April 5, 1778, Sunday
A great commotion along the road met us on our way back from church.
Major General Charles Lee was finally freed by the Redcoats after more than a year in prison. I saw him on horseback as he rode up to Headquarters with drums and fifes escorting him. A grand dinner was given in his honour. Papa presented him with a new pair of shoes before the candles were lit, but when Papa came home, he was furious.
“He talks without listening, that man, and he has the foulest mouth I’ve ever heard use English. He was rude to Mrs. Washington, rude to the servants, and rude to me. Do ye think he was thankful that someone gave him new shoes when many men are still without?”
Papa slammed his fist on the table. “No. This is what he said, in front of the Commander in Chief and the other generals: ‘I prefer pumps with a buckle. Must I wear garden slippers made for peasants?’ ”
April 6, 1778, Monday
Elisabeth and I learned something else about Major General Charles Lee and it wasn’t nice.
When we arrived at Headquarters to pick up the wash, the long table was set for breakfast, but the officers and General Washington were only drinking tea, not eating.
Billy Lee whispered to us, “They’s all waiting on Mr. Charles Lee to get out of bed.”
We tiptoed upstairs to avoid the creaks. Just past Mrs. Washington’s closed door was another small bedroom and from behind its door we heard loud snoring. Elisabeth and I collected the laundry from the hallway, and hurried downstairs.
Oney was in the kitchen with Billy Lee and both were upset, whispering.
“Shame,” she said, her hand on her hip. “That man don’t deserve to be in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Wash’ton. He got stone drunk lass night and vomitted on the missus’ finest tablecloth, then had to be carried to bed and now he’s making everyone wait for breakfast. Shame, for shame. And yesterday bein’ the Lord’s Day.”
Billy Lee shook his head. When we stepped down into the kitchen he handed us a small sack of kitchen cloths that needed to be washed, and he was still shaking his head when we left.
In the wagon we wrapped our shawls over our hair to keep the wind off. Elisabeth said, “Art thou going to tell Papa about General Lee?”
“No,” said I. “It shall just give him a fit. He’s likely to march over and take back his shoes and that might start another war.”
April 7, 1778, Tuesday
Four other soldiers have been freed by the British and as they were being escorted to Headquarters we ran into the road, hoping one of them would be Mr. Fitzgerald, but no.
A young general arrived and is quartered with the Havard family. He has a fancy name — Marquis de Lafayette — and when he and Pierre speak to each other in French, they sound like two birds singing.
Mrs. Washington let Elisabeth and me serve tea to them. Lafayette has reddish hair, a narrow face, and a long pointed nose, which looks pinched on the end—he’s not at all attractive, but he is quite cheerful. He holds his tea cup with his little finger in the air and laughs high and loud. I liked him, but Elisabeth said he needs to bathe.
“Also,” she said, “the fellow should pick his teeth, for there’s meat between them from last night’s dinner.”
This is the ninth day of high winds and cold.
April 9, 1778, Thursday
Johnny burned his little hand this morning and it’s all my fault. I’m just sick, he cries so.
I was lifting the kettle lid, to pour in more oats, but from outside there came a loud boom of cannons. I was so startled I dropped the lid. Though heavy, it rolled like a shilling toward the rug where Johnny was and tipped over onto his hand. Poor Johnny! His eyes went wide then he began to howl.
I am upset at myself, but mostly cross — again—at the Army. I wish they would leave! Cannons are the worst — they’re loud and wind carries the noise to our front step.
Mrs. Hewes brought ointment. Johnny lay in her arms staring up at her face while she rocked him. Finally he slept.
She said that she and Mr. Trotter are becoming acquainted. He plays the fiddle and has tried to teach her a minuet.
“I know not why the man thought he could start a dancing school at Valley Forge,” she said after laying Johnny in his cradle. “The officers are busy and their wives are knitting night and day. Thank goodness the ladies think socks for the soldiers are more important than learning a jig.”
April 10, 1778, Friday
Loud knocking on our door after all were in bed. Voices downstairs. A candle was lit. I could see it through the floor cracks, but I was so sleepy I pulled the quilt over my head. Soon there was the sound of boots coming upstairs.
“Abigail, Elisabeth.” It was Papa. “Mr. Smith is here. Have ye seen Lucy?”
No, I shook my head. Helen stirred on her cot. Elisabeth buried her shoulders under the quilt with Sally. We were embarrassed to have Mr. Smith see us in our nightgowns.
“Do ye know where she is?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
Mr. Smith held his lantern high, filling our room with light. He looked under our beds and in the wardrobe. Shadows on his face made him look sad.
“Forgive me, Edward, for waking thee,” he said. “Lucy stepped out before supper to bring an egg from the barn. She never returned. We thought she might be with thy daughters. Lord in Heaven, what will I tell her mother?” He turned for the hall, his light sweeping across our beds and chimney, then down the shadowy stairs.
When we were alone again we began whispering.
“Where has Lucy gone?”
“Did she run off with a soldier?”
“Poor Lucy.”
It was Helen who took our hands in the dark and said, “Let’s pray for Lucy. Let’s pray she shant harm herself.”
