Journey to victory, p.7
Journey to Victory, page 7
“I will take thee to the city myself,” Josiah added.
“No, please,” Christiane stopped him. “I can go by myself. I came this far and I can go the rest by myself.” She felt she could not take him to the site of the war he was so against. It seemed somehow an indecent thing to do.
“If that is what thee wishes,” Sarah agreed. “Go to thy husband, and while thee is gone, we will care for thy son.” Christiane nodded in agreement, her eyes downcast. “Oh, Christiane, thee will not regret it. I promise I will care for him as my very own.”
“I know that you will. I wouldn’t leave him otherwise.” At this, first Sarah and then Josiah embraced her. “I am so glad I stumbled into your meetinghouse that Sunday.”
“God is good,” Josiah agreed and Sarah Anne nodded.
***
Two days later they were all standing beside Nancy, trying not to say farewell. Still early morning, the air was chill and the dew was heavy. “Well, Christiane, thee has all thy needs,” Josiah said after clearing his throat.
“Yes,” Christiane replied, not taking her eyes from her son’s face. She felt as though her heart were being drawn out of her breast and her eyes felt dry and scratchy.
“Now, Christiane, thee must not worry—” Sarah began.
Christiane held up her hand. “I know.” She stopped. “If…if…I’m delayed coming back—”
“We will keep him as long as need be,” Sarah stated firmly.
“I’ll be back to get him as soon—”
“Yes,” Josiah said.
Christiane mounted the mare. She could not stand to prolong the leaving any longer. “Good-bye., I’ll send word or see you within two weeks, as we agreed.”
“Farewell, Christiane. God go with thee,” Josiah answered. Sarah told Jean Claude to wave to his mother and then helped him move his little hand. Christiane quickly turned, forcing back tears, and rode away without looking back.
Chapter Five
Following Josiah’s directions after the long delay in entering New York City, Christiane headed southwest to Hobb’s Ferry to cross the Hudson. After she’d spent years in the wilderness, New York City, with over twenty thousand people, intimidated Christiane. Josiah had drawn a rude sketch of the main boundaries and points of the city. “X’s” marked the area where he believed Washington’s army would be camped. Inhaling deeply, she contemplated confronting an army.
The ferry, a flat barge with wooden sides like a fence, appeared as she topped the river’s bluff. A network of ropes connected the two riversides and prevented the ferry from floating on down the river. Christiane, the only passenger, paid her ha’penny and the ferryman, a large, rough-looking man, began his chore of pulling them across the river along the ropes.
Very soon she stepped onto the opposite shore, mounted, and urged Nancy onto the road. Suddenly the thought that she would be reunited with Jakob sometime that day surged through her. She longed for him, but the burden of bringing the news of his son’s death filled her with foreboding. She consulted her little map once more and faced eastward with as much confidence as she could summon. Softly, bravely, she hummed a French tune she had not sung in a long time.
Prosperous farms bordered the lane. The inhabitants were busily harvesting the fall crops: corn, pumpkins, squashes, rye, and wheat. The colors were rich amber, orange, dark green, and red. Christiane savored the bustling harvest sounds of the scythe, locust, and busy voices. The homeliness of the atmosphere served to calm her lingering nerves. Soon the farms gave way to streets lined with brick homes. Other riders on horseback and ox-drawn carts joined her on the thoroughfare.
Suddenly Christiane saw a young man in dark blue, military dress, cantering toward her. Without thinking, she stopped and waved to him. He slowed agreeably, pulling up across from her and doffing his tri-corn hat. Immediately she was struck with her own forwardness, but her desire for information spurred her confidence. “I apologize, sir, for stopping you so boldly.”
“Oh, please, mistress, don’t give it a worry,” he cut in smoothly. “This may be my most pleasant duty today.”
At this she flushed warmly and bowed her head. “Are you with Washington’s army?” she inquired, looking up at him once more.
“Yes, indeed. Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, aide de camp to the general himself,” he answered with a slight bow.
