Dear America: The Winter of Red Snow

by Kristiana Gregory

  I could not see her face.

  “Yes?” she said softly.

  We all dared not breathe. Helen was in the rocker with Johnny on her lap, Mama at the fire, Papa was sewing a piece of leather.

  Sally stared at the soldier, then said, “Canst thou do this?” She stuck her tongue out through the space where her two new teeth were barely showing. “Look.” But she spit by mistake and we all in one voice said, “Sally!”

  The soldier laughed and reached over to pat her head. “I jess come by t’ thank Miss Elisabeth Ann for making me a coat. No one ever done such a nice thing for me ever. Thank you, Miss. I’ll be going now.”

  He shook Papa’s hand, smiled again at Elisabeth, then stepped outside.

  “Mister!” called Sally. “What is thy name?”

  “Ben,” he said.“Ben Valentine, Second Pennsylvania Brigade.”

  May 27, 1778, Wednesday

  The soldiers who camped with General Lafayette outside Philadelphia a few days ago returned this morning in a drizzle. No shots were fired. Papa said it was just a drill.

  It rained all day and was cold enough to wear our wool stockings.

  Elisabeth was gloomy. “I wish I had been kinder to Ben Valentine,” she told me in the barn while we milked Brownie.

  “Thou wast not mean to him, Beth.”

  “No, but I could have offered him tea. He was good to come by, was he not, Abby?”

  Odd, but I am no longer jealous of Elisabeth. She is much prettier than I, but she is not perfect. Today, I think she is even a bit heartsore.

  May 28, 1778, Thursday

  Rain and wind.

  May 31, 1778, Sunday

  It has been dark and rainy for five days. We all have colds so we stayed in. Papa led us in prayers and hymns instead of taking us to church. We can see that the soldiers are also inside. The valley is quiet with chimney smoke coming from the huts.

  Johnny kept us amused by a new trick he’s learned. He pops his lips. Also, he now can climb to the top of the stairs. He stays on his stomach and tries to crawl down backwards, but twice he bumped his chin and cried so loud, we carried him back to the rug. Papa made a gate at the bottom of the stairs from one of the cupboard doors so now Johnny must find something else to do.

  Sally keeps asking me to tell more about Lucy.

  “Do not worry, Sally. I promise she’s safe.”

  June 1, 1778, Monday

  The roads are muddy again, but now the sun has returned, warmer than before.

  The soldiers practice until sundown so we are hearing cannons and muskets fired all day. Papa said General Washington is getting ready to move the Army to battle, but nearly 4,000 will stay behind — those who are sick or crippled.

  Because the air is warm, there is a terrible stench as we ride at the edge of camp. Dead horses need to be buried — Papa said 1,500 have died! At night we hear crows and owls fly from their nests in the dark hillsides to pick at their carcasses and other butchered animals.

  Washday.

  June 2, 1778, Tuesday

  We took Johnny to the creek after delivering the laundry to Headquarters. I held him while he kicked his chubby legs in the water and shrieked. He is six months old and will stand up and take a step if someone holds his arms. In his mouth, on his bottom gum, is a tiny white bulge where a tooth is trying to grow.

  I like to hug him and twirl him over the stream so his feet skim the water. When he laughs I am so thankful he’s alive — our first brother to make it through the winter.

  I find myself more patient with Sally because my worry for Johnny has passed.

  June 3, 1778, Wednesday

  Reverend Currie delivered a letter for Mama. She sat at the table where there’s light from our window, and carefully broke the seal. Her eyes fell to the signature.

  “It’s from Philadelphia, from your Auntie Hannie,” she said. I watched Mama’s face as she read silently. Finally she looked up.

  “Girls, ye have a new cousin. His name is Matthew Robert and all is well. Bless Hannie, she’s now got six little ones, my goodness. But here is the best part, listen:

  ‘The baby is ever so tiny and needs constant attention as do the five others. I thank God your friend Lucy is here to help, for I know not how I would rest otherwise …’”

  All heads turned to me as Mama continued to read.

