Forge

  CHAPTER LVI

  Wednesday, May 6, 1778

  GREATEST DAY EVER YET EXPERIENCED IN OUR INDEPENDENT WORLD OF LIBERTY. –COLONEL PHILIP VAN CORTLANDT, LETTER TO HIS BROTHER PIERRE ABOUT THE FRENCH ALLIANCE CELEBRATION

  EACH REGIMENT HELD ITS OWN service of thanksgiving after breakfast the next day. Most officers and their ladies had attended with the New Jersey troops. Whilst they were worshipping, their servants, including Isabel and me, finished the preparations on the pavilion set up along the Grand Parade and unloaded the tables, chairs, benches, and crates that held dishes, glasses, food, and wine.

  The officers and ladies arrived just after we had set the benches in the best location for watching the Grand Review of the troops. They took their places, with General and Lady Washington in the center. His Excellency was one of the tallest men I’d ever seen, with a calm face not much marred by the smallpox scars on his nose. Lady Washington was so tiny, the top of her head did not even reach his shoulder. They sat close to each other, and sometimes he gazed at her with tenderness and she at him in the same manner.

  “Here they come!” shouted a voice.

  All eyes looked to the top of the ridge. At the far end of the Grand Parade a matross touched a flame to the fire hole of a nine-pound cannon. It roared. All of those seated rose to their feet, clapping and calling.

  Billy Lee, General Washington’s manservant, motioned for us serving folk to move away a bit. I knew the names of only a few of the slaves: Malvina, Lord Stirling’s cook, with her bright yellow turban; Shrewsberry, John Laurens’s valet, who had been back and forth to York all winter; and Hannah, Isaac, and Jenny, owned by the Washingtons. We nodded politely to one another and turned our attention to the army.

  Eleven thousand soldiers in five columns marched down the slope and onto the Grand Parade for the review as the fifes and drums played. A distant voice shouted a command, and the men shifted from column formation to line. Another shout and they wheeled in their platoons until they had formed into two long lines of more than five thousand soldiers each.

  They halted.

  The Continental army that had starved and froze and survived the winter stood perfectly still–shoulder to shoulder–on the field of honor in front of their commanding officer. A few companies had been outfitted with buff-and-blue uniform coats. Most fellows were in rifle dress–long hunting shirts worn over breeches that buckled at the knee, stockings under boots or shoes. They all wore hats, folded up in three places, and every man (and every boy) was whisker-free, with hair pulled back in a queue. Nearly everyone wore a new or well-repaired cartridge box hung from a leather strap, and they carried muskets that had been freshly oiled. All of the muskets had bayonets secured in place under the muzzles.

  I thought to myself, Huzzah, General Greene. Well done, good sir, for he had indeed pulled the matter of supplying the army out of the fires of disaster.

  Someone shouted a command at the far end of the field. The entire line of thirteen cannons fired at once. All of the ladies and most of the serving folk covered their ears at the sound, but before there was even a moment for them to shriek or laugh, a running fire of shots started. This was the feu de joie I’d heard mentioned whilst serving–French words that seemed to mean, “Make a loud ruckus in a coordinated and impressive manner.”

  The first man standing closest to the cannons lifted his musket and shot, and half a heartbeat after him, the fellow to his left shot, and then the next and the next, one by one, five thousand fellows lifting their muskets and firing and reloading all the way to the last man in the front line. After he shot, the fellow behind him fired, and one by one, in perfect order, the five thousand soldiers in the back executed their task; musket to shoulder, barrel raised, trigger pulled, and the shots roared along the rear line, left to right.

  When the last gun was fired, the soldiers shouted in one voice, “Huzzah! Long live the King of France!”

  The cannons fired another thirteen-gun salute. The army responded with a second round of running fire. Right to left along the first line, left to right along the second. When the last gun was fired, the soldiers again shouted in one voice, “Long live the Friendly European Powers!”

  And to my astonishment, the thirteen cannons roared a third time, and a third wave of running fire unfolded with proud precision. The field was clouded in thick smoke. None of the guns had been loaded with musketball or grapeshot, but every man had used his full complement of gunpowder. As each man shot this third time, he did not reload his weapon, but stood at parade rest.

