Chapter 31
thirty-one
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
Declaration of Independence
Days became weeks, and dispatches came bearing news that General Washington had entered New York and was moving toward King’s Ferry a few miles south of them. A sense of jubilation threaded the air both inside Fort Montgomery and out.
Mae returned from visiting Lucy along Sutler’s Row just as Rhys returned from the quartermaster’s, James following, their arms full of indigo cloth. Entering their quarters, Mae removed her straw hat and hung it from a wall peg.
James set his burden down atop the table, which gave a little groan. “Your husband has volunteered you to make uniform coats for the foremost officers who need them.”
She looked at Rhys, cowering at the very thought. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have full confidence in your and Lucy’s sewing and am weary of seeing so many without. The ‘apparel oft proclaims the man,’ as Shakespeare said.”
“And you riflemen? Might I relieve you of your fringed linen?” She ran a hand over the cloth atop the table. “Such fine wool seems quite hot in summer.”
“By the time you’re done it might be winter,” Rhys told her with a wink.
“I’ll fashion the first for you, then, if only to practice.”
He nodded. “I’ve no objection. You’ve plenty of cloth. What you lack are buttons.”
“Brass buttons would be best. I can go to Sutler’s Row in search of some.”
James regarded her in amusement. “Lately you’ve been more outside the fort than in it.”
“I spend my time sitting in the shade with Lucy Hawkes, sewing and knitting for soldiers, especially those in the infirmary.”
“Private Hawkes is improving,” Rhys told her. He knew her concern for Lucy.
“Praise be, you’ll soon have your drummer back.” Mae eyed his wedding suit hanging on the wall. “Will you kindly part with your frock coat so I can use it as my template?”
“Whatever you need, aye.”
“What I need is more thread, not only buttons.”
“I’ll ask the quartermaster, then.” James looked at the small desk she used and her half-finished letter to Hanna and Aaron. Beside it lay a sealed one to Aunt Verity. “Homesick?”
“Only at first.” She smiled. “There’s far too much to fill the hours. Besides, we’re to have Sabbath dinner at the farm with Jon and family tomorrow.”
James looked at Rhys. “Jon has returned home as there’s been talk of a raid in the valley.”
Mae felt such a qualm she sat down. “What means you?”
“British Loyalists are known to be planning raids on Patriot farms.” Rhys took a seat opposite her. “We’ve sent out scouts and patrols to alert residents up and down the Hudson.”
“Does this mean we’re not going to Jon and Joanna’s?”
“I’ll have a better idea when I speak with scouts come morning,” Rhys said. “I may ride out myself.”
The Sabbath came and went, keeping them at Fort Montgomery.
Mae prayed there’d been no more talk of raids and the valley would remain undisturbed.
Rhys returned with a peaceful report, bringing wool for knitting.
Mae pictured Joanna at her spinning wheel, working despite any danger.
At least a stone house was harder to breach and less likely to burn than a log one.
The next week a great commotion went up among soldiers and civilians alike. General Washington had reached the Hudson Highlands north of them in a place known as the Clove. A portion of his army was with him, the rest moving toward the British threat in Philadelphia.
Mae, feeling celebratory herself, danced a little jig with Lucy to a fife’s joyful piping on Sutler’s Row.
“I’m thankful for the army’s safe passage but rather disappointed he’s passed us by,” Mae told her, resuming knitting in the shade of an oak tree. “I’ve not seen the general on horseback, just in a ballroom.”
Lucy’s snort turned into a sneeze. “If he rides as well as he dances, he’s nothing short of a king.”
“Yet another King George.” Mae chuckled, finishing the toe of a sock. “Fancy that.”
“Speaking of fancy, a high-and-mighty Frenchman’s arrived to join the fight.” Lucy’s voice rose in mimicry of the French. “Some young marquis called Lafayette. He’s on his way to Philadelphia to meet up with Washington in future.”