  “‘… Lucy has asked me to relay her where-abouts to you. She is terribly quiet and I worry about her cough and lack of appetite. She was several days without food or shelter while making her way here, hiding in the forest from soldiers. Lucy begged to stay with us, until her hair has grown, for she is too full of shame to face her parents otherwise. I pray, for her mother’s sake, that her hair grows quickly. Your loving sister, Hannie.’

  “Why did she go all the way to Philadelphia?” Mama asked me.

  I took a deep breath. “Lucy knew Hannie would not turn her away for they became fast friends when we visited in January. She knew she would be safe.” Here I burst into tears, finally free of Lucy’s secret.

  Mama put her arms around me. “It’s all right, dear.”

  June 4, 1778, Thursday

  I was so happy yesterday but I’m not happy today.

  We saw with our own eyes a soldier being hanged. We happened along the road just as the horse bolted from under the tree and the poor man kicked and struggled. His hands were tied behind his back, but he managed to free one hand and try to grab the noose. I burst into sobs, Elisabeth did, too. Oh, it was horrible, horrible — the poor man.

  Talk on the road was that he was a spy and that one of his friends shall be hanged tomorrow. I hate the Army — I want them to leave!

  June 7, 1778, Sunday

  Beautiful drive to church. Daisies, white and yellow, are in bloom along the road and up the hillsides. We are a large family now with Helen and baby Olivia, Mama and Papa, Elisabeth, Sally and I, and our wiggly Johnny.

  An announcement from the pulpit made us all break into cheers (something I have not before heard in church): The British have released six patriots from the Walnut Street jail in Philadelphia, they are in reasonably fair health, and they shall return to Valley Forge tomorrow. The name that made me want to cry for joy was this one:

  Mr. William Fitzgerald.

  June 8, 1778, Monday

  Mrs. Fitzgerald was standing in the road looking south when we passed her on our way to pick up the wash from Headquarters. With her were her three littlest boys, standing straight, their faces clean and hair combed. They were about five, six, and seven years old, and the sight of them made my heart squeeze tight.

  How brave she was to stand there, ready to meet her husband, to give him the tragic news about their five older sons. She seemed a different woman now that she knew she must be brave.

  When Buttercup pulled the wagon around the bend and out of her sight, I broke down weeping, heavy sobs that would not stop. I was heartsore for Mrs. Fitzgerald, but thrilled her husband was safe. I felt sad for also hating Tom and that he’d not had a chance to grow up and be the good man his father is. I am very blue …

  June 9, 1778, Tuesday

  I am even more heartsore than yesterday.

  Mrs. Washington left a few hours ago.

  She is traveling back to Mount Vernon and I shall probably never see her again.

  Elisabeth and I returned the wash about half-past nine this morning. Oney and Billy Lee were packing trunks and the other servants were up and down the stairs with things. The kitchen smelled of fresh apple pie and coffee, and several officers — I remember not their names — were talking with General Washington in the front room.

  Billy Lee said to us, “Lady Wash’ton will be down soon, after her devotions, Misses. Then yous can say good-bye.”

  But I wanted not to say good-bye. So much kindness had come from her kitchen and her words. The long, cold winter had not seemed so lonesome because of her.

  “Dear girls.” We turned to see her coming down the stairs. She wore a dr
ess of blue muslin with tiny white buttons up each sleeve. She seemed beautiful to me, though I remember how plain I’d thought she was at first.

  We’ve known her just four months and I can say she is the most cheerful, loving person I have ever met. Never did I hear her say a cruel word or complain about her surroundings. Mama said at Mount Vernon Mrs. Washington has more than 300 slaves and a luxurious mansion. We are not of her social class and we had little to offer her, yet still she welcomed us as friends.

  She gave us a small basket as we curtsied out the door. “Inside there ye shall find a little something for your mother and yourselves, too. God bless ye, dear girls.”

