Forge

  The men of General Poor’s brigade were working on their marching techniques when we arrived. I led the horses to a group of officers surveying the confusion of a few hundred fellows in irregular rows on the field. Junior officers walked among them, trying to get the fellows to stand in the proper way and turn their heads to the south.

  “It looks more like a dance lesson than field training,” General Greene said. “Why aren’t they drilling with muskets?”

  “The baron feels it is more important to get the men to move as one before they learn the new firing orders,” explained a nervous-looking lieutenant.

  “How long will it take to train them?” General Greene asked.

  “If you speak French or German, you can ask the baron himself.” General Poor pointed at the small group of riders coming down from the ridge.

  Baron von Steuben was a stout man who rode an enormous horse and was accompanied by a large dog and a group of gentlemen who translated his every word. The baron loved America, they said, but he did not speak English yet.

  The baron bowed in the saddle to General Greene, then dismounted to chat with the junior officers, one hand on his walking stick and the other petting the dog’s head. He wore a woolen blue cloak over his blue coat, but he had arranged it so that his medals–one pinned to his coat, the other worn on a ribbon around his neck–could be seen. He wore his own gray hair pulled back into a long queue instead of a wig and a black beaver hat that I was quite sure Bellingham was coveting.

  The baron raised his hand and the drums started beating. The soldiers struggled to straighten their ragged lines. The drum cadence changed and the soldiers stepped. Some stepped to the left. Some stepped to the right. One company at the back of the field spun halfway around.

  Baron von Steuben shouted and the drumming stopped. A group of young men huddled around him.

  “He gives his orders in French mixed with a heavy dose of German. Those chaps turn it into English,” explained General Poor.

  The orders were shouted and the companies re-formed their lines. The drums beat the cadence.

  “Common step!” called out an officer. “Step! Step! Step! Step!”

  The baron beat the rhythm with his walking stick. The lines moved as one body as the soldiers moved forward with the exact same strides.

  “Step! Step! Step! Step!”

  “That’s better,” murmured General Poor.

  “Right wheel!” called the officer.

  Disaster. The soldiers again forgot which way to turn and the field turned into a confuddled mess.

  The baron snatched his hat from his head, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it with both of his boots, shouting loud enough to be heard in Philadelphia. The translators tried as best they could to keep up with him, repeating his words in full-voiced English, blushing and fighting laughter, for the baron was cursing. Not just the ordinary kind of cursing that can get your ears boxed if a lady is close enough to hear. This was a barrage of curses like I’d never heard before. His face grew redder and redder and his hat grew flatter and flatter until he stopped jumping and shouted, “Gottam, gottam, gottam!” which we could all figure out for ourselves.

  He put his hands on his knees and bent over to catch his breath. The entire field was silent. He stood straight, removed his cloak and his coat, handed them to an aide, then rolled his right sleeve up above his elbow and thrust his half-naked arm straight up in the air, his fingers open wide. He shouted some German words. When they came out in English, they sounded like this:

  “Soldiers who do not march together make an army of baby birds.”

  The baron ran along the front line of soldiers, brushing their faces with his fingertips like a bird’s wing might. A few of the men laughed, and the baron laughed too, seeming happy that they understood his point.

  He ran back to the front and thrust his arm in the air again, folding his thumb and each finger into a meaty fist and shouting again.

  “Soldiers who march together make an army of steel!”

  He ran at the front line, waving his fist. The fellows closed their eyes as he approached, knowing that one of them would be punched and he’d best take the blow without flinching.

  The baron stopped with his fist a whisper away from the first fellow’s nose and spoke.

  “You, my friends, are almost an army of steel. Your hearts know how to march together. Now you must convince your feet. Agreed?”

  He gently patted the face of the man in front of him, and they both broke into laughter that spread across the field as the baron walked back to the drummers. He picked up his hat and knocked it against his leg to shake off the dust.

  “Wieder!” he shouted. “Encore!”

  “Do it again, lads,” repeated the translators. “One, two, three, four! Step, step, step, step!”

  It took the better part of an hour, but in the final drill four hundred men moved as one, stepping, turning, wheeling, returning to position. My heart beat to the sounds of their boots on the ground. For a moment I forgot Isabel and forgot about running. I wanted to be on the field learning how to be a fist of steel.

