“Pardon me, ma’am, but–” I started.
Neither Ruth nor the widow paid me any attention.
“Where the privy has five holes?” Ruth asked.
“Only one in town,” the old woman said. “Go direct there and come straight back. Don’t talk to no soldiers, and don’t let them touch that donkey. They’ll steal him in a flash, thieving varmints that they are.”
“I’ll go and come back,” Ruth repeated, frowning, “ma’am, after I feed Thomas Boon. He’s terrible hungry.”
The old woman watched Ruth scratch Thomas Boon’s neck. “I’ll feed that donkey and you, long as you go and come back without tarrying.”
Instead of agreeing straightaway, Ruth persisted with questions. “What will you feed him?”
I held my breath while Widow Hallahan studied first Ruth, then Thomas Boon, then Ruth again.
“Same grub as our horses–hay, oats, and mayhaps a few carrots when you get back from the hospital.”
I smiled with relief. The old laundress had found the best way to guarantee Ruth’s speedy return.
“I’ll go direct and come straight back,” she vowed solemnly. “On my honor, ma’am. Donkeys have a fondness for carrots.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Sunday, September 9, 1781
THE BRIGADE COMMISSARIES ARE TO APPLY FORTHWITH TO THEIR BRIGADIERS OR OFFICERS COMMANDING BRIGADES, AND WITH THEIR APPROBATION RESPECTIVELY, FIX UPON A PLAN FOR COLLECTING ALL THE DIRTY TALLOW, & SAVING THE ASHES FOR THE PURPOSE OF MAKING SOFT SOAP FOR THE USE OF THE ARMY.
–GENERAL ORDERS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON
AFTER THOMAS BOON WAS FED, Ruth ventured off with the cart whilst I tried not to run after her. Chin up, I reminded myself. All is well. It’s a small town. She won’t get lost. Keep stirring.
My first task was to stir the great cauldron of boiling shirts with a stick the size of an oar. The two other lasses working for Widow Hallahan, Kate and Elspeth, were mean-spirited snipes, but I was too worried about Ruth to pay any heed to them.
All is well. Keep stirring. All is well. Keep stirring.
My nerves jangled and clanged loud as alarm bells until Ruth returned from the hospital, the cart full with more dirty laundry. I was certain that I’d suffer a collapse if Ruth was sent out again, but Widow Hallahan put her to scrubbing at stained linens with a horse-bristle brush. Thomas Boon was tied to a fence post, where he produced a prodigious amount of dung, which I had to clear away with a shovel.
Ruth giggled each time this occurred.
When not hauling donkey dirt, I took the dry laundry down from the line in to Widow Hallahan for ironing, then took the shifts and breeches out of the boiling rinse water, twisted them to remove as much water as possible, and laid them on the wash lines and across the hedge to dry.
It was hard and heavy work, but it made the time fly.
At the end of the day Widow Hallahan sent us to the tavern’s back door to get our meal: sour stew scraped from the bottom of the pot, dried bread crusts, and water that smelled of fish. We ate outside. Kate and Elspeth ate meat pie in the kitchen, at the table with chairs. They each received three meals a day, not two, and they had proper sleeping quarters and a bed to sleep on in the tavern’s attic. Widow Hallahan was another snake-souled woman; happy enough to take our labor, but too evil to treat us fair.
As the sun began to set, Kate and Elspeth went off, tra-la-la-ing about the fellows who’d been courting them. It fell to me to haul out the ashes and bring in enough wood for the morrow’s fires. As soon as I laid out the damp-smelling sleep pallets on the flagstone floor, Ruth lay down, curled on her side, and fell asleep without a word to me.
I sat with my back against the wall and watched as she slept. The events of the day had unfolded themselves so quickly and altered our circumstances so dramatically, I could scarce begin to make sense of them all.
Church bells tolled seven times. (How strange it was to be marking time by the ringing of church bells again! Our clock had long been the setting sun, the rising moon, the hoot of hunting owls, and the chirp of lonely frogs.) I waited as the bells announced the passage of each quarter hour, pondering how many days we ought stay in Williamsburg and if it was truly safe to allow Ruth to venture forth alone in her cart again. Widow Hallahan had explained that most of the washing she did was for officers and gentlemen of the army. She had great hopes for the convenience of Ruth and a delivery cart, which meant my sister would be venturing out among strangers every day.