  We hurried home. Mama put the basket on the table, and removed the cloth. Inside was a small leather pouch that jingled with coins. She peeked inside and read the attached note: “‘40 shillings per month for Headquarters’ laundry in addition to 4 shillings per dozen pieces for Mrs. Washington.’

  “Why there must be a fortune here, my goodness. And what’s this?” Mama lifted out a small stack of handkerchiefs, tied with a red satin ribbon. They were cotton trimmed with lace, folded neatly. There were ten, two for each of us and with them this note: “With fond wishes to Mrs. Stewart, Elisabeth, Abigail, Sally, and Helen Kern. We spent just a brief time together, but I shall always remember ye. Martha Washington.”

  June 10, 1778, Wednesday

  The days are warm and drowsy.

  We made soap with beet juice so it would turn pink, then we scented it with lavender. Helen and Sally gathered the flowers from along the creek then crushed the petals into a sweet-smelling oil. After mixing, we poured it into our wooden mould that we’d lined with a damp cloth. It must set 24 hours.

  June 11, 1778, Thursday

  By noon the soap was dry so we cut it into cakes with a wire. This is the most pleasant chore of them all. We boiled more lard and this time added carrot juice to make it yellowish, and crushed rosemary leaves for perfume.

  Tomorrow Sally wants to use spinach for green, then add rose petals for scent. My opinion of green soap is this: It looks like something from the bottom of our well, but I wanted not to hurt Sally’s feelings so kept this to myself. (My favourite is pink with a rosemary fragrance.) What a luxury to again have soap. I shall appreciate my bath even more, knowing our soldiers shant see their own homes for weeks to come.

  June 12, 1778, Friday

  Mama says the best thing about the Army leaving soon is that there shall be no more drums and whistles at five o’clock in the morning.

  I shall be glad to see no more hangings.

  Cannons and muskets still fire throughout the day.

  Papa made a new butter churn. It hangs in the kitchen from a rafter by the front door. Every time one of us walks by we push it to swing. Sally finds this most amusing and because she is bossy, she has assigned us each a task:

  I set aside the cream from Brownie’s milk; Helen pours it in the top of the churn; Elisabeth corks it; then Sally gets to swing the barrel first. She pushed it so hard though, it banged into the wall. Papa has now re-hung it further into the room and raised it several inches so we won’t bump our heads. He gave Sally a stick so she can reach it.

  June 13, 1778, Saturday

  We bathed today at the stream. Johnny thinks he can swim. He crawls fast from the bank, across the narrow sandy beach, then into the water. He cries not when his head goes under or when the current tries to carry him away. We must watch him every moment.

  Next week we will leave him home with Mama so we can swim without worrying about him.

  June 15, 1778, Monday

  Our wash dries fast in the sun and breeze. The grass is wonderful under our bare feet.

  Sally stepped on a wasp and it kept stinging her and even crawled up her ankle to sting her there several times. How she wailed! Papa carried her inside where Mama smoothed baking soda on all the bites. All of an instant Sally stopped crying, that is how fast soda works. Mama said if it happens again when we’re out in the field to use mud.

  Tomorrow and Wednesday we will make our candles, enough to last through next winter. When I carry mine upstairs and look out a snowy window, I shall remember our soldiers. I shall remember to complain not about being cold or having unpleasant chores.

  June 18, 1778, Thursday

  Riders galloped through Valley Forge early this morning, crying out, “The British are leaving Philadelphia!”

  Where they are going, Papa knows not. Moments later our soldiers began forming ranks. The generals are on horseback and we’ve seen Baron von Steuben riding next to General Washington. Tents outside camp are coming down as it is warm enough to sleep without shelter, and there is much shouting of orders and busyness.

  June 19, 1778, Friday

  We woke at five o’clock this morning to a drumbeat, a quickstep. We hurriedly dressed—Mama held Johnny, Helen carried Olivia in her shawl—and we ran into the road. It was dark save for a few distant torches.

  “The Army is leaving,” said Papa. “God bless them and God bless America.”

