DEAR AMERICA
The Second Diary of
bigail Jane Stewart
Cannons
at Dawn
KRISTIANA GREGORY
Cannons at Dawn is dedicated to my
wonderful mother, Jeanne Kern Gregory,
whose ancestors marched with General
Washington and were from Kernstown,
Virginia. Mom’s love for writing, reading,
and research inspired me as a young child
and inspires me still.
Also, this is in loving memory of
Ann Reit, my longtime editor—
a formidable and often terrifying one —
who guided me through
The Winter of Red Snow. It was great
fun brainstorming with her and we
became dear friends. About writer’s
block, she said, “Forget about it.
Just tell the story!”
I miss her deeply.
Table of contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania 1779
January 2, 1779, Saturday morning
Before bed
Days later
To continue …
Walnut Street, Philadelphia
Am not sure of the date
Later
January 12, 1779, Tuesday
Evening, still Tuesday
January 13, 1779, Wednesday
Evening
January 15, 1779, Friday, before bed
After an argument with Mother
January 17, 1779, Sunday
January 23, 1779, Saturday
Next evening
January 25, 1779, Monday
Monday after supper, looking at
maps and an almanac
Aboard the Little Liberty
Somewhere along the Delaware
Hiding
Morning at the tavern
After scrubbing the attic
Following the Continental Army 1779
Mid-March 1779
Next day
March 30, 1779, Tuesday
Later, still Tuesday
March 31, 1779, Wednesday
Another day, after a visit to
Headquarters
April 5, 1779, Monday
Two surprises
June 3, 1779, Thursday
June 5, 1779, Saturday
June 7, 1779, Monday
On our way to Stony Point
Mid-June 1779
Another hot day
June 16, 1779, Wednesday
June 30, 1779, Wednesday
A few days later: good news!
Same week, more news
July 4, 1779, Sunday
July 17, 1779, Saturday
Afternoon, still waiting for news
July 18, 1779, Sunday
A long afternoon
July 20, 1779, Tuesday
West Point, New York
August 1, 1779, Sunday
Afternoon
Still Sunday — evening by the fire
August 2, 1779, Monday
August 3, 1779, Tuesday
After visiting the oak tree
August 4, 1779, Wednesday
An idea
August 5, 1779, Thursday
September 17, 1779, Friday
September 24, 1779, Friday
By candle, in our tent
September 27, 1779, Monday
September 30, 1779, Thursday
October 2, 1779, Saturday
November 9, 1779, Tuesday
A cold afternoon
November 17, 1779, Wednesday
End of November 1779
December 3, 1779, Friday
Second week of December 1779
Mercury, 8 degrees
December 13, 1779, Monday
Christmas Eve, 1779, Friday
Christmas Day, 1779, Saturday
December 28, 1779, Tuesday
January 3, 1780, Monday
Later
January 8, 1780, Saturday
By Mrs. Ford’s grate
Later, still January 8
January 9, 1780, Sunday
January 10, 1780, Monday
January 12, 1780, Wednesday
January 18, 1780, Tuesday
Evening, still Tuesday
February 4, 1780, Friday
February 14, 1780, Monday
After supper, still Monday
March 15, 1780, Wednesday
April 17, 1780, Monday
April 18, 1780, Tuesday
April 26, 1780, Wednesday
April 28, 1780, Friday
Another day
May 10, 1780, Wednesday
May 19, 1780, Friday
Next day
May 1780 — not sure of the date
June 5, 1780, Monday
After a three-day march
July 15, 1780, Saturday
July 19, 1780, Wednesday
July 31, 1780, Monday
August 4, 1780, Friday
August 13, 1780, Sunday
September 22, 1780, Friday
September 23, 1780, Saturday
September 29, 1780, Friday
September 30, 1780, Saturday
Still Saturday — rainstorm
Still Saturday—late afternoon
Still Saturday—night
October 1, 1780, Sunday —dawn
Still Sunday — noon
October 2, 1780, Monday
October 6, 1780, Friday
October 9, 1780, Monday
December 25, 1780, Monday
December 27, 1780, Wednesday
December 28, 1780, Thursday
Still Thursday, late at night
New Year’s Eve, 1780
New Year’s Day 1781, Monday
Near Middlebrook, New Jersey
January 7, 1781, Sunday
Later, still Sunday, January 7
Still Sunday, January 7
January 8, 1781, Monday
Monday evening, after cleaning
pots
January 10, 1781, Wednesday
January 29, 1781, Monday
April 24, 1781, Tuesday
Warmer days
May 7, 1781, Monday
A new family
May 13, 1781, Sunday
May 31, 1781, Thursday
June 2, 1781, Saturday
June 6, 1781, Wednesday
Next day, sunrise
June 8, 1781, Friday morning
After tea with Lady Washington
June 24, 1781, Sunday
July 17, 1781 Tuesday
Early August 1781
August 8, 1781, Wednesday
Still August 1781
September 3, 1781, Monday
Before bed
Still September 3 —by Mrs.
