Christoph shook his head. “For me it was not like it was for you. My farmer abused me from the first day in the saw pit. He housed me like an animal, treated me as a beast of burden and made it plain he cared not if I lived or starved to death.” He pushed Georg away. “You saw yourself when we visited to help build the bridge. You heard him talk to your Kierney about me.”
He sat on the warm bricks of the forge, his hands under his thighs, his bare feet just off the floor. “It was bad after the son ran away. It became terrible after his son was killed. I was his prisoner on his own farm.” He looked up at the ceiling. Georg saw he was crying. “He blamed me, cursed me, beat me, whipped me. Once he hit me across the knees with a shovel. To him, I am a Hessian bastard. No more. No more,” he shuddered.
Georg looked out the door. It was getting dark. The Langley family would be returning from church about now. Would he come looking for Christoph tonight? Or would he wait until light to scour his farmland and then head straight for the Kierney place? Georg decided to chance it and wait. Christoph could leave before dawn. He would give him his own knapsack, some food and a blanket. Christoph would have to make do with the shoes he had on his feet. He didn’t dare steal the pair of Mr. Kierney’s church shoes and besides they were too thin for walking the more than eighty miles to Philadelphia.
He made them a venison stew, filled with potatoes, beets and turnips and forced Christoph to eat slowly, afraid that too much rich food for his shrunken stomach would make him sick. They talked late into the night, at first about home, but then their conversation turned toward Christoph’s leaving.
“You do not speak enough English to understand and be understood,” Georg said, stating the obvious while stoking the fire.
Christoph nodded. “I will manage,” he replied, reluctant to say anymore.
It seemed to Georg his friend’s thoughts were already elsewhere. He feared he was so desperate to avoid being returned to Langley, he would deliberately seek to be killed by a Rebel patrol.
“Christoph. Take my scarf. Wrap it around your throat and pretend you have something wrong with your voice. Grunt and point. Do not talk. You will give yourself away.”
His friend took the frayed brown length of wool and draped it over his shoulders. “Thank you, Georg. Thank you for everything.”
When they parted before sunup, Georg walked Christoph to the road and watched him disappear into the dark, cold mist. He returned to the forge, careful to scuff over Christoph’s set of footprints and made himself a bowl of porridge. As he milked Abigail, he dipped his fingers in the warm creamy froth and licked them clean. He debated keeping the rifle with him but decided he would not use it in any event. He removed his clogs at the door frame before stepping barefoot into the house, rehung the long-barreled weapon on the hooks over the mantel and returned to the barn.
He delayed going out into the cold, cleaning the three stalls, feeding the geese and laying down fresh straw. I am being foolish, he thought. Langley will come or not whether I am inside or out. He hitched Zak the ox to a flat sled and with some foreboding drove him down to the field newly cleared of trees to pry stones from the frozen ground. It was not a task that demanded his immediate attention. But from there he could see anyone approaching the farm from the direction of the road, or more importantly, from the Langley property. He did not want to be surprised while inside the small forge room.
The temperature had not warmed by noon and sleet was beginning to fall, driven by a bitter wind. Georg’s fingers cramped as he gripped the iron pry rod. Maybe he would work inside in the afternoon. The passage of time was a good sign. Perhaps, Langley was still searching his own farm. Or maybe he was glad to be rid of Christoph and hoped he would simply starve or freeze to death in the woods. Zak let out a low rumble of a bellow and turned his head in the direction of the road. A man, hunched over against the wind and the sleet at his back, was driving up the Kierney farm road. His broad black hat obscured his face but Georg was certain it was Langley. As the wagon approached, he stood tall, one hand on the pry bar, the other shielding his eyes from the sleet.
When he was closer, the man noticed the ox first and then Georg. He dropped the reins, stepped down from the wagon and stomped angrily through the ankle-deep snow toward Georg.
“Where is he?” he shouted. “Where is that worthless Hessian bastard?”
Georg thought it best to pretend he spoke little English and understood less. He shook his head and repeated “nein, nein” a few times.