  By noon the huts were deserted, the valley was quiet. We could see the camp followers straggling out with hand-carried belongings and a noisy assortment of children and dogs.

  Papa rode into the encampment with Mr. Potter and Mr. Adams. “It is a mess,” they said when they returned. “It shall take weeks to bury the garbage and dead animals.”

  Before Mrs. Hewes could move back into her house, Mama and us girls went to clean. What a sight. All I can say is there were many muddy boots that went in and out, and many chairs and tables that banged against the walls and scraped the floors. The entire house needs paint.

  And I suspect Mrs. Hewes will be disappointed the officers used her parlour to powder their hair and wigs, for the walls are covered with white dust. (I think a respectable home should have its own little powder room with looking glass, combs, etc., for neatness’ sake.)

  Mrs. Adams brought two of her roosters to clean the chimneys. Her husband climbed onto the roof and into each cold chimney he dropped one of the birds. They flapped their wings frantically, brushing the stone insides until chunks of soot began raining down. After a few minutes they were so tired they dropped into the empty hearths. The birds did not die, but they looked like they wished to.

  I suspect the Adamses will have roast chicken for supper tonight.

  June 20, 1778, Saturday

  A hush has fallen over the valley. I’d forgotten how quiet it used to be and how much I love the stillness.

  Where the Army has marched we know not. Every meal Papa leads us in prayer for the safety of our soldiers and victory for General Washington.

  Just before sunset a letter arrived for me. I quickly broke the seal. After reading, I did not throw it into the fire, but pasted it onto this page:

  Dear Abigail,

  I must tell you some surprising news …

  Yesterday I visited the wigmaker, remember his tiny shop next door to Auntie Hannie? He said my hair was made into a beautiful wig for the wife of a general who wintered at Valley Forge. When I inquired “who is she?” he looked through his papers and showed me the order. Do you know, Abby, that the note was signed by Martha Washington herself? Now I can sleep again. Thank God my foolish mistake did not land my hair on the head of one of those plump British officers.

  How I miss you, Abby, and my own family as well. I shall soon be home.

  Your loving friend, Lucy

  June 22, 1778, Monday

  Papa has gone with the other men to reclaim their fences. All day they worked at tearing down huts and loading wagons with wood.

  The children comb the grassy fields for musket balls to use for marbles. Mama says the flat ones she can make into buttons by drilling two holes in the center.

  Elisabeth and I walked to the schoolhouse. It’s being used still as a hospital, which pleases me. Everywhere we look are signs of fresh graves. Papa said nearly 3,000 soldiers died this winter and there was not even a battle.

&nbs
p; At supper Papa poured each of us a toddy and held up his mug to toast. “To our new Army,” he said. “Six months ago all we had was a bunch of volunteers from the 13 colonies and now look at them, ye saw them, girls. We have a real Continental Army now, ready to send the Redcoats back to King George, hip hooray! May God bless our every man.”

  June 23, 1778, Tuesday

  The sun is hot.

  I saw Elisabeth sitting under our big oak tree, writing a letter against her knees. Her ink jug was burrowed in the dirt beside her so it wouldn’t tip over.

  I sat in the shade and leaned against the trunk so I could spy at her paper. She covered it with her hand, then turned to me with a laugh.

  “Since thou must know, Little Sister, I am writing to Ben Valentine.”

  “Why?”

  “Abby, he was kind and gentle, he appreciated my coat even though I had sewn it with selfish motives. I’m writing to tell him I shall pray every day for his safety and well-being. And when the war is over I shall cook him dinner.”

  I knew not what to think so I said something silly. “Well, then, why do thee not also write a letter to Azor?”

  Elisabeth laughed again. “Oh, Abby.”

  June 26, 1778, Friday

  This has been the hottest summer I remember. The nights are so steamy we sleep on cots outside, but the mosquitoes are vicious. They do not bother us if we stay in with the doors and windows fastened, but then the heat is so heavy we cannot sleep.