“I’d rather talk about ballrooms than battles—and the general does dance divinely.”
“He’s not dancing now.” Lucy scowled, the range of her expressions astonishing. “Not since Continental supplies got wrecked in Danbury. There’s been a shortage ever since.”
“Danbury?” Somehow Mae had missed this bit of news.
“The American army’s stores in Connecticut.
Isham’s drum major told him redcoats ruined three thousand barrels of pork, a thousand of flour, several hundred barrels of beef, countless bushels of grain, rice, rum—all set on fire by raiders.
The melted pork fat even ruined good folks’ shoes in the street.
” Her needles flew fiercely. “Makes my hungry belly burn with ire.”
“Are you hungry, Lucy?”
“I’m always hungry here lately.”
“But the fort’s bake ovens churn out bread continually.”
“Sutler’s Row doesn’t see much of it.”
“Then I shall do something about that. Talk to the fort’s quartermaster or commissary officer. Or visit the baker himself.”
“Losh, I don’t want to cause trouble.” Lucy’s eyes rounded. “We get a ration of salted beef and such. And me and Petey forage what we can from the woods. Berries and nuts and the like.”
“But that’s hardly a meal. You must keep up your strength, even Petey, and especially Isham when he’s on his feet again.”
“Petey gets a steady supply of bones from the officers’ mess. As for Isham, I’ve hoarded some to make broth.”
“I’m hungry for fresh bread myself.” Mae stood and gathered up her knitting. “I’ll return shortly.”
The clay and brick bake ovens near the fort kitchens were a source of wonder.
They were stoked continually, the aroma of bread as prevalent as gunpowder.
Night and day army bakers prepared dough and maintained the immense ovens, which required an endless supply of wood brought in by soldiers on fatigue duty.
Mae stood by, sewing kit in arms, and watched the head baker thrust a peel into the oven and remove loaves of crusty bread in rapid succession onto cooling racks. Memories of their Chatham kitchen rushed in, tantalizing if slightly hazy.
Oh, for a taste of Mrs. Hurst’s blackberry jam.
The German baker, one of several from the Palatinate, grinned at her. “Hungrig, Frau Harlow? I can spare a loaf or two if you like.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Helmer.” She thanked him as his son, looking no older than Jon’s Alex, bundled up two crusty loaves in a square of linen.
Mae felt she’d achieved some sort of coup. A fresh loaf would be a fine addition to Lucy’s bone broth.
Head down, she skirted the parade ground past drilling, milling soldiers and nearly bumped into General Harlow himself.
“And what brings my bride begging bread?” he teased when she stopped right in front of him. “Let me guess. For Lucy?”
“And Private Hawkes and Petey.”
“Petey?”
“Their dog.”
“Ah.” He ran a hand over his shadowed jaw. “Now I remember. What else do they need?”
“I’ll find out. Lucy’s promised to help me sew those indigo coats once more thread arrives.”
He eyed the bread. “A fair trade in which we get the better deal.”
“How was your foray?”
“Uneventful.”
“Your one-word answers are rather unsettling, but I can’t argue with uneventful.
” It was enough to stand here with him, her unassuming rebel in linen and buckskin, rifle slung across his back with a leather strap.
Would he ever cease to make her heart turn over?
“I’m relieved you’re back. I prayed you’d be safe—and all those within and without these walls. ”
“Keep praying—and don’t venture beyond Sutler’s Row.”
“I promise. Where are you headed now?”
“To report to General Clinton.”
Bidding him goodbye, she watched him walk through the fort’s gates, her questions lingering. Had he gone scouting alone? On foot, likely. He’d been away since daybreak. Now the sun foretold four o’clock.
Once she’d delivered the bread she would return to their quarters and ready for supper, perhaps have time enough to rest and finish her letters to Aunt Verity and Hanna. For once, thinking about home failed to bring the usual pinch. Chatham seemed less like home the longer she was away from it.