April 12, 1778, Sunday
Lucy’s family was in church, but they sat in back. I avoided looking at Mrs. Smith, but outside by the corral she caught my arm. Her eyes were wet and full of sorrow. The wind blew our skirts against our legs.
“Abby,” she said, “if thou dost see Lucy, tell her to come home, please. All is forgiven, tell her.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
April 13, 1778, Monday
Washday, again bleached shirts and such. It takes all of us all day, from sunrise to supper — Mama, Sisters, Helen, and I — to wash, bleach, starch, rinse, wring out, hang up, iron, and fold. Papa keeps the fire hot and he has built a tiny pen by the hearth for Johnny so he shant crawl into the coals.
It was too windy to hang bed sheets on the fence. I shall be pleased when the Army leaves so our chores won’t be so many.
April 14, 1778, Tuesday
After delivering the laundry to Headquarters, we took the long way home. As we came to Joseph Mann’s cabin we saw several horses out front and one of the generals pulling himself up into his saddle. He commands the troops from North Carolina and Georgia, and is quartered here. He gave a friendly salute to Joseph, who was carrying firewood inside. Though Joseph is a freed Negro and a good honest man, two of the officers spit at his feet before galloping away. I was so provoked I wanted to throw a stone at the men, but the wagon seat was too high off the ground to reach one.
We crossed Valley Creek and soon came to Slab Tavern. Mrs. Washington had a note for us to give the innkeeper.
The tavern was crowded but we noticed Pierre. He was sitting at a large side table and unlike the other men and officers with him, he smiled at us. Elisabeth and I curtsied. Pierre stood, then began making his way among the tables toward us.
“Dear ladies,” he said, bowing slightly. He took Elisabeth’s hand, kissed the ends of her fingers, then did the same with mine. We both were lost for words, but I knew from the color rising in Elisabeth’s cheeks that she was well-pleased with his manners.
We were interrupted by the innkeeper, a gruff man, who took Mrs. Washington’s note, broke the wax seal, read the message, then crumpled it in his large hand.
“Tell Her Highness that I have n
o plates to spare, nor cups, nor soap, nor whatever she might think of next.” He pulled open the door and pointed us out.
That’s when we saw Baron von Steuben coming up the path with Azor.
April 15, 1778, Wednesday
About yesterday:
At first Elisabeth did not realize Azor was wearing her blue coat, because he now also had a red sash draped over his back like a little soldier. We walked quickly past and not until we were in the wagon did she turn to study him. With her mouth open she looked at me with astonishment, pointed to Azor, and said, “Abby?”
That’s all she said for the rest of the day.
Everyone is in bed now, except Mama is downstairs rocking Johnny. While we were fastening our nightcaps, Elisabeth stood with me at the window for a few minutes, looking out at the stars. Finally she whispered, “Please do not tell Mama who’s wearing my coat, dost thou promise, Abby?”
I promised.
April 16, 1778, Thursday
The wind continues.
I woke in the night to the scratching of branches against the house. Sally woke up crying. She said she saw a man climb up the trellis by our window and he was waving his arm back and forth. I looked out, then tucked her in again.
“It’s just our big old apple tree, Sally. Go back to sleep.”
April 17, 1778, Friday
Mrs. Hewes invited us for afternoon tea. The wind was rough and as it was nearly an hour’s walk, we dressed in wool and Mama carried Johnny inside her cloak.
Colonel DeWees has a fine stone house with many chimneys. The basement has become quarters for the army baker, a German named Christopher Ludwig. He uses several ovens to turn out all the bread needed, about sixty loaves an hour.
We sat in a parlour by a blazing hearth. The next room also had a fireplace and a broad plank floor where there was the sound of feet tapping.
“That’s Mr. Trotter,” she explained, “practicing. Sugar?” She cut off the end of the sugar cone and dropped it in Mama’s cup, then one in mine, and all around, even Sally’s.
“He has no students yet,” she continued, “but last Wednesday evening that room saw a splendid theatrical performance.”
“Dost thou mean a play?” I asked.
“Why, yes, dear. General Washington himself was in attendance, including several officers. There are plans for a production next month of the drama Cato. I hadn’t realized how the General loves theater — he’s quite a devotee.”
Our visit was shortened because Johnny began to fuss and would not quiet down.
April 20, 1778, Monday
It is nine o’clock at night with a furious wind blowing. It is most frightening to look outside because the sky is red from fires burning on Mount Joy. Papa says mayhaps a spark from someone’s chimney was carried by the wind. It has been six hours and still we see a glow from our window. I have just blown out my candle and my pen can see its way across the paper …
April 21, 1778, Tuesday
A messenger came this morning with a letter for me. I was alone in the house with Johnny because Papa had taken everyone in the wagon to look at Mount Joy.
The letter was from Lucy, telling me where she was.
After reading it I threw it into the fire.
“Tell not a soul,” were the words below her signature.
And so I cannot even write about it.
April 26, 1778, Sunday
We woke this morning to silence. The wind has stopped! It blew hard for twenty-four days straight and we lost many branches in the orchards. The sun this morning feels warm like Spring. We girls ran out to feel grass under our feet.