“Oh,” Christiane replied. She was abashed at approaching so important a person. “I apologize again, sir. I do not wish to keep you from your important duties, but, you see, I am looking for the army. I wish to know if I am going in the correct direction.”
“Yes, mistress, you are.” His face sobered. He gazed at her as if worried about something. “Just continue south on Bloomingdale Road and you cannot miss it.”
“Thank you so much, sir,” she said as she made to start onward.
“Ah, mistress.” He detained her by holding up his hand. “Are you sure you really want to seek out Washington’s army?”
“I am joining my husband, sir,” she replied simply.
“Your husband?” Laurens eased back in his saddle. “I see.”
She gathered her reins. “Thank you again, Lt. Colonel Laurens.”
“Madame, I must not abandon you,” he replied. “An army is not a safe place for a young wife alone. I will escort you to your husband.”
Christiane gazed at the young man; his open honest face convinced her. “I would be grateful to have your assistance, sir.” She bowed her head in an elegant gesture she had been rigorously taught. She instantly regretted demonstrating this trace from her past, so at odds with her present status. I am just a farmer’s wife now.
“Will you accompany me for a little while and then I will help you seek out your husband.” He gestured for them to proceed.
Unable to stop herself, Christiane repeated her graceful nod and rode beside the young officer, seeing more and more military men. Then suddenly she was there.
She’d dreaded entering a city, but she’d had no conception of what a whole army looked like. She sat stick straight on Nancy’s back and stared with her mouth open.
Men. Thousands. Thousands of men. Covering pastures and commons as far as she could see. Men. Thousands of men. Thousands. In tents. Beside tents. Walking. Drilling. Sitting. Squatting. Talking. Men wearing all manner of clothing: proper uniforms, frontier buckskin, linsey-woolsey of dark blue.
Her eyes took in more than her mind could process. This was an army, a whole army. She was unaware of the minutes passing. Finally, though, her mind formed a thought. “Oh, my,” she breathed. How will I ever find Jakob in this sea of soldiers?
Laurens had paused beside her. “It is quite a sight.”
“Oui,” she said, lapsing into French.
“You’re French then. I thought you had a very slight accent.”
Christiane pulled herself together and glanced Laurens’ way. “I was born in Paris.”
“Is your husband French?”
“No, sir, he is from New York.” She scanned the legions before her, feeling helpless.
“Regular army or militia?”
“Militia,” she said, mesmerized by the sight of so many before her. They rode on.
Headquarters proved to be a village of sad-looking tents. Laurens helped Christiane from her mount and then offered her a camp chair. She sat and waited. Many officers dressed similarly to Laurens and other men in buckskin or home-loomed linsey-woolsey moved in and around the tents.
Within minutes, Laurens came toward her. “I am free, madam. I’ve asked about the New York militia and believe I have a good idea where they are encamped.”
Before she could stop herself, she rose and executed a curtsey, again as she had been taught. Somehow Laurens’ gentleman’s dress had triggered her Paris manners. She let him help her onto her horse and followed him as he led her through the tight lanes between tents and groups of men.
“We will concentrate on New York’s Clinton Brigade. It has two regiments that are both over three hundred men. Once we find Clinton’s men, we should find your husband.”
When they reached Clinton’s men, the two of them dismounted and led their horses forward. Then Christiane hung back, leading Nancy and letting Laurens do her talking.
He questioned a few more men and located Colonel Fish’s men in the midst of the Second New York Regiment. Then they spoke to a sergeant named Main.
“Jakob Kruger? Certainly I know him. He’s my corporal. Glad to meet you, ma’am.” The sergeant clasped Christiane’s small hand and shook it.
Christiane smiled politely as she cast around, trying to see her husband. After all the time, all the miles, I’m going to see Jakob. Her heartbeat quickened.
She and Laurens followed Main as he led them where he thought Jakob would be. Very soon the sergeant began calling, “Jakob! Jakob Kruger!” He hurried on ahead with Laurens talking to him.
