CW: brief mention of blood and gunshot wounds, implied sexual content
14 November, 1776, early morning
When James lurches himself awake from shallow, dreamless sleep, he is wreathed in inky darkness. The tent has stifled the body heat of six men – himself included – but somehow manages to still be chilled. The base of his neck aches and pulls from sleeping on the hard cot. Yet, such twinges are infinitely less loathsome than the choir of snores from his tentmates. Or the odor.
Oh, sod it all.
He presses his teeth together. Falling back asleep now is impossible. Still, he endeavors for a respectable length – maybe fifteen minutes, maybe an hour – before giving in to the sum of little irritations and hoisting himself upright. Groping for scarf and gloves, fumbling on his heavy greatcoat, he girds himself and stumbles out into the cold.
What the time is, he can't quite make out, but figures it must be the small morning hours. Not that it makes any difference, of course; chances are good he'll still be awake come sunup. Sullen, James tries not to dwell on inevitabilities and moves along the dark. Faint starlight brushes the earth and, paired with flickering campfire and torches, he can see just enough to meander between orderly rows of tents. He pulls the collar of his greatcoat up against his cheeks as the shock of cold air gnaws at them, making his teeth click and chatter.
You've grown soft, Hiller.
He chuckles when the shiver settles. After all, those murky alleyways of Philadelphia in winter are infinitely more bitter. And it isn't as if he's a soldier on top of everything, obliged by his own choices to stare down the barrel of a musket and accept whatever comes next. Here he is, well-bundled in wool, while all around him, men – soldiers – heroes, even – must huddle and make due with whatever threadbare provisions Congress deigns necessary to the cause. Maybe, if he'd had the stones to pick up a musket, to pledge his life for liberty…
Knocked loose, he sees a memory of smoke rising along a Massachusetts bridge. Sarah at the center, trembling, a smear of blood where she holds her cousin. Dark ruby cooling on a scarlet coat, rusting the wool, dripping into the creek as it chuckles below. Tom Phillips, thrust here by circumstance, who never wished to fire upon a soul – Tom Phillips could not have been much older than James is now when he pledged his life for a king, only to be reduced to a number in some staff officer's report.
Spurred by the taste in his mouth, James passes one last tent and tries not to imagine if he'd been the one to fire a ball into Tom Phillips' lung.
His ears ring. His breath clouds against a faintly glowing fire to his left. The coals still smolder orange and a blanketed soldier is slouched against a log, rag-bundled shoes held close to the heat. The figure shifts and snorts; James slinks to the frosted meadow between camp, redoubt, and fort.
Everything is mute at the meadow's center. Hissing fire, a dog's whine, softly crunching footsteps of the night watch - all of it blends together in a curious hush. Even the crickets go silent. Awake somewhere between midnight and morning, James loosens a breath he did not know he was holding and it swirls to the sky. There, the night riots with stars, and he searches them for patterns he knows and those his eyes create. The bear, the dipper, the hunter. The cluster that resembles a wily tomcat, the shape Henri swears up and down is a giant onion but Moses still asserts is a spinning cart wheel, the florescence that Lady Phillips once told her daughter was a heliotrope – "'tis only a flower, James" – but Sarah sees the boughs of an old, spreading oak.
The air stills. James sways and closes his eyes against the glow of the milky way, imagining the sleepy shade of a tree far across the ocean. Do Sarah's oaks look any different from his? His body grows heavy; his mind nestles itself with her between imaginary roots.
Over the quiet comes a faint rustle of horses and men, too numerous to be the night watch. The make-believe falls away as James' eyes open and flick forward to see the dark shape of new arrivals in the distance, picking their way to the far side of camp. Reinforcements for when Howe descends on New Jersey to begin the hunt afresh. Something hardens in his throat as he watches their sleepy progress. In the morning, he supposes, he should interview the men and officers about such late-night maneuvering. Maybe find a way to speak with Washington himself – the Commander in Chief has been aloof since White Plains.
Or, at least, James will try, and then swallow his pride when shooed away from everything that makes the writing worthwhile.
Make yourself scarce, boy, the men are talking.
Another sour taste fills his mouth. It is with stifled groans he abandons the common for a lap around camp, pacing with his thoughts. Bearing down on Fort Lee is endless sky and open fields. In the space of a week, he reckons, they will echo with the crack of fusillade. As at Breed's Hill, James imagines indefatigable rows of scarlet men marching as one, entranced by drums – clean uniforms glinting brasslike in the sun – volley after volley of saltpeter and lead – a round screams past his cheek as he runs – another pierces through the oak he's cowered behind and takes root in his lung – cannon shudders the soil in which he's fallen. Does he bleed out for hours under that traitorous tree, then, alone and uncounted? Or does Providence deal swiftly with cowards?
His ears ring. He tastes iron. Does it hurt?
'Course it does, Hiller, you shite-brain.
Crass and lilting, a hoot-owl's taunt reaches through the noise and clamor to pull James back to the present, heart racing and palms sweaty. Having blindly carried himself beyond the tents and stopped just before a series of earthworks, James looks up to find the western horizon blotted out by a silhouette of trees. Hoots trill once more from high in the boughs. James reckons there must be a whole Congress of the birds cackling amongst themselves. What do owls have to laugh about?
A commotion interrupts them; one of the night guards has picked up a fallen branch and launched it skyward. The wooden missile cracks in the dark against the canopy, vexed by other branches, and though it doesn't fly true it achieves its purpose. The birds scatter asunder.
James stares at the tree line long after the quiet settles, searching his mind for an image of a spreading oak's shade. He finds it stubbornly absent; but the vision of muskets and soldiers has taken its leave as well. Nothing remains, then, to imagine.
