A Buss from Lafayette (9 page)

Dickon flushed a bit at his father’s words. Then he told us how Washington had given Lafayette the command of twenty-two hundred men to scout British movements out from Philadelphia, which the Redcoats had occupied all winter. Washington had wanted to find out if the British were coming to attack their encampment at Valley Forge or were returning to New York City, which was held by the rest of their army. Some of the men who went with Lafayette on this scouting mission were Oneida Indians, whom Lafayette himself had convinced to aid the American cause only a few months before.

“It was a good thing he did, too!” Dickon added.

“What did they do? Scalp the Brits?” laughed Joss, only half-joking.

Prissy stiffened at this, and told her stepson that this was not a laughing matter.

Dickon went on with his narrative, telling how Lafayette’s small force reached a place called Barren Hill, about halfway between Valley Forge and the city of Philadelphia. There they were surrounded on all sides by eight thousand or more Lobsterbacks, so Lafayette was outnumbered by nearly four to one. Fortunately, he and his men managed to escape down a hidden path to the river.

“I heard another story about Barren Hill,” Father put in. “Though I know not how true it is. ’Tis said that during the battle, Oneida scouts suddenly came face-to-face with a cavalry charge of British dragoons, waving their sabers and shouting fiercely. The Oneidas, in full war paint, rose up out of the bushes with loud war whoops. Those particular Indian scouts had never seen a cavalry charge, and those particular British dragoons had never heard a war whoop, so both sides fled the scene without doing much damage.”

The image of the Oneidas and Dragoons scaring each other off sent Joss, Dickon, and me into peals of helpless laughter.

Major Weeks chuckled. “I am afraid that fanciful tale might not be
quite
true, Samuel. But the Oneidas were certainly there at Barren Hill, and certainly did keep the attention of the Brits while the rest of Lafayette’s troops slipped away. That was both a professional embarrassment for the new British commander, General Clinton, and a personal embarrassment for the former commander, General Howe.”

He explained that Howe, having lost his command to Clinton, had boasted to all and sundry there that the Redcoats would capture “the Boy” at Barren Hill and bring him back as a prisoner to dine in Philadelphia that very night. Howe’s dinner plans were spoiled when Lafayette and his men managed to escape from
the British “trap” by crossing the Schuylkill River at Matson’s Ford.

“I have read that after the action at Barren Hill, Washington asked Lafayette to lead the men chasing after the Brits when they did abandon Philadelphia and head back to New York City,” my stepmother said. “But Charles Lee, one of our generals who had spent nearly eighteen months as a prisoner of the British, was released just before that chase. Some say that during his captivity, Lee amused his British captors by proposing ways for them to beat the Americans.”

“Was Lee a traitor?” asked Joss.

“Well, the
British
probably thought so,” said my stepmother, with a hint of a smile.

Father told us that General Lee, who had grown up in Britain, had been an officer in their army during the French and Indian War. Later he had left the British army and moved to America. Then, when the Revolution began, he had decided to fight on our side, thinking he would be named the commander-in-chief because of his experience. When Washington was given that honor instead, Lee made no secret of his resentment and disdain for the Virginian. Furthermore, he had been a prisoner during that hard winter of 1777–78, so was not at Valley Forge to witness how von Steuben trained the Continentals.

“Perhaps Lee truly believed that our army was not
capable of defeating the British column racing towards New York,” said Prissy. “He talked Washington into sending only a small force after the British, instead of mounting a full attack. It was so small a force that Lee did not deign to lead it himself, so Washington assigned Lafayette to be the commander. However, when Washington later decided to increase the size of this force, General Lee insisted on leading it. As Lee had a higher rank than Lafayette, Washington was forced to give him the command.”

“My goodness, Mrs. Hargraves. You are very well-informed,” said Major Weeks. “You know more of the Revolution than my own wife, and she is married to a
veteran
of that war.”

“But your lady has had thirteen children to bring up, sir. She might not have birthed them all, but she has had to care for them. I doubt she has had time for extensive reading,” my father’s wife observed dryly.

“What happened next, Major?” Joss asked.

The major recounted with a frown how our army had caught up with the rear of the British column at Monmouth, in the Jerseys. Lee, disgracefully soon after the fighting began, had ordered our troops to retreat. When General Washington had met the retreating Continentals, he tried madly to rally them to return. Witnesses said that Washington was so furious with Lee that he swore the leaves right out of the trees.

“Really, Major? General Washington swore?” I tried to picture the wintry, dignified gentleman, whom I had only seen in stiff formal portraits, shouting profanity in front of hundreds of witnesses.

“Yes, Clara. The ‘father of our country’ swore like a trooper that day. And for good reason! Lee was courtmartialed after that battle, and that was the end of his career as an American general! Thank goodness!” said Major Weeks.

“I believe that young Lafayette fought bravely at that battle,” Father said. “There might have been a better outcome if that ‘boy’
had
been in charge.”

Major Weeks pushed back his chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “That is very true, Samuel. Now, folks, we could talk all night about Lafayette, but I think we need to start for home. Come along, Dickon.”

“Yes, sir,” Dickon said.

“Oh, I almost forgot, ma’am,” exclaimed his father. “My very busy lady wife sent me with a gift for you. She bought it in Concord yesterday and thought you might put it to good use. After all, she has gone through a confinement or two and knows how you must be feeling in all this heat, so very close to your time.”

Major Weeks reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pretty little fan decorated with a picture of Lafayette. “The town was full of such fripperies and gewgaws sporting his portrait. Handkerchiefs and dinner plates
and ribbon badges and such. Dickon bought a couple of things, too.” He looked at his son, who did not say a word. “After all, ’twas a truly historical event and no mistake.”