Then Jakob turned to look to where the sergeant was gesturing. She saw him, flush with excitement, striding toward her across the green. Then he was there—standing in front of her.
He looked down at her in evident wonderment. “Christiane?” he asked.
“Oh, Jakob,” she exclaimed as she threw her arms up to embrace him. His responding hug was firm and long and she reveled in the feeling of his strength. His wool shirt collar rasped against her cheek as she lifted her face to receive his kiss of welcome.
“Mein Liebschen,” he murmured, and her heart leaped at the longing in his voice. Several minutes passed and finally he released her, but his gaze did not leave her face. Then he asked quietly, seriously, “Christiane, why are you here? Where is Jon? Jean Claude?”
She pursed her lips, loathe to voice the death of his son. And in front of the men, strangers so near. “Jakob,” she said, “this is Lt. Colonel Laurens, who helped me find you.”
Jakob picked up her cue and went to Laurens, saluted him, and expressed his thanks. Laurens departed, casting one final curious glance at Christiane. Then Jakob returned to her. Only the sergeant remained close to them, though Christiane was painfully aware of many strangers in this crowded encampment. I can’t tell him here. “Jakob, please, is there any place where we can talk privately?”
Jakob turned to his sergeant. “Could we use your tent, Main? Since we are in family camp, it is closer.”
“Of course, Jakob. Come along.” The old mare followed them as Main led them over to a large tent about twenty feet away. “Tildy,” he called. A woman came out directly. “Tildy, Jakob’s wife is here. I told them they could use our tent a while to talk.” His wife nodded.
“Jakob,” Main continued, “the women can get acquainted later. You and your wife go right in. Take as long as you need.” Then the couple walked away, taking the mare with them.
Christiane and Jakob stepped into the tent and he closed the flap behind them. “I am so happy that you are here, Christiane, but why have you come?”
As she looked up at him, she felt tears threaten her. She swallowed and forced them down, but she could not speak. Walking over to him, she rested her head on his chest.
His arms came around her tenderly. “Christiane, tell me, please. Where is Jon? Where is Jean Claude? Why have you come?” His tone became stronger. “Christiane, tell me please.”
“I had to come, Jakob. I had to. Jean Claude is across the Hudson with a kind, older couple. They said it wasn’t good for me to bring him here,” she said, still keeping her head against him. It was cruel of her to prolong this silence about Jon. Taking a deep breath, she began again. “It happened near the end of August, Jakob. I was picking raspberries. Jon had shown me where. While I was there, they came.”
“Who?”
“The Mohawks.” She watched cold fear flicker in his eyes; then she told him what had happened. She could not force herself to say Jon’s name, so she clung to him, hoping that her nearness would comfort him. Helpless tears oozed from her eyes. They stood that way a long time. Finally she realized that he had not said anything and that his embrace had taken on an almost wooden quality. “Jakob?” she probed softly.
“My son is dead?” Jakob’s voice thinned to a thread. “Jon is dead?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Jakob. There was nothing I could do. It all happened so fast.” She looked up at him then and she froze. The anguish in his eyes was horrible.
He stood, straight as always, but he seemed to withdraw from her, and this sensation of distance affected her immediately.
As she watched, his eyes seemed to shut against her.
“Stay here. I must think.” He released her and pushed his way out of the tent.
Christiane followed him, not knowing what to say or do. But when he didn’t even look back, she stopped, watching him stalk away.
Tildy Main, the sergeant’s wife, approached. “May I help?”
Christiane glanced at the plain woman. “His son is dead.”
Tildy looked instantly sympathetic. “Jakob’s taken it hard?”
Christiane nodded, unable to say more.
The “You mustn’t judge him too quickly. He needs time to accept it.”
“I just want to be with him.” Christiane trembled with emotion on the last word. Mrs. Main gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
***
When Christiane finally awoke the next day in a simple canvas tent, empty except for two other bedrolls and a trunk, the emotional upheaval of the preceding day weighed upon her like a layer of bricks. Her sleep had been restless, not refreshing. Drowsily she stretched and slowly roused to the sounds around her. She heard in the distance a roll of drums and loud voices counting. She untangled herself from her bedroll.