It should be a relief to be so free, he reckons. Should allow for him crawl back under Army-issue covers and sleep. But the peace awakens something that has, in truth, bothered him since he stumbled out of his stifled tent. James turns to let his feet carry him across camp to the Hudson.
There's an urgency goading his step that he tries to calm. Maybe, if he walks slow enough, he'll forget what he hastens toward and return to bed. But when his heels drag to a halt, he finds he is already at New Jersey's steep edge.
The Palisades that make up the border are a sheer eighty-foot plunge to prickly woods and rocky shoreline below, which slips ever further under the lampblack Hudson River. Starlight glitters off the fickle current as it swirls in on itself, shifting with the ocean's tide. This close to the ledge, James can smell the icy water intermixing with mud and brine. His gaze drifts across to scan and pick at the mass of New York, backlit by the bright meander of the Milky Way.
When at last he finds Fort Washington's dark outline, poised along the very height of Manhattan, the itch that brought him hither crescendos. James half-groans, half-sighs, and gives in.
Is Sarah, too, awake and gazing out across the river? Is she looking for him, like he looks for her? Does she think of him tonight?
In daylight, he can stop his thoughts racing away from him. Ignore the achy, delicious feeling that rushes effervescent and alive when Sarah Phillips laughs. He dreads the feeling; he thirsts for it. He wants it to stop; he wants to strip himself bare and bathe in it forever.
In daylight, he has the world to distract him. Henri, all perpetual motion threatening to knock over stacks of finished orders. Sarah, her sharp wit a goading battle cry, which somehow always ends in warmth. The smell of ink on damp paper, ink on sweaty palms, ink on linen clothing. Half-written stories of freedom and upheaval weaving together the threads of his mind. The song he hums as he works, the creak of the press as its worked. Wafting gun smoke. Screaming musketballs. A shower of earth upturned. Adrenaline, ice cold, prickling his blood as he runs. The way a body's eyes cloud over when robbed of a soul.
In daylight, between sound and thought and a backdrop of war, James can abuse himself over every silly little thrill when Sarah Phillips smiles. He is a man of facts. The sober facts of their loyalties – her background – his background – her incessant need to always correct his spelling – these ground him, never mind how the grounding smarts a little more each time.
But distraction and fact slip away with the daylight. In the dark, James cannot stop thought; he is a willing captive as it pulls him across the river to Sarah.
Sarah, who couldn't possibly be awake and looking for him. She is curled up, surely, in a warm bed, cocooned in a thousand soft blankets and fast asleep, her locks wreathed about her face like a vivid halo. She dreams, surely, of being back home in England, or maybe of gingerbread, or of a day when she can use her real name in the Gazette instead of an alias.
Unbidden, memory conjures his own dream from mere weeks ago – a dream of rolling over in bed, his bed, only to find Sarah beside him, all warmth and buttery softness. Morning light catches in verdant eyes as she gazes at him, and the heat flooding his body is perfectly sensible. His lips press into hers; she sighs against his mouth. His lungs fill with bayberry and orange blossom and ink. He tastes her; he breathes her name. Sarah. She smiles, makes a soft noise as she nibbles on his lower lip. A sensation of melting – then hardening - as her fingertips draw lazy patterns through his hair. Down his neck. His chest. His navel…
Before her hands could discover him further, James had forced himself awake, ashamed and taken aback at the violence of his desire. At the trace of heaven still on his tongue. At the stiff frustration throbbing between his legs.
This is wrong. She is your friend, and she doesn't fancy you. She is your friend. She is -
But mantra was useless. He wanted to finish the dream. Still wants to finish, even though he's imagined the climax countless times hence, in countless different ways. Even though he knows well and good where he wants her fingers.
Atop the Palisades, the hot shiver that tendrils along his spine has nothing to do with cold weather. A telltale rush tightens below his navel and his heart plunges.
"Fuck."
Mind whirring, ablaze with shame, James finally makes for his worthless blanket in his godforsaken makeshift quarters, hoping against all hope he'd caught himself in time, and that he'd think no more of Sarah Phillips.
Sparrows chatter along the northern heights of Manhattan as the sun peeks above the Haarlem River. With warmth just touching the air, dense fog steams off the surface of half-frozen creeks innervating the lowlands. From there it settles heavy in crisp, fallow fields. Early-rising squirrels rustle the leaf litter to check on their stores, studiously mapping the landscape. In the patchwork camps of men and guns spread across the island, sleepy horses nicker to their comrades in an equine roll-call, assuring themselves that their herd is every beast accounted for. After all, who knows what wolves stalked by in the night?
Forest Hill is calm when Sarah awakens. At the other side of the tent, snores tumble from the mass of blankets making up her roommate's cot, and she wonders at the blessing of last night's sleep. Her locket dug into a collarbone overnight and she when she shifts it to relieve the skin, it leaves an indent. She rolls upright, pushing her limbs in a rather unladylike, but wholesome stretch. Spots cloud her vision at the apex. When it clears, there's just enough light to see by, and, rubbing sleep from her eyes, she takes stock of her surroundings, having been unequal to the task the night before.
There are only two cots, and they seem hastily placed, at that. The remaining space is hogged by a mess of dinged pots, lumpy canvas bundles, rusted iron utensils, miscellaneous broken tools, bent nails, rags much too threadbare for worth, battered footlockers, even the torn leather remnants of a rot-eaten saddle. A lone horn-lantern hangs above it all, listless and empty, though Sarah hopes it gives enough light should her writing wear late.
Of what, exactly, would I write? The accommodations of a rubbish tent? Sarah sighs at the thought, bracing herself for a chill as she rolls out of bed to fumble with her bag. She hastily shrugs into a clean shift and pulls a fresh pair of thick woolen stockings up past her knee, tying them off with plain ribbon. She buckles on brown leather shoes, worn and dusty from three years' meandering about the colonies. When she rolls her toes, she fancies the soles might be coming loose, and that she might have to spend her earnings at the cobbler.
