“We should report as unfit for duty every day until spring,” muttered Aaron. “All of us.”
“Enough!”
The loud shout came from the meekest of all of us: Benny Edwards. He stepped up to Aaron and stuck his finger in his chest. “Go on! Take your poxy bones down to the redcoats.
You’re just the sort they deserve. You are an idler and a traitor, Aaron Barry.”
Everyone started shouting then, accusing, a’cussing, and venting their spleens with fury. The winds outside blew fierce, but could not match the storm of discontent in our hut. Benny poked Aaron’s chest one more time. Aaron swatted away the lad’s hand. We all tensed, expecting Aaron to throw a punch, but he stood still, swallowing over and over, his fists shaking by his side.
Finally, Aaron gave a mighty sniff. To my astonishment, he blinked back tears. “Next time you call me a traitor, you shall regret it, runt,” he said. “If the rest of you mangy lot can withstand this encampment, I can too.”
Eben pulled a louse from his stocking and pitched it into the fire. “That’s what passes for an apology from the Barry side of the family.”
The blizzard ambushed all conversation after that.
For the first two days of the storm, we received no rations, but we had to continue building the abatis and other fortifications. I wore Eben’s boots the first day and Aaron Barry’s shoes on the second. Both gave me blisters that popped and bled.
Toward the end of the second day, snow fell faster than any of us had ever seen and we were sent back to our huts early. Messengers sent to the Congress in York rode only a few miles before turning back, afraid they would die of the bitter cold. Wagons could not pass through the thick snow. Ice choked the rivers and stopped all boats.
The third day began with a heavy knock on the door.
“No roll call today!” shouted Burns. “No work details. Stay in your hut.”
We ate firecake for every meal that day and the next, and we were grateful for it. On the fifth day and the sixth, we had only water, flavored with bark, bone chips, and a piece of leather.
We later heard that a fellow in General McIntosh’s brigade grew so hungry in that storm, he stole a tallow candle from an officer’s hut and ate it. Never heard what happened after they took him to the hospital. There were whispers that some companies had cooked the meat of the dead horses, but no one ever admitted it.
There were also whispers of petitions being written by common soldiers like us begging their officers, General Washington, and most of all, the Congress to ease our suffering. We talked about writing too, but we had no paper to write upon.
CHAPTER XXIX
Thursday, February 12, 1778
OUR FREEDOM DEPENDS ON THE EXERTIONS OF A FEW PATRIOTIC INDIVIDUALS. IT IS WITH GRIEF THAT WE LEARN THAT THE CONGRESS IS MADE UP OF SO FEW OF THEM.
—DIARY OF CHRISTOPHER MARSHALL, PHILADELPHIA PHARMACIST
THE SKIES CLEARED AFTER SIX DAYS of storming.
Greenlaw came in after the sun rose with an armful of wood. “We’re supposed to line up outside for an inspection. Bunch of nobs on horses are making their way down the Outer Line.”
“Here? Not on the Parade?” I asked.
“Mebbe they’ve finally come to their senses,” Silvenus said, wrapping his hands in rags. “No point in making us walk all that way.”
“Mebbe it’s the brigadier general,” said Eben. “Come to send us home until spring.”
Greenlaw shook his head. “No uniforms on ’em and their horses are fat. Can’t be officers.”
I wrapped my canvas blanket around my middle and buttoned my jacket over it. “Let’s hope they’re quick about it.”
We waded in the knee-deep snow covered with all the rags and blanket scraps we owned. The wind blew hard, driving the snow into small mountains on the north side of every hut.
John Burns approached. “Two lines, two lines,” he shouted to us. “Everybody out. No excuses!”
His cry was echoed by the other sergeants. As far as I could see in both directions along the Outer Line, soldiers stumbled out of their huts into the deep snow. Some leaned on friends because they were weak from fever or frostbitten in the feet. My stockings stayed dry a few heartbeats, then the snow seeped into the wool. From my toenails up to the knee buckles of my breeches soon felt like blocks of ice. I stood on my hat, but it made no difference. The cold knifed through my skin, seared my flesh, and buried deep into my bones. Tears came to my eyes, but I wiped them away before anyone noticed. If I could just stand the pain a few moments more, my feet would go blessedly numb.