  After the last gun fired, there came the loudest shout of all: “Huzzah for the American States!”

  We all clapped until our hands were sore.

  The rest of the serving folk walked to the pavilion, but Isabel and I lingered. The soldiers stayed on the field long after they were excused from duty, laughing from the delight of a perfectly performed ceremony. Sergeants passed among them, sharing the extra rum rations that had been ordered. I rose up on my toes and shaded my eyes to better see the fellows.

  Isabel tugged on my sleeve. “Are you looking for your friends?”

  “They’ve probably already gone back to the hut.”

  “You really liked being a soldier, didn’t you?”

  “I’m still a soldier,” I said. “I enlisted until the end of the war.”

  “But they don’t want you.”

  “You’re wrong.” I pointed to the officers and congressmen making their way to the pavilion for the feast. “Those are the folks who don’t want me.”

  “What about those fellows?”

  A raucous group of lads loped out of the smoke shouting, “Huzzah, Huzzah!” at the top of their lungs. The three fellows in the front–Ebenezer, Benny, and Faulkner–caught sight of us first and stopped in their tracks, ten paces away from Isabel and me.

  Greenlaw stepped forward and yelled, “Fourth New Hampshire, Russell’s Special Detachment, men of Luke Greenlaw, stand in line!”

  The company of eleven fellows formed two lines with five standing in the front and six in the back. Several of the faces were new recruits I’d never met.

  “Formation!” shouted Greenlaw. “One missing soldier!”

  “Sir!” shouted the company. The two fellows on the right-hand side of the front line–Ebenezer and one of the new lads–stepped sideways, leaving a gap in the line big enough for another fellow. “Sir,” they screamed again.

  Greenlaw spun on his heel so that he faced us. He touched the brim of his hat. “This company will always hold a space for you, Private Smith.”

  I bowed.

  “Wheel right!” Greenlaw shouted. The company turned to the right and marched off, keeping open the place that was mine.

  For once I did not mind pouring wine, carrying plates of half-eaten food, and standing by while the gentry ate and laughed and made merry. It did not bother me to see Isabel ferrying dishes of strawberries and cream cakes from the wagon to the pavilion, not even when she wiped the sweat off her brow with her apron.

  Our army was ready to go to war. When the Continental army marched out of Valley Forge, we would be hidden in the middle of it.

  CHAPTER LVII

  Thursday, May 7–Wednesday, May 13, 1778

  RUN AWAY FROM BIRDSBOROUGH FORGE, IN BERKS COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA. . . CUFF DIX; HE IS AN ACTIVE, WELL MADE FELLOW, AND A MOST EXCELLENT HAMMERMAN . . . THERE IS A RING OF IRON IN ONE OF HIS EARS. . . HE HAS OFTEN RUN AWAY. AS NEGROES IN GENERAL THINK THAT LORD DUNMORE IS CONTENDING FOR THEIR LIBERTY, IT IS NOT IMPROBABLE THAT SAID NEGROE IS ON HIS MARCH TO JOIN HIS LORDSHIP ‘SOWN BLACK REGIMENT. –NEWSPAPER ADVERTISEMENT PLACED IN THE PENNSYLVANIA GAZETTE BY MARK BIRD, FORGE OWNER AND DEPUTY QUARTERMASTER OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY

  WE LOST OUR FAVORITE ALLY AT Moore Hall the next day.

  Missus Cook had received news that the wife of one of her grandsons was carrying a babe and was not having an easy time of it. General Greene arranged for a pass for the old lady so that she could travel i
nto Philadelphia to help. Her son in the Fifth Pennsylvania had hired a farmer to transport his mother and his parrot into the city.

  Isabel and I watched as William Cook helped his mother into the wagon and secured the birdcage at her feet.

  “I hope she feels better soon,” Isabel said.

  “Soon as she’s holding the little one, she’ll feel fine,” Missus Cook said. “She’s a strong one. Isn’t that right, William?”