Next comes weaving herself into stays. To her relief, the garment is dry from yesterday's exertions and the sharp scent of camp smoke chased away any lingering mustiness. Tying together pockets, petticoats, thick winter fichu, and jacket, she huddles back down on the cot, impatient for body heat to penetrate the layers, plaiting and pinning her hair. Outside, a crow – or perhaps a blue jay - calls.
When her clothes have warmed as much as possible, and with her hair set to rights, Sarah dons cap, cloak, and knit gloves, and makes to leave.
"What in Satan's name are you about, lass?"
Margaret Corbin's groggy voice gives Sarah a start. Tent flap open halfway, blue light floods the interior as Sarah turns to find her surly roommate craning her head up above a blanket.
"Rising for the day, Mrs. Corbin," Sarah deadpans. Margaret lets out a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"'Tis a London habit, risin' at ungodly hours?"
"'Tis my own habit to rise at ungodly hours. The sun is up, besides."
"Aye," Margaret grumbles, turning back to sleep. Then, loudly "well, git along n' shut the bloody door! – Bloody – lettin' the frost in..."
Outside, the rising sun tints the world in pink and blue light. Sarah drinks deep the bracing air as she steps into the dawn. There's a breath of warmth to it all; promise for a more temperate day than last, she supposes. Her mind sets to work observing everything about her. Curiously, the quarters she occupies with Corbin appears situated at the far extremity of the encampment, away from the collective bulk of tents more closely huddled together. Not sure what to make of the development, Sarah walks past the cold charcoal of last night's fire – still fragrant with the scent of wood ash – and deeper into camp.
The next thing to catch her notice is that Forest Hill's quarters are arranged in a less orderly fashion than at either Fort Washington or Fort Lee. Perhaps it's a result of being so far from the main fortifications, and therefore less happened by scrutiny, or perhaps of being the Army's storage. Beside the familiar presence of cookpots and hearths, the landscape of tents is dotted by massive vats, a prolific mess of wooden buckets, and bright copper basins. Strung on lines crisscrossing the scene, half-frozen linens still hang in a curious bid to dry. Sarah recalls the untoward commentary from that indecorous soldier about washerwomen. Sarcasm curls at her lip.
So I am dispatch'd hither, on behalf of the much-vaunted Pennsylvania Gazette, to keep sound and report on dirty laundry. What astonishing use of my employer's limitless resources. Perhaps the world shall not come to ruin if my real name graces the byline.
A dog's bark pulls Sarah from her thoughts and she glances over to see a distant tableau of an off-duty soldier, stirring a small pot and tossing an attentive, floppy-eared mongrel the scraps. From there her eyes are drawn to the network of precariously loaded wagons that ensconce the camp. They range from unassuming hay carts to bulky Conestogas, heavy-bellied and imposing on their tall wheels. Some of the Army's treasures are secured simply with tarps and lashes, while others lie snug within proper covers. A handful of the wagons sprawl forth in a multicolor bustle of barrels and bundles and awnings, transfigured from simple storage to a species of tent-wagon-office hybrid. One that Sarah passes is filled with the wan light of tin lanterns – soon to be doused as the sun continues its climb – while what appears to be a petty officer sits within, busied by paperwork and an animated discussion with two women, both of whom are gesturing rather emphatically for such an ungodly hour.
The brassy low of an ox sounds to the east; When Sarah looks about, she's graced by the sight – and faint smell – of a makeshift livestock paddock some twenty yards outside the main camp, though still within the bounds of the fortifications. The hungry animals crowd along timber fencing, their attention captivated by the lean boy attending to them. As he hoists feed over the railing, one of the denizens snakes out a tongue to lick his cheek, and he lets out a frustrated cry. Sarah smothers a chuckle. Deciding that closer examination of draft animals wasn't to any benefit, she turns from the center of camp and makes due west instead, seeking out the river's edge.
Lining the perimeter of the encampment are tall, thick walls making up a parapet, constructed from packed earth and timber. The faraway New Jersey cliffs, awash in pink light, peek over across the top, a tantalizing hint at what's beyond. Up until now Sarah had been able to ignore some of the curious looks she'd received from other early-risers – occasionally meeting a glance with a swift nod and polite smile – but as she nears the western entrance and watches the guards at patrol along a raised walkway, spies the long barrels of their shouldered flintlocks, apprehension lifts the hair on her neck. Would she even be let through, or is she to be on house arrest here? None of these men know her. Lady Phillips would be astonished, surely, to witness her daughter's impudent precocity, hoofing it about camp by her lonesome. A camp full of rebel men, no less!
But the blue coated guards attending the entrance barely stir at her approach. "Where to, lass?" and "what for, lass?" make up the interrogation, and when she supplies "yonder cliffside, sir," and "for to watch the Hudson, sir," the guards simply shrug at each other and give way.
Settle yourself, silly girl, Sarah hears her mother's voice in her head as she nearly trips across the earthen doorway. And straighten that posture! After some paces she throws a quick glance back, squinting against the rising sun, but finds the guards have no interest in watching her. With a shaky exhale – honestly, Sarah Phillips, what have you to fear? – she makes short work ambling the short path to the ledge.
Great clouds of mist roll off the Hudson current, dissipating as they leave the surface. Flocks of bespeckled, iridescent starlings swoop and chatter in the air, dutifully greeting the bright morning. Sarah carefully lowers herself on a flat, greenish stone outcrop, dangling a foot off the ledge. Beneath her, about forty feet or so, the crags and rocks give way to sloping woods, purplish red in the cliff's shadow and malty with soil and dry leaves. Beyond the trees, Sarah can make out the bank of river-smoothed boulders and plucky brush. That aromatic mix of ice, muck, and ocean brine rises from the fog and the water, running along the smell of smoke in Sarah's clothes.
