1777
Early Morning
“God, this is cold,” Sergeant Harris exclaimed, as the frigid wind cut into his face, causing him to turn aside and put his back to the icy blast.
“Come on, Peter,” Harris gasped to the private he had chosen as company for this task. Peter, with a hopeful ulterior motive in mind, had fallen behind.
The boy caught up.
Peter Wellsley was barefoot, his swollen feet fortunately still red, not turning black, a sure guarantee of a lifetime as a cripple. Typical of the lad, he was silent. Oftentimes, days would go by when he barely said a word. He was a good soldier but had not made a single friend in the rest of the unit. It was without doubt because he was not a Virginian, as were the rest of the company, but from New Jersey.
“I think it’s just around the bend here,” Harris announced, turning back into the wind and freezing rain, pushing on. The boy was supposed to look like some sort of official escort, but that was a farce. True, they were both wearing the famed buff and blue uniforms of the Third Virginia, the guard company for the commander of the Continental Army of America, or at least what was left of those uniforms. Shoes and boots had worn out long ago. The buff trousers were threadbare, thighs, knees, and backsides black from countless days of service in the field. The joke now was that no one dared to wash his uniform, since it was only the ground-in dirt and muck that was holding it together. At least with this company material was provided to patch up the tears, rents, and burst seams—it certainly would not do for a headquartersunit to have men standing on parade with knees, elbows, and in more than a few cases bare backsides sticking out. Jackets were nearly black and brown as well. The few buttons still in place, at least, were polished with a paste mixture of charcoal from the morning’s fire pit. The white cross-hatchings for their cartridge box slings and haversacks were all but invisible. On occasion, attempts had been made to whiten them, but that was a futile effort of late, for no whitening paste was available.
Two ragged scarecrows off on a quest to find quarters for their general, Harris thought with a wry smile as they turned the corner of the road. Before them was a neat, small stone farmhouse. It was of two stories, the farm, yard, and barn were well tended, and smoke was curling from the chimneys that flanked the east and west sides of the house.
“Now look sharp you and remember what the general said—be respectful.”
“And what if they say no?” Peter asked.
“Leave that to me,” Harris muttered as he approached the door. Peter stopped several feet behind him, grounding his musket and standing at ease so as to not look threatening.
Harris knocked on the door and but a few seconds later it cracked open, the resident within having obviously seen their approach.
“What do you want?”
The door was opened only a few inches. A tall, bony woman of middle age nervously peeked out from the opening.
“Ma’am, by request of his Excellency General George Washington, may I speak to a Mr. Potts?”
“If you’re looking for food there’s none here. The British took most of it, and then some scoundrel with your army took the rest and left me with a worthless piece of paper.”
“Ma’am, I am not here seeking food,” Harris replied patiently. “May I come in and talk with you?”
She glared at him defiantly and started to close the door without replying. He leaned against it, trying not to appear as if he was forcing his way in, but not relenting, either.
“Ma’am, as an act of Christian charity, we are two soldiers out here in the cold. May we please come in and talk with you for a moment?”
She didn’t reply, but did not open the door, either.
“You have my solemn oath as a God-fearing man that I am here with an official request from General Washington. Please just hear us out, and if you then wish, we will be on our way.”
“Tell me
Early Morning
“God, this is cold,” Sergeant Harris exclaimed, as the frigid wind cut into his face, causing him to turn aside and put his back to the icy blast.
“Come on, Peter,” Harris gasped to the private he had chosen as company for this task. Peter, with a hopeful ulterior motive in mind, had fallen behind.
The boy caught up.
Peter Wellsley was barefoot, his swollen feet fortunately still red, not turning black, a sure guarantee of a lifetime as a cripple. Typical of the lad, he was silent. Oftentimes, days would go by when he barely said a word. He was a good soldier but had not made a single friend in the rest of the unit. It was without doubt because he was not a Virginian, as were the rest of the company, but from New Jersey.
“I think it’s just around the bend here,” Harris announced, turning back into the wind and freezing rain, pushing on. The boy was supposed to look like some sort of official escort, but that was a farce. True, they were both wearing the famed buff and blue uniforms of the Third Virginia, the guard company for the commander of the Continental Army of America, or at least what was left of those uniforms. Shoes and boots had worn out long ago. The buff trousers were threadbare, thighs, knees, and backsides black from countless days of service in the field. The joke now was that no one dared to wash his uniform, since it was only the ground-in dirt and muck that was holding it together. At least with this company material was provided to patch up the tears, rents, and burst seams—it certainly would not do for a headquartersunit to have men standing on parade with knees, elbows, and in more than a few cases bare backsides sticking out. Jackets were nearly black and brown as well. The few buttons still in place, at least, were polished with a paste mixture of charcoal from the morning’s fire pit. The white cross-hatchings for their cartridge box slings and haversacks were all but invisible. On occasion, attempts had been made to whiten them, but that was a futile effort of late, for no whitening paste was available.
Two ragged scarecrows off on a quest to find quarters for their general, Harris thought with a wry smile as they turned the corner of the road. Before them was a neat, small stone farmhouse. It was of two stories, the farm, yard, and barn were well tended, and smoke was curling from the chimneys that flanked the east and west sides of the house.
“Now look sharp you and remember what the general said—be respectful.”
“And what if they say no?” Peter asked.
“Leave that to me,” Harris muttered as he approached the door. Peter stopped several feet behind him, grounding his musket and standing at ease so as to not look threatening.
Harris knocked on the door and but a few seconds later it cracked open, the resident within having obviously seen their approach.
“What do you want?”
The door was opened only a few inches. A tall, bony woman of middle age nervously peeked out from the opening.
“Ma’am, by request of his Excellency General George Washington, may I speak to a Mr. Potts?”
“If you’re looking for food there’s none here. The British took most of it, and then some scoundrel with your army took the rest and left me with a worthless piece of paper.”
“Ma’am, I am not here seeking food,” Harris replied patiently. “May I come in and talk with you?”
She glared at him defiantly and started to close the door without replying. He leaned against it, trying not to appear as if he was forcing his way in, but not relenting, either.
“Ma’am, as an act of Christian charity, we are two soldiers out here in the cold. May we please come in and talk with you for a moment?”
She didn’t reply, but did not open the door, either.
“You have my solemn oath as a God-fearing man that I am here with an official request from General Washington. Please just hear us out, and if you then wish, we will be on our way.”
“Tell me
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