A collection of gentlemen in long warm coats atop healthy horses approached from the north. Greenlaw was wrong; there was one officer among them: our brigade commander, Brigadier General Enoch Poor, riding a sickly looking mare. They stopped five huts away to speak to the men there.
When John Burns walked away to confer with another sergeant, Greenlaw dashed over for a quick palaver with the fellows in front of our neighboring hut and came back grinning.
“It’s that committee from the Congress.”
“Oh, huzzah,” Silvenus said. “They’ve come all the way from York to watch us starve.”
“Don’t be such a grumbler,” said Greenlaw. “You’ve been shouting that they’re ignoring us.”
“Tssst,” warned Henry Barry. “Burns is coming back.”
John Burns took his place in between the fellows from our company and the next hut south, which was also under his command. He wore the boots that he’d worn since Albany, but I was certain his greatcoat was newly acquired, likely the trade he made for my boots.
“Mebbe they’ll send us home,” Eben whispered to me. “Just until the winter ends.”
Silvenus shook his head. “They’ll write reports and drink Madeira in front of a blazing fire. Instead of making any decisions, they’ll form another committee.”
“Shut your boneboxes,” Burns ordered.
One day I would toss his greatcoat in the deepest, foulest privy trench in the camp. I would make sure that he was wrapped in it before the tossing.
As the congressmen approached, we put our shoulders back and lifted our chins, even old Silvenus and lazy Aaron. We were American soldiers and there was pride enough in that to make a fellow stand tall.
The wind swirled ropes of snow around our legs.
The four committee members were wrapped in so many layers of warm clothing that they more resembled bolts of cloth than congressmen. Their hats were pulled low and their scarves wrapped high against the wind. The brigadier general was more hardened to the cold and did not require so much padding. A sixth man trailed behind the group. His horse was smaller and he wore an ordinary surtout instead of the comfortable and luxurious greatcoats of the other men. At first I thought he might be a scribe or clerk hired for the writing of notes and reports. But not all men of the Congress were rich; this fellow could be one from a humble background.
The brigadier general waved to Burns to step forward and join them. The two lead riders unwrapped the scarves from their faces and leaned forward, their hands on their saddle pommels, to ask questions of the sergeant. We could not hear what was said; the wind blew their words away from us.
The gentleman on the brown stallion turned in his saddle to speak with the man at the trailing edge of the group. The poorer fellow spurred his horse forward a few steps, bent forward to listen, then unwrapped the cloths from his face so that he could speak.
The sight of his face staggered me as hard as a blow from an axe.
James Bellingham had come to camp.
Before
When I was ten years old, a tailor came to the kitchen of the Bellingham house. I stood on a chair so he could measure me for a velvet waistcoat and breeches with pewter buttons at the knees. The new suit of clothes arrived the day that James Bellingham turned twenty-five years old.
His father, Judge Bellingham, gave young Master James splendid gifts on the occasion of that birthday: a house of his o
wn, a share of the family’s ships, and enough money to marry a lady. And me.
My father packed my new clothes in one of the chests that were loaded on the wagon. After much protest, I sat next to it for the short ride to the new house. As soon as Master Bellingham was distracted, I ran down Newbury Street, back to the world I knew. I begged my father to let me stay with him.
Father talked calmly, explaining that we ought be grateful that our masters lived so close to each other. We would be able to pass most Sunday afternoons together.
I hollered and called him a bad name and he paddled my backside.
I ran away a week later, this time to a ship preparing to sail for France. I was unafraid of climbing to the top of the highest mast, so they took me on. The night before we left, the captain set a small gold ring in my right ear—the mark of a real sailor.
The judge’s hired men boarded the ship at dawn. They trussed me like a pig and carried me back to Newbury Street.