By the time the bells gave the count of eight of the clock, my list of worries was long and fretful. Atop it sat the possibility that Curzon had already abandoned us. I grimly wrapped my scarf to mask my scar, secured my hat, and locked Ruth inside the laundry, praying that she’d stay deeply asleep until my return. I also asked the Lord to forgive me for bothering Him so frequently, but these were indeed trying times.
* * *
I took the quieter back streets to the market, staying clear of the strolling groups of soldiers and officers already muddy in drink. Noise and candlelight spilled from windows open to catch the cooling breeze. Certain words and names streamed through the air like dark ribbons: “Cornwallis,” “York,” “battle,” and “soon.”
I found Curzon and Aberdeen standing at the edge of a boisterous crowd that surrounded a pair of mud-covered wrestlers. Curzon had evidently been watching for me, but Aberdeen was concentrating on the match. Curzon tapped him on the shoulder and said something, pointed toward the shadows behind the print shop.
“Ruth sleeps,” I said as they joined me. “I dare not tarry.”
“Indeed,” Curzon said.
We quickly exchanged our stories of the day. After I shared both the good news and the bad about our prospects at the laundry, Curzon explained he’d found a blacksmith in need of a fellow who knew his way around a forge and hammer. Aberdeen boasted that he’d found work at a butcher in the French encampment, then he blathered on overly much about how much food he’d soon be eating. There was something about the way his eyes moved and the nervous manner of his hands that made me certain that he was lying.
“So Williamsburg is filled with rewards for us all,” Curzon concluded.
“Nay,” I said. “We cannot stay here. Ruth will never see danger if it crosses her path while she is out in the camp. We need to keep moving north, to Baltimore mebbe, though Philadelphia would be best.”
“We can’t,” Curzon said flatly. “Not until we’ve earned coin and put some meat back on our bones.”
“We must,” I said. “A good-hearted woman in the market warned me. So many slaves have fled the farms hereabouts that their owners are desperate to replace them. We’re in grave danger of being snatched up, all of us.”
“The army will shelter us,” Curzon said.
“The same army that handed you back to Bellingham?” I reminded him.
He shook his head. “All that has changed. The army has even more black soldiers now than it did at Valley Forge. It’s desperate for skilled laborers like me. Williamsburg would be unsafe for us in ordinary times, but with the French and Continentals here, it’s likely the safest place for us in the whole country.”
“A pox on the blasted army,” I muttered.
“I can help.” Aberdeen interrupted our argument. “I can go with Ruth on her deliveries.”
“How?” I asked. “You’ll be up to your knees in cow carcasses every day.”
Aberdeen glanced over at the wrestling crowd, where a loud “Huzzah!” had gone up, indicating a victory. “I’ll find a way.”
Curzon nodded. “Ruth listens to him better.”
“Not always,” I said.
“Yes,” Curzon said. “Always, at least, thus far. Aberdeen will take good care of her, he’s proved that. Mayhaps if she spends some time with him, and then some time with you each day, it will help soften her manner toward you.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. It was hard to stay angry with Curzon when he made sense.
; “You swear you’ll stay by her side every step?” I asked Aberdeen. “You won’t leave her on a whim?”
“What kind of scoundrel do you take me for?” he asked.
“Think of how happy she’ll be,” Curzon added.
That was part of my concern, though I did not want to say it aloud. Ruth’s fondness for Aberdeen had grown steadily during our journey. The day would soon come when he would go his own way, of that I was sure. The sooner I could wean Ruth from her affection toward him, the better. But having him escort her through the camp for a day or so whilst I calculated our next move would keep her safe and occupied in a useful manner.
“All right, then,” I said.
“I’ll be there at sunup. I’ll bring a treat for that ornery critter of hers too.” Aberdeen studied the crowd again and nodded to someone distant. “I need to talk to that fellow yonder. Good night to you both.”