After a month of living with the Richardsons’, Christiane felt mussed and unkempt having slept in her clothing. Changing into a nightgown was once again a luxury much above her. She pulled her bone comb from her apron pocket and groomed herself as best she could. With a deep sigh, she stepped out of the tent to confront the day. Would Jakob speak to her today?
Mrs. Main was sitting by the fire, reading from a large, black book to two young boys. “Good morning, Mrs. Kruger. There’s coffee by the fire for you.”
Christiane felt rude, but she was unable to return the kind woman’s smile. As she poured herself the strong brew, she distantly remembered a time when cafe au lait had been brought to her on a silver tray each morning. Quickly she rushed this memory out of her mind. Thoughts of the comforts of the past always came to the surface to taunt her whenever she felt especially miserable.
The two boys looked to be about the ages of Anson and Phillip, but were very thin. There was a natural brightness about them though that shone through. “Mrs. Kruger,” Mrs. Main said formally, “these are our sons, Benjamin, the oldest, and William.” Just as both young boys bowed to her, so she was obliged to stand and return a curtsey. “Now, sons, you may go and visit your friends, but don’t wander.”
“Yes, Mother,” they said in unison as they dashed away.
“You didn’t see them yesterday because they were with their friends. They spent the night there,” Mrs. Main explained. Then in answer to Christiane’s unspoken question, “Jakob is drilling with the others now. The men do it once a day, though a confusion it usually seems to me. Then there’s just the waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“Yes, that’s the worst part. Just waiting to see what the enemy will do or what the general will decide to do.”
Christiane looked at the other woman, and a thought occurred to her. “Why are you here, here in a military camp with your young sons? Are you visiting, too?”
“We’re not visiting. And we’re here for the same reason you are. We have nowhere else to go. Michael and I are from Boston. Our home was destroyed in the rioting there. So when the English army pulled out, we joined Washington’s army.”
“But every woman doesn’t go to war with her husband.”
“Of course not, but I had no choice. I have no relatives who can take care of me, no home, and no way of providing for myself. You and I are just a few of a thousand or more. You are in the encampment for families. The decent women stay together for protection.”
“But your husband didn’t have to enlist.”
“Neither did Jakob. Michael wanted to and I supported his decision. We’ve worked long for independence. We wouldn’t, couldn’t back out when we were needed to fight.”
When Christiane had decided to find Jakob, she had left the future up to him. Even in her vagueness though she had not envisioned herself taking up residence with the army. I must go back to my son. But could she leave Jakob to mourn his son alone?
“Mrs. Kruger,” her companion intruded, “there are certain sacrifices that you may have to make for the Revolution. This is only one.”
Christiane nodded, but couldn’t look hopeful. Jakob was a fine man, but when would he let her be his consolation? And could she go against the Richardsons’ advice about bringing a baby to a war?
The day’s gray, hovering clouds matched Christiane’s mood. Since daybreak she had sat, fidgeting by the fire. Finally, boredom and stiffness prompted her to get up and walk. After a night of drizzling rain, the ground was slick and muddy. Her skirts dipped into a myriad of puddles, soaking the hems, giving her the sensation of being dragged down. At last she paused at a nearby green to observe a squad at drill. The marching master and his men seemed at odds with each other. Christiane did not find it interesting, but in her dismal mood, she continued watching anyway.
Then across the green she glimpsed a cluster of officers in crisp blue-and-white uniforms. Having seen hardly any gentlemen—save Lt. Colonel Laurens yesterday—in the years since she had left France, she watched them with fascination. Her mind brought up the image of Captain Eastham for a moment. She distracted herself by watching the officers, who watched the drill and stopped the marching men from time to time, consulting.
Finally the group of officers approached the place where she stood. And she realized her mistake. She didn’t want to be seen, so she lowered her face and turned away.