Judge Bellingham ordered my father to beat me with a leather strap on my naked back. He and Master James watched to make sure Father did a proper job. I tried not to cry, for I knew it would upset my father more. But I could not help myself.
I turned my head to look back at him once, just as the strap cracked in the air. The end of it sliced a line open along my jawbone. Blood fell.
The judge said, “That’s enough for now, Cesar.”
My father dropped to his knees and wept.
The velvet waistcoat was green.
CHAPTER XXX
Thursday, February 12, 1778
WHEN YOU CONSIDER THAT THE POOR DOGS ARE . . . WITHOUT CLOATHES TO WEAR, VICTUALS TO EAT WOOD TO BURN OR STRAW TO LIE ON THE WONDER IS THAT THEY STAY NOT THAT THEY GO.
—LETTER FROM NEW YORK CONGRESSMAN GOUVERNEUR MORRIS, MEMBER OF THE VALLEY FORGE COMMITTEE AT CAMP
WHAT’S WRONG?” EBEN WHISPERED. “You look like you’re going to puke.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Tsssst!” hissed the rest of our company.
Bellingham leaned forward, listening to the congressman. His boots were caked with mud and his coat was shabby compared to the coats of his companions. His gloves were split and his neck cloth was stained. Clearly, he was in reduced circumstances.
He said something that made the man on the stallion laugh.
Was Bellingham a congressman, then? A member of the committee? Despite the shoddy gloves and clothes, he was still being treated as a gentleman.
The two men turned and surveyed our company whilst the brigadier general spoke. For a moment Bellingham stared straight at me. I had thought that if I ever again saw him, I’d be afraid; I’d cower or hide or run.
Instead, I met his gaze.
The north wind howled. Horses stamped their feet.
He owes me.
When he enlisted me, Bellingham had promised two things: that I would be freed at the end of my service to the army and that he’d give me the signing bonus of twenty pounds upon that freedom. I’d earned my freedom and had no worries on that score. But a signed paper that proved my freedom and the twenty pounds would be useful.
Bellingham patted his horse’s neck, then looked at me again, his head tilted to one side. He spoke once more to his companion, dismounted, and walked toward me.
“Curzon?” he asked. “Can that truly be you?”
“Is there a problem, sir?” John Burns followed tight on Bellingham’s heels. “Has this soldier offended you?”
“Not at all, Sergeant.” Bellingham stopped directly in front of me. “It is you!”
Deep lines were carved into his cheeks and above his redrimmed eyes. Skin hung from his chin; indeed, he appeared shrunken, a smaller man than he once was. My former master had aged ten years in eighteen months. The once proud and powerful now appeared pitiful. Weak. Tho’ I stood in rags and upon frozen feet, I felt much more a man than he.
“Good day, sir,” I said firmly.
“Good day?” He grabbed my shoulders and grinned. “I should say it’s a good day! I thought you were dead.”
“Not dead at all, sir,” I said.
“This is extraordinary! Extraordinary!” Bellingham released me and stepped back. “You’re a head taller since last I saw you.”
The brigadier general and the congressman on the brown stallion both rode over to us.
“Is something amiss?” asked the brigadier general.
“I asked the very same thing, sir,” Burns said quickly.
“No, no, no.” Bellingham shook his head, still grinning. “This lad used to serve me. He was captured at Fort Washington and sent to Bridewell Prison; I thought he died there. He’s a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you that.”
All eyes, sore or not, were firmly fixed on me, staring as if I’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
Bellingham chuckled. “I have so many questions, I scarce know where to begin.”
“James,” the congressman called. “A word, please.”
“Of course.” Bellingham followed the man on the horse far enough away that we could not hear their words.
Eben gave me a shove. “You worked for him? You never said that.”
“I didn’t work there long,” I said.
“Quiet,” Burns ordered.
The congressman rejoined the other fellows on horseback. Bellingham walked back toward us and pointed at John Burns. “Are you his sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Burns said.
“The visiting committee of the Congress requires that Curzon attend us tomorrow at Moore Hall.”
“Has he offended you, sir?” Burns asked. “Is he charged with a crime?”