“Stop grunting your foul language at me. I know he is here. You are hiding him.” He advanced on Georg with a short whip in his hand. Georg pulled the pry bar from the ground and backed away, holding the iron horizontally in front of him. Langley hesitated, seeing Georg had the advantage of him.
“Very well, you filthy mercenary. I will take this up with Thomas.” He retreated to the wagon and hit the horse viciously on its flanks. Georg watched him as he headed toward the house. He thought it would be better not to be in the field and he led Zak to the barn and unhitched the sled. Unsure what to do, he started to walk the twenty yards or so to the forge. Maybe Langley was waiting inside, keeping warm until Mr. Kierney returned. He glanced nervously at the house as Langley emerged, the long rifle in his hands.
Georg dropped the pry bar and sprinted for the safety of the forge barn, running over the frozen rows of earth in the cornfield. He saw Langley kneel to fire. He threw himself forward, skinning his palms on the hard ground hoping the low stonewall bordering the field would shield him if Langley was aiming low. He heard the boom of the rifle shatter the winter silence of the farm. He thought the ball struck a tree trunk behind him. Langley wanted to kill him but had to reload. Georg ran the remaining distance to the forge, slammed the door and dropped the wooden bar to latch it closed. Never was he more thankful that his little hut was windowless. Still, he crouched as far away from the door as possible, squatting down behind the brick hearth.
Langley pounded on the door with the rifle butt. “Open up, you Hessian killer. Open up. I want Christoph. I know he is in there.” The pounding continued until Langley tired of the effort. The door was well made. Now, in the silence, Georg was more afraid. What was he up to? Would he try and smoke him out by climbing on the roof, dropping green branches down the chimney and covering it? Would he set fire to the hut?
After several minutes, he heard footsteps approaching. “It will not be long now,” Langley sang out. “I will have the two of you and then you shall see how I treat Hessian scum.”
Georg heard a scraping sound where the door joined the frame. The wood plank of the door moved slightly. Again the scraping sound. Georg could see the edge of the pry bar inserted in the slit and heard Langley grunt as he leaned against it. In time, he would tear the door off the frame.
Georg looked around the forge. His best weapon would be the log hook. When Langley got the door ajar, he would still have the pry bar in his hands. If he was quick enough, Georg could attack him before he had a chance to pick up the rifle. Cautiously, Georg picked up the iron rod with the hook at one end and crept up toward the door. Langley was on the other side, breathing heavily, leaning on to the pry bar and trying to wedge it further into the space where he had splintered one of the door planks. Georg thought it would give way in a few more tries. He gripped the rod and waited.
“Robert. What are you doing here?” Georg recognized Thomas Kierney’s voice. “Why are you breaking into my forge barn?” For a moment, Georg feared Langley would shoot Mr. Kierney. The man was crazed. He held his breath, dreading to hear a gun shot. “Give me my rifle,” Kierney commanded. “Now, Robert. What is this all about? Where is Georg?”
“In here,” Georg shouted. “In here.”
“Open the door,” Mr. Kierney ordered.
“Yes, he is in there all right, with my Hessian, the two of them conspiring to murder us all, as his mercenary friends have killed my son.”
Georg lay down the fire hook and unbarred the door.
Langley rushed into the room looking wildly about. Georg moved closer to Mr. Kierney.
“You can see he is not here,” Kierney said calmly. “It is a small room.”
“Then he is hiding him somewhere.”
“Georg. Is Christoph somewhere else on the farm?”
Georg shook his head. “Nein. Nein. Not here.”
Kierney stared at Georg who held his gaze.
“Thank you, Georg. Come, John, up to the house. We can talk better there.”
“You are just going to take his word? He is a lying Hessian. They are all killers, damned murderers for hire. You think he would not lie to protect his friend?”
“Come now, John,” Kierney said taking his neighbor by the elbow and leading him to the door.
“Georg. See to my horse, unstrap the new wooden gear and feed the other animals as well. I will talk to you later.”