  The drill ended and the baron clapped his hands and shouted, “Bravo! Bravo!” stopping to pat the backs of every fellow in his reach. As the companies left the field, they did so in good cheer, with laughter and boasting.

  “’Tis unexpected,” General Poor said, “but they do love him, almost as much as they love His Excellency.”

  Bellingham said something then, but it slipped past me, for I was staring at the form hurtling toward us from the back of the parade ground. Ebenezer Woodruff was galloping like a three-legged cow and grinning so hard, I thought certain his jaw would break.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  Saturday, April 4, 1778

  THE GENIUS OF THIS NATION IS NOT TO BE COMPARED . . . WITH THAT OF THE PRUSSIANS, AUSTRIANS, OR FRENCH. YOU SAY TO YOUR SOLDIER, “DO THIS,” AND HE DOES IT; BUT I AM OBLIGED TO SAY, “THIS IS THE REASON WHY YOU OUGHT DO THAT,” AND THEN HE DOES IT. –BARON VON STEUBEN, WRITING ABOUT AMERICAN SOLDIERS TO PRUSSIAN BARON DE GAUDY

  I SHALL GO TO MY GRAVE BLESSING the name of Quartermaster General Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island. Bellingham raised his voice and said he’d report Eben for insolence for running at us like that, and General Greene stepped in the middle of the fray.

  “I fail to see any insolence, James,” said the general mildly. He inclined his large head toward Eben. “What is your concern here, Private?”

  Ebenezer held his hat in front of him, nervously twisting it round as he spoke. “Curzon here, this gentleman’s . . . servant, him and me fought together at Saratoga. Didn’t mean any harm, sir. Just wanted to visit with him a bit.”

  General Greene regarded me. “You were a soldier? Where?”

  “I fought in the Battle of Brooklyn, sir, and at Fort Washington, as well as Saratoga. I lived here in camp with my company until Mister Bellingham again . . . required my service.”

  “No need to bore the general.” Bellingham’s polite words carried a note of warning. “I’ll explain the circumstances later, sir.”

  “Sounds like he’s earned the chance to visit with friends,” General Greene said. “We have no need of him for a bit. Give him leave to go.”

  The officers rode off to General Glover’s brigade headquarters, and Eben and me walked in the opposite direction at top speed.

  “The other fellows called me a jack-eyed liar when I pointed you out to them. Then they all saw that it was you, and we wanted to wave our hats and holler, but that Baron, he gets riled up at that sort of thing. Did you feel us all staring at you? We couldn’t help ourselves; look at you! That is a fine coat you’re wearing there, Master Thrower of the Stones. Seems like you’re eating well enough. Don’t get much firecake, I wager.”

  His voice was so loud, I wondered if the winter air had broken his hearing. Many of the soldiers we passed stopped their work–repairing a hut roof, cleaning rusty muskets, digging a new privy trench–to watch the gap-t
oothed plowboy shouting like he was calling his goats in from the field.

  I turned west on the shortcut that led to our hut, but Eben shook his head and said in a low voice, “Not that way. I’ll explain later.” Then he resumed talking loud as a trumpet, telling me about the death of his old breeches and the miraculous appearance of the new ones.

  “They showed up on Saint Patrick’s Day. Did you hear how the Irish fellows from Virginia celebrated that night? Fun lads, but can’t play base to save their lives. We played base against some lads from Chester. All the artillery camp plays wicket. What was I talking about?”

  We were moving uphill so fast, I was panting like an overworked horse. “Breeches,” I gasped.

  “Right. Our lads in Delaware captured a ship filled with cloth and British uniforms. That’s where these breeches come from. The sergeant finally got himself a proper officer’s coat, though the sleeves are too short. And we dyed it with walnuts on account of no self-respecting Patriot wants to wear a red coat.”

  I stopped to catch my breath. “Burns isn’t a big fellow– how could the sleeves be too short?”