CHAPTER XIX
Monday, September 10–Friday, September 14, 1781
THERE IS TO BE SOLD A VERY LIKELY NEGRO WOMAN AGED ABOUT THIRTY YEARS WHO HAS LIVED IN THIS CITY, FROM HER CHILDHOOD, AND CAN WASH AND IRON VERY WELL, COOK VICTUALS, SEW, SPIN ON THE LINEN WHEEL, MILK COWS, AND DO ALL SORTS OF HOUSE-WORK VERY WELL. SHE HAS A BOY OF ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD, WHICH IS TO GO WITH HER. THE PRICE AS REASONABLE AS YOU CAN AGREE. AND ALSO ANOTHER VERY LIKELY BOY AGED ABOUT SIX YEARS, WHO IS SON OF THE ABOVESAID WOMAN. HE WILL BE SOLD WITH HIS MOTHER, OR BY HIMSELF, AS THE BUYER PLEASES. ENQUIRE OF THE PRINTER.”
–ADVERTISEMENT IN BENJAMIN FRANKLIN’S NEWSPAPER, THE PENNSYLVANIA GAZETTE
ABERDEEN WAS AS GOOD AS his word, to my surprise. Every morning he showed up at the laundry as if he’d nothing better to do than to escort Ruth and her donkey around town and the encampments. The whiff of deceit still clung to him; I was certain that he was not being honest about all of his doings. But he made Ruth giggle with his comical gallantry and led Thomas Boon about as if the creature were a prize-winning stallion. Ruth returned safely each evening; that was what I cared about the most. I asked no questions about his job with the butcher.
One night Ruth was so excited, she forgot to be sour with me and told how they’d seen a group of soldiers racing crabs they’d caught in the river. The winning crab wore a crown of braided daisies and was paraded to great “Huzzahs” until it pinched the hand of the fellow holding it. ’Twas a rare delight to listen to her. Most days I was lucky if I heard more than a dozen words from her mouth, though she always spoke polite to Widow Hallahan and Miss Marrow, the tavern’s cook, who made our meals.
I did not see Curzon in the days that followed. I tried to fool myself into believing that it did not matter. When asked about him, Aberdeen acted as if he did not know where it was Curzon worked or slept. When I pressed him for further information, he mumbled something nonsensical and hurried away. My suspicions about Curzon’s curious behavior on our journey from Carolina–his sudden silences, his odd way of studying me when he didn’t think I was watching him, and the dark moods that overtook him like a storm–shadowed me constantly.
* * *
Hallahan’s did not wash the filthy clothes of ordinary soldiers. That work was done in the encampments by the soldiers themselves or their wives, who were hired by the army to wash and cook and mend. We cared for the clothing and bed linens of French and American officers, government men, and travelers in town to supply the army, and of course, the disgusting rags sent in by the hospital. The bundles and baskets arrived faster than we could manage them.
My days started before dawn. First the dirty water from the day before had to be hauled out of the kettles, bucket by bucket, and dumped outside, though not too close to the laundry or the tavern, or in the yard between the two, else we’d be tracking mud all day and increasing the chances that a stray shift or pair of breeches would fall to the mud and need washing all over again. Then came the refilling of the kettles with water pulled up, bucket by bucket, from the well. After the clean water had been poured into the kettles, I again built fires under them. Proper laundering required boiling-hot water and lots of it.
Kate and Elspeth always arrived late and yawning. They rarely spoke to me direct, but from their confabs I learned they were both indentured servants; Kate from Scotland, Elspeth from Ireland, and they had three years of labor left to pay off their voyage to America. They reveled in gossip and rumor and thought themselves superior to me. ’Twas tempting to tell them what I thought of them, but our situation was too unsettled. My best course was to work hard and pretend that they did not exist. I contented myself with dreaming of the days to come, when I’d be mistress of my own house, my own farm, on land I owned in Rhode Island, whilst they’d still be toiling for others, likely with a passel of lemon-faced brats holding on to their skirts.
The work of the washing took ages to complete. White shirts and underdrawers, stockings, neckerchiefs, and handkerchiefs needed to be sorted and washed separate from those that were dyed blue, brown, green, or red. To loosen the dirt, the clothes were first boiled in the massive copper kettle. Then they were scrubbed with lye soap made from ashes and pig’s fat. Sometimes this was done with a brush, other times against an old scrubbing board that liked to take the skin off a girl’s knuckles. Stains–and near everything had them–were treated with lye or pipe clay and then soaked in soapy water. To lighten the marks of sweat, ink, and muck found on shirts and underdrawers, we’d use scalding-hot milk, vinegar, or fresh piss. After another good boil with soap the clothes would be rinsed and rinsed and rinsed again in cold water, twisted hard to remove as much water as possible, then hung on the lines in the yard.