Georg understood he was not to come up to the house until Mr. Kierney came for him. He was sitting in the forge, reattaching an iron hoe blade to its handle, when Mr. Kierney knocked and entered. He was carrying two mugs of hot mulled cider. They sat companionably on the forge’s hearth.
“He is bereft of himself. The loss of his oldest son has taken away his reason. He blames all Hessians for John’s death. The empty chair at his table every day serves to further increase his grief and fuel his anger. I gather he took it out on Christoph.” Kierney’s black eyes looked quizzically at Georg, waiting for his answer. Georg held his gaze, thinking this man had treated him decently
Georg nodded, knowing that by doing so he would be acknowledging that he had seen his friend.
“Christoph was here was he not?”
“Ja. He was,” Georg replied. “Beaten, dirty, no food. Like me when I came here. But more bad.”
“I suspected as much. You gave him food and he is gone?”
“I gave him. Food, clothes, blanket. He is gone” Georg gestured vaguely with his head toward the outside, not wanting to reveal Christoph was trying to rejoin their regiment. “We friends,” he said simply, unable to convey in English the depth of their relationship, built upon all they had been through. Two farm boys from Hesse, conscripted and stoic together as obedience was beaten into them by brutal Sergeants. Then, the perilous sea voyage, standing in ankledeep water in the hold, wide eyed with fear, praying for God to save them from the raging storms, followed by the bloody battles in New York and New Jersey, the terrible winter with constant patrols and ambushes and finally being captured together at Trenton.
Kierney grunted in understanding. “Robert had my rifle. Did he try and shoot you?”
Georg nodded. “One shot, from house. Bad aim,” he said with a grin.
Kierney’s thin lips formed a grimace, his dark eyes showed anger and then softened. “I am glad Robert missed. Let us go up to the house. You and I will share our dinner together. When Hannah and the children return, I will ask her to see about replacing your blanket and clothes. Perhaps others at our church will contribute.”
One week after the ambush of the Dragoons at Princeton, Adam arrived at Valley Forge with the wagons, most of which contained nothing save for a few sacks of cabbages, turnips and potatoes they had seized from farms near Trenton. Will was already gone.
“He has left for York or beyond,” Nat Holmes related. “Many of the artillery horses have been sent away.” Adam half listened to the rest of Nat’s explanation. With Will’s departure, he had no one to confide in. The horses having been sent west, and the remaining ones too starved or sick to be of much use, Adam, Titus and the gun crews yoked themselves to the sleds and hauled the cannons and broken gun carriages to the carpentry shops and forges. It was strenuous work and difficult on short rations.
For once the icy, frozen roads were helpful. Adam and Titus, used to rowing for hours in stormy seas, with their broad backs and strong shoulder muscles, usually were at the head of two lines of men. To keep the gun crews’ spirits up, and their thoughts away from their empty, knotted stomachs, Adam taught them a few sea shanties so they strained in unison, holding on to the leather straps of the traces with their cracked, bloody hands. Titus, who rarely spoke, sang in his deep low voice, as if the familiarity of the chants recalled better times, before he had lost his left eye at the race riot in Cambridge. The more the men sang, the more Titus’s disposition improved.
To the contrary, Adam’s mood darkened with each passing day and no sight of Sarah. Surreptitiously, as they approached the vicinity of General Washington’s headquarters, he would slow the hauling of their sled, or encourage the men to take what he characterized as a hard-earned break along Gulph Road, hoping for a glimpse of Sarah leaving or returning from an errand.
In desperation, he asked Captain Holmes if he would make inquiries. They were standing, their backs to the wind, outside one of the forges waiting to load the newly iron-rimmed gun carriage wheels on the sled.
“Do you have a romantic interest in the young woman?” Nat asked.
“Yes sir, I do,” Adam confessed.
“I recall the difficulties I encountered in persuading my dear Anna’s father to favor my suit. It was only through the intervention of our good Colonel Glover that he gave his consent.” He turned the worn collar of his short Marblehead Mariner’s jacket up and stomped his feet. “Her father was right. He said I would be away for long periods of time and unable to properly support his daughter. Now she is with her parents in Salem, heavy with our second child and I know not her health or that of our infant boy.”
