrs. Hewes explained that meant thousands of soldiers in our front yard for the whole winter, Mama excused herself from the table and went over to the window. She stared out at the bare fields.
“What shall the Army do for food?” she asked. “Where shall they sleep?”
Sally called from her bed, “They may stay with us, Mama!”
After supper when we were changing into our nightgowns, Beth whispered a secret and made me promise not to tell. She plans to sew a coat and, on the inside collar, embroider her name, Elisabeth Ann Stewart, so that the soldier who wears it will remember her and come see her. Many girls have become brides this way, she said.
But I want her not to think about marriage. Even though she’s fifteen and pretty, I would miss her too greatly.
I am upstairs writing this at my bench under our window. The candle flickers from cold air coming in, for we lost the shutter in the last storm. Elisabeth is asleep. I can hear Mama’s and Papa’s voices downstairs. They are worried about the soldiers coming, and about Sally’s burned leg. And they worry our tiny John Edward shant live through the winter.
December 14, 1777, Sunday
Johnny fussed all day. He cried so hard he had hiccups. None of us dared to fret aloud, but I saw Papa’s face, and Mama’s. She nursed him every two hours and this time Sally and I took turns rocking him without a quarrel. When Beth rocked him, she sang in her beautiful voice.
When he’s not in someone’s arms he is in his warm cradle, and I kneel over him to whisper, “Johnny, thou must live, please.”
December 18, 1777, Thursday
I was up early to help Mama with the big kettle, for she is still weak from birthing and it weighs some forty pounds. We put in a salted beef from the cellar and eight onions, then bread on the hearth to bake. Elisabeth and I hurried to th
e well, but returned slowly so our buckets wouldn’t spill. The air was cold and dark and smelled like snow coming.
And by ten in the morning it did come, wet snow that froze on the fence, but made mud in the road. Our guests arrived by noon: Mrs. Hewes, Mr. and Mrs. Walker and their three little ones, and a neighbour who had lost his wife last month. At the table Papa welcomed everyone while Elisabeth and I helped Mama set the bowls on, then he folded his hands for prayer.
“This day is for Thanksgiving and Praise,” he began, all heads bowed. I stood by his chair, one eye open to make sure Sally didn’t pick at the pies. He prayed that our Army would be able to keep the British away and he prayed for our health — I knew he was thinking about Johnny but wanted not to say it out loud. “Amen!” came the voices, and quickly the plates were passed around. Congress has set this day — December 18 — as a new tradition for all patriots (that’s us) to give thanks to God for the many blessings He hast given America.
December 19, 1777, Friday
I woke to sleet hitting the window and another sound I’d not heard before.
A drumbeat.
Papa came in from milking and said, “The soldiers are coming.”
Elisabeth, Sally, and I hurriedly ate our porridge, then wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and scarves. Mama watched from the window as we ran into the road. There on the wind from the south came the drumbeat, several drums now and the high trilling of fifes.
“I want to go see the soldiers,” Sally said. But Papa said we must stay by our fence.
“It’s too cold,” he said, as big flakes of snow began to fall. The fields were turning white and the road looked like frosting with chocolate showing through.
Twice we went inside to warm ourselves, for the wind cut through our clothes. Finally through the gray we saw them. Three officers on horseback led. We ran outside to cheer, but the men were quiet and thin. The sight of them took my breath away.
“They have no shoes,” Elisabeth whispered.
We watched for several minutes as they passed by. We were unable to speak.
Their footprints left blood in the snow.
Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 1