Absently, she reaches into the folds of her petticoats, with an aim to keep her fingers warm, and brushes against the pointed shape of her folded letter to Mother. Against a bubble of guilt, Sarah sneaks an unhappy grin.
The past few days – weeks – months, really – it had been difficult to maintain a daily correspondence with Lady Phillips. Even after all the year's drama with the post, even after Dr. Franklin had become Postmaster General, even after witnessing firsthand the uphill march that is postal service in disputed territory, Sarah had slowly been neglecting her mother.
"I beg you remember that promise to me, of which you so dutifully kept these years past," a recent missive from Lady Phillips chided. "It worries your dear mother's heart so, when you forget me in so cruel a fashion. Your father's silence, I can abide; I have abided for so long, and longer still shall I abide. But – silence from a beloved daughter! Mine only daughter! Dearest Sarah, though you've no experience with it yet, only imagine the terror a child's silence does to her poor, lonesome mother."
Surely, Sarah thinks, it's within reason to assume Lady Phillips is the wiser in cases such as these. Just as surely, Sarah must be committing an injustice by her in failing to write.
But then, how many letters had Sarah received in kind, when Lady Phillips had made the selfsame promise? For every ten little missives, every fifteen mundane updates on the daily life of a girl in the colonies, Sarah might receive two or three from home, some of which pour forth in emotional clamor, some of which meander to distraction, and some of which are devoid of anything save ennui.
Sarah huffs, curling her knees to her chest and leaning forward on them. Whatever she might think of fairness, or justice, or equity between kin, she had still made her mother a promise, and she had still transgressed it. She chews her tongue in thought, thankful she hadn't committed yesterday's irritations to ink. It would not do to rile Lady Phillips now, when she is certainly in some anxiety.
"Do forgive me, dearest Mother, the unforgivable gap in this letter," Sarah composes to herself, picking absently at a cuticle. "Only, yesterday was much lost to disagreeable circumstance. Fear not for my safety, for I have been sent away from the front lines…"
And so for some time she was occupied with internal monologue, imagining all the best ways to assure Lady Phillips of her only child's good health and spirits. But composition sputters out when a sunbeam ignites the red-orange canopy along the opposite shore. Sparks dance off the river and a blaze washes the New Jersey coast in fresh light. Sarah's breath stills as she takes it in. In the quiet, she hears the leaves rustling far below her feet, while high above an osprey whistles as she wheels about the river. Sarah's gaze drifts south along the New Jersey cliffs until she finds the bulwarks of Fort Lee, aglow in the sunrise.
She exhales. The letter can wait.
Sarah leans back, bracing herself up on forearms. James is awake by now, surely. Had circumstance not been so disagreeable yesterday, she'd be gazing out from the other side of the river this morning. He might already have sauntered by, a sleepy smile over two steaming bowls of whatever he'd scrounged up for them. Handing over her portion, he'll sit beside her and complain about the bitterness of barley, while she'll complain about the grit of Indian corn. Then they'll settle into planning the day together as the hot meal and proximity warms them. During a pause she might look over at him, see a breeze tussle locks of flaxen hair, watch sunlight catch the faint blonde dusting across his jaw. She'll chide him for neglecting to shave his whiskers. He'll chuckle in that damned way of his, run a hand thoughtfully along his chin, and face her with smirk on those soft lips, mischief in those startling eyes.
"Pity," he'd drawl. "I grew 'em just for you."
And she'll snark something back at him – something clever and unimpeachable, obviously – but he will match her wit for wit, and she will accept the stalemate, while he will laugh and consider the battlefield won. The meal finished, he'll stand, take her hand in his, and with one effortless pull bring her upright. His vigor will catch her by surprise and she'll fall against his chest. They'll stand just so for a moment. A blush might turn his ears bright red. Then he might lean in, close enough for Sarah to smell clove, leather, and ink, to feel the soft heat radiating from his neck, and then…
A few shakes of her head dispel the daydream. She starts upright, smooths her palms along her petticoats, ignores the excited flutter low in her abdomen, and decides she has dawdled away enough of the morning.
Crossing through the earthen threshold to the encampment, Sarah shades her eyes against the rising sun. Warmth further threatens the wintry air, and she considers altogether doffing her cloak. The heart of camp is now abuzz with activity. At the center, a handful of women – some of the early risers, Sarah notes – haul prodigious buckets of water atop their heads and at their hips, pouring the contents into steaming vats. Strewn between tents, a few yawning men sit about cooking hearths, scratching their jaws and muttering amongst themselves. Sarah catches sight of one sharpening a tomahawk, the metal a harsh glint in the sunlight. She makes quick work of shuffling along when they make eye contact.
Passing by an active cooking fire, she hears a hiss and crackle of oil, smells char and heat, and her stomach awakens. Recalling yesterday's queasiness, Sarah resolves no chances with her appetite. For a minute she saunters about, searching, until she finds what must be the commissary – a large, sprawling Conestoga-turned-tent-hybrid, filled with hogsheads, redware jugs of every size, and lumpy sacks stacked like a maze of fabric breastworks. An alarmingly tall officer sits at a rickety desk poring over a bound ledger. He wears the buff hunting shirt of the joint Virginia-Maryland rifle detachment, and atop a mass of nutmeg-brown curls laced with silver is a wide-brimmed cap, cocked at one side in the fashion of a marksman.