  “Yes, Mother, Lucille is a sturdy lass,” her son said as he threw the cloth over the cage of King George. “Mayhaps she’ll name that babe after you, if it’s a girl. What the world needs to set it to rights is another Matilda Cook.”

  “I should say not!” scolded Missus Cook.

  Isabel handed up the old woman’s shawl. “What should they call her, ma’am?”

  “They ought call her ‘Mattie.’” She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. “‘Matilda’ sounds like an old hen. ‘Mattie’ is a name with some gumption. I’ll make sure Lucille agrees.” She grabbed the wagon seat as the farmer climbed up next to her and picked up the reins. “Farewell! Good luck!”

  Cooking was not a natural occupation for Isabel. Her pudding hardened into stone. Her stews tasted of the river. She served vegetables raw or charcoaled and did not pick out a slug from the salat greens, which caused Missus Greene to scream when she found it wiggling on her fork. Mister Bellingham came to the kitchen to shout after that, and General Greene wrote letters inquiring about a replacement cook.

  I knew even less about cooking than Isabel and could not help her. But I did not much fret. She only had to tolerate this life for a few more weeks. General Washington had held a Council of War and determined to stay in camp awhile longer, possibly until the middle of June, before striking at the British. That gave us all the time we needed to prepare.

  I helped Isabel weed the garden so that I could explain my plan and tell her about the impression of the key that I had made in the wax.

  “I need some kind of substance that will fill the form and harden,” I said. “I think we can make a mold in a box of hard-pressed sand, but I need something that will take the exact shape of the key to press into the mold. I thought of manure.”

  She carefully plucked weeds from the base of the pea plants. “What do the men who make things like bells use?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never seen it done, just heard the blacksmith talking about it in Morristown.”

  “So how do you know it’s going to work?”

  “I don’t.”

  She threw the weeds into the pile at the end of the row.

  “Do you remember that misbegotten custard I made? The one that had no eggs? Hard enough to drive nails, you said. I wager that would pour and harden good. But what are you going to fashion the key from?”

  “For that, I need to steal a musketball.”

  “Aren’t you in luck.” She grinned. “There are plenty of soldiers hereabouts.”

  It took a few more days, but eventually, we assembled everything we needed: a pail with wet sand that Isabel had pounded tight; two musketballs removed from a pouch in General Greene’s bedchamber; a ladle that would not be missed; and a fire in the kitchen hearth that blazed much higher than it needed to be.

  We waited an hour past the time that the last of the upstairs folk had gone to sleep, then Isabel wrapped my hands in thick cloth so I would not be burned. I set the musketballs in the cup of the ladle and hung it from a chain over the hottest part of the fire. We sat silent while the lead softened, then turned runny.

  “Ready?” Isabel asked.

  I nodded. She moved the sand pail next to the fire. Her pudding-dough key had turned out as fine as we could hope and was planted firmly in the sand. She now lifted the key out. I took the ladle off the chain and–holding my breath–tried to pour a steady stream into the rough mold. It splattered some, but it quickly filled the key shape. Isabel poured more sand on top to cover the mold and then carefully set upon that a brick.

  “How long until it is hard enough?” she asked.

  “We have weeks, mebbe a month before the army leaves. It will be ready by then.” I sat back on my heels and let out my breath. “Can you feel it, Country? We’re almost gone.”

  CHAPTER LVIII

  Thursday, May 14–Sunday, May 17, 1778

  WE DON ‘T KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN, BUT WE ARE DETERMINED TO LAY OUR BONES IN THE AMERICAN CAUSE. –ADIONGHHONRAS (DEACON THOMAS) RESPONDING TO WASHINGTON ‘S REQUEST FOR ONEIDA WARRIORS

  TWO DAYS AFTER WE POURED THE key, a group of Oneida warriors arrived at camp, there at the request of General Washington. They brought with them bushels of corn, for they had heard how hungry our soldiers were. An Oneida woman came too, name of Polly Cooper, to show how to make a good soup from the corn in the manner of her people.

  His Excellency and General Knox were grateful for the corn, but they were most excited by the weapons. The warriors had brought their bows and arrows in addition to their muskets. In the time it took to load and shoot a musket once, a warrior could shoot four arrows or more. When I heard this discussed in the dining room, I thought to myself that it would be smarter to teach the entire army in the ways of bow and arrows.