  “You don’t know!” Eben smacked his forehead. “Of course you don’t know, how could you know? Big news around here, but it must have been a mouse fart to the generals and congressmen. John Burns is dead. Smallpox.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Serious as the grave, my friend. He took ill right after you left and died at the Yellow Springs hospital. Haven’t missed him one bit. We do miss Silvenus, tho’. He died a few days after Burns. He went to sleep one night, same as the rest of us, and didn’t wake up the next morning.” He kicked at a clot of dirt and it crumbled. “We buried him near Uncle Caleb. Figured the two could keep each other company complaining about the state of the world.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Dead? Nope, that’s it. We had one lad come back from the dead. Remember Peter Brown, who could run so fast in Albany–took sick when we first arrived? He strolled in last week, fat, happy, and married to a girl from Yellow Springs. A more content lad you never saw, except mebbe for Greenlaw. Captain made him sergeant; he’s the one who needs the longer sleeves in his coat.”

  “How fare the others?”

  “Faulkner got himself some paper to draw on. Benny Edwards is teaching Aaron Barry his letters. Waste of time, if you ask me. The Barrys have very small brains. Henry spends every minute he can at the creek trying to catch frogs. Swears he’s going to cook up a mess of frog’s legs fried in grease with spring onions and potatoes.” Eben shook his head. “I am still hungry all the time. Soon as I get home, I’m planting my backside at Aunt Patience’s table and eating for a month.”

  “Wish I could join you there,” I said.

  “You can.” Eben glanced around us before dropping the pretense of his act and lowering his voice again. “We have a plan.”

  CHAPTER XLVII

  Saturday, April 4, 1778

  HIS EXCELLENCY TODAY APPEALED TO THE OFFICERS OF THIS ARMY TO CONSIDER THEMSELVES AS A BAND OF BROTHERS CEMENTED BY THE JUSTICE OF A COMMON CAUSE. –GENERAL ORDERS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON, VALLEY FORGE

  IT BEING WARM OUTSIDE, THERE WAS no fire in the hearth of our hut. Thin fingers of sunlight poked through the spaces between the logs where the mud chinking had fallen out. It smelled heavily of lads unfamiliar with soap.

  “Sit and listen.” Eben pushed on my shoulders, forcing me onto one of the bunks, then closed the door.

  He quickly explained what had happened after I left back in February. Burns had announced I’d been arrested and returned to my rightful owner. Benny had written up a petition to Captain Russell, asking the army to free me on account of my service. Every man in the company signed it, except Burns, of course. The captain threw it in the fire and said the matter was not to be discussed again.

  “That didn’t sit well with any of us. We knew you’d try to run one of these days. We talked about it and decided we’d help, if we could. Here.” He pulled a haversack out from under the bunk. “This is yours.”

  I untied the cords. Inside was the compass box, along with my knife, my sorry-looking carving, and all my other belongings in the world. The lump in my throat would not allow me to speak.

  “Benny should be here soon,” Eben said. “You need to strip off those fancy breeches and lose the coat, I’m sorry to say.”

  I swallowed the lump. “What do you mean?”

  “It was the only thing we could think of in such a short time. Benny is going to dress in your clothes and pull your hat down low. You’re about the same size. I talked extra loud on purpose when we walked up here–that was Faulkner’s idea–so I’d be noticed. Me and Benny will walk back down the Outer Ridge Road, down to Wayne’s regiment. The trees are heavier there. When we’re out of sight, he’ll change back into his own clothes. You’ll need a place to hide. Greenlaw and Aaron are working on that.”

  I finally figgered his aim. “This is all to get me away from here?”

  “Of course, you chucklehead! Greenlaw will walk you over Sullivan’s Bridge after dark. He’ll say the two of you are going after a deserter. Once far enough away from camp, he’ll turn back and you’re free to keep going . . . to Aunt Patience’s house outside Leominster, if you’d like. What say you?”

  His homely face looked just as it had when we stood in the ravine and heard the approaching sounds of the Battle of Saratoga, eager and scared at the same time.

  “You would do this for me?” I asked.

  “Surely,” he answered. “As you would for me.”

  The lump reappeared in my throat and required several sharp coughs to move it.

  “I can’t let you,” I finally said. “Anyone who helps me will earn at least fifty lashes, mebbe more.”