Making her way over, a shrill cry – more of a screech, really – jolts Sarah in her tracks. She spots little Rosemary Miller in a mad race from her mother's side across camp, cheeks rosy with the exertions of feral joy. A small, giggling boy not much older than Rosemary is giving chase. He brandishes a tufted blade of grass in his fist that's somehow longer than he is tall. The two set into a frolic of sprinting at full tilt and unleashing the entire capacity of their little lungs, completely heedless of the world. A wiry-haired camp dog joins in from the sidelines, barking and running along with whirling tail and frolicsome feet.
It is then that Sarah notices other shouts, other high voices, and she casts her gaze around camp to see at least ten other children of varying ages scattered about. Most are playing with each other, but one is occupied with a Pennsylvania-coated soldier, stealing his hat and mock-wrestling over it. To her surprise, she also spots a camp follower breastfeeding in the shadow of a distant tent.
Who brings an infant to war?
"Name n' reg'ment."
The short question – rather more of a statement – pulls Sarah's attention back to the commissary, where the officer stares over undersized spectacles.
"Oh! – fine morning t'you, sir – "
"Name n' reg'ment," he interrupts with the same deadpan and thick brogue. Confusion bubbles up in her chest.
"Beg pardon, sir, I arriv'd here this night before - "
"Name n' reg'ment you or yer sojer belong tae, lass."
Her voice is halting. "None but myself, sir. I am a journ – "
"Cannae spare vittles 'less you've a reg'ment tae which yer attach'd." He taps a bony finger at the page before him, which Sarah notes is occupied entirely by tight, orderly rows of devilish small script. She frowns as her mind turns, picking at a cuticle. Were they really going to deny her food over technicalities?
"I am here on behalf of the Pennsylvania Gazette," she explains, trying to keep her tone even, "and at the behest of General Washington. Not once during my tenure in this colo – state, have I been denied rations on account of –"
"And I'm 'ere on behalf o' the Continen'al Aermy," the man interrupts, gruff, "tae ensure all accounts balanc'd 'n ord'ly."
He has yet to blink. Sarah, finally knocked off-kilter, sputters.
"So am I to – what – will you deny a girl victuals? – what am I – what am I suppos'd – "
"Sarah Phillips! Where'er have you been this morn'n?"
The familiar voice, reedy and clear as a bell, rings over the rustling camp. Sarah whips round in surprise, then relief as she sees a familiar face. Ambling up to the tent is the other Sarah from last night. What was her surname?
The commissary officer, stony as ever, leans aside for a better view of the second woman fast approaching.
"Ooo nae. You've yer share already, Molly" he states, jabbing a finger at her. She puts a hand on Sarah Phillips' shoulder.
"Aye, sarge! I was there for it!" she says cordially. "Lass here is billet'd with Marg'ret Corbin. Johnny Corbin's wife? First Pennsylvania Artill'ry –"
"I bloody well know who Marg'ret is," the soldier snaps. "Matross Corbin drew their vittles quar'er tae six."
"Was you accountin' for a spare?"
The soldier sits silent and tense. Sarah Phillips is taken aback, but the other woman seems completely at ease, as if she's had this sort of discussion before.
"Nae," he bites out at length. As he gets up and slips between burlap walls in the belly of the commissary tent, he grumbles: "fine bit o' communicatin' be put tae use in this bloody aermy… bloody Corbin… bloody camp wimm'n…"
The other woman leans in and pats Sarah Phillips' shoulder.
"Ne'er you mind Cranky Britches, love," she reassures in a low voice. "He's a mite orn'ry – "
"A mite?" Sarah Phillips can't help the sarcastic quip. The other Sarah giggles.
"Aye! But, he's fair n' just. Johnny's likely to have forgot Marg'ret was assign'd you."
The young journalist feels a question brewing in her mind, but is presently interrupted when the commissary officer returns and pushes the day's rations into her arms. There's a bit of confusion as she and the other Sarah sort out the loose, tumbling mess, most of it ending wrapped up in the older woman's apron.
"Well ain't you sweet this morn'n', Sarge!" the other Sarah croons when she lifts a small fabric bag, laden with some sort of grain. "Loanin' the new girl her very own Congress-issue sack, rather'n chidin' empty hands."
But the commissary chief merely scoffs, and, settling down to scribble in his ledger, shoos both women away with a gesture.
"Hails from Ohio country, he does," the other Sarah whispers while they walk, as if sharing some infamous secret. "I've suspicion Ohio country drives a man to madness. Or, at least, renders him funny in the head."
Sarah Phillips feels something achy pull in her chest.
"Surely not ev'ry man" she ventures.
"Oh, aye! I've yet to meet a one from out that way what ain't off."
Sarah Phillips opens her mouth, but thinks better of it and keeps quiet. So the two make for her quarters, where they deposit the meager ration – one lumpy parsnip, an almost-half-pound of grain, and what might pass for six ounces of hard saltbeef including bone – in the now unoccupied tent. The journalist gives her little store a dubious once-over.
Down to a child's share, then? The Continental Army closes in on dire straits…
She relents with a sigh, given up to the situation. How could she, a civilian, expect to be fed full rations where she did not belong? When there was an entire army to feed?
The other Sarah holds the grain sack up and gives it a loose shake, drawing Sarah Phillips from her thoughts.
"Indian corn today," the older woman declares with lopsided smirk. "As was yest'rday, and the day 'fore that, and all the fortnight 'fore that. Heh. Wheat's too fine a feed for so'diers. Well, come along, lass, bring your corn!"
Back outside, dawn has aged to a full, bright morning. Sunlight now threatens to thaw the frost and turn the soil across Manhattan to slurry. As the two Sarahs walk along camp, blackbirds flock through, warbling and flashing their debonair red epaulets. A harried woman armed with a spindly broom chases the more pluckish ones from the commissary. In nearby fields, rows of soldiers march at morning parade, a tumult of fifes, drums, bootheels, and clicking gunmetal.