“No,” Bellingham laughed. “Nothing like that. The congressmen want to question reliable soldiers about the circumstances here. I have vouched for Curzon’s honesty. They want to hear his experiences.”
Horror crossed Burns’s face. “What time shall I bring him to you?” he asked.
“There’s no need to escort him, Sergeant.” Bellingham shivered and pulled his collar tighter. “Curzon is quite good at following directions. You know where General Washington’s headquarters are?”
“The stone house by the creek, sir,” I said, fighting a smile and the desire to dance with glee. I could collect my debt and make sure that John Burns was called to account for his treatment of me.
“Right. Take that road west a bit. Moore Hall is a large house, there will be no mistaking it. I shall expect you at midday.”
“I’ll be there, sir,” I said.
Bellingham nodded, rubbed his gloved hands together briskly, and glanced at my feet. “I have one request, Sergeant.”
“Anything, sir,” Burns said.
“Make sure that Curzon has something on his feet.”
I held my tongue until the gentlemen had ridden off and we were dismissed to return to the warmth of our huts.
“Say there, John,” I said to Burns. “Can I wear your boots?”
“This changes nothing,” he said, narrowing his eyes like he was sighting down a gun barrel. “Mind how you go.”
CHAPTER XXXI
Thursday, February 12–Friday, February 13, 1778
I AM NEITHER AN OFFICER NOR A SOLDIER. THIS, SIR, IS MY UNHAPPY CASE! . . . A THIRST FOR HONOR; THE DEFENCE OF MY OWN PROPERTY & THE COMMON RIGHTS OF MANKIND HAVE, FOR A LONG TIME, WITH UNITED FORCE, INVITED ME TO JOIN THE MARTIAL BAND. . . . IT SHALL EVER BE MY GRATEST PLEASURE. . . FAITHFULLY TO FULFILL THE VARIOUS DUTIES INCUMBENT UPON ME.
—JOHN HOWARD, LETTER TO HENRY KNOX ASKING TO WORK FOR THE ARMY
THE QUESTIONS FIRED AT ME LIKE BLASTS of grapeshot soon as I entered the hut.
“You worked for a congressman?”
“What kind of work?”
“Were you a valet? Did you serve tea?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Is he rich?”
“He’s got to be rich, he’s a congressman.”
“Why would a congressman ride such a sickly nag?”
> “Enough!” I shouted. “I can’t answer if you keep shouting.”
I took my time sitting in front of the fire, trying to sort out what I could and could not tell them.
“When I worked for him, Mister Bellingham was not a congressman. I cannot say for sure that he is one now. He is a man of business.” I pulled off my right stocking and wrung the water from it. “His father was a firm supporter of the King, but Mister Bellingham was not. He wrote pamphlets supporting the rebellion and joined the Sons of Liberty, which angered his father so much, the old man disowned him. That’s when we moved to New York.”
“The two of you moved together?” Eben asked.
I laid the stocking right in front of the fire. “Bellingham and his wife moved. I went with them, of course, because I worked for them.” I took off the second stocking and squeezed the water from it, too. “Mister Bellingham opened a trading firm there, both for his livelihood and as a ruse. Part of his true purpose in New York was to operate a hive of spies for General Washington. New York was crawling with two-faced Tories.”
“Hold there a moment,” Silvenus said. “You worked for a nob who worked for His Excellency General Washington?”
I laid the second stocking next to the first. “I just said that, yes.”
“Ever seen the general? Ever serve him wine or light his pipe?”
I dared not admit the truth of the matter. “Only from a distance,” I said, “when I was holding Mister Bellingham’s horse or delivering a message.”
One of my stockings started to smoke. I pulled it away from the hearth before it could burst into flame.
“I’m confused.” Henry Barry had wrapped himself in his blankets. “I thought you was apprenticed to a blacksmith.”
“That was later. I left Mister Bellingham’s service to enlist just before the British invaded New York.”
“You must have been young as a pup when you started with him,” Greenlaw said.
“Surely was,” I answered.