Adam listened unsympathetically. How could Nat compare his difficulties to the obstacles he faced in courting Sarah? He wanted to shout, “She is a slave. She has no father. She must be bought, not wooed.” He could barely control his anger. If Nat made inquiries, that would be helpful. At least he would know if she was still in camp and not sent back to her master in New Jersey.
Two days later, Nat brought news to still his anxieties and give him hope. Sarah had been serving as a cook for the French General, Marquis de Lafayette, and with that officer no longer in camp, had returned to General Washington’s quarters. 1 Adam guessed the most likely time to meet her would be a few hours before the late afternoon dinner, when she might be about on some errand or another. For the next few days, he either feigned sickness or simply wandered off from the work detail and waited by the sentry fires near the General’s house.
When he finally saw her, she seemed more graceful than he remembered. She seemed to float naturally over the rutted path like a leaf borne on the wind. He caught up with her on the road toward Valley Creek and was pleased she not only recognized him but seemed delighted to see him.
“Why Private Cooper,” she said, her voice vivacious and cheerful. “I heard that you had left camp. I had no idea when to expect your return.”
“I am flattered, Miss Sarah, that you even noticed my absence. I will do my best to remain here until we resume the campaign in the spring. I hope the same is true for you,” he added and instantly regretted saying it.
“I expect when your army takes to the field my services will no longer be needed and Reverend Penrose will require my return,” she said, confirming his fears.
“We could run away,” Adam blurted out. He saw them traveling north through New Jersey, with its many slave-holding families, and then what? The Reverend would certainly post a runaway advertisement in the newspapers of Massachusetts. Even her marriage to him as a freeman would not protect her from being seized and sent to her master. She would be alone while he was in his dory fishing for days at a time.
“You would desert your post and friends, abandon the cause you have volunteered to fight for?” she asked incredulously. “I am touched by the apparent depth of your affection but deeply troubled by your lack of character.” She continued walking faster now, as if to escape his words. “Not to mention your judgment. I assume, Private Cooper,” she said haughtily, “you would propose marriage or do you think of me as a kept woman of a deserter?’
; “No. No, Sarah. I did not mean it so.” He lightly touched her elbow and she slackened her pace. “I want to marry you and I want you to desire to marry me. Our relationship is thwarted by your status as a slave. We have only two choices: to purchase your freedom or to flee.” He looked at her directly, his eyes pleading. “Your being a slave is a constant humiliation for me.”
“For you?” she replied incredulously. “For you! Are you so blind as to forget who is the slave and who is free?” she hissed at him.
“Sarah, no” he stammered. “I meant I cannot properly court you. I am unable to appear in your home so we can become acquainted. There is nothing I can do and I have bitter, desperate and angry feelings because of it.”
The road ahead, sloping down to the creek, was covered with a wide patch of clear ice. She reached out for his muscled forearm to steady herself and let her hand remain on his jacket.
“Why am I, are we,” he corrected himself quickly, “deprived of the simple pleasure of sitting by a warm fire, chatting amiably with no concern for time? Where is the justice in being denied that? Sarah. When I think such thoughts, I want to batter down the General’s door with my bare fists for the mere opportunity to visit with you.”
“It is well that you not act upon that anger,” she cautioned. “It will accomplish nothing other than your imprisonment or worse.” She squeezed his forearm, whether from affection or to emphasize her words, he did not know.
“Have you ever been afraid in battle, Adam?”
He noted her use of his given name. “On land and on sea,” he replied, “but not at the moment of combat. There is no time to mull over what may happen - only to fire your musket, charge the enemy, fire a cannon, reef a sail or . . .” His voice trailed off, as he recalled a cannon ball from a pursuing British frigate, crashing into their privateer and the screams of agony of his shipmates, crushed under the weight of a falling spar. If he had been one step forward, he would have been dead, or a legless sailor on the Marblehead pier. He shivered from the memory. “Why do you ask?” he said softly.
Spies and Deserters Page 9