Both women make for a cooking hearth occupied by none other than Betsey Miller, busied with measuring dry yellow meal into a bowl. Whatever fire she'd started has burnt down to smoldering coals, hissing with bright heat. Little Rosemary is finally sat still by her mother's side, occupied in drawing lumpy swirls in the ground with a stick.
"I've return'd, Bets!" the elder Sarah calls out as they approach.
"And brought with you another Sarah," Betsey Miller observes wryly, looking up from her progress and handing off her bag to Rosemary. "We've four Miss Sarahs about camp now, haven't we? Oh, mind our cornmeal, Rosie! Set it 'twixt the others. Soft-like! There, now. Rosemary, d'you remember Miss Sarah Phillips from the campfire?"
"How d'ye do, Miss Rosemary," Sarah Phillips greets with a bob of the head. The little girl stares up at the journalist with big hazel eyes, suddenly struck, and for a moment Sarah is unnerved at the naked attention.
But then, over fingers she's put in her mouth to gnaw, Rosemary mumbles, "I do gud, how'dee do Miss Sary?"
Sarah chuckles at the stumbled words; the toddler is confused for a moment, but then supplies her own wry smile and giggle. Recollecting herself, the journalist offers her grain bag to Betsey. "I'm told we pool rations?"
"If you like," Betsey says after a moment's glance between the two Sarahs. "'Tis no requirement, miss. You might make up your vittles how you please. 'Tis only we've found it easier on our bellies, foll'wers and so'diers alike, if'n we share."
"Then, 't'would please me to do so. And to lend assistance!"
Betsy takes Sarah Phillips' grain with a gentle smile. The other Sarah, having picked a spot and settled herself down in the dirt, gathers up a snuggly Rosemary in her lap and glances between dishware and a flat stone heating up by the coals.
"'Tis jonnycakes again," she states.
"However did you know?" Betsey asks with sarcasm.
"Lucky guesswork!"
"You must needs join Cap'n Molly in defraudin' the staff officers when they're at Whist."
Unease tweaks a little at Sarah Phillips' throat as she says, "I've not heard of jonnycakes. Are they – are they much complicated?"
"Ne'er heard o' jonnycakes?" the other Sarah is the very image of flabbergasted. She makes a face halfway between grimace and smile. "Sure as shootin' they've johnnycakes in Philadelphy! You really must be fine."
Feeling her chest squeeze, Sarah Phillips goes to open her mouth but can't find her voice. Betsey pulls her head around to shoot the other woman a dirty glare.
"I'd not listen to her, Miss Phillips," she reassures, turning back. "She has no mind to offend. Have you, Molly Pitcher?" At the appellation, the other Sarah rounds on Betsey with her own, sharp look.
"I would ne'er, Molly Pitcher," she bites out. Then, sighing to Sarah, "Apologies, love."
"'Tis but a trifle to make," Betsey says matter-of-fact, pulling attention back to the bowl of cornmeal and adding some ounces from Sarah Phillips' ration. "Which, to be sure, was the meanin' of our other Sarah's observation." She gestures for a pitcher of water that's been set next to the coals; passing the redware over, Sarah Phillips feels her face warm as guilt and embarrassment mix.
"I certainly can cook," she tries to explain while picking at a nail, watching the warm water pour and soak the grain. "I assist with dinners where I board. And I know – I know of plenty – only – my partner – friend – he always insists on cooking when abroad – and – "
"Ne'er you worry yourself, love," the other Sarah says quietly. "I meant no offense. Truly. I'm sorry." Remorse laces her voice, and Sarah Phillips gives a nod.
Together with the water and a measure of each woman's grain, Betsey sets to mixing a paste in her hands. Sarah Phillips leans in to watch the work with interest, only to cry out "Oh! 'Tis only a pancake. Camp bread. Yes?"
Betsey Miller looks up from the sticky work with cocked eyebrow.
"Aye?"
Relief bubbles up, coming to life as a self-deprecating laugh.
"Whatever did I expect of cornmeal and water?" Sarah Phillips cries out. After a short rinse of her hands, she takes over when the mixing is complete, shaping enough round cakes from the dough for everyone – "no forgettin' Marg'ret, now!" the other Sarah had admonished. Draping a square of threadbare cloth over, the dough is let to sit.
The heat from the hearth and the advanced morning has Sarah finally remove her cloak and gloves and loosen her fichu. Over idle morning pleasantries, she notices the sound of fife and drum has been replaced with birdsong once more. Looking up, the women watch a parade of blue-and-brown coats trickle in through camp, some men returning to their tents, others to the day's work. A sharp hiss and puff of steam pulls Sarah's attention away. Betsey has spread what little cooking oil could be found across the hot stone, and accordingly Sarah reaches for the raw cakes and tosses them upon the makeshift griddle, filling the air with sizzle.
Rosemary grows antsy in the time it takes to cook – or, rather, char – the cornmeal. While Sarah Phillips worries over the state of breakfast, both older women take it in turns to draw the squirming girl back between them. Eventually, the other Sarah pulls out a pewter spinning top from her pockets, enrapturing little Rosemary with its endless spirals.
When the cakes are finished and cooled, Sarah eyes the dry, blackened tops in apprehension. But the other women seem to have no qualms about it, and when she tears off a piece and takes a bite of her own it tastes no different than any other camp bread she's eaten, albeit more burnt, and she mentally chides herself for anticipating something else.
A pancake by any other name…
Perhaps she wished for an awful, smarting taste, something foul instead of the bland meal turning to dense paste in her mouth. She yearns for more to eat with the dry fare, like stew or perhaps porridge, but recollects how bare her rations looked, and that she will have to make them last the day.
Am I to starve here?