The dogwoods are in bloom. Such beauty. Their branches look like they’re wearing thick cotton leggings.
The fires on Mount Joy burned themselves out. Only steam rises from the hillsides.
April 29, 1778, Wednesday
Mama and I visited Mrs. Hewes to invite her to a wedding tomorrow. While water boiled for tea she led us through the various public rooms, showing us paintings on the walls, lovely scenics and portraits.
On entering the taproom we heard loud voices arguing at a corner table. Wanting not to interrupt, we quickly went through another door to the library, but we did hear this much: Colonel DeWees was complaining to three generals that soldiers had once again raided one of his buildings.
“Lumber and stones are missing!” he thundered. “How shalt I ever reconstruct the previous damage if the Army keeps stealing from the very people it’s supposed to protect?”
We returned to the main hearth and over tea wondered in whispers how much longer we must bear with these soldiers.
Papa has stopped telling Mama how many tools and eggs have disappeared from our own barn. I’m thankful Brownie has not been stolen, else we shant have butter or cream.
April 30, 1778, Thursday
The wedding was held in perfect sunshine on the wide lawn in front of Headquarters. The bride is our friend Ann Pritchard from Chester County, and Papa has made her family’s shoes for fifteen years. Her dress was white linen with lace along the sleeves and hem.
There were many tears among the older women watching, and some of the younger ones. Helen cried because the wedding reminded her she is a wife no more, but why Elisabeth wept I know not. Mayhaps because her Bounty Coat is being worn by a dog.
The groom we had not met before today. He is a cavalryman from Virginia. How handsome he looked in uniform. His tall riding boots were polished to match his scabbard. When the chaplain pronounced them man and wife, the groom threw his tricorn in the air and swept Ann into his arms. There were cheers and huzzahs as he lifted her into a carriage.
They are staying now at the Potters’ in the small upstairs room above the kitchen.
After the wedding, Mrs. Smith came over to us. One glance at her sad eyes and I had to look away. Oh, I wish to God Lucy had not begged me to keep silent.
May 1, 1778, Friday
We were awakened at dawn by drumming and fifes. It was a jaunty tune. We hurried out to see soldiers parading and singing at the tops of their voices.
“What is it, Papa?” we asked.
He laughed. “Of course, how couldst I have forgotten? It’s May Day.”
Such celebrations all day. The soldiers had put up May Poles last night in each brigade, with streamers hanging down. They marched and sang in formation, their tricorns adorned with white blossoms from the dogwoods.
We watched from the hill while men played wickets and catch and Long Bullet. We could smell meat roasting from a huge pit barbeque by Headquarters, on the Schuylkill’s south bank.
Papa took off his hat and waved it at the soldiers. “By God,” he said to us, “it’s about time those good men enjoy themselves.”
May 2, 1778, Saturday
We have thrown open the doors front and back, and the small window in the kitchen. How good the warm spring air smells. All day we cleaned: scrubbed soot off the walls, raked the coals, Sally and I swept the floor with wet sand to gather up all the dust. Elisabeth and Mama moved beds and cupboards and wardrobes to mop. Helen carried the feather quilts out to hang over what is left of our fence — about fifty feet along the lane in front of our house is all!
General Washington made a new rule. Drummers and fifers may practice just twice a day, not whenever they please. From four to five o’clock in the afternoon and from five to six o’clock in the morning.
Mama is furious.
The noise wakes up Johnny and she does not want him fussing that early. He is now five months old and crawling everywhere. He crawled up six steps but knew not how to crawl down. He turned to look for us and when he did he lost his balance, tumbled headfirst, and raised such a wail we could not console him.
He has a bump above his right eye that is purple, but do you think he learned his lesson? No. He crawls for the stairs and one of us must watch him at all times. We are sore relieved when he finally goes to sleep at night.
This is why Mama is mad about drums and whistles �
�� she calls them — playing at five o’clock in the morning.
May 3, 1778, Sunday
A clatter of many horses and two coaches interrupted our evening prayers. Papa got up from the table to look out.
Lights were blazing at Headquarters and there was the faint sound of singing.
“It seems someone has brought the General good news,” Papa said to us when he returned from the window.
May 4, 1778, Monday
This morning while getting the laundry we heard much excited talk in the kitchen and front room of Headquarters.
Mrs. Washington wore an apron over her cotton dress and was overseeing the baking of pies and gingerbread. A roast pig turned on the spit, its juice filling the drip pan. General Greene’s wife and several other ladies were helping. Their skirts filled the room with color and rustling.
I glanced in the other room. General Washington stood by the hearth, his arm on the mantel. He was smiling and listening to his officers.
“What hast happened?” I whispered to Billy Lee.
“Oh, Miss, the best news ever,” he said. He nodded toward Pierre and Lafayette, who were surrounded by officers clapping them on their backs and shaking their hands.
Mrs. Washington leaned over to smile at us. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and there was flour on her chin. “It’s an alliance with France, Abby. They are coming to help us fight the British, praise God. We might be back in our own beds sooner than we think.”
That explained why Pierre and Lafayette were having affection lavished on them. They were no longer just aides-de-camp, they were now our allies.
Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow Page 7