White clothes were dried in the sun, dark clothes were dried in the shade to preserve the color. We spread them on hedges and hung them on tree branches and on the ropes that crisscrossed the courtyard between the laundry building and the back of the tavern. When heavy with shirts, shifts, and, breeches, the yard seemed a massive ship with sails made of billowing laundry ready to pull us all across the sea to unknown lands.
Once everything was dry, we’d check the hems and seams to make sure all the lice had been drowned. Elspeth did most of the mending, and Kate’s specialty was ironing. Though I could have done both of their specialties, Widow Hallahan made sure that the chopping of firewood fell to me.
The fair weather of our first days in Williamsburg turned foul just as we lay down to sleep on Thursday night. We’d already brought in the dry clothes from the lines, thank heavens, and we slipped into sleep to the playful tune of rain on the roof tiles.
Hours later we were jolted awake by the heaviest clap of thunder I’d ever heard. Ruth awoke with a shriek. Thomas Boon gave a mighty bray outside, echoing the nervous whinnies of the horses stabled nearby. I heard a bit of shouting in the street and went to the door to see if a house had caught on fire or, worse still, if the sound had actually been British cannons firing on the town. A lad running in the rain assured me that thunder was the only cause of the unholy racket. Another mighty rumble and blast of wind sent him dashing away.
I closed the door against the driving rain and sopped up the puddles by the threshold. Ruth had already burrowed back under her blanket and was snoring softly. The wind howled and rattled the windowpanes. There would be no more sleep for me, that much was clear.
I spent the rest of the night emptying the cool dirty water and refilling the kettles, then tending the fires, so that the water was near boiling by the time Kate and Elspeth arrived the next morning. They had to start work right away instead of indulging in gossip for an hour, and it made them even more peevish than usual.
Their glum faces cheered me.
Widow Hallahan didn’t arrive until Ruth and Aberdeen left to deliver clean shirts to the officers of the Virginia regiment. She bustled in faster than I’d ever seen her move.
“Pray tell me, lass,” she inquired of me breathlessly, “are you accustomed to kitchen work? Assisting a cook and the like, keeping up with a mighty tide of dirty pots? These sluggards”–she pointed a
t the scowling girls–“are barely skilled enough for the laundry. Don’t dare trust them to work in the mister’s tavern.”
I thought quickly. I’d learn more from tavern talk than the idle gossip in the laundry, though I would be more visible to anyone seeking me out.
Widow Hallahan’s cheeks were flushed crimson and her hands were shaking. “Well? Can you do the work?”
“Indeed, ma’am, yes, I can.”
“Hie yourself to the tavern, then. General Washington arrives today!”
CHAPTER XX
Friday, September 14, 1781
OUR FORCE IS DAILY GROWING STRONGER, AND I FLATTER MYSELF WE SHALL VERY SOON CIRCUMSCRIBE CORNWALLIS WITHIN NARROWER LIMITS THAN HE HAS LATELY BEEN ACCUSTOMED TO.
–LETTER OF VIRGINIA GOVERNOR THOMAS NELSON JR. ABOUT THE TROOPS GATHERING AT WILLIAMSBURG
MISS MARROW, A PALE WOMAN of middle years with a nose that had been broken more than once, looked me up and down, handed me a scrub brush, and pointed to the collection of dirty pots. “More’s a’coming. Make haste.”
The tavern had been hired to supply an officers’ dinner to celebrate the arrival of General Washington and the rest of the Continental and the French armies. In the interest of profit Mister Hallahan decided that the tavern should also serve customers as it did every day, so Miss Marrow was burdened with her daily tasks in addition to preparing the feast. She did not stop moving, flying from table to hearth to larder to smokehouse to cellar and then back again. Her commands to me were sharp and short: “Peel them taters. Shuck them oysters. Wash out that pie plate. Knead that dough. Pluck them pigeons. Slice the ham thin.”
Shucking oysters gave my belly an unexpected turn. The innards of an oyster look like a massive snot sneezed out of an ogre’s nose. But there was no time to indulge in queasiness. When the oysters were shucked, I had to beat dozens of eggs for the cakes.