"Any tellin' where Marg'ret saw fit to run?" Betsey asks between bites, drawing Sarah Phillips away from the thought.
"Eh, she's likely off a-drillin' cannon with Johnny's comp'ny," the other Sarah offers, halfheartedly shrugging.
"She's not manning the guns, is she?" Sarah Phillips says with a sardonic tone, expecting jest. But when the other women pause and eye each other, the young journalist's curiosity cannot help but be piqued.
"..Is she?"
"Well… not proper-like, no," the other Sarah replies after a beat. "Only she watches the motions, see, all keen 'n sharpsome like a sheepdog. Then her 'n Johnny drill together whene'er they've the freedom and the inklin'. Cap'n Caldwell lets 'em! Askin' me, Marg'ret's endeav'rin' for to be a so'dier."
"She is allow'd to drill?" the journalist exclaims. "And her husband – he – " momentarily, she finds herself at a loss for words and makes up for it with a vague gesture.
"Marg'ret would make a fine so'dier, Miss Sarah," Betsey Miller explains in a lowered voice. "And why not! The Army should be so glad for another skill'd pair o' hands. Woman rams n' swabs with the best. What's more, she fires a flintlock dead true. Better'n either of us Mollies could, anyhow." The other Sarah hums between a bite of the dense bread.
"'Tis why she's Cap'n Molly," she supplies with a wry tone. "Still, I wonder at Marg'ret's not bein' afear'd o' gettin' looked on as a man. Hell's bells, ain't you afear'd whene'er you set your hands to a rammer, Bets?
"What other folk reck'n they see when they look on me, Molly Pitcher, is the very least o' what dogs my sleep," Bestey Miller murmurs. "Eat your food, Rosemary, don't just gum about. Be nothin' but drool and empty belly come noontide."
Rosemary makes a petulant sort of noise over the soggy bread in her mouth. But before her mother could chide further, a familiar, brassy tone lilts over the rustle of camp life
"Listen to Mama Miller, Miss Rosie! 'Less you're partial to the drool!"
Rosemary's face glows and she hobbles away from Betsey's side. Sarah looks up to see Margaret Corbin sauntering over, wry grin beaming from her features, exchanging greetings with her fellow camp women. The sleeves of her rose-colored jacket are pushed up high to her shoulders, baring thick arms – which appear streaked with a light dusting of ash. Wild curls of her hair peek out from her cap, refusing, it seems, to be tamed.
"Morn'n' to you, Miss Sarah Phillips!" she greets brightly. "Beggin' your pard'n for my rudeness earlier. I'm – well – not much comp'ny at sunrise, to be sure."
"'Tis no bother, really," Sarah Phillips reassures as the tall woman – smelling suspiciously of gunpowder – plops down beside her and reaches for the last jonnycake, which by now has cooled entirely. Margaret, however, does not seem to mind, and when Rosemary launches into her lap, she takes a loud, hearty bite. The little girl giggles.
"Now, Miss Rosie," she says after a swallow, "list'n to your mama 'n eat."
"Don' want 'neecake, 'Unty Mollee. 'Tis bad!"
"Jonnycake?" Margaret takes a hard look at the bread in the little girl's hand, then takes another hearty bite of her own. "'Tis no ord'n'ry jonnycake, li'l Rosie Miller! Aye! 'Tis the beatin' heart of a dragon all these good ladies have slain, see, and if'n you eat up a dragon's heart, you can breathe its fire!"
And so, with enthusiastic squeal and growl, little Rosemary Miller takes her first full bite of breakfast. Giddiness bubbles up in Sarah Phillip's chest and she laughs aloud. Rosemary, startled a little, gives her a wide-eyed gaze – then toothy grin – and returns to her food with renewed vigor.
"Must you encourage her so, Marg'ret?" Betsey Miller sighs. "Keep your mouth closed as you chew, Rosie."
"She's eatin', ain't she, Bets?"
The other Sarah snorts out a chuckle at Betsey's expense.
"Where'd'ye run off, Cap'n Molly?" she asks. "Polishin' your Johnny's gun?"
Betsey shoots her companion yet another glare, gesturing at her daughter, but Margaret – and, soon after, Sarah Phillips – laughs along.
Eventually, conversation at the hearth slows to a crawl. Rosemary scampers off with a group of other toddlers to find mischief, though not after her mother fixes her hair and cap – much to the chagrin of the excitable child – and plants a kiss on her cheek. An ache wells deep in Sarah at the sight, and she stares long after the girl has left. Unbidden into her mind come images of days long gone and an ocean away, of Lady Phillips fussing over rebellious locks of her little girl's hair, pinning and pulling all into fine, tight order.
In her peripherals, Sarah Phillips can feel Margaret eying her closely.
"Som'in' eatin' at you, lass?"
"Er – no," Sarah startles at the question. "But, forgive me, I've bus'ness to attend…"
"Bus'ness," Margaret states drily, amusement flashing in amber eyes. They sober a little at Sarah's wavering expression; she gives her a nod. "Aye, Sarah Phillips, you're a wom'n what has bus'ness. Demands respectin', it does."
When Sarah looks back at Margaret, she sees the woman is in earnest, and relief spreads in her chest. She makes the rest of her goodbyes, but as she hastens off to quarters, Margaret calls out, once more a brassy tone:
"Don't be too long occupied, y'hear? Plenny o' chorin' to go 'round in Forest Hill! Hah!"
