Chapter 2
"He's not a British soldier," Anna said, turning toward the woman who was stomping loudly into the kitchen, her jaw set with fearsome anger. "He's a Hessian boy, here to chop wood and help us get ready for winter."
"But clearly taking British gold to do their bidding," the woman spat, standing over Hans with clenched fists. He may not have understood all of her words, but he certainly understood her demeanor, and began looking for the fast path to a tactical retreat.
But Anna squeezed his shoulder harder, and said, "He's a Hessian boy, Gretchen — our Hessian boy. He's my guest, and you will treat him with good hospitality."
Then Anna turned to Hans and said in German, with her North Sea accent, "Gretchen's husband died in Boston, the summer before last, and she is understandably bitter toward the Redcoats. She came here hoping to get away from the British army, but it seems that's not so easy to do."
Hans nodded solemnly. He had heard stories about the British occupation of Boston — the years of soldiers billeted with the population, the pitched battles in the fields and hills near the city, the long blockade of the harbor.
That a woman who had fled the turmoil of Boston, who had lost her husband to the Redcoats, would find his presence objectionable, to say the least, did not surprise him.
But he held no animosity toward the Americans, unlike some of the Hessian officers.
He had been in the colonies only a few months, marching in the fall with his brigade from New York harbor.
All the way to Trenton, they passed tidy farmsteads and proud little towns, and citizens who pointedly turned their backs to the blue-coated troops filing by.
Had he been a citizen of this land, Hans thought, he would likely turn his back to the Hessians as well.
Gretchen took off her wool cap, revealing a crown of hair the color of summer wheat, and sat on a chair beside Sarah and across the table from Hans.
Her ice-blue eyes blazed with fire, and she studied Hans with an intense scowl.
He could feel the color rising in his cheeks, and if not for Sarah's hand resting on his arm and Anna's gentle kneading his shoulder, he would have bolted for the door and fled back to the barracks as fast as his legs would carry him.
"The wood in the barn won't chop itself," Gretchen said suddenly, pushing herself back from the table with a noisy scrape of the chair legs on slate. "He might as well earn his supper."
As Gretchen stormed out of the kitchen, making her way toward a door leading deeper into the house, Anna rose as well.
"Come along, Hessian soldier," she said in a cheery voice. "Let's put you to use."
***
The barn lay some three dozen yards from the farmhouse, its siding a cheery red against the white snow and gray clouds.
Hans followed Anna to the door on the side of the barn, his boots crunching in the icy snow, and stepped into the dark and warmth, taking in the heavy smell of the livestock.
He saw a cow in a pen not far from the door, jaw working its cud as if in solemn contemplation, and heard a horse stomping somewhere out of sight.
It was not so different from Herr Schneider's farm on the edge of the village, though he detected no rank stench of swine.
"We get the wood hauled to us in the fall," Anna said, motioning Hans to follow her past the cow's pen, "and we pick at the smaller pieces from the pile for cooking as we need it.
But with winter coming, we'll need to fill the crib beside the house with cut pieces.
And that, my lad, is where you come in."
She pulled open a door beyond the pen, and a chilly blast of air struck Hans' face.
The cow made a lowing noise, complaining about the sudden draft.
Beyond the door was a veritable mountain of logs, pieces of all sizes and shapes, piled haphazardly well above his head.
The back of the pile was open to the wintery sky, with a pair of low walls to either side hemming in the jumble of wood.
"I trust you know how to use an axe?" Anna asked, motioning toward the chopping block near the door.
Hans nodded, noting the heavy black head and wooden handle of the tool wedged into the block, and also the wedges, mauls, and hatchets hanging from pegs on the opposite side of the door.
He had filled Mother's crib before he sailed for America in the late summer, and had a sudden worry whether he had filled it enough, or if she would have to hire a boy to chop more as winter rolled down from the Spessarts.
"Yes, Frau ... um, yes, Anna," Hans said, doffing his coat and draping it over a log that was tipped upright on the edge of the pile.
His eyes ran up and down the little mountain, his mind already working out the best strategy to begin taming the wild jumble into neatly split and stacked section. "Yes, I can certainly do this for you."
***
Hans quickly fell into the rhythm of the work.
It was a very different rhythm than the drummers' sharp tattoo on their march from New York, and from the quick and desperate rhythm of firing, loading, and aiming his musket during his two brief encounters with the rebels.
On the road to Trenton, the enemy was hidden, wily, and ruthless, flitting from stone walls to stands of trees to mossy boulders, harassing the Hessians with musket balls that seemed to come from every direction before fading into the dark woods.
His adversary in the Battle of the Woodpile, by contrast, was dim-witted and slow, and Hans made steady progress all morning, amassing a growing stack of split wood behind him while the mountain of wood remaining slowly crumbled.
The winter air felt much less chilly by the time Hans was well underway, and he soon laid his shirt and then his linen singlet aside.
The cool breeze felt refreshing against his skin, and he could move his arms more freely, unrestricted by his clothing, making the work of whittling down the pile much easier.
He had been working for two hours or so, enjoying the pleasant ache in his shoulders and the ringing sound of the axe blade as it made contact, when he felt a presence behind him.
Hans turned, resting the axe handle beside his boot and his hand on the blade's square butt, to see Sarah, a wool cap on her head and a green cloak on her shoulders, standing in the doorway.
She held a covered bowl in her hands, and Hans caught a whiff of something rich and spicy that made his stomach grumble with anticipation.
Sarah stepped toward him, saying some words in English that he didn't understand, and lifted the lid of the bowl while she extended it to him. He looked down to see a creamy broth swimming with bits of potato and cabbage, and a smile spread across his lips as he took the warm vessel from Sarah.
While Sarah reached for something inside her cloak, Hans raised the bowl to his lips and poured the soup directly into his mouth.
It was warm and thick, with pepper that tickled his nose and sour cabbage that delighted his tongue, and he drank deeply, heedless of the trickle dribbling down his chin.
When Hans lowered the bowl, he saw that Sarah was laughing and holding a pewter spoon toward him. He grinned sheepishly, ran his forearm across his lips, and took the spoon from her.
"Thank you," he said haltingly, the English words unfamiliar on his tongue.
"You're very welcome, Hessian soldier," Sarah said.
She squeezed his arm in her soft, warm hands, then stood on her toes to place a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth before turning back to the door into the barn.
Hans watched her disappear, the spoon dangling from his fingertips, and stared for long minutes at the empty space Sarah had left behind.