  General Greene left for the Fishkill fort that same day. Bellingham had tried his best to convince the general he should accompany him, but he was foiled, to my relief. If he’d gone, he would have taken me and left Isabel behind to serve the ladies. Any separation now would be disastrous.

  In her husband’s absence, Missus Greene arranged for a supper to keep her amused. Lady Washington loaned her Hannah, His Excellency’s cook, for the occasion, which freed Isabel to put on her good blue short gown and clean skirt and serve the table with me.

  All of the windows in the dining room were open, as the May evening air was warm. Instead of smelling of sour soldiers and wood smoke, the room was filled with odors of roasted beef, pickled beets, baked onions, the rose water worn by Missus Greene, and the freshly powdered wigs of the gentlemen. Missus Greene had requested extra candles to light the table and fresh flowers in a bowl at the center of it.

  Despite the setting, Bellingham’s mood was foul. Whilst the others laughed and conversated, he mostly drank wine and scowled. His nature was keenly sensitive to slights, and he took being left behind by General Greene as a bad omen. I avoided his gaze.

  We served the meal, which was much grander than anything ever prepared by Missus Cook. The ladies tried to steer the talk away from the war, but the gentlemen, most of them wearing officers’ uniforms, always brought it back. New recruits were pouring into camp and needed time to learn the fighting drills of Baron von Steuben, which provoked a series of funny stories about the baron’s teaching techniques.

  A young fellow who was an aide to General Washington waved Isabel to the table to serve him more biscuits. He took two from the plate she held.

  “Did your girl bake these?” he asked Bellingham.

  “I should say not,” answered Bellingham. “Isabel can’t cook to save her life.”

  Missus Greene rapped the back of Bellingham’s hand with her folded fan. “Do not disparage the talents of young Isabel. Her understanding of her needle is far superior to any I’ve met.”

  Isabel backed up, set the platter of biscuits on the sideboard, and stood with her hands folded in front of her, her face empty.

  “Knowing how much you appreciate her skill,” said Bellingham, “makes it more the pity that she will not join your household.”

  Missus Shippen laid down her fork. “You’re not buying her, Catharine?”

  “Sadly, no.” Missus Greene sighed dramatically. “Nathanael says it would be imprudent with the war still on.”

  “Well, then,” Missus Shippen said, “I have a friend in Virginia who could use a seamstress.”

  Bellingham nodded. “Your concern is touching, madam,” he said as I removed his plate of bones and gristle. “But I’ve already concluded the matter. Colonel Gilpin of Maryland has pur
chased Isabel as a wedding gift for his new bride.”

  Missus Greene pouted. “Please tell me she won’t be leaving until I do.”

  Isabel placed a dish of gooseberry tart in front of Bellingham.

  “I am afraid she must,” Bellingham said. “The colonel has arranged to send a wagon of his belongings home this week. Isabel shall be going with it.”

  There was a knocking on the front door, but I was too stunned by Bellingham’s words to respond. Isabel did a better job at concealing her thoughts than I did. She collected the dirty plates from the other gentlemen. After she stacked them on the tray by the door to the kitchen, with her back to the table, she quickly wiped her eyes on the loose neck cloth. She sniffed once and took a sharp breath before turning around, her features again a mask of indifference.

  There was a second knock at the door.

  “Attend that,” Bellingham ordered.

  “Bonsoir!” the Marquis de Lafayette said as I opened the door.

  Though only twenty years of age, the marquis was said to be one of the richest men in France. He’d volunteered to help the American cause and had become a favorite of General Washington’s, as well as Missus Greene’s, for he was handsome, charming, and a wee bit devilish, which made for good gossip, as all the ladies in camp were fond of him.

  “Good evening, sir,” I said.

  “It is indeed!” He handed me his hat and gloves and hurried past me into the dining room, where he was greeted with cheers from the assembled company.

  I set his hat on the shelf by the door and laid his gloves flat next to it, then followed him, taking up the wine bottle from the side table as I passed it.