  He peeled some bark off the bunk pole. “Mebbe it’s not the soundest plan, but we didn’t have much time. We could devise a better one, if you wish.”

  I shook my head. “Even if you made the best of plans, I couldn’t go. Bellingham has a maid, a friend of mine. I have not yet convinced her to run away. I can’t leave her behind, and if I run, she’ll be mistreated.”

  “A girl?” He punched my shoulder hard enough to knock me over. “Ten thousand fellows in this camp and you’re the one who meets a girl.”

  “It’s not like that.” I shoved him back.

  “Is she pretty? Uncle Caleb always said to stay away from the pretty ones. Smart girls are better, he said.”

  “She’s pretty and smart. Sharp-tongued, too, and stubborn.”

  “Sounds like a good match. Why won’t she run away?”

  I stood up and walked to the hearth. “She tried to escape several times before.” Anger flashed over me. “She was . . . sorely abused with each capture. She desires freedom as much as me or you, but she won’t run unless the plan is guaranteed and secure.”

  “Shhh!” Eben lifted his hand to quiet me.

  Heavy footsteps approached the hut, then the door was thrown open by Henry Barry.

  “It won’t work,” he gasped. “Not today. The gentleman on the horse is already looking for him. Sergeant says to hurry back.”

  He dashed off, leaving the door open and the light pouring in.

  I walked toward the door, but Eben stood and grabbed my arm before I could step outside. “Wait. What should we do? How can we help you get out of there?”

  “There’s no point trying to liberate us from Moore Hall; the place is crawling with soldiers.” I hesitated. There was one avenue of escape, but it carried risk. “Our best chance will be when the troops march out of camp.”

  “Against the British?”

  “Aye. We could try to blend in with you, somehow, and walk with the army out of camp.” I stepped over the threshold and saw Bellingham trotting up the road. I had only a few moments left. “But you don’t have to do this, Ebenezer. I don’t want any of you to come to harm on account of me.”

  “You’re still a soldier, Curzon. You signed up till the end of the wa
r, remember?” Eben looked me square in the eye. “What’s the point of being a soldier if you can’t count on your mates?”

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  Sunday, April 5, 1778

  IT HAS EVER BEEN MY STUDY AND EVER SHALL BE, TO RENDER YOU AS HAPPY [AS] POSSIBLE. BUT I HAVE BEEN OBLIGED IN MANY INSTANCES TO SACRIFICE THE PRESENT PLEASURES TO OUR FUTURE HOPES. THIS I AM SENSIBLE HAS DONE VIOLENCE TO YOUR FEELINGS. –GENERAL NATHANAEL GREENE, LETTER TO HIS WIFE, CATHARINE

  AFTER WE RETURNED, THE GENTLEMEN held another long meeting that required hours of my presence to fill their plates, their glasses, keep the candles blazing and the fire fed, for the night turned cool and damp. I had just laid my head down to sleep when Isabel knocked on my door and loudly announced that breakfast was ready. I served the meal and saddled the horses so the gentlemen could attend a church service held outside headquarters.

  Missus Greene kept Isabel hopping all day. A militia captain named Peale, whose grubby cuffs were stiff with every color of paint, had come to work on his portrait of the general’s pretty wife. To keep her amused while she was required to sit still, Lord Stirling’s plain-faced wife and her flirtatious daughter came with the gossip of which junior officers were courting which ladies. Then one of Baron von Steuben’s French translators and Mister Duporteil, the long-haired fellow who drew maps for General Washington, joined them.

  The company grew so large that Missus Greene sent a note to Bellingham asking if I might be spared to assist Isabel. As General Greene was at that moment sitting directly across the table from him, Bellingham could hardly refuse. And so I crowded into the parlor too. The air filled with French words punctuated by loud giggles, for Lord Stirling’s daughter spoke French atrociously.

  French gave me a sharp headache.

  When the light faded from the south window, Mister Peale packed up his paints and bid the company farewell. Shortly after that, the rest of them rose, for they were all to dine at the Shippens’ that night. I had their driver bring the wagon around and assisted with the delivery of the various greatcoats, hats, gloves, muffs, and scarves.