Darling’s fire, unable to sleep
Head of Elk, near the top of
Chesapeake Bay
Aboard the Birmingham
Annapolis, Maryland
September 21, 1781, Friday
Day four of walking, Georgetown
End of September, 1781
Next day
Losing track of days
Next evening
October 7, 1781, Sunday
Next day
October 9, 1781, Tuesday
Still Tuesday, noon
October 14, 1781, Sunday
Sunday evening
Two days later
October 17, 1781, Wednesday
Sudden silence
October 19, 1781, Friday
October 19, 1781, Friday evening
Epilogue
Life in America in 1781
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other books in the Dear America series
Valley Forge,
Pennsylvania
1779
January 2, 1779, Saturday
morning
“Abby, when will Papa come back home?” Sally asked again. Though she is seven, she understands naught about war and she asks this question every morning. She is poking the coals for breakfast and holding back her long apron, careful that it doesn’t catch fire like last winter.
“Papa will come home when General Washington says so,” I answered. I sit by the hearth so my little ink jug will keep thawing. It is freezing from last night and snowing again. Gusts of wind rattle our windows.
Elisabeth just came in from the barn, eggs in her apron. Snow covers her cap and even the strings tied under her chin. Beth is the eldest of us three sisters. She smiles to see me writing in my journal. We both know that any moment our mother will turn from the fire and see that I am not frying the pork as I should be.
“Abigail, dear,” Mama said, right on schedule. “Time to rest thy quill. The skillet is ready. You are twelve and should know this by the good smell of butter and onions in the pan.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said. She has picked up Johnny from his cradle and is drying his bottom with the hem of her skirt. Her eye is on me, but she is smiling.
Before bed
A full moon has broken through the clouds. It is so bright, this table by the window needs no candle. Elisabeth is opposite me, writing another letter to Ben Valentine. He has asked for the pleasure of her company in the hospital while his wounds heal, but Philadelphia is eighteen miles by snowy road. She fancies this soldier. As her quill moves over the paper I pretend not to look, but I am looking. I squint, hoping to see a love word.
“Abigail,” she whispered. “You’ll hurt thy neck staring.”
“Beth, what say you to Mr. Valentine? How far up did the doctors cut off his arm?”
“Hush, Abby. We’ll wake Mama.” She glanced toward the bed we share with our mother.
Sally was asleep in her trundle, Johnny in his cradle, though soon he shall be too big for it, as he has passed his first birthday. When Papa joined the Army a few weeks ago, we closed the upper room to save heat and now all of us sleep here by the fire. Even so, by morning our water bucket has ice.
We worry about him being a soldier. This war has gone on for nearly four years. My father is a cobbler. He is not young.
“A man needs to stand up for his country,” he told us before walking down the lane with neighbours who were also joining the Continental Army. They each carried a hunting rifle and rolled-up blanket. The morning was cold with a light snowfall. I wished Papa had waved to us before the road turned, but I saw only the tuft of his queue and snow gathering on the back of his shirt.
Now he is camped with Washington’s main Army in New Jersey and our enemies are wintering in the fine houses of New York, the city. The British will grow fat there, I hope, and be too merry for war. I hate them. I want them to sail back to England and leave us alone. We have declared our independence from King George III, but still they fight us.
Elisabeth is sprinkling sand on her page to dry the ink, now I shall do the same. We are both yawning this late hour. The night is lovely, the fields aglow from the moon, but the wind is fierce. Sparks are blowing down our chimney onto the rug—
Days later
Philadelphia. My throat is sore from crying. Our pretty little house in Valley Forge is gone!
I am writing this by an attic window in Philadelphia. We arrived by sleigh a few days ago, distraught and unbelieving.
That terrible night Elisabeth and I tried to stomp out the burning rug — holding high our hems so our skirts wouldn’t catch — but flames jumped to a curtain. We screamed for Mama. She scooped up Johnny and pulled Sally awake. Beth grabbed blankets. I swept all from our table into a basket: a bowl of walnuts and our writing things. When we opened the door to run out, wind fueled the fire with a hot swoosh.
There was no time for us to draw water from the well. Neighbours came running with buckets, but there was naught they could do.
We stood barefoot in the snow, shivering, while flames hissed out the windows then brought down the walls. Sparks flew to the barn. It flared like a torch. When we heard the helpless shriek of Buttercup, our faithful old mare, Elisabeth and I ran to pull open the door. Our chickens squawked and there was one long moo from Brownie as they fled out into the cold night.
Though our animals are safe with neighbours, I am still teary writing this.
To continue …
We are not with relatives as we had hoped. How weary we are from having walked in the cold — three long days — looking for my uncles, who live here in Philadelphia. At night we took shelter in a stable, warmed by burrowing in hay. Our only clue to our uncles’ where-abouts came from a shopkeeper sweeping snow off his step, who knew them. He said that when the British occupied this city last winter, they ransacked and burned many houses. My uncles and their families moved away, but where, he did not know. It seems the enemy destroyed their letters to us.
“Those swine Englishmen,” said the shopkeeper. He spit in the icy gutter. “Now they have taken New York City. How many Patriots there have been forced from their homes, God only knows.”
On our fourth day of wandering and being so very hungry, a lady kind in heart and deed saw us in the street. Actually, she heard Johnny yowling from Mama’s cloak, and invited us into her tiny cottage. Her name is Mrs. Darling.
The five of us have made a cozy bed in her attic, with the blankets Elisabeth rescued. I am awake as an owl; Mother, too. I can see firelight through cracks in the floorboards and feel some warmth from the stone chimney. Still it is cold. My breath makes frost.
“Can you not sleep, Abby?” Mama just whispered.
“Not yet, Mother.”
“Then mind thy candle, dear.”
“Yes, Mama.” I am careful with fire. I always lick my thumb and finger to pinch the flame so a draft will not relight it.
Where was I? Oh yes. The night of the fire, our neighbours, the Doogans, took us in. Then the next morning friends came to console us. They brought shoes, a cloak for each of us, a kettle, some spoons, also a basket with figs, apples, and beef pies. All offered us shelter, but Mama thought it best to be with Papa’s brothers in Philadelphia.
Our farewells were tearful.
Without a house and without Papa to build one, would we ever return?
Mr. Doogan helped us into his sleigh, set warm bricks at our feet, and covered us with quilts. He whistled to the horses then drove out of Valley Forge. The countryside was white save for the smoldering black ruins of our home.
Mama was silent.
Walnut Street, Philadelphia
Am in the attic this afternoon, hunched into a blanket. I scratched ice off the window to look out at the street below. A boy has just stepped from the wigmaker’s shop carrying a tall box. Though it is sunny, I can see frost from his breath. He wears the short apron of an apprentice and appears to be on an errand. Does he live in a warm house, I wonder? Is his Papa at war, too?
I miss my friends Lucy, Molly, Naomi, and Ruth. But when I think of them, I remember the fire. It haunts me how swiftly the curtains burned, how the roof caved in with a dreadful, hissing crash.
I cannot stop thinking about that night.
Am not sure of the date
When Mrs. Darling invited us in, we were astonished to see our dear friends Helen Kern and baby Olivia! They arrived two weeks ago, after bidding us farewell in Valley Forge. When we told her about the fire, Helen’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your lovely home is gone?” she asked.
At this Sally burst out, “I miss Buttercup.” She sobbed. “And Pinny-Pin, my chicken.”
“Oh dear … dear.”
I felt heartsore to hear Sally
cry so.
“Papa will build us a new house, Sally,” said I. “A new house with a new barn. We’ll get our animals back—”
“But first the war must end,” she wailed. “How long will that be?”
Helen’s face went pale. Her husband died last winter at Valley Forge. She is only sixteen. We looked over at Mrs. Darling pouring tea into cups but neither did she answer Sally. Her husband is camped with the Army, same as Papa.
Mama went to a bench by the hearth then pulled my sister into her lap. Big as Sally is, my mother rocked her and rocked her.
Beth and I squeezed hands. We kept our tears quiet.
Later
The lamplighter has just come up the street with his ladder and jug of whale oil. These tall lamps are lit every night. I miss the darkness of Valley Forge and being able to see stars. I miss being there with Papa. He was always the last one to bed and knew how to stoke the coals so they would keep us warm through the cold night.
Papa made us feel safe.
Alas, Helen Kern also has suffered disappointment. Her cousins sent a letter inviting her for Christmas — which was why she left our home — but when she arrived in Philadelphia her cousins’ house was boarded up. She could not get in. Neighbours knew naught of the family’s where-abouts. After hours of wandering, Helen met Mrs. Darling coming out of a bakery.
Now, once again we are all living under the same roof.
January 12, 1779, Tuesday
This morning, Sisters and I went out for fresh air. While crossing the street on the raised stepping-stones, three soldiers on horseback rode by. One sat taller than the others. His great cloak draped down over his saddle to the top of his boots.
General George Washington!
We had seen him many times last winter in Valley Forge when our family brought his clean laundry to Headquarters. The two men with him today wore blue coats with the shoulder patches of officers.
Elisabeth was so surprised, she pointed. “What is the Commander in Chief doing here?” she asked. “Is not his Army camped in New Jersey?”
Sally tried to run after the horsemen as they rounded the corner, but she slipped and fell, soaking her skirt in an icy puddle. Beth and I helped her up.