Noontime sun flickers off the swirling current of the Hudson. Sparrows and thrushes alike busy themselves in search of corn across the landscape, while crows take to cawing at the sky. Forest Hill's draft oxen lie down in their pen, contented to chew cud and be attended by cowbirds for eternity. Sarah Phillips bustles out of her tent from what she supposes was an hour of composition, edit, and deliberation. A coin of dark green sealing wax on her finished letter has hardened to a low gloss. She stows the missive in her pocket, careful not to bend the neat corners; should any defect come across Lady Phillips' scrutiny, it will not be caused by her daughter. Idly, Sarah hopes she's couched her words with enough reassurance to keep her mother's nerves settled. But Lady Phillips should appreciate that her daughter is in relative safety and out of harm's way, that she has plenty of older women to chaperone her, that she has little to occupy her, that her companion, James, should also be safe and idle – having promised her he would keep a low profile should Fort Lee be under attack.
It doesn't take long for Sarah to track down an officer, who, at her inquiry, directs her to the western entrance, where a courier from Fort Lee has just arrived.
"Make haste," the officer warns as she thanks him. "The man shan't be long hereabouts." And, true to the officer's word, when she arrives at the gates, the courier is already mounted astride a thick-furred, honey-brown pony. They are about to spur onward when Sarah rushes alongside and forces a halt.
"Beg pardon, sir, are you Fort Lee bound?" she asks, breathless, as he takes her letter with a grunt. Stowing the post in his mailbag, he adjusts his cocked hat.
"Aye; ferryman's shovin' off in a half-hour, with or without me." The pony sidles about, feeling the anxiety of his rider and wishing to be off.
"Might you deliver a message?"
The courier pins Sarah under a put-upon look, and she swallows sheepishly.
"Make it brief, lass. I've to report three other messages and num'rous important missives thither."
"One James Hiller is encamp'd at Fort Lee. He will be in plainclothes – we are colleagues. Can you let him know all is well with Sarah Phillips?"
The harried courier gives her a nod, and before she can thank him, he and the pony trot through the western entrance. They pick up a furious gallop as soon as they reach open road, dust swirling in their wake. Sarah wonders at the haste, swallowing a lump in her throat when dark answers rise to meet the question.
With nothing further to keep her, she turns about to regroup at her quarters. Halfway across camp, she spies Betsey Miller at the far end of a tent. Standing alongside the older woman, Sarah recognizes the boy who had been tasked with feeding the oxen so early in the morning. At closer scrutiny, he seems like he might be twelve or thirteen, with a loose queue, lumpy cocked hat, and clothing a mite too small for his frame. At this distance, she can just make out their conversation – or, rather, argument, judging by the tone. Sarah can hear Betsey almost snarl, and the shock of it startles Sarah in her tracks.
"- And I've a mind to box your ears, Tommy! You're not to be 'round Private Whittaker any longer, y'hear?"
"He's a patriot, Auntie!" the boy snaps back. "A true patriot! And he says I've the deadest shot of anyone my age – "
"You do, lad; a-huntin' varmint. Lord almighty, marksmanship signifies nothin' when there's a musketball 'twixt your eyes! You're not be 'round Private Whittaker! Understand?"
"You're not my pa!"
Red-faced, the impassioned boy shouts the words, and Sarah shuffles away in the opposite direction, her heart pounding with shame at eavesdropping. But the fight reaches a fever pitch, and though she can't make out the substance of it any longer, the voices echo in camp.
"There y'are, Miss Sarah!"
Margaret's voice cuts through the noise. Sarah jolts and looks up to see the tall woman loping over.
"Make haste, wom'n," she continues heartily. "A wom'n must needs earn her keep in this here goddamn'd Continental Army."
Confused, a little taken aback, Sarah cocks her head and asks, "How so?"
Margaret flares her teeth in an arch grin. Something wicked flickers in her amber eyes, and even her curls seem to lift with static energy.
"Dirty britches, lass!"
Captain Molly lets out a vigorous laugh at Sarah Phillips' sinking expression, and the sound of it lifts with the crows above Forest Hill.
Historical notes:
Still playing and (having way too much fun) with the dialect writing, though I wouldn't take the pastiche I have in my brainspace as a reasonable reference.Again, REAL Washington knew at this time that Fort Washington was going to be attacked and was waffling between evacuation or reinforcement for a good while. He would NOT have called for reinforcements to Fort Lee, but I needed them here for plot reasons.
The Hudson River has a dual-current thing going on! It flows one way when the tide's in, and another when tide's out.
I'm being a bit loose with the setup of the fortifications at Fort Lee and Forest Hill, but I don't have too many specifics to go from. ALOT of american fortifications at this time are recorded as having been hastily built, and not too many traces of them remain. The fortifications around upper Manhattan seem to fall under this category.
I'm also loosely using the word commissary here - commissary is a fancy word for a military grocery store, but obvi they're not buying the rations here in this tale.
Conestogas: not just for Oregon Trail 2! They are famous for having been the primary freight vehicle into and around Appalachia during this time and into the 19th century. They were invented around the Conestoga valley (from which it gets its name) in PA. A breed of American draft horse was developed specific to pulling these wagons, although it disappeared by the end of the 19th century.
From what I can tell, women were given one full ration per day, and a child had a half ration. Sarah was given a child's ration - which really isn't GREAT for an 18 year old, but here we are.
Okay I wish they didn't call what we call corn, Indian corn, but they called it Indian corn.
Also, corn was a generic term for any old grain. Barley, Oat, Wheat, etc.
Journey Cakes (jonnycakes/johnnycakes): literally just flour paste on a hot rock . Here's your calories.
I mean... nah they *probably* didn't let Margaret Corbin drill with the men, but Cap'n Molly does what Cap'n Molly wants.
They also *probably* distributed the baggage and the womenfolk amongst the encampments, instead of the logistical nightmare of having one big camp where they dumped it all, but I sort of wrote myself into a corner.
I made up Captain Caldwell because I needed a name.
A "hoot-owl" is a barred owl.
Anyway, drop me a line if ya liked! Love y'all.