“But before they go, ma’am, are we not to have dessert?” Joss blurted out, focused, as always, on food.

Prissy scooted her chair back and stood up. “Of course. I shall fetch it. Give me a hand, Clara, if you please.”

In a few moments, I came back into the room carrying bowls of dessert and wearing a broad grin. Without a word, I set a serving down on the table in front of Joss and watched his face fall when he saw what it was: a bowl filled to the brim with perfectly ripe,
very
freshly picked strawberries!

Friday, June 24, 1825

This has been a most interesting and exhausting day.

1. I learned some things about my stepmother that were quite surprising.

2. I helped make dozens and dozens of jars of strawberry preserves.

3. I discovered that it might be harder to drive a carriage than I thought.

4. I found out that Dickon Weeks has quite a lot of grit (and is an excellent horseman).

By far, the most satisfying part of the day, however, was when I bought my Genuine Simeon’s Lead Comb. My life will never be the same! (Perhaps my hair will turn a little less red by the time Hetty arrives tomorrow. I can hardly wait to see her face when she sees how different my hair looks.)

C
HAPTER 15

“Today must be even hotter than yesterday, and here we are standing over a stove!” I took a step back from the Rumford range. “Stirring preserves on the boil is hot work even on a cool day! I could swear that the red bricks of this stove are
glowing
with heat just as much as I am!”

“Just remember, Clara, we
could
be standing over an open hearth,” Prissy replied. “I am so grateful to your mother for asking Samuel to build her this newfangled stew stove. It is so much easier and safer than cooking with a fireplace.”

“And more comfortable: no smoke coming up into our faces,” I added, waving at the stove’s flues that led out through the large stone fireplace. “But I must confess, I would not really mind a little smoke blowing in our faces if that meant a breeze was coming in the window.” I looked at the open window over the granite sink and noted that the blue curtains on either side were hanging completely still.

“Well, at least we do not have to worry about catching our skirts on fire, as when Caroline and I were
girls. Best of all, we can stand up straight, so even
I
can stir preserves, though I cannot get quite as close to the pot as you. Oh, my dear! Do not stir quite so hard—you will break up the strawberries too much. Gently, girl, gently!”

I slowed down the stirring, then thought for a moment. As I kept the long-handled spoon moving around inside the big copper kettle, I looked over at Prissy. “Please tell me more about Mother, ma’am. What was she like as a child?”

“She used to be exceedingly naughty sometimes, but our mother usually caught her out. Caroline was lucky that our parents did not believe in corporal punishment.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Spanking or whipping children to correct their behavior.”

“But
you
must believe in it, as a teacher, I mean.”

The former schoolmarm frowned at me. “Heavens, no! I never raised my hand to a child. I thought that schoolmasters who did so were failures at their jobs.”

“Really? You never even raised a ferule?”

“A ferule? Certainly
not
!”

“Joss says those willow switches really sting!”

“They do. I only received a ferule stroke one time when I was a girl. It taught me nothing except anger and dislike towards my schoolmistress.”

“
You
were punished, ma’am? Whatever for?” I asked, truly astonished at this revelation.

Prissy paused in thought, looking up at the rough wooden beams that crossed the ceiling before she went on. “It was all very silly. Some of us girls had made some birds out of folded paper and started tossing them about the schoolroom to see if they would fly. The schoolmistress told us to stop, but I could not resist one more throw, and she caught me in the act. I think she hit me extra hard because she was so shocked
I
would disobey. I had always been quite a Goody Two Shoes, if you know who
that
is. I made a vow then and there that I would never treat another person like that—child or not. When I became a teacher myself, I found it an easy vow to keep.”

“How did you become a teacher? Mother never told us.”

“After your grandparents died and Caroline married Samuel, I needed to find a way to support myself. Just like you, I loved to read and had acquired quite a bit of learning compared to most young ladies my age, so teaching seemed to be the best solution.”

“Did you never think of marrying?”

Her face took on a sad expression. “Yes, once. Unfortunately, the gentleman went off to war in 1812 and lost his life. So a teacher I became.”

I felt a bit ashamed of myself for thinking my former aunt had been a teacher who switched her students,
and that she had been an old maid by choice or by nature. I stirred in silence for a while, thinking about what I had just learned.
But she still married Father and is trying to replace Mother in my affections,
I thought.
I might be a little sorry for my stepmother, but I am not quite ready to forgive her for that.

Just then Joss came into the kitchen, lugging two large buckets, one empty and the other full of charcoal. With a frown on his face, he set down the bucket, and then reached around me to open the door to the firebox under the pot I was stirring. He shook the riddle so the ashes fell down beneath, then carefully scooped them into the empty bucket with a metal shovel. He took fresh charcoal from the other bucket and added it to the firebox. Then he did the same to the firebox under Prissy’s pot.

When he finished these tasks, Joss wiped the sweat from his face. But not the frown. “It is deucedly hot work keeping these fires going,” he said.

“At least you only need come into this oven of a kitchen once in a while, Joseph Hargraves. Just you try
stirring
for awhile!” I said.

Joss harrumphed. “Well, if you count all the work I have already done
making
this charcoal in the first place, then lugging it in here, taking out the ashes, and adding fresh charcoal to the fires, I think I have done my share.”

I knew he did indeed labor very hard every winter, felling trees and splitting the wood, then covering it with a mound of dirt and leaves and slowly burning it into charcoal. “Yes, but do not forget that Father let you trade two bushels of the charcoal you made at the store to get your ice skates. Not to mention your secret hoard of peppermints